Thursday, November 21, 2013

Day Five-Seventy-Nine: There will be many caves this season

I suppose it was just a matter of time. 

After a nourishing breakfast of raspberries - good for solid and liquid alike, and by gods do they grow back quickly - I directed Fynn back downstairs. He's become quite adept at following my directions, and they're easier to supply now that he's less enamoured of his little energy ball. There's more caution in the boy, and I can tell he's going through some severe separation pangs. Never been apart from mom or dad for so long, I suppose.

There were three halls leading out of the foyer, entrances to a living room, a dining room, and a kitchen, respectively. Bare remnants of furniture betrayed their original purpose, though we found nothing of use. Everything is swallowed up by dust and decay. In the rear of the kitchen we discovered another room, a small armoury -

- and in the armoury, stairs. Stairs leading down.

Fynn traipsed up the stairs to the second floor without a second thought. Indeed, he seemed to be quite pleased with ascending. Descending, though... going below ground level in this silent mausoleum... that gave the boy pause. It took several long minutes of coaxing before he would pull his finger out of his nose and take the first step into what I assumed was the basement. I like to think he was mining gold so vigorously in an attempt to ward off the musty smell we'd discovered.

The basement was not a basement. Not in the traditional sense, anyway. True, we did discover a small room which was probably once used as a storage space... but we also found a huge hole in one of the walls. Ancient brickwork lay scattered about on our side of the wall, hinting that whatever had made the hole came through from the other side. Eeks.

The feeling of dislike eminating from the hole was sufficient to drive Fynn to tears. He nearly ran back upstairs. It took a severe bite to his cheek to stop him from fleeing.

"OW!" he yelled, trying to swat me off of his shoulder. The mild heat of his glowing light source warmed my fur.

I dodged out of the way, then, in my best attempt to look stern, I stood on two legs and planted my paws on my sides. If nothing else this stopped Fynn from trying to attack me, and he regarded me with bloodshot, weepy eyes. His body trembled, as much from the cool air blowing through the room as fear. Poor boy is still wandering around in his diaper and naught else.

Using my frail powers I opened the diary in Fynn's hand. He nearly dropped it in surprise. Waiting for the child to steady himself, I flipped the diary to an empty page...

... and, using the few artistic skills I gleaned from time spent with Plato, I drew a picture of Dragomir. 

Don't judge me.

It was, at least, good enough for Fynn to recognize. He brightened. "Paaaaa."

I nodded. Then I pointed at the hole in the wall.

Fynn shook his head vigorously, tearing up again. "Ooooooo! Ooooooo!"

I circled Dragomir in the diary and pointed again.

Fynn is not a complex child. Why should he be? He's months old. Even with the Dragomir family's seemingly bizarre gestation period, the boy hasn't lived nearly long enough to process complex decisions. So when I say that this was surely the most difficult thing Fynn had ever considered, I'm not engaging in hyperbole. The cogs ticked in his mind as visibly as the drool dripped down his chin.

Slowly, gradually, pausing a moment to fill his diaper (you have no idea how gross it smells), Fynn stepped through the hole in the wall.

We've been exploring the tunnels beyond for hours. The brickwork long ago gave way to jagged rock, the kind you'd find in a natural cave, though the path is relatively even and simple to traverse. We've had to stop and rest many times. Fynn's slowly approaching exhaustion, determined though he seems to be to find his father.

I don't know what we're going to find at the end of this tunnel. I fear it's nothing more than a gruesome death. But we can't linger in a sealed, darkened house forever, feeding off of a single bush of raspberries, and this tunnel seems to be the only route we can use. So...

You know...

In the history of bad ideas...

This is one we can't really avoid...?

At least I'm smarter than Traveller. Wherever the hell he is.


V the Rat


  1. Any chance the regenerating raspberry bush is a nod to Don't Starve?

  2. I think I have figured out the Traveler. How he is connected to Dragomir and what he is anyway and it is blowing my mind.

    If I'm right anyway...

    1. That's the thing with theories, at least in fiction. They tend to be better than what actually happens. Hopefully everything will line up to your expectations.