Norman the Stable Boy's page

Norman watches the imposing figure turn at his last word and walk through the door. The early morning light reflects off of the pristine red enamel of Ishbaad's armor, highlighting his form against the stark, white frozen backdrop. Cindrix bounds into view through the portal, running a circle around the armored man then putting her large head under his hand and nearly knocking him over to nuzzle against his side.

The saddle Norman taught Ishbaad how to strap on sits perfectly on the dragon's shoulders. Ishbaad's magical spear is tightly strapped to the side within easy reach in case the rider loses his main weapon.

To his relief, there is no one else in the room, the rest of the alien's companions having already left to meet with Commander Pharamol. No one to see, and therefore no reason for Norman to have to swallow his pride and admit the alien was right out loud. Something about his presence, perhaps. Or something in the words he said, but Norman couldn't deny the swelling sensation in his heart.

Ishbaad and Cindrix leap into the air with a powerful stroke of the dragon's wings, disappearing from the triaxian boy's sight. Another crash echoes through the chambers, but Norman doesn't even flinch this time. Instead he smiles, clenches his fists, and sprints for the armory.

Norman, having put the last of Ishbaad's armor on, holds the oread's gauntlets up while waiting for them to be taken. The silence in the room is deafening. Each panic laced heartbeat of the triaxian boy thumps in his chest and rings in his ears as loudly as the stones crashing against the walls of his home. He feels keenly the overbearing eyes of Ishbaad, boring into his forehead.

Norman lifts the gauntlets higher, hoping they will block the penetrating stare.

When it is long past the point of realization that Ishbaad is still waiting for an answer, Norman finally speaks up.

"Compassion? Ye dornt swatch loch ye feel anythin' if aam honest. Ah huvnae seen ye smile ur froon ance."

The boy is relieved when Ishbaad finally takes the gauntlets, and moves to grab his helm.

Pulling his head out from under his crossed arms, Norman looks up at the stone-faced inquisitor. The fur around Norman's eyes are moist, and the skin beneath them has a reddish hue that isn't normally there. He quickly scrambles back to his feet, hurt and confusion on his face, now unwilling to meet eyes with the man he is helping. A forearm wipes away a line of snot and tears from Norman's nose and he picks the piece up that he dropped.

This time when an impact hits nearby, Norman hardly flinches when the pebbles and snow rain down over the two of them. His eyes are narrowed in frustration.

Norman throws his elbows up high, pulling his head in towards his shoulders and ducking instinctively with each rumbling impact outside the walls. In order to keep his voice from quivering and cracking, a sure sign of the fear he feels, he simply doesn't speak.

It has only been a few days, but in his time assisting Ishbaad and Cindrix, he had quickly memorized the order in which each piece of armor was fastened on to the stone man's body. He tries his best to shake off the fear growing in his heart and focuses on the task in front of him.

He lifts the first piece to Ishbaad's thigh and reaches up to snap it in to the belt and chain underlayer when an explosion rocks the room directly above where the companions rest. Before he can stop himself, Norman has completely turtled, kneeling on the floor with his head between his knees and arms covering his fur covered head. Thankfully, no Triaxians are there to remind him later just how high pitched his squeal was.

”Don’t tooch mah heed ye radge." The boy pulls back, avoiding the gesture and flashing a dirty scowl at Ishbaad. "Jist giet oan an' tak' 'er fur a spin. Start wee an' hae 'er brin' me th' wee wagon ay scran stocks waitin' at th' sootheest stair. Ance ye gie a feel fur ridin' in th' air, i’ll toss up puckle dummies fur ye tae try tae cut in half.”

”Aye. Barnie. ‘Ave a go. Wallup th’ wanker. A foight.” he says with an incredulous look on his face, making mock fists and swinging an imaginary sword with each separate explanation of the slang word.

Read the following with your best scottish accent. Don't get frustrated if you can't quite understand what it says, that was kind of the point. Hopefully while reading it you feel just like Ishbaad does listening to it...

”Yoo’re gonnae want tae keep yer heels doon, an' yer feit forward. Yoo’ll see when she goes intae a divfe, yer weeght will be balanced, still allowin' ye tae swin' yer blade.”

A small, obviously young, Triaxian boy swats Ishbaad’s hands out of the way in order to tug on a strap holding the fine leather saddle into place at the base of Cindrix’s neck and shoulders. He rattles his instructions off so fast that Ishbaad can barely even register what he is saying through the thick accent.

”Thes strap heur will hauld ye tae th' saddle. Once yeur ian, ye aren’t gettin' aff. Tink ay it lokh yeur weapon cord, except fur Cindrix tae make sure she doesn’t lose ye. Ye hae tae troost it, oor yee’ll spend aw yer energy focused oan hangin' oan insteid ay fightin'. Ye hae tae relax, lit th' saddle hauld ye oan, an' 'en ye can focus oan controllin' 'er an' yer ain barnie.”