Preparing to Pounce

1629, Sea Season, Death Week, Fireday


Do Not Ask has been freed of both the trollish monsters and the disease spirits that have been troubling her. While others have returned to sleep, Varanis has bound Dezar to her. Now he wants to play with Berra. After Session 4.12 (Spirited Events). Continues from Ancient Aid and continues in Hunting the Honey Badger.


Varanis sits for a long time at the shaman’s fire. The others have each come back one by one, but still she sits, smiling at something no one else can see.


Berra does not normally sleep this late, but she is sleeping.


Finally, she sighs and opens her eyes. The smile remains. It is still pre-dawn.


She unfolds herself a bit stiffly, and gets to her feet. The Vingan’s gaze falls on Berra, rolled up in her hide. Any sign of a head?

There is what has to be a hip, and a shoulder, but the rain is bouncing off the hide, and wise people are staying dry.  Someone has draped her cloak around Varanis – she was not wearing it some hours before.

NOT A RAT Dezar points out.

Glancing up at the sky, Varanis snorts softly. “We did that. Chasing the sheep,” she tells Dezar. “At least, I think so. It smells like them and it didn’t smell like rain earlier.”

MIGHTY HERDER! Dezar imagines pouncing tiny sheep, which scatter and then trot into a pen. HELER LOVES US!

“That’s the honey badger,” she says with a nod to Berra’s sleeping form. “We should probably let her sleep…”

I POUNCED HER WE FOUGHT WE BOTH WON! Dezar gets excited. AND A RIVER AND SHE IS MADE OF CUTS1You spotted them; I rolled for it. Dezar knows because you know, even if you didn’t directly say it.

“Yes,” Varanis murmurs her agreement. “So many cuts. I should let her sleep,” she says again. “It might help her heal.”

SLEEP ALONE FOR A WEEK Dezar pauses, briefly, and then says wisely, SHE NEEDS TO LICK THE CUTS.

“Yeah… I don’t know how one licks spirit cuts.”

WITH A SPIRIT TONGUE  Dezar imagines it really really hard.  He puts an awful lot of effort into imagining grooming Berra.  The image flashes before Varanis; teeny kitten Berra held down and cleaned by a big scarred ram-alynx.  Dezar’s self-image has horns, a furred mane, and a scarred nose.  His image of Berra has dark fur that will not lie down properly, and the tiny triangular tail of a kitten small enough to fall over when it tries to run.  Pinned under a paw, it looks confused.

Varanis laughs quietly.

Confused, but satisfied, Dezar chirps a little and settles down.

  • 1
    You spotted them; I rolled for it. Dezar knows because you know, even if you didn’t directly say it.