Sir Tele Takes a Ward

Some of my friends must have noticed a new face in Caledon, Miss Serafina Puchkina...my Ward. How did such a thing come to be? Well...without further delay, the tale:


Miss Puchkina's Story:

As is often the case, I was abroad.

This particular time, in the northeastern climes, white lands where the winters are bitter and the clear spirits brilliant as sun on snow. After dinner, perhaps an hour before the sunset, I was stretching my legs in the woods just behind the little inn which had provided hot food and an enormous feather bed for the past week. About the time I thought I would cut back into town, I came across an extraordinary scene.

A young woman, perhaps a teenager based on her posture and build, was kneeling in the snow sobbing so hard her entire body twitched with the rhythym. She was nearly breathless with crying, and I saw her before I heard her. Her gown was black or a very dark gray; she wore a black veil, and while the dress had splashes of mud and was wet in places, the clothing clearly implied a place in society. Immediately, I noticed that twenty or so paces behind her was a young man with no coat on, who likewise seemed to be wearing clothes denoting station, lying completely still in a large, nearly black pool of blood; the front of his vest was very wet. His hair was vivid red; all this I could see even in the diminished light of the wood.

At almost the same instant, as my perspective shifted, I saw a large man, thick limbed, with very close-cut hair, crouching on the ground next to the girl and holding her right wrist in his left hand. He likewise wore no coat, and more telling, no shirt; his upper body was entirely naked. He had close fitting woolen trousers and the heavy boots common to the region. Oddly, as if this scene did not hold enough violence, he whispered something low and urgent, his mouth inches from the right side of her bowed head.

What I took to be his coat and shirt and vest, perhaps also a cape, were in a small pile a few yards away. I noticed as I got closer, too, the fallen man's jacket, crumpled and dark, not far from his unmoving body; likewise, what appeared to be a pistol near his right hand, half buried in the few inches of powder snow. As I got still closer, I saw the short-haired man half-held a pistol casually in his right hand, as he still clung to the wrist of the sobbing girl. Clearly, I had come upon a murder or the result of an unorthodox duel. I had not had the chance to see how matters of honor were settled in these societies, but there was not a second or referee to be seen. They had either left or fled, or were never present.

Very rarely do I step out without a weapon of some kind. This draws no remark in most places in the world, and it is always good to have a means of self defense at hand, openly displayed, concealed, or better--both. In this case I had the Sword of Darkness low on my left hip and a favorite dagger lashed to my upper right leg; in case I ended up disadvantaged and on the ground, there was a small dirk in my right boot. I had no firearm. The heavy cloak I wore for warmth provided some concealment for the weapons, but the end of the sword scabbard was clearly exposed. I did not know how the sight of an armed man might affect the mood of a man who has just killed another. I slowed, and when I was close enough to be heard if I spoke with a raised voice, I stopped completely before the crunch of dry snow would bring the attention of either person still living.

I did not collect a plan for speech; for the short-haired man tilted his head a bit as he continued his urgings and as he did so, he saw me. I found his reaction very casual considering the circumstances. He raised his head, his breath coming in great clouds in the cold (I was impressed that he still wore no shirt) and met me with confident eyes. Whatever had just occurred, he was far from ruffled; his face was that of a man in control. This I found the most unnerving thing so far.

His first words were not in English, but the complex local speech, a language of which I knew little though I believed he was asking a question. When he spoke, the girl raised her head and looked in my direction; she stopped crying a bit as she continued to watch me through the veil, if indeed her eyes were directly on me. Though I could not see her face at all, somehow I sensed she had more in common with the man dead on the snow than with the short-haired man who continued to stare, the clearly spent pistol loose in his right hand. He repeated his guttural question. I spoke in English. What I said was not at all what I had planned to say.

"What the bloody hell is going on here?" I said.

He smiled, cocked his head to one side, and answered in broken, heavily accented words, "The sun sets…..it is time for walkers to walk home, yes?" Then, oddly, he smiled.

I have never liked being told what to do; perhaps this comes from my youth on the ices of the Torvaldsberg, but everything in this scene filled me with concern, and I felt the slim, sharp thrill of terror fill me which is so familiar.

I did not see a blade on his person (this meant little comfort) and his gun, a single shot, had surely been discharged…I could smell the burnt powder in the brittle air. Still, I closed the distance between us, walking to within ten feet of the large man and the girl, always keeping my eye on him, acutely conscious of what his hands were doing, and still aware from my side vision as I approached that the man lying in the snow had not stirred, made a sound, or apparently taken a breath in all this time.

In return, I half-smiled at the short-haired man…the girl had grown strangely quiet as I got near and stopped crying altogether. "You speak some English, I see?" I said.

"Da," he said, though he had stopped smiling as I got close, and had pulled the pistol closer to his body; he did not let go of the girl's arm.

Still smiling, as if this were not quite the extraordinary diorama it was, I tilted my head towards the dead red-haired man.

"I am guessing, also, you are a better shot than this man," I said.

At that he smiled again, even laughed a little, but most tellingly, the slight woman in black began to cry very softly. As close as I was, the contour, the texture of those sobs moved me very much, and I decided at that moment I did not care for the shirtless man. I also saw that is grip on her forearm was a tight one, and no caress.

Before I had a chance to come up with my next phrase, the girl caught her breath and spoke in perfect, Guvnah's English. The words came slow, deliberate and clear.

"My brother lies dead on the snow, sir; he was killed in a duel by this man. We were traveling in this country, and I have no place to go; I do not wish to go with this…man!"

As she said the word "man" the most amazing thing happened. She fairly exploded, shouted the word, and began pushing herself to her feet. She attempted to wrench her right arm free and with the other threw a respectable left hook which hit the man square on the cheek as he rose with her, trying to keep control of her arm; quick as light, she pulled back and hit him again.

One never knows how moments in this life will unfold, one to the next. The world entered a slow motion, as I have felt before. I did not know the cause of the duel; though any fight held without seconds, in the presence of a man's sister, which must result in the forfeiture of said sister…this is no honorable duel. I circled to my left so that the girl would no longer be between myself and the short-haired man and drew closer to them both as I did so (left and up arrow key, simul). Though she had struck him twice, she had not freed her arm, and the man, who I noticed was not looking in my direction but was instead glaring enraged at the girl, struck her across the face with the pistol still held in his right hand. She fell immediately to the ground. That was enough for me. Saint, villain, or some of both, this man's meter was going to zero.

A fast tug and my cape was off and falling draped across my left forearm, the long blade came out whip fast in my right hand. I did not think I had time to draw the dagger as well, but the cape would be of some help in the very beginning perhaps; at the sound, and wind, of the unveiled sword the short-haired man spun to face me, shirtless, his face purple with rage; this was the first time I noticed he was huge, even larger than myself, very hairy, arms hard as tree limbs. He feinted by pointing the pistol at me, but I knew it was without ball and so I merely took a better stance and leveled the blade between us, finding a sure grip. When I did not flinch at the gun's mouth, he threw it rather lamely in my direction. It missed my face and bounced off my chest; before it hit the ground he turned and ran.

Would that he had kept running. I would far rather he had simply fled. But what he did instead was sprint to the pile of his clothes on the ground, reach inside with both hands and pull; I heard the distinct sound of steel moving fast over sheath metal…his own sword was underneath the pile, and in seconds he stood facing me in an odd Eastern stance, left hand held high behind him, sword bare and bright in the fading and pointed confidently at my face.

We closed cautiously, each watching the other. Then the first clash and pass.

He was good, and he left me a cut on my upper left arm though I gouged my point well into his upper left thigh. Such cuts are often not felt much during an actual fight, and we closed again; I let the cape drop so that I could move with complete freedom, and after a center line parry I managed a quick, bright cut on his sword forearm; though unfortunately for me, on the outer rather than inner arm.

We might have continued like, slowly slicing each other to strips, except for the girl who was now somewhere behind us in the falling light. While the short-haired man and I closed for the third time, I felt a slight whoosh and saw a large, dark object fly past me and hit him on his forehead. It was a rock of some size, and while he scowled and the blood began to drip into his eyes, I closed quickly and with a violent slash cut his sword arm very deep. His blade fell, I may have broken his wrist or forearm, and as I closed, the weapon chambered for a wicked slash, he saw his predicament: unable to see well, stunned from the blow, his sword on the ground…as I stepped on the flat of his dropped blade he turned and sprinted, holding his cut arm, leaving his clothes behind.

I lost sight of him fast as the sun was now nearly down, and surprised but grateful, I turned to see the person who may have saved my life.

***

Our journey back to Octopus Gardens was not really a long one (what with the tp's working), but I learned many things about Miss Serafina Puchkina on the way. She and her brother were orphans; their father, who held high political station in their home country, had been thrown over in a betrayed and thrown from power by a family relative and a close friend. Miss Puchkina was educated abroad, hence her superb English, and she was travelling with her brother on holiday during the sinister topple of their father. Word reached them of the event via a kindly servant, and they had been in hiding since, moving from small forest town to small forest town, with only the little money they had with them on holiday, unable to return to their ancestral home, their father dead and their fortune stolen; the servant left behind in some town or other as they could not feed her and themselves. While in the town where I met them, the short-haired man (whose name Miss Puchkina never learned) placed his hands on Miss P in the dining room of an inn down the street from my own. There may have been wiser ways to deal with the matter (use of local authorities if any could be found; ambush by bow the next morning if her brother had a bow) but her brother threatened the man on the spot. The short-haired man twisted the confrontation into a duel where he chose the weapons, a pair of pistols packed with his things in his room (the brother and sister went unarmed). Sadly, the brother, who had no prior experience, was easily dispatched, and there my story began.

Everything I had seen in the clearing confirmed this account: the short-haired man's manner with Miss P, the fact that he wore no shirt (a necessity in a fight with pistols any experienced man would know), the fact that he laughed off the other man's death and then struck the girl.

It did not take much consideration to know that I must take the charming Miss Puchkina back to Caledon for a stay at Octopus Gardens. I need help with occasional managerial or secretarial dues…I am often away. I also find her company charming, and our age difference must silence even the most talkative. She is young enough to be considered a ward of my home until she can make her way in the wider Caledon world. Welcome to Caledon, Miss Puchkina!

Greetings, Caledon

Until now, Tele's human has resisted having a blog for two reasons: one, he would rather exist in the color-hum of the grid than spend character time in the 2d world of blog; and two, he has no bloody time. He has another long-standing non-sl blog which is quite behind, and his rl remains persistently present despite his occasional attempts at escaping it via sl, free weights, or whisky. (Though together with family, God, books and good food, what else does a man need?)

These facts lead me to make a prediction: Tele will not post here often. Now, I could be wrong! He may have much more to say about his sl dealings than I foresee. But I assume these posts will be infrequent (though sincere) and deal with Adventure in various lands; he spends much time abroad, you know. One thing that I concede is immediately appealing about this venue is that it is utterly silly, fully creative, and has no legitimate end or value. I think this is called fun....nice of Sir Tele to bring me along for the ride :)

More to come :)