Completed Déjà vu Part I

[Mittle]

35 Fall 522 AV

Exactly on the stroke of the 6th bell, a scarlet macaw screeched just mere inches from Mitt's face and he put up his hands in protest. It almost sounded like it had yelled 'stupid boy!' but that had to be pure imagination on his part! The large crimson bird flew away from the startled human and perched impertinently on top the Izurdin altar. With another loud squawk, it settled itself and began preening the gorgeous crimson flight feathers.

Mitt sat up with only one eye open and glared hard at the loud and impudent bird brain that looked smugly comfortable and quiet.. now.

"Gods damned feather brain!" He muttered venomously. He'd never been a morning person and this was definitely not the best way to wake up. The tired and grumpy young man rubbed his face with both large, work roughened hands and tried to open his eyes.

"You suck!"

As if in answer, the huge Macaw resettled its wings with a satisfied chawp sound and turned its head to the side. A bright black eye focused on Mitt, as if daring him to approach.

Seriously irked, Mitt lurched out of bed and stumbled toward the sassy parrot, grabbing at it with both hands. Bright red glossy feathers smacked him in the face as it squawked the word 'FOOL!' loudly enough to make his ears ring, and flew off swiftly.

"Arrrggg!" groaned Mitt as he sat back from his hand and knees position.

"You better run away you piece of shyke! I hate mornings."

Yesterday's leftover coffee waited for him, beckoning Mitt with its highly seductive scent. Gratefully he put both hands around the cup and drank it like his life depended on it.

Something felt out of place but he shrugged it off and moved to the Izurdin altar, ready to start his morning ritual. The figurine was rudely knocked over with a long red feather perched atop it like some strange decoration. Stupid bird! He snorted, shaking his head and throwing the feather to the floor. Replacing the stone figure back in the middle, he tapped the two stones together on each side and began his silent prayers.

'Thank you for your many blessings great Izurdin. I've been accepted onto Syka with a fine job and friendly people all over the place. I get to work at a big bright smithy with a nearly brand new forge It cost me almost everything to get here, but then I'm sure you know that already.' His thoughts grew calmer and more relaxed, with his head bowed as he knelt before the small shrine. Mitt shifted his weight to stop slouching and resumed.

'I miss mother and father but I know that they're happiest with you now. I want to move on from this anger but I feel like I'm trapped in hate and I need to get out of it for my own sanity. I'll carry on with my plans today and may everything work out as you see fit to guide me.'

Mitt replaced the stones back to one on each side of the Izurdin figurine, flanking it evenly. Spiritually ready to start his day, he rose to his feet and intended to find some food to break his fast.

The Protea Inn would be a good start and he devoutly hoped he could speak well enough to get some coffee and a large breakfast from Tazrae. Although no one would ever be as good of a cook as his mother, he was definitely willing to try finding someone that might come close to her incredible skills.

All told, he need much more coffee and judging by the sounds his stomach was making, a very very large breakfast was called for. Immediately.

The young man preferred sunsets and nightfall so he was at his worst in the morning. A heavy sleeper and always sullen and grumpy on awakening, that smart ass bird didn't help his already irritable mood. Eventually, his nose led him to the Inn with a small group of people talking avidly. Hmph. Morning people.

Mitt needed food and a shower and then he could start his day. Until these were done, he was still essentially on autopilot. Sleepy gray eyes roamed the various assortment of foods, trying to decide on something good. Heavy lidded, shuffling his feet and slouching, he finally found the scent of freshly brewed coffee.

Ready to give up his soul for a taste of the coffee, he tried to smile but it was more of a lazy grin. He sniffed with deep appreciation and mumbled,

"Coffee?" he unknowingly pouted when he pleaded with Tazrae the full question with only a word and an endearingly hopeful look. With a herculean effort, Mitt slouched his large, tall frame heavily on the counter, his arms limply resting on it. He clearly was NOT a morning person and his comprehension skills were barely functioning.

The lithe young woman eyed him silently and brought out a pitcher of coffee with a cup, and left him in silence to return to the kitchen. After only a few days, he was immensely grateful that at least -she- understood that talking or thinking in the morning just wasn't one of Mitt's skills. His work roughened hands grasped for the carafe and cup and brought them to the closest table to collapse in a heap of tired muscle. Slowly, the rich brew seared through his system, caressing his throat and stomach on the way down.

His chin rested on the table with his arms outstretched. Every few chimes, he sipped at the coffee and his eye opened a little wider with each round of coffee. By the end of the second cup, he gained the ability to sit (mostly) upright and begin his day.

A fragrant scent wafted to him, speaking of meat, eggs, cheese and peppers in fresh hot and abundant deliciousness. Mitt smiled gratefully, a smidgeon more alert with the coffee in him,

"Marry me Taz. Make me breakfast forever." His gray eyes fastened hungrily on the generously sized plate and he could barely stop himself from digging into it before it was even set down. The beautiful woman merely raised an eyebrow at his outrageous comment and walked back to the kitchen with a small smirk.


1,052 WC


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[Mittle]

All coffeed up and a full stomach had Mitt headed to the shower with an easy stride. He shucked off his clothes and stood under the stream with a relaxed sigh. Water cascaded down his young, toned and firmly muscled body, invigorating and made him ready for another day to begin.

It was a work day so that made his clothing decision very easy--full cover up. It was barely the 7th bell and the heat was immense. Mitt slowly exhaled, donning his pants and boots but carried his long sleeve shirt, split apron and--where were his gloves?

The young man frowned and searched his memory from the beginning. He always put his clothes in a folded pile in the corner with the gloves on top because they were the smallest item. Last night was no different and there was absolutely no reason for them not to be where he distinctly remembered putting them.

Out of the corner of his eye, he caught a flash of scarlet from the window sill. One glove lay on the window sill but the other was clutched firmly in the red Macaw's talons as it flew away. Laughing.

"Hey! Come back here!" Mitt yelled at the bird, trying to chase it. He grunted as he tried to squeeze through the window and grazed his left shoulder in passing.

"Stupid feather brain give me back my glove!" Mitt demanded with no other recourse. The bird laughed, flew higher and was soon out of sight among the tree canopy.

Gloves were a necessity. It would cost him time and some hard earned Mizas for someone to craft him a new pair of gloves. Above all, Mitt didn't like carelessness when it came to his few possessions in this world. He didn't have much, but he took damned good care of the little that he did own.

Irritated again, he abandoned the chase and rubbed his sore shoulder as he walked to the smithy. Maybe Artik would have an extra pair. Arriving just outside work, the young smith gave a long, bone popping stretch and pulled on his shirt. After he tied on the long leather split apron, he stepped inside and waved to Artik.

At just a chime after seven bells in the morning, the older man snored with his first 'breakfast' bottle of wine clutched in his hand.

"Artik I thought we talked about this just the other day? Come on, wake up and put down the bottle." Mitt scolded him in a concerned tone and pried the bottle away to throw it in the garbage. He continued but was soon interrupted,

"You've got to stop doing thi--"

The Macaw dropped the missing glove into the Quenching water barrel as it gave a clamorous caw. The petching bird purposely dropped his glove into the gross, nasty, refuse ridden, shards of sharp metal splinters quenching barrel.

"DAMMIT STOP TORTURING ME!" Mitt yelled in outrage.

What the hells was going on? He never lost his temper like this. It usually took a lot to goad him beyond a mild irritation. He'd been through much worse than just a rude bird and a mere glove. Mitt had given in to rage and temper more in the last hour than he had for the last year. It was completely uncharacteristic and he didn't like it one bit. Despite not doing a damn thing, he was sweating hard. The forge was cold and dark and seven bells was much cooler than after noon.

He wanted to curse and scream some more but that would be pointless. The glove was a write off and there would be no saving it considering its current position. Mitt grabbed some tongs and fished around for his now sodden, useless glove. An oily residue dripped from it and dark shiny shards of metal clung to it at odd angles. He moved it to the garbage and sighed heavily.

It would be foolish to work a forge in this mindset so he decided to look for more gloves instead. Maybe do some cleaning to get back to his normal self. He checked the counters he'd cleaned yesterday but of course, there was nothing to see. His steel colored eyes roamed the walls to soon rest on a cupboard just above Artik's sleeping head.

Aha! He reached up to open it and saw not one, but two new pairs of gloves! Wait. Two pairs of gloves. As in, one for himself and one for his father. They'd stocked up gloves for dad and.. He swallowed back his feelings and clamped his jaw tightly to stop the flood of memories from taking too firm of a hold on him. No. He would not give in to a pity party.

"I won't do it." he murmured quietly. A single drop of perspiration ran down his temple and dripped from his jaw.

Serendipity chose that perfect moment in time. In the midst of a violent dream, Artik suddenly whipped out an arm and caught Mitt square in the stomach with a hard punch. The force of it bent him in half and he cracked his head on the counter, falling into unconsciousness.

859 WC, total at 1,911

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[Mittle]

"He has two working eyes but he's blind to anything not immediately tied to mathematical or scientific explanations. For a son that you claim is smart, he's an absolute idiot." The red Macaw scoffed.

"Mitt's young and has much to learn but he's not stupid. He's just inexperienced is all." Tirlmon chided him calmly and continued,

"He's much like me at that age. What he lacks in wisdom, he makes up for with enthusiasm, as any other young adult. Now, now, humans aren't born knowing everything."

"And smacking him in the face while calling him fool was quickly dismissed as merely a dumb bird! I fail to see any subtlety on my part." the bird's plumage ruffled in offense as he spoke with vehemence.

"You presume far too much to think a random boy from Sunberth would inherently know the many ways of all the Gods and Goddesses..."
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A small puddle of drool collected on the counter beneath Mitt's mouth as he just opened his eyes. Two red lumps had formed on his face; one on his right cheek and the other, higher up on his forehead near the temple. He woke up with a snort and wiped the drool from his mouth, looking around in confusion. On regaining consciousness, he pulled himself off the counter and stood up slowly.

'Well that was a weird dream.' he thought briefly and looked around the smithy.

The memories of both the pairs of gloves and the annoying bird, had his normally calm gray eyes sparking electric blue and he muttered darkly,

"The next time I see you featherbrain, I'm going to pluck every last petching feather off of you!" He kicked the wooden counter unable to express his mounting frustration at such an unlucky day. Something had stirred the memories of his father and he could no longer remember the brief dream just chimes before. All he knew was that he was mad, and angry and resented his dad for leaving him.

"You stranded me on that ship! How could you leave me among a bunch of strangers with no one left on the planet that gave a shyte about me? I hate you!" Mitt's voice grew louder with each word and he started kicking the second water barrel like an idiot.

"And I. Kick. DON''T. Kick. WANT. Kick. YOUR. Kick. STUPID. Kick-slip! GLOVES!" On the last word and kick, he misjudged the circumference of the barrel and his boot slid across it. The momentum carried his foot up and his ass down, so Mitt landed flat on his back with a hard thump!

For a long chime, Mitt lay on the floor like a moron, feeling not just the 2 lumps on his face, but now the growing knot on the back of his head.

Peeking a small feathered face around the tent flap, a large red Macaw watched Mitt and laughed brazenly. It turned its back on the human and hopped away slowly with something that sounded an awful lot like,

"Nyah Nyah Nyah Nyah Nyah!!"

Entirely unable to resist the blatant taunting, Mitt charged like a bull literally seeing red. He made it through the door way, just past the threshold and painfully landed face first in the sand as the bird flew away just far enough out of reach.

Soaked in sweat, trembling with rage and his entire front half covered in sand, the man panted as he looked up at the bird just a few feet away. He hadn't been this mad since mother di--

NO! His minded shouted. For some reason he just couldn't stop getting more angry. It was a white hot rage that only seemed to build up as strong and blazing as a forge fire.

The laughing bird spread his large wings and gracefully glided much further down the beach to perch on some drift wood, and pointedly turned its head to look Mitt in the eyes.

"I'm going to pluck you and cook you!" threatened Mitt. Fully intending to carry out his threat, he stomped toward the Macaw with heavy, angry strides. However, as he got closer, he noticed something peculiar near the dried out branch. A small piece of rock looked to be shaped like a man's face and torso but had a reddish colored arm!

All anger drained from him like the sand and relentless tide shifting beneath his feet. He dropped to his knees, his gaze purely focused on the small stone that was a prime example of Pareidolia.

"Izurdin..?" he whispered, his voice trailing off with uncertainty. His rough hands gently picked up and cradled the stone carefully.

Barely a hand's span away from the man's face, the Macaw snapped his beak, clicking it a couple times to get the human's attention and stared at him hard. Startled, Mitt found himself uncomfortably close to the large bird with very large talons and a razor sharp strong beak that could easily break his fingers.

All that had happened that morning couldn't possibly be normal bird behavior! He was no expert on any critter, furred or feathered, but he at least (or at last!) figured that out. With a lot of help from the bird.

"Be an anvil, not a hammer." the bird intoned and swiftly flew away leaving Mitt incredulously stunned at hearing his father's favorite saying.

WC 889, total WC 2,800

[Mittle]

Mitt grumbled and muttered while he did the dishes on automatic pilot. He figured doing the dishes after lunch was the least he could do for his part. Besides, it was a small taste of his childhood. As a kid, he'd helped his mother by doing dishes in the work kitchens. It not only let her keep an eye on her energetic little boy, but they could at least be with each other while she worked some unreasonably long hours.

A headache was throbbing in his right temple and the back of his head as well as his shoulder, were sore from Mitt's earlier morning adventures. Being angry was stupid and he hated to feel so out of control. If a man couldn't command his own emotions, then what good was he? None. That's what tempers and fury led to every time-- nothing but trouble, as illustrated by his early teens. Rage was ugly and the young smith had no taste for it at all.

The tall young man neatly dried and stacked the clean dishes, cups and utensils as well as the many pots and pans used in just a single lunch. But being new here, he probably was doing far less than he should. In time, he was sure he'd get into the swing of things and settle in just fine. Or at least he hoped so.

Picking up a fresh stack of clean dishes he went to put them in the cupboard but he noticed the handle was almost loose enough to come off in his hand. He set down the plates again and grabbed his eating knife. He checked the screws on the handle and the bottom was stripped badly. It looked in desperate need of repair and he remembered Randal saying they needed screws 'by the pound.' That guy wasn't kidding.

Mitt removed his one glove from his waistband and put the edge of a finger tip over the screw, placing the eating knife over the top to screw it in more tightly. That small job done, he made a quick note in his journal to make, bring over and replace the screws on these cabinets. He could imagine trying to hurry up and grab things while cooking, but then stopping everything just to fool around with a handle at the worst possible time.

Meticulously, he went to each one of the cupboards, drawers and cabinets to check the handles, screws, nails and hinges, taking notes on what needed replacing and what could be rigged for temporary measures. Only after he finished, he went back to putting away the clean dishes.

Noting the slant of the sunlight through the windows, Mitt was embarrassed that he'd let time slip away like that, unheeded. Between his involuntary 'nap,' bird chasing and being an overall clumsy oaf, he'd accomplished exactly squat today. Where had the time gone while he daydreamed and fiddled around with hinges?! The noise had picked up as people came in, set and ready to start supper!

Mitt felt for the small stone in his pocket and wished it would help calm him. Every stupid little thing seemed to anger him and hells, even being angry so much made him angrier. Ridiculous stupid senseless cycle of shyke!

With swift strides, Mitt ran out, shoving past people and pushed even faster until he reached the shoreline. Gasping for breath, he fell heavily to his knees choking and retching. The water lapped warmly against his legs, as if trying to soothe him.

At that perfect moment, Syka's daily afternoon shower opened up the sky and rained down in a hot steamy torrent. The young man simply continued kneeling in the mud and just stared blankly out at nothing. Tears could have mixed with the rain but at that point, not even the smith knew any more.

When the rain stopped, Mitt saw it had grown dark and a cooling ocean breeze ruffled his thick hair. There was no sunset tonight because the rain stole it. He'd lost circulation in his legs, and his feet and ass were numb, so he finally shifted to stand up. He saw his notes fall out of his pocket along with the glove, both sodden and useless now.

Mitt sighed deeply. Would this day ever end?!

With all the ridiculous stunts today, he hadn't moved the mattress or pillows from his tent before the storm, so his tent and all within it would be as soaked as himself. He trudged slowly to the tree stump near his tent and sat down with his back against it. Too tired to do anything other than hurt, he drifted off into a fitful sleep.

WC 778, WC total 3,578 Day 1 first part, end thread.