[Wkk 11, Day 4, backdated] ...And I'll never have that recipe again
Who: Elfangor
Status: Closed
Style: Third, present
Where: The woods outside of Hisato
When: Week 11, Day 7, late afternoon
Rating: G?
Warnings: Sad Andalite in the rain. (I am so sorry for the MacArthur Park reference. But then again, I'm not.)
When he was young, he remembers adoring the infrequent storms on his homeworld. How the wind would whistle, how the trees would dance -- but most of all, he remembers how his parents would try to keep him under the protection of their scoop, but ultimately indulge in his childish glee at prancing about it the rain and join him. It was much later in his life when he realized that they had probably only done so to protect him from the worst of the storm, to keep him from doing such things as running straight into a particularly deep mud hole and getting stuck, as he once had in his youth.
But still, he cherishes those memories of his parents.
It it the thought of his parents and the rain, however, that also brings him a twinge of shame in his current predicament.
This is the third time he has attempted to rebuild the poor excuse for a scoop he'd built upon his decision to remain here, in the woods beyond Hisato. It is an ideal place to establish residence, as far as he's concerned. The grass is sweet, and the waterfall not too far off is a pleasant reminder of camping trips with his Loren. It is also a comfort to know that Marco is living in Hisato; if anything should happen that the boy would be in need of assistance, he is nearby.
Not that it helped before.
But he can't think on that.
Instead, he focuses upon the utter frustration borne from his struggles with weaving his damned roof.
It is not his fault that he has no aptitude for this basic life skill. His parents had done their best to teach him: what sort of plants were appropriate to use, how tightly to bind them, and so on. He knows what was required in this. But knowing procedural detail is completely different from a more essential understanding. A primarily example of this: he could fly his fighter in any battle situation, possessing an intimate knowledge of just what to do at just the right moment to avoid getting ripped apart by Dracon fire by a mere hair's breadth. To him, it is as natural as breathing. But to transfer that almost instinctual understanding? Impossible.
He is nearly finished weaving the roof (as best as he is able, anyway) when he smells it coming. The instinctual urge to race about confirms it, and the dissonance between that instinct and his dismay threatens to coalesce into a headache.
And then, mere minutes later, the clouds break open and a torrential rain soaks through everything. He watches in helpless disgust as the delicate balance of thickened mud and plant sap that he'd mixed for a cementing paste is churned up and thoroughly ruined.
Sometimes he hates the rain.
Status: Closed
Style: Third, present
Where: The woods outside of Hisato
When: Week 11, Day 7, late afternoon
Rating: G?
Warnings: Sad Andalite in the rain. (I am so sorry for the MacArthur Park reference. But then again, I'm not.)
When he was young, he remembers adoring the infrequent storms on his homeworld. How the wind would whistle, how the trees would dance -- but most of all, he remembers how his parents would try to keep him under the protection of their scoop, but ultimately indulge in his childish glee at prancing about it the rain and join him. It was much later in his life when he realized that they had probably only done so to protect him from the worst of the storm, to keep him from doing such things as running straight into a particularly deep mud hole and getting stuck, as he once had in his youth.
But still, he cherishes those memories of his parents.
It it the thought of his parents and the rain, however, that also brings him a twinge of shame in his current predicament.
This is the third time he has attempted to rebuild the poor excuse for a scoop he'd built upon his decision to remain here, in the woods beyond Hisato. It is an ideal place to establish residence, as far as he's concerned. The grass is sweet, and the waterfall not too far off is a pleasant reminder of camping trips with his Loren. It is also a comfort to know that Marco is living in Hisato; if anything should happen that the boy would be in need of assistance, he is nearby.
Not that it helped before.
But he can't think on that.
Instead, he focuses upon the utter frustration borne from his struggles with weaving his damned roof.
It is not his fault that he has no aptitude for this basic life skill. His parents had done their best to teach him: what sort of plants were appropriate to use, how tightly to bind them, and so on. He knows what was required in this. But knowing procedural detail is completely different from a more essential understanding. A primarily example of this: he could fly his fighter in any battle situation, possessing an intimate knowledge of just what to do at just the right moment to avoid getting ripped apart by Dracon fire by a mere hair's breadth. To him, it is as natural as breathing. But to transfer that almost instinctual understanding? Impossible.
He is nearly finished weaving the roof (as best as he is able, anyway) when he smells it coming. The instinctual urge to race about confirms it, and the dissonance between that instinct and his dismay threatens to coalesce into a headache.
And then, mere minutes later, the clouds break open and a torrential rain soaks through everything. He watches in helpless disgust as the delicate balance of thickened mud and plant sap that he'd mixed for a cementing paste is churned up and thoroughly ruined.
Sometimes he hates the rain.