#you look like a fox designed by someone who’s a master of drawing deer and only deer

[inamindfarfaraway]

Shoutout to the maned wolf, which is technically neither wolf nor fox but has its own genus called Chrysocyon! Why -

why are your legs so long?

I mean, intellectually, I understand that it’s because you live in grasslands and have evolved to be able to see over the grass, but emotionally… why? Are they?? Like that??? Surely there was a way to make your body more cohesive and proportional-looking?

[huntermorozov]

The Son of Master Marat

Crash is slowly editing our RP logs. This is a continuation of here

   Marat’s house, tucked neatly in the woods surrounding Byrgenwerth, is smallish though attractively well-built. It’s clearly a scholar’s home: filled with books, models, lamps left haphazardly around the house, and other odds and ends, including an ancient-looking statue of what appears to be the Virgin. The spare bedroom is sparse–if he can’t make use of it, he seems to avoid it completely. His residence is about the only thing Esfir enjoys so far; she takes a moment to admire the simple-but-elegant building. Her eyes then wander to his scattered papers and ink bottles, and she gives a nervous look at all the lamps within tipping distance of them.

   Even when her father’s office is in a state of organized chaos, it’s never this messy. All the servants of the Polozhin manor keep the dust and mess down to non-existence. Either Master Marat has very little time for housekeeping, or he is a man who can find anything no matter where he puts it.

   “Your home is beautiful, Master Marat,” says Esfir, holding her hands together. She’s spent an awful amount of time observing, her stare unblinking. It’s not becoming of a girl such as she.

   “Well, the university takes care of it,” says Marat modestly. He leads their newest houseguest up a well-maintained set of stairs—only 1 of the steps creaks, much to Esfir’s relief. The railing is worn but sturdy, and she’s wondering if this place was specially-built. It seems expensive, and a man of his standing is likely paid well. “You’re welcome to do whatever you like with your room. Kostya’s is up here.”

   “Thank you, Master Marat.”

   She ascends the stairs to seek out the guest room; Kostya’s door is open wide. In stark, charming contrast to the rest of the house, the furniture in Kostya’s room has wood carved in a Central Asian style. Turkic patterns are painted on the wall, to which Esfir’s eye is drawn like a moth to a flame. She recognizes the style of the Timurids, the hints of Persian and Mongolian influences, and the Turkish traces that bring the whole room together. There’s a sense of nostalgia in her–portions of the Polozhin manor are decorated similarly, in a testament to her family’s ventures along the Silk Road. Kostya is inside, fooling around with his bow and arrows and looking bored.

   She almost steps in to look. The intense interest in her expression is the most she’s emoted so far, barring when Kostya dragged her from the Provost’s office. The boy reaches over with his bow and pulls the door open. “Do you want to see my room?” he asks, and Esfir is a little surprised. She wordlessly nods back at him.

   Slowly, almost reverently, the older girl enters his space. She takes her time in looking around, studying more closely the patterns on the wall. Winding, ornate vines wind between snowflake-like stars, the shapes curving and sleek. A china-fine, pale hand rests over a smaller decoration.

   "My father has rooms like this,“ Esfir explains. "He trades silk and spices in the Orient and the Steppe. Furs and ores, too, and even fragrances. He brings back things from the places he’s been to decorate our manor with. He’s very fond of Turkish and Persian architecture and design.”

   She lifts her hand away, and approaches a dresser. With a delicate bow, she peers closer at some of the detailing. “He taught me a little Turkish. I don’t know it very well, though.”

   <<“That sucks”>>, says Kostya, in Tatar. It sounds vaguely Turkish to Esfir, but she’s not skilled enough in the language to understand it, despite the 2 being mutually intelligible. “When we go to Zaporozhia I can ride horses.”

    He doesn’t seem to find silk and spices very interesting. Esfir, however, finds that the mention of the Wild Lands is. She turns to him and asks, “Zaporozhia? Are you from there, young Master? Does your father come up here to work?”

   “Yup. My dad was born there and then went to school in Russia,” Kostya answers. This is a place of research of some kind, so it makes sense to Esfir that people come from all over. Kostya finishes restringing his bow. "Do you want to go shoot arrows?”

   “That sounds fascinating,” Esfir says, perking up at the offer. Most of the young nobles she’s known were trained with muskets, not bows. “I’ve never seen someone shoot a bow before. Could you show me how?”

    She asks this despite the fact she’s built like a willow sapling. She’d probably tip over in a stiff wind, by the looks of her arms and body–she might not have the strength needed to pull back an arrow. Despite this, the little archer hops off his bed, saying, “Okay. Come out back, I have targets.” He starts walking ahead so that Esfir might follow him.

   She can’t help but be a little impressed. Kostya has a complicated little system out there: there are painted targets hung up in the trees, attached to pulleys so he can retrieve his arrows. (When she gets to know everybody better, she’ll note that Laurence’s hand appears to be at work.) “On the steppes I’d just hunt deer or rabbits,” Kostya explains, nocking an arrow and pulling back his string. “Here it’s sort of boring.”

   Esfir gives him a fascinated look. “You hunt deer with arrows?” she asks, tone edging toward the incredulous. Esfir knows some of the nobles go out to hunt deer, rabbit, and fox, but they have rifles, horses, and servants to help them. The idea of being out on horseback, drawing up a bow to hunt a fleeing stag with is…. Adventurously thrilling, she has to admit. Esfir can’t help but feel a bit jealous. How much has she missed in the world, kept up in her room for so long?

    Kostya fires almost lazily at one of the targets–about twenty feet off the ground–and hits it dead center. She gapes in awe at his ease and skill, eyes following the target’s mechanisms before she looks at the struck center. She tries to imagine the effect live target, but Esfir’s mind stops before she imagines the arrow hitting.

   “Bows aren’t hard,” he says, putting 1 of his heels back and bracing his body to shoot. Esfir watches closely. “You just stand like this, and put your weight mostly on your back leg.”

   “What about your thumb, though?” she asks, trying to remember all he’s saying. “Don’t bowstrings leave marks if you’re not careful?”

   “I have a thumb ring, but it won’t fit you.” Kostya produces a beautiful–and practical–ring carved from polished…bone. By God, it’s actually made out of bone, or maybe a less-adventurous horn. Maybe even antler? “So I just use this draw. If you let go cleanly, it won’t hurt your hand.”

   Esfir stares at the craftsmanship like it’s a relic of the Cross. She’s tempted to reach out and run her fingers over it, but that would be rude. She pulls them up to her chest and leans over to look better. “What do you mean by ‘cleanly’?” she inquires once she’s done admiring the little trinket. “And where did you find such a beautiful ring?”

    “Papa made it for me. I mean, like….” Kostya demonstrates letting his fingers all go at once. “If one finger is slow it’ll catch the bowstring. It might hurt a bit and your shot will be wrecked.”

   Esfir looks at Kostya’s fingers, and then tries mimicking the motion. Her hands make the mistake of letting go in a wave, even when she’s practicted the proper technique a few times. She frowns. “I don’t think I’m very good at this….”

   “The first time you catch your hand you’ll stop. Here.” Kostya hands her his bow and some arrow. Esfir is visibly nervous. She swallows, gingerly taking his weapon from him.

   “A-all right. Like…um…this?”

   She tries bracing back, like how Kostya showed her. Immediately she makes a mistake, holding her drawing arm out as 1 a chicken holds its wing. Her fingers clumsily close over the string, and the target is given an uncertain look. The young woman starting to shake from the strain.

   "Umm…not quite,” Kostya answers.

   Esfir’s about to say something else, trying to correct her posture. Her fingers slip, and she accidentally looses the arrow; the girl yips as the bowstring nearly catches the tips. The arrow flies in a sloppy arc, hitting the ground a few paces away. Kostya runs and fetches the arrow for her, and tells her, “Try again.”

   Esfir shakes off her hand, and tries adjusting the bow to her left. (She’s a natural southpaw, but she’s been told time and again that the left hand is sinful. She practices writing with it when no one’s looking, despite the inevitable scolding if she gets caught.) She adjusts her arm better, still chicken-winging but in a firmer stance. Taking a deep breath, she closes her hand over the string and fletching, taking a moment to calm down.

   Nothing bad is going to happen. We’re far away from the path here, so nobody’s going to get hit. Don’t panic and shoot yourself in the foot. Esfir pulls back carefully, trying to line up her sight with 1 of the targets. She lets go a little too early; the arrow flies more cleanly, but it still sails down and into some bushes. It was below the nearest target this time, at least!

   Kostya peers into the woods. “Where did that arrow g–”

   Someone–or something–in the trees lets out a bloodcurdling scream. Esfir yips and drops the bow on the ground in shock. “My God, I–I think I hit someone! Oh no, oh no–Konstantin, go tell your father someone’s been struck by an arrow!”

   She runs toward the source of the sound. “Hello?! Who’s there?!”

   Laurence comes staggering out of the woods, holding the arrow up to his chest. All the blood feels like it’s gone from Esfir “I’ve been hit! It’s all going dark! Goodbye, cruel worl– Oh, Esfir, it’s you." 

   The girl stares in silent shock. Laurence hands the arrow to Konstantin, looking embarrassed. He stands up a little straighter and fixes his collar. "Sorry,” he says, and a dark, disapproving look becomes Esfir’s. Icy daggers are glared Laurence’s way, and her jaw works back and forth–she is very much her father’s daughter in that tense, angry moment.

   If Laurence is trying to be funny, he’s failing miserably. Moments like these are 1 of the few things that heat her collar. “The apology is all mine,” she grinds out, “for I should have called out to check and make sure that nothing was behind the trees in the woods.”

   She picks up Kostya’s bow, gingerly brushing it off and handing it to the boy. “Thank you for showing me how to shoot,” she says, curtly turning and walking away. (Kostya trails after Laurence, who’s gone inside to see Marat about something or another.) Her cheeks are red with her own embarrassment and indignation; she’s trying very hard not to swear. Maybe not end up crying, either. At least neither of them follow after her.