#what is a written scetch called

[p4-34-m0]

It is raining outside, droplets of liquid made golden by the rising of the begrudging sun spattering against the single pane windows of the train . I am not sure I appreciate the rain, free water though it is. Difficult to collect, ironically, and somewhat a waste of precious effort as well, given the availability of other, more handily reached sources.

As if to prove that point, my Jaga takes a pointed sip from the water canteen I am carrying, prompting my Bishu to take one as well, if slightly more grudgingly. It has been a struggle to keep them both in unison recently, something which I have never had to deal with before, and something which frightens me to no end. What if I drift too far apart? What will become of me? Of… of us?

The trip has been a long one, and the separation from kin, clan, and the hot, comfortable dryness of the dessert has curled the delicate dorsal fur of both my Jaga and my Bishu into small, delicate ringlets. It hasn’t been helped by the continued existential crisis lurking around every moment of separation from myself. The compartments were too small to house my Jaga, so I had to ride in the luggage car while my Bishu rode in coach. Initially I had offered to put myself totally in the baggage area, but the conductor, a kindly man who’d called himself Cliff, had convinced me that having two sore backs was worse than having just one.

An astonishing understanding of myself, I think, or perhaps just a well placed joke hitting too close to home. Either way, the separation is… uncomfortable, to say the least. For a moment I spare a thought to the divided pairs, keeping communications open between two very distant worlds. I can’t even imagine what it feels like to be back home in the reservation and back home on Teagule, another entire planet, at the same moment.

It makes the both of me shudder to think about.

The blast from the train whistle is as startling to me now as it has been every time I’ve heard it, the ringing in my ears echoing back and forth across the sympathetic link between my bodies. I cringe and whine, ears pressed flat against my head, upper paws cradling the throbbingly instant headache blooming inside of my skull while my lower arms clutch my bags and suitcase.

“Is he alright?” Someone nearby asks over the deafening din, their voice belaying no concern over the shrill keen of the whistle stabbing into my ear drums.

“Give him some space.” Another voice comments with slightly more concern, “It may be a teagu thing.”

As suddenly as it started, the noise stops, echoing off the surrounding landscape while a pleasant tone bling-blongs from the train speakers.

Shaking, clutching my ears, my Bishu can hardly hear what the pleasantly feminine voice is saying, the hubbub rising from the other passengers and the tinnitus bell-peel in my ears drowning out all else. Sequestered, and thankfully removed from the horrible noise by distance, my Jaga recovers more quickly, just in time to catch myself when the train underfoot lurches gently, and begins slowing. Lower, more light sensitive eyes closed against the glare, my Jaga stands to look out the windows. Many people, mostly humans but a scant few teagu too, think of a Teagu, one Jaga and one Bishu, as two separate entities working in close approximation. This isn’t totally wrong, but it’s not the total truth either, something which has been becoming more and more apparent to me with every passing day since I left the reservation.