#rivervale_lodge

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Vali taps away on his computer. The story coming in spurts and bursts, more like a frustrated garden hose with a kink in the middle than true river of creativity, but it does flow at least. Snow days can affect teachers too so he has time to catch up on writing.

The story is not of his usual sort... Silverhand for all her amazing qualities was a woman, a member of the people born and bred come back to them and growing to be their leader.

This character is a mix of Superman as a child dropped from space, and of a feral child come to civilization. This story begins with a great storm, a storm of such intensity that it felt like thunder was devouring the village nearby. It begins with a storm that lashes one spot not twice, but three times! And ... when the villagers come out to see the spot that so defied the odds of fortune.

They find a girl. Different, confused.

And distrustful.

Born of Thunder reads the title.

Oh , there's a mix here... Dagmar certainly gives a great chunk of inspiration for the new heroine to be. But Siv for her 'unrealness' provides much too. Connor, for his inability to blend in, and yes, others as well.

The spurts become more constant, the stream of inspiration more steady. Perhaps it is not a river of inspiration but it is at least a brook, babbling which direction the characters want to go. And Vali types.

........

Elsewhere.... Symon's minis are scattered again. A trail of dropped kobolds leads to a trove of them stashed in a kitchen cupboard.

He gathers them up, disgruntled, and sulking after he gets snapped at when father steps on one after work. Muttered apologies, and retreats to the basement. Shortly thereafter his computer is moved to tilt to a direction facing the main bulk of the room, and a recording program cued up to watch through the night and as he's away. Something is happening, and Symon is getting annoyed.

Something IS happening... but whatever it is doesn't seem to quite come into focus on the camera. It blips, it blurs, but it is more notable by the presence of a glitch rather than an image. Whatever it is delights in his minis, picking them up and carrying them around in great greedy handfuls.

He thinks and he thinks and he ponders and ponders. Then he does a little research, after remembering an inkling of a story he heard once... digging through the pantry, he finds a dusty bottle and retreats to the basement. That night, he sets out a shallow dish and pours it full of soju. He sets this out, and sits beside it, waiting. Eventually he whispers, "Well? Is it you, dokkaebi? I can wait all night."

Eyes, in the darkness - they glow slightly. "Soooooojuuuuu?"

He runs a finger lightly around the rim of the saucer, making a faint squeaking sound. "Oh, yes. Aged and strong. Hmmm. Does it get thirsty, playing tricks?"

A flick of blue flame in the eyes. "Gives it."

He tilts the bottle back and forth, slish, slosh. And appears to ponder, but then presses the saucer closer to the flickering eyes with a fingertip. "Would be rude not to, after all." Just a taste in the dish, and the rest of the bottle cradelled in his lap.

It swoops forward - whatever else it may be, human it is not. A furry face, grotesque, with horns and wide eyes. It has only one leg to balance on, and it clutches a hat in its forepaws while it greedily slurps up its drink.

He opened his eyes wide and watches the creature drink. "Oh, but oppa..." He says, respectfully, Older Brother, "I would refill your glass, gladly, but it is rude, surely, to drink with your hat on." A bow of his head, and the bottle sloshing temptingly.

"Is MY hat. I'm holding it."

"Of course, of course." He reassures - in another's mouth one might say his words were smooth as butter, but for him, it's more that they are slick as grease as he speaks, courteous still. "And I will gladly serve you, but tradition states that you must pour next. Here, allow me to hold your gamtu, and you can take the bottle."

"...You give back?" the goblin rocks its weight, watching the sluagh.

"Of course." He nods. "After the next drink."

A long peer, and then the dokkaebi holds out his fine black hat.

Taking the hat, Symon hands over the bottle, and settles back, running a finger appreciatively along the rim of the hat. And waits.

The goblin drinks deeply and greedily, making happy little grunts. Symon can feel the glamour in his hands.

He waits, a small smile playing on the corners of his cracked, greyish lips.

"Ahh! Good!" The goblin smacks his lips, satisfied - the bottle empty. He holds it towards Symon. "Gamtu!"

A wide eyed-blink, as though surprised. "But Oppa, you have not poured another drink. You have had your drink, and plentiful it was... but we are still waiting for the next drink. Oh. Is the bottle empty?" He looks vaguely disappointed.

Blink... blink...

He settles back, admiring the hat. A glance up at the goblin, and he offers, pleasantly, "Unless, perhaps, some other trade?"

"Tricksy!" He sulks. "What other trade?"

A moment of thought, tapping at his chin lightly. "What could be worth such a fine hat. I wouldn't want to cheat you, Oppa, or others may think less of you. Hmmm, hmmm. Surely, there is something... some item in this house, that you feel, ah... valuable, connected to you. Maybe I could be convinced to trade for such a thing."

"The shinies? I would give you all the shines for my hat!"

"You like them! You paint them!"

"But I have many, many of those. And you cannot pay me with my own coin... perhaps if there was something that you felt belonged to you..." A vague shrug. "Alas, otherwise, Hmm. I am not much of one to wear a hat, but maybe I can use the fabric..." The slightest of tugs on the brim, as though to check how the stitching holds.

"Noooo, no no! Don't tugs it!"

He stops, fingers still wrapped around the brim, and peers at the goblin. Waiting.

"...the broom? It swept for your grandmother, and your mother, and the fat one found it and woke me up..."

He makes a show of considering this deeply. Then, a slightly regretful shake of his head. "No, no... nothing I can think of is as worthy as this hat. But I suppose, I could -give- it to you. If we were friends. Now, if we were friends, then you wouldn't want to touch my belongings uninvited. Nor would I..." His eyes gleaming a bit now, as he leans in, "Have strange ideas, such as whether old straw and wood might be kindling... not between friends."

A pause, and he adds, "And, say, every so often, if you wanted to trade a drink between friends, in exchange for advice on a fun -new- place to point your attention..." He spins the hat lightly on a fingertip. "I would gladly give this gamtu to my new friend. Oh, sure."

Eyes so wide, terrified. "Burning, no, no, no! Friends, yes!"

"Say, what is your name, Friend?" He asks, the hat dangled out temptingly, but still gripped tight - held where the goblin could reach it.

"...Dong-Min." He reeeeaches for the hat.

He hands it over with no further tempting or teasing. "A pleasure, my new friend." And sits back, looking like the lovecraft that has caught the chicken.

The goblin chortles as he puts his hat on, and blinsk out of sight.

Symon whistles softly to himself, pleased, as he tidies up. Not a bad day, after all, he made a friend...

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Earl DeBuke, knight of the brush and grain, houseless, and long moved away from the Farm, finds himself appointed with an odd job. Dangling from his neck is a runic marker meant to keep him from being scryed on. It itches but he doess not complain.

A teenager spots the stranger - semi-stranger? "Hey! You're a DeBuke, right?"