Hummmmmm.
Maybe I should be worried now.
Libby may have tasked me with watching over our son (she was quite emphatic about the watching part), but I do have duties above and beyond digging. I'm kinda the leader of this expedition, like it or not, and I have to consult with Plato on our route.
The route has changed a little bit since we hit the Imperium. Ever since I granted Plato a reprieve from his house arrest he's been especially eager to keep me happy, and to that end he's provided as many details as possible about the lands between here and Iko's desert. What was once a direct route trek, thanks to some additional help from Edmund, turned into a wiggling detour past most centres of trade.
Why? Several reasons, but they largely boil down to avoiding the Imperium's roaming armies. We haven't seen any troops since crossing the border, but Ed has repeatedly driven home that the Imperium's military is enormous. Enormous, and, as we already know, well-armed. We don't want to bring 'em down on our heads. I'm sure they're more worried about keeping the Non away from their borders, and I'd like their priority list to remain as is.
Consequently, we need to keep a strict eye on our supplies. Resupply trips are gonna be few and far between, and though we do have lots of food and drink, I don't wanna press our luck. I've already curtailed some of Bora's more extravagent dishes, and when she insists on a particular meal, I send hunters out to tackle migrating herds. Just this morning three hunters took on a group of wandering kangaroos (actual kangaroos, not bloody werewolves in disguise), and though we may be eating kangaroo burgers tonight, it was a grim spectacle.
This is all meant to preface a visit to the storage rooms in Engineering. I went to check on supplies; I stayed to worry about my son.
Ed at my side, a clipboard in his hands, we entered food storage during a discussion about how we like our kangaroo burgers, both of us salivating.
""'tis much far better still, / They be heated on grill."
"Grill? We don't have a grill. Settle for a cauldron patty, man. Cauldron patties are the best. Form 'em up, stick 'em in a mould... mmmmm. Damn."
"Far too sloppy a treat! / Never douse such fine meat!"
"Obviously you've never had a good cauldron patty. See, you take the burger and you... turn it... into... a... sword...?"
We stopped, gaping. Sitting in the midst of storage, a dripping scimitar in his hand, was Fynn. He'd formed the sword out of densely-packed feta cheese, and was in the process of adding a crude hilt with his pudgey hands. Plato jittered at his side, the rat on his head, both of them waving for Fynn to stop with virtually zero success.
When he saw me, Fynn raised the delicious blade in salute. "Daaaaah! Wook swod! Wook swod!"
I goggled at him, only somewhat aware that Ed was gone from my side.
The sword was harmless, of course, and did not last long. After a single swipe a large portion of the blade flew off and exploded, and two swipes later the rest of the sword disintegrated in Fynn's hands. He bawled for a solid twenty minutes, and it took candy bribery to calm him down.
Fynn's back to normal. Hasn't shown any further proclivity for swingin' swords around, or anything else.
But... still...
When Eve was born, I took her to the market at Castle LongGone. She showed an inordinate interest in sharpened weapons. Shortly thereafter, her interest turned to a bloody love of killing.
Fynn is not Eve. Fynn has the temperament of a child. I'm not blind, not like I was when I had Eve.
But...
This is worrying. Very worrying.
Sincerely,
Dragomir the Wanderer
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