Timestamp: 36th of Spring, 516 AV
Boo and Atticus had been mooching around for a while, watching the denizens of Lhavit come and go, this way and that. They watched casually, exchanging thoughts and insights about nothing in particular, just generally existing in that moment and not letting the worries of the world linger. Boo had made several acquaintances since arriving in the fabled city - Lhavitians had a reputation for being polite after all - but it was fair to say, at least in his own opinion, that in Atticus he might have found a potential good friend.
Boo had felt that there was a connection between him and the boy, one that had perhaps been sparked by the memory of his own situation long ago. At around the same age as Atticus was now, Boo had left that vomit inducing cesspool of a city, Syliras, (filled as it was with pompous knights and self righteous sychophants), and had embarked on his journey with Uncle Varin. While his Uncle was far older as Boo was now, he felt a similar dynamic with Atticus, in which he had resumed the role of older protector as it were, and Atticus a young lad, still wet behind the ears, with the whole world laying in wait ahead of him.
He wondered to himself that this must have been what it was like to have a brother. But then, he could only really estimate the exact complexities and finer points of such a sibling relationship. Not only had his childhood been vacant of that experience, but his years spent traveling and communing with ghosts, had only ever left him with glimpses of other families, couples, friends and so forth. To put it lightly, while he had understood and in many ways participated within the boundaries and expectations of society as a whole, he was by no means an experienced hand when traversing those seas.
But such focus on these matters seemed unfitting for now, the casual tone of the moment emphasized by a lazy, yet warm breeze, that filtered through the streets and around buildings, in the manner of a ghost perhaps taking a leisurely stroll. Atticus had perched himself on a low rise wall, made of stones of varying shapes and sizes that were cobbled together in random fashion. Boo had taken up residence alongside him, though had opted to lean on the wall rather than sit. Their conversation had been that of an unruly and cornered beast, taking stabs at random subjects and darting from one to the next.
In Boo's estimations, he felt that Atticus possessed a knowledge filled mind that far outstripped his own. He did not consider himself especially bright, nor a dunce when it came to general knowledge perhaps, (and indeed, could one expect to survive Mizahar for so long without some capacity for learning?) But with Atticus, it was as though the lad had queued several times in line when they were handing out intellect. He spoke of strange theorems and calculations, presented formulas and deductions, as though they were common knowledge and to be understood by all. Boo had a hard time keeping up with most of it, but he could at least appreciate the enthusiasm the lad showed when fixated on such topics.
Thankfully for the older man, the conversation would wisp in and out of the more taxing subjects and instead nest for a while in something much more easy to understand. Quite how they had gone from whether or not objects emitted light, to the suggestion that Boo could not perform a handstand, was anyone's guess, (though it was a safe bet that Atticus probably knew the answer). It sounded more of a challenge than a harmless observation, one that Boo had decided was well worth investigating. While it occurred to him that he had never before attempted such a feat, he settled on the question, 'how hard could it be'?
"Behold, as I demonstrate my handstand skill that you so readily dismiss," Boo announced playfully. He tried to recall images of young girls in pigtails from his childhood, effortlessly and gracefully performing the steps, one-two, then over they went, onto expert hands that seemed to carry all the functions of their feet. Impressive. Taking the same form, he moved gingerly onto his right foot, before skipping to the left. So far, so good, he thought, trying to mentally ignore the sudden surge of adrenaline. Or was it doubt?
It mattered not, for he had already committed to the next stage; the transition from feet to hands. It did not feel right. Something was wrong. He had expected to find himself now stood proudly and victoriously, viewing the world from upside down. In truth he had achieved this, but for a single second. Instead perpetual motion had transpired with gravity, no doubt in league with Atticus' dismissal of Boo's talents in the first place. What should have ended with a statue like finish, had turned into a one man avalanche. Over he went, bracing himself for the inevitable impact that would be a cold, hard, unforgiving ground. Only, he had grossly miscalculated his trajectory. Instead of hitting the ground, first his foot seemed to clatter into something, before his legs bashed cruelly against the stone wall. Only then did the ground rise to greet him, bringing an abrupt end to this whole awful idea.
"Shyke, petch, and a thousand other petching words!" Boo's outburst was enough to draw more than a few unimpressed stares, though he discarded them while instead focusing on the pain in his legs. Pride could wait. Slowly and miserably, he clambered to his feet like a drunk. Allowing some measure of clarity to return before turning to the wall, he prepared himself for a smug faced Atticus. But Boo was rather surprised to find the wall vacant of any and all children. He scratched his head in confusion, looking this way and that, feeling a little wounded that he might have been abandoned.
"Atty?"
Boo and Atticus had been mooching around for a while, watching the denizens of Lhavit come and go, this way and that. They watched casually, exchanging thoughts and insights about nothing in particular, just generally existing in that moment and not letting the worries of the world linger. Boo had made several acquaintances since arriving in the fabled city - Lhavitians had a reputation for being polite after all - but it was fair to say, at least in his own opinion, that in Atticus he might have found a potential good friend.
Boo had felt that there was a connection between him and the boy, one that had perhaps been sparked by the memory of his own situation long ago. At around the same age as Atticus was now, Boo had left that vomit inducing cesspool of a city, Syliras, (filled as it was with pompous knights and self righteous sychophants), and had embarked on his journey with Uncle Varin. While his Uncle was far older as Boo was now, he felt a similar dynamic with Atticus, in which he had resumed the role of older protector as it were, and Atticus a young lad, still wet behind the ears, with the whole world laying in wait ahead of him.
He wondered to himself that this must have been what it was like to have a brother. But then, he could only really estimate the exact complexities and finer points of such a sibling relationship. Not only had his childhood been vacant of that experience, but his years spent traveling and communing with ghosts, had only ever left him with glimpses of other families, couples, friends and so forth. To put it lightly, while he had understood and in many ways participated within the boundaries and expectations of society as a whole, he was by no means an experienced hand when traversing those seas.
But such focus on these matters seemed unfitting for now, the casual tone of the moment emphasized by a lazy, yet warm breeze, that filtered through the streets and around buildings, in the manner of a ghost perhaps taking a leisurely stroll. Atticus had perched himself on a low rise wall, made of stones of varying shapes and sizes that were cobbled together in random fashion. Boo had taken up residence alongside him, though had opted to lean on the wall rather than sit. Their conversation had been that of an unruly and cornered beast, taking stabs at random subjects and darting from one to the next.
In Boo's estimations, he felt that Atticus possessed a knowledge filled mind that far outstripped his own. He did not consider himself especially bright, nor a dunce when it came to general knowledge perhaps, (and indeed, could one expect to survive Mizahar for so long without some capacity for learning?) But with Atticus, it was as though the lad had queued several times in line when they were handing out intellect. He spoke of strange theorems and calculations, presented formulas and deductions, as though they were common knowledge and to be understood by all. Boo had a hard time keeping up with most of it, but he could at least appreciate the enthusiasm the lad showed when fixated on such topics.
Thankfully for the older man, the conversation would wisp in and out of the more taxing subjects and instead nest for a while in something much more easy to understand. Quite how they had gone from whether or not objects emitted light, to the suggestion that Boo could not perform a handstand, was anyone's guess, (though it was a safe bet that Atticus probably knew the answer). It sounded more of a challenge than a harmless observation, one that Boo had decided was well worth investigating. While it occurred to him that he had never before attempted such a feat, he settled on the question, 'how hard could it be'?
"Behold, as I demonstrate my handstand skill that you so readily dismiss," Boo announced playfully. He tried to recall images of young girls in pigtails from his childhood, effortlessly and gracefully performing the steps, one-two, then over they went, onto expert hands that seemed to carry all the functions of their feet. Impressive. Taking the same form, he moved gingerly onto his right foot, before skipping to the left. So far, so good, he thought, trying to mentally ignore the sudden surge of adrenaline. Or was it doubt?
It mattered not, for he had already committed to the next stage; the transition from feet to hands. It did not feel right. Something was wrong. He had expected to find himself now stood proudly and victoriously, viewing the world from upside down. In truth he had achieved this, but for a single second. Instead perpetual motion had transpired with gravity, no doubt in league with Atticus' dismissal of Boo's talents in the first place. What should have ended with a statue like finish, had turned into a one man avalanche. Over he went, bracing himself for the inevitable impact that would be a cold, hard, unforgiving ground. Only, he had grossly miscalculated his trajectory. Instead of hitting the ground, first his foot seemed to clatter into something, before his legs bashed cruelly against the stone wall. Only then did the ground rise to greet him, bringing an abrupt end to this whole awful idea.
"Shyke, petch, and a thousand other petching words!" Boo's outburst was enough to draw more than a few unimpressed stares, though he discarded them while instead focusing on the pain in his legs. Pride could wait. Slowly and miserably, he clambered to his feet like a drunk. Allowing some measure of clarity to return before turning to the wall, he prepared himself for a smug faced Atticus. But Boo was rather surprised to find the wall vacant of any and all children. He scratched his head in confusion, looking this way and that, feeling a little wounded that he might have been abandoned.
"Atty?"
