They Don't Fly [Recipe Research/crafting]

[Ériu]

(ooc- Also known as that time Maple traded for emus and Ériu tried to ride one.)

Four pairs of eyes are currently engaged in a no-holds-barred staring competition with a six-foot wooden fence the only structure separating the two sets of competitors. Occasionally, someone blinks or wind-pulled hair breaks the four-way gaze, but nobody dares move. That is, until the only biped –or should I say the only featherless, biped- sneezes. The giant birds fluff their feathers and then go back to strutting across their gated plains. The ram standing on the Elf’s side of the fence maintains its wide-eyed, curious stare for a moment longer before glimpsing up at its caretaker, who’s rubbing her nose and sniffling.

“They say these are called ‘ee-ewe,’ yeah.” It nods its wooly head, proud of its recently gained knowledge.

“That’s ‘emu,” the Elf corrects, leaning into the crossing-bars of the pen.

“Tis what I said.”

Ériu lifts an eyebrow but doesn't bother responding. She can’t quite take her eyes off of the creatures before her. Even after having known about their arrival for weeks now, it still feels weird that they're actually here. The farmer that had raised them had told Maple and Ériu everything they had needed to know about caring for the birds before making the trade official. As she built the fence –Maple and Waverly helping where they could- the Shaman mentally trained herself for the coming day. Still, nothing apparently could prepare the trio for this. The birds are big, the shortest –the young male- standing eye-to-shoulder with Ériu and only promising to get bigger. The female’s inches taller. They both look unhappy, edgy. Conniving.
Not that she doesn’t get it; the Elf just isn’t prepared to express any sympathy for them.

They might take advantage of that. . .

“Mmmehbye I could try talkin’ to ‘em,” the rams suggests, bobbing in place, raring to go. Ériu watches the ram, considers his words, and then shakes her head.

“Just leave ‘em be. Let ‘em get used to the place. C’mon.” She turns with her Staff in-hand and leaves, the ram tentatively trailing after.

‘Leave. ‘em. Be.’ She doesn’t know it yet, but Ériu’s going to eat those words.

---

words: 353

[Ériu]

Maple says they can’t fly . . . What kind of bird can’t fly?

She spends the rest of the morning doing things around the farm, finishing off odds-and-ends. It’s bright and sunny today, so there’s no need to be worried about sudden rain storms. The animals are free to roam about as they please, and pleased they are. By the time lunch rolls around, Waverly is out looking for her, Chef’s apparel wrapped around her fluffy body. The Werecat finds the Elf settled on-top of a mound near the flock of sheep, magician’s staff nestled next to her, the tips of her shepherdess dress taken by the wind. Rather than walk all that way, Waverly stays her ground, places her hand next to her mouth, and calls out,”

Hey! Dinner’s ready!”

Ériu glances up from her perch, spies Waverly, nods, and makes to get up, patting her clothes as she stands.

It must be some great pain, to be a bird and unable to fly.

What a sad existence indeed, but they make up for it.

Boy. Do. They. Ever.

The sisters three are in the middle of a fine dinner of fresh baked bread, thin-sliced cheese, and berries when Maple picks up the sound of the cows bellowing. She stands and goes to the door.

“What is it, Maple,” Waverly asks, stopping short of taking another bite. Ériu just stares.

“You hear that?” Elf and Cat fall still and silent. Finally, the sounds hit their ears. “What’re they saying?”

Two pairs of eyes widen. Ériu and Waverly stand nearly at the same time. The latter’s chair tips to the ground with a scraping crash. “Ohhh, no!"

~*~*~*

What the three see outside is nothing short of disastrous. Some of the grazing animals have gathered around the emus’ fence, all chatting in amazement. The ram is there too, relaying the incident; although, it really isn’t necessary. The emu have escaped, and there they go right now! The Elf’s eyes can’t get any wider, but there’s no time to gawk. Maple flies past her in pursuit, Waverly not far after. Ériu makes up the caboose but not for long. She picks up speed, dress whipping around her body, hair a tail in the wind, until she is neck-and-neck with Maple, Farmer’s legs carrying them quick.

Gods, but they’re FAST!

There’s no way they can catch them in a fair-foot race. They’re zigzagging now, panicking as they realize they are being pursued. Waverly has disappeared in the chase. Maple retrieves her wand from her inventory and focuses on one of the emu. Magic glows, channeling. It radiates. One of the emu slows to a stop, placed under the effects of Astral Hypno.

“Stay with that one,” Maple instructs, still hot on the trail of the remaining bird. Ériu nods, does as she’s told, but doesn’t know what else to do but hold onto the animal’s neck and perhaps try to weigh it down with her arm. Maple’s spell won’t last long but hopefully long enough for them to lead them back into their pen. Waverly reappears then, harness in-hand, breath heavy as she approaches her sister. The animal twitches as the harness is applied but the spell remains intact. When it finally awakens, the emu responds to its capture by promptly kicking the Elf –who’d apparently been stupid enough to stand right in front of it- in the stomach, knocking her to her hind-quarters.

A part of her –the repressed murderer that’s been looking for this day for a loooong time- lurches to rip off the thing’s feathered head right now!

But Waverly is already on-top of things, holding the creature back by the leash. “Woah-woah. Easy now.” Cat eyes examine Ériu, worried but not for the obvious reasons. “Y' all right?”

Heavy-breathing, a blunt pain radiating up her back, an itch in her bare hands, the Elf nods.

“Yeah. . .”

The Werecat doesn't say as much, but she certainly doesn't look convinced.

“Waverly,” Maple’s voice cries out. “Bring another harness!”

---

words: 671

[Ériu]

Needless to say, after that little skirmish, the emus have been subjects of extreme hearsay among the inhabitants of the farm. Their little escapade has been the hottest topic to hit the farm since that time the then-youthful rooster mistook a passing flock of geese for chickens and spent a week trying to learn how to fly. He still hasn’t lived it down in some circles and probably never will. For now, however, the animals have found a new subject for their teasing. Ériu swears that every time she passes some pen or coop, she hears snickering or chortling or whatever word could describe the sound of an animal mocking her behind-her-back, right-to-her-face, if that makes any sense. No, of course it doesn’t.

Apparently, someone had gotten word of her little scuffle with the female emu and spread it around about how she’d “met her end” at the claws of the bird. Butt jokes were abound. ABOUND!!!

For all her reputation around the farm as someone with a sheep’s coat and a spider’s bloodlust –it is often almost palpable at times- she doesn’t seem quite so fearsome right now, just pitiful. It’s kind of cute the way that she pouts, blushes, and shoots a death-glare at her teasers, even more so when she does little else than storm away, keeping her head down to hide her reddened cheeks.

Is it any wonder that she avoids her place of defeat for days, purposely busying herself any time it’s her turn to feed the emus or secure the pen? They’d had to add extra height to avoid a second escape. So far it’s held up, according to Maple, who is more than aware of her Elven sister’s humiliation and shameless attempts to hide from the birds. One day, the ram asks her if she’s afraid of them, to which Ériu finds insult.

“N-no! Of course not,” she frets and then feels the realization steel in her mind that if she doesn’t show them up now, none of the animals will ever take her seriously again. Shoot! In time, she won’t even be able to take herself seriously. “I’ll prove it.”

The next day sees the Elf leaning into the emus' pen again, watching them, studying the way they move. She knows what she must do. It’s just a matter of lining things up right to make it happen. The emus strut from one side of the pen to the next, perfectly keen to Ériu’s eyes on them. They know what she’s up to. Everyone attempts this at one point, and it’s not going to happen. Perhaps Ériu detects their resistance, because she feels herself backing away. NOT IN FEAR, mind you, but because she has another, less strenuous idea. No way is she going to attempt this the honest way and come out looking like an arse, no pun intended. No, she’s got faaar better means to this end.

---

words: 487

[Ériu]

Later that day, Waverly is strolling around the area and pauses when she passes the barn and hears a steady stream of sharp mumbles coming from the inside. Peeking inside, she spies Ériu at her work-area, bent over her desk. The pencil in her hand scratches against paper laid flat against the work-desk, sketching a rough image of a something that Waverly can’t make out from this long-distance.

Yeessss, this is nice. This should do just splendidly~

Oblivious to the chimerical, dark bog encompassing her young sister, the Werecat steps into the barn to get a closer look at what Ériu’s cooking up.

“Hey, what’s that you’re doin’?”

More mumblings. Thoughts run into each other, crashing and resounding against the Elf’s breaking mind.

The Shaman hadn’t heard her, evidently, so the Werecat speaks again. “Eri? What’re ya makin’ this time, I say?”

This time, the stream of unknown tongues is broken by a guttural, chilling giggle that causes Waverly’s fur to stand on ends. She stops dead in her tracks, dark-blue eyes wide and arms crossed over her chest in an attempt to fight the gooseflesh forming beneath her coat. “Hey-hey. . .What’re ya up to exactly?” When she is once more unmet with a proper answer, the Scottish Fold inches away from the situation and out the barn door, unable to decide on whether or not to share this with Maple.

~*~*~*~

The sketch is complete! The conception of her greatest master piece is well on its way! Magnum opus! Magnum opus! Ériu bears a mad-man’s set of teeth, eyes gleaming with perfect, impure glee. She’ll beat those birds yet, and THEN who will be the top dog on the farm?!

Taking a deep breath and regaining her near girlish composure, the Elf teen gathers the needed materials and grabs a seat at her desk. She runs a blade up the length of a shortened branch, scraping it of the bark and paying no mind to the mess slowly gathering on the floor and in her lap. She is of one-mind, one-thought for now. In time, the branch is completely stripped bare. She whittles, taking it down to a size that fits in the palm of her hand, something she can grasp securely. Once that is finished, Ériu carves slopes into it, turning an experiment into a work of art. Might as well make defeat look as visually appealing as possible and rub salt in those birdie wounds. It takes Ériu quite some time to get a look that she actually likes, but once she’s finished, she’s able to happily move onto the next step and carve a pair of identically-sized perpendicular holes down one end of the object in question.

To test, she blows, finds the sound to be scratchy, and then carves some more. She keeps testing and carving until the sound she hears is clear and perfect. She hears a chicken outside cluck in response to the whistling and that is how the Elf knows she’s on to something very special. Everything runs smooth from there; sandpaper is applied to the whistle, smoothing out any rough patches. She considers painting it but then decides against it. She likes the wooden look to the whistle, and besides that. . .

She’s waited far too long for this win!

---

words: 551

[Ériu]

She wears the whistle on a leather cord around her neck, the emblem of her ultimate victory bouncing against her collar bone with each confident stride. A mile-wide smirk stretches across her face as she closes-in on the chosen arena-er, pen. The march doesn’t go without its audience. Broken, twin rows of farm animals dot the trail leading from the barn to the emus’ living area. Some of them stand deathly quiet in the face of the intense battle, with only the occasional whisper of hearsay shared among them. Few others seem to cheer on the Elf, the ram being worth mentioning. Whether or not they’re only doing it to suck-up remains lost to Ériu. She’s keeping her focus on the task at hand.

She’s gonna need it~

At the emus’ pen, the teenager approaches the gate, unlatches the lock, and enters. No pauses , no second-thoughts, none of that! This is serious business. The emus pause in their graceful struts to gander at the silly girl across the way. Words are uttered between the pair, but the distance makes it difficult to understand without using Hearing Aptitude, and Ériu’s not about to waste the MP just to eavesdrop on whatever stupid thing they’ve got to say. She takes steps towards the birds. The birds just stand there, confident that they can outrun the Elf. They’d done it once; there’s nothing stopping them from doing it once more.

She takes another step and reaches for the whistle bound around her neck. The farm animals lining the wooden fence lean in, the tension in the air thick. The female emu tilts her head curiously to one side; the male blinks. When it suddenly dawns on them what the object is, they somehow gasp. Uh oh! This is not the first time they’ve been confronted with a Mount Whistle. Their previous master had made use of one on several occasions. Their doom is already written, its sweet song too alluring to be resisted! In some vain attempt to fight fate, the pair of emu begin to run. Mid-stride, however, Ériu blows the whistle, its sound sharp and pure. The male feels his legs crumble in one final act of defiance. The female lasts only so longer before she too gives in to dead weight, absolutely refusing to heed the call and come running to the Whistle Holder.

It matters not. The Elf is clearing the distance, head to the sky as she laughs proudly. The female emu feels the weight of the teenaged megalomaniac on her back. Her first word ever spoken to the bird is “up.” A pair of heels presses into the animal’s sides. “Now.” Miserably, the creature does as it’s told, strong legs carrying the combined weight of bird and Elf. Ériu wobbles a bit at the series of motions but keeps her grip strong, tightening her legs against the emu’s back. The male walks abreast with his companion, not one to abandon a comrade in need of moral support.

Atop the animal, Ériu beams like a child, the haughtiness practically shattering as her mount trots her from one end of the pen to the next. She feels light as air. Never mind the win! This is altogether too fun! Why hadn’t she thought to do this before? There is a hum vibrating against her throat, traveling upwards, and exploding into a light-hearted laughter. In her confidence –or maybe cockiness- the Elf lifts her hands from the animal’s upper back to wave at the pigs and sheeps and cows watching the spectacle.

And then the emu bucks her off its back and scampers away, the male hopping over the Elf’s toppled body to follow his friend. His foot crushes the Mount Whistle as he passes by. Ériu groans from her place on the ground and is either too afraid or in too much pain –maybe both- to rise.

No one saw that, right?

---

words: 654