Post by Callypso on Jun 3, 2011 17:13:31 GMT -5
Characters: Farran (with nods to various other SDs - Rosewood, Arkady, Iso;etc.)
Words: 3,085
Blurb: Basically a rehash of the Ticket Contest Conclusion from Farran's point of view. Just another exercise to help me get back into the swing of things!
I took some liberties with other SD's responses, so apologies if anything seems terribly out of character! Also, long fanfic is long...
_________________
Farran was still unsure about everything that had happened. One moment he was battling psycho skull-eating monsters and then the next he was in what appeared to be a battlefield. Well, sort of. There had been an Ace running around and then suddenly trees and grass and delicate little flowers sprang out of the earth to surround everything. He remembered feeling dazed and… peaceful. He was bloodied and bruised and battered and suddenly it didn’t matter anymore. Everything was so beautiful.
At some point Arkady had wandered away from him, and he found himself somewhat reluctantly trotting out to see what was going on. There was a dead couple and Rosewood was talking to a man that had been impaled with a woman’s body. Weird.
Much to his dismay, Rosewood eventually returned to his senses – had he seemed dazed, too? – and lead them all down the cobbled streets babbling about something the zombie had left them. Why the hell would he want anything from some disgusting Lowland rotter? It probably had a disease or something. Ew.
Farran felt that the least that was deserved was a piece of his mind, so he made sure that everyone in the group understood exactly how he felt about the whole situation. At some point, his loud complaints drew the attention of a Torquehelm mouse and his kiwi sweetie (at least, that was what spurred Farran to catcall at them on his way down the street).
Hey! Don’t you know there’s a War going on?! Some people… geez.
At least, that’s what everyone kept talking about. A War between the Jossigies and the Lowlanders. Which was confusing – hadn’t that already happened several years ago? Whatever. As long as anyone didn’t try and take him out, they could go on about their business. He just really, really wanted to go home.
The mouse had returned his earlier jeer with a few quips of his own, but seemed not to mind overall considering he joined the beleaguered group. Eventually the Villa fell quiet (his fellows brightened slightly when he stopped yammering) and retreated into his private thoughts. His father was the biggest preoccupation on the way to wherever-the-hell they were going. On top of all his physical hurts, an achy longing settled somewhere deep within his breast. He felt smothered and lost, and a little betrayed. Why had his father chosen now to show himself? Was it because Farran had finally set out to right the wrong of so many years ago? Why was it his job to end the bastard that tore his father from him?
Beneath it all seethed rage.
Now that his father had so much as requested that Farran meet his sire’s murderer, the less he wanted to actually follow through. His father had always been passionate, caring, adventurous – when it came to his artistic calling. His children, on the other hand, were merely vessels for inheritance, young nothings to be trained and molded until they could properly wield the Drake name. The Diamond wasn’t nearly as sophisticated enough to truly understand the inner-workings of his father’s mind, but a general memory of absentee fathering bobbed around the edges of his childhood experience.
Now he didn’t know what to think.
Should he avenge his fierce, brash father? Or deny the selfish asshole his peace and leave him wandering on the edges of oblivion for all time?
His brows furrowed in thought. He wasn’t much for contemplating the hereafter, but his parents (well, his mother, really) had taught him about the bright Creator, told him how all Villas become one with the Creator in artistic bliss. The feline was hard put to remember anything about a hell or purgatory, wondering why his father was due a bloody, cursed afterlife. While it seemed obvious that Vicente had unfinished business, Farran couldn’t brush away the tendrils of unease and doubt that nipped at his consciousness. Maybe his father didn’t deserve to be one with the Creator, and if he fulfilled his father’s vengeful wish, would he one day be denied union, too?
His heart ached again as he thought of his religious teachings, remembering how his mother had explained the greatness and pure light of the Creator. What would his mother think about all this? She couldn’t. That’s what. She was busy bouncing off the padded walls of a Villa asylum, driven mad by the loss of her mate. He wondered… was his mother driven mad by the ghostly figure of his father? Would she return to normal if he avenged his father?
_____________________
Feeling far too uncomfortable (theological pursuits were definitely out of his league), he was glad when they finally came to the edge of a clearing in the Outer Bazaar. Rather, he was happy they had stopped walking – the battering ram headache wouldn’t cease hammering at his skull, and his feet ached from hobbling awkwardly to avoid further injuring his maimed limb. When he looked up to take in his surroundings, he immediately lurched to the side and spilled anything he still had in his stomach (which by this point was mostly bile) all over the cobbled streets.
The market streets were paved with bloody, rotting corpses. All of them looked to have some Lowlander in them. Good. God. They were already a waste of space in life, and here they were, fouling up the road between him and what was hopefully the end of this wretched endeavor.
His lip curled in revulsion and fear, and in a rare moment of insight he realized how hatred could really push someone to do the unspeakable. He didn’t like Lowlanders, never had, but he didn’t think he could was capable of wholesale slaughter such as this. The green tinge didn’t leave his muzzle for quite some time later.
They picked their way carefully across the corpse-strewn path, though Farran struggled between looking up at the sky to avoid having to look at the shredded and bloody flesh around and stepping in suits-knew-what, or keeping his eyes on the ground, where he was privy to every vein and terror-stricken face. Either way, it was horrible.
Once they arrived at their destination – a bakery, of all things, and one that had been ransacked at that – they were very reluctantly admitted by a Selkie feline and that weird little Ace from the meadow. The damned thing could talk. Not only that, he was telling him, Farran Drake, that he and his companions should come back another day. The “proprietor” of the combined bakery/barber shoppe wasn’t feeling well.
And who’re you? His guard? I’d like to see you try and stop me!
He laughed and jabbed his scalpel toward the creature’s chest. The Selkie feline shot him a look that would mold cheese. What was the world coming to? Smartass Aces denying something of a real Card? Pah! Rosewood finally stepped in, losing patience and snapping at the Villa to shut his trap. Rankled that the swan would take the nasty little thing’s side, he continued to mutter, I’ll give him one thing – he’s loyal. Bet he would fetch a fine price on the market…
Eventually they were lead down to the basement, which was eerie and dark. They were followed about closely by the Selkie and Ace, the latter being insistent that they stay away from what appeared to be a gigantic meat grinder. Farran gave the creature a scathing look – why would they want to go near that thing, anyway? Besides, they were after some supposed loose brick underneath the oven? Or something?
After what felt like forever (and in actuality had been maybe a half hour), the Ace and his friend were beginning to get impatient. The Villa swayed on his feet a little, and eventually Arkady and Rosewood agreed that they would have to try again some other time, as everyone looked and felt the worse for their wear.
As they were escorted back upstairs, they found themselves surrounded by a slew of Lowlander youths and children. Farran balked, not knowing what they were doing and how they had gotten there, only that their presence reminded him strongly of the carnage outside. His stomach did flip-flops as he realized they had to leave the way they came.
_______________________
Somehow and sometime later, he found himself being rounded up back at the police station. Handfuls of other people (more people – hurray!) in various states of personal injury, upset and confusion had been corralled to the spot. He complained loudly about wanting to go home but found himself trembling and falling backward on his haunches. Before he knew it, he was being examined by a very pregnant, irate ferret who insisted on prodding at his various injuries.
What do you think you’re doing?!
Damned Corvies! Always wanting to stick things in people and figure out how they ticked. The woman, who was oddly sporting a crown of horns and this horrible, inky substance that gyrated along her back, explained that she was a doctor and she was helping the police station with treating victims of the War. He continued to flail and try to beat her away, skin crawling at the thought of another Corvie crackerjack trying to experiment on him. Finally, the woman snapped, irritated that he wouldn’t hold still, and procured a syringe out of nowhere and plunged it harshly into his neck.
H-Heyyyy…
The world went black within a few heartbeats. When he awoke, drowsy and feeling strangely numb, he found he was spread out on a makeshift cot in a tent somewhere. The Corvie who’d drugged him appeared by his side, though he felt more curious than angry as various treatments pulsed slowly through his body.
Y-yoou stabbed mee, he slurred slowly. With neeeeedle.
Yes, well, that’s what happens when you attempt to bludgeon the attending physician. I’ve sewn up the laceration on your left forearm, though I’m afraid not much can be done about the missing toes, seeing as how you don’t seem to have them on your person. A pity, I might have been able to reattach them had they been on ice. As it was, the wound was many hours old and all I could do was sew up any remaining flesh and cauterize the remainder. You have lost a copious amount of blood – I would recommend you stay in the temporary facilities for a few days under my observation.
Something like slow, shocked wonder plodded around at the back of Farran’s mind. A brief feeling of sadness oozed somewhere in his consciousness… no more toes? His painting… He lifted up his left foreleg and gazed in wonder at his newly bandaged arm, tilting his head, mesmerized that everything that had happened had actually been real. Oh… his head…
He went to touch his skull and the doctor promptly reached over and lowered his paw with her own.
Ah, yes. I thoroughly examined the stitching along your cranium – it’s decent work. Another physician, I presume? Though the flesh was swollen and caked with seepage... probably due to lack of antiseptic… I’ve cleaned it and injected some general anesthesia into the area. It shouldn’t bother you for another few hours, though I can’t imagine it would even then. I’ve heavily dosed you – I could tell you would give me grief, otherwise – you’ll be out for a while.
Farran blinked stupidly, realizing that he should probably be angry, but it was too much effort at the moment. The capacity for giving a rat’s ass was inhibited by whatever the Corvie had pumped into him. Corvies.
Thannnk- He slumped back down against the cot and fell immediately into a deep sleep.
______________________
His slumber was not peaceful. Endless dreams twisted into hellish nightmares, more often than not. Most of the images didn’t make sense but many of them alluded to his misadventures. The last vision he remembered seeing was of his mother: She was in her padded cell, intermittently screaming and crying, twisting impossibly in the straightjacket she’d recently been put into. As she shrieked, his mind’s eye shifted to reveal what gave her cause to tremble so, and found his father’s bloody apparition hovering mournfully in the opposite corner of the room.
He awoke with a start, his body feeling tight and sore as though he’d taken on a whole army of creepy skull-eaters. He shifted, blinking rapidly as he adjusted to the bright light.
Slowly, several thoughts crept upon him at once make his head feel overfull. First and foremost in his mind was his latest dream. Before he had been uncertain as to how to handle his father’s murderer, but now he felt conviction coursing through his veins. He was going to kill him. And not for his wretched father, no. For his poor, deranged mother. He was going to end her suffering by murdering the man who had stolen her sanity. For her sake, alone, would he bloody his paws.
Farran was suddenly aware that he needed something to drink – now! – and began looking around in a panic. Just in his line of sight he saw black and pink shuffling in his direction. It was the pregnant doctor. As she trudged into view, he noticed that her eyes were shining brightly and though her walking was labored, she appeared pleased.
I see you’re awake.
Wa-ter... The feline croaked.
The ferret’s nose crinkled, though the corners of her lips twitched as she tried to suppress her mouth from betraying her innermost thoughts. She made it to his bedside, looking a little weary but content as she produced a jug of water and a glass. The woman insisted on holding the glass up for him, though Farran reached out desperately for the glass.
Slowly, now. Your body can’t handle too much liquid at once.
Most of the water ended up on his chest as he coughed and spluttered around his paper-dry throat. The doctor merely waited until he’d finished as much as he could, then poured another glass to repeat the process. After he had finished off three full glasses of water, the Corvie returned the glass and pitcher to their places underneath a wheeled trolley. Once he was confident that his mouth was lubricated properly, Farran couldn’t help but bombard his caregiver with questions.
What happened? Where’s Arkady? Is he safe? How long have I been here? Where’s that damned Rosewood?
The ferret merely waited, with eyebrows slightly raised, until the boy ran out of questions.
You have been asleep for three days and your injuries are healing nicely. As for “Arkady”, I’m assuming you’re referring to the Solandrian who wouldn’t leave your side? The police arranged an escort for him back to the Court of Hearts. I assured him we would send a message to him once you’d recovered. As for Dr.Rosewood, he was tended to before returning, I assume, to his domicile. He did leave a brief note for you, though. She slipped him a small piece of paper that had been tucked behind her ear and waited patiently while he read.
Farran’s face twisted into a scowl as he shredded the paper into a million pieces. What a complete prick. He should be grateful the stupid swan was helping him at all, but he didn’t much for the scathing condescension that oozed from the simple message. What were the odds that he would need the help of such a huge asshole? As if Farran had asked to be put in this situation. Yeesh.
Yet below the unbridled outrage were the stinging barbs of jealousy. Though he hadn’t enjoyed seeing his father’s otherworldly, dismembered body, it still hurt that the Tulgey had been able to see him and Farran hadn’t. Now Farran was at the mercy of Rosewood to be able to talk to a former friend of his father. AND the Tulgey hated him. It was terribly unfair.
The doctor carefully preoccupied herself with other matters at his bedside until Farran had calmed down. She didn’t ask any questions, for which Farran was thankful, but he did notice that her eyebrows had jumped up a few times more than was comfortable.
Eventually, Farran regained control over his anger and looked back at the doctor.
Sooo… what now?
With your permission, I’ll conduct one last examination. If I find your vitals are stable enough you will be allowed to leave.
Okay. Good, this was good. The sooner he could leave, the sooner he could start planning how to find his father’s murderer. He still wasn’t entirely sure of the connection between Rosewood’s mate’s uncle and his father, but in the meantime he could still plot. And read his father’s diaries for any clues. The feline supposed that had been his father’s real purpose in leaving him with the diary – he wanted to be sure his son could find the man who ended his life.
The doctor was quick and efficient about his final check-up and declared him well enough to depart. She gave him instructions on caring for his stitches, though he could barely listen given his excitement about his task. He could tell she was slightly irritated and gave him a card should any of his wounds become infected. Farran glanced impatiently at the card and hopped off his cot.
Yeah, thanks, Dr. uuhhh… I-aayy.. Price. Dr. Price.
An eyebrow lifted again in response.
I-ah-so. It’s been an interesting few days, Mr. Drake. Mind yourself, now. Be sure to make an appointment in a few weeks to have those stitched removed.
Yeah, yeah. I will. And uh, good luck. Farran gestured vaguely to the surrounding area, (many cots were still occupied by other patients) though it was clear the Villa cat’s mind was elsewhere.
Dr. Price nodded toward the exit, rolling her eyes as she turned to remove the blankets from his former cot. The Diamond gathered his few belongings from another shelf on the trolley: his muddy coin purse, what was left of his bloody, tattered scarf, and the blood-stained scalpel from earlier.
As he loped ungracefully toward the tent’s opening (using his bizarre weapon like a crutch), he felt himself filling with a crazed excitement. After so many years, he would soon put his mother’s torment to rest. He had his father’s journal, an amazing weapon and a promised meeting with this Cort Jameston person.
After what had felt like forever, Farran was finally going to get his way.
Words: 3,085
Blurb: Basically a rehash of the Ticket Contest Conclusion from Farran's point of view. Just another exercise to help me get back into the swing of things!
I took some liberties with other SD's responses, so apologies if anything seems terribly out of character! Also, long fanfic is long..._________________
Farran was still unsure about everything that had happened. One moment he was battling psycho skull-eating monsters and then the next he was in what appeared to be a battlefield. Well, sort of. There had been an Ace running around and then suddenly trees and grass and delicate little flowers sprang out of the earth to surround everything. He remembered feeling dazed and… peaceful. He was bloodied and bruised and battered and suddenly it didn’t matter anymore. Everything was so beautiful.
At some point Arkady had wandered away from him, and he found himself somewhat reluctantly trotting out to see what was going on. There was a dead couple and Rosewood was talking to a man that had been impaled with a woman’s body. Weird.
Much to his dismay, Rosewood eventually returned to his senses – had he seemed dazed, too? – and lead them all down the cobbled streets babbling about something the zombie had left them. Why the hell would he want anything from some disgusting Lowland rotter? It probably had a disease or something. Ew.
Farran felt that the least that was deserved was a piece of his mind, so he made sure that everyone in the group understood exactly how he felt about the whole situation. At some point, his loud complaints drew the attention of a Torquehelm mouse and his kiwi sweetie (at least, that was what spurred Farran to catcall at them on his way down the street).
Hey! Don’t you know there’s a War going on?! Some people… geez.
At least, that’s what everyone kept talking about. A War between the Jossigies and the Lowlanders. Which was confusing – hadn’t that already happened several years ago? Whatever. As long as anyone didn’t try and take him out, they could go on about their business. He just really, really wanted to go home.
The mouse had returned his earlier jeer with a few quips of his own, but seemed not to mind overall considering he joined the beleaguered group. Eventually the Villa fell quiet (his fellows brightened slightly when he stopped yammering) and retreated into his private thoughts. His father was the biggest preoccupation on the way to wherever-the-hell they were going. On top of all his physical hurts, an achy longing settled somewhere deep within his breast. He felt smothered and lost, and a little betrayed. Why had his father chosen now to show himself? Was it because Farran had finally set out to right the wrong of so many years ago? Why was it his job to end the bastard that tore his father from him?
Beneath it all seethed rage.
Now that his father had so much as requested that Farran meet his sire’s murderer, the less he wanted to actually follow through. His father had always been passionate, caring, adventurous – when it came to his artistic calling. His children, on the other hand, were merely vessels for inheritance, young nothings to be trained and molded until they could properly wield the Drake name. The Diamond wasn’t nearly as sophisticated enough to truly understand the inner-workings of his father’s mind, but a general memory of absentee fathering bobbed around the edges of his childhood experience.
Now he didn’t know what to think.
Should he avenge his fierce, brash father? Or deny the selfish asshole his peace and leave him wandering on the edges of oblivion for all time?
His brows furrowed in thought. He wasn’t much for contemplating the hereafter, but his parents (well, his mother, really) had taught him about the bright Creator, told him how all Villas become one with the Creator in artistic bliss. The feline was hard put to remember anything about a hell or purgatory, wondering why his father was due a bloody, cursed afterlife. While it seemed obvious that Vicente had unfinished business, Farran couldn’t brush away the tendrils of unease and doubt that nipped at his consciousness. Maybe his father didn’t deserve to be one with the Creator, and if he fulfilled his father’s vengeful wish, would he one day be denied union, too?
His heart ached again as he thought of his religious teachings, remembering how his mother had explained the greatness and pure light of the Creator. What would his mother think about all this? She couldn’t. That’s what. She was busy bouncing off the padded walls of a Villa asylum, driven mad by the loss of her mate. He wondered… was his mother driven mad by the ghostly figure of his father? Would she return to normal if he avenged his father?
_____________________
Feeling far too uncomfortable (theological pursuits were definitely out of his league), he was glad when they finally came to the edge of a clearing in the Outer Bazaar. Rather, he was happy they had stopped walking – the battering ram headache wouldn’t cease hammering at his skull, and his feet ached from hobbling awkwardly to avoid further injuring his maimed limb. When he looked up to take in his surroundings, he immediately lurched to the side and spilled anything he still had in his stomach (which by this point was mostly bile) all over the cobbled streets.
The market streets were paved with bloody, rotting corpses. All of them looked to have some Lowlander in them. Good. God. They were already a waste of space in life, and here they were, fouling up the road between him and what was hopefully the end of this wretched endeavor.
His lip curled in revulsion and fear, and in a rare moment of insight he realized how hatred could really push someone to do the unspeakable. He didn’t like Lowlanders, never had, but he didn’t think he could was capable of wholesale slaughter such as this. The green tinge didn’t leave his muzzle for quite some time later.
They picked their way carefully across the corpse-strewn path, though Farran struggled between looking up at the sky to avoid having to look at the shredded and bloody flesh around and stepping in suits-knew-what, or keeping his eyes on the ground, where he was privy to every vein and terror-stricken face. Either way, it was horrible.
Once they arrived at their destination – a bakery, of all things, and one that had been ransacked at that – they were very reluctantly admitted by a Selkie feline and that weird little Ace from the meadow. The damned thing could talk. Not only that, he was telling him, Farran Drake, that he and his companions should come back another day. The “proprietor” of the combined bakery/barber shoppe wasn’t feeling well.
And who’re you? His guard? I’d like to see you try and stop me!
He laughed and jabbed his scalpel toward the creature’s chest. The Selkie feline shot him a look that would mold cheese. What was the world coming to? Smartass Aces denying something of a real Card? Pah! Rosewood finally stepped in, losing patience and snapping at the Villa to shut his trap. Rankled that the swan would take the nasty little thing’s side, he continued to mutter, I’ll give him one thing – he’s loyal. Bet he would fetch a fine price on the market…
Eventually they were lead down to the basement, which was eerie and dark. They were followed about closely by the Selkie and Ace, the latter being insistent that they stay away from what appeared to be a gigantic meat grinder. Farran gave the creature a scathing look – why would they want to go near that thing, anyway? Besides, they were after some supposed loose brick underneath the oven? Or something?
After what felt like forever (and in actuality had been maybe a half hour), the Ace and his friend were beginning to get impatient. The Villa swayed on his feet a little, and eventually Arkady and Rosewood agreed that they would have to try again some other time, as everyone looked and felt the worse for their wear.
As they were escorted back upstairs, they found themselves surrounded by a slew of Lowlander youths and children. Farran balked, not knowing what they were doing and how they had gotten there, only that their presence reminded him strongly of the carnage outside. His stomach did flip-flops as he realized they had to leave the way they came.
_______________________
Somehow and sometime later, he found himself being rounded up back at the police station. Handfuls of other people (more people – hurray!) in various states of personal injury, upset and confusion had been corralled to the spot. He complained loudly about wanting to go home but found himself trembling and falling backward on his haunches. Before he knew it, he was being examined by a very pregnant, irate ferret who insisted on prodding at his various injuries.
What do you think you’re doing?!
Damned Corvies! Always wanting to stick things in people and figure out how they ticked. The woman, who was oddly sporting a crown of horns and this horrible, inky substance that gyrated along her back, explained that she was a doctor and she was helping the police station with treating victims of the War. He continued to flail and try to beat her away, skin crawling at the thought of another Corvie crackerjack trying to experiment on him. Finally, the woman snapped, irritated that he wouldn’t hold still, and procured a syringe out of nowhere and plunged it harshly into his neck.
H-Heyyyy…
The world went black within a few heartbeats. When he awoke, drowsy and feeling strangely numb, he found he was spread out on a makeshift cot in a tent somewhere. The Corvie who’d drugged him appeared by his side, though he felt more curious than angry as various treatments pulsed slowly through his body.
Y-yoou stabbed mee, he slurred slowly. With neeeeedle.
Yes, well, that’s what happens when you attempt to bludgeon the attending physician. I’ve sewn up the laceration on your left forearm, though I’m afraid not much can be done about the missing toes, seeing as how you don’t seem to have them on your person. A pity, I might have been able to reattach them had they been on ice. As it was, the wound was many hours old and all I could do was sew up any remaining flesh and cauterize the remainder. You have lost a copious amount of blood – I would recommend you stay in the temporary facilities for a few days under my observation.
Something like slow, shocked wonder plodded around at the back of Farran’s mind. A brief feeling of sadness oozed somewhere in his consciousness… no more toes? His painting… He lifted up his left foreleg and gazed in wonder at his newly bandaged arm, tilting his head, mesmerized that everything that had happened had actually been real. Oh… his head…
He went to touch his skull and the doctor promptly reached over and lowered his paw with her own.
Ah, yes. I thoroughly examined the stitching along your cranium – it’s decent work. Another physician, I presume? Though the flesh was swollen and caked with seepage... probably due to lack of antiseptic… I’ve cleaned it and injected some general anesthesia into the area. It shouldn’t bother you for another few hours, though I can’t imagine it would even then. I’ve heavily dosed you – I could tell you would give me grief, otherwise – you’ll be out for a while.
Farran blinked stupidly, realizing that he should probably be angry, but it was too much effort at the moment. The capacity for giving a rat’s ass was inhibited by whatever the Corvie had pumped into him. Corvies.
Thannnk- He slumped back down against the cot and fell immediately into a deep sleep.
______________________
His slumber was not peaceful. Endless dreams twisted into hellish nightmares, more often than not. Most of the images didn’t make sense but many of them alluded to his misadventures. The last vision he remembered seeing was of his mother: She was in her padded cell, intermittently screaming and crying, twisting impossibly in the straightjacket she’d recently been put into. As she shrieked, his mind’s eye shifted to reveal what gave her cause to tremble so, and found his father’s bloody apparition hovering mournfully in the opposite corner of the room.
He awoke with a start, his body feeling tight and sore as though he’d taken on a whole army of creepy skull-eaters. He shifted, blinking rapidly as he adjusted to the bright light.
Slowly, several thoughts crept upon him at once make his head feel overfull. First and foremost in his mind was his latest dream. Before he had been uncertain as to how to handle his father’s murderer, but now he felt conviction coursing through his veins. He was going to kill him. And not for his wretched father, no. For his poor, deranged mother. He was going to end her suffering by murdering the man who had stolen her sanity. For her sake, alone, would he bloody his paws.
Farran was suddenly aware that he needed something to drink – now! – and began looking around in a panic. Just in his line of sight he saw black and pink shuffling in his direction. It was the pregnant doctor. As she trudged into view, he noticed that her eyes were shining brightly and though her walking was labored, she appeared pleased.
I see you’re awake.
Wa-ter... The feline croaked.
The ferret’s nose crinkled, though the corners of her lips twitched as she tried to suppress her mouth from betraying her innermost thoughts. She made it to his bedside, looking a little weary but content as she produced a jug of water and a glass. The woman insisted on holding the glass up for him, though Farran reached out desperately for the glass.
Slowly, now. Your body can’t handle too much liquid at once.
Most of the water ended up on his chest as he coughed and spluttered around his paper-dry throat. The doctor merely waited until he’d finished as much as he could, then poured another glass to repeat the process. After he had finished off three full glasses of water, the Corvie returned the glass and pitcher to their places underneath a wheeled trolley. Once he was confident that his mouth was lubricated properly, Farran couldn’t help but bombard his caregiver with questions.
What happened? Where’s Arkady? Is he safe? How long have I been here? Where’s that damned Rosewood?
The ferret merely waited, with eyebrows slightly raised, until the boy ran out of questions.
You have been asleep for three days and your injuries are healing nicely. As for “Arkady”, I’m assuming you’re referring to the Solandrian who wouldn’t leave your side? The police arranged an escort for him back to the Court of Hearts. I assured him we would send a message to him once you’d recovered. As for Dr.Rosewood, he was tended to before returning, I assume, to his domicile. He did leave a brief note for you, though. She slipped him a small piece of paper that had been tucked behind her ear and waited patiently while he read.
I didn’t forget my promise. Let’s meet next weekend at the club. If you go looking for trouble, it will find YOU.
~ Rosewood
~ Rosewood
Farran’s face twisted into a scowl as he shredded the paper into a million pieces. What a complete prick. He should be grateful the stupid swan was helping him at all, but he didn’t much for the scathing condescension that oozed from the simple message. What were the odds that he would need the help of such a huge asshole? As if Farran had asked to be put in this situation. Yeesh.
Yet below the unbridled outrage were the stinging barbs of jealousy. Though he hadn’t enjoyed seeing his father’s otherworldly, dismembered body, it still hurt that the Tulgey had been able to see him and Farran hadn’t. Now Farran was at the mercy of Rosewood to be able to talk to a former friend of his father. AND the Tulgey hated him. It was terribly unfair.
The doctor carefully preoccupied herself with other matters at his bedside until Farran had calmed down. She didn’t ask any questions, for which Farran was thankful, but he did notice that her eyebrows had jumped up a few times more than was comfortable.
Eventually, Farran regained control over his anger and looked back at the doctor.
Sooo… what now?
With your permission, I’ll conduct one last examination. If I find your vitals are stable enough you will be allowed to leave.
Okay. Good, this was good. The sooner he could leave, the sooner he could start planning how to find his father’s murderer. He still wasn’t entirely sure of the connection between Rosewood’s mate’s uncle and his father, but in the meantime he could still plot. And read his father’s diaries for any clues. The feline supposed that had been his father’s real purpose in leaving him with the diary – he wanted to be sure his son could find the man who ended his life.
The doctor was quick and efficient about his final check-up and declared him well enough to depart. She gave him instructions on caring for his stitches, though he could barely listen given his excitement about his task. He could tell she was slightly irritated and gave him a card should any of his wounds become infected. Farran glanced impatiently at the card and hopped off his cot.
Yeah, thanks, Dr. uuhhh… I-aayy.. Price. Dr. Price.
An eyebrow lifted again in response.
I-ah-so. It’s been an interesting few days, Mr. Drake. Mind yourself, now. Be sure to make an appointment in a few weeks to have those stitched removed.
Yeah, yeah. I will. And uh, good luck. Farran gestured vaguely to the surrounding area, (many cots were still occupied by other patients) though it was clear the Villa cat’s mind was elsewhere.
Dr. Price nodded toward the exit, rolling her eyes as she turned to remove the blankets from his former cot. The Diamond gathered his few belongings from another shelf on the trolley: his muddy coin purse, what was left of his bloody, tattered scarf, and the blood-stained scalpel from earlier.
As he loped ungracefully toward the tent’s opening (using his bizarre weapon like a crutch), he felt himself filling with a crazed excitement. After so many years, he would soon put his mother’s torment to rest. He had his father’s journal, an amazing weapon and a promised meeting with this Cort Jameston person.
After what had felt like forever, Farran was finally going to get his way.
