Week 4 - Figure of Speech
Jul. 19th, 2025 05:52 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
marjoricaLife is what you make of it, he had always been told. It had certainly been different since he had changed, in some ways immeasurably so. He was still a new dog, relatively-speaking, so he was still adjusting to everything. There was a lot.
He had cherished what had proven to be forlorn hopes that he might suddenly, magically, become more confident and assertive in his daily life. This almost never happened, he was forced to conclude. After all, he had spent so many years becoming one thing, being battered down and shoehorned into some mould, not necessarily of his own choosing. The past was complicated and his inner life far simpler now. Most people, he guessed, still did not see much beyond his exterior. Average white boy, nerdishly diffident, partial to sheepskin coats.
The inner life was new and unsullied, unsulliable, he hoped. It occupied a whole different dimension from what had gone before. In many regards, the simplicity of the new was complicated by concerns, habits and hang ups of the workaday. Society demanded that he kept his head down, paid his bills, was respectful to his boss. Reality was far more pared down and vital.
He did not know why they chose him, but he was happy that they had. He had never felt so much like he belonged before. He had never felt such joy in his body, his muscles, his teeth, his bones before. His purpose was simply to be. His mentors told him that he was free to take the best of both worlds and meld them into something which would be worth so much more. He looked forward to that, if he could ever attain that state of being.
The best part of all was Scar Fell. It was very nearly heaven on earth.
***
Scar Fell was where he could become.
It had been Ministry of Defence Land, already cordoned off from the rest of society. For years the army undertook exercises and performed manoeuvres out on the moors and among the empty buildings of what had been a small farming community. Then the Cold War had ended and the land went on sale.
The Order had renovated the farm, the main house and some of the cottages, so it looked once again like the kind of place that he would have loved to visit for a holiday.
With Scar Fell came land for them to have their own herd of cattle and flocks of sheep, some of which dotted the hills up to the moorland. They provided wool, milk and leather for trading and even the meat that they ate when in residence. There were arable fields for fodder as well as an old orchard and an extensive kitchen garden. Best sausages he had ever tasted. Best meat. His beloved sheepskin jacket even came from there.
The moor was all theirs too, with plenty of game in season, rocky outcrops that you could climb and smell the air. Networks of sinuous streams ran across it and down into the ancient forest that surrounded it all. This was the crowning glory, for not only was it a remnant of the wlldwood that had once covered Britain, but it provided additional shelter for all of their activities. Yes, it had been augmented and extended over time, but it was still quite dense and as natural as any jungle. It too was fenced in and regularly patrolled.
Four times a year, each member was allowed to come and stay for a whole weekend for free. These weekends happened once a month, every month. The lottery for certain times of year was fierce indeed. If a space came free at Lammas, for example, an event as rare as hens’ teeth for this was the jewel of the calendar…. Oh! The horse trading, bargaining and fervent prayer that would go on! Any time of year was good, to be honest, no matter the weather or phase of the moon.
One year, before he had joined, the snow had blocked the roads and there was no way for vehicles to get in or out. That weekend’s residents had been given extra, glorious time at Scar Fell in return for helping to keep it running and clearing some of the drifts. He could only imagine the joys of extra time to run across the fresh fallen snow, his thick coat keeping him warm enough to enjoy the sight of his breath freezing in the air.
Each weekend started with the Feast, whether it was a greater or lesser occasion. Enormous quantities of meat were roasted over fire pits. Barrels of ale were tapped. Torches lined the paths. There was music everywhere from tapes, to bands, to the members singing the traditional songs. That season’s president would make a speech and tell them their story, how their ways were old long before the Norsemen brought them here, how they should rejoice in this gift that they had been given. Then the festivities truly could start.
A great howl would go up and the night was theirs.
***
The worst parts of being a member of the group were the practical ones. Every member owed a debt of work at Scar Fell; it kept it running. This duty could be bought off financially or substantially lessened if one had a sought after profession such as medicine or law. There were members of the order skilled in running farms and businesses who lived there full time for practical reasons. There would also be clean up duties, from cleaning houses to disposing of carcasses. People could be disgusting, no matter what form they took.
The most onerous duty of all, of course, was security, patrolling the estate in vehicles or by foot. It really was not safe for outsiders to come in, not for them, not for anyone. Ignorance and idle curiosity drove this for the most part, as Scar Fell was neither particularly near anywhere nor on the way to anywhere.
The attraction of game would take some deliberation for outsiders to break inand still happened from time to time. They had extra reason to be vigilant when it was a Poacher’s Moon. There was a fear that gangs of actual robbers and burglars might decide that Scar Fell folks had a pretty penny. The aftermath of such a case would be damaging and tedious. The foolhardy had that effect.
Yet now that he had Scar Fell, he felt that he would take on most unpleasant duties to keep it going. He belonged at last. He could be himself with little fear of censure. He had friends who were just like him and understood the frustrations of his world because they were theirs as well. He had himself down to work there full time if a position became available.
The absolute worst part of Scar Fell was existing in the times in between and making those count too. His mentors reminded him that being a man was still an important factor in his existence, That part of the dichotomy might seem harder to bear, but it was worth exploring.
He pulled his sheepskin coat tighter around himself, pushed his glasses up the bridge of his nose and grinned toothily. No one would ever guess.
***
Vote by Wednesday here https://therealljidol.dreamwidth.org/1191017.html
He had cherished what had proven to be forlorn hopes that he might suddenly, magically, become more confident and assertive in his daily life. This almost never happened, he was forced to conclude. After all, he had spent so many years becoming one thing, being battered down and shoehorned into some mould, not necessarily of his own choosing. The past was complicated and his inner life far simpler now. Most people, he guessed, still did not see much beyond his exterior. Average white boy, nerdishly diffident, partial to sheepskin coats.
The inner life was new and unsullied, unsulliable, he hoped. It occupied a whole different dimension from what had gone before. In many regards, the simplicity of the new was complicated by concerns, habits and hang ups of the workaday. Society demanded that he kept his head down, paid his bills, was respectful to his boss. Reality was far more pared down and vital.
He did not know why they chose him, but he was happy that they had. He had never felt so much like he belonged before. He had never felt such joy in his body, his muscles, his teeth, his bones before. His purpose was simply to be. His mentors told him that he was free to take the best of both worlds and meld them into something which would be worth so much more. He looked forward to that, if he could ever attain that state of being.
The best part of all was Scar Fell. It was very nearly heaven on earth.
***
Scar Fell was where he could become.
It had been Ministry of Defence Land, already cordoned off from the rest of society. For years the army undertook exercises and performed manoeuvres out on the moors and among the empty buildings of what had been a small farming community. Then the Cold War had ended and the land went on sale.
The Order had renovated the farm, the main house and some of the cottages, so it looked once again like the kind of place that he would have loved to visit for a holiday.
With Scar Fell came land for them to have their own herd of cattle and flocks of sheep, some of which dotted the hills up to the moorland. They provided wool, milk and leather for trading and even the meat that they ate when in residence. There were arable fields for fodder as well as an old orchard and an extensive kitchen garden. Best sausages he had ever tasted. Best meat. His beloved sheepskin jacket even came from there.
The moor was all theirs too, with plenty of game in season, rocky outcrops that you could climb and smell the air. Networks of sinuous streams ran across it and down into the ancient forest that surrounded it all. This was the crowning glory, for not only was it a remnant of the wlldwood that had once covered Britain, but it provided additional shelter for all of their activities. Yes, it had been augmented and extended over time, but it was still quite dense and as natural as any jungle. It too was fenced in and regularly patrolled.
Four times a year, each member was allowed to come and stay for a whole weekend for free. These weekends happened once a month, every month. The lottery for certain times of year was fierce indeed. If a space came free at Lammas, for example, an event as rare as hens’ teeth for this was the jewel of the calendar…. Oh! The horse trading, bargaining and fervent prayer that would go on! Any time of year was good, to be honest, no matter the weather or phase of the moon.
One year, before he had joined, the snow had blocked the roads and there was no way for vehicles to get in or out. That weekend’s residents had been given extra, glorious time at Scar Fell in return for helping to keep it running and clearing some of the drifts. He could only imagine the joys of extra time to run across the fresh fallen snow, his thick coat keeping him warm enough to enjoy the sight of his breath freezing in the air.
Each weekend started with the Feast, whether it was a greater or lesser occasion. Enormous quantities of meat were roasted over fire pits. Barrels of ale were tapped. Torches lined the paths. There was music everywhere from tapes, to bands, to the members singing the traditional songs. That season’s president would make a speech and tell them their story, how their ways were old long before the Norsemen brought them here, how they should rejoice in this gift that they had been given. Then the festivities truly could start.
A great howl would go up and the night was theirs.
***
The worst parts of being a member of the group were the practical ones. Every member owed a debt of work at Scar Fell; it kept it running. This duty could be bought off financially or substantially lessened if one had a sought after profession such as medicine or law. There were members of the order skilled in running farms and businesses who lived there full time for practical reasons. There would also be clean up duties, from cleaning houses to disposing of carcasses. People could be disgusting, no matter what form they took.
The most onerous duty of all, of course, was security, patrolling the estate in vehicles or by foot. It really was not safe for outsiders to come in, not for them, not for anyone. Ignorance and idle curiosity drove this for the most part, as Scar Fell was neither particularly near anywhere nor on the way to anywhere.
The attraction of game would take some deliberation for outsiders to break inand still happened from time to time. They had extra reason to be vigilant when it was a Poacher’s Moon. There was a fear that gangs of actual robbers and burglars might decide that Scar Fell folks had a pretty penny. The aftermath of such a case would be damaging and tedious. The foolhardy had that effect.
Yet now that he had Scar Fell, he felt that he would take on most unpleasant duties to keep it going. He belonged at last. He could be himself with little fear of censure. He had friends who were just like him and understood the frustrations of his world because they were theirs as well. He had himself down to work there full time if a position became available.
The absolute worst part of Scar Fell was existing in the times in between and making those count too. His mentors reminded him that being a man was still an important factor in his existence, That part of the dichotomy might seem harder to bear, but it was worth exploring.
He pulled his sheepskin coat tighter around himself, pushed his glasses up the bridge of his nose and grinned toothily. No one would ever guess.
***
Vote by Wednesday here https://therealljidol.dreamwidth.org/1191017.html
no subject
Date: 2025-07-19 06:45 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2025-07-19 07:01 pm (UTC)I am all about the folk horror or at least the folk weird.
I end up writing vignettes an awful lot as anything much more developed gets too long for something like Idol.
no subject
Date: 2025-07-20 04:42 pm (UTC)Dan
no subject
Date: 2025-07-20 10:49 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2025-07-21 07:55 pm (UTC)Are they Wereotters? I hope they are Wereotters.
Oscar
no subject
Date: 2025-07-21 10:32 pm (UTC)Otters are pretty scary as is.
no subject
Date: 2025-07-21 10:06 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2025-07-21 10:34 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2025-07-22 01:04 am (UTC)I really love the idea of a little holiday weekend away, once a month :)
Will you continue your story next week? I hope you don't mind if I add you on dreamwidth?
no subject
Date: 2025-07-22 11:01 am (UTC)Yeah, nothing like a weekend away where one is entirely free to be *cough cough * oneself. There was some debate here as to whether I was being too subtle.
no subject
Date: 2025-07-22 05:00 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2025-07-22 09:39 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2025-07-22 08:52 pm (UTC)Well, this is ominous! And makes us wonder whether "a new dog" is a metaphor or whether that sheepskin coat is just a sheepskin for a certain secret wolf.
no subject
Date: 2025-07-22 09:41 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2025-07-22 10:30 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2025-07-23 01:11 am (UTC)I don’t know if there will be any more of this, but I keep finding myself in this world.
no subject
Date: 2025-07-23 05:42 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2025-07-23 09:24 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2025-07-23 05:54 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2025-07-23 09:24 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2025-07-23 08:41 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2025-07-23 09:24 pm (UTC)