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Tickle Cove Pond
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Topic: Tickle Cove Pond  (Read 589 times)

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on: March 24, 2018, 11:16:06 AM Tickle Cove Pond

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OOV Document 011 - Tickle Cove Pond
Dutch Galaxy

Themanís life is slightly boring right now (and it should be - he deserves a respite). So, this time around Iím going to write up a short (stand-alone) story for a new NPC. For this effort, I am going to take a traditional Newfoundland song (Tickle Cove Pond), and write it up as if it had actually happened in the remote back country on Gianfar.

Wish me luck.

Musical interludes are provided by:
  • Sean Sullivan & Rob Slaney: Tickle Cove Pond

    Great Big Sea: Concerning Charlie the Horse (because sometimes, the rescue fails)

    The late winter snow had changed back to sleet, casting an icy sheen on the rocks, trees and shrubbery poking through the omnipresent blanket of white as Pol approached the pond. He looked across the expanse of snow and sleet covered ice towards the warmth of the hold on the far side. The sloppy wet snow which had dogged his feet this past sevenday lay deep and undisturbed on the trail. His runner, Kit, snorted at the delay, her breath forming twin clouds in front of her nose.

    Pol looked at the pond again. The hold was just an hour or so away, across the ice. Wind whipped sleet into his face as he glanced to the west, for the traditional ground route used this late in the season. That trail, the summer trail - wound around the perimeter of Tickle Cove Pond, adding half a dayís trudge to his journey home. A gust of wind blew sleet into his face, and ear. His hair hung limp, wet with snow. He shivered.

    Pol thought, mulling over the routes before him. While the past few seven days were warmer, today it had been cold and raw. The ice should be safe. He made up his mind.

    He bundled his cloak tighter as he flicked the reins with a ďgee-yahĒ at the mare. The normally placid and obedient mare tossed her head and turned it around to look at Pol. The look i the mareís eyes reminding Pol of his wife. ďGit on, you beast!Ē Pol spoke, accenting his words with the whip he so rarely used.

    Reluctantly, as if unsure of the ice road ahead, Kit moved forward, dragging the heavy sled of logs forward, creaking onto the ice. Pol fell in step, behind the mare and to the left of the sled, a firm but very chill hand on the reins as the pair fell into the routine of slogging across the wet, sloppy snow of the ice road.

    Cold seeped into Polís boots, as he walked through the slush, thoroughly chilling his feet as he continued behind his mare and their load. The sun was high in the sky, casting a glare which made keeping his eyes open past slits a painful experience, when the mare halted, again on the ice.

    ďGit on you creature!Ē Pol called, for the fourth time on the ice, as he stomped up to the mareís head, brandishing his whip handle near white lined eyes. Thatís when he heard it. Kit did too, from the way her ears twitched. A low rumbling, followed by a snap and a pop. Then, without warning, a sigh, as the ice released from under Polís footing and decanted him, his mare and the sled into the waiting cold waters.

    Luckily for the pair, the ice road across Tickle Cove Pond was over the more shallow parts. Still, Pol found himself up to his neck in cold water as both he and his mare lost breath to the icy waterís clutch. Mightily trying to gain his wind, Pol bellowed. He was scared, but did not lose his wits. He needed help.

    Quickly he moved to the harness leather around the great horse, releasing the ties to the sled, as logs, buoyed by water, floated free of their once neatly stacked piles. Pol used a closely floating log to lever himself up and back on the ice. Ignoring his freezing clothes, he moved to in front of the mare, a firm hand on the reins, all the while encouraging the mare to extricate herself. Kit was not able to exit the water, slipping and falling in her attempts.

    Pol tried again and again to help the mare out of the pond, once even re-entering the frigid water to try to guid the runnerís hooved onto the top of the ice. All to no avail. Depression stalked his footsteps as he face losing this mare who had been his work partner for these past twelve years. Thatís when hope came running towards him in the faces and backs of his fellow holders, Ovier, Whyt and the others - men, women and children, the latter teaming to carry a stout rope.

    As two of the women escorted him to stronger ice - to shelter and warm with the heated stones, then men lost no time in belaying the stout rope around the mareís breast. Then, all the rescuers, at once, grabbed the line, and to Ovierís direction and cadence, each pulled on the great rope, creaking and straining, as Kit rose from the pondís icy grip, water streaming from her flanks, as the boys rushed up - placing warmed blankets over the mare.

Pluralitas non est ponenda sine necessitate....
- Dutch

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