singillatim | Your demeanor should be all cheer, gentlemen.

The thaw is meager, but just enough that Crozier makes good on his promises to construct a fishing weir in one of the smaller bends of a half-frozen river. It's a simple concept, just rocks stacked like a dam and baskets to catch what swims through, but the yield is promising. Promising enough that he posts a message to the community board, encouraging others to come and take whatever they can carry back to their homes to eat and cure.

The thaw won't last, but Crozier's already making plans to avoid starvation and disease. He spent the last month being bitter in his isolation, his recuperation from his wounds difficult and exhausting, but whatever disappointment he experienced after the town hall has been replaced by concern once more.

For all those bad feelings from before, he doesn't want to see these people suffer.

The fishing weir is open for the community to take from, with Crozier and sometimes Raju there to assist with the fishing and mend any breaks in the weir itself. He moves a lot easier than he has in weeks prior, smiles more readily. He loads everyone's arms up with fish and sometimes the herbs and roots he's gathered and sends them on their way.

It is Crozier's habit to sit with strangers he comes across while trekking through the wilderness, so being invited to sit by a fire and just talk a while doesn't ring any sort of his usual alarms. Such is the nature of the woman, curious and soft-spoken, distant in so many ways that speaks of harsh winters and a difficult life, that Crozier sits and chooses a drink without much thought.

After a few sips in she's gone, almost like she was never there to begin with, save for the dying fire and the cup still in his hand.

Hands.

Hands.

Crozier jumps to his feet with a yell, his hair falling over his face. His entire body is suddenly missing its usual aches and pains, the numbness missing from his fingertips, the sudden energy of a younger man returning to him. He's young again, but to hell with that, he has both of his hands! He all but bolts back to his cabin with the cup still clutched in his left hand.

Later on, when he's had some time to process, he decides to take advantage of the two hands and the general excess energy. He ventures into Milton, feeling very much in his 30s with his ridiculous hair and long muttonchops. Christ, what was he thinking.

Randvi has had a similar experience to Francis in that she'd accepted tea from an old woman in the forest and had her scars erased and her eye returned. Unlike Francis, she did not retain her memories of her time in Milton.

She's unwound that stodgy old-lady braid in favour of her preferred high ponytail style and rearranged her clothing, which is all slightly too large, in a way that her 19-year-old self believes is more flattering by the time she arrives in the village.

She marches up directly to the first person she sees. What a strange looking man.

"What manner of man are you?"

Its in the last few days of July (after his assassination attempt if Crozier might have heard) when Levi comes to check out the weir. He's not really sure what one is, but Croizer asked for help so he heads over, carrying a bucket and a kitchen knife.

It takes a brief moment to recognize the young lady in front of him, which probably doesn’t help dissuade any misgivings she may have of him, squinting and frowning in her direction as he is.

“Randvi?” His question is implied in his inflection - you as well? That old woman and her magical teas must have been an epidemic. Serves them right for being so trusting. “It’s Francis.”

Crozier has been blessedly out of the loop when it comes to the Forest Talkers and the kidnapping and anything that may-or-may-not have happened after, so when he sees Levi he’s all warmth and cheer. The same cannot be said about Raju, who is also working at the weir but decidedly not going out of his way to greet anyone who comes along.

“Levi, my lad, you came!” He smiles, face clean-shaven and outfit surprisingly modern. His feet are bare, trousers rolled up to the tops of his shins, and he’s wading through the cold waters of the river.

Levi's fine with not being greeted by Raju; he doesn't have anything against the man but they haven't always gotten along in the past. He waves to Crozier. "Yeah, I figured I could help. I don't know what a fishing weir is but I'm sure I can do something."

It's not a surprise that this man knows her name. Everyone knows her father, Arne Jarl. They have the biggest army in eastern Norway!

This man is strange, though. Perhaps a trader?

“That isn't a real name.”

For all that he dislikes the long journey through the mines to get Lakeside, that only makes what Crozier's done — and what he's offering — all the more a priority of Irving's to assist with. Truth be told, he's held a bit of an internalized... fear? Complex? Paranoia? ever since he'd first uncovered the true extent of ruin awaiting them in their own provisions aboard Terror, too haunted by the Goldner's fiasco to not try taking a somewhat more proactive role in supply management this time; he is adequate enough when it comes to hunting game, fishing, and foraging, but keeping track of and running the numbers on their various stock and rations — how much is there, how many people it can service and for how long, according to varying circumstantial factors — is where he truly thrives most.

It simply makes him more comfortable to involve himself now, to have any amount of control over ensuring their rations remain as robust as possible in the hopes of avoiding further disaster. (Lucky though he is — in a way — to have missed the worst of how the crew came to devouring itself in mutiny, and then later in more unspeakable, literal ways, he isn't so naive not to understand the dangers of a restless, fearful mob losing themselves to hunger.) He is glad enough, of course, for another opportunity to perhaps prove himself favorably in the eyes of his former captain at last, but his motivation is not approval this time, just that it feels right for him to do.

Still, he approaches the riverside with some reserve, dragging a sledge behind him which he's stacked several empty produce baskets upon. He greets Crozier with his usual awkward formality, tipping his hat deferentially before replacing it upon his head.

"What a welcome sight this is, indeed," he continues, smiling with more genuine warmth at whatever yield Crozier has already collected. "I should be able to make several trips back to town like this, for whatever we find."

Crozier's spending the day smoke-curing a good number of the fish he's pulled out of the weir. It's one of the last few days of warm weather - not that he knows that for certain yet - but summer is drawing to an end and they're still far enough north for that to mean a quick slide back into winter. He has to prepare, so that's what he's doing while he can.

He hasn't seen his wolf-friend in a while, assuming it was just some odd fluke that first time with someone's wayward dog.

Edited 2024-08-12 00:29 (UTC)

Hickey's gotten a system down-pat. Stuff his clothes in a waterproof backpack he's found. Stuff his backpack up a tree or among some rocks or somewhere hidden yet easy to remember. Freeze in the cold for a few moments, buckass naked, before turning into a wolf.

He's treating this as a reward. Set up the traps first, check on any he's got already, make a note of any that have any a body or two. If so, bring them home. If not? Kill some time by practicing to be a wolf.

He didn't plan on heading back towards Crozier's place. Hickey knew that if Billy learned about this, he'd murder Hickey in his sleep. And yet...he finds himself following the smell of cooked fish. When Hickey spots Crozier smoking fish, he can't help but wag his tail slightly before trotting over towards Crozier, big puppy dog eyes on his face.

Feed him, please.

Now that Francis is healed enough to stand and move and shoot his rifle if he needs to, Raju's let the habit of locking the door slip. It isn't one that he's used to, having spent the rest of his life more or less in earshot of anyone nearby who wanted him, and the worry had guided it more than anything else. But the worry is gone now, particularly when Francis isn't inside anyway, and so the caution is too.

Ridiculous, in retrospect. Or it will be, once Raju has the time to look back on it. Right now there's a strange man bursting into the cabin in a flurry of blonde hair and speed, a slim figure unfamiliar in the instant Raju has to recognize him, holding something in one of his hands.

Francis is the one who puts Raju's bow on its hook next to the door, and he hadn't been in when Raju had come home; before thought it's in his hands with an arrow nocked in it.

"Stop," he orders in a deep, impersonal voice. "What do you want?"

"It's a fish trap." Crozier carefully moves across the slick rocks at the bottom of this shallow part of the river, wading up the rocky shore to meet him. "Dam up the water and funnel the fish through to be caught more easily. You'll have plenty to bring back with you."

"Oh." He looks over the contraption that they've set up in the river. "That's a pretty good idea. Do you think it'd work in a lake? I guess I don't know how it would..."

For his part Crozier is pleased to see John Irving, as he has been for most of their interactions, however brief or casual they might have been. It was a great shame he'd never allowed himself to be social or particularly warm with his officers - lord knows Irving's particular brand of zealotry was more grating than endearing when he was so fully in his cups - as he'd missed out on the men they were, and had to content himself with only remembering their ghosts. Not so anymore for him, with all these individual miracles casually walking about town -- now's the time to appreciate these people he'd so taken for granted.

"The sledge's a clever idea," he replies, surveying the number of baskets with a few appreciative nods. "If we harvest and cure enough we'll have a reasonable supply to last the winter."

He trusts him with said rations, as he had on the ships, as he had in the walk out. If he supplies it then John Irving can manage the lot for the people in the town, should they choose not to harvest for themselves.

He blinks. Ah. So it's not a matter of just not recognizing him, she doesn't know him.

Wonderful. Marvelous.

"It's what I'm called, so real or not that's what I answer to," he replies, feeling surprisingly annoyed by the exchange. She can't even appreciate that he has his hand returned to him, just like he can't properly appreciate the eye that's been returned to her. It seems horribly unfair.

Looking back on it he probably should have entered the cabin cautiously, but how was he to know he looked so different as to be almost unrecognizable? He hasn't encountered a mirror yet, let alone a surface reflective enough to see the sharp face and lean figure. He didn't realize that walking through the door like he typically would, because this is the home that he lives in, would cause such a stir.

His hands immediately go up, raised about level with his shoulders as he looks at Ram in utter bewilderment. Jesus Christ, that voice. It's bone-chilling. "Rama," he calls back to him. "Rama, it's Francis! Put down the bloody bow!"

Edited 2024-08-12 02:11 (UTC)

As odd as it should be that he was just thinking about the wolf when it happens to appear through the treeline, Crozier really doesn't think anything of it. Stranger things have happened in this place other than well-timed animal appearances.

"Mouse," he says with a soft chuckle, "you're back. Were you just waiting to be fed, is that it?"

Crozier wipes his hand onto a cloth and tucks it into his back trouser pocket. "I suppose you're wanting some of these fish, after I've done all the work."

“Where did you come from?” Randvi demands. No Norseman would dress like that. “Are we still in Graenafylke?”

Second chances are indeed a rare blessing, which Irving tries to remind himself whenever the circumstances here seem almost too bleak and overwhelming to be worth it. However much this new life, these Northern Territories, may often seem themselves to be a strange form of Hell or Limbo to him, a desolate place where God can neither hear nor reach them, there is still at least enough here to sustain them for the foreseeable future: food, shelter, infrastructure, and, to some extent, even community.

Irving can't imagine how he might have coped here if not for the relief of a familiar face, if not for the grounding presences of Crozier and Little, Jopson and even Goodsir (however much Irving no longer knows what to think of Gibson anymore). He'd taken so many things for granted before, himself— similarly, even, for how few of the other men he'd been able to successfully connect with over the course of the expedition, his ascetic demeanor and reputation as an 'anchorite' clearly doing him no favors, but people do bring their habits aboard.

At sea, a man can find spiritual benefit in the collective.

At sea, and perhaps also any place, any remote, desperate community, where no man ever survives by faith alone.

"Thank you, sir," he says with a tentative smile, unloading the baskets so they're evenly spaced for loading. "I-if I might be so bold— perhaps we might also try to bury some of the meat so that it freezes. Within a pot of some kind, so that the contents will be preserved."

And assuming it stays cold enough, but that much seems a reasonably sound expectation by this point. Irving bites the inside of his cheek almost as soon as he's finished speaking, wondering if the suggestion is foolish, but also recalling similar techniques he'd heard of during his brief time as a farmer. The conditions had been radically different, of course — he has no idea if ever gets cold enough in Australia to preserve meat this way — and he hadn't actually been a very good farmer, but still; if they can use the frigid climate to their advantage in such a way, all the better.

That lilting voice, as familiar to him at this point as if he's been hearing it all of his life, coming out of someone unfamiliar, a body he's thinking of more as a threat than anything else, raises goosepimples over Raju's arms. Narrowed eyes widen. Deeply embedded instinct keeps him from moving the bow aside while he's frozen this way but the expression of hard-edged, impersonal focus has disappeared into very personal shock.

Raju's gaze darts here and there over — well, over the face in front of him, whoever's it is. Cleft chin and wide lips, thin with that sweet familiar curve. Long, graceful nose, forehead made broad with that reluctant hairline, despite the way the hair itself falls long around his face.

Raju lowers the bow away from the man he'd been completely, thoughtlessly prepared to shoot. He looks dumbly at the arrow in his hand for a moment, then up to— to Francis and throws the bow and arrow aside, striding forward. He hesitates before touching him, hand moving to rub the material at the shoulder between his fingers instead.

"Clothes are the same," he says, very faintly. "I should have..." The rest of the sentence gets lost in his frowning stare at Francis' face, familiar and not. "What..."

Mouse. He still loathes that name. But he's perfectly fine being Mouse if it lets him learn more about Crozier and score a little bit of food.

It's odd seeing his former captain like this. He's never seen Crozier so...gentle. He was a bitter drunk and by the time he had sobered up, Hickey was already planning the mutiny. He was already set against this man who he still adored and looked up to and wanted him to see Hickey's potential.

So yeah, it's objectively weird that this wolf who's secretly a person is trotting up to Crozier, tail wagging, looking at both the fish and Crozier with equal measures of excitement. But again. Stranger things have happened in this place.

“It would, but a current helps a great deal. The river does most of the work, whereas a lake might not have the kind of yield that would be worth the effort.”

He supposes if the lake was chockablock full of fish it might be worth the hassle of construction; he’s not sure, he hasn’t thought about it much.

"I guess that makes sense. So what did you want help with?"

He smiles softly; only John Irving would think that sort of thoughtful and fairly mild suggestion ‘bold’.

“I take it you’ve spoken with Constable Fraser?” Sensible, good-natured sort, he assumes Irving would have crossed paths with him and probably hit it off well. “He built a smoke. Felled the tree by hand and all. I say we try your method - if anything it’ll preserve our firewood and some of our energy.”

He leaves Irving to his baskets and starts back out to the dam and the collection pools, pulling off his boots and socks one-handed and wading back out into the water. It’s cold, but it isn’t cold enough to lose a toe. Everything is relative.

“You can stand at the shore, John, I’ll hand you the catch.”

Your demeanor should be all cheer, gentlemen.

The Fishing Weir

Tea Time - Birch Bark Edition

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

Crozier's Dumb Dog - Closed to Crozier and Crozier's Weird Dog

just a totally normal dog

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

MA! MA, THAT WEIRD DOG IS BACK

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject