Cock-a-doodle-do

Chanticleer saw him first. The phoenix landed on the porch of the hay barn, settled and spread his tail feathers to flow elegantly down over the roof so they hung within scenting distance of the hens. He posed enticingly close to where Tyler had put down barley for them but they were no longer interested in food. All of their beady little eyes were directed upwards, towards the fabulous, glowing bird that had just settled in their midst.

Chanticleer ground his beak, hissed and ruffled his feathers. He hated that damn phoenix with a passion. He wasn’t overly keen on Jimson’s cockerel either but the phoenix was one bird where the two cocks were in perfect agreement. As far as they were concerned he couldn’t go up in flames fast enough. The only trouble was he always came back.

Chanti stalked out of the kitchen – he’d been assisting Drwyn with some meringue – and made his way towards the hay barn. His hens – his hens, mark you! – were all ogling the damned phoenix. He crowed lustily. Florrie, the cute little bantam, looked his way but none of the others noticed him at all and Digger, the matriarch who ruled the roost (even Chanti minded his Ps and Qs with her), actually sniggered.

That was it. That was definitely IT!

Chanticleer did a VTOL – well, the vertical take-off bit, if not the landing – and flew straight at the phoenix.

He hit. Full square on, knocking the preening pansy down into a hay bale where, for a full 5 seconds he looked like the favourite for Pratt-of-the-Month.

And then the phoenix coughed.

Some dust from the hay must have got in his throat for it set off a real long coughing fit. And that, of course, was when the sparks began to fly. And, oh my, did they fly!

It took the hay bale a good second and a half to catch light. The breeze from the phoenix’s gorgeous wings, as he struggled to get upright again, fanned the flames and blew a few smouldering wisps of hay towards the rest of the stack back in the barn.

Chanti decided it was well time to holler. Crowing like a banshee he fled across the yard to run screaming back into the kitchen.

Drwyn, startled from his contemplation of the meringue confection which he was creating, dropped three hours’ work on the kitchen floor. For a second he was speechless, then he reached for his axe and headed straight for Chanticleer yelling, “Coq au vin! Coq au vin!’

Chanti managed to brake and duck before the axe reached him. He then reversed at full tilt back into the yard again, tripping Tyler in the process. Tyler had seen the blaze begin and was running for water and a horse-rug to put it out.

Drwyn, at full tilt himself and with the weight of the axe pulling him on, couldn’t stop. The all went down together in a heap.

The ensuing welter of legs, arms, bird feet, crowing and swearing stopped Owen in his tracks when he arrived on the scene half a minute later.

‘What the ffffff…’ he yelled.

Man, dwarf and cockerel disentangled themselves and all began to speak at once.

Owen smacked the cockerel on the beak, glared at Tyler and parted Drwyn from his axe.

‘Now then, you silly sods, the hay barn’s on fire. Get some water and sacking and put it out!’ He was roaring by the end of the speech.

Drwyn grasped the point and scuttled off to get the kitchen hosepipe. Tyler sprinted for the stables and grabbed a couple of old rugs. Owen picked up a bucket of water and dashed it over the hay bale. In a very few minutes they had dowsed the blaze.

‘Phew! That was close. What the hell did you think you were doing?’ Owen addressed the question to the cockerel, experience told him the bird was the real source of the trouble. ‘Don’t answer that!’ he added immediately knowing the cock could bore the hind legs off a whole beach-full of donkeys once he got going justifying himself.

The phoenix, meanwhile, had flown over to the horse trough in the hope of getting some water to clear his throat, only to find it was frozen. He was busily melting the ice with little gusts of flame, in between coughs, when the next event of the morning arrived.

Quests … ???

Owen stopped still watching the big white flakes fluttering down outside the window. ‘Mother Carey’s Chickens!’ he muttered half under his breath.

That brought movement. The hood of the figure at the bar came up, he felt himself being looked at although he could see only the faintest glimmer of light, eyes perhaps, inside it. He paused a moment, took a breath, careful not to show it and spoke directly to the hood.

‘Snow’s come early this year. We don’t normally see it til after the first hunting of the white stag but this year, here it comes with Himself.’ Owen paused, hoping for some response.

There was a sound of breathing from within the hood, reminding Owen of an old film sci-fi he’d seen when he last went to Terra. He hoped this person would turn out less menacing than the character from the film.

‘H-himselfff ?’

The sound issued from the hood. It took Owen a moment to work out what the word was. He tuned his hearing up, fumbled under the bar and then surreptitiously pushed the Babel Fish into his ear. Immediately his hearing became 3D and surround-sound, he could hear the mice chittering in the wainscot up in the attics. He quickly turned the radius down.

‘Himself?’ he said, standing up straight again as if nothing had happened. ‘That’s how we call the Stag. His name is Daaf – he pronounced it Dave – but he’s a spirit of the land hereabouts so we give him the title.’

Owen paused again, hoping to draw the figure out but it merely shuffled inside its robes. A claw-like appendage emerged from within and grasped the pewter tankard Owen had set in front of it, raised the beer and took it within the hood. Soft slurping sounds came, the tankard re-emerged now only half full. Well, Owen thought to himself, at least it seems to be able to drink. His etheric vision still would give him no clear picture of whaterveritwas in there.

‘Hear of stag …’

‘Sorry … what did you say?’ Owen didn’t properly catch the words at first.

‘Heard of stag,’ the figure repeated. ‘Came to ask question. It is permitted?’

Owen supressed a chuckle. ‘Well, you have to catch up with him first,’ he replied. ‘But if … when … you do, it is not only permitted but compulsory. Daaf demands a question from those who catch him.’

‘Or what?’

‘You don’t want to know,’ Owen did chuckle this time.

‘But I do!’

The figure threw back the hood. Owen had never seen anything like it in life. He’d seen pictures … they had titles like the Questing Beast and were completely fabulous. As he watched Owen saw the flesh and energies flowing, swirling from one shape to another, first appearing to have the head and neck of a serpent, the body of a leopard, the haunches of a lion and the feet of a hart. Then, as it perched there on the bar stool staring back at him, he heard a rumbling from within it. At first this was like thirty couple hounds questing, then it changed to the yelping of a vixen. As he watched it shifted its shape again becoming pure white, smaller than a fox and beautiful.

Questing Beast by Arthur Rackham.

All the time, behind Owen’s eyes, shimmered the ancient drawing by the Terran fairy painter of the fabulous Questing Beast of legend.

What would one fabulous beast be wanting with hunting another of its kind?

Snow !!!

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Owen is snowed in. These are some of the views out of the windows of the Shapeshifters’ Arms. and he is just about to make a discovery – he has the most unusual guest, with a most unusual request, ready to hunt the White Stag.

Pronunciation !!!

Having managed a quick conversation with Jimson we agreed that readers were likely to get confused over the pronunciation of our languages. It can be really hard when you’re faced with a collection of letters that seem to be all consonants or else mixed in such a way as a “spoon might stand up in them” … to misquote a rather good Terran Bard.

So I’ve put up a page of the basic pronunciations for my neck of the woods, down here in Dumnonia, where out language and dialects spin around the Cymraeg. I hope this helps. we’ll be adding more as we go along. Do feel free to ask but I may have to put you on to one of “experts” as I just speak the stuff, don’t go into the academics of it all :-).

Maps

Look under Shapeshifters’ page for maps – get a feel of where that part of the the story is happening.

Owen and the Dark Stranger

the Mian Bar @ the Shapeshifters

Owen decided this was not exactly his best morning. He had realised that when he heard himself clumping down the stairs. Him! He was always so light on his feet despite his height.

‘Must have had more than I thought last night,’ he told himself while pinning a welcoming smile on his face just before entering the bar in case there was someone interesting there.

A small cloaked and hooded figure perched on a bar stool some halfway along.

‘Hmm … the scent’s a bit like one of the Keltoi but …’ he thought as he peered at the figure a little more closely, trying to get his eyes to un-cross, ‘there’s something different about it.’

Then he heard the scratching from the door, realised there was another guest trying to get in. That began to get his head back into gear.

‘Open!’ he shouted to the door, wincing a little as his own voice rang inside his head.

It groaned theatrically but opened far enough to allow a white owl to come in.

Now he had two strangers in his bar and it wasn’t yet ten o’clock. Damn! What a day! It was usually quiet during the day at the Inn at this time but not today. He went round to the serving side of the bar. It grumbled to him so he gave it a light kick to shut it up.

‘If you just like to say what you want, the bar will provide it,’ he told the figure. ‘It’s all on call here, just ask and it shall be given. Or rather provided,’ he corrected himself hastily. ‘We do ask for an exchange of goods or coin in return for our services. I dare say you’ll find you have the right coin upon your person. The Arms usually takes care of such details.’

Owen shifted his gaze so that he could see beyond the surface … but found it wasn’t working very well this morning. The figure kept dissolving and shifting even at ultra-sharp etheric vision. It wasn’t a native, of that he was sure or he was an oxeyed daisy. Mmm! Interesting. He ordered himself a pint of Muxworthy’s Ratspee, nice and cold, that usually sorted his head out after a good night, then he turned back to his new guests, smiling.

‘Now,’ he said. ‘What can we do for you. Are you wanting a room? Bath? Breakfast?’

Alarm-Cocks

Alarm Cock

Jimson’s post reminded me that we also use the alarm-cock method for guests (and ourselves!). I thought you might like to see a picture of him, he’s a very fine fellow and has never been known to fail in waking up tardy guests. Admittedly, some of them have appeared for breakfast looking somewhat tousled and out of temper. There have even been mutterings of “coq au vin” around the coffee cups …

He’s a fine fellow, his name is Chanticleir – of course 🙂

A typical morning for Owen …

Owen rolled over in bed and stretched. His feet met a lump in the bottom of the rugs. It purred, then growled.

‘Arrgghhh! Oh do bugger off, Tabitha,’ Owen muttered.

Paws padded up his legs and body, a large tabby lump plonked itself onto his chest, white whiskers tickled his face and a rough Velcro tongue licked his nose.

‘OK! OK! It’s morning. I’m getting there.’

He rolled over and the cat fell off onto the floor. She leapt up and swatted him on the nose then shot off out the door. He could hear her paws thudding down the wooden floor of the corridor.

Still groaning, Owen rolled out of bed in his turn to land on all fours, far less gracefully than the cat. He clambered to his feet, naked, and stalked off to the bathroom. The mirror showed him a face he found unfortunately familiar.

‘Like it?’ the mirror asked him.

Owen stuck his tongue out at it. The mirror wiggled his ears back at him. They both grinned at each other. The morning rituals done the mirror allowed Owen to get on with washing his teeth. As always after a session, his mouth tasted like the bottom of a parrot’s cage. Morgan’s secret formula toothpaste pretty well took the enamel off his teeth as well as the grunge from last nights drinking and feasting. Teeth done, Owen went over to the bath which had begun filling as soon as he came into the room.

‘Cold, I thought, this morning,’ the bath told him.

‘If it is, I’ll de-plumb you and put you in the crusher myself,’ Owen replied caustically. ‘And if that’s what you call thinking I’d take up road sweeping, if I were you,’ he added for good measure.

The bath giggled and waggled the hot tap at him. Owen climbed in and sank up to his chin in hot foaming water, it smelled of rosemary. Twenty minutes later he climbed out, feeling a lot more himself and able to contemplate breakfast. A loud fluttering and banging at the window made him turn away from delving in his sock drawer, he padded over to open it, still naked.

‘Thought you’d never get out of that bloody bath!’ The rather wet and bedraggled raven hopped over the sill and onto the rug and stalked over to stand beside the fire blazing in the hearth. ‘I’ve been banging away on that glass for at least ten minutes, thought I might break the window.’ He ruffled his feathers and stood hunched up on the log basket to one side of the fire, not even thinking about preening as yet. ‘I suppose you don’t know it’s snowing and blowing a blizzard out there?’

‘I do now,’ Owen replied, grinning down at him. ‘I opened the window, if you remember. A blast of cold air came in at that time along with a large dollop of snow which is now quietly melting on the rug and making it all wet. Thanks!’

The raven deigned to make no response to this. Owen went back to getting dressed.

A knock on the door was followed immediately with it opening and a large tray entered the room. It was followed by a small woman with long black hair done in braids around her head and garnered with ribbons and jewels.

‘Ha! Thought you were up. Here’s breakfast for you both.’ She pointed to a table by the window and the tray obligingly floated over and set itself down there.

‘What happened to the rug?’ the woman asked, staring at the growing puddle and the shrinking pile of snow. Then she saw the raven sat in the log basket. ‘Oh … right.’

She stuck her head out the bedroom door again and yelled, ‘Cloth! Mop! Bucket!’

A loud clanking preceded their arrival. The woman pointed at the mess beside the table and the mop got to work. It squeezed itself dry in the bucket while the cloth polished the wooden floor. The woman gave another call out the door which was soon answered by a fluttering and whirring as a small green dragon flew in. It hovered at eye level with her for a moment, its eyes whirling, then flew over to the rug and sent a gentle flame out over the wet sheepskin.

‘Careful!’ Owen yelled.

‘Oh hush!’ the woman retorted. ‘He’s perfectly capable of dealing with a carpet. Don’t shout so or you’ll scare him and then we’ll have an accident.’

Steam was rising over the rug now, along with the scent of wet sheep. Owen wrinkled his nose and the raven coughed.

‘Serve you right!’ Owen told the bird.

‘There, that’s done,’ the woman said as the little dragon flew back to perch on her shoulder. ‘Now sit down and get some food in you,’ she told Owen. ‘There’s a potential problem down in the bar that needs your attendance, so get a move on and come down.’

Owen had already sat down at the table and begun carving himself a slice of ham to go with the eggs, tomatoes, fried potatoes and mushrooms already on the plate. He looked up warily.

‘Oh …?’

‘Oh indeed!’ she was grinning at him. ‘Don’t worry, Coronee has the situation under control, for the moment, but we could use you getting down there as soon as you can. Both of you.’ She glared over at the raven who hunched himself down even further.

‘Thanks Morgan.’ Owen smiled to her around a mouthful of ham and eggs. ‘We’ll be down pretty soon.’

Morgan went out, taking the mop, bucket, cloth and dragon with her.

The raven stretched one foot lazily towards the fire, flapped his wings and fluttered over to the table. Grasping the edge of the tray in his claws he reached into the bowl of chopped meat Morgan had brought and swallowed a piece. The tray grunted and wriggled in discomfort at the sharp talons gripping it, spilling some of Owen’s coffee. He swore.

‘Here,’ he picked up the bowl of meat and put it on the shelf of the stout wooden perch beside the table. ‘Stop messing with the tray and get up here.’

The raven stalked across the table and hopped onto the perch to get on with his own breakfast. Half an hour later they both left the room to go down to the main bar of the Inn. Three steps down and Owen remembered. He turned back and opened the door, the tray sailed past him down to the scullery to get washed up. He nearly closed the door on the blue bowl before it had got out in the tray’s wake. It chittered crossly to him and swooped low over his head making him duck as it chased after the tray.

‘Damn the things!’ Owen muttered crossly, not really meaning it. The bowl threw a piece of meat at him, the raven swooped down and caught it, swallowing it. If it was possible, Owen would have sworn the bird had a grin on his beak.

Visitors ???

Can an old traveler ask the boon of a tankard of DeepSpace black stout? The wind blows cold and wintery here in the lost lands, and a stop for good company and a stout stout would be a welcome pause in my trek.

_________________________

Hearing the call for stout a figure emerged from the steaming kitchen behind the bar.

‘A bottle of stout? ye gods, Maister, and me fire’s all to blazes and the cat’s in the milk and I ain’t had no breakfast,’ wailed the short-order-chef, flailing the air with his axe. He was a very short gnome. He took a grip on himself, pulled his breeches up and fumbled with the string that held them there. ‘I’ll see what I can do.’ he twitched his whiskers and beard, glaring from under very bushy brows.

At just that moment, a large bottle with the label of “Guinness” appeared in front of the somewhat damp traveller and a voice materialised out of the air.

‘Compliments of the House,’ it said in sultry, feminine tones, sounding like honey and chocolate mixed. ‘Best I can do at this short notice.’

‘Ha!’ the gnome twirled his axe and disappeared back into the kitchen muttering, ‘Bloody visitors! wish they’d all stay away!’

Foggg ???

Hmm! fog this morning, like being inside a cloud. And not just in the air, there seems to be a fog clouding the ethericnet bundles … I can see there’s a message from Jimson but I can’t get to it, damn it!

And now here’s Isolde-the-cat wanting her goat’s milk … and I’ve not had my breakfast yet and the fire’s smoking in the bar. No peace for the wicked. Back to work …