Not an Old Man Anymore (Anselm)

[Minerva Agatha Zipporah]

10th Day of Summer, 512 AV Late Morning Tock had spent the early part of her morning working on her testing of a live wolf. It was an ongoing affair, and she had a lot to learn before she killed the wolf, skinned it, and sliced it open. After she was finished with the early morning work, she headed in to take care of business at her job, only to find there was an unexpected delay. When she arrived on the job site, she found the whole crew sitting around doing nothing. "Oy, dodgers!" she screamed at them, waving her arms in the air. "Did I change break time ta 'right when ya git 'ere'!? Dun think I did!" Before she could continue going off on them, her coworker James stepped up and said, "Jacques said there was a delay on the lumber shipment. Some problem down at the docks... the ship isn't being allowed to unload until they sort out some papers..." Tock snorted and rolled her eyes. She hated dealing with horse shyke delays because of the stupid government. Why, she had half a mind to go down to the Lord of Whatchacaller's office and give Stampy Guy a serious talking to. Or yelling to. But there turned out to be nothing to do about it. After she spoke with Jacques, it was agreed they'd give the men the morning off. "But yer lazy arses damn well better be back 'ere 'fore the thirteenth bell!" Tock told them as they headed off to enjoy a few hours of relaxation. Of course, as a Supervisor, Tock didn't get the luxury of relaxation. Since there was a delay in the work, she had to use it to get caught up checking over the designs for the office they were building. As the lead carver, she was responsible for all the designs that were to be carved into the doors, pillars, wall trim, stairway banisters, and other artistic aspects of the office. Working on the designs was an ongoing process, and she was constantly making adjustments. Since there was no one left around to supervise, she decided to take a walk as she worked. She carried her designs and blueprints on a flat piece of wood she'd converted into a writing desk, wandering through the streets with her head lowered over her work, not paying much attention to where she was going. People tended to step out of her way anyway; the semi-well known redhead walking down the street with a wooden hand perched on her shoulder and a wheeled hammer trailing at her heels tended to make people decide not to get in her way. Some time later, not having paid any attention to where she was going, she found herself in a familiar neighborhood. It was a belated thought that made her realize where she was: not far from the Fortune Teller's House, where she'd helped commit a murder last week. Remembering now that they'd never finished their discussion about Nuits and their creation, and knowing she had a few bells to kill before she had to be back at the job site, she decided to pay the old man a visit. She had almost forgotten that he was no longer seemingly 'old', considering the young, fit body he now inhabited. When she found the right house, she let herself in without bothering to knock. Even if Tock were one to knock normally anyway, she figured that when you committed murder with someone and helped him transfer his soul into a new body, you were as good as family. Thus there should be no need for formalities. "Oy, Fortune Teller," she called out as she barged in. "Wotcher, aye?"

[Anselm]

In one sense, every “jump” was the same. He acquired a usable body, he went through the appropriate ritual, his soul left his former body and entered his new body, and he went through a recovery period during which he regained his strength and became acclimated to his new body. In another sense, every “jump” was different. The acquisition of a usable body was always the trickiest part. Sometimes he would be fortunate enough to come across someone freshly dead. The body he had just discarded had belonged to a bandit who died in a fight in the desert not far from Yahebah. Anselm's previous body had been damaged beyond repair and he was forced to take the old body. Sometimes he would dig up a recently buried corpse. And sometimes he took the body of someone who was still living. After killing them of course. That was the case for his current body. Tock and he had conspired together to murder a young, healthy sailor so that he could jump into his body. The ritual itself did not vary in any significant way from jump to jump. But the post-jump recovery period did. Sometimes he would adapt to the new body almost immediately, although it would take a while to regain his strength. Other times it took several weeks for him to learn how to control the new body. Sometimes various features just didn't work at first. Once he had been blind for nearly a month before he figured out how to get the eyes working. In the current instance, his speech had run off a cliff, leaving him speaking gibberish to poor Tock immediately after he took up residence in the new body. Characteristically, she was unfazed. Mostly she just wanted to take the old body home with her. Strange girl, that one. Fortunately Anselm gained control of his speech in a day and regained enough strength to be up and around two days later. He stilled tired easily but all-in-all it was an unusually quick recovery. He was satisfied with his new body. It was five foot eight inches tall and weighed about 140 pounds, all muscle. It had light brown hair, brown eyes and a broad nose. The hands were those of a sailor, heavily calloused. He was pleased to have strong, confident muscles. Such a change from the decrepit body he'd abandoned. Even his mind felt clearer and quicker. On the morning of the 10th he dressed in his burgundy silk robe, pulled the hood up over his head, and tied the light blue silk sash around his waist. Peering at his reflection in a small mirror he concluded that he should be able to pass himself off as the same fortune-teller as before. Except for two things. First, he didn't have a limp anymore. He decided to fix that by pretending he did. The second issue was more problematic. His new voice was not at all like his old voice. His old voice had been deep and gravelly. His new voice, at least so far, was higher pitched and sounded more asthmatic than gravelly. But there was nothing to be done about it so he put it out of his mind. A bell later he was sitting in his tent in the marketplace waiting for his next customer. The morning passed with no customers entering his tent. By mid-day he was tired. Bone tired. So he went home. To his surprise, the door to his cottage was ajar. He pushed it open and there was Tock. “My dear Tock,” he said. “What a … er … pleasant surprise. What brings you to my house today? No, let me guess. You still want to know how to make a Nuit, don't you?”