Easily Tilted [Closed]
Posted: November 2nd, 2019, 4:39 am
(( Southeastern farmlands outside city limits, specifically on the boundary of the Levenson plot. It's already late afternoon on a hot day to boot, which does absolutely nothing to help anyone's mood; Val would much rather be indoors, slinging back drinks at a pub, and the silent and stoic Mr. Levenson is clearly a saint to still be out there with her. Obviously needing help, maybe a wanderer like @Galynhun-Khan Tinnudir might happen by? ))
"-no, really, how did you break this?!" the slightly miffed gal dressed far too warm for a balmy day in the sun asked of the exasperated farmer. "The moving bits, I get - those wear out quickly enough. But the spine?! I've never heard of that one!" It should be noted that, had her family heard her, they would all recoil in second-hand embarrassment for the use of the term 'spine' on a mechanical object. The remaining Bellamy family feels obligated to inform everyone that they never have, have not, and never will, refer to a piece of core mechanical structuring as a 'spine' - that one was all Val.
"..." Mr. Levenson replied, still as focused as ever. He paused only to dab the sweat from his brow with a kerchief, not even slightly bothered by her impertinent complaining as he set to work realigning the leg of the windmill. A pen of goats sat bleating nearby; it was reasonable that he was accustomed to filtering out noise.
"... Ya sure you've aligned the, uh, spinny bits just fine?" Val tried again, accomplishing a grand thirty-two seconds of silence before she felt compelled to assist in the only meaningful way she could: rushing him through the current step. He was up on a ladder, you see. She was down on the ground, trying to 'hold' the support-leg in place. The windmill had been damaged very strangely: all the blades and important parts at the top had been completely fine. Even the other three poles serving as supports for the windmill had been fine. It was only the one odd one that had buckled and crunched at a delirious angle and knocked the thing off-kilter.
"I told you," the landowner answered belatedly, "it was that thunderstorm last week that broke it - Lahiel's Breath, I swear She was trying to tear the whole damned roof off!"
Val glanced to the farmhouse on the property and indulged his wild gesturing, but it just looked like a house to her. Didn't see anything amiss, especially on the roof. Even the other windmills had all been fine - if anything looked storm-ravaged, it was the corner of the goat pen with a fresh coat of paint, or the vacant soil near the Griffinwing Peppers. Truthfully, there was nothing specific about the pepper patch that turned her head - it just looked like farmerly things to her. What bothered her was the itch she felt in her bones whether she thought of them or not. That strange pull she normally felt in people, not plants.
Crrr-
And then the ground started to shift.
"Hey!" and Mr. Levenson was shouting.
Crrrr-auuuuuuu-
And then the metal was groaning in its labourious language and the windmill was tilting, and Val realized that the metal 'spine' she was supposed to be holding had shifted, and not just turned a little bit - it had slipped her hands completely.
"I said hold it steady," he barked again, somewhere between irate and clinging for dear life as the windmill's fourth leg fell nearly out of reach, the rest of it threatening to collapse the same way.
"It's too heavy," the bard with sweat stains in her beloved purple jacket excused instead, straining now to try and persuade the pole back into place. "How about you hold it, and I go up and lock in the frame?!"
"And let it all drop now?!" came the obvious reply. Val had clearly not thought it through too much: the windmill was nearly on the verge of falling apart, split as it was with the stray support. The three legs had been precariously balanced already for the top-heavy weight just for Mr. Levenson to work as he had. With her momentary daydreaming, the two of them fussing was all the windmill could take to not topple over entirely.
(( Mr. Levenson: #61788e ))
"-no, really, how did you break this?!" the slightly miffed gal dressed far too warm for a balmy day in the sun asked of the exasperated farmer. "The moving bits, I get - those wear out quickly enough. But the spine?! I've never heard of that one!" It should be noted that, had her family heard her, they would all recoil in second-hand embarrassment for the use of the term 'spine' on a mechanical object. The remaining Bellamy family feels obligated to inform everyone that they never have, have not, and never will, refer to a piece of core mechanical structuring as a 'spine' - that one was all Val.
"..." Mr. Levenson replied, still as focused as ever. He paused only to dab the sweat from his brow with a kerchief, not even slightly bothered by her impertinent complaining as he set to work realigning the leg of the windmill. A pen of goats sat bleating nearby; it was reasonable that he was accustomed to filtering out noise.
"... Ya sure you've aligned the, uh, spinny bits just fine?" Val tried again, accomplishing a grand thirty-two seconds of silence before she felt compelled to assist in the only meaningful way she could: rushing him through the current step. He was up on a ladder, you see. She was down on the ground, trying to 'hold' the support-leg in place. The windmill had been damaged very strangely: all the blades and important parts at the top had been completely fine. Even the other three poles serving as supports for the windmill had been fine. It was only the one odd one that had buckled and crunched at a delirious angle and knocked the thing off-kilter.
"I told you," the landowner answered belatedly, "it was that thunderstorm last week that broke it - Lahiel's Breath, I swear She was trying to tear the whole damned roof off!"
Val glanced to the farmhouse on the property and indulged his wild gesturing, but it just looked like a house to her. Didn't see anything amiss, especially on the roof. Even the other windmills had all been fine - if anything looked storm-ravaged, it was the corner of the goat pen with a fresh coat of paint, or the vacant soil near the Griffinwing Peppers. Truthfully, there was nothing specific about the pepper patch that turned her head - it just looked like farmerly things to her. What bothered her was the itch she felt in her bones whether she thought of them or not. That strange pull she normally felt in people, not plants.
Crrr-
And then the ground started to shift.
"Hey!" and Mr. Levenson was shouting.
Crrrr-auuuuuuu-
And then the metal was groaning in its labourious language and the windmill was tilting, and Val realized that the metal 'spine' she was supposed to be holding had shifted, and not just turned a little bit - it had slipped her hands completely.
"I said hold it steady," he barked again, somewhere between irate and clinging for dear life as the windmill's fourth leg fell nearly out of reach, the rest of it threatening to collapse the same way.
"It's too heavy," the bard with sweat stains in her beloved purple jacket excused instead, straining now to try and persuade the pole back into place. "How about you hold it, and I go up and lock in the frame?!"
"And let it all drop now?!" came the obvious reply. Val had clearly not thought it through too much: the windmill was nearly on the verge of falling apart, split as it was with the stray support. The three legs had been precariously balanced already for the top-heavy weight just for Mr. Levenson to work as he had. With her momentary daydreaming, the two of them fussing was all the windmill could take to not topple over entirely.
(( Mr. Levenson: #61788e ))