Word: Loll

loll

American  

[lol] / lɒl /

verb (used without object)

1. to recline or lean in a relaxed, lazy, or indolent manner; lounge.

   to loll on a sofa.

2. to hang loosely; droop; dangle.

   The dog stood in the heat with his tongue lolling out of his mouth.

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                Sally was cursed. Trapped in the form of an animal with her human mind intact. The old woman, who was apparently a genuine witch, had told her it was to teach her a lesson in diligence or something. Sally really did not care about that. The witch had, after all, made one very critical error.

                She made Sally’s animal “prison” a house cat.

                A lovely calico, to be exact. Sally had started her feline life on the street, but it had taken her all of a day to find a human family willing to care for her. Which meant Sally was now living her dream life. No responsibilities. No worrying about her next meal. Warm, comfy places to sleep. All she had to do was loll around and be cute, and everything was provided. Sally had been good at being cute as a human. Now that she was a cat? She was damn near irresistible.

                She had all the advantages of being a cat, with the understanding of a human. Case in point, when she scratched, she knew to avoid the furniture. Her humans loved that. It led to all kinds of praise and adoration. All from simply using a scratching post instead of the couch. It was perfect.

                And then there was the little girl. That kid was adorable. And so creative when it came to the world of fashion. Sally had been something on an amateur fashionista as a human. The kid loved to make little cat outfits for her. Sally was all too eager to indulge the girl’s creativity in that regard. After all, with a bit of encouragement, she could become a top-quality fashion designer one day. Today was adorable pet clothes made out of whatever she could find. Tomorrow could be the big runways.  

                And all Sally had to do was be there. Just lay around and purr when getting her chin rubbed. Which, by the way, felt absolutely divine. She did have to occasionally pretend to be dumber than she was, which was a pain. After all, if the humans thought she might be more than a mere cat, they might try and find out what was really going on. And if they somehow figured that out—as unlikely as it was—they might try and change her back. And Sally was enjoying her new life way too much to let that happen.

                The only bad part was the somewhat embarrassing name they gave her. Sally knew she wasn’t going to get her human name, but did they really have to call her Clawdia? She hated that name even when it was spelled in the normal, human way. She had nearly cringed when she saw how they spelled it. And once she saw it, she could not unsee it. At least being a cat gave her an excuse to not respond to the unfortunate moniker.

                Other than that, life as a cat was looking pretty good. Sure she was supposed to be learning some kind of lesson about some virtue or something, but why do that when there was a perfectly good sunbeam to lay in?

               

Word: Bolster

bolster

1. to support with or as with a pillow or cushion.

2. to add to, support, strengthen, or uphold (sometimes followed byup ).

   They bolstered their morale by singing.

   He bolstered up his claim with new evidence.

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                General Arvale’s brow furrowed as he looked over the battle map. Dozens of lines crisscrossed each other. Small wooden figures representing the various troop deployments filled the map along various lines. And there were far too many of them representing enemy troops.

                His eye fell on the only figure that was carved into a rough humanoid blob. It was currently deep in enemy territory. Right where it was doing the least amount of good. The small party the figure represented was supposedly going to defeat the enemy’s leader, which was a noble goal. But they did not seem to be actually trying to get to the enemy’s capitol. From the scrying magic being used on them weekly, they were meandering around and doing irrelevant small tasks. Intelligence told him that they were trying to ‘gain goodwill and understanding’ with the enemy’s population.

                The general sighed. It sounded like a good thing. It certainly made for a good story. But it did nothing to help his men being slaughtered on the battlefield. The so-called “hero party” was not actually helping the war effort like they were supposed to.

                And the worst part? That they were allowed to do whatever they wanted. The hero party was undoubtedly powerful. Absurdly so. And the damn nobles and royals were convinced that this was all it would take to bring down the enemy. Had anyone consulted the general? No. Had anyone asked any of the military officers? No. Even if they had, nothing would change, but at least Arvale would have been able to rub it in the noble’s faces when he was proven right.

                If he had his way, he would use the hero party’s overwhelming power where it would actually do some good. Send them to the front lines and have them mow down monsters so the entire damn army could support and work with them. That way the heroes would have an entire army at their backs when they finally reached the enemy capitol. They could deal with public relations after the war ended.

                Unfortunately, that was not going to happen. Which meant that General Arvale was on his own. What he needed now was not a hero. He needed something, anything to bolster his forces. More troops, better weapons and armor. Even a single mage would turn the tides. He would even take one of the mages with so-called useless magical specialties. He had heard of a mage whose only magical skill was conjuring cheese. That man could save the army a staggering amount of gold and massively improve troop morale. And a cleaning mage? Well, that would practically eliminate the threat of diseases born of poor sanitation.

                He could see dozens of ways of using even the weakest mages. And yet, he was not even getting regular soldiers anymore. An extra platoon of archers would be a godsend. A single squad of cavalry would ease so much pressure. But no. According to the people holding the purse strings, all the world needed was the hero party. Forget the soldiers actually holding the enemy at bay. Forget the reason the kingdom had not been overrun yet. Forget supporting the people doing the work.

                Forget bolstering the troops with outside sources. General Arvale would just have to do the best with what he had. Hopefully they would all survive long enough to see whether or not the idiot noble’s gambit would pay off.

Word: Saccade

saccade

[sa-kahd, suh-] / sæˈkɑd, sə- /

noun

1. the act of checking a horse quickly with a single strong pull of the reins.

2. Ophthalmology. the series of small, jerky movements of the eyes when changing focus from one point to another.

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                Dr. Reynolds watched the teenager sit in the chair. The kid looked weirdly nervous. He was used to young children acting like that, but a teenager? The kind should have gone to an optometrist at least once in his life.

                “Something wrong?” He asked.

                “N-no, not really.”

                “Come on, I know the equipment I use looks nasty, but you should know it’s nothing to be scared of.”

                “I…I know that. It’s just…my vision has been kinda, I don’t know, weird, and I don’t know what you’ll think about it. I don’t want to have big glasses or anything.”

                “Oh, is that all? Well, if there’s a problem with your vision and you don’t want glasses, we can look into contacts. But first, let’s see if there’s anything wrong to begin with.”

                Dr. Reynolds began his examination. And it quickly became clear that the kid had nearly perfect vision. But there was something else. Something he could not quite put his finger on. Had the kid responded to the letter chart a little too fast, or was it just because he was young? Could he see the smallest letters perfectly, or was there something else at play?

                He moved the bulky vision testing equipment out of the way and held up a pen. It was another standard test. He had performed it thousands of times. But for this one, he paid extra attention to what was going on.

                “Okay, focus on the top and follow it.” He said.

                Normally, when doing this, there would be small, quick movements of the eye when doing this. Dr. Reynolds looked for them to determine how well the eyes could focus and shift. For the teen currently in the chair though, these movements were wrong. They were, if anything, too fast. He was focusing on the pen almost before it moved. Like he could see where it was going to be instead of where it was.

                Just to make sure he was not seeing things, Dr. Reynolds moved the pen in different directions. Ways he normally would not. The kid could follow them all perfectly. More than perfectly. He sighed and set the writing implement down.

                “How about you tell me what’s going on.” He said. The kid squirmed in his seat. “It’s okay, you can tell me. I won’t share it if you don’t want me to.”

                “I…I don’t know what’s going on. My vision goes weird sometimes. It’s like I’m seeing two things at once, but only one of them is real. The other is what’s going to happen. At least, I think that’s what it is. Like an afterimage, but forward? I think? I don’t know.”

                Dr. Reynolds stood by, silent. That sounded crazy. To be able to see the future, even just by a second or so, was beyond anything anyone could understand. He needed to confirm whether the kid was telling the truth or just very good at guessing.

                “I’m going to hold up a few fingers. How about you tell me how many.”

                “Three.” The kid said immediately. Right before Dr. Reynolds was indeed going to raise three fingers.

                “That’s…quite the thing.”

                “I don’t know how it happened. It just kind of started one day. I don’t know how to turn it on or off. It just happens.”

                “Well, I’m afraid this is well beyond my expertise. I don’t know who’s expertise it would be under either.” He watched his young patient wring his hands nervously.  “But if it helps, you don’t need glasses.”

                The teenager did not respond to his, admittedly poor, attempt at a joke. “So, uh, what do I do now?”

                “I have no idea. I’m sure someone out there can help you though. I don’t know who, but there’s all kinds of people out there with knowledge on all kinds of strange things. Maybe try and find one that matches your…” He hesitated. Calling it a condition did not seem right. “Talents.”

                “I…guess so?”

                “Great. Now, let’s go. You can tell your parents you have 20/20 vision. They’ll be thrilled they don’t have to get you glasses.”

                Dr. Reynolds showed the boy out of the examination room. He had some time before his next patient, and a lot of things to think about.