"Flight" [pt. 1]

Twilight was soft, malleable -- a blanket folded at the horizon, decorating everything inside with warmth and color. Each party beneath it tugged at a corner of its fabric. Wetland breezes whistled the sounds of bullfrogs and birds in flight over murky, settled currents. Grasshoppers flut, crickets chirp. Under rock and in dark places, lizards and predators readied themselves for spoil. Fireflies pulsated bioluminescent rhythm, sweetly dancing atop the delta's sweeping ballroom. Pronto took in the scent of summer, high up and a few rope-lengths closer to the full moon. This was, indeed, his favorite place.

Suspended by the ankles from a burnt out rafter, he was awash in the wind. A glorified weather-vein. Decorated with ropes, chains and very creative weights, he was displayed like a caricature up there. Always scorned for having his head in the clouds, he chuckled at the ironic truth behind the opinion.

Bound up, he held onto his corner of the fabric -- his little piece of twilight -- with yellowed teeth. Tasting the hemmed edge, he listened to the savages below rip and shred at it.

In his mind he pictured a mocking Creffey:

"No trouble, jail suits." pitched the spiritual escape artist, "I'd be on those fools in a heartbeat! Should have brought me along."
Muttering Creffey's last words for him, Pronto spat. "Creffey!! The way you dress," he pointed, "you'd be better off staying <i>inside</i> those shackle jackets!"

He missed his friend. And his shovel, too. Below, its handle had been staked deep by a campfire. He gave it a once-over:

Buried to its tang, its silver was hot by the fire's heat. The two were separate yet united by the extreme opposites of their predicament: Pronto hanging high and cold, and the toasty, gardened spade far beneath him. Then, a clang broke his focus.

Snapping to attention at the sight of three ettins pillaging his wares and things, he monitored his captors closely. One eagerly removed one of his larger burlaps and observed it by the blaze. Fat, tall, ugly: they were ettins.

Flailing it around like a ragdoll and mouthing some weird ettin ramblings, Pronto recognized his doomed passenger: eight stones of imported coffee beans, and damn expensive to boot.

'Two-headed <i>son of a--'</i>

Puffing dust and dirt from its threads out in a desperate cloud over the ettin, the weird ramblings swung a tantrum. The bag skirted burnt out wood walls, knocking charred remnants and impervious brass from them. It hit the hearth's stone with a billiard crack, and grazed an ettin's meaty rear end, forcing a surprised 'oof!' out of the other side.

Swinging and soaring, it eventually hooked a jagged floorboard, sundered immediately. The bag exploded, and its exposed contents collided in frantic trajectories against the stone, wood, and all. Scattering and bouncing like marbles all over the other two ettins, their wont for loot made them eager and unattentive. As they hastily began grabbing at the dimunitive beans, one slipped and fell, bumping elbows and knees on his way down, tripping another.

"Coffee!" Pronto began through the mayhem, "I think that's my favorite thing. Great stuff."

From the sky, Pronto began digging a different sort of hole.

They looked up at him, just hanging there. A delayed roar lit the dilapidated place up, and may have burnt it down again had there been anything left to burn.

"Can't understand your native language here," he informed them apologetically. Slightly tone deaf, "What's that called, your ettin talk? <b>'Screaming,'</b> is it?"

Slackjawed and muttering, they were stunned by words, sounds, and sentences, and thoughts. They'd only heard the little pink things shriek in terror before. Pronto, observing their bewilderment, thought that they may be smarter than a rock, yet perhaps dumber than timber.

"Poor chords for speaking it, you see. Can't comprehend its complexity, either." He made sure to accentuate, 'complexity,' further incapacitating their minds.

Cicada calls. The bullfrog. An owl, now. These things filled a silence that Pronto dare not break.

The sizzling and burning and popping of some stray coffee beans reverberated in the ruins. No response yet. Six heads stared up, all of them tired of jokes. With grim shadows cast upward, their intimidating sunken eyes whitened -- the eyes that soon bled red with bloodlust.

Witnessing a few of them eyeing the very base of his rafter, good for snapping. Pronto, doing nothing.
Witnessing wrists and palms curling and tightening their axes and objects, good for cutting and smashing. Thinking nothing.
Witnessing the twitch of an ankle, the first gear to spur them to their killing mechanism. A bell rings violently.
In the fire, he sees the number thirteen. Around it, the light seemed to dim.

Then, crackling campfire flicked quick a hot coal through lively spark, expertly placing a large ember between the toes of a towering mountainfolk. His left side reacted and swung wildly at the ember, his new posture holding the right directly in the fire. Bellowing madly, his counterpart gnashed his burnt teeth and, snapped backward. This produced another reaction -- the left was forced to step directly into the fire.

<i>'Well, that escalated quickly.'</i>

In a flurry of punches, the monster began destroying itself. The other two ettins exploded in anger and, fully distracted, quelled the in-fighting as best they could, turning the blunt sides of their axes on the now burning one. When the dust cleared and cursing stopped, Pronto resumed his digging from above.

"Eat it!" called Pronto. They looked up again, settled. Pronto flexed his jaw, gnashing his teeth and indicating with his head and eyes to the beans. "Eat! Eat! Yumm."

A meeting of brightened minds commenced, as the six heads exchanged looks amongst themselves. Shrugs, gestures from one another, and even between fellows sharing the same body. One picked at his toe, whining. Pronto wondered how hard it must be for both minds to agree to diet.

Their stomachs groaned and another head whimpered pathetically. Pronto, at a bat's vantage, noticed the lazy eye of the group attempt to rationalize the situation in a series of fist motions and grunts, spitting on his throng throughout the whole show. One laughed, particularly drenched.

"Eh, freaks.." he whispered. They finalized the deal by laying their arms to rest.

Then, like children, they descended upon the beans. A massive hand carefully pinched a cast iron skillet from a deadened shelf, and began roasting. Idly, one continued leafing through the loot as it ate. Buying himself some time and the favor of murderous giants, Pronto relaxed and realigned himself in the shackles.

"If you may let me down," Pronto called, "I could entertain your feast with story and song!" No response. That was to be expected, even amongst peoplefolk.

"Plus," he chosed his words carefully, "MORE eat! MORE food! Eat! Food! Good!" He nodded, grinning sheepishly like a desperate vendor on market's closing day. One rose in clamor and jogged to the rafter, shoulders lowered.

"Hey!" shrieked a terrified Pronto, "No! No, no, stop it!" He envisioned the upcoming collision and fall, all clenched eyes and grinding teeth. "No, no!"

A large hand closed over the wood and gave it a playful shake as four heads looked on. Pronto, peeking, realized what was unfolding. He sullenly sported a wide-eyed frown.

<i>'Oh, gods...'</i> The entertainment had begun.

"Wait!" he exclaimed. Their expressions changed to smirks and their chests puffed with anticipation at the show. Rattling the beam and cracking it just enough to make Pronto squeal, he laughed a deep, <b>"heh, huh, <i>huh..</i>"</b> back to his group as he toyed with the catch -- playing with his food.

"Don't squash me!" Ack! Best avoid giving them ideas! "I mean, I mean.. I have squash too!"

<strong>"HAVE SQUASH?! LOVE SQUASH!"</strong> one yelled, far too excited at the prospect to comfort Pronto, <strong>"SQUASH!!"</strong>

The beam snapped like a twig, and mania snapped Pronto as he screamed like a damsel. Beneath him, motion blurred the ground into impression as he began reeling through the air. Feeling his gut in his throat, he slurred and vomited to their cheers. The group went wild with laughter, some pointing at him, and the hills joined into the fun.

His most noble of rescuers laughed too, shaking the rafter around by incident. In turn, this made Pronto scream even more. For minutes it went on, as a humiliated Pronto yelled and spat horrible verses between panicked shrills. The ettin stopped, satisfied, and caught his breath between laughs. The other two were on their backs, kicking and rolling and laughing through it all. He carefully lowered the overhead Pronto, who huffed heavy breaths from the scare, furious.

"Damnit, you unclean brigand! You smell terrible!" Aggravated, he flicked his own spittle from his brow. He brushed himself off, and took a seat by his shovel, looking over the flame at the tattooed, clan-marked giants, suddenly graceful and innocent -- almost respectable -- in one of life's simple joys. <i>'Jerks,'</i> he thought, smirking. He signaled to an item, which they humbly passed.

"Now, where to begin?" Tuning his lute, he gave it a strum. "Ah, right." Chewing, they eagerly watched his fingers work the strings, gasping, feeling octave and beat.

"It's funny," he pondered aloud, "they say it takes music to make peace." Playing higher chords, his audience entertained the notion, seeming to understand him now, understanding peace, themselves, that there may be something greater.

Pronto continued in his own thoughts, <i>'but, I've turned my back to peace.'</i> In his hand, he possessed the instrument with nefarious intent. The wood was dried, its grains dry and thirsty.

"Let's start with a tale of treasure," he yelled, puncturing their train of thought. How they reeled to his smirk, his pause, and his electrifying first strum. Like a mask, he wore the flames that licked.

"And chaos!" The flames rose higher and higher as he began an erratic, fast tune that only seemed to tumble across bridges and pirouette through verses as it delivered its listeners to the gates of madness. Totally unknowing, they clapped like fools.

As he stood, practically inside the flame now, he played on in the sand of a soft world. A malleable world. A world he could dig in.

A world in which he could finally unearth the ultimate purpose he'd sought for so, so long.

 

As of right now, this still needs editing and clarification (I know). I intend to add more detail later on.

But, next I'll chronicle the events that led to Pronto's capture.

I wrote this up in a few hours -- so comments, compliments, and all other feedback is hugely appreciated.

Thanks for reading. =]

 

Whimsical, fun to read, and crazy, as always.