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DawnOfMinstrel
Jun 27, 2013
In? Yes, in.

Beddy-bye location: Vitoria-Gasteiz, Spain.

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DawnOfMinstrel
Jun 27, 2013
I realised this story may not be clear without some background knowledge. Here's the most important points:

1. Vitoria-Gasteiz is a city in Basque Country. BC is a community in Spain, populated by Spaniards and Basques, who consider themselves separate and have their own language. Here's its current emblem.

2. The Cathedral of Immaculate Mary in Vitoria-Gasteiz has empty recesses in the walls which were supposed to have statues, but the statues were never placed there.

3. Franco was a dictator who considered the Basques a threat to national unity and attempted to wipe their national identity. This made it necessary to print Basque books in France and smuggle them in by sea.

Rampant

1239 words.

"Right! So, with that out of the way, we can move on to the last item on the agenda," the secretary said to the two men sitting in the office.

The mayor of Vitoria-Gasteiz put out his cigarette. "What is it, miss Gurmendi?"

"Oh, right, yes." Patirke Gurmendi, the mayor's secretary, fixed the glasses on her nose. "The heraldic society wants to put their proposal on the next council voting session. They want to change the city's Coat of Arms to better reflect the Basque history of the city."

"What?" said Iņaki, the mayor's running mate and current chairman of the council. "Do you have the design?"

"Yes, here it is."

"Eskerrik asko" Iņaki took the sheet handed to him and leaned over towards the mayor. They studied it together.

"Patirke, what is this?"

"It's a goat, sir. Statant, I think they call it."



The goat perked its ears. It turned its head towards the sloe bush, where the rustling came from. A peasant in a white, linen shirt was sneaking towards it, his wide hands grasping a thick stick.

The goat quickly jumped away and started on the ahuntz-bide up the steep, rocky mountain-side. If the man was smart, he would not follow it up the treacherous slope lined with white, slippery rocks.

As it reached the top of a boulder, the goat looked back and saw the man was dumber than most predators, choosing the chase the animal up its natural habitat. Now, he was with his both hands down the lee side of the mountain, where the buzzards made their nests in the cracks of the sheer rock wall.

The man pulled himself up and looked up at the gray animal. There was no way he could catch it. He reached into his pocket for a length of cord and tied a loop around a stable looking rock. His family will have to contend themselves with buzzard eggs for tonight.




The mayor again examined the design. It was closely reminiscent of the current coat of arms. The familar castle with three turrets still had a red shield on it, but the crows and lions were gone, replaced by a sitting goat

"What about the motto?"

"Oh, I think it's still on the ribbons. The print is kind of unclear."

He furrowed his brow as he deciphered the letters. ">>Eta munduaren gain garaipena<<? Is that from the Bible?"

"Yes, sir. First John." Patirke nodded.

"Well, we can't have that. The lefties will eat us alive if..."

"It's the same, Aitor." Iņaki sighed.

"What?"

"It's the same motto. See?" He pointed to the old emblem on the wall. "HAEC EST VICTORIA QUAE VINCIT. It's a pun."

"Oh. I did not know that."



The goat trotted between the sleeping workers' tents. It was going towards the biggest tent, where the head architect hid the tastiest morsels: apples, beets, hats, candles and those off-white sheets that crunched when chewed.

It made its way in by crawling under a flap of the tent that came loose when the goat tried eating a tent spike a week ago.

Inside, the goat quickly realised something was wrong, as the air smelled of fresh human sweat.

"Thief!" the word echoed through the tent and a bag descended on the poor animal. While it struggled under a pile of bodies, somebody lit a torch.

"The devil...? Is that a goat?" the head architect asked. "Are you to tell me a goat has been stealing my supplies?"

One of the architect's assistants started talking, but the goat bucked and kicked him in the knee and the boy let go of the bag. The goat jumped out, snagged a roll of paper from a desk and ran out with its prize.

"No! That's the letter from the archbishop!" the head architect screamed.

But the goat was already too far away to hear him. It dove into the forest, letter in mouth, not knowing it contained precise instructions on which statues to put on the walls of the cathedral.




"But why a goat?" Iņaki pulled out a six pack of beer from the minifridge hidden under the desk. He offered one to Patirke, who took it and turned red. She was really uncomfortable with drinking in the office.

"I think they believe lions are too... Spanish..." she replied to his question.

"Hmm... that may win us some votes from the nationalists..." the mayor mused.

Iņaki nodded and opened his own can of beer. "Still, a goat seems a bit... silly... compared to the lions, at least."

"There are towns which have goats in their emblems too!" Patirke felt a bit braver after a sip of the beer.

"Yeah, but in the south. Where they put towelheads on them too."

"Mister chairman!"

"Sorry."



The goat carefully observed the men perched on the cliff overlooking the beach. It was a remote part of the coast, hidden away from most humans. But these days men and women kept appearing on the beach at night, brought in by sea.

These men did not come from the beach. They hiked up here, in tan clothes, smelling of sweat, saltpeter and tack biscuits. One of them was shorter than the two others. He was looking into two tubes pointed at the beach.

The goat heard the anxiety in their voices as they whispered to one another. They were waiting for something to happen, pointing at the beach. Humans usually had trouble seeing things in the dark, but tonight the moon was full and the stars shined over the rocky beach.

Suddenly, the men dropped to the ground as a speck of light appeared from behind a sea rock.

"There they are. Our smugglers" the short man said. His orders were clear. No arrests. No prisoners. Just shoot the smugglers before they bring in their filthy little books and flags to the Basque underground. The orders came from general Franco himself.

The goat slowly moved towards the soldier's bags, tempted by the tack biscuits inside. The men were too focused on the boat to notice.

"Ready... aim..." the commander started, but was cut off by a crunching sound. "What the..."

He turned to see the goat chewing on his cigar box. It raised its head, looked at him and let out the loudest bleat he ever heard.

"Sir!" one of the soldiers yelled "Your binoculars!"

The commander looked at the binoculars in his left hand. They were now caught in a cone of light from the smuggler's boatlights, twinkling.

"Shoot! By God, shoot!"

But it was too late. The boat was already heading back. The bullets only splashed in the water, while the goat ran away, with a mouth full of biscuits and cigars.




"No, this won't do" the mayor finally said.

"But, sir..." Patirke argued.

"Miss Gurmendi, please write a polite letter to the heraldic society, saying that while we appreciate... but... and furthermore..."



Patirke Gurmendi fell face first on the sofa in her apartment and sighed. It was a very tiring day. She wanted to just fall asleep and wake up only when her vacation days rolled around. She looked up only when she heard a bell and saw the goat staring at her with its yellow, vertically slit eyes.

"Sorry, big guy" The woman petted the goat. "These guys won't get re-elected anyway, so we can try next year."

She looked at her drawing table. "Maybe if I draw you rampant..."

DawnOfMinstrel
Jun 27, 2013

systran posted:

ALL of the crits from me will be in this document.

We are not supposed to respond to crits, right?

DawnOfMinstrel
Jun 27, 2013
I'm in and I'm sporting my Passport to Danger, whatever it may be.

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