Post by Kidney on Jul 3, 2019 1:14:34 GMT -8
Bleating. Bleating in the early morning.
The sound woke him immediately, trained ears determining the kind of bleat it was. The bleat wasn't too urgent, no high-pitched quality to it, simply annoying. Though, the day had begun, and the man that rose from the handmade bed then was a man who would not sleep until the hours of the next day's early morning. Work was to be done. But first, breakfast. Slipping away from the covers, pulling them slowly, the biting morning chill sunk into his bones.
He shuddered, and grumbled quietly. It had been a few days since he had made an intelligible sound at all. Giant feet tapping on cold floor, the man dared not freeze them just yet, touching them to the floor slowly and reluctantly, finding purchase after a handful of minutes. He was slow. A click from both knees conjured a giggle from the man, and he rose to full height, the top of his head bushing ever so slightly on the thatch roof.
Walls separated by an archway became a small obstacle in the life of Roard, though he managed to duck under the jutting lip from the ceiling itself, and shuffled into the rest of the home. On the flooar the fireplace, of which still smoldered quietly from last night's burning, sat a bedroll, collecting dust. He eyed it. Somehow, he could convince himself that he used to sleep there, maybe one day. Next, he turned his attention to the dog, which now slumbered peacefully underneath his table, as close to the window as Roard could afford. He hadn't thought of a name for the mutt quite yet.
Sifting into the kitchen, the giant reached down by his smaller cooking stove, and grabbed up a log with a callused hand. Opening the small metal door, he threw the wood in, and then searched the surrounding area for his tinderbox. He grumbled again, giving up quickly and grabbing up some newly fallen bark scraps, fallen off the side of the chopped wood that sat in a neat pile by his stove, and threw it atop the log. Matches, then, he grabbed from the top of the stove, striking one and tossing it within. Fire. Roard added a log, then another, and closed the door, reaching up on the wall, and grasping an iron pan from the hook. Framing the pan sat two drawings on either side, one by his mother, and one by his father. Each was a drawing of the other, drawing. His father's, he had recognized, seemed to have more detail ingrained in his mother's breasts than any other part of the portrait. His mother's was mediocre, but evenly distributed with quality.
Roard waited for a while, walking about the small home before finding himself staring at the sleeping hound once more. "Benjamin." He said, followed by a regretful 'Hrm.' Benjamin was not a good name. With a grumble, the farmer returned to his pan, reaching for a covered bowl on the counter nearby, opening the lid and scooping a glob of goat's butter onto the pan, which began to sizzle on the black metallic surface of the thing. Roard grabbed up a wooden spoon, hanging by his father's piece by a smaller hook, and guided the butter around. With another hand, he scratched his beard. Turning away from the buttery pan, he turned towards the rest of his counter, and spied eggs, sitting patiently in a bowl not too far.
He reached and grasped the edge of the bowl, pulling them closer before beginning the process of cracking each with one hand, and emptying their eggy contents into the pan. With a yawn, he used the spoon to stir and fold them together, each of the five eggs cooking now, and without much time passing, forming a simple meal of...egg. Roard didn't know what it was called, and within some time, he moved the pan away from heat, and allowed the eggs to come together in the pan as he set it upon his table. This woke the dog, who lept up as if shaken from deep sleep, one ear perking at the sound of Roard's grumbles. Roard left the eggs, and made to replace the spoon on the hook, returning to the table to pick up a fork and a knife, which laid alone on the oak surface, and began to eat.
The sun was awfully bright. The dog was awfully excited. Placing its soft head on Roard's thigh, the giant let go of his knife to pet the hound. "Bright out." Some thoughts came to mind, and Roard smiled, "Sonny." Sonny was a good name.
The sound woke him immediately, trained ears determining the kind of bleat it was. The bleat wasn't too urgent, no high-pitched quality to it, simply annoying. Though, the day had begun, and the man that rose from the handmade bed then was a man who would not sleep until the hours of the next day's early morning. Work was to be done. But first, breakfast. Slipping away from the covers, pulling them slowly, the biting morning chill sunk into his bones.
He shuddered, and grumbled quietly. It had been a few days since he had made an intelligible sound at all. Giant feet tapping on cold floor, the man dared not freeze them just yet, touching them to the floor slowly and reluctantly, finding purchase after a handful of minutes. He was slow. A click from both knees conjured a giggle from the man, and he rose to full height, the top of his head bushing ever so slightly on the thatch roof.
Walls separated by an archway became a small obstacle in the life of Roard, though he managed to duck under the jutting lip from the ceiling itself, and shuffled into the rest of the home. On the flooar the fireplace, of which still smoldered quietly from last night's burning, sat a bedroll, collecting dust. He eyed it. Somehow, he could convince himself that he used to sleep there, maybe one day. Next, he turned his attention to the dog, which now slumbered peacefully underneath his table, as close to the window as Roard could afford. He hadn't thought of a name for the mutt quite yet.
Sifting into the kitchen, the giant reached down by his smaller cooking stove, and grabbed up a log with a callused hand. Opening the small metal door, he threw the wood in, and then searched the surrounding area for his tinderbox. He grumbled again, giving up quickly and grabbing up some newly fallen bark scraps, fallen off the side of the chopped wood that sat in a neat pile by his stove, and threw it atop the log. Matches, then, he grabbed from the top of the stove, striking one and tossing it within. Fire. Roard added a log, then another, and closed the door, reaching up on the wall, and grasping an iron pan from the hook. Framing the pan sat two drawings on either side, one by his mother, and one by his father. Each was a drawing of the other, drawing. His father's, he had recognized, seemed to have more detail ingrained in his mother's breasts than any other part of the portrait. His mother's was mediocre, but evenly distributed with quality.
Roard waited for a while, walking about the small home before finding himself staring at the sleeping hound once more. "Benjamin." He said, followed by a regretful 'Hrm.' Benjamin was not a good name. With a grumble, the farmer returned to his pan, reaching for a covered bowl on the counter nearby, opening the lid and scooping a glob of goat's butter onto the pan, which began to sizzle on the black metallic surface of the thing. Roard grabbed up a wooden spoon, hanging by his father's piece by a smaller hook, and guided the butter around. With another hand, he scratched his beard. Turning away from the buttery pan, he turned towards the rest of his counter, and spied eggs, sitting patiently in a bowl not too far.
He reached and grasped the edge of the bowl, pulling them closer before beginning the process of cracking each with one hand, and emptying their eggy contents into the pan. With a yawn, he used the spoon to stir and fold them together, each of the five eggs cooking now, and without much time passing, forming a simple meal of...egg. Roard didn't know what it was called, and within some time, he moved the pan away from heat, and allowed the eggs to come together in the pan as he set it upon his table. This woke the dog, who lept up as if shaken from deep sleep, one ear perking at the sound of Roard's grumbles. Roard left the eggs, and made to replace the spoon on the hook, returning to the table to pick up a fork and a knife, which laid alone on the oak surface, and began to eat.
The sun was awfully bright. The dog was awfully excited. Placing its soft head on Roard's thigh, the giant let go of his knife to pet the hound. "Bright out." Some thoughts came to mind, and Roard smiled, "Sonny." Sonny was a good name.