38th of Glade
Vivian lay on his back on his bed, turning one of the blacksmith puzzles around in his fingers. He was looking at the mechanisms, how the little pieces of metal moved and shifted. There were the basics here of the fulcrum, torsion and pressure. A little pressure here would lock up the entire puzzle. A little torsion here would release another piece or make another drop into place. He looked over at his infusion set; he’d yet to use it, but he didn’t quite have the inspiration yet. He hung the blacksmith puzzle loosely from his fingers, and eyed his fingers.
He curled one experimentally. Now that was interesting. Why did fingers have a set range of movement like that? He dropped the puzzle to his chest with a tinkle of metal. His fingers grasped one set of digits with the other, and bent them backwards. He paid close attention to the muscles and tendons flexing under the skin. He popped his knuckles, feeling tension diffuse out of his joints. There was a maximum set range of movement, seemingly restrained by the tendons. They were elastic but there was a certain point they just wouldn’t stretch anymore, ceasing the movement. They were tough and strong, meant to last a lifetime, and seemingly melded into his muscles seamlessly.
He flexed a finger again. Muscles worked by tensing up, becoming smaller. So when he curled his fingers into a cat’s paw, all the muscles on the undersides of his fingers tensed and the ones on too relaxed, stretching to accommodate the movement but not strained because of it.
Huh. He rotated his wrist. Now that was more of a mystery. His own body shouldn’t be a mystery to him, he should know it as well as any other form! Was this what had captivated men of science? To learn and move and breathe like this? Maybe the lungs he was inflating were really just bags, stretching as the muscles in his stomach pushed out. That was some sort of negative pressure, then. Experimentally, he pressed his tongue against his teeth, creating a seal, then pulled back. Air rushed in through a gap in his lips, alleviating the pressure and filling his cheeks with air. Another push of his tongue, and out the air went. That must be how lungs work.
He wanted to learn more. A Malformist had to know all the intimate details of the bodies he turned into; why didn’t that stretch to himself? Maybe he did need to know himself better just in case he got stuck, or needed to find his way back. Maybe remembering his fingers, or his lungs, or his tongue would be the thing to change him back.
At dinner, they had roast game hens. Vivian looked at the steaming bird in front of him. Once, he might have ripped into it and stuffed all of it in before someone could take it from him. Now, his mind was on science. He’d been thinking all day. He leaned forward and peeled the skin back with his fork, carefully so as not to tear the breast or confuse any of the anatomy. The skin he wrapped around the fork and popped into his mouth, chewing as he inspected the two huge sheaves of muscle steaming with butter and spices. He could smell thyme and roasted garlic tickling his nose and making saliva flood his mouth. God he loved eating like a princess.
The two large breasts were connected to the wings, which he carefully skinned. His fingers stuck the scraps of crispy, brown skin in his mouth as he worked, and experimentally he flexed the wings out. Huh. Even cooked, the muscle still moved a little bit. Not enough to animate anything, but enough to let Vivian get an idea of the movement. That was how birds flew, and he bet that was why they had such a big breast. But what did they attach to? He carefully scooped out one of the breasts, stuffing it in his mouth and licking his thumb. There was a rib cage, and a gigantic sternum that served as attachment points for those breasts.
He removed one muscle from the wings. There was the shoulder muscle, to facilitate powerful downward strokes of the wings. Travelling upward, still strong forearms but the bones were so light. Almost airy. The last digit was a bit difficult to skin, and he had to give up. Vivian flapped the bony wing, watching the tendons that kept them attached stretch. Amazing.
“Vivian…” he heard the exhausted voice of the maid. “What are you doing? Quit playing with your food.”
Vivian looked up and smiled sheepishly. “Just studying.” He said innocently. “Maybe I want to look at bones other than the one in Lucas’ pants.”
He heard a loud, awkward gurgle. A cough, and a muttered apology as Lucas tried to exhale the wine he’d just snorted. Vivian smiled sweetly at the porter. He was young, but Vivian was slowly teaching him the ropes. Yesterday had been such a nice little relaxation session…his eyes raked up and down Lucas briefly before turning his attention back to his own plate.
Once he got his legs around that slim waist his education would hit another level.
He turned his attention back to his meal and finished off the other breast and wing, looking at the finished rib cage. Such light and delicate ribs, strong upper arms and delicate forearms. The hips were…oddly nonexistent. Once he carefully stripped the thighs of skin and meat, there was a rotating ball joint attached to a hip unlike any other he’d seen. He finished off the other bone and flipped the bird over on his plate. There it was. The backbone was fused after only a few vertebrae, becoming one huge saddle-like piece around the hip area. It was riddled with holes, likely to make it lighter for flight. Vivian stripped meat off of either side of the back, popping the oysters in his mouth as he examined the scapulae of the bird.
“You better quit that or she’s going to get angry.” Lucas hissed next to him, elbowing him.
“I’m just looking.” Vivian reached out and ran a hand up Lucas’ thigh. The porter blushed hotly and scooted his chair away when Vivian’s hand got a bit too close. Vivian winked at him. “I’m almost done.”
“What are you two whispering about? Just eat, while all of us are still young. Lucas, I need you to buy some more wine for the kitchen, and see what the chef’s cooking the next week or so. We should be having a visitor in the next two weeks and I want this household spotless.” The maid told him sharply, and gestured with her fork at Vivian. “You.”
“Me.” Vivian cocked an eyebrow.
“You stay out of sight. In your room fiddling around with whatever it is you do here. Is that clear?” She asked in a pinched tone. Vivian couldn’t resist teasing her.
“Can I fiddle around with the porter?” He grinned. A panicked squeak from Lucas. Gods, he was almost too easy to tease. Poor boy was probably from some sheltered merchant family and had never been to the slums. He probably thought serving in a Veir’s household was a step up, similar to what Vivian plotted. Oh, but he was so naive. Hopefully he’d continue to be a good servant and he wouldn’t find himself flayed open by Degare. He could see the Veir having an alarming amount of fun.
The maid’s face wasn’t moving. She wasn’t taking the bait. “He has a job to do that involves having his pants buttoned.” She said sternly. “Finish your dinner and help with dishes, Vivian. And if you try to sneak off again for another fake mule emergency I’ll beat you black.”
Vivian rolled his eyes. He was no stranger to threats. He gave a dramatic sigh and picked up his bare plate. The maid picked up her own and held it out expectantly; Vivian took it. “We serve from the left and collect from the right. Don’t take my plate from the left again.” She added without looking at him.
Would Degare notice if one pinched bitch of a maid went missing? Vivian eyed her. Probably. He headed into the kitchen and dumped the bone scraps into a bucket, adding the dirty dishes to a pan of soapy water.
“Oh Ho, look at you scrubbing. What did you do to piss her off this time?” The cook chuckled, adding some of the pans from cooking the meal to Vivian’s water and offering him a sponge. Vivian started scrubbing.
“I hate this; makes my nails crack. You know…my hands are occupied but…” he looked over his shoulder and smiled at the cook.
The man laughed and clapped him on the shoulder. “Good try lad, soaps in the dish there. What did you think of the hens? Good right? I poached them in white wine.”
“Maybe I could help sometime?” Vivian asked, thinking back to the hen.
“That bad?”
“No! No no it was excellent. I just…want to see how they work. Before they’re cooked.” Vivian said awkwardly, rinsing out the poultry pan in fresh water and laying it aside to dry.
“Starting to sound like a Necromancer, boy. Eh, suppose it can’t do any harm.” The cook shrugged. “Long as it’s alright with the Veir.”
“I mean, I’m here to study.” Vivian shrugged.
“Fair point, lad. See you tomorrow evening then.”
