Post by Kvatch on May 5, 2010 15:15:02 GMT -5
Barnyard
================================================================================
The barnyard is arguably the heart of the farm - and at its center stands a tall, centuries-old oak tree with long, gnarled branches. The ancient behemoth creaks and groans, thick leaves rustling in even the slightest breeze. The farmhouse sits across the dirt road from the barn and is in better condition. It's a white, modest, one-story dwelling that looks more like
a cottage than a house.
But what would a barnyard be without the barn itself? Fashioned from long planks of rotten wood, the namesake seems to have fallen into a state of disrepair. Here and there, chipped bits of white paint can be found clinging to the structure's exterior - a reminder of better days. Beside the barn is a tall woodpile, overgrown with weeds and dry moss, a notorious
nesting ground for spiders, centipedes and a plethora of nasty insects.
=================================== Exits ===================================
[Into] the Barn [East] to the Garden
[In] to the House [South] to the Pasture
[West] to the Fields
================================================================================
The Cast:
Kvatch, a russian wolfhound dog
Nettle, a adolescent bob-tail cat
The world changed just a little last night, arriving in the way of a strike of a match, a whiff of sulfuric ozone, and a lone candle burning dimly in the window of the old farm house. While outside, resting but watchful, a ghostly white face stared out into the bleakness of the vast fields and the wilds beyond, golden eyes shrewd and calculating and manifesting with grand images of the future that the dawn might bring. It would begin subtly though, with Kvatch rising in the grayness of the cool spring morning, stretching his long legs and shaking off the chill of the night that has yet to shed itself from the lingering touch of winter. Daybreak found the large russian hound scouring along the fringes of the farmland, scouting out the empty pastures and renewing himself with a drink at the pond. Though as the sun climbed to it's height in the sky and the air began to warm to the extent that vigorous activity brought on the need to loll one's tongue, Kvatch gracefully sauntered his way back into the proximity of the barnyard, his movements casual and at ease, for it is certainly been an uneventful day thus far and a lazy nap seems to be in order.
For whatever change there was in the world, Nettle has slept through it. His second winter, this, and he doesn't like it more than he liked the first one, so why be awake for it more than he has to? Now he comes trudging out of the barn, however, eyes heavy-lidded as the sleep lingers in his body. The grey cat stops a few steps outside, a shake going through his body as to throw off the morning stiffness. He stretches his front, then his back, giving a flick of his tail as he sits down on a snow-free patch between the barn wall and a wheelbarrow standing next to it. He goes about his morning routine of cleaning himself, but is interrupted when the smell of dog reaches his nose. Looking up, he spots the white dog after some searching, the snow giving it good disguise, and he tenses up some. You never know with dogs, they could be up to
anything...
Should anyone ask the wolfhound, he would much prefer the cold shiver of winter to the insufferable asphyxiation of a smouldering summer. As it where though, the temperature today is inconsequential and the canine has no complaint for one or the other. In fact, where Kvatch to complain about anything, it would be the dullness of his day. Boredom was never something the russian hound dealt with dismissively, for his intelligent mind and fit body required at least some output of energy, least he become restless and discontent. However, despite the idleness of his day, Kvatch had picked up plenty of promising scents of wild game and what he puzzled out to be something of the remnants of other dogs. Though never one to give the impression of desperation, he had satisfied himself with the idea of that nap and would let the rest come to him. And indeed it does! In fact, a bit more quickly than he had expected. For no sooner does Kvatch's paws lightly scuff the barren patch of ground near the barn, than does movement swiftly capture his attention. His folded ears rise up a fraction at their collapsed peaks and the dog stares down his absurdly long muzzle to look upon the feline with nothing sort of surprise, his golden eyes looking across the short expanse of yard between himself and the tiny predator. It takes only a moment later though for Kvatch to recover from his surprise and so as to not seem hostile, nonchalantly lowers himself down to the earth, his great legs extending far out before him, "I had concluded this place to be empty of animals of sophistication." He calls it out in a languid voice, highly articulate and certainly not lacking in smug delight. Though there exist also something of sarcasm, for Kvatch has eard about the little felines capable of reverting to the wild, much as some dogs have. It is a despicable thought.
Nettle's ears are perked at the other animal, eyes alert to the dog's every movement and his feet ready to carry him off to safety if indeed such a course of action should be necessary. As the canine lies down however, Nettle relaxed slightly and takes a moment to consider the words thrown his way. They are a little too high-strung for what he's used to, but he thinks he gets the meaning of them. "I needed somewhere to sleep," he concludes, before giving his own chest a few licks. "I got sick of the snow and the old tractor in the barn was a good change from burrows and trees. Do you live here?" The cat took a quick tour of the farmhouse when he arrived the previous night, coming to the conclusion that it didn't look very inhabited, at least not by humans. Now he stands up, the cold ground not serving very well in keeping him warm, bur remains between the barn and the wheelbarrow.
Bored interest is what becomes of the giant, lean dog's demeanor; the canine seeming to listen to the retort of the feline with only partial attention. Or at least, so it would seem. It is a facade though, just another manner of trickery and deception that seems to surround the aristocratic dog. Nothing about the cat is lost on Kvatch, from his fairly bedraggled appearance of a animal suited to this environment of dirt and straw, to his peculiar explanation and it is not without some private amusement that the russian wolfhound wagers the young cat to have been -how does that old cliche go- raised in a barn? Needless to say, Kvatch remains conciliatory, allowing a good face of sympathetic understanding to be sighted upon his long visage before the feline's poised question brings about a thin smile. "I do now." And no, one would not come easily to the conclusion that the farm house has once again become occupied, for even today it is empty again, with the man gone away for provisions- his occupancy will prove to be just a persistent, lingering scent at best.
Feeling confident enough that the big dog isn't going to jump on him for whatever reason, Nettle wanders from the protection of the wheelbarrow, treading as lightly as he can in order not to stand too deep in the snow. Pacing along the front of the barn, nose held high to catch whatever scents there might be, the adolescent then crosses the barnyard to the oak tree, circling it once before he comes to sit at one of its roots peeking up through the frozen ground. "It doesn't seem like a very cheery place to live it, during winter," he points out, looking up at the naked branches of the tree.
Perhaps were Kvatch unaccustomed to the presence of a cat, or in a more gamey mood, the wolfhound might have set himself upon the young feline for sport. As it were though, the estate in his homeland where he was bred and raised was not without it's share of house cats and with them- the human-inducted consequences of chasing them. Not that in his own youth Kvatch did not do so when none were about to witness, but the dog had long learned the inevitable failure that follows. In the wolfhound's opinion, there is not much that can match the evasive devilry of a cat. However, this does not prevent Kvatch's dark golden eyes from tracking the motions of the feline with the astute observations of a hunter, privately pleased that the sleek animal should be at ease enough to even do so. Unmoving himself, save for the subtle turning of his narrow head as required to keep the cat in sight, Kvatch momentarily considers the felide's observation with a brief searching of his gaze across the expanse of barnyard and the weather worn structures that stand upon it. This venturing seems to inspire a small smile to the flews of the dog and he turns his attention back to the cat, "I would be inclined to agree, should I know by what comparisons a cat may recall. And winter is not a very cheery season by its own right, anyhow."
Nettle's eyes move from the branches to the dog. "You speak funny," he says, rather straight-forward. "I appreciate the warmth of a barn as much as the next person, but the smell of human has never appealed to me. It's too... sharp." He doesn't give his opinion on dog scent, because why risk stirring unnecessary annoyance? "It doesn't get better with age, either." He idly claws at the wood beneath his feet, stretching his legs slightly. "Mama always said humans are good for food and warmth, but I can't imagine eating anything a human has to offer." Nettle is just rambling by now, talking mostly to hear the sound of his own voice.
The way he might sound to others of this land and the articulation of his words has never once crossed the mind of the sight hound; that is, until now. Nettle's pointed remark first causes the borzoi to squint his eyes down upon the feline, clearly unsure if he should be taking offense to the feline's remark or not. However, intended or not, insults have never had a way of riling the male and in another breath, Kvatch can only reflect upon the matter in a very serious way. Eventually, he just ask, "And how should I speak, little prowler?" Though not to linger and perhaps allowing the cat his own moment of contemplation, the giant of a dog moves freely on to consider the later comments, words that elicit from his deep throat a mirthful chortle, full of beguiling gaiety and sophistication for an animal who murders wolves for sport. "It is a scent that the nose must acquire a tolerance for, but it is hardly intolerable." The mention of food seems to catch the attention of Kvatch's naturally lean stomach, for it gives it's own growl of disagreement to the cat. "Hah! You speak ill of something you do not know! The food of man is like nothing in nature!" he declares with a upward, indignant toss of his long nose, "It is rich and curiously strange, but wonderous to the workings of the tongue and salivary glands, little prowler. Perhaps I shall save you a bit the next I eat,
so that you might be less ignorant."
"You can start with using less words," the cat suggests with the feline equivalent of a shrug. Wrinkling his nose, Nettle tilts his head at this appraisal of human food. "I wouldn't want you to bother with that for my sake, I do great without their food..!" he huffs, tail flicking twice. He's not sure why he suddenly feels upset, but it might have to do with the word 'ignorant'. "As a matter of fact, food will be my next business," Nettle says with a nod, eyeing the dog with slight suspicion in his eyes. "Normal food. Good morning," he closes, turning around and snaking away behind the tree, towards the pasture.
Less words? The suggestion strikes Kvatch oddly, enough to actually acquire a tilting of his narrow head with the accompaniment of a lofted brow, just before it becomes his turn to feel mildly offended. "Such desecration and the butchering of proper speech is for the unintelligent creatures of the wild and the inbred mongrels of the backcountry. I would dishonor my breeding to lower myself to such provincial standards." With this, he scoffs a low scoff of incredulous disbelief for the seer audacity of the thought. However, it doesn't seem to to change the offer that had been laid out in regards to food, for he goes on to insist, if only with the intention of educating this country bumpkin. "No, it is no trouble. Then you will see! " Of course, the conversation becomes pointless as Nettle voices his own retreat in the business of garnering his dinner, a source that Kvatch doesn't have to think long about; nor cares to, for that matter. Surely it will be some meagre meal of field mouse or sparrow. Nevertheless, the russian wolfhound remains polite and dips his pointy muzzle in sending, "May the wind be in favor of you then, little prowler." With this, Kvatch gathers his own lean figure up, standing tall and proud as he watches the cat slip away and doing the same only after he has fully lost sight. Now, about that nap...
================================================================================
The barnyard is arguably the heart of the farm - and at its center stands a tall, centuries-old oak tree with long, gnarled branches. The ancient behemoth creaks and groans, thick leaves rustling in even the slightest breeze. The farmhouse sits across the dirt road from the barn and is in better condition. It's a white, modest, one-story dwelling that looks more like
a cottage than a house.
But what would a barnyard be without the barn itself? Fashioned from long planks of rotten wood, the namesake seems to have fallen into a state of disrepair. Here and there, chipped bits of white paint can be found clinging to the structure's exterior - a reminder of better days. Beside the barn is a tall woodpile, overgrown with weeds and dry moss, a notorious
nesting ground for spiders, centipedes and a plethora of nasty insects.
=================================== Exits ===================================
[Into] the Barn [East] to the Garden
[In] to the House [South] to the Pasture
[West] to the Fields
================================================================================
The Cast:
Kvatch, a russian wolfhound dog
Nettle, a adolescent bob-tail cat
The world changed just a little last night, arriving in the way of a strike of a match, a whiff of sulfuric ozone, and a lone candle burning dimly in the window of the old farm house. While outside, resting but watchful, a ghostly white face stared out into the bleakness of the vast fields and the wilds beyond, golden eyes shrewd and calculating and manifesting with grand images of the future that the dawn might bring. It would begin subtly though, with Kvatch rising in the grayness of the cool spring morning, stretching his long legs and shaking off the chill of the night that has yet to shed itself from the lingering touch of winter. Daybreak found the large russian hound scouring along the fringes of the farmland, scouting out the empty pastures and renewing himself with a drink at the pond. Though as the sun climbed to it's height in the sky and the air began to warm to the extent that vigorous activity brought on the need to loll one's tongue, Kvatch gracefully sauntered his way back into the proximity of the barnyard, his movements casual and at ease, for it is certainly been an uneventful day thus far and a lazy nap seems to be in order.
For whatever change there was in the world, Nettle has slept through it. His second winter, this, and he doesn't like it more than he liked the first one, so why be awake for it more than he has to? Now he comes trudging out of the barn, however, eyes heavy-lidded as the sleep lingers in his body. The grey cat stops a few steps outside, a shake going through his body as to throw off the morning stiffness. He stretches his front, then his back, giving a flick of his tail as he sits down on a snow-free patch between the barn wall and a wheelbarrow standing next to it. He goes about his morning routine of cleaning himself, but is interrupted when the smell of dog reaches his nose. Looking up, he spots the white dog after some searching, the snow giving it good disguise, and he tenses up some. You never know with dogs, they could be up to
anything...
Should anyone ask the wolfhound, he would much prefer the cold shiver of winter to the insufferable asphyxiation of a smouldering summer. As it where though, the temperature today is inconsequential and the canine has no complaint for one or the other. In fact, where Kvatch to complain about anything, it would be the dullness of his day. Boredom was never something the russian hound dealt with dismissively, for his intelligent mind and fit body required at least some output of energy, least he become restless and discontent. However, despite the idleness of his day, Kvatch had picked up plenty of promising scents of wild game and what he puzzled out to be something of the remnants of other dogs. Though never one to give the impression of desperation, he had satisfied himself with the idea of that nap and would let the rest come to him. And indeed it does! In fact, a bit more quickly than he had expected. For no sooner does Kvatch's paws lightly scuff the barren patch of ground near the barn, than does movement swiftly capture his attention. His folded ears rise up a fraction at their collapsed peaks and the dog stares down his absurdly long muzzle to look upon the feline with nothing sort of surprise, his golden eyes looking across the short expanse of yard between himself and the tiny predator. It takes only a moment later though for Kvatch to recover from his surprise and so as to not seem hostile, nonchalantly lowers himself down to the earth, his great legs extending far out before him, "I had concluded this place to be empty of animals of sophistication." He calls it out in a languid voice, highly articulate and certainly not lacking in smug delight. Though there exist also something of sarcasm, for Kvatch has eard about the little felines capable of reverting to the wild, much as some dogs have. It is a despicable thought.
Nettle's ears are perked at the other animal, eyes alert to the dog's every movement and his feet ready to carry him off to safety if indeed such a course of action should be necessary. As the canine lies down however, Nettle relaxed slightly and takes a moment to consider the words thrown his way. They are a little too high-strung for what he's used to, but he thinks he gets the meaning of them. "I needed somewhere to sleep," he concludes, before giving his own chest a few licks. "I got sick of the snow and the old tractor in the barn was a good change from burrows and trees. Do you live here?" The cat took a quick tour of the farmhouse when he arrived the previous night, coming to the conclusion that it didn't look very inhabited, at least not by humans. Now he stands up, the cold ground not serving very well in keeping him warm, bur remains between the barn and the wheelbarrow.
Bored interest is what becomes of the giant, lean dog's demeanor; the canine seeming to listen to the retort of the feline with only partial attention. Or at least, so it would seem. It is a facade though, just another manner of trickery and deception that seems to surround the aristocratic dog. Nothing about the cat is lost on Kvatch, from his fairly bedraggled appearance of a animal suited to this environment of dirt and straw, to his peculiar explanation and it is not without some private amusement that the russian wolfhound wagers the young cat to have been -how does that old cliche go- raised in a barn? Needless to say, Kvatch remains conciliatory, allowing a good face of sympathetic understanding to be sighted upon his long visage before the feline's poised question brings about a thin smile. "I do now." And no, one would not come easily to the conclusion that the farm house has once again become occupied, for even today it is empty again, with the man gone away for provisions- his occupancy will prove to be just a persistent, lingering scent at best.
Feeling confident enough that the big dog isn't going to jump on him for whatever reason, Nettle wanders from the protection of the wheelbarrow, treading as lightly as he can in order not to stand too deep in the snow. Pacing along the front of the barn, nose held high to catch whatever scents there might be, the adolescent then crosses the barnyard to the oak tree, circling it once before he comes to sit at one of its roots peeking up through the frozen ground. "It doesn't seem like a very cheery place to live it, during winter," he points out, looking up at the naked branches of the tree.
Perhaps were Kvatch unaccustomed to the presence of a cat, or in a more gamey mood, the wolfhound might have set himself upon the young feline for sport. As it were though, the estate in his homeland where he was bred and raised was not without it's share of house cats and with them- the human-inducted consequences of chasing them. Not that in his own youth Kvatch did not do so when none were about to witness, but the dog had long learned the inevitable failure that follows. In the wolfhound's opinion, there is not much that can match the evasive devilry of a cat. However, this does not prevent Kvatch's dark golden eyes from tracking the motions of the feline with the astute observations of a hunter, privately pleased that the sleek animal should be at ease enough to even do so. Unmoving himself, save for the subtle turning of his narrow head as required to keep the cat in sight, Kvatch momentarily considers the felide's observation with a brief searching of his gaze across the expanse of barnyard and the weather worn structures that stand upon it. This venturing seems to inspire a small smile to the flews of the dog and he turns his attention back to the cat, "I would be inclined to agree, should I know by what comparisons a cat may recall. And winter is not a very cheery season by its own right, anyhow."
Nettle's eyes move from the branches to the dog. "You speak funny," he says, rather straight-forward. "I appreciate the warmth of a barn as much as the next person, but the smell of human has never appealed to me. It's too... sharp." He doesn't give his opinion on dog scent, because why risk stirring unnecessary annoyance? "It doesn't get better with age, either." He idly claws at the wood beneath his feet, stretching his legs slightly. "Mama always said humans are good for food and warmth, but I can't imagine eating anything a human has to offer." Nettle is just rambling by now, talking mostly to hear the sound of his own voice.
The way he might sound to others of this land and the articulation of his words has never once crossed the mind of the sight hound; that is, until now. Nettle's pointed remark first causes the borzoi to squint his eyes down upon the feline, clearly unsure if he should be taking offense to the feline's remark or not. However, intended or not, insults have never had a way of riling the male and in another breath, Kvatch can only reflect upon the matter in a very serious way. Eventually, he just ask, "And how should I speak, little prowler?" Though not to linger and perhaps allowing the cat his own moment of contemplation, the giant of a dog moves freely on to consider the later comments, words that elicit from his deep throat a mirthful chortle, full of beguiling gaiety and sophistication for an animal who murders wolves for sport. "It is a scent that the nose must acquire a tolerance for, but it is hardly intolerable." The mention of food seems to catch the attention of Kvatch's naturally lean stomach, for it gives it's own growl of disagreement to the cat. "Hah! You speak ill of something you do not know! The food of man is like nothing in nature!" he declares with a upward, indignant toss of his long nose, "It is rich and curiously strange, but wonderous to the workings of the tongue and salivary glands, little prowler. Perhaps I shall save you a bit the next I eat,
so that you might be less ignorant."
"You can start with using less words," the cat suggests with the feline equivalent of a shrug. Wrinkling his nose, Nettle tilts his head at this appraisal of human food. "I wouldn't want you to bother with that for my sake, I do great without their food..!" he huffs, tail flicking twice. He's not sure why he suddenly feels upset, but it might have to do with the word 'ignorant'. "As a matter of fact, food will be my next business," Nettle says with a nod, eyeing the dog with slight suspicion in his eyes. "Normal food. Good morning," he closes, turning around and snaking away behind the tree, towards the pasture.
Less words? The suggestion strikes Kvatch oddly, enough to actually acquire a tilting of his narrow head with the accompaniment of a lofted brow, just before it becomes his turn to feel mildly offended. "Such desecration and the butchering of proper speech is for the unintelligent creatures of the wild and the inbred mongrels of the backcountry. I would dishonor my breeding to lower myself to such provincial standards." With this, he scoffs a low scoff of incredulous disbelief for the seer audacity of the thought. However, it doesn't seem to to change the offer that had been laid out in regards to food, for he goes on to insist, if only with the intention of educating this country bumpkin. "No, it is no trouble. Then you will see! " Of course, the conversation becomes pointless as Nettle voices his own retreat in the business of garnering his dinner, a source that Kvatch doesn't have to think long about; nor cares to, for that matter. Surely it will be some meagre meal of field mouse or sparrow. Nevertheless, the russian wolfhound remains polite and dips his pointy muzzle in sending, "May the wind be in favor of you then, little prowler." With this, Kvatch gathers his own lean figure up, standing tall and proud as he watches the cat slip away and doing the same only after he has fully lost sight. Now, about that nap...