FIC: Spin Recovery, Part 16A
Jan. 7th, 2008 04:42 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
jeriendhalI'm splitting this particular scene into a two-parter, mostly because I wanted to get something up. Unfortunately I'm still hammering out the details of what exactly is to happen at the Disasterous Dinner Party, so I figure this will buy me some breathign room.
“Whitebrow, do you deliberately put too much starch in the collars of my jackets?” Rufus asked, as the old servant finished buttoning up his uniform coat and tied the traditional (and frelling annoying) gold cord once again.
“One must maintain standards,” Whitebrow replied, finishing off the knot. “There you are, milord.”
“Thank you, old man.” Rufus ran his hand through his headfur, making the bit that always hung out over his face pop out again, after Whitebrow had so carefully combed it back to look properly lordly. “What’s the ETA on our guests?”
Whitebrow touched the discreet receiver partially hidden in his right ear. “A vehicle matching Sgt. Swiftfoot’s ground skimmer is reported approaching the front door.”
“Perfect timing. We’ll have a chance to get them settled in before the Softpaws show up.” Rufus headed downstairs into the entry hall to meet them, arriving just as a pair of servants swept open the doors to new arrivals.
“Welcome to Brushtail Manor,” he said, holding out his hand as they walked in. As an honorably discharged officer, Hazel had opted to wear her old dress uniform, a perfectly suitable choice for a formal function. The light blue jacket with polished platinum buttons, belted with a pilot’s bright red sash, complemented her dark brown fur nicely, Rufus thought. Wisely, she’d opted for the optional dark blue uniform skirt rather altering the more common pants that went with the set to accommodate her leg. Beside her, Hazel’s father, a former Marine non-com, had also opted for his old uniform, though the gold buttons on his green jacket were stretched a bit after a few decades of civilian life.
“Thank you, milord Ru Ofanius,” Artie said, taking his hand while trying to look about the room without actually gaping.
“Nice place,” Hazel said dryly, stepping past them both to negotiate the short set of stairs to the floor of the hall.
“It’s a re-creation of the original Brushtail Manor, which was plowed over by the Dominion during the Subjugation,” Rufus told them. “I think they put up an office block or something. My Aunt Dottie will tell you that it’s complete balderdash to try and recreate the past though, you never get the details right. She’s here too by the way, you’ll like her I’m sure.” Actually, getting his mother to allow Aunt Dottie to attend a formal function at the manor had been a major concession on her part. Dottie had a tendency to wax anthropological during dinner, usually on subjects guaranteed to spoil one’s appetite, such as burial customs of the long dead heathen cultures that had once occupied Vulpine Prime’s western continents.
He led them on a brief tour of the manor. Only the ground floor of course, it would have been rude to either force Hazel to go up the stairs or bring her into the back rooms to use the servant’s elevator. As it was, she was looking visibly winded by the time they reached the sitting room where his mother, Bethany and Aunt Dottie waited.
“…so after they finished pulling out the victim’s brains through their snout…” Aunt Dottie was saying as they entered.
Mother immediately interrupted the narrative by coming gracefully to her feet and greeting Hazel and her father with a warm, “Welcome to House Brushtail.”
“Mother, this is Lt. Haz Elin Swiftfoot and her father, Gunnery Sergeant Artineth Swiftfoot,” Rufus said. “Hazel, Artie, this is my mother, the Countess Brushtail and over in the conversation pit are my sister Bethany and my Aunt Dorathea.”
“By the Holy Den Mother, let the poor girl sit down before she falls on her face, Rufus” Aunt Dottie said.
“Been there, done that,” Hazel said. She took her father’s arm and settled herself in the pit’s padded circular couch, her face visibly relaxing as was able to put her foot up underneath a cushion provided by Bethany.
“Lovely place you have, Milady,” Artie said, still gaping a bit.
“Thank you, Sergeant,” she replied. “You served in the military, as your daughter did, I hear.”
Artie smiled. “Twenty years, milady. Sometimes it felt like I dragged poor Hazel and her mum halfway across the universe and back.”
Aunt Dottie leaned back in her seat, next to Rufus, and quietly said, “Nice young lady you’ve picked up, my boy.”
“She is not my ‘young lady’, Auntie,” he replied, as his mother continued to speak to the two commoners with proper, lordly grace and not a hint that she had objected to their invitation in the first place. “She’s just someone I met, who could use a bit of help.”
“The fact that she’s pretty and a damsel in mild distress has nothing to do with it, of course.” His aunt’s face was Saturnine despite his annoyed glare.
“I must apologize for the inconvenience that House Brushtail is putting your family through, Sgt. Swiftfoot,” his mother said.
“It’s a bit more than an inconvenience,” Hazel said, before her father could answer, her ears twitching backward in irritation.
“Well, you were a pilot, Hazel,” Rufus said quickly, as his mother’s polite expression froze. “I’m sure you can appreciate the strategic importance of such a resource in the space construction industry.”
“I can appreciate the fact that the house my mother’s ancestors built their own hands and we’ve lived in for five centuries is about to be plowed under,” Hazel answered. “Giving us a nice apartment in town is hardly fair compensation.”
There was a polite knock at the door. Whitebrow entered and announced, “The Lady Melika Softpaw and her husband, Lord Rolas.” They all stood, Hazel excepted due to her injury, as the two entered. Rufus sang a silent blessing to the Holy Den Mother for the interruption.
Rolas proved to be a pleasant, if bland, looking fellow with fur a shade lighter than Hazel’s. The Lady Softpaw on the other hand… Fine features were complimented by dark red fur with a white undercoat, dark black at her hands and feet, and bright golden eyes. What a damned pity she’s already married. He found himself frowning at the thought. Even with his family’s name, he was hardly a catch for a vixen as lovely as that one.
Besides, it looked like he would have had to work hard to into her good graces anyway. The pleasant expression on her face disappeared into a confused frown, which was joined a moment later by one on her husband’s. Which hardly seemed fair, Rufus thought. He hadn’t even had time to socially humiliate himself in front of them.
“Melika, how lovely to have you,” his mother greeted. “I don’t believe you’ve met my son, Ru Ofanius.”
“I… I’m not sure,” Melika said uncertainly, her hand drawing up to her mouth to hide a frown. She shook her head. “No, matter. Please, continue the introductions.”
TBC
“Whitebrow, do you deliberately put too much starch in the collars of my jackets?” Rufus asked, as the old servant finished buttoning up his uniform coat and tied the traditional (and frelling annoying) gold cord once again.
“One must maintain standards,” Whitebrow replied, finishing off the knot. “There you are, milord.”
“Thank you, old man.” Rufus ran his hand through his headfur, making the bit that always hung out over his face pop out again, after Whitebrow had so carefully combed it back to look properly lordly. “What’s the ETA on our guests?”
Whitebrow touched the discreet receiver partially hidden in his right ear. “A vehicle matching Sgt. Swiftfoot’s ground skimmer is reported approaching the front door.”
“Perfect timing. We’ll have a chance to get them settled in before the Softpaws show up.” Rufus headed downstairs into the entry hall to meet them, arriving just as a pair of servants swept open the doors to new arrivals.
“Welcome to Brushtail Manor,” he said, holding out his hand as they walked in. As an honorably discharged officer, Hazel had opted to wear her old dress uniform, a perfectly suitable choice for a formal function. The light blue jacket with polished platinum buttons, belted with a pilot’s bright red sash, complemented her dark brown fur nicely, Rufus thought. Wisely, she’d opted for the optional dark blue uniform skirt rather altering the more common pants that went with the set to accommodate her leg. Beside her, Hazel’s father, a former Marine non-com, had also opted for his old uniform, though the gold buttons on his green jacket were stretched a bit after a few decades of civilian life.
“Thank you, milord Ru Ofanius,” Artie said, taking his hand while trying to look about the room without actually gaping.
“Nice place,” Hazel said dryly, stepping past them both to negotiate the short set of stairs to the floor of the hall.
“It’s a re-creation of the original Brushtail Manor, which was plowed over by the Dominion during the Subjugation,” Rufus told them. “I think they put up an office block or something. My Aunt Dottie will tell you that it’s complete balderdash to try and recreate the past though, you never get the details right. She’s here too by the way, you’ll like her I’m sure.” Actually, getting his mother to allow Aunt Dottie to attend a formal function at the manor had been a major concession on her part. Dottie had a tendency to wax anthropological during dinner, usually on subjects guaranteed to spoil one’s appetite, such as burial customs of the long dead heathen cultures that had once occupied Vulpine Prime’s western continents.
He led them on a brief tour of the manor. Only the ground floor of course, it would have been rude to either force Hazel to go up the stairs or bring her into the back rooms to use the servant’s elevator. As it was, she was looking visibly winded by the time they reached the sitting room where his mother, Bethany and Aunt Dottie waited.
“…so after they finished pulling out the victim’s brains through their snout…” Aunt Dottie was saying as they entered.
Mother immediately interrupted the narrative by coming gracefully to her feet and greeting Hazel and her father with a warm, “Welcome to House Brushtail.”
“Mother, this is Lt. Haz Elin Swiftfoot and her father, Gunnery Sergeant Artineth Swiftfoot,” Rufus said. “Hazel, Artie, this is my mother, the Countess Brushtail and over in the conversation pit are my sister Bethany and my Aunt Dorathea.”
“By the Holy Den Mother, let the poor girl sit down before she falls on her face, Rufus” Aunt Dottie said.
“Been there, done that,” Hazel said. She took her father’s arm and settled herself in the pit’s padded circular couch, her face visibly relaxing as was able to put her foot up underneath a cushion provided by Bethany.
“Lovely place you have, Milady,” Artie said, still gaping a bit.
“Thank you, Sergeant,” she replied. “You served in the military, as your daughter did, I hear.”
Artie smiled. “Twenty years, milady. Sometimes it felt like I dragged poor Hazel and her mum halfway across the universe and back.”
Aunt Dottie leaned back in her seat, next to Rufus, and quietly said, “Nice young lady you’ve picked up, my boy.”
“She is not my ‘young lady’, Auntie,” he replied, as his mother continued to speak to the two commoners with proper, lordly grace and not a hint that she had objected to their invitation in the first place. “She’s just someone I met, who could use a bit of help.”
“The fact that she’s pretty and a damsel in mild distress has nothing to do with it, of course.” His aunt’s face was Saturnine despite his annoyed glare.
“I must apologize for the inconvenience that House Brushtail is putting your family through, Sgt. Swiftfoot,” his mother said.
“It’s a bit more than an inconvenience,” Hazel said, before her father could answer, her ears twitching backward in irritation.
“Well, you were a pilot, Hazel,” Rufus said quickly, as his mother’s polite expression froze. “I’m sure you can appreciate the strategic importance of such a resource in the space construction industry.”
“I can appreciate the fact that the house my mother’s ancestors built their own hands and we’ve lived in for five centuries is about to be plowed under,” Hazel answered. “Giving us a nice apartment in town is hardly fair compensation.”
There was a polite knock at the door. Whitebrow entered and announced, “The Lady Melika Softpaw and her husband, Lord Rolas.” They all stood, Hazel excepted due to her injury, as the two entered. Rufus sang a silent blessing to the Holy Den Mother for the interruption.
Rolas proved to be a pleasant, if bland, looking fellow with fur a shade lighter than Hazel’s. The Lady Softpaw on the other hand… Fine features were complimented by dark red fur with a white undercoat, dark black at her hands and feet, and bright golden eyes. What a damned pity she’s already married. He found himself frowning at the thought. Even with his family’s name, he was hardly a catch for a vixen as lovely as that one.
Besides, it looked like he would have had to work hard to into her good graces anyway. The pleasant expression on her face disappeared into a confused frown, which was joined a moment later by one on her husband’s. Which hardly seemed fair, Rufus thought. He hadn’t even had time to socially humiliate himself in front of them.
“Melika, how lovely to have you,” his mother greeted. “I don’t believe you’ve met my son, Ru Ofanius.”
“I… I’m not sure,” Melika said uncertainly, her hand drawing up to her mouth to hide a frown. She shook her head. “No, matter. Please, continue the introductions.”
TBC
