“I didn’t mean to avoid your question about who taught me to cook. I just don’t know my mother. I was raised by my aunt and uncle. My uncle was a good cook. They told me they were my parents, but it turns out they lied.” She added softly, saying the words just above a whisper where he could hear but not be sure he heard right above the waves and the wind of the night-dark beach. Taz wondered if Mitt realized he lost his shorts. Her sharp eyes scanned the waves, took in the floating fabric, and waded in for them.
She returned from the sea dangling the fabric within his eyesight for him to see. “You might miss these later on when it starts cooling off.” She commented with a grin, purposely not letting her eyes drift down from his face. He was handsome and had a smith’s healthy body, but Taz wasn’t looking for that type of companionship. She had a full plate and one awkward smith trying to make the transition from a big city to a settlement on the edge of a jungle wasn’t something she was interested in adding to that plate. Taz did find, though, that she was enjoying his company.
And more importantly, the Ixam liked him. The hatchling hadn’t set off for parts unknown but had followed as if he knew his bread was about to get buttered and buttered thickly if he played his cards right. Tazrae was no stranger to being lonely and the Ixam were social enough to fill niches that humans sometimes failed to in her mind. Mitt would have a best friend for life if he took a moment to make it happen.
She nodded at his analogy about the metal and tossed him his shorts as a reward. Then nodded again at his conclusion about what she decided he was saying about stretching resources out rather than depleting them in just one place or another. “You won’t actually have to get snacks for the hatchling…. Are you calling him Stoker? If you show him where to dig… he’ll remember and dig his own snacks. They are smart… smarter than dogs, even, and he’ll get hungry and go hunt. That’s part of their nature.” Taz said, smiling at the little one that was chasing something up the tideline.
She realized it was a group of sandpipers that the yellow and red creature had absolutely no hope of catching. The little swift shorebirds kept him occupied though and made Taz smile once more. She wondered, momentarily, which ones were Bree’s offspring, and if the Ixam had any motherly feelings towards the young creatures. The Innkeeper decided she’d ask the Ixam the first chance she had. The woman was curious. Was Sunny proud of Stoker? Would she approve of Mitt taking him in? Taz would be sure to point out the big golden Ixam when she saw her next so Mitt would know both parents and what he was getting into. She could probably give him riding lessons on Sunny until Stoker got big enough.
“Remind me to point you out who Stoker’s mother is. She’s also a bigger golden Ixam we call Sunny and I could probably give you some riding lessons on her. She’s a good solid mount and she’s carried others along with Bree and me into the jungle.” Taz said offhandedly.
The moment passed, Mitt worked more with harvesting clams and then pipped up about Sunberth in a pensive way that reminded Tazrae of how other Sunberthers had spoken of Sunberth. She wondered, momentarily, what sort of dark loyalty and deep damage that city did to its inhabitants. They didn’t emerge unscathed, but there was also a sort of deep loyalty and defensiveness about Sunberth that Tazrae noted in all of them. She wondered, struck by the sudden thought if it was some sort of badge of honor for being there and surviving it. They’d even gone so far as to call themselves Sons and Daughters of Sunberth. She rubbed her face softly, thoughtfully, and shook her head. She wasn’t sure she’d ever understand having no plans to ever visit Sunberth and experience it first hand. Plus, a visit wasn’t going to be the same as growing up there, uncertain day by day even having a future.
Taz preferred Syka. No, that was an understatement. Tazrae loved Syka with her whole being. She thrived and bloomed here in the same way she’d wilted and shriveled in Riverfall. The Settlement was wild, wide open, abundant, and drew something from a person… something fierce and feral. “I’m not sure how much I can talk to you about Riverfall. I spent my whole childhood there in one Inn, working, and rarely left. But I can talk to you about Syka… this place is my heart home and does things for me that I don’t think any other place in the world could do.” She said gently, meaning it. Taz found herself slowly opening up to Mitt, letting her guard down. Part of it was due to his willingness to try new things and not take himself too seriously in doing so. There were so many serious things in Tazrae’s life, moments like this were refreshing, and recharging, and she could wholeheartedly appreciate them.
She watched Mitt rake and watched him examine the tool with a critical eye, altering the way he utilized it. Mitt was smart, she decided, and was best suited to a job that utilized his brain. She could understand why he was a smith. There was a lot of math, science, and skill involved in such things. All Tazrae knew of the artform was molten metal, a hammer, and the bellowing of the forge. She’d never taken the time to watch Artik's work. The man himself was a drunk and someone she avoided at all costs – including his forge. But it sounded like Mitt took over and maybe made some changes.
“How did you find the Forge under Artik’s care?” She asked abruptly, curious if he’d share his thoughts or how he’d approach the pig stye that was the place. She wondered if he’d be honest with her or take the high road of tactfulness. Artik was a problem for sure, but one no one seemed to want to tackle. As the days grew on since his arrival, he’d gotten worse and worse. He was always deep in the cups, emotional, and angry. “The man that is responsible for that forge has…. Issues. None of us knows what is wrong with him and why he buries his problems in a bottle. He could really…” She started to say, then looked thoughtfully at Mitt a moment, wondering if she really should say this… put this on him.
But her instinct was telling her to speak so she did so… it was the same instinct that had motivated her to push the hatching Mitt’s way. “… use a friend.” She finished.
“I don’t think he has a single one here.” She added. “No one sees value in his life… no one has gotten to really know him. I’m a person that thinks all life is valuable… that everyone has worth. It… it would be nice if someone could find him and help him see it for himself.” She said again quietly.
Mitt’s question about what Stoker was currently mauling made her laugh. “If it crawls, squawks swims, or wiggles… they’ll eat it. There’s not much they won’t eat including each other. He seems to like it. Let him have it… he looks very proud of it. I think it been a chew toy too long to actually be identified.” She noted, laughing at the little hatchlings' antics.
She let Mitt play with the rake until he asked about the gun, at which case she retreated up the beach to retrieve the metal tube.
“This.. is a clam gun.” She said, holding out a hollow cylinder of metal that was topped with a T-shaped handle. One side of the cylinder was open, the other half was encased in a dome-shaped closed end that sported the handle. Near the base of the handle was a hole drilled through the capped metal. It was just big enough to let the air out of the tube, but small enough that someone who was holding the handle could cover it with a finger while still operating the handle.
“When you just hold it like this, air can escape from this hole at the top and allow you to drive it easily down into the wet sand which gets sucked up into the tube. It’s like taking a knife and slicing it into a cake. You are cutting a perfect sample of the sand out of the beach in the shape of a tube. But once you cover that hole in the capped dome top with a finger, it creates a suction and anything trapped in the tube will stay in the tube as you yank it up out of the sand. Then, once it's out of the sand, you can remove your finger from the hole, depressurize the inside of the cylinder, and the sand will fall right out of it and scatter across the ground at your feet.” Tazrae said, then walked down to where the sand was still very damp and started looking.
She showed him the divots in the wet sand that were air holes for clams. “You need the gun because razor clams have a lot of meat but they are deeper in the sand than you want to dig. So, fit the gun over the airhole or depression in the sand, drive it down, cover that small hole with your finger, and yank the tube up and out of the sand. Then scatter it out…” She said demonstrating, then laying the tube aside, she gestured to the razor clam which was a long narrow shape half buried in the scattering of sand from the tube.
Taz reached down, fished the razor clam out of the loose sand, and held it out to Mitt in the palm of her hand. “These are delicious. They are far more than a bite of clam meat. You shell them, fillet them out, and can fry them or grill them… however you want to eat them.” She said with excitement. She was glad the moonlight was still bright, keeping the beach lit up well enough for her to show him what he needed to know to use the equipment and forage for the clams. “But we’ll save the cooking lesson for the daylight. Try it now.” She said, closing her fist over the razor clam and tossing it gently into the bucket.
Then she stepped back and let Mitt get to work on his clam gun skills.
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She returned from the sea dangling the fabric within his eyesight for him to see. “You might miss these later on when it starts cooling off.” She commented with a grin, purposely not letting her eyes drift down from his face. He was handsome and had a smith’s healthy body, but Taz wasn’t looking for that type of companionship. She had a full plate and one awkward smith trying to make the transition from a big city to a settlement on the edge of a jungle wasn’t something she was interested in adding to that plate. Taz did find, though, that she was enjoying his company.
And more importantly, the Ixam liked him. The hatchling hadn’t set off for parts unknown but had followed as if he knew his bread was about to get buttered and buttered thickly if he played his cards right. Tazrae was no stranger to being lonely and the Ixam were social enough to fill niches that humans sometimes failed to in her mind. Mitt would have a best friend for life if he took a moment to make it happen.
She nodded at his analogy about the metal and tossed him his shorts as a reward. Then nodded again at his conclusion about what she decided he was saying about stretching resources out rather than depleting them in just one place or another. “You won’t actually have to get snacks for the hatchling…. Are you calling him Stoker? If you show him where to dig… he’ll remember and dig his own snacks. They are smart… smarter than dogs, even, and he’ll get hungry and go hunt. That’s part of their nature.” Taz said, smiling at the little one that was chasing something up the tideline.
She realized it was a group of sandpipers that the yellow and red creature had absolutely no hope of catching. The little swift shorebirds kept him occupied though and made Taz smile once more. She wondered, momentarily, which ones were Bree’s offspring, and if the Ixam had any motherly feelings towards the young creatures. The Innkeeper decided she’d ask the Ixam the first chance she had. The woman was curious. Was Sunny proud of Stoker? Would she approve of Mitt taking him in? Taz would be sure to point out the big golden Ixam when she saw her next so Mitt would know both parents and what he was getting into. She could probably give him riding lessons on Sunny until Stoker got big enough.
“Remind me to point you out who Stoker’s mother is. She’s also a bigger golden Ixam we call Sunny and I could probably give you some riding lessons on her. She’s a good solid mount and she’s carried others along with Bree and me into the jungle.” Taz said offhandedly.
The moment passed, Mitt worked more with harvesting clams and then pipped up about Sunberth in a pensive way that reminded Tazrae of how other Sunberthers had spoken of Sunberth. She wondered, momentarily, what sort of dark loyalty and deep damage that city did to its inhabitants. They didn’t emerge unscathed, but there was also a sort of deep loyalty and defensiveness about Sunberth that Tazrae noted in all of them. She wondered, struck by the sudden thought if it was some sort of badge of honor for being there and surviving it. They’d even gone so far as to call themselves Sons and Daughters of Sunberth. She rubbed her face softly, thoughtfully, and shook her head. She wasn’t sure she’d ever understand having no plans to ever visit Sunberth and experience it first hand. Plus, a visit wasn’t going to be the same as growing up there, uncertain day by day even having a future.
Taz preferred Syka. No, that was an understatement. Tazrae loved Syka with her whole being. She thrived and bloomed here in the same way she’d wilted and shriveled in Riverfall. The Settlement was wild, wide open, abundant, and drew something from a person… something fierce and feral. “I’m not sure how much I can talk to you about Riverfall. I spent my whole childhood there in one Inn, working, and rarely left. But I can talk to you about Syka… this place is my heart home and does things for me that I don’t think any other place in the world could do.” She said gently, meaning it. Taz found herself slowly opening up to Mitt, letting her guard down. Part of it was due to his willingness to try new things and not take himself too seriously in doing so. There were so many serious things in Tazrae’s life, moments like this were refreshing, and recharging, and she could wholeheartedly appreciate them.
She watched Mitt rake and watched him examine the tool with a critical eye, altering the way he utilized it. Mitt was smart, she decided, and was best suited to a job that utilized his brain. She could understand why he was a smith. There was a lot of math, science, and skill involved in such things. All Tazrae knew of the artform was molten metal, a hammer, and the bellowing of the forge. She’d never taken the time to watch Artik's work. The man himself was a drunk and someone she avoided at all costs – including his forge. But it sounded like Mitt took over and maybe made some changes.
“How did you find the Forge under Artik’s care?” She asked abruptly, curious if he’d share his thoughts or how he’d approach the pig stye that was the place. She wondered if he’d be honest with her or take the high road of tactfulness. Artik was a problem for sure, but one no one seemed to want to tackle. As the days grew on since his arrival, he’d gotten worse and worse. He was always deep in the cups, emotional, and angry. “The man that is responsible for that forge has…. Issues. None of us knows what is wrong with him and why he buries his problems in a bottle. He could really…” She started to say, then looked thoughtfully at Mitt a moment, wondering if she really should say this… put this on him.
But her instinct was telling her to speak so she did so… it was the same instinct that had motivated her to push the hatching Mitt’s way. “… use a friend.” She finished.
“I don’t think he has a single one here.” She added. “No one sees value in his life… no one has gotten to really know him. I’m a person that thinks all life is valuable… that everyone has worth. It… it would be nice if someone could find him and help him see it for himself.” She said again quietly.
Mitt’s question about what Stoker was currently mauling made her laugh. “If it crawls, squawks swims, or wiggles… they’ll eat it. There’s not much they won’t eat including each other. He seems to like it. Let him have it… he looks very proud of it. I think it been a chew toy too long to actually be identified.” She noted, laughing at the little hatchlings' antics.
She let Mitt play with the rake until he asked about the gun, at which case she retreated up the beach to retrieve the metal tube.
“This.. is a clam gun.” She said, holding out a hollow cylinder of metal that was topped with a T-shaped handle. One side of the cylinder was open, the other half was encased in a dome-shaped closed end that sported the handle. Near the base of the handle was a hole drilled through the capped metal. It was just big enough to let the air out of the tube, but small enough that someone who was holding the handle could cover it with a finger while still operating the handle.
“When you just hold it like this, air can escape from this hole at the top and allow you to drive it easily down into the wet sand which gets sucked up into the tube. It’s like taking a knife and slicing it into a cake. You are cutting a perfect sample of the sand out of the beach in the shape of a tube. But once you cover that hole in the capped dome top with a finger, it creates a suction and anything trapped in the tube will stay in the tube as you yank it up out of the sand. Then, once it's out of the sand, you can remove your finger from the hole, depressurize the inside of the cylinder, and the sand will fall right out of it and scatter across the ground at your feet.” Tazrae said, then walked down to where the sand was still very damp and started looking.
She showed him the divots in the wet sand that were air holes for clams. “You need the gun because razor clams have a lot of meat but they are deeper in the sand than you want to dig. So, fit the gun over the airhole or depression in the sand, drive it down, cover that small hole with your finger, and yank the tube up and out of the sand. Then scatter it out…” She said demonstrating, then laying the tube aside, she gestured to the razor clam which was a long narrow shape half buried in the scattering of sand from the tube.
Taz reached down, fished the razor clam out of the loose sand, and held it out to Mitt in the palm of her hand. “These are delicious. They are far more than a bite of clam meat. You shell them, fillet them out, and can fry them or grill them… however you want to eat them.” She said with excitement. She was glad the moonlight was still bright, keeping the beach lit up well enough for her to show him what he needed to know to use the equipment and forage for the clams. “But we’ll save the cooking lesson for the daylight. Try it now.” She said, closing her fist over the razor clam and tossing it gently into the bucket.
Then she stepped back and let Mitt get to work on his clam gun skills.
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