Milkshake Remix for Sly
Vanilla #12. Storm with Cookie Crumbs, Whipped Cream, Milkshake, and Malt
Story : Sub Rosa
Rating : G
Word Count : 793
Malt Prompt : Milkshake Remix - Sly's Homesick
Ardre has to be one of my favorites of Sly's characters, and this had to be one of my favorite pieces of hers. When trying to come up with one to remix for her, it leapt to mind.
Ardre padded through the double doors, bare feet slapping on the damp clay. Overhead, the last traces of the storm trickled from the gutter with a drip, drop, splat. He tossed his head back and opened his mouth wide. The night filled him with a breath so fresh, he’d swear the air was all but green, as every stalk and fiber in the ground reached out for its share of the life poured down from above. Ardre closed his eyes and took in gulp after gulp of the stuff, nostrils burning and lungs straining to pull that precious bit of green from the rest. Hands tucked up the great, floppy sleeves of his oversized pajamas to ward off the chill of the breeze, he crept along the wall.
He paused at a puddle at the corner, where the murky water collected with its slow, uneven splash and plop. A set of long, green toes poked their way out of the rumpled bottom of his pants to prod the surface. Glossy water rippled over nails and joints, and he set them down with a soft splat that brought the cool, black ooze from the bottom sliding up between them.
Ardre wrinkled his nose. In Compossius, the muck would have been green, rife with algea, teeming with life, not this pitiful grey sludge. But this was not Compossius, and one could not be too particular when presented with such limited options. He dragged his other foot to the water, submerged it with a slow, wet swish that sent a spray of slick, black drops up the legs of his pants, and sighed.
He gave the shallow puddle a kick, watched it rain its inky contents on the ground before him, and quietly moved on. His feet trailed a stream of wet behind them as he shuffled along the perimeter of the courtyard, pajama bottoms squishing and sloshing about his ankles. He let one slender hand fall from its sleeve to trace the bricks of the outer wall. In Compossius, there would be reeds, row upon row of them, bobbing in the breeze, tall and pointy, soft and fluffy. Ardre plucked at the crusty grout between the blocks with his nail and sighed again.
The training grounds came into view, the earth, churned and worn low by so many passing feet, awash with the remains of the storm. Sparse tufts of green angled their way up over the glossy surface that ebbed and rippled in the faint night winds, the flickering light of the torches rolling over it all. His feet sank deeper with each step he took towards it.
He ambled on like some mindless creature, drawn to the filthy puddle as if it were a beacon of inescapable wonder. This was no bit of heaven, he reminded himself, not his beloved home. No, this was but the poorest of substitutes and would simply have to do.
In Compossius, he would have gone running to meet the water, tumbling down the bank. Instead, his feet the edge of the puddle with an anticlimactic splat.
In Compossius, the reeds would have bowed and waved their eager greeting, and the water enveloped him in its rich murky bosom. Sickly grey mud the consistency of poorly strained batter lapped his shins as he blundered on, and he blinked back what most have been a drop that had fallen from the roof onto his head as he’d passed beneath.
In Compossius, the frogs, the bugs would have sung him a song, a wild and soaring chorus, that only the cry of all of nature in unison could muster. He fell to his knees and the flurry of cold, wet black that assaulted the air and splattered his arms and chest was the only sound that met his ears.
He could almost smell it, almost taste it. Almost. If he wasn’t choking, blinking. If it wasn’t all so fake. If he could just remember what it was really supposed to be like. He thrust his hands beneath the water, clenched them in the goo, brought it up by the handful, and put them to his face.
Mud slid, thick and black, down his cheeks. It clung to his hair. It dripped, cold and wet, over his shoulders, and he breathed a long, shuddering sigh.
“Ardre?”
He jumped, thick clumps of earth flying off of him to rain back down over the ground.
“Why are you sitting in mud?“
He eyed the pair of spattered shoes at the edge of the puddle and floundered for words. The boots picked their way closer. A small, pink hand reached for his shoulder, a green cotton foot dangling in the air.
“Ardre?”
“I like the mud, okay?” he said, . “It reminds me of…things.”
Story : Sub Rosa
Rating : G
Word Count : 793
Malt Prompt : Milkshake Remix - Sly's Homesick
Ardre has to be one of my favorites of Sly's characters, and this had to be one of my favorite pieces of hers. When trying to come up with one to remix for her, it leapt to mind.
Ardre padded through the double doors, bare feet slapping on the damp clay. Overhead, the last traces of the storm trickled from the gutter with a drip, drop, splat. He tossed his head back and opened his mouth wide. The night filled him with a breath so fresh, he’d swear the air was all but green, as every stalk and fiber in the ground reached out for its share of the life poured down from above. Ardre closed his eyes and took in gulp after gulp of the stuff, nostrils burning and lungs straining to pull that precious bit of green from the rest. Hands tucked up the great, floppy sleeves of his oversized pajamas to ward off the chill of the breeze, he crept along the wall.
He paused at a puddle at the corner, where the murky water collected with its slow, uneven splash and plop. A set of long, green toes poked their way out of the rumpled bottom of his pants to prod the surface. Glossy water rippled over nails and joints, and he set them down with a soft splat that brought the cool, black ooze from the bottom sliding up between them.
Ardre wrinkled his nose. In Compossius, the muck would have been green, rife with algea, teeming with life, not this pitiful grey sludge. But this was not Compossius, and one could not be too particular when presented with such limited options. He dragged his other foot to the water, submerged it with a slow, wet swish that sent a spray of slick, black drops up the legs of his pants, and sighed.
He gave the shallow puddle a kick, watched it rain its inky contents on the ground before him, and quietly moved on. His feet trailed a stream of wet behind them as he shuffled along the perimeter of the courtyard, pajama bottoms squishing and sloshing about his ankles. He let one slender hand fall from its sleeve to trace the bricks of the outer wall. In Compossius, there would be reeds, row upon row of them, bobbing in the breeze, tall and pointy, soft and fluffy. Ardre plucked at the crusty grout between the blocks with his nail and sighed again.
The training grounds came into view, the earth, churned and worn low by so many passing feet, awash with the remains of the storm. Sparse tufts of green angled their way up over the glossy surface that ebbed and rippled in the faint night winds, the flickering light of the torches rolling over it all. His feet sank deeper with each step he took towards it.
He ambled on like some mindless creature, drawn to the filthy puddle as if it were a beacon of inescapable wonder. This was no bit of heaven, he reminded himself, not his beloved home. No, this was but the poorest of substitutes and would simply have to do.
In Compossius, he would have gone running to meet the water, tumbling down the bank. Instead, his feet the edge of the puddle with an anticlimactic splat.
In Compossius, the reeds would have bowed and waved their eager greeting, and the water enveloped him in its rich murky bosom. Sickly grey mud the consistency of poorly strained batter lapped his shins as he blundered on, and he blinked back what most have been a drop that had fallen from the roof onto his head as he’d passed beneath.
In Compossius, the frogs, the bugs would have sung him a song, a wild and soaring chorus, that only the cry of all of nature in unison could muster. He fell to his knees and the flurry of cold, wet black that assaulted the air and splattered his arms and chest was the only sound that met his ears.
He could almost smell it, almost taste it. Almost. If he wasn’t choking, blinking. If it wasn’t all so fake. If he could just remember what it was really supposed to be like. He thrust his hands beneath the water, clenched them in the goo, brought it up by the handful, and put them to his face.
Mud slid, thick and black, down his cheeks. It clung to his hair. It dripped, cold and wet, over his shoulders, and he breathed a long, shuddering sigh.
“Ardre?”
He jumped, thick clumps of earth flying off of him to rain back down over the ground.
“Why are you sitting in mud?“
He eyed the pair of spattered shoes at the edge of the puddle and floundered for words. The boots picked their way closer. A small, pink hand reached for his shoulder, a green cotton foot dangling in the air.
“Ardre?”
“I like the mud, okay?” he said, . “It reminds me of…things.”