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Post by Deleted on Feb 24, 2014 1:05:29 GMT
"Watch your walking!"
A strange, throaty, jiggling voice rises up to be heard.
A horned head lifts itself from the moist mud, its dirty bicolored face sending off waves of mild annoyance.
The small black-and-white animal struggles to pull itself from its unexpected tomb, glaring upwards at the big fluffy animals that have so carelessly been bouncing and bumbling on and all over its buried body.
The plump figure, rising awkward to all four of its cloven hooves, tosses its body about, the bells of its collar jangling discordantly; managing to shake some of the muddy sand from its surprisingly short coat of hair, clear amber eyes turn to watch with obvious irritation as the other things continue ambling about and bounding around like witless worms.
The goat sighs, ears flopping from between its curling horns as it shakes its head.
It's dawn, early morning, the sun still rising, barely even above the horizon (or so it guesses, seeing as how there's no real sun to be seeing) -- this is no time to be rousing the dead!
It snorts, kneading the gritty, mucky sand with a hoof as it mutters quietly to itself, "They almost broke it...."
Then, shooting one last glare towards the bumbling beasts, it plops down on its rump -- similar to a rodent sitting up -- and lifts something black and sleek from the soft shifting soil.
Sunglasses.
Simple human sunglasses, with stylized lenses that have been forced into triangular shapes; they were not made for any other animal's face, yet the goat lifts them to its own anyways, emitting another slow sigh as it attempts to adjust them to its awkward facial features.
"I'll have you know," it tells them, in its still slightly irritated tone, although it is speaking mostly to itself, "that these are my last ones."
Slipping them onto its face, the goat leans back, arms stretching out behind it and hooves pushing themselves into the sand (all too similar to a reclining human), letting loose a long breath of relief.
"Shades are such a shift," it mumbles.
"So difficult to get them to stay."
One of its loose ears twitches, as it looks again towards the unknown others, this time with significantly less irritation than before; the expression that now crosses its face, however, is not one of curiosity, but more one of its own contented carefree carelessness.
Its eyes, unseen behind the tinted lenses, squint a little...it was hard enough to see them in this already dim lighting, but with shades it makes it so much more difficult; yet it has no plans to remove them, for why would it want to mess it up, what with all the trouble it takes to simply slip a single pair on?
They do not look familiar.
They are most definitely strangers.
They are, however, still only mere sheep.
Sheep and nothing else.
Of course they appear to be mindless ones too.
Has to be a different flock.
The goat sniffs, masking its exasperation.
It's tried so hard to get away from them, but, no matter what, they always somehow manage to track it!
So, here they are, all over again: singular goat and grouping sheep; bound together for all of eternity.
"God," it says, with another casual gasp of breath, "you guys are so /loud/, aren't you?"
A strange thing to say perhaps, for they haven't really been making all that much noise; merely walking slowly over the marshy soil, lowering their heads to clip off the tops of grass blades.
Maybe there's an occasional baaing or bleating here and there, but not much.
Just the sound of their own hooves squelching as they slowly move along, their steps sinking into the squishy ground.
The goat reaches up with one of its hooves, scratching at the dangling beard of its chin.
"No rest for the wicked, I suppose.
So early, ugh--"
It falls backwards, its body thumping dully in the sand, arms and legs splayed, little tail twitching this way and that as it groans loudly.
"I am not the early bird.
Nor the worm.
Neither."
Another sigh, allowing the release of one last word, simple, short and sweet:
"No."
As though a question or request has been asked.
One of the sheep bumps its nose against the goat's head, who grumbles.
Another starts to nibble one of the goat's ears, who groans.
"oh
My
GOOOOOOD"
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Jillian Doe
New Member
almost became a Jill sandwich
Posts: 15 
Full Name: Jillian B. Doe
Species: Common Weasel, Mustela Nivalis Vulgaris
Gender: Female
Homeworld: Earth #5062
Height: 4'4"
Weight: 60-ish pounds
OOC Name: Jiggers
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Post by Jillian Doe on Feb 24, 2014 12:46:05 GMT
"Hey, hey Jill..."
Lucia cupped the weasel's chin in her paw, lifting her face.
"Hey, rainy face, it's okay. Ve'll get dem next time. Dey'll rue der day dey messed vit' Jillian Doe and Lucia Baláž."
"S-sure..."
"Hey! Hey. Dey vill."
Jill's ears and whiskers perked forward in a smile.
"So they will."
"Let's mount up... You got dis?"
"I'm fine."
Lucia stepped back and watched the weasel clamber into her saddle. Her legs shook, but she was getting better. The sheep staggered left, then right again, then sighed and resigned itself to its fate of weasel-bearing. When Jill was situated firmly, Lucia tightened the saddle, and double-checked the provisions bags.
Jill whined.
Lucia patted her leg and passed up Ms. Juice as well, wrapped up tight in Jill's tartan blanket. Jill zheeped as she took it and tucked the stuffed stoat in front of her, then reached for the reigns.
"You ready?" Lucia asked.
"Yes, quite so. Let's r...r...rock and r-roll, as they say."
Lucia cocked her head. "I'ff neffer heard dat sayink." Jill sneezed at this. "But I like it," the pine marten assured. "It sounds old."
"I'm not old."
"Rock and roll," murmured Lucia, as she mounted her own ewe. "Vhere haff I heard dat before? I t'ink... my grandpa used it once, vhen I vos takink roller derby lessons... I t'ink he vos beink sarcastic."
"Were any of those words a c-cuss?"
"No."
"Oh well."
Lucia shook her tail clean of thistles and again double-checked her own loadout. Wide-brimmed hat, check. Scarf, check. Ammo bandoliers, check. Skirts, check. Jill's clothes? Still on; check. Vintorez? Full magazine. Jill's Vintorez? ... empty, good. Check, then. She held the gun out to the weasel, who took it and immediately looked down the barrel in curiosity.
"Right," said Lucia. "Let's go liberate our porkchop cartel from dose hooded bandit scum!"
~ ~ ~
That had been seven hours ago.
Their sheep had gotten lost. Lucia had not planned on this. Someone had totally dosed, like, every single sheep on the moor with a week's worth of beta, it seemed. Not a one of them could hold up their end of a conversation besides being brutally dismissive of anything the mustelids had to say.
Jill was passed out on hers, snoring uproariously—cute little "zheezheezhee" noises every time she breathed out. Lucia held the weasel's steed's reigns and led them down a valley. Oh great, another herd of sheep. Another hour spent trying to get their animals to stop clustering with the others and get back on the path. Another hour spent trying to figure out why the path had lurched three hundred yards to the east and turned itself into a figure-eight, with a loop-de-loop in the middle, and little RC firetrucks zipping around crashing and exploding into Christmas tree tinsel.
Lucia's ears perked.
A noise! Someone was talking!
It was coming from the center of the sheep herd!
"Hold on!" she shouted. "Mr. Sheeeeep! Don't forget who you aaare! Ve're comiiiiiink!"
Jill snorted awake and wrinkled her muzzle. She smiled fondly and hugged her ewe's neck, rubbing her nose into its fleece.
"Not with that attitude we're not..."
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Deleted
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Post by Deleted on Feb 24, 2014 20:34:04 GMT
"Mr. Sheeeeep!"
The goat sits up sharply, bonking its face into the one sheep and partially tearing its ear from the other's mouth.
It grunts as it pushes the face-sheep away, who merely shuffles backwards a little before bumping back into one of its arms.
It growls as it tries to shove the ear-sheep off of it, who, instead of actually moving, simply sits down and continues chewing on its ear; it rips the ear from the other's mouth, barely feeling the streak of pain that courses through its tip, and then checks it for any rips and tears.
Yep.
New scar.
Goddamn stupid sheep.
At least it can always fix it with the next death.
It snorts as it pushes itself to the rear two of its four hooves, attempting in vain to push the formerly-face-sheep-but-now-arm-sheep out of the way again; even standing tall, its head still comes short of the sheep's own.
The once-arm-sheep sets its head down on the top of the goat's own.
It is going to kill them.
Every last one of them.
The sheep will become nothing more than piles of pillows.
This is the only way to rid itself of the curse.
It sighs, sliding a hoof down its face.
At least it still has its sunglasses; it adjusts them now, looking up with its eyes to see...the silliest sight.
Giant furry tubes -- two of them...a sheep for each.
They're riding the sheep.
Hm...why has the goat never thought to do that?
Drool dribbles down the side of its face, pooling in one of the upturned curves of its horns.
The sheep is gnawing on the goat's head.
What a reminder...maybe /that's/ why -- if it tried to do that, whatever sheep it mounted would probably just roll over, squash the goat under its poof-butt, then twist into an awkward shape as it proceeded to treat the poor goat like a clump of grass to be eaten.
What are those guys doing anyway?
They're not getting anywhere, by the looks of it, what with those sheep not listening to them at all.
Waving its arms in the most comedic fashion, all of it done in order to shake the sheep off of its head, the goat slowly starts stepping towards them, wiping the saliva off of its face as it makes its approach.
Don't wanna look /uncool/, now do we?
It touches its triangular shades at the thought, once more making adjustments.
When it determines that it is close enough to the strange animals, the goat stops walking and crosses its arms (which looks somewhat weird considering that, even though its shoulders can rotate like a human's, its joints are still in all the same locations as any other old goat [which basically means that it has freakishly long wrists]), metaphorically lifting a brow as it stares in bored disbelief at the two.
It hasn't quite seen anything like it before.
That is to say, two human-sized weasels wearing clothes and riding sheep that, although rather big compared to the goat, it is almost a surprise that they can hold whatever weight those carnivorous creatures might be bearing.
Eh, but not too odd of an sight, at the very least.
With a loud, guttural, throat-clearing cough to announce its presence (in case they haven't already noticed the tiny, seemingly shaven goat standing upright in the midst of ground-bound clouds), the goat, arms still crossed, waves one of its hooves in a circular motion.
Then, trying to maintain as cool of an air about itself as possible, the goat says a single simple sentence:
"How's it hanging, inkblots?"
('Cause, see, if you look at it like this, they /are/ kind of almost like a blemish set up in the midst of all these perfect sheep -- 'course, the goat is too, somewhat, a little, maybe, but at least it still actually looks something like a sheep, sort of...IT MAKES SENSE.)
"You, uh--" the goat tilts its head at them "--you having trouble there, slickslops?"
(...Neither excuses nor explanations....)
"Looking for something?"
(Maybe stop the chill here.
Just.
Sort of.
Stand and look cool.
All.
Statue-like.
(Aww yye.)
The goat does not move.
A sheep steps up to blare an annoying baa into the goat's face.
It twitches a little, but that does not count as moving.
The sheep licks the goat on the nose.
Nope: no movement; none.
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Jillian Doe
New Member
almost became a Jill sandwich
Posts: 15
Full Name: Jillian B. Doe
Species: Common Weasel, Mustela Nivalis Vulgaris
Gender: Female
Homeworld: Earth #5062
Height: 4'4"
Weight: 60-ish pounds
OOC Name: Jiggers
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Post by Jillian Doe on Feb 26, 2014 16:51:35 GMT
Lucia yanked on her sheep's reigns. This was the only movement she made. It didn't necessarily cause the sheep to stop, or change directions, or acknowledge her existence, but it was the last thing she did before she turned to a disbelieving stone marten* statue, so it thus noted.
She had not grown up on a farm, or had the luck of being anywhere near farms at any point in her lifetime, save the kind of farms that—... but anyway. She had seen goats, of course. On TV. They made good sitcom characters, because there was minimal action and it made small animals laugh to see someone unable to open doors. She was aware, distantly, that goats were trouble-makers, rabble-rousers, rebel-stakers, one of the few bovine creatures left who would fight tooth and hoof against beta injections.
The ones on TV never stood up. Or wore sunglasses.
Jill slowly slid sideways off her steed.
Lucia reached out, without taking her eyes off the goat, just managed to snag her claws in Jill's scarf, and pulled the weasel back upright. Jill yawned.
Lucia snapped out of it, then, and leveled her gun at the goat.
"Did you do dis to der sheep? Are you supplyink dem?"
"Lucia! Ask him about the p-p-porkchops."
"Shh—later. Vot are your plans vit' dese sheep, Mr. Piebald?" She spat off to the side, not because she had to, but because she knew it made her look badtail, like all those ancient 2d scent-less western films. "Vot kind off sick harem are you runnink?"
(* also known as a beech marten, which is entirely different from a pine marten. For one it is less orange-bibbed.)
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Deleted
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Post by Deleted on Feb 26, 2014 20:43:28 GMT
The goat blinks at the two from behind its sunglasses, wondering, in the proceeding silence, whether or not they'd even heard it.
The one's staring at it like some stunned jackrabbit watching a hawk swoop down to eat it, and the other's just...slowly sliding off of its saddle -- the goat suppresses some sounds as the one mustelid pulls the other back into sitting upright on their saddle.
Then the gawking...marten(? The goat isn't very good at telling those smaller species apart, even if they ARE suspiciously larger than normal.) seems to blink, and lowers a metallic tube into the goat's face.
Oh, so they have guns?
That they might or might not know how to use?
The goat doesn't move a inch from its spot, and merely stares down the barrel in bored curiosity.
It hasn't died by gun in a long while.
Hasn't been killed by an enormous furry limbed snake at all before.
As the marten starts spouting off some rubbish, the goat doesn't even bother to hold back a yawn and a lazy attempt at brushing off the sheep that won't stop nudging and, essentially, hugging it.
And eating it.
The goat passes a hoof down one of its floppy ears, eyeing the two as the one finally ends its senseless tirade.
Then it says, simply: "I have no idea what you're going on about."
It looks again at the barrel, raising a hoof as though to push it away, but instead lies its arm sideways against the long gun -- /reclining/, as it is, on top of it, with the barrel now pointing at its, well...unusual /parts/ (stop looking you sick dazed marten).
Then it continues, running down through her little speech as though it were a checklist (short-term memory becomes surprisingly astute after long-term has been blasted apart so many times, by deaths that have been accompanied by so many different types of head trauma):
"One: I didn't do anything to these sheep; they do this on their own.
Two: I've no supplies but these sunglasses here.
Three: if you want porkchops, I suggest looking for some wild pigs instead, and staying far away from me, because otherwise all you'll get is cotton-mouth.
Four: refer to one; I've no plans for the sheep, but to maybe hopefully one day finally be able to run far away from them, with no chance of them ever tracking me down.
Five: refer to everything; I'm. not doing. /ANYthing/."
Its tail flicks, a silent gesture towards one of the nibbling sheep.
"Except getting my butt chewed off.
Both ways."
The goat gives another careless yawn, showing no signs of retreating from the gun that it's lying so listlessly on top of.
"Finally: the name's not 'Piebald,' it's 'Capricornus.'
Make certain to memorize it before I become a bloody splatter."
It waves its one free hoof in the air.
"Repeat your speech, but on my side of things, plus an additional request for your name.
All good?"
It pokes at its shades, which appear to gleam and glint as they catch the light of the unseen rising sun.
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Lucia
New Member
Only sugar... darn.
Posts: 12
Full Name: Lucia
Species: European Pine Marten
Gender: Female
Homeworld: Earth #5062
Height: 5'7"
Weight: How rude! (120-ish pounds perhaps)
OOC Name: Jiggers
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Post by Lucia on Mar 1, 2014 15:50:03 GMT
Lucia didn't say anything for another good little while. Her brain was ticking away. Calculating.
On the one hand, she had learned the hard way, though thankfully fairly early on, to stop and listen before acting on how she knew the world worked. To state your own case calmly, slowly, pausing for questions so you can clarify.
On the other hand, she was still wary of strangers on the moor, and no doubt Jill was hungry, as weasels ever are, and some hooded lowlifes had kicked them out of their shack with eighteen barrels of smoked porkchops, and that was... probably a lost cause now.
Right, new cause.
She held her paw out to the goat.
"Come vit' me iff you vant to liff." A pause, to let the goat consider her offer. An explanation: "I am Lucia; dis is my partner, Jill."
"Jillian Doe!" squeaked the weasel. "I'm a weasel."
"If you vick vit' Jill, I vill club your brains in. Ot'ervise, ve're cornflake sveet buns. At least Jill's are. Touch mine and I bite your p—hoof off."
Jill held up her own paw, and began counting off her claws, though she couldn't really get either paw to cooperate and just stick one claw out at a time, so she just bounced her paws together in a referee's "time out" gesture a few dozen times.
"Rule One: Don't wick with Jill. Rule Two: Don't wick with Lucia. Rule Three: Rules One and Two are literal as well. Rule Four: Rules One and Two don't apply to Lucia and Jill. Rule Five: Don't touch our damn porkchops!"
Lucia reached out and patted Jill's head.
"Very gut! No stutterink dat time."
"I've b-been pragderzing." The weasel beamed at Capricornus.
"Rule Six," said Lucia. "Tell us your story, ve'll tell you ours." She made a show of flicking the safety off her rifle. "Vant me to take care off dese sheep for you?" And in case she wasn't being clear enough (because clarity was very important) "I mean, I can shoot dem in der head and kill dem."
Hey, if they chose to live dumb, they chose to die dumb.
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Deleted
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Post by Deleted on Mar 3, 2014 2:17:11 GMT
The goat stares at the proffered paw, lifting yet another nonexistent eyebrow at the marten's words.
Is it a threat -- is she saying that if he doesn't come with her, she's going to shoot him...?
Because...there's really no other danger around him other than these two -- or just that one.
As the marten introduces herself and the weasel, then continues to mention something about someone named "Vic," he begins to wonder on her accent, so strangely familiar it sounds.
He tilts his head as the weasel bounces her paws together, apparently counting off some rules that, he's guessing, he is supposed to be following if he chooses to go along with the pair (Are they even giving him a choice or not? It's so hard to tell.).
They seem to have taken it quite to heart that he's already decided on going with them.
Well, he supposes that it doesn't sound like such a bad aspect; after all, minus the sheep they'd be riding, it might prove a viable way to get away from the pillow-monsters.
Not to mention who knows what else he might come upon!
His heart suddenly bursts in awe, as faint memories of almighty adventures and exciting escapades whirl around in the back of his mind.
True, they'd seem so horribly mundane to any /human/ discoverer, but to a singular tiny goat all on his own, with nothing to worry about, not even death itself?
Certainly a way to stave off boredom, to say the least of it all!
--Until the marten takes over again, finally finishing up their speech (is it him or does it seem almost practiced?), whereupon the goat bristles sharply at her last words.
"No," he growls, quickly grabbing the gun by the barrel and forcing it down, so that it now points at his chest.
"You will NOT 'shoot dem in der head and kill dem.'
That's MY one and only rule," he says to them, voice forceful and stern, all manner of aloofness gone from it.
"You have six, I have one; I think that's fair, don't you?
I don't think I'll have any problems with holding true to yours, so you better not have any problems with mine."
Those sunglasses start sliding off of his face, which he whips back in an abrupt motion, not even touching them this time to get them to stay on.
"Got it, churro?"
So saying, he swings himself upwards onto the marten's mount, propping himself up just in front of her; he does this on purpose, figuring that it might be easier to redirect her shots in case she does happen to try and shoot at some of the sheep.
He glances back at the two, then down at the sheep he's on, a shudder briefly sliding down his spine as he remembers his earlier thoughts -- hopefully this sheep /won't/ try to roll over while he's on it.
He looks around at the surrounding herd as well, while realizing that he's also higher up, meaning it might be easier for the other sheep to find him now.
"We better get going before we're boxed in," he tells the mustelids, fearing that the sheep may already be moving for them.
Clearing his throat and straightening his spine, he points a hoof at the horizon, speaking loudly in the deepest voice he can muster (which actually sounds less inspiring, and more gut-busting with that cracking rumbling of a goat's accent).
"Let's ride!"
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Lucia
New Member
Only sugar... darn.
Posts: 12
Full Name: Lucia
Species: European Pine Marten
Gender: Female
Homeworld: Earth #5062
Height: 5'7"
Weight: How rude! (120-ish pounds perhaps)
OOC Name: Jiggers
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Post by Lucia on Mar 3, 2014 10:01:30 GMT
Lucia clicked the safety back on, holstered her weapon. Fair was fair. She wasn't going to press. Sure, the sheep had been about to eat him alive, but if he didn't want revenge, that was his motto. Jill was clicking her gun at random things—the sheep, the sky, the ground, her own sheep, Lucia, Capricornus. Somewhere in the weasel's mind was no doubt a blood-spattered fantasy. Or maybe she just liked the clicking noise of the trigger. Who knew? Lucia ignored her for now, and focused on the problem of the goat blocking her view. "Um," she said. She sighed. It wasn't like she could steer the damn sheep anyway, so what did she care if she saw where they were heading? It was at least smart enough not to drop into a ravine. "Mush!" She lifted her legs, then kicked them back into the sheep's sides, spurring it onward! ... onward! ... on...ward! The sheep folded its legs and began eating grass with the others. "Is that food?" Jill had noticed. "Not for a veasel." Lucia tossed her a raw porkchop from her supplies. Jill tore at it with a growl. "So," Lucia said, stepping off her sheep to start undoing her belongings from the saddle straps, "I don't suppose you're a better steed den der sheep? ... just kiddink!" Who knew a goat could have such attitude? It was like the only thing he was missing was a pink Cadillac... Rude Goat and the Sheeps. "I guess ve're valkink from here." A sheep started gnawing on her tail. She twitched it back and hissed at it. "If ve aren't eaten alife..." "How is it," said Jill, fixing Capricornus with an intense stare as bits of porkchop waggled from between her teeth, "you are digsf'rent from the other sheep? You are like me. White..." She lifted her shirt to show off her belly, and twisted to show off her back, "and bla— LUCIA! LUCIA SOMETHING'S WRONG WITH MY FUR! IT'S BROWN!" "It's alvways been brown. You don't haff black fur." "Oh." |
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Deleted
Deleted Member
Posts: 0
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Post by Deleted on Mar 11, 2014 2:33:19 GMT
The goat scratches at his beard.
What are they doing?
What. are they. DOING.
He sighs as the sheep lies down, rolling his eyes behind those cool shades.
At least it didn't roll over on top of them; that's a plus.
He squints as the marten tosses a raw hunk of meat at the weasel, who begins to tear at it.
Well...at least it's not sheep -- he can tell by the smell of it.
Although he wonders briefly where the pigs might have come from, it's of no real concern.
As the marten steps off, so does he, standing still on two legs with arms crossed and an indifferent scowl being directed at the ground.
Then, the weasel, proceeding to freak out.
Hm, fun times, fun times; a crazy weasel and a cool marten.
He glares at the marten.
There's no way they'd outdo him in coolness, even if they ARE wearing a full set of clothing, and no pickaninny knitters' clothing at that, either!
The sheep don't seem to think of the mustelids as cool, do they?
Then again, they don't seem to think of him as being cool, either.
In fact, they don't seem to think of anything at all!
Ah, well.
The goat waggles his tail and looks down at it, at the black rump which surrounds the white fluff, considering the question that the weasel had asked him.
It holds more meaning to it the weasel might realize, he figures.
Then he throws all manner of logic away as he scoffs and turns away, declaring gruffly:
"I'm different from the other sheep because I'm not a sheep, I'm a GOAT."
As if that matters any.
"Shouldn't I be the one asking why the two of you are...like THAT?"
He motions to their bodies, in a manner suggesting that they should KNOW what he's talking about.
Technically, he's not any different from the others, is he?
THEY'RE the real strange ones.
All goats can talk and walk just as he can, as can all sheep-- well, except for the stupid ones, like this flock seems to be here.
The stupid ones were the different ones, unable to talk, much less walk, like any other animal.
He used to wonder if some odd group of humans might have figured it all out, and decided to brainwash the sheep into just what the rest of the human species believes them to be -- stupid, mindless, brainless...somehow; but that's all superstition and conspiracy theories, and he doesn't fall out for those sorts of things.
Nah, why question it, if you're just the fine with the way things are?
No problems that way.
He leans on one of the sheep, which is, again, nibbling at his fur as though he is also some delicious patch of grass.
Maybe he is; hell, how should he know?
Why should he care?
They're annoying as hell -- that's all that matters, isn't it!
"You know," he continues, "you're pretty big for, uh, a marten and a weasel."
He'd mention the clothes too, but hey, he's the one wearing human sunglasses here, isn't he?
Plus, at least their clothes actually fit them; human sunglasses are simply impossible!
This thought brings one of his hooves around to push them back up on his face again, once more trying to make certain that they do not fall off.
Then he sighs.
He doesn't particularly care for the answers, either.
"Shouldn't we be getting a move on, anyways?" he points out, eyeing the two.
Hey, he might not be able to carry them, but he bets that one of them could carry him.
But...nah -- that'd be way too ridiculous.
What's the point in shining bright if you're just gonna dull yourself down?
Then again, there's really no one around that he can see, but hey, you never know, right?
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Lucia
New Member
Only sugar... darn.
Posts: 12
Full Name: Lucia
Species: European Pine Marten
Gender: Female
Homeworld: Earth #5062
Height: 5'7"
Weight: How rude! (120-ish pounds perhaps)
OOC Name: Jiggers
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Post by Lucia on Mar 15, 2014 10:55:51 GMT
Lucia was almost happy. For once, just for fates-damned once, someone knew she was a marten. It was like... weird, that someone would get it, you know? Of course. Of course, it wasn't something she was entirely proud of, no. It was someone going "Hey, look at that jill backpacking along the road—isn't she a pine marten? Aren't they incredibly rare and endangered?" and then deciding, yes, today was a good day to kidnap someone and sell them into slavery.
So forgive her for not being wicking ecstatic about a stranger getting her species right.
"Yeah," she said. "Pretty big."
She managed to put one and one together. Goat thinks they're big; goat knows their names; goat gets offended and waggles hoof at them about looking like "that"—goat comes from world where martens and weasels are much smaller, possibly shaped differently? Possibly don't wear clothes? Yeah, that was something that Gus mentioned, maybe, so long ago now. (How long had it been? At least a week. Time flies when you're chasing pork bandits.)
She helped Jill off her sheep, set the weasel off in the direction they presumably wanted to go, and slung their belongings over her shoulder. Hunched almost enough to use all fours paws, so—why not? Easier that way.
Jill took note, dropped down as well, and proceeded to wig the wick out, as weasels do. Lucia sneezed; at least she was tiring herself out after that nap.
"Story time," Lucia said. "Vot's up vit' you, goat? Capricorn. Vhere you goink? Vhere you from? Vhy your glasses don't fit? Vhy you hank out vit' sheep?" A pause, to let the questions sink in, but before he can answer: "Vot do you know about dis vorld? Jill and I, ve are not from here. No vun ve know iss. Efferyvun iss from somevhere, just voke up here vun day, just like dat." In lieu of fingers to snap, she clicks her jaws. "I guess it dossn't really matter. Probably can't go back. Probably don't van't to. Vot kind off music you like? Glitch-blues? Banksweep cardio? Prockressive neo-classical malt klutzo?"
Jill bounced around the pair, back arched, tail puffed, generally causing a stir among the sheep; the herd began to shuffle away from the crazy thing with the teeth.
Lucia had to admit that if it wasn't for the junk she was carrying, she would be tempted to join. It had been too long since she'd had a good dance... If only anyone here knew a thing about her favourite band! The Five O'clock Shadows! Sure they were a group of animatronic lizards whose AIs were too damaged from the 2184 solar flare to do their original job of greeting kits at the theme park they were at, but such music they made since! Old-wave pre-trick glitch-gum hardside power ballads at its best...
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Deleted
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Post by Deleted on Mar 16, 2014 2:20:06 GMT
Interesting thing, really.
The goat pokes at its shades, in a manner meant to replicate that of humans raising a brow, watching as the marten drops to all fours, followed closely by the weasel, who then proceeds to, well...get jiggy, he supposes.
The goat, watching the weasel run and jump like a rather wild thing, unconsciously drops to all fours as well, the sunglasses sliding slightly down his face again as he does so; but, for once, he doesn't notice, too intent on watching the weasel do what, at a casual, simple glance, appears to be play and romp.
He hasn't seen many mustelids, to be honest; in fact, as far as he knows, they're not at all that common way back up in Iceland, where most of the animals he's ever met have been geographically unique varieties of domesticated animals.
Sure, he hasn't been in Iceland all his life (indeed, it has actually taken up only a very small portion of his history), that he's even wandered areas where mustelids would be common, but relative commonness does not necessarily equal sightings regularity; he's seen a few, but not many, and has personally met even less than that.
Most of what he knows about martens, mustelids, weasels -- about anything, really -- is by word of mouth, or by reading -- an action that, as he understands it, has been, in the past, scorned and shunned by the animal community...excluding humans, of course; something about living off of humans' stupidity doesn't equate to secretly being like them (those who said such things often also stigmatized walking on two legs, or using your forelegs like human arms and hands; that sort of stuff), or that isn't it bad enough that we're bumming off of them, that the least we could do is try not to invade their own personal sense of private sapience, and merely act like the simple, stupid things they think us to be?
Anyhow, that's besides the point; despite all this, or perhaps because of it, he is able to recognize wildness when he sees it, no matter what anyone or anything says.
For one, what civilization would allow such a thing?
It's a foolish act, a foolish dance, a foolish thing that makes them look utterly foolish and silly; and, lord knows, civilization is all about calmness, control, honor, pride.../civility/ -- and fitting into the established beliefs, rules, laws, whatever else.
--For the two are so big, he has to think that they must come from a place where /they/ are the equivalent of humans, or something thereof; either that or they're one of those government experiments he's heard so much about.
Then again, perhaps their place is more forgiving?
Maybe they do allow it?
In small doses, maybe, but still--?
Either way, that doesn't change the fact that this must be a wild behavior; it looks nothing like conscious emotion or thought, but instead pure, unadulterated action, feeling, and instinct.
Perhaps there's no such thing as truly civilized.
He doubts that even humans, a self-proclaimed dominant species of the planet which he's reluctant to put too much thought into, as are most of the animals he's encountered throughout his travels; he doubts that even they are exceptions to this apparent rule, this law of nature that must be so deeply ingrained into the Earth's organisms, that it can never really be ignored, no matter how misleading one's own beliefs are forced for want of control, or pride, or what-have-you.
The goat pulls himself away from the thoughts, a bit grave and solemn now thanks to them, looking up only briefly as the marten starts talking to him, asking him a long line of questions.
He smiles, in a way; in that way some mammals do, being unable to contort their faces in the same way as humans: ears perk, lifting upwards and tilting forwards; the eyes brighten; the muscles in the face seem to tense then relax, tense and relax; as do the rest of the body's muscles, tensing first and then relaxing second, staying relaxed even as they continue walking; he even, briefly, makes a short, soft baaing noise, though he quiets it rather quickly so as not to seem foolish.
He can't do what some of the other animals can; goats don't have whiskers, so he can't pull them around in the same manner ash is ears; he has a tail, but goats hardly express themselves like dogs do; and he's hardly the sort for tactile emotional conveyance, and he sort of likes to hope that all other goats are the same way (he doesn't actually...remember).
He's heard and even seen, also, some other animals that can smile and wink and grimace and cry in all the same manners as humans -- animals of species that shouldn't normally be able to do that; all can, technically, to a small degree, and, having many strange mutations himself, one would think the goat could do more with emotional expression as well...but he can't, and perhaps that would be sad, if it were necessary; but it's not, and, plus, he likes the faux air of mystery it gives him (although it's more of a face of wild dumbness, but still).
"What, you want my life story or something?"
The goat laughs, but quiets as she continues.
His eyes, again, drift to the weasel, bouncing around with puffed tail and, honestly, looking like she's having a hell of a time; he wonders, briefly, why the marten doesn't join in, assuming them to be the same in that aspect, both of species and world; but then, he doesn't really want to either, though his muscles have started to twitch in the hopes for some action, some movement, some running.
He's been lazing around for quite some time, he has.
The goat rolls his shoulders, tosses his head, and hears a clink as the glasses on his head are thrown off and hit the ground; there's a crunch, then, and his heart sinks.
He pauses to look back, down, at the shades that have been cracked under one of his hooves.
He sighs, but figures, oh well, and begins to continue on again.
He'll find another pair, somewhere, sometime, somehow, someway.
"The shades don't fit," he says, "because they belong to another species."
He eyes the two, lowers his head a little.
"I don't know if you know of them or not" -- he assumes they don't, considering the answer would have been rather obvious for where he's from -- "but they're called 'humans.'
Lucky for me, wherever a settlement of theirs is set up, there's sure to be a pair somewhere."
His tail twitches, head turns now to look at the herd of sheep, slowly but surely trailing them, as is to be expected; it is a casual sort of meandering, not the mindless herd following that sheep are famous for, which is a variety of travel he also knows all too well.
"And I still don't really know why they follow me," he murmurs, in an attempt to answer the very first question.
A sigh accompanies this statement, memories flicking through his mind.
He's almost surprised what intelligent company after longtime mindless loneliness can bring back to the surface.
"Don't know anything about this world, either; don't really care, to tell you the truth."
Eyes fall to the ground, following the walking of his hooves.
"It's nice here, calm; lazy and listless, if a bit dangerous and strange at times.
Seen some of the odd creatures here, got killed by them a few times" -- he says this so casually, so in tune with the rest of the sentences, that it'd be extraordinarily easy to miss -- "can't find a way out, but I can't say that I've tried too hard.
Been mostly on my own for a while now -- well, with the sheep here too, of course...although I've met a few others, even chatted with a human once or twice!
I can't say it's thrilled me, but it's not despair, so what's it really matter?
It reminds me of some...," here he trails off, lapsing into a few moments of silent walking, of watching the sheep, the weasel; the marten, the world.
Then he's back to gazing at his hooves again, speaking only when he finally looks up, glancing over at a small grove of trees as they start to pass it by, the plants' foliage a mixture of vivid crimson speckled with fiery orange and stripes of molten gold.
The sky, a heavy purple over their heads; a few dots of pale lights beginning to blink awake on the horizon and around the zenith.
Night is falling already?
Time is so erratic here.
"I like drums," he says suddenly.
"There's this annual music festival in Reykjavík, Iceland; 'Iceland Airwaves,' they call it; one time, when I was trying to revisit home, I managed to stick around and catch some of it."
He doesn't know the different genres of music, so, naturally, doesn't know of the things the marten had named before; he's forgotten them by now, but remembers that he had no idea what she was talking about.
"I didn't care for it at the time, or at least that's what I told myself; but it was something to do, to mull over; it was...interesting."
As he continues speaking, the accent of his homeland starts to slowly lace its way into his voice; faint, but still there.
"Most human music, I hate it with a passion."
Not really, since he has hardly any passions, if even any at all, but it's saying; who cares, and why is he thinking so much right now?
"Or, at least, I did; I used to.
But I've been to Africa, and their music shook my bones."
He produces another goat-smile, eyes sparkling and tail twitching happily as he looks towards the marten.
"The drums were the best, like a hundred rhythmic stampedes of giant earthen ungulates.
I'd seen them too; the continents filled with hundreds, thousands, /millions/ of intermixed herds, traveling the land wild and free.
No raging rivers filled with ravenous reptiles could stop them, much less human fences and settlements!
So I like drums."
A nod, as if to affirm the fact.
His ear twitches, body tilts as a sheep bumps into him, but who, instead of trying to eat him as they have been this entire day, simply moves on its own, away from the trio.
"How much longer, you think?" he asks.
"Till we get where we're trying to go, I mean."
He pauses, feeling a lump in his throat, and grimaces.
Cud.
He hates the stuff, this part of his species; it's absolutely disgusting.
It's how he's starved to death before.
Nonetheless, this time, as the green clump rises up into his mouth, he quietly begins to chew on it.
He thinks he likes these two, but maybe he's just lonely; company, is all he really wants right now, isn't it.
"How about you two?
What are your stories?"
He snorts, and butts his head playfully at the marten, with the round rockiness of his twisting ram-like horns; he starts to dash after the weasel, but catches himself before he does so, and merely continues trotting on besides the marten.
The bells on his collar jingle as he lifts his head, stringing up one last smile, aiming for the sky.
"You said you'd give me something if I did the same.
I told you a tail-load of brain-bursting information, so I expect you to give me enough to fill an encyclopedia once we're done with each other."
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