"Your scarf is different again," Boula observed,
suddenly, and the hire-ee looked up at her, and then down at himself, slowly, as if only just noticing this fact for himself. He frowned a bit bemusedly and tugged at a loose thread at the edge of it.
"My scarves have short lives."
His voice gave a sort of echo while Boula figured out what to say.
"You should feed them," she said slowly. "It's not hard, all you need is a little lint once in a while. Truth be told, though, it can't be that much of a scarf if it only goes two weeks at a time."
As far as she noticed, only one of his scarves had lasted over the two weekflickers. She knew the one — it had been thicker than the rest, a simple woven reed thing that could not have been comfortable in any way.
The hire-ee grimaced at her. "Well...it's a little more difficult than that." And he must have seen her confusion, because he rubbed the back of his neck, as if in frustration, before holding out a hand to her.
She looked at his outstretched fingers with further confusion, and then realized, and slowly reached her own hand forward, bending the knuckle of her hoof high so that the flesh of her palms and fingers would meet his. Once they did, she recoiled with shock.
"It's — you're — freezing!"
"I have a cloud on my neck," the hire-ee explained.
"A — a what?"
"A cloud. On my neck." He shrugged. "It just followed me when I moved here from High."
"I've...never heard of it."
He shrugged again.
"It's not too bad. It's just cold all the time," he said, and looked at his hand, "and really damp. And sometimes a little sparky."
She had no idea what he meant by that. But she stood, ears perking, intrigued, and stood up from her books, and approached him. "Can I feel?"
"Sure." For a while they both maneuvered awkwardly, and then finally the hire-ee settled on leaning forward a bit, touching his chin to his sternum while Boula gently ran the back of her hand across the back of his neck. It was cold, and damp. She might have mistaken it for a pretty serious case of sweating.
"Think I might know something for this," Boula said, and the hire-ee looked up at her.
"Yeah?"
"Yeah. You try piscine wool?"
He wrinkled his nose. "No, but it sounds gross."
She grinned at the rather immature response. "It's made from the manes of merhin packbeasts. It should proof the dew, especially if you knot it up with kelp bulbs and featherdown. And merino yarns to wrap it up all together, warm..."
Her eyes were glittering. The hire-ee straightened, listening intently, and then said, "If you made some miracle scarf that kept me warm and dry and didn't fall apart in a couple of days, I think I might have to owe you my life."
"My scarves have short lives."
His voice gave a sort of echo while Boula figured out what to say.
"You should feed them," she said slowly. "It's not hard, all you need is a little lint once in a while. Truth be told, though, it can't be that much of a scarf if it only goes two weeks at a time."
As far as she noticed, only one of his scarves had lasted over the two weekflickers. She knew the one — it had been thicker than the rest, a simple woven reed thing that could not have been comfortable in any way.
The hire-ee grimaced at her. "Well...it's a little more difficult than that." And he must have seen her confusion, because he rubbed the back of his neck, as if in frustration, before holding out a hand to her.
She looked at his outstretched fingers with further confusion, and then realized, and slowly reached her own hand forward, bending the knuckle of her hoof high so that the flesh of her palms and fingers would meet his. Once they did, she recoiled with shock.
"It's — you're — freezing!"
"I have a cloud on my neck," the hire-ee explained.
"A — a what?"
"A cloud. On my neck." He shrugged. "It just followed me when I moved here from High."
"I've...never heard of it."
He shrugged again.
"It's not too bad. It's just cold all the time," he said, and looked at his hand, "and really damp. And sometimes a little sparky."
She had no idea what he meant by that. But she stood, ears perking, intrigued, and stood up from her books, and approached him. "Can I feel?"
"Sure." For a while they both maneuvered awkwardly, and then finally the hire-ee settled on leaning forward a bit, touching his chin to his sternum while Boula gently ran the back of her hand across the back of his neck. It was cold, and damp. She might have mistaken it for a pretty serious case of sweating.
"Think I might know something for this," Boula said, and the hire-ee looked up at her.
"Yeah?"
"Yeah. You try piscine wool?"
He wrinkled his nose. "No, but it sounds gross."
She grinned at the rather immature response. "It's made from the manes of merhin packbeasts. It should proof the dew, especially if you knot it up with kelp bulbs and featherdown. And merino yarns to wrap it up all together, warm..."
Her eyes were glittering. The hire-ee straightened, listening intently, and then said, "If you made some miracle scarf that kept me warm and dry and didn't fall apart in a couple of days, I think I might have to owe you my life."
2 Comments:
llalala
A cloud on his neck? Man, I need to read that part one of these days!
You missed a word when Boula said, "Think I might something about this," and you re-used "cold" and "damp" between the hire-ee's confession and Boula's observation -- I feel you could have acknowledged that with something like "It was cold and damp, as he said."
I like the originality of this exchange, of short-lives scarves and clouded afflictions -- and I like how the hyperlink seems to refer to a future bit where he has on the piscine wool, featherdown and merino yarn scarf Boula prescribes here.
I also don't feel you're being pretentious, either, which is something I felt Mieville get to a couple of times during the Scar -- I don't read you through these lines going "haha! Bask in my originality!" You prefer to let the characters show themselves to the reader, and I think that subtle touch will really serve you in your future writing career.
A parting observation: try clamping down on your "-ly" adverbs and double adjectives such as "rather immature" and "pretty serious," as I find they bring down the high level of rhetoric you've set up; they sound like hesitations or fears of stating a flat truth. May I suggest replacing "reaching slowly" with "inching?"
I really do look forward to commenting on some of your other stuff, though! This hypertext fiction idea is really cool! :D
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