TWENTY-FIVE FLAVOURS OFOctavius Pepper
flustered
—— 1982 fall ——
Snuggling next to a warm body early in the morning was the best feeling in the world. Best, Octavius thought, second only to the exciting, teasing, and tempting kisses that came from waking up next to a lover. If his head pounded at several stress points, so what? That his teeth seemed to have grown a layer of moss over the night was of no consequence. Even that the pillow he was currently sleeping on had stuffing poking into the side of his face seemed to matter very little as his neck was being lavished with attention at the moment.
"Ooh," he let out in an appreciatively sleepy voice. "That ti—" his eyes fluttered open and were met with the steely stare of something long-faced, horned, hairy, and currently eating what logic dictated was his collar.
He screamed.
Rearing in alarm, the goat half-cantered, was half-thrown backward by Octavius catapulting up to a sitting position, taking in his surroundings with a look of abject horror. There was hay everywhere, even—pfft, he spat—his mouth. It smelled like goat and a choice number of other things, too. His eyes fell to his feet, of which one shoe was missing, then traveled up his robes to find tell-tale holes dotting the hem, one arm gone, and most of the neck eaten away. His eyes slid back to the horned creature, suddenly looking quite devilish, and had a moment of panic wherein he realized he had never so much as seen a goat in person, let alone spent the night with one when the doors to this hellish prison swung open.
Averting his eyes from the offending sunlight (he thought he'd heard himself hiss), he threw up a hand and squinted at the vision walking towards him. Busty, blonde, and otherwise buxom, carrying a tray of… was that food? Octavius's eyes narrowed further.
"Guten Morgen, Pepe! You wake up."
He continued to stare at her in amazement, wondering from whence this woman had sprung and what she (and he, for that matter. Also possibly the goat) were doing in this now-dark, dank, hay-filled cell. Was it a barn?, he wondered. Perhaps a stable. Did stables keep goats? "I—" he began, but trailed off as he watched the animal affectionately head-butting her in a shapely thigh as she set the tray down on a barrel.
"Head hurt?" she asked kindly, pointing at her own temple. "Too much ale. Brunhild help."
That, Octavius took to mean, was her name. Brunhild. It was very German, and thus very appropriate for the person standing before him, who also seemed to speak very little English. Glancing about nervously, he also very much doubted she was much help in the way of magic, and he wasn't entirely certain where his wand had gotten to. Come to think of it, actually, he wasn't sure where his self had gotten to. Last night was something of a blur to the frazzled wizard, and the fact that he couldn't say he wasn't being held in this farm-affiliated building against his will was more than a little upsetting. Once more, Octavius felt his eyes fall to the goat.
"This Gebhard," she said, fondly stroking his silky ears. The goat's, not Octavius's. The beast in question continued to stare its slitty-eyed, unblinking stare at Octavius as its jaw moved in a circular fashion, no doubt savouring the remnants of his collar. She then gestured to three more shapes in the corner that had escaped his notice, causing his stomach to fall. "Meginhard, Eberhard, and—Reinhard."
Being wholly unable to process anything, he merely squeaked back to her, "Gebhard?"
"Means," her eyes screwed up in concentration as she searched her small English lexicon, "means 'gift.' Big—gift…"
"Gift," he repeated warily. "For… me?"
Brunhild nodded enthusiastically. "Is for… many gifts for you. Mitgift. How do you—Doe—dow-er—"
"Down? Dowell. Dow—dowry?" he hedged, to which she lit up and gestured wildly at him, which he interpreted to be correct. "Dowry! Ah, I—dowry?!"
"Ja!" Her expression was suddenly coy, angling her chin so it was tucked in her plentiful bosom and she might gaze at him from beneath her lashes, picking his hand up and laying it to what he presumed would be her heart, had two very large things impeded their contact. He felt his cheeks flaming while he swallowed convulsively. "Good wife. Speak more English."
There was a mass inhalation of air. "Wife—?" he sputtered, pitching forward so his head dangled smack between his knees. "Oh, god," Octavius breathed, feeling like his throat was closing. His heart was beating much too fast—this could not possibly bode well. A thick sheen of sweat broke out along his skin and he found himself gulping, trying to suck in that teasing air that seemed so determined to escape his lungs. Was this was a heart attack felt like? Was he going to die, alone and nameless in Germany with naught but a busty barmaid and some livestock to give him last rites?
His last thought before fainting dead away in the goat pen was that he was going to bloody slaughter Charles Spinnet.
