#unscarfed

[powdermelonkeg]

Fourth Choice

How should Winter pay? Try to barter with the tavernkeep, 42%

"Can I pay you instead?"

The tavernkeep crosses her arms, eyeing him warily. "Pay with what? You haven't a chip to your name, I saw your bags."

"Nesting resin," Winter replies. "It fetches a good price with jewelers. And it took me over a week to fetch. That's a service itself, isn't it?"

Her eye glances between him and his basket, her thumb rubbing over a worn spot in her patched skirt. "…Nesting resin. Show me it."

Finally having permission to move without causing a ruckus, Winter leans over to grab his basket, purposely hiding his red eyes from view when she flinches.

Calm. Easy. Don't give her any reason to fear you.

He grabs the basket off the bedpost, rummages through it, then pulls out a piece of resin the size of his thumb and offers it. The clear substance glows in the dawn light, scattering rainbows all across the room.

The tavernkeep stares at it, slowly reaching out to take it, then swiping it before he has a chance to pull it back. The gem gets a critical look up close.

Winter waits. "My room, my expenses from last night, a good word with the banner, and a meal before I go. Agreed?"

"…Agreed." She rubs the resin against her sleeve and pockets it. "I'll inform the banner. Go find yourself a table, and the staff'll take care of you." Without another word, she leaves the room.

Winter sighs in relief. Crisis averted.

…

The tavern hardly notices when Winter slips out of his room. His hood is pulled high, and he sits at a corner table, away from all the drunkards and hunters and bannered crews. From here, he can assess the colors around him.

Lavender and gold—that's Banner Em-er. Red and pink, Dyn-lye, black and green, Gha-en…

Three. Crowned. Their top ranks. In Tin-ser territory, with no battles. Why?

"You're Sashen's guest?"

He looks up quickly. A server's come to his table—dark, unscarfed hair, a gold sun patch over his right eye, just like the tavernkeep had. Winter offers a flicker of a smile. "I am."

"Order." The server pauses. "Please," he amends, with a hint of sheepishness.

Winter's smile turns more genuine. "Stonefoot sausage stew, please. And a mug of orrelane."

The server nods, jotting it down quickly. "And your takeaway?"

"Do you make raindrop candy?"

He shakes his head. "The frost's lasting long this year. No flowers."

Great. "Mince parcels then, please."

"I'll have a box ready by the time you're finished." With a short curtsy, the server walks off.

Winter sighs. He'd been looking forward to that raindrop candy; with the way things are going, he might not be able to get any before he goes home. And he'd sooner die before he lets anyone in the citadel cook for him.

"-see that snowy one over there?"

Winter snaps out of his thoughts at the snippet of conversation. He glances at the speaker out of the corner of his eye.

Red and pink cape.

"Tin-ser let him in last night," the bannered major continues, eyeing him like prey. "Think he's important?"

"No," her companion drawls. "Eat already. We need to go."

The major falls silent, eating her meal, but her eyes stay trained on the Lantern. Winter doesn't take his gaze off her once, not until the server returns with his meal.

"Here it is." The server sets it in front of him. "Suns shine on you."

"Let them warm you first," Winter replies absently, waving his hand. "Thank you."

The server flashes a small smile, then leaves, restoring Winter's line of sight.

The major's gone.

With a quiet sigh of relief, Winter turns to his meal, glad to be able to relax. It smells incredible; the aroma of herb sausage, the tang of sourroot broth, the spicy-sweet scent of orrelane… He grabs the mug first, lifts the drink to sip it—then pauses.

Atop the orrelane floats a cream-colored disk, a spiral flower burned onto its face.

Winter stares at the wafer in disbelief. Slowly, he turns to look at the front bar.

The server gives a shy wave.

Winter blinks.

What?

"Ay."

He looks up quickly, every muscle in his body tensing as the Dyn-lye major approaches his table. She gives him a feral, gold-toothed grin.

"You. Snow boy." She grabs the seat across from him, pulls it to herself to sit up close. "Tell me what you're doing in Tin-ser." She tilts her head, just enough that he can see the head of the spear strapped to her back. "And how much I'll get for a flask of red-eyed blood."

[bokettochild]

*unscarfs your Warriors*

[bruneburg]

For those who are new to my work and don’t know what I’m talking about: “Entbandung” (or “Unscarfed”), my bachelor graduation film has been years in the making and I have gone through many crunch phases and allnighters for it. you know like the cartoony good vibes beasts I make and that you probably followed me for? the grad film is the exact opposite of that. different art style. set in the @riesenlied world. And it is a horror film with a scene that, according to my animation dean, “makes her feel physically ill” (she encouraged me to make her feel that way again when I had accidentally toned that scene down). The film is super colorful though and has a santur soundtrack that I love to death.

[thesquireinvictus]

VIKING DUBLIN: TRIAL PIECES

I It could be a jaw-bone or a rib or a portion cut from something sturdier: anyhow, a smaller outline

was incised, a cage or trellis to conjure in. Like a child's tongue following the toils

of his calligraphy, like an eel swallowed in a basket of eels, the line amazes itself

eluding the hand that fed it, a bill in flight, a swimming nostril.

II There are trial pieces, the craft's mystery improvised on bone: foliage, bestiaries,

interlacings elaborate as the netted routes of ancestry and trade. That have to be

magnified on display so that the nostril is a migrant prow sniffing the Liffey,

swanning it up to the ford, dissembling itself in antler combs, bone pins, coins, weights, scale-pans.

III Like a long sword sheathed in its moisting burial clays, the keel stuck fast

in the slip of the bank, its clinker-built hull spined and plosive as Dublin.

And now we reach in for shards of the vertebrae, the ribs of hurdle, the mother-wet caches--

and for this trial piece incised by a child, a longship, a buoyant migrant line.

IV That enters my longhand, turns cursive, unscarfing a zoomorphic wake, a worm of thought

I follow into the mud. I am Hamlet the Dane, skull-handler, parablist, smeller of rot

in the state, infused with its poisons, pinioned by ghosts and affections,

murders and pieties, coming to consciousness by jumping in graves, dithering, blathering.

V Come fly with me, come sniff the wind with the expertise of the Vikings--

neighborly, scoretaking killers, haggers and hagglers, gombeen-men, hoarders of grudge and gain.

With a butcher's aplomb they spread out your lungs and made you warm wings for your shoulders.

Old fathers, be with us. Old cunning assessors of feuds and of sites for ambush or town.

VI 'Did you ever hear tell,' said Jimmy Farrell, 'of the skulls they have in the city of Dublin?

White skulls and black skulls and yellow skulls, and some with full teeth, and some haven't only but one,'

and compounded history in the pan of 'an old Dane, maybe, was drowned in the Flood.'

My words lick around cobbled quays, go hunting lightly as pampooties over the skull-capped ground.

--Seamus Heaney, from North, 1975.

[autoapocrypha]

Cal unscarfed, and also hanging out with her scrawny bf