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Story / General Furry Art
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Family Matters
© 2022 by M. Mitch Marmel
Thumbnail art by
paullucas
Part Forty-eight
Anastasia:
Elves Don’t Lie, Westersloe and I just stood there for a few moments, staring at the ice-wyrm egg as it glowed blue in its ice-covered box.
I suppose we can be forgiven for standing there and gawking, as that egg hasn’t done anything but sit there since Missy, as the Wolf Queen, brought it back from the Wild Snows as a gift from the Frost Lord years ago. But when it rocked violently from one side to the other, causing some of the frost on its case to slough off onto the floor, my mate was galvanized into action.
Westersloe tried to open the case, and finally succeeded in wrenching it open in a spray of ice chips. He then reached in, grabbed the egg, and promptly screamed.
He pulled his paws back, wincing, and I asked, “Is it hot?”
“Cold!” he yelped, wincing as he rubbed feeling back into his paws. “So cold it burns! I – I need a – “
Nippy appeared in the hallway, a thick blanket in her paws. “Master, I – “
Westersloe snatched the blanket out of her paws, and he started to wrap the egg up in it as it shifted around. That left me to thank Nippy for her help, and in the meantime the disturbance was attracting attention. Ooo-er and Missy had emerged from the dining room, with the wolfess holding a last piece of toast in one paw.
“What’s going on?” the wolfess asked. With her mouth full, I ask you.
My mate had wrestled the egg out of its case. “Windy might know what to do!” he gasped. He turned to head down the hall to the front door –
His hoof came down on a piece of ice –
With results that were entirely predictable.
To his credit, Westersloe landed flat on his back, arms wrapped around the egg to protect it. Still, we all thought that a tragedy had occurred as a sharp crack filled the air and something started moving under the blanket.
Bits of eggshell exploded out of the open end of the blanket, right in Westersloe’s face. “Whuh?” he asked, a piece of eggshell poised on the end of his nose.
The blanket rustled and fell away, and I gasped.
Well, everyone else gasped too.
A draconic head, roughly the size of a newborn fawn’s, poked out of the open end of the blanket. It was certainly pretty to look at; its scales were still a little damp, and gleamed in the sunlight coming in the window. Its colors were mainly white, with traces of teal and green visible along its jaws and down its neck.
It regarded my mate with large, bright blue eyes, nostrils flaring as it sniffed, and sniffed again.
And spoke.
“[ZNZN]!”
My ears swiveled at a strangled gasp from my daughter, and I looked up at Stella. “What – “
“[Truthfully, as a daughter must toward her mother, the ice-wyrm has called your mate ‘Mama’ in the tongue of dragon-kind],” Stella replied in Elfhamian.
This elicited a choking cough as the last of Missy’s breakfast went down the wrong way. Ooo-er started patting her mate’s back.
The little fellow opened its mouth wide, and we all gaped as a soft blue light could be seen deep in its throat before it coughed and burst of cold could be felt in the hallway.
Westersloe sneezed, and the little dragonling screamed “[ZNZN]!” and snuggled closer to my mate. Sort of instinctively, he put his arms around the newborn (new-hatched?).
All our ears swiveled as Missy suddenly laughed. The wolfess almost doubled over, laughing; when she caught her breath she said, “She said it could happen – not the way I thought, though.”
From his supine position on the floor Westersloe asked, “What?”
The wolfess giggled and sang,
“The Lady said She could do it
She did it
She did it
She said She could make you a mother
And indeed She did!
I thought She wouldn’t do it
I doubted She would do it
But now I must admit
That the deed She did!”
With that, she and Ooo-er left.
Still giggling.
Westersloe looked up at me, and then looked at the dragonling in his arms. “See what I mean?” he asked me. To the baby ice-wyrm he said, “I’ll wager you’re hungry.”
For its part, the hatchling just looked at him.
***
Winterbough:
Why me?
Well, nothing for it. The baby ice-wyrm kept looking at me, when it wasn’t nuzzling me and cooing “Mama” in Draconic. Seemed to be the only word it knew. And it was heavy, too; about the same size as a five or six year old Elflet.
It took a few moments, but I finally succeeded in sitting up. “[Stella, your father desires to know if you would do him a service].”
“[Shall I ask the Mistress of the Skies to come and attend upon you, Father, for the care and tending of the little ice-wyrm, but lately hatched]?”
“[The sweet and pure truth it is, my doe-fawn, that you have got it in one].” Stella glanced at her mother, who nodded, and she left the house while I started picking bits of eggshell out of the blanket that the new arrival was still wrapped up in.
The ice-wyrm dug its claws in when I stood up, and were it not for the blanket I think I would’ve ended up punctured. I then carried him into the kitchen.
Automaton [Little Toy] might be, but she almost had a fit when she saw me and my passenger. I finally said to her, “[Minkess, it is so that this ice-wyrm is but a hatchling, and it is the sweet and pure truth that hunger likely gnaws at its vitals. Therefore, I endeavor to feed it the fish in the larder’s cold-box, or would it gladden your mistress’ heart to see it feasting upon my flesh]?”
[Little Toy] threw up her paws and stepped aside, and I brought out some trout that had likely been set aside for Ooo-er’s dinner. Did I know what ice-wyrms eat? Of course not; I was making a wild guess that they’d eat fish in the wild.
Whether that was the standard diet up in the Wild Snows or not, the baby dragon took to it readily. Of course, I used a knife to cut the trout up a little so it wouldn’t choke.
I held up a whole fish, and pointed at it. “Fish.”
It looked at me.
It looked at the trout.
“Fish,” I repeated.
“[SRRFU!]” it yelled, making my ears go flat.
“Fish.”
“[Srrfu].”
“Has it got it?” Anastasia asked.
“Sort of,” I replied as the baby tucked into its third helping. “It keeps saying ‘feesh,’ though.”
Anastasia put a paw to her muzzle and giggled.
After putting away five full-grown trout, it murmured “[Znzn],” and curled up in my lap. It suddenly belched, and was soon asleep.
“So, what are you going to do?” Anastasia asked.
I looked up at her. “When Stella gets back with Windy, I’ll talk to her. After that,” and I shrugged, “I don’t know. It’ll be in the Lady’s paws.”
“Uh-huh,” my mate said. “I’m starting to see what you meant about Fuma playing jokes on you.”
***
The hatchling looked up at Windimere.
Windimere looked back at the hatchling.
Finally, the wyvern asked me, “[Fb, V gnxr vg gur rtt ungpurq? Ur'f n unaqfbzr yvggyr sryybj, V unir gb fnl].”
I glanced down at the hatchling, shook my head, and asked, “[How do you know he’s a boy]?”
The dragon smirked. “[Gur frg bs uvf wnj, naq uvf aneebj uvcf. Gehfg zr, Jrfgrefybr].”
“[Of course, I trust you, Windimere].”
The hatchling gave another yawn and breathed out, and the slight drizzle we were standing in turned into droplets of ice. He looked up at me and said, “[Znzn],” before closing his eyes and snuggling close.
Slowly, very slowly, Windimere raised one huge eyebrow. “[Ur, hz, pnyyrq lbh 'Znzn'].”
“[I was the first person he saw],” I admitted. Elves Don’t Lie.
Ever hear a dragon giggle like a schoolgirl? I’m not even going to try to describe it. When she finally got herself under control she asked, “[Jung'f uvf anzr]?”
I shook my head, and Anastasia asked, “What?”
“I was telling her that I haven’t named him yet. Thoughts?”
“Call him Westy!” Missy yelled out helpfully, obviously thinking back to Windimere’s first encounter with us, back in the Blaec-Graf, where the wyvern had mistaken me for my grand-sire.
I glared at her, and Ooo-er said, “In my peoples’ tongue, we’d probably add something descriptive, like where he was born.” She grinned. “So ‘Westy-in-the-House.’” She and her mate started chuckling.
The hatchling had been woken up by the laughter and looked up at me. I touched him gently on the nose and said, “Your name is ‘[Westy-in-the-House’].” I said it in Draconic.
He looked confused, so I repeated it.
On the fourth attempt he ventured, “[Zr . . . Jrfgvatubhfr]?”
“[No, ‘Westy-in-the-House’].”
“[Jrfgvatubhfr]!” he suddenly said, and hugged me. “[Znzn]!”
Windimere started giggling again.
I sighed and gave in to the inevitable. “His name’s Westinghouse.”
<NEXT>
<PREVIOUS>
<FIRST>
© 2022 by M. Mitch Marmel
Thumbnail art by
paullucasPart Forty-eight
Anastasia:
Elves Don’t Lie, Westersloe and I just stood there for a few moments, staring at the ice-wyrm egg as it glowed blue in its ice-covered box.
I suppose we can be forgiven for standing there and gawking, as that egg hasn’t done anything but sit there since Missy, as the Wolf Queen, brought it back from the Wild Snows as a gift from the Frost Lord years ago. But when it rocked violently from one side to the other, causing some of the frost on its case to slough off onto the floor, my mate was galvanized into action.
Westersloe tried to open the case, and finally succeeded in wrenching it open in a spray of ice chips. He then reached in, grabbed the egg, and promptly screamed.
He pulled his paws back, wincing, and I asked, “Is it hot?”
“Cold!” he yelped, wincing as he rubbed feeling back into his paws. “So cold it burns! I – I need a – “
Nippy appeared in the hallway, a thick blanket in her paws. “Master, I – “
Westersloe snatched the blanket out of her paws, and he started to wrap the egg up in it as it shifted around. That left me to thank Nippy for her help, and in the meantime the disturbance was attracting attention. Ooo-er and Missy had emerged from the dining room, with the wolfess holding a last piece of toast in one paw.
“What’s going on?” the wolfess asked. With her mouth full, I ask you.
My mate had wrestled the egg out of its case. “Windy might know what to do!” he gasped. He turned to head down the hall to the front door –
His hoof came down on a piece of ice –
With results that were entirely predictable.
To his credit, Westersloe landed flat on his back, arms wrapped around the egg to protect it. Still, we all thought that a tragedy had occurred as a sharp crack filled the air and something started moving under the blanket.
Bits of eggshell exploded out of the open end of the blanket, right in Westersloe’s face. “Whuh?” he asked, a piece of eggshell poised on the end of his nose.
The blanket rustled and fell away, and I gasped.
Well, everyone else gasped too.
A draconic head, roughly the size of a newborn fawn’s, poked out of the open end of the blanket. It was certainly pretty to look at; its scales were still a little damp, and gleamed in the sunlight coming in the window. Its colors were mainly white, with traces of teal and green visible along its jaws and down its neck.
It regarded my mate with large, bright blue eyes, nostrils flaring as it sniffed, and sniffed again.
And spoke.
“[ZNZN]!”
My ears swiveled at a strangled gasp from my daughter, and I looked up at Stella. “What – “
“[Truthfully, as a daughter must toward her mother, the ice-wyrm has called your mate ‘Mama’ in the tongue of dragon-kind],” Stella replied in Elfhamian.
This elicited a choking cough as the last of Missy’s breakfast went down the wrong way. Ooo-er started patting her mate’s back.
The little fellow opened its mouth wide, and we all gaped as a soft blue light could be seen deep in its throat before it coughed and burst of cold could be felt in the hallway.
Westersloe sneezed, and the little dragonling screamed “[ZNZN]!” and snuggled closer to my mate. Sort of instinctively, he put his arms around the newborn (new-hatched?).
All our ears swiveled as Missy suddenly laughed. The wolfess almost doubled over, laughing; when she caught her breath she said, “She said it could happen – not the way I thought, though.”
From his supine position on the floor Westersloe asked, “What?”
The wolfess giggled and sang,
“The Lady said She could do it
She did it
She did it
She said She could make you a mother
And indeed She did!
I thought She wouldn’t do it
I doubted She would do it
But now I must admit
That the deed She did!”
With that, she and Ooo-er left.
Still giggling.
Westersloe looked up at me, and then looked at the dragonling in his arms. “See what I mean?” he asked me. To the baby ice-wyrm he said, “I’ll wager you’re hungry.”
For its part, the hatchling just looked at him.
***
Winterbough:
Why me?
Well, nothing for it. The baby ice-wyrm kept looking at me, when it wasn’t nuzzling me and cooing “Mama” in Draconic. Seemed to be the only word it knew. And it was heavy, too; about the same size as a five or six year old Elflet.
It took a few moments, but I finally succeeded in sitting up. “[Stella, your father desires to know if you would do him a service].”
“[Shall I ask the Mistress of the Skies to come and attend upon you, Father, for the care and tending of the little ice-wyrm, but lately hatched]?”
“[The sweet and pure truth it is, my doe-fawn, that you have got it in one].” Stella glanced at her mother, who nodded, and she left the house while I started picking bits of eggshell out of the blanket that the new arrival was still wrapped up in.
The ice-wyrm dug its claws in when I stood up, and were it not for the blanket I think I would’ve ended up punctured. I then carried him into the kitchen.
Automaton [Little Toy] might be, but she almost had a fit when she saw me and my passenger. I finally said to her, “[Minkess, it is so that this ice-wyrm is but a hatchling, and it is the sweet and pure truth that hunger likely gnaws at its vitals. Therefore, I endeavor to feed it the fish in the larder’s cold-box, or would it gladden your mistress’ heart to see it feasting upon my flesh]?”
[Little Toy] threw up her paws and stepped aside, and I brought out some trout that had likely been set aside for Ooo-er’s dinner. Did I know what ice-wyrms eat? Of course not; I was making a wild guess that they’d eat fish in the wild.
Whether that was the standard diet up in the Wild Snows or not, the baby dragon took to it readily. Of course, I used a knife to cut the trout up a little so it wouldn’t choke.
I held up a whole fish, and pointed at it. “Fish.”
It looked at me.
It looked at the trout.
“Fish,” I repeated.
“[SRRFU!]” it yelled, making my ears go flat.
“Fish.”
“[Srrfu].”
“Has it got it?” Anastasia asked.
“Sort of,” I replied as the baby tucked into its third helping. “It keeps saying ‘feesh,’ though.”
Anastasia put a paw to her muzzle and giggled.
After putting away five full-grown trout, it murmured “[Znzn],” and curled up in my lap. It suddenly belched, and was soon asleep.
“So, what are you going to do?” Anastasia asked.
I looked up at her. “When Stella gets back with Windy, I’ll talk to her. After that,” and I shrugged, “I don’t know. It’ll be in the Lady’s paws.”
“Uh-huh,” my mate said. “I’m starting to see what you meant about Fuma playing jokes on you.”
***
The hatchling looked up at Windimere.
Windimere looked back at the hatchling.
Finally, the wyvern asked me, “[Fb, V gnxr vg gur rtt ungpurq? Ur'f n unaqfbzr yvggyr sryybj, V unir gb fnl].”
I glanced down at the hatchling, shook my head, and asked, “[How do you know he’s a boy]?”
The dragon smirked. “[Gur frg bs uvf wnj, naq uvf aneebj uvcf. Gehfg zr, Jrfgrefybr].”
“[Of course, I trust you, Windimere].”
The hatchling gave another yawn and breathed out, and the slight drizzle we were standing in turned into droplets of ice. He looked up at me and said, “[Znzn],” before closing his eyes and snuggling close.
Slowly, very slowly, Windimere raised one huge eyebrow. “[Ur, hz, pnyyrq lbh 'Znzn'].”
“[I was the first person he saw],” I admitted. Elves Don’t Lie.
Ever hear a dragon giggle like a schoolgirl? I’m not even going to try to describe it. When she finally got herself under control she asked, “[Jung'f uvf anzr]?”
I shook my head, and Anastasia asked, “What?”
“I was telling her that I haven’t named him yet. Thoughts?”
“Call him Westy!” Missy yelled out helpfully, obviously thinking back to Windimere’s first encounter with us, back in the Blaec-Graf, where the wyvern had mistaken me for my grand-sire.
I glared at her, and Ooo-er said, “In my peoples’ tongue, we’d probably add something descriptive, like where he was born.” She grinned. “So ‘Westy-in-the-House.’” She and her mate started chuckling.
The hatchling had been woken up by the laughter and looked up at me. I touched him gently on the nose and said, “Your name is ‘[Westy-in-the-House’].” I said it in Draconic.
He looked confused, so I repeated it.
On the fourth attempt he ventured, “[Zr . . . Jrfgvatubhfr]?”
“[No, ‘Westy-in-the-House’].”
“[Jrfgvatubhfr]!” he suddenly said, and hugged me. “[Znzn]!”
Windimere started giggling again.
I sighed and gave in to the inevitable. “His name’s Westinghouse.”
<NEXT>
<PREVIOUS>
<FIRST>
Category Story / General Furry Art
Species Deer
Size 2654 x 1388px
File Size 3.54 MB
Listed in Folders
That sign used one of Westinghouse's process control computers. There are only a very few of the computers left, none in running order, and the software itself has been lost. I know someone who's working with a group to get the hardware running again and recreate the software.
Apparently, that sign was very iconic in Pittsburgh.
Apparently, that sign was very iconic in Pittsburgh.
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