Breaking Out In Hives (Solo) (Memory)
Posted: Sun Nov 20, 2022 6:29 pm
Searing 21, 112
The High City of Zaichaer was something of a bastion of industry in the northern reaches of Karnor. While there were plenty of other large cities sprinkled across the face of the continent, none even approached the technological and manufacturing capacities of which the Zaichaeri boasted. Anywhere one went within the city, the highs and lows of that societal path were visible; the gleaming spires of the Windworks, the Presidiuum, and other metal-crafted towers, contrasted with the endless cloud of smoke produced from the southern factories, and the releases from the mines.
…but this was a relatively new state of affairs. For many, many decades before the Imperium’s technology had become popular, Zaichaer was the transportation hub of a great nexus of forestry, agriculture, and all the other attendant work of a non-industrial state. The towns were larger and richer now, but the villages remained on the outskirts of society, caught halfway between the gleaming spires of the future and the gothic castles of the past.
(Barely exaggeration, especially in the northern reaches where the castles which guarded the mountains from the clans were still in evidence, if not in use.)
The Ward family were nominally residents of the city, but Euvettia had carefully ensured that most of her children spent their early lives on the outskirts rather than in the streets- the hostile stares and casual slurs weren’t any better in the countryside, but there was a beauty to the land which the ugliness of the people could not conceal, and greater opportunities for privacy and familial solitude.
“And,” Euvettia Ward often said, when there was no alternative but to spend a few months in the High City itself, “The country air is fresh, and everything smells less like shit all the time.”
All this to say that it wasn’t an especially surprising thing to find a young Imogen Ward spending a day with her sister and cousins observing the vagaries of agriculture.
She was on her best behavior today, because the farm here was owned by the Sunsinger coven.
Not, to be clear, in any official capacity. The deed had it owned by Kimel Mercurer, a retired veteran of old campaigns against Kalzasi and Atinaw, well-known and respected in the surrounding villages for imagined valor and the substantial wealth he’d reputedly won in war with their western neighbors. An old man like Kimel, with his stern demeanor and deep pockets, certainly had to have his secrets, but nobody outside the City would have felt comfortable intruding into a rich old soldier’s affairs.
But Herr Mercurer’s secret was not that he abused his staff or was being paid for some secret blackmail of a rich family in Atinaw, as the rumors would have it. Rather, on campaign he had found himself deeply indebted to a witch, who he grew very close with. When the Sunsingers approached him about working as front for a private estate on which they could conduct business, he was only too happy to accept their money.
”Are we going there to learn swords?” Imogen had asked her mother, hopefully. The Sanctuaries all included training grounds, but neonates had restricted access to avoid accidents during serious practice duels. The safe houses offered even greater restrictions- the ones in the villages and towns beyond the city limits often had concealed grounds in the woods, during the months-long stays in Zaichaer proper, it was limited to what exercises you could do inside.
“No,” Euvettia Ward responded lightly, smiling, “You’re going there to learn about things, and people, and how they work before anyone has stuck six feet of steel into them.”
The disappointment must have shone on Imogen’s face, because Euvettia reached over and grasped her ear, shaking it lightly. It wasn’t discipline–the Wards felt that corporal punishment was pointless when you were being raised to learn Reaving, and could not fear pain–just an expression of motherly disappointment. “This isn’t a lecture about your father’s work, Immy. Use your head for a moment. You know that the ‘singers do more than play with swords and spears,” the rebuke stung a little, but the girl couldn’t argue the point, “so you need to understand the world to do your work. Remember, Immy, purity of heart is nice, but good intentions are no substitute for a little knowledge.”
They rode in a carriage, not for the comfort and convenience but to avoid a lot of witnesses who could later place them as going to the farm. Obviously, the fact that a farmer got so much attention from carriages was partly responsible for keeping the rumors going, but the higher-ups had long ago decided that the one risk was greater than the other. That was what leadership was about, really, weighing bad choices and figuring out which was least-bad.
For the same reason, when the carriage finally arrived at the farmhouse, it was led to a field out back before any windows were opened or the Orkhan family disembarked. Euvettia ruffled Imogen’s hair, smiling, only her tusks visible. “Now, I’m going to be meeting with Mr. Kimel for a few hours, but he’s invited you here for a little tour of the grounds; the actual farmland, not the coven’s business. He’s got a niece here who will show you around. She knows about the ‘singers, but don’t bring up anything specific, and be polite. Okay, Immy?”
”Fine.” the Ork girl responded, still clearly a bit upset.
“Promise me you’ll be nice, okay? Remember, we don’t break promises.”
That was true. That was important. ”I swear it, ma.”
Mr. Kimel’s niece was a young woman named Autumn Mercurer, a 17-year-old girl whom Kimel had been fostering for cousins, who lacked the money themselves to see her either apprenticed or married off otherwise. She was a practical young woman who had set herself to diligently understanding the administration of the farm- as Kimel himself had buried his only wife and son a decade ago, she stood a very real chance of inheriting it so long as he trusted her completely. That would be a true coup for her, increasing both her marital prospects and being more property than she could otherwise hope for, though she confided to Imogen within a few minutes of meeting that she thought the Sunsingers might only permit it if she agreed to wed one of their families.
She didn’t seem that bothered by the prospect of marrying some heavily-muscled sword-swinging witch. Imogen thought it sounded like a poor second to becoming one yourself but, true to her promise, said nothing.
“These are the goats,” Autumn said cheerfully, as the two girls approached the first enclosure, “They’re cute, but a bit like little bastard children. But the milk is very useful! We use it for cheese, and cakes, and ointment. Mostly ointment, your family-” this was how Autumn referred to the Sunsingers as a whole, but in truth Euvettia did handle a lot of purchasing herself, “-buys a lot of medicine.”
”It’s made of milk?” Imogen responded, disbelieving.
“Not a lot, but some. The ointments involve more plants. And honey.”
”Honey!” this made the Orkhan girl a bit more attentive. She was a great fan of sweets, including honeydrops and straws, ”Do you make that here, too?”
“Of course!” Autumn smiled at the shift in Imogen’s voice. As both the farm’s putative inheritor and a woman with a strong sense of pride, she was very invested in the produce. “We can look at the beehives later, if you don’t mind wearing a netting-hat.”
”A netting-hat? Oh, in case they sting?” When Autumn nodded, Imogen took the opportunity to boast a little, ”Bees can’t sting Orks very well, we’ve got thick skin and scales.”
“Hm.” the other girl responded, noncommittal, “Well, I think you’ll want the hat for this anyway.”
The next enclosure they visited was for sheep, which was a classic crowd-pleaser. Where the goats were perhaps too energetic for Imogen’s taste, the sheep were like little bumbling clouds, wandering about in graze without care. No visitor could long avoid the temptation to run their hands through the docile animals’ fleece, and the Ork was no exception in that regard.
The only cattle on the farm were dairy cows, which were kept close enough to the chickens to make a double-feature for the girls. Imogen milked one of the cows into a bucket as Autumn described the cave near the forest which was designed to seal up while the cheeses aged- little point in visiting it, since the cavern would be closed right now, but the milk itself was also made into cream for the native cats, which were a little too nervous about the unusually green and scaly creature in their midst to approach.
There were also pigs, of course, which Imogen found a little bit less adorable than Autumn seemed to indicate- but she kept to her promise, and she made all the polite coos and appreciative noises. More interesting was the heavily-reinforced enclosure in which the farm raised boars. Boar-hunting was a deeply traditional pastime for the high and mighty in central Karnor, and the ability to serve game meat and fowl to important guests was still a hallmark for important families in the city. Now, though, rather than hunting, they would simply order them at a premium from the countryside, to be slaughtered by butchers on special order.
”So you never hunt them?” the Ork asked, a little disappointed- she’d always liked the stories of boar hunting.
“No, but they’re not friendly enough to go in and pet.” Autumn replied, paying a lot of attention to the iron-barred gate. “These things will kill you as soon as look at you. Those little tusks can gut you open in no time flat.”
”Hmm.” Unthinking, the Ork reached up and touched one of her little tusks with a thumb ”That sounds pretty hard to do..”
“Well, they’ve got bigger teeth’n you do, right? Plus, you’d have to get down on all fours to try to get down far enough.”
”I suppose you’re right. I think Ork tusks are just for display, they’re not very good for goring anyone.”
The other girl fell into a fit of giggles, and Imogen felt a lot better about the tour.
At last, the two came to the clearing off a small pond where the beehives were.
As promised, Autumn led them first to a shed, where thick leather gloves and thigh-high boots, stained with mud, were in evidence, along with a set of wide-brimmed hats dressed with fine black netting. The other girl made Imogen put on the gloves and hat, though she judged that the boots shouldn’t be needed.
“If any of the hives are angry, we won’t get too close.” the farm girl promised, “So we shouldn’t need thick clothes or smoke. But we should be able to open a lid on one and look around. Just don’t panic.”
Imogen nodded seriously. Not panicking sounded like facing fear, which was something Valmont had drilled into all of his children. Fear wasn’t something to be ignored, but if you allowed it to dictate what you did, you were going to end up dead.
The beehives themselves were stacked boxes, or “skeps”. It took a moment for Imogen to recognize them- in all the picture-books, beehives were made of woven wicker, circles stacked up until they resembled a round lump of dried straw. These were wooden boxes.
“I’m told those went out of style in the Imperium a century ago,” Autumn explained, “the larger boxes make the queens happier. Plus, with wooden slats we can open it up and access the inside easily.”
Equipped defensively, the two girls approached the hives, moving slowly between them until Autumn determined that one was docile enough to be opened. They approached from the back, where she popped open the mechanism at the back which kept the lid secure and slowly lifted it.
Inside the box was a feast for Imogen’s young eyes. The waxen combs overflowed with golden honey, dripping slower than molasses, attended by hundreds and hundreds of worker bees. She watched, entranced, as the bees moved in their own patterns, too dense and complicated for any one mind to comprehend, a spiraling dance of insects in their own little heaven.
She reached out to touch the inside, her skin hardening to armor in preparation.
“Hey, I wouldn’t-”
She pet the bee.
When Euvettia Ward returned, Imogen was covered with little red marks. There were none on her face or upper body, thankfully, as the net had covered her well- but across her arms and shoulders, the little welts blossomed.
“What.” she asked, bemused, “Happened here?”
”It would seem.” said Imogen, quietly, ”That sometimes defenses which are very strong against big things do not do much against little threats.”
“You mean the bees stung you between your scales?”
”Yeah.”
Euvettia scratched her head, not entirely sure what to say. Ordinarily she would try to make her children see the lesson in their mistakes, but it seemed like Imogen had suffered enough for that. “And? What did you learn?”
The young Ork looked up at her mother, then grinned. ”I’d like to come back and see the bees again.”
The High City of Zaichaer was something of a bastion of industry in the northern reaches of Karnor. While there were plenty of other large cities sprinkled across the face of the continent, none even approached the technological and manufacturing capacities of which the Zaichaeri boasted. Anywhere one went within the city, the highs and lows of that societal path were visible; the gleaming spires of the Windworks, the Presidiuum, and other metal-crafted towers, contrasted with the endless cloud of smoke produced from the southern factories, and the releases from the mines.
…but this was a relatively new state of affairs. For many, many decades before the Imperium’s technology had become popular, Zaichaer was the transportation hub of a great nexus of forestry, agriculture, and all the other attendant work of a non-industrial state. The towns were larger and richer now, but the villages remained on the outskirts of society, caught halfway between the gleaming spires of the future and the gothic castles of the past.
(Barely exaggeration, especially in the northern reaches where the castles which guarded the mountains from the clans were still in evidence, if not in use.)
The Ward family were nominally residents of the city, but Euvettia had carefully ensured that most of her children spent their early lives on the outskirts rather than in the streets- the hostile stares and casual slurs weren’t any better in the countryside, but there was a beauty to the land which the ugliness of the people could not conceal, and greater opportunities for privacy and familial solitude.
“And,” Euvettia Ward often said, when there was no alternative but to spend a few months in the High City itself, “The country air is fresh, and everything smells less like shit all the time.”
All this to say that it wasn’t an especially surprising thing to find a young Imogen Ward spending a day with her sister and cousins observing the vagaries of agriculture.
~~~
She was on her best behavior today, because the farm here was owned by the Sunsinger coven.
Not, to be clear, in any official capacity. The deed had it owned by Kimel Mercurer, a retired veteran of old campaigns against Kalzasi and Atinaw, well-known and respected in the surrounding villages for imagined valor and the substantial wealth he’d reputedly won in war with their western neighbors. An old man like Kimel, with his stern demeanor and deep pockets, certainly had to have his secrets, but nobody outside the City would have felt comfortable intruding into a rich old soldier’s affairs.
But Herr Mercurer’s secret was not that he abused his staff or was being paid for some secret blackmail of a rich family in Atinaw, as the rumors would have it. Rather, on campaign he had found himself deeply indebted to a witch, who he grew very close with. When the Sunsingers approached him about working as front for a private estate on which they could conduct business, he was only too happy to accept their money.
”Are we going there to learn swords?” Imogen had asked her mother, hopefully. The Sanctuaries all included training grounds, but neonates had restricted access to avoid accidents during serious practice duels. The safe houses offered even greater restrictions- the ones in the villages and towns beyond the city limits often had concealed grounds in the woods, during the months-long stays in Zaichaer proper, it was limited to what exercises you could do inside.
“No,” Euvettia Ward responded lightly, smiling, “You’re going there to learn about things, and people, and how they work before anyone has stuck six feet of steel into them.”
The disappointment must have shone on Imogen’s face, because Euvettia reached over and grasped her ear, shaking it lightly. It wasn’t discipline–the Wards felt that corporal punishment was pointless when you were being raised to learn Reaving, and could not fear pain–just an expression of motherly disappointment. “This isn’t a lecture about your father’s work, Immy. Use your head for a moment. You know that the ‘singers do more than play with swords and spears,” the rebuke stung a little, but the girl couldn’t argue the point, “so you need to understand the world to do your work. Remember, Immy, purity of heart is nice, but good intentions are no substitute for a little knowledge.”
They rode in a carriage, not for the comfort and convenience but to avoid a lot of witnesses who could later place them as going to the farm. Obviously, the fact that a farmer got so much attention from carriages was partly responsible for keeping the rumors going, but the higher-ups had long ago decided that the one risk was greater than the other. That was what leadership was about, really, weighing bad choices and figuring out which was least-bad.
For the same reason, when the carriage finally arrived at the farmhouse, it was led to a field out back before any windows were opened or the Orkhan family disembarked. Euvettia ruffled Imogen’s hair, smiling, only her tusks visible. “Now, I’m going to be meeting with Mr. Kimel for a few hours, but he’s invited you here for a little tour of the grounds; the actual farmland, not the coven’s business. He’s got a niece here who will show you around. She knows about the ‘singers, but don’t bring up anything specific, and be polite. Okay, Immy?”
”Fine.” the Ork girl responded, still clearly a bit upset.
“Promise me you’ll be nice, okay? Remember, we don’t break promises.”
That was true. That was important. ”I swear it, ma.”
~~~
Mr. Kimel’s niece was a young woman named Autumn Mercurer, a 17-year-old girl whom Kimel had been fostering for cousins, who lacked the money themselves to see her either apprenticed or married off otherwise. She was a practical young woman who had set herself to diligently understanding the administration of the farm- as Kimel himself had buried his only wife and son a decade ago, she stood a very real chance of inheriting it so long as he trusted her completely. That would be a true coup for her, increasing both her marital prospects and being more property than she could otherwise hope for, though she confided to Imogen within a few minutes of meeting that she thought the Sunsingers might only permit it if she agreed to wed one of their families.
She didn’t seem that bothered by the prospect of marrying some heavily-muscled sword-swinging witch. Imogen thought it sounded like a poor second to becoming one yourself but, true to her promise, said nothing.
“These are the goats,” Autumn said cheerfully, as the two girls approached the first enclosure, “They’re cute, but a bit like little bastard children. But the milk is very useful! We use it for cheese, and cakes, and ointment. Mostly ointment, your family-” this was how Autumn referred to the Sunsingers as a whole, but in truth Euvettia did handle a lot of purchasing herself, “-buys a lot of medicine.”
”It’s made of milk?” Imogen responded, disbelieving.
“Not a lot, but some. The ointments involve more plants. And honey.”
”Honey!” this made the Orkhan girl a bit more attentive. She was a great fan of sweets, including honeydrops and straws, ”Do you make that here, too?”
“Of course!” Autumn smiled at the shift in Imogen’s voice. As both the farm’s putative inheritor and a woman with a strong sense of pride, she was very invested in the produce. “We can look at the beehives later, if you don’t mind wearing a netting-hat.”
”A netting-hat? Oh, in case they sting?” When Autumn nodded, Imogen took the opportunity to boast a little, ”Bees can’t sting Orks very well, we’ve got thick skin and scales.”
“Hm.” the other girl responded, noncommittal, “Well, I think you’ll want the hat for this anyway.”
~~~
The next enclosure they visited was for sheep, which was a classic crowd-pleaser. Where the goats were perhaps too energetic for Imogen’s taste, the sheep were like little bumbling clouds, wandering about in graze without care. No visitor could long avoid the temptation to run their hands through the docile animals’ fleece, and the Ork was no exception in that regard.
The only cattle on the farm were dairy cows, which were kept close enough to the chickens to make a double-feature for the girls. Imogen milked one of the cows into a bucket as Autumn described the cave near the forest which was designed to seal up while the cheeses aged- little point in visiting it, since the cavern would be closed right now, but the milk itself was also made into cream for the native cats, which were a little too nervous about the unusually green and scaly creature in their midst to approach.
There were also pigs, of course, which Imogen found a little bit less adorable than Autumn seemed to indicate- but she kept to her promise, and she made all the polite coos and appreciative noises. More interesting was the heavily-reinforced enclosure in which the farm raised boars. Boar-hunting was a deeply traditional pastime for the high and mighty in central Karnor, and the ability to serve game meat and fowl to important guests was still a hallmark for important families in the city. Now, though, rather than hunting, they would simply order them at a premium from the countryside, to be slaughtered by butchers on special order.
”So you never hunt them?” the Ork asked, a little disappointed- she’d always liked the stories of boar hunting.
“No, but they’re not friendly enough to go in and pet.” Autumn replied, paying a lot of attention to the iron-barred gate. “These things will kill you as soon as look at you. Those little tusks can gut you open in no time flat.”
”Hmm.” Unthinking, the Ork reached up and touched one of her little tusks with a thumb ”That sounds pretty hard to do..”
“Well, they’ve got bigger teeth’n you do, right? Plus, you’d have to get down on all fours to try to get down far enough.”
”I suppose you’re right. I think Ork tusks are just for display, they’re not very good for goring anyone.”
The other girl fell into a fit of giggles, and Imogen felt a lot better about the tour.
~~~
At last, the two came to the clearing off a small pond where the beehives were.
As promised, Autumn led them first to a shed, where thick leather gloves and thigh-high boots, stained with mud, were in evidence, along with a set of wide-brimmed hats dressed with fine black netting. The other girl made Imogen put on the gloves and hat, though she judged that the boots shouldn’t be needed.
“If any of the hives are angry, we won’t get too close.” the farm girl promised, “So we shouldn’t need thick clothes or smoke. But we should be able to open a lid on one and look around. Just don’t panic.”
Imogen nodded seriously. Not panicking sounded like facing fear, which was something Valmont had drilled into all of his children. Fear wasn’t something to be ignored, but if you allowed it to dictate what you did, you were going to end up dead.
The beehives themselves were stacked boxes, or “skeps”. It took a moment for Imogen to recognize them- in all the picture-books, beehives were made of woven wicker, circles stacked up until they resembled a round lump of dried straw. These were wooden boxes.
“I’m told those went out of style in the Imperium a century ago,” Autumn explained, “the larger boxes make the queens happier. Plus, with wooden slats we can open it up and access the inside easily.”
Equipped defensively, the two girls approached the hives, moving slowly between them until Autumn determined that one was docile enough to be opened. They approached from the back, where she popped open the mechanism at the back which kept the lid secure and slowly lifted it.
Inside the box was a feast for Imogen’s young eyes. The waxen combs overflowed with golden honey, dripping slower than molasses, attended by hundreds and hundreds of worker bees. She watched, entranced, as the bees moved in their own patterns, too dense and complicated for any one mind to comprehend, a spiraling dance of insects in their own little heaven.
She reached out to touch the inside, her skin hardening to armor in preparation.
“Hey, I wouldn’t-”
She pet the bee.
~~~
When Euvettia Ward returned, Imogen was covered with little red marks. There were none on her face or upper body, thankfully, as the net had covered her well- but across her arms and shoulders, the little welts blossomed.
“What.” she asked, bemused, “Happened here?”
”It would seem.” said Imogen, quietly, ”That sometimes defenses which are very strong against big things do not do much against little threats.”
“You mean the bees stung you between your scales?”
”Yeah.”
Euvettia scratched her head, not entirely sure what to say. Ordinarily she would try to make her children see the lesson in their mistakes, but it seemed like Imogen had suffered enough for that. “And? What did you learn?”
The young Ork looked up at her mother, then grinned. ”I’d like to come back and see the bees again.”