Chương 7: Slow Horses

The 'knoll' was the first solid sign that Stormvast wasn't entirely made up of flat terrain. Further west of the family's hut, the land rose into a gentle hill. Atop this hill sat Sickle. She'd set up something like a sketchpad on her lap—sheets of paper attached to a flat wooden board. She then divided her time between frowning at the view before her and running an ink brush over the canvas. Sickle was so absorbed in her work that she didn't notice Jordan approach.

Partly loath to disturb her but mostly mesmerized by the scenery himself, Jordan stopped a few feet behind her to take it all in. From the knoll's vantage point, one could be fooled into believing that the plains really did stretch forever. This patch of the grassland appeared to be a grazing ground of sorts. Horses and sheep lounged all over the place, while two human silhouettes—presumably Mallet and Mattock—could be seen roaming in their midst. Rustic. Pastoral. Idyllic.

Jordan could give it any number of labels through his modern lens, but none really stuck. The experience in the moment was at once too simple for language and too complex for words. He felt connected to the land itself, in ways incomparable to how he remembered his suburban house, the shopping mall that used to be his childhood haunt, or the concrete jungles of his ancestral homeland. Presently, two of the horses broke into a gallop—an impromptu race with no stake other than pride and joy.

At the same time, Sickle on the knoll hastened her brush, furiously trying to capture the graceful beasts in motion. As Jordan watched on curiously, the young artist whipped up several sketches in quick succession, only to then groan in frustration. Before Jordan could intervene, Sickle crumpled up the paper and tossed it to one side. She then went right back to her glum staring contest with the pasture. By then, the two horses had slowed to a canter, before ambling to a stop.

No words had been exchanged, but Jordan understood the assignment Sickle had set for herself. He stepped closer, bent, and picked up the crumpled piece of paper. This time, he didn't let the girl's alarmed expression deter him from being the mature half of the interaction.

"You're good at this," he gave his genuine opinion as he straightened the paper. The ink had been smudged in parts, but the paintings still managed to evoke a familiar kind of dynamism.

"Are these meant to be rough sketches for your embroidery?" Sickle nodded slowly. Almost reluctantly.

"Look, I won't pretend to be an art critic. Will you tell me why they weren't up to your standards?" The girl narrowed her eyes for a moment, her mistrust only seeming to grow. But after a beat, she did give an answer—so quiet Jordan had to lean in closer to hear.

"The legs. They're wrong. My horses look like they're flying instead of galloping." Jordan took a second look. Now that Sickle had mentioned it, her paintings did have an over-stylized feel to them. Jordan didn't know enough about horse anatomy to pinpoint what was 'off', but he could see how an exacting artist might deem the work unsatisfactory. His first instinct was to offer more praise to the contrary. You're being too hard on yourself; these are already really good—or at least good enough.

But he quickly banished the thought, well aware how empty and demoralizing such words could be. Because, in a roundabout way, he could see himself in Sickle's shoes. He remembered well his first true passion in life, how he'd once fancied himself an aspiring musician before 'real life' got in the way. He'd tried to write songs again in recent years—god knew he had enough time on his hands now. He didn't get very far, efforts thwarted by a complete absence of inspiration.

And how could he be inspired, when he spent his days holed up in his childhood bedroom? So, as a failed creative, he felt a certain level of responsibility toward a budding one. Sickle didn't need empty platitudes nor misguided advice. No, what she—what he in her position—would be desperate for was a practical solution.

"Hang on," Jordan found himself murmuring.

"Let me see if… Stay right here, okay? I'll be back in a jiffy." He didn't even have the time to wonder if 'jiffy' translated to the Common Speech. A mad dash back to the hut. Thanks to Nüwa's tips, both sides of his tunic remained firmly in place as he ran. The Google Pixel was still tucked under the pillow, right where he normally kept his phone during sleep. 30% battery left. More than enough for his purpose. As for afterward… well, he'd think about it afterward.

When he went back to the knoll a second time, Sickle frowned in mild confusion. A marked improvement over gloomy mistrust. He gave her what he hoped to be a friendly wave, before skipping past her and down the hill on the other side, closer to the grazing animals. There, he parked himself on the slope and opened the camera app on his phone. Unauthorized use of content: if you find this story on Amazon, report the violation. That was how Jordan Yu got a taste of wildlife photography. Or…

was it still 'wildlife' if the subjects had been domesticated? It was in the midst of this inane train of thought that another pair of horses went off to the races. Jordan hit record, even as he scrambled to keep the action in frame. It all happened very quickly. Only a few seconds of footage, but Jordan thought he got what he was after. He played it back. Zoomed in and slowed it down. A little shaky and blurry, but the elements were all there.

The rippling muscles, the dynamic gait, the dust kicked up in the horses' wake. Jordan was no aficionado of nature documentaries, but even he could appreciate the beauty he'd just captured on film. He ran back up the hill. In his excitement, he forgot to gauge Sickle's demeanor, but no harm done. The girl craned her neck to peer into the alien device, curiosity having won out over shyness. It took Sickle several seconds to clock what she was watching.

Once she did, however, her hitherto gloomy face lit up in a wide smile, so bright as to rival her mother's. She looked up at Jordan with eyebrows raised in a question: may I?

"Of course. That's why I did it." For the next while, Jordan knelt beside Sickle and played film projectionist. He zoomed, panned, paused, reversed, and fast-forwarded at the artist's command. The artist, for her part, filled her blank canvas with fresh paintings. She captured the galloping horses in every beat of their gait, bringing them to life with impressive fidelity. Jordan was no art critic, but he felt sure about one thing: no one could accuse these horses of flying!

A few more pages of this, and Sickle was finally satisfied that she'd committed the gait to memory. Just as well, because the phone battery was running dangerously low… not that Jordan could think of any other uses for it. As the artist packed up her supplies, her assistant took the opportunity to pick her brain.

"This new piece you're working on… are you looking to sell it at the market?" A shake of the head, but no elaboration. The smile too had long faded, though it hadn't quite reverted to a frown.

"A personal project, then? Decoration for the house?" Sickle seemed to consider this for a moment. She must've deemed it worthy of a response, for she said,"For mama."

"Ah. Does Mrs Sarina like horses?" Sickle gave Jordan a funny look. He couldn't tell if it was the question itself or the fact he'd called her mother 'Mrs Sarina'—reportedly out of keeping with the local customs.

"Mama appreciates horses as much as the next Featherifter. But she especially loved watching my brother ride one. That's what I'm picturing for my next piece. As a gift to mama." Jordan took a moment to digest.

'My brother' in this case clearly referred to the late Hatchet. As for Featherift— Intelligence DC 10: success Fuxi:"Featherift is one of Stormvast's nine provinces … and it also happens to be where we are at the moment. As you might have gathered already, it's a land dominated by temperate steppes, good for grazing and not much else. I for one wouldn't mind if we hurried things along here, that we might move on to more… stimulating locales." So far, Fuxi seemed to be the most useful god.

They could even be Jordan's favorite, were it not for their snobby attitude. Regardless, he took the information on board as he navigated perhaps the trickiest part of the conversation.

"Your brother," he began, then tried his best not to drag it out, "sounds like he was a great guy to be around. I'm… I'm sorry I startled you earlier. By, uh… showing up in his clothes." Sickle reddened slightly.

"Not your fault," she mumbled.

"I should apologize for the way I acted. And… I should thank you, too. For the slow horses." Slow horses. Jordan found that amusing enough to crack a smile, though he couldn't rightly expect a Stormvaster to understand. He also found himself at a crossroads. Should he stop here? Had he done enough to make Sarina happy—reached out to the gloomy daughter and got her to open up a tiny bit? Or was this an opportunity for even more substantive progress?

"You…" Unbeknown even to himself, he'd decided to forge ahead.

"You doing alright, kiddo? It's just when I look at you, you remind me a bit of… myself. Like there's this bone stuck in your throat that only you know about. And the people around you… they try to help, but you won't let them. It's your bone, and you'll suffer it in silent dignity if it's the last thing you'll do." Oh, dear lord. Jordan was no therapist, and that couldn't be more apparent in this moment. Silent dignity? Bone stuck in your throat? Kiddo?? I've fucked it, haven't I?

Just like everything else in my—"Do you know how we grassland folk bind our Vessels?" Jordan blinked at Sickle. Far from being scared off by Jordan's rambling, she looked to him with a subtle yet solemn frown. He shook his head no.

"The city folk get their Vessels crafted from scratch. But we don't have that kind of money. Ours are passed down by family. Mattock got his from grandpapa. Both men of few words, so 'Cup of Quietude' suited them just fine. But as for me… well, I came of age right around when Hatchet passed." Jordan fell silent as understanding struck. Subconsciously, he eyed the lidded teacup by Sickle's waist, until the system reminded him of a cruel reality—the careless jest of callous gods.

<Character Sheet> Name: SICKLE of COPPER HILL Race: Human Age: 19 Class: Embroiderer, Lv. 1 Vessel: Cup of Courage