Rant of Ferox

A few hundred words based on last post’s thoughts.

“Damn it! Potatoes again!” Trill growled, slamming the lid of the pot back down, some boiling water splashed out and evaporated on the fire.
“We don’t have a lot of choice,” said Detra as diplomatically as possible while she chopped a few scant vegetables with her dagger.
“Oh no. We had plenty of choice. Plenty. Until you decided we were going North!”
“Well, you could have caught a small, innocent creature for your dinner,” Veltra offered as some kind of sarcastic consolation. It had only been two days since they had left the Dragon Lands, and food supplies were beginning to look limited. They had travelled across country, avoiding the well-travelled roads and towns. This had partly been to avoid detection from people who may be pursuing them and partly to avoid opportunistic people who may have decided to prey on the desperate people trying to leave the North.
“Not likely! Even the game around here has gone to ground,” Trill said. “It must be the monsters.”
“Or are the monsters spooking you?” Detra wondered.
“Bite your tongue,” Trill growled. “I see you haven’t gone off wandering to look for Spirits.”
“No, I haven’t.”
“If you can’t be civil then be quiet,” Veltra suggested. Detra silently returned to chopping vegetables and Trill silently returned to sulking.

Sometimes technical issues bother me in fantasy writing.

I’ve written about writing realistically before, but today there was a new set of details that were bothering me. Namely, what my characters actually eat.

Originally, in the first draft, I had assumed that three of them ate whatever small animal they caught on the trail, and the fourth survived on a selection of vegetables and fruits that they scavenged from … somewhere.

But that’s not enough in this draft. This time I want more details, not just glossing over facts which may become inconvenient. So, with a few minuted flipping through my shiny, new, Women’s Weekly cook book I compiled a list of foods that they may be able to eat on the road.  Unfortunately modern cookbooks don’t have a section for “Heroes to cook around campfires when on the run or far from town that will keep for a good while without tasting funny”. They should, it would be much more convenient.

They can eat (and store for a few weeks in saddlebags):

• Oats for porridge. Milk is a complicating factor though.
• Eggs
• Bread of one description or another. It won’t be good bread, probably.
• Soup or Stew. Pretty much anything can be thrown in here. A touch of flour, all the veggies you can find, and bits of meat or bone… it’s versatile.
• Fish, if they can catch them.
• Potatoes can be boiled or baked, and I’ve yet to meet a person who doesn’t enjoy a bit of potato. A good staple for any meal.
• Beans are also a good staple, high in protein, if you can get them.
• Meat if your character is a good shot and not morally opposed to eating dead animals.
• Preserves like jam, marmalade (I’ll throw honey in here too) can make otherwise bland food a bit more interesting, and the people who have to eat if for a week a bit less suicidal.

And a touch of spice to add some variety and mystical smells.
Now there’s another real problem that must be solved every day and a point of conflict I can add to the story.

Sometimes when you’re experimenting with different writing styles you go too far.

Whilst aiming for ‘abstract, strange yet meaningful’ this is something I came up with. I’ll give you a cookie if you can actually figure out what it’s subject is.

Legend

Trees stand stock still in shock.
Breeze struggles to breathe a breath.
The sun, a little under the clouds,
Throbs urine yellow, which is not encouraging.

White the colour of insane-asylum walls,
Eyes of the ferocious doe in the calmest storm,
A moment of clarity, epiphany divine,
An undignified, badly timed thump.

Time limps on, the breeze begins to breathe.
Trees shift nervously to tip-toe away,
Gossiping about their wild party yesterday,
With birds and bees and squirrels storing nuts.

Insane-asylum white limps on,
At a pace of three, muttering language of beasts.
Complaining, to the sky and sea,
Who never reply, and don’t believe anyway.

Horn, tooth, or obscene ceramic,
Tainted badly with the stain of life,
Glorious, wispy, balding hair,
Death in life, and soiled innocence.

The cavalry of legends,
Dusty from disbelief,
As we regard this war-weary creature
From a distance. Such a distance.

Where we can not comprehend.