Work Text:
Language is a very beautiful thing.
Language is a preposterous thing.
Language is an other worldly thing.
It can sometimes spew out in rivers and rumbles.
It can sometimes seep into the stiff bark of the forests like fragrance honey.
It can sometimes melt into the oceans with clicks and ticks unique.
His own language, the one of the Codfolk, is whirlwind of spinning fins, odd trills that sound from the back of one’s throat, and sharp sounds similar to the language of their relatives in the Ocean Empire.
The Codfather has respect as well for the languages of the land dwellers, although the enunciated sounds for each word confuses him greatly.
Firstly, there is Mangrovian. A focal point of pronunciation, a beacon of education. Millennia of history are written with her script, and many others spiral off her like the rainbow clam shells Jimmy often finds at the bottom of his own murky swamp.
Mangrovian is the language of the industrials, the ‘heavys’ as they are affectionately dubbed in his culture. Helianthia, Mythland, the Grimlands, the Crystal Cliffs and the Lost Empire all fall under this category. Empires that have been built up stone by stone. Staircases and towers, factories and machines, the empires bustling cities reflect on their language. A cool thing, one that changes depending on where you stand. Mangrovian is smooth and fast-paced in Helianthia, dropping sharper sounds in favour of lighter, welcoming laxes. However, in Mythland, the words are vicious. The words do not flow like embroidered silk. Instead, they slam down like steel on an iron anvil. Hammering their point with a fierce viscosity.
Jimmy couldn’t forget Mezalean, of course. The language of his brother-in-law. A brash one, filled with brassy tones that always seem to fill the room. Mezalea is an empire of colour . Bright patchworks, floral décor, intricate architecture inspired by the sun herself. Or maybe a butterfly dancing through the wind or a spider consumed by a raindrop delicately clinging to a spiny reed. Mezalea is inspired, and in return, does inspire the world.
A language he never quite understood, though, was Elvish. The sounds were… slow and polished. Lingering and melancholy, but spoken with a visceral hope glowing gold like the liquid springs found all over the frozen mountains. Elvish is a fleeting language, one of drawling sounds so carefully pronounced. No, ‘drawling’ isn’t the right word, he’s confusing himself. Elvish… it flows. Like a river, like the Elvish dove on the wind, like the poppies seeping down the mountainside, the only pop of colour in between the white and blue . Rivendell is a proud empire, one of raised noses and towering spirals. Gold drenches the empire in a wondrous light through the treacherous mountains. Jimmy considers the elves to be a brave race, a stubborn race. A race with inexplicable grace and duty to their god. It’s admirable.
Jimmy’s face goes red and he ducks down under the water, reeds tangling in his hair. The image of the Elvenking himself is conjured up inside his head. The Elvenking is… beautiful. Beautiful is a lacklustre word. It pales in comparison with the elf.
But he’s getting off topic. As he always is.
He doubts he even had a topic to begin with. He prefers his thoughts as meandering trails of random thoughts and memories, rather than structured with a beginning, middle and end.
Things are boring that way.