Something Bad

Title: Something Bad
Time Period: March 12, 135 A.E.
Characters Appearing:

Summary: Jorn and Greets The Sun have a fruitless conversation in the snow.

Late winter for some means spring; for others it means the end of a most comfortable season. Jorn does somewhat less of his business on four legs when it is warmer, Scottish weather as it is. It is a small dissonance, and he often tries to make the most of the wintry season by the lochsides. They are not Scandinavian winters, but they will do for a polar bear outside of his particular element. He still maintains one of the first rules he learned when coming to Dornie- do not bear in someone's house. As much as it sounds odd to say.

That is why when he finds his way back to the manor, the bear is passing like a ghost through an equally brittle garden- the trees that are not evergreen bare gnarled branches, and the path goes largely un-tended. Jorn meets no resistance wandering in there, as always, and while night is nowhere near, the afternoon has fled and the sky is dimming above the hilltops. The mountains are a far better place to look for stars, but he has had a hard time going too far- for paranoia still has a firm enough grasp.

Nose along the ground, Jorn pauses in his meandering to investigate the base of one of the small naked trees, muzzle wrinkling as he lifts a giant paw to scrape the snow into mush there. Whatever the white bear thinks he has scented, he doesn't seem to like it, and goes about smearing it away.
Be careful

It's a soft voice in Jorn's polar bear brain. It's accompanied by an indignant squeak and from near his paw, the familiar shape of Greets the Sun is moving out from under the snow where he'd been parked. He doesn't move far, snow is deep and he has to cling to the trunk's gnarled roots that have grown above the soil lest he have to dig himself out or change shapes.

It would not do. To be trampled. Whiskers quiver as he finds a spot to perch and look up, way up, soft pink nose scenting the air and tail coming to a curl around his feet.


He sounds so forlorn in Jorn's head.

Whatever he was smelling, it wasn't this. There seems to be the lingering note of something feathery, for noses tuned into it. The bear pulls its nose back, black quivering at the end of his muzzle. For a few long moments he stares down, darkened eyes shifting in their sockets, lips smacking once in consideration. Bear. Jorn's ears droop downward, and he stretches out his forelegs to create a barrier of paws and long limbs around the mouse. His hindquarters squats down behind him, soon slumping down onto one hip.

The big black nose lowers again, huffing a brush of warm air through the mouse's thin fur coat.

Little brother.

The communication comes with a thrum from inside the bear's barrel chest, somewhere between a murmur and a sigh.
Black nose is nearly met by mouse stretching out on hid legs, front paws grasping air and nose twitching before he plops back down with a shiver and shudder, rolling droplets of melted snowflakes off his back. You are watching?

Delicate paws reach up even as he tucks his head, starting withs ome grooming, content for now to be in the shelter of the polar bear. You have found something before you went to step on me?

I watch many things. The reply is rather vague, though fishing- he can make an educated guess as to what the familiar means, however, and it causes a breath to be caught in his mouth. The bear's paws nearly meet in front of him, dug into snow and content to remain there, for all his lazing about.

I thought that I had found a familiar scent. Anxiety does not go hand-in-hand with a superb sense of smell. My worries are as many as my watchings. Jorn is uncertain if the last makes total sense, though it comes out how it is intended to.

I have only one worry. Nose up, he twists towards the house. Towards the house where the Ross's live, that has been quiet in the longest time that anyone who works there has known. Where the mistress of the house lies prone, cared for and the master is going crazy.

No one was watching

No anger from the mouse familiar, greets the sun swivels his head back up to Jorn. Sadness. Permeates everything, he wears it like Despereaux wore his sewing needle sword. You were not watching

Jorn could explain what Greets-the-Sun already knows- that they were trying to keep the family together in other ways- but Jorn is sure that he knows this already. There is, more importantly, something else about what the mouse says that lights dimly in his mind. The bend in the brows just above his eyes shifts into a matching gesture of sorrow, and the bear puts his face up against the ground, one paw tilting onto its axis.

I know, little brother. I am sorry. He pauses only long enough before attempting to see if the familiar knows more than anyone else might- without technically asking such. What was to be seen?

Nothing. Jorn may be settling down his muzzle, but Greets The Sun is turning his back, little feet lifting to tamp down snow on the gnarled root as he does so, shake body and head more, curl tail around and lean down to clean. Fastidious he has always been.


He pauses in his grooming, and if mouse had eyebrows, they'd be pulled down in hard thought before he sneezes, dismissing the memory.

Something bad

She twists his head around, up goes nose and whiskers.

And you were not there. You were always there. Even familiar's need someone to blame. And her mate forgets.

Bad things are a penny a pound. Jorn presents this as fact, and perhaps it is. He notes the reticence on the 'something' most of all, and tries not to flinch away from his better viewpoint when the mouse begins to properly point fingers. And I am only one bear.

You must tell me what you know. He had too much expectation that someone would have come forward with something. A familiar is another matter, and many do not think as men and women do.

I know that it was something bad Soft tones has gone sharp and where Greets The Sun was all curse and busy with grooming, he's now stiff before leaping off the branch and down into the snow.

I know that you were not there it curls around Jorns bear brain, and the sound of digging can be heard, trying to find his tunnel.

She is only one too Up on his hind legs he goes, dark beady eyes encircled by brown fur is visible as he stands on top of some covered branches.

She is my one. My one. You were not there and something bad was

He disappears then, eschewing the life of a mouse, jumping up, hopping into the air and transitioning into the yellow and other colored lapwing that he's known to take, wings flapping in the air as he attempt and succeeds in gaining momentum and winging his way, off towards the house.