how heavy is a head?

Waving off his assurances, Aspity rises from her position on the floor and beckons him over to follow her gliding into a part of her house that would be considered unfinished.

The floor opens up to the black soil of the earth, with pillars supporting the roof. Crates and barrels of gifts and supplies are out in the open, trade goods, things that were important to the Kin…

Alongside other relics, some of which Vlad Jr. could recognize as being those that were on display in the Lump since his childhood. Masks and the strange fishing gaffs and drums.

Aspity opens up a cabinet- overflowing with mismatched pieces of china.

Some were porcelain bowls with intricate blue patterns, delicate lacey china, wooden bowls, a copper bowl and… what appeared to be a pot with the handles ripped off and no lid.

“Pick one,” she commands.

Once he makes his choice, he is ushered out.

“Follow the path from the graveyard, past the Ragi Barrow,” she explains, “Shekhen lies beyond where the aurochs lay and nearly touch noses. Taya’s yurt is the most grand, with painted colors and an intricate shanyrak on top.”

Aspity allows him to leave.

The journey to Shekhen takes about an hour, the mud and snow clinging to boots from the recent flooding, but thankfully, it’s a slow, uphill journey to the old village. 

First passing the graveyard, the bodies of those that died from pest are stacked up like their own kind of mound, but instead of dirt covering them, it was the snow. Some appeared to have been chewed on by various wildlife… probably the dogs.

The standing stones mark the path, even when it has been obscured by snow, and eventually he does see the stones that look like aurochs laying… and the village beyond, where the Kin work on the tasks for the camp, and the odonghe herd the bulls.

One of the odonghe pauses to watch Vlad Jr.’s approach as the cattle dig through the snow to expose the grass below. Watchful, and guarded.

“ I know the way to Shekhen. ”

He mutters the words as he peers through the stacked bowls, before finding one with sharp, engraved floral designs on it. It’s made out of a sturdy clay, he thinks, which giving it to Tycheek would require something that wouldn’t break easily, he thinks.

The designs are reminiscent of the local flora, though there are some he doesn’t recognize. They must be from further out in the Steppe, most likely.

The walk is mostly spent untying the leather cord he kept the bulk of the fingernail coins on to dump them into his pocket, plucking one out and restringing it onto the line before tucking it in a different pocket. It’s an hour of walking that he’s left to think, which makes him. . .anxious, nervous energy bubbling over as he wrings his hands and blames the cold for how he’s shaking.

The bull-shaped stones come into view and he breathes into the palms of his hands as the odonghe takes note of him. He raises a hand in greeting, muttering until he speaks up.

“ I’m here to....to see Tycheek. Sahba sent me. ”

It’s mostly so they don’t give him a strange look or do anything because they think he has ill-intentions. The place is bustling, much busier than he imagined it would be, before he remembers that the other families are in the area for the meeting of the menkhu families.

Smiling, Aspity settles back into a comfortable pose. It was a relatively tame quest- in theory. Only the Great Spirits could know what young Tycheek would have in store.

Glancing out the window, she purrs, “I hope you didn’t have a busy day planned. You should make haste as soon as you can. Taya’s not a patient sort, and I can loan you the… things… you need for your task.”

Turning her attention back to the young man, she tuts.

“I was already aware of the ideas about translating the spoken to written. I can concur with that. Creating a code will take a moment- you’re going to have to dedicate time to teaching it. And having others teach it too.”

“You already use some of our words. Shabnak, fingernail, pemmican- you borrowed them from us. In turn we borrowed from you. Demon, master, slave. Some words will not have a translation. Some words will just be your language’s words because why make a new one unless it doesn’t make any sense?”

She waves a hand dismissively, “I am already fluent in your language, in mine, and a knowledge of several others. I can work with other speakers to make that code, practice it, then teach it. Khatanghakhel… to khatatemdeg? Hmmm…”

She shakes her head, “No, not ‘temdeg’. Khuruu. Khatankhuruu.”

The Tongue of the Kin. The Sign-Finger of the Kin.

“ I have fingernails and leather. The only thing I didn’t bring with me today is a bowl, as you might imagine. ”

She’s smiling about it, which means he’s in for a terrible time. Of course it wasn’t that simple. He just sighs about it, considering the plans for the day.

No, not a busy day, but. . .well, his evenings weren’t really free. He never really had free time. He could rearrange some meetings for this, though. It made sense, since he couldn’t arrange work with Yulia without workers.

“ If you have suggestions on people who would make good teachers for the others, I am open to hearing them. I know between you, me and a few others we can make a written form of the words easily enough. ”

He stands after a moment, dusting himself off and folding his hands at his waist again. They had made something of a deal, which was more than he had anticipated, and he had kept himself from losing his cool too badly. It was a win in his book.

“A chance, huh?” She snorts, “You don’t know how to interact with the world outside money. For that, I pity you.”

Aspity taps the end of her chin, pondering what to do with the man now that he had pushed back at her refusals thrice and proved the sincerity of his words. He had really no idea on how to deal with the Kin other than the way he had- financially.

“Very well. If you really want this cooperation, I’m going to give you a task. Complete the task, and I’ll talk with my odonghe. Then they can decide what to do from there.”

She speaks her demand, “Your quest, if you will, Akhar… will to be to travel to Shekhen. You will bring with you three things. A fingernail, a bowl, and a leather cord. Present them to Taya, and tell her that Sahba Usp’tae sent you.”

Nodding affirmatively, she adds, “Endure it, and you earn my trust and respect, and I’ll broker the worms for you.” She curls her fingers and flexes them, cracking at her knuckles one by one. It’s a simple test, but one she’d look forward to scrutinizing.

“I know we have broader words. We recognize things you don’t. Sounds are important. The sounds have to be there for us to understand them. The problem will come from teaching because this will have to be taught. To make our eyes hear for us.”

“ That’s -- it? ”

He’s. . .caught off guard by the request, honestly, because he was expecting something much. . .maybe worse isn’t the word, but something more along the cruel streak Aspity tended to have when the Olgimsky family was involved.

It’s. . .well, it’s easy in theory. The idea of walking into Shekhen was nervewracking, but he could manage it for business. He could. . .manage it. Yes, this was fine.

“ Fine. Fine, I’ll do that, then. Whatever you say, Sahba. ”

It means he’s gotten at least some footing with her for negotiations, at the very least. It’s progress, which he can feel good about.

“ We can have people help to teach each other. Make it a community effort, so that the words don’t get lost. You can see the practicality in it, can’t you? It would be easier to pass messages along as well, should some other catastrophe happen. It would make things easier on a lot of people, your people for the most part.

“On the contrary, I’m curious about the changing times,” Aspity admits, “It’s the most any of the people here have ever considered or listened to our concerns. But I cannot give faith undeservedly, nor blindly. Neither will the odonghe.”

She straightens her posture and speaks with an even tone.

“The fact of the matter is that there needs to be a demonstration of will and willingness. You have to understand,” she says, echoing his earlier words, “that I am in a position of leadership and trust, and that you have a particular reputation. How can the Kin have faith in me to make decisions on their behalf without some kind of proof that your good intentions will actually bear good deeds?”

“We’re a culture of action. Words are only accents- and descriptors.”

She blinks slowly, mismatched eyes narrowing once more as she hunches over and curls her fingers around each other, “On the language, you have a point. The ancestors did not foresee a day when a people would come and cut out our tongues and throats. The Kin remember our stories less and less, and…”

She sighs, “That woman’s work was meant to preserve it too. Writing down the legacies of the stories that they could remember. The histories the kin could recall… barhaani... pointless endeavor. The town still eroded the Kin. The menkhu killed or cast off or bought… I alone have the memories of the way things used to be. I am the memory.”

Aspity shakes her head, tiredly, “The longmarks will remain a mystery to you, the Warden will learn them. The rest of the Kin- the ones who can read, read in your tongue. Your symbols. Start there. That way, the language will be preserved, and the longmarks remain sacred. That, I can arrange without demonstration.”

“ I’m not asking for blind faith. I’m asking for -- a chance, perhaps, to do these things. ”

He watches her for a moment, the way she straightens up and echoes his own words back at him like one of the Steppe crows. He has a particular reputation that would haunt him until he died at this rate. He’s not a man of spectacular action, unfortunately, unlike Grief or Stamatin or half of anyone else in the town.

“ The only proof I have is that I’m not my father, and I’m not. . .trapped under his thumb anymore. As of the moment, I have the resources at my disposal and my good word. I can take this negotiation elsewhere if you don’t want to go further with it. ”

She explains about the language and he sighs a bit. He’s always been interested in their stories, in helping preserve instead of stomp out. His father had taken his interest for a passing fancy, and then grown angrier and angrier the more he carried on with it.

“ The longmarks aren’t -- aren’t my goal here. I don’t want to learn them. I want to help you and the Kin with the words we don’t have equivalents for. There are words in your language we can’t translate, we can’t make an equal for. I want your help with it so we can find something. . .close to it, so the meaning of things aren’t lost when we translate them.

Derisive laughter bursts forth from Aspity, shattering the quiet.

“Bou shagna- don’t listen, then- you still don’t understand.”

Holding up her hands once more, she lists, “Food? You settlers have little to spare for yourselves. Shelter? We have our yurts, my hospice, Shekhen- we can go anywhere if it comes to it- we can shelter ourselves anywhere. Protection?”

She scoffs, “Good luck getting the worms to step foot on the pavement. They are scared of being mobbed by your people. I cannot take you by your word. The words of the settlers are worth nothing- less than nothing to me.”

“History- time and time again- how is it that when your leaders and your people speak with us and make agreements, we end up with nothing that is promised and less than what we had to start?”

She tilts her head, “I don’t want promises. I don’t care about your intent. I’ve seen how well your good intentions worked out. I want a demonstration. Only then will you have my consideration of a negotiation.”

Folding her hands over, she narrows her eyes at the suggestion of writing the Kin’s language.

“Gue? The stories that could be shared have already been shared. Khatanghakhel is spoken, and only longmarks can carry the weight of the words, and only menkhu are allowed their true meanings to carve the longmarks. Why do you want to try and write our tongue to share information?”

“ I am trying to make good on my word. I am asking you to assist in negotiations so any of our building projects do not break any more taboos than we already have in the past. ”

There’s the slightest tremble to him as he curls his fingers against his knees, trying to keep calm. The frustration is wearing on his already worn thin patience, which just grinds thinner when she prods at the blackened bruise of his past failure again.

“ That was an accident. It was an accident. ”

He hisses the words, not meaning for them to be loud, and closes his eyes to just run his hand over his face.

“ If you don’t want to make any agreements, that’s fine. It’s fine. We don’t have to work together. ”

A slow exhale, a visible attempt to keep himself together.

“Aaaaah,” she crows, “you need workers… of course.”

She leans forward, resting her chin on her hand, fixing him with her gaze, “Do you know what they say about ‘words without deeds?’“

Aspity doesn’t wait before she continues with her rhetoric, “If you want the odonghe loyal to me to work for you, Akhar, you are going to have to prove that you will do what is best, not that you intend to do what is best.”

“Example- Andrey Stamatin wanted my girls, pretty dancers. He proved he could defend them from harm- the fires and flames, and thus, they dance for him. Grief also needed my Brides for the disastrous fields. He proved he could defend them…”

“… what will you do to defend my people?”

Her mismatched eyes level at him, pointedly, “You folk forget that your prosperity comes at the cost of our misery. The lands you dwell on, the ‘foundation’ you build upon is roots and blood. Our people.”

She huffs, “I am aware that you and your new council wish to make things better- but for whom? The settlers or the Kin?”

Pondering, she shakes her head, “The odonghe won’t want your money. It’s useless to them. What else can you offer?”

There’s a subtle grind of his teeth as she kicks both of his feet out from under him, figuratively. She knows exactly how to get past any defense he might have of the words.

“ What I intend to do is what I will do. I don’t have someone blocking me at every step now, you must understand. ”

He clenches his fingers again, breathes deep, and considers it quietly. He knows they won’t want money. They don’t need it. He knows as well that they are unlikely to help him if he can’t give him something to help them first.

“ I have food to spare, living quarters, freedoms in the Town they didn’t have before. My word keeps them from harm. ”

He isn’t a combatant like either of the other examples she gives. He can’t defend them like Grief or Stamatin could defend her Brides.

“ Beyond that, they’ll be working with Stamatin for the most part to ensure our new building projects do no more harm than they must. I am. . .a go-between for them for the time being. ”

There were a number of odongh who hated Andrey for brewing. They’d love to take a swipe out of him, he’s sure.

Aspity snorts, but listens regardless. No, he wasn’t hunting anyone. The young son had no stomach to go hunting himself.

But he brings a gift, and she rifles through it, judging its contents. Dried meats… and milk.

He’d done his due diligence and research, it seemed. She quirks a brow at him and lazily chews on a strip of the dry meat. It was a little too chewy to make pemmican from- but a session on a smoker would take care of that.

“Hmph. Wicked people sleep easy. Very few things can give truly wicked people nightmares.”

She nods at the contents of the basket. Satisfactory. Aspity beckons him to sit.

“… You, on the other hand… Too many fleshy bits in you, and not enough iron in your blood. Or your fists, for that matter. Perhaps that trait skips generations… or siblings. Passed you over, didn’t it?”

Laughing quietly, she takes the basket and puts it in the corner before sitting herself.

“But why now, Akhar?” she asks, “I’ve not forgotten what Boös did, nor what you facilitated. I’ve not forgotten the disgust at my arrival here, the cold welcome, the blood of butchers and babes… nor the poisoning of waters and fields. In all that time you’ve never stepped foot here, nor tried to speak with me so directly- no, your siblings were braver. Even that little witch, Capella- how is she, by the way?- even she braved to visit about her magic… But no, you’ve not come to talk about magic have you? Not yours nor hers…”

She blinks slowly, eyes narrowing, “So, what is it that you want- what business do you need of me?”

It makes bitter bile rise in his throat when she jabs sharp claws into the soft, painful spots. He’s tempted to stand when she gestures for him to sit, but a guest is best when. . .no, he won’t finish that.

He takes an offered seat, folding his hands to keep from wringing them with his frustration. She pokes at the poison and --

That was an accident.

He bites his tongue. He won’t let that self-control slip here, even if something is running icy fingers down the back of his neck and trying to convince him to let go.

“ I did not wish to speak directly to you for many reasons. Why my siblings did is. . .their business, not mine. Capella is fine. I’ll pass your welcomes on to her when I see her next. ”

His magic or Capella’s? He quirks a brow at that, because. . .well, magical he most certainly is not. He never was, never would be, and never expected to be.

He won’t rise to that one, even if the question is on the tip of his tongue.

“ You organize the odongh who don’t already venture into the Town. I have need and. . .want to employ several of them to help with projects in the town. The work will be well paid, and they are free to come and go as they wish with it. ”

He works with the ferrymen, but not with the herders or the builders. And he needs builders.

Receding waters slosh as the ferryman wades through to the Crude Sprawl. The heavy rains had stopped, and the flow of the Ghorkon had swept away some of the flooding while the rest was turned to ice and snow.

As Vlad Jr. crossed the threshold into that humble house, only a single candle illuminated the hall. It was too dark to immediately make out shapes, so his other senses had to fill in the data.

It was warm here, the smell of woodsmoke carried strongly, along with the heady scents of herbs, spices, and warm milk. Dirt, was another strong scent- freshly dug earth, a smell he was more than acquainted with since his time with the well.

Eyes adjusting, he could make out a sturdy brick tunnel funneling traffic into an open area. Benches lined the wall along with chairs and bedrolls. The barest hint of movement came from one of the bedrolls- Murky, one of Burakh’s wards stared up at him from the floor.

Aspity- Sahba herself- stood in a chamber, one of the wings of the house, eyes seeming to glow despite the unnatural darkness that lingered over the whole of the house.

Only one other person was here, and their outline was visible in another room, sleeping on one of the bedrolls on the floor.

“He’s not a fugitive.”

Aspity speaks firmly from her room, not moving an inch from her position and folding her bony fingers over each other.

She sneers, “Well, not a fugitive you would be interested in, Akhar. Just a fugitive from the cold. A fugitive from the floods…”

Tilting her head, she drones, “From nightmares, too.”

“Sleeping better?”

The darkness and sharp, wet smell of dirt makes his throat choke tight for the barest moment. It’s a bad memory that filters into worse dreams that wades into terrible claustrophobia. Luckily, it only stays for a moment before he’s shaking it off with the cold and stepping deeper into the hospice.

There are only two other people here besides them, one of them being the little girl that he saw clinging to Burakh’s legs and the other being. . .someone he can’t make out the details of. He stares perhaps half a second too long before Aspity is speaking and he can’t quite stop the scoff in his throat.

“ I’m not hunting anyone, fugitives or not, so you don’t have to worry about that. . .but good afternoon, Sahba. ”

The title is something he notes for later. He knows she’s jabbing at him with it, but he can’t really fault her after. . .everything.

He steps into the chamber she rests in, this one darker than the rest, and sets the basket near her so she can go through it at her leisure.

“ I’ve been sleeping well enough. ”

It’s not a bad lie, but it is a lie. He’s had more nightmares recently, strange electric dreams that have him feeling uneasy. They aren’t as bad as when she had been tormenting him, true, but they were still nightmares.

“ I’ve come to talk business. I’ll be out of your hair as soon as we’re done. ”

His hands are folded at his waist as he says it, wringing his hands tight enough to make the leather of his gloves creak.

He could walk there -- but there was always the chance he got cold feet and decided against it halfway there, or detoured to give himself the chance to avoid the meeting, so he’s picking two coins from his pocket to press into the palm of the ferryman that docks just beyond the edge of their property.

“ The Works, please. Or as close to the Crude Sprawl as you can get me. ”

The worm gives him a curious look, which he responds to by clearing his throat and tucking his face into his scarf.

“ I have. . .business with Sahba. Don’t give me that look, I know what I’m doing. ”

It’s the last thing really said outside of idle chatter about the weather until the ferryman is docking near the works and Vlad is ducking his head against the window, grumbling to himself as he wanders his way over to Aspity’s home -- and stepping in without knocking, though the sound of kicking the snow off his boots is more than enough warning of his presence.

Her mother lays silent. But she’s not silent. She’s still here, she can still feel her. Why won’t anyone understand that? She feels her here still, she’s still here!

“I can’t rule with out Mama,” she sniffs. She’s sobbed on and off since yesterday. “I can’t leave her here. She’s still here. I can feel her, brother, I can feel her still with me!" 

She rubs her face angrily. She’s not a crybaby - but no one understands. 

"Why won’t she just stand up? She heals everyone. She can just heal herself if she’s sick. She can get up. Why won’t she get up? Why won’t she say anything to me?”

“ You’re more connected to her than anyone else. ”

He grunts when he bends down beside her, knowing he’ll be fussed at for getting dirt and dust on his nice clothing. Capella was in for hell about the state of her dress, the way the edges had torn from clinging to the stone here.

He’s not sure what to do besides play into her words and try to coax her back to him. If she comes with him, they can go home and finally be out of the heat.

He’s tired. He has quite a lot to do, things to manage, because his father and sister are mourning and he’s. . .not.

She’s pushed across the cold stone floor, and light spills in briefly, blinding her in her enclosed darkness, as Vlad slips in and then lets it close behind him. 

“They don’t understand. You don’t understand.” She says into her shoulder, curled away from him, and the door. 

“You’re burying me. If you bury Mama, you bury me. You’re burying a piece of me! How can I live above the earth and below?”

“ Vic -- Capella. ”

He shouldn’t call her Victoria right now. He shouldn’t. It wouldn’t help the situation.

She’s clinging to the coffin inside, unwilling to be parted from their mother, and he breathes in deep and holds it for a five count before he exhales and bends down to where she curls away from him.

“ Capella, we can’t do this. If you stay here, then. . . ”

He has to consider what to say, his hand folded out to her.

“ If you stay here, then there won’t be a Mistress above ground. You can’t rule from under. Come on. ”

There’s no real answer from within, only silence and the incessant babbling of the Ghorkon and the mixture of frustrated and sympathetic murmurs of the funeral goers some ways away. Big Vlad looks at his pocket watch in an angry fashion. 

“…I’m not coming out.” is the small, eventual reply from within, half lost in the noise of it all. There’s the sound of something sliding against the door, like she’s sat against it.

“ I didn’t tell you to come out. I said I was coming in. ”

He waits another moment, hears his father’s grumbling complaint, and manages to nudge the heavy door open to slip inside. Capella might sit against it, but he’s older and stronger than she is.

The door slides back closed behind him with some insistence, plunging them both into quiet darkness.