#he's used to nine months of sun-free hibernation

[bluecatwriter]

BLUE SKY!!!!!! I MISSED YOU!!!!!!!!

[omgkalyppso]

Honeyed Words

How many fics have this title? Probably a million. I wrote something featuring @esaari‘s tes breton oc Philip, and my imperial oc Oretia. Enjoy!

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The grass was cold and wet from vestiges of the midnight frost puddling under the weight of the midday sun. Summer at Winterhold. The worst possible time to be a tome, or scroll, or a visitor. Inside the College, papers were kept magically dry and well kept, but as soon as you stepped one foot into the city, everything wilted with the humidity, including the people.

The citizenry was more amenable to the mages and their initiates since the reconstruction, after the civil war, but that did not forestall all of their prejudices, Philip had noticed. They phrased their suspicions of foreigners, of which he was no longer considered, as warnings of unstable mountaintops, roads that were thin with ice and awaiting unwary travelers, and beasts that roamed beyond their hibernal caves, but he heard the truth behind every bitter courtesy. ‘You are as unwelcome by the land as by our hospitality,’ they cried.

It was why they still lacked a dedicated blacksmith, a tanner, a wheelwright, fishermen — and Nine help that poor dentist who’d tried to move in four months past.

There were new bodies to fill the houses that had been built — carpenters and farmhands, tailors and midwives, but it was no wonder they still had to rely so heavily on the summer caravans.

The largest of the year was present now, the one that circled from Windhelm to Whiterun and Dawnstar, leaving Winterhold with both the last selection from Windhelm and the benefit of what the caravan had collected on its journey, just before they finished their circle and headed back home. The gamut of their venture was nearly complete, and so Philip felt triply insulted by the price being demanded of him to carry scroll and missive — which included a painstaking transcription of an extremely valuable book — to the new astrologer in Windhelm.

“Thirty gold is more than fair,” he insisted. “Twenty would cover a gold a day for the service, and fourteen was the cost last year.”

“Thirty might be fair,” replied the nord man, who was clearly dealing with other problems — but none of them were Philip’s, “but eighty is the cost.”

“Set by you, unreasonably.”

“Are you calling me unreasonable, my lord?” The title had been wrong, but Philip’s choice of words had been fumbling. He needed this, it was important.

“I misspoke. Surely, you are a man who knows his worth and his services, and so, you must know, that it is not up to the College to champion the losses of your caravan. You are headed to Windhelm anyway. I will offer forty, far more than you’d require.”

The nord nodded to someone standing outside of Philip’s periphery, and his shoulders tensed. The temptation to invoke others to grant weight to his title and his person was present, for he was on good terms with his Thane and his Jarl, and Skyrim’s champion of the war; but so too was he Archmage now, and whatever his personal insecurities, knew that he demanded his own respect. He shrugged his elbow towards the person who approached from his side, striking them, if lightly.

“I am not some common miscreant. Do not look to demean me. There are other couriers.”

“Then find one,” replied the nord.

Philip looked to the imperial woman at his side as she spoke and frowned in surprise. She was hobbling a little, unsteady on her feet, and not the manner of muscle he’d expected the nord to be summoning.

“And I wasn’t hired to help with customer service, Herknir. This doesn’t look like a case of banditry.” Her accent was thick and southern, and Philip flinched to look at her more directly as despite her words she still laid a hand upon him — but it was gentle, so much so that he couldn’t even feel it through his robes, on his upper arm, a signal to wait and not a reprimand. Philip took a step away from her anyway, disinterested in her reassurance.

“Take the illustrious Archmage for a walk, Oretia. I can smell the enchantments on him, and I won’t risk the safety of our men to the whims of secret, magical documents without collateral.” Philip blanched, he hadn’t expected Herknir to be thinking of anything beyond what he could get with the money. Herknir pointed a finger at him, to further cement his point, “If it were a message from one of your initiates back to their parents or their sweetheart in Windhelm, then that is one service; but you should know that your time is worth more, and you should be prepared to pay more in the future. Cool your head. Try Tilly’s honey-pops, and come back to me when you’re willing to talk business.”

“Sorry about him,” Oretia sounded exasperated, and Philip had to wonder if she had felt suitably chastised by Herknir over the course of her time with the man, as he did now, sent for a walkabout like a petulant child — though one who had been flirting with the crackle of magic on the edge of his fingers. “And me, I had assumed you were a nobleman. I should not have placed my hand upon you.”

“It is nothing,” Philip assured her, dismissing the perceived insult with a smile — tickled by the idea that she would more readily lay her hands on a Thane. They wove their way through a crowd, where the locals parted naturally by his presence. There was nowhere for Oretia to hide her stumbling.

“But perhaps I owe you an apology? Did I set you so off-balance?”

“Oh!” she laughed. “No, I— My legs are sore. I’d spent the last four days climbing up and down your mountains.”

Philip snorted, infected by his companion’s good humor. “Whatever for?”

She sighed, smiling, wistful. “To see my sister. It had been a few years and she’s settled up there. I thought that, seeing her would make it easier to accept, but now I’m less sure than ever about leaving; but you don’t need to hear about that. What was Herknir so upset about? Do you really have secret, magical documents?”

The way she exaggerated the word was light, teasing, and free of ill-will Herknir had managed to fit into the word.

“I—” Philip scoffed, “I suppose I do. The documents themselves aren’t magical, but few things that leave the College can be described otherwise.”

“Secretive?” Oretia prompted.

“For certain,” Philip assured her.

She seemed to take a measure of him then, a once over with suspicious eyes. Philip wondered what she saw.

“I could leave you now,” she suggested, tilting her head. “I rather doubt you need my company.”

Philip thought of the trader and patrons, and wondered whether for the moment she might need his. He wondered if she was asking for the freedom of privacy or to socialize with a friend from the caravan, but outside the College and inside Winterhold, his friends felt ever fewer, and Oretia had been friendly enough as to prove distracting from his other worries.

“There are a great many things I don’t need, but enjoy regardless. Of course, you’re free to go, and I’ll make my way back to Herknir in due time, but if you’d like to point me towards those honey-pops…?”

Philip felt any lingering stress melt off his shoulders when Oretia brightened.

“They’re very sweet, but delicious,” she insisted, directing them now with purpose. “There are some with raspberries caked in which are wonderful in tea, but they’re just as fine as a little delight.”

Philip bought ten for a gold piece, a strange assortment of things to pocket, even wrapped in wax paper as they were, but Oretia was right, they were good, as the two of them found a bench shielded by the cold of the sea, but still hidden by the warmth of the sun, as they each enjoyed one of the candies for a few silent seconds.

There was something about the way others seemed to have more time for trysts, and he wondered whether another person might take this time to proposition their companion. The pair of them with lips flush and spit slick from their choice in dessert, people might even think they had done something elicit when they returned to the main road. The air was thick and the blossoms were sweet, and Philip wondered whether he’d simply been surrounded by familiar faces for too long, that the blush upon a stranger’s cheeks would send his mind so far from his original intentions. He pat himself down, confirming the location of his missives, before plucking the honey-pop from his lips and assuring Oretia, “Thought I’d dropped something.”

He sighed, resting his hands on his knees. “Tell me about your sister? Might I know her?”

“No,” Oretia answered quickly. “Wylla Cosmotius — err, Wylla Ienith now, I suppose. She might have spent some time here, but wouldn’t have made a name for herself. Found the Shrine of Azura by accident, and then spent a few years “adventuring,” or whatever you might call it, with the priestess, to whom she’s now married.”

“Cosmotius?” Philip echoed. “‘Of the stars?’”

“Mm,” Oretia hummed in agreement. “A name I imagine Wylla was glad to be rid of. Pretentious ancestors. Not that the title of Archmage is any less assuming.”

“I?” Philip hesitated. “I didn’t choose that. And it’s practical, the position is what the title says, I oversee other mages, and am one myself.”

“I didn’t say it was wrong, I said—”

“You implied it was pretentious.”

“And you became defensive,” Oretia observed, amused. “Is my good opinion so important?”

“As important as any other,” Philip said, dismissive, shrugging. “There are a lot of things said about The Archmage, meaning both myself and my predecessors. I do my best to improve those rounds of gossip.”

“I apologize, I didn’t mean anything by it.”

“I know.”

Oretia bumped a knee against him. She went on, “My sister went through a lot, as a mercenary and … well as an imperial in Skyrim during the civil war. When I was a child I would think of how one day marriage might separate us, but I hadn’t expected to be lost to her when she needed me before that. To be treated as a guest, and not as family, when I would see her again. I worry that she could die on that mountain, and if I were to be in Windhelm, I should never know.”

“And so you’re thinking of staying?” Philip remembered. “Do you ply a craft? There are still incentives to settle in Winterhold.”

“The city is known for surviving winters without me. I don’t know how useful I could be, or how interested people would be in buying leathers, or how abundant the game is year round for the purpose of gathering supplies. I feel I don’t know much of anything lately.”

“If it’s any consolation I find that to be more true with each passing year.”

“Even for the Archmage?”

“Especially for the Archmage,” Philip groaned. “There’s much to learn and more to discover. That’s why I need to see my post sent to Windhelm.”

“I could take it,” Oretia suggested.

“As a reason not to stay?” Philip inquired, furrowing his brow.

She rolled her eyes. “I wouldn’t just stay all at once. I have employment and friends and possessions. But I might come back. Settle. It wouldn’t hurt to be owed a favor by the Archmage.”

He hesitated, surprised and unsure. Philip wondered whether he could get her in trouble with Herknir, and whether she was even trustworthy to begin with.

“I couldn’t make a pact like that,” he said quickly, in regret.

“I’ll take the fourteen gold?” Oretia offered. “And no favor.”

“Thirty then,” Philip suggested. “And maybe dinner, if you return?”

[stevetervet]

Mad dogs and Englishmen

At twelve noon the natives swoon And no further work is done But mad dogs and Englishmen Go out in the midday sun

Noel Coward’s words still ring true, it has to be said, as a glance at the car thermometer shows a reading of 40 degrees just a few minutes before 12pm. In our defence, we are on the way home as opposed to heading out into said sun, and this Saturday morning swim did feel particularly refreshing, although there is definitely a mad dog element to attempting anything outdoors on a midsummer’s day such as this while all the locals, wise to the weather, hibernate indoors.

Bushfire smoke, rolling in from Canberra, is another reminder of the dangers which will remain throughout February and probably beyond - but it’s good to be back in Albury after recharging the batteries in Western Australia.

If I told you Rachel had to go to hospital the day after we discovered a snake in the beach cottage, you’d inevitably put two and two together and come up with five, but the two incidents were totally unrelated and doctors dismissed their patient without a worry or the need for any treatment.

It was an absolute treat to be so close to the beach in Shoalwater Bay, and some of the holes we dug must have tunnelled halfway back to England, but the adventurer inside each of us was silently looking forward to some trips further afield - and they duly came.

First stop was Rottnest Island, a 30-minute boat ride from Fremantle picking a path between the colossal tankers anchored a few kilometres out from port. It was straight to the cycle shed for Team Tervet upon arrival and off we biked to the north coast, taking in the beaches at The Basin, Longreach and Geordie Bay before leaving the coast behind and heading to the centre of the island. The views from Oliver Hill Lookout would no doubt have been impressive - but worth coaxing a four-year-old to make the steep climb to get there? We decided not, and swung east back towards the tourist hub and our departure point. The gusty afternoon winds which had been forecast arrived on cue and our voyage back to the mainland was anything but plain sailing. Look left and you could only see the sky, look right and there was the trough of a big wave, before the spray splattered very window and the pendulum began to swing back the other way. To see a crew member walking the gangway handing out sick bags did little to settle anyone’s anxieties, and how he stayed on his feet I’ll never know. Even back on terra firma, the swaying feeling took quite some time to fade.

Rachel wanted postcards but $2 each was daylight robbery so we kept our powder dry. And it cost exactly that to park the car at the train station for (up to) 24 hours the following day so we certainly felt vindicated. Public transport around Perth is so easy and good value into the bargain. It’s a small city and not hard to find your way around, so we traversed between landmarks without much difficulty. Top of the pile on this occasion was Elizabeth Quay, recently redeveloped and very much family-friendly with a cracking kids playground. Ivy also loved her ride on the carousel and we were handed a loyalty card, but the chances of her racking up nine stamps within 12 months and getting a 10th go free are microscopic.

The Mandurah Line runs down the centre of the freeway for most of the way, so travelling by train gives you plenty of opportunities to feel smug as you survey the slowing traffic beyond, although it was us in the car on that exact stretch of bitumen the following day as John & Cilla joined us for a venture into King’s Park - definitely the jewel in Perth’s crown. With more play areas than you could shake a stick at, including the superb Rio Tinto Naturescape, we could have stayed all day, and the views over the Swan River are still just as special as our first visit eight years ago. I loved answering Ivy’s questions about the State War Memorial; it’s so important kids know why we choose to remember those who fought for our freedom so many years ago.

Then came a real change of pace, and direction, as we embarked on a road trip to the south-west corner of Australia. Bunbury has a Dome coffee shop going for it, if little else, but it’s a good place to break the journey as is Manjimup, the last outpost before you plunge into the imposing Southern Forest. It’s about 120km from there to Walpole, all twists and turns, ups and downs, with no more than about 500m of the road visible at any one time. That made overtaking a real challenge so it was heart-in-mouth stuff when you did make the move, and a good buzz at the same time.

Walking 70m above the forest floor at the Valley of the Giants Treetop Walk was good fun but even better was the experience at ground level, marvelling at the monstrous red tingle trees and standing inside the charred holes left in some of the biggest by past fires.

Staying in Walpole with John’s brother, Harold, allowed us to venture off the beaten track and see some real hidden gems. We discovered the Deep River isn’t actually that deep, how the Thompsons of Tinglewood saved a Norwegian crew from their shipwreck back in 1911 and visited that exact spot, Mandalay Beach, where the remains of that wreck are exposed every 10 years or so as the beach erodes. It was hidden well below the sand when we visited but the pounding surf, stormy skies and rugged coastline made it well worth the off-road drive.

Our time on the south coast over, a fair drive lay ahead so we cracked on and after pausing briefly in Nannup, ate up the kilometres through more forests before emerging into the holidaying hordes around Geographe Bay. “You’re permitted to let a ‘wow’ escape” when the coastline at Yallingup comes into view” said our Lonely Planet book, and we sure did, with golden sand and ripping surf bordered by imposing cliffs while the sun shone bright.

We spent that night in Busselton - fish & chips on the beach mandatory - but $4 just to walk on the jetty? A deal no better than the Rotto postcards so instead we took our time having breakfast and then rolled back up the coast to Rockingham.

The ‘red eye’ flight back from Perth probably took more out of us than any of the exploits in WA. Hardly surprising, I guess, given that we took off at 11pm and gained three hours in the course of a four-hour flight. There can’t be many other places in the world where that’s the case.

And so to February, the start of Australian life returning to normal after the summer holidays. Ivy has started Kindergarten and already the kids have been kept inside at lunchtime because of the extreme heat.

Everyone’s following suit at the moment.

Except mad dogs and Englishmen.