Private Shale Upon The Trellis

Sniff twitch, sniff twitch, a reset of hat in confundity of it all.

No no, rocks climbing where vines are encouraged, this simply won't do, not do at all! What's more- Barnabus did think, resetting his glasses, leaning in to scene of the learning awry. The trellises of wood writhing with ivy of stone that did creep and crawl and grind quiet in their odd growths.

"What's more," Barnabus did declare, as if revealing the inciting incident of a murder mystery book he had read some years ago, "These vines have petrified, and yet still grow!"

Twitch of whisker, a pace back and forth, a recall of the roster of staff within the Knights of Anathaeum.

All of them. Such was Barnabus' burden and obligation by nature of things written and read.

One quick registered in mind, at once summoned by message runner. Barnabus was well known for powering around on squat legs, but he knew even he could not sleuth the squire he needed quicker than the professionals of missives might. A slip of a note handed into a Squire's hand, an errand to find one who knew of such things.

"I want to know the meaning of this here garden of rock. I was rather looking forward to these tomatoes for my sandwiches, this won't do at all," Barnabus said to a runner, writing quick quill onto slip of paper as he did. He placed it in palm, and stated the reciepient of his summon. "Find one Squire Tobille Mascaret, summon them to the learning gardens if you would."

Quick feet did seek with letter.

Barnabus did lean this way at that, snout this way and that, pacing about the stone vines that did writhe with all the quiet sounds of odd rocks in the learning gardens of Anathaeum, giving tuts as if scolding the vines for being this way.

The trellises gave out little creaks of stress and strain as the stone did grow in weight.

@Tobille

Harried hands hooked into the hollows of the scholar's axillae, pulling him up and forth from a taxonomical study of ink, paper, dust and desk. Bodily removed from the scriptorium before one could question it -- though no one would, not even himself, against this tugging of tether, this impromptu answering of a senior's summons. Come when called was the Squire's calling.

So the transition went from dust and desk to gravel underfoot and garden gates. A welcome trade, though he held no preference between the two. They were selfsame environments, heart at humble home in one or the other.

Tobille Mascaret picked his way under an arbour of pruned clematis and into what he expected to be a vining realm of staked indeterminate crops. Only there, he found less of the variegated reds and oranges of round ripe fruit and more of the striated black and white of one furrowed, striped brow.

He knew of Syr Barnabus -- was he a Syr? Or was he a fellow? Of this he was unclear -- but moreso admired of him, and his gifts of transcription, and now what appeared to be a mutual appreciation of the Monastery's gardens.

To aid him was no chore at all, a pleasure in fact, and deftly the squire's hands were folded behind him as he poured his thin body into a polite bow.

"How can I assist you today, Syr.."

And with bent back, eyes low to the compost-amended plot of soil, he spied the problem.
Stalks had turned to serpentine stone. Clusters of star-shaped flowers crystallized. Round fruit all but bouldered.

Tobi shot up, mouth and formality crumpling as he let out a startled cry.

"Wh-what happened!!!!"

Barnabus' nose did twitch hither here and hither there, his paws small did clutch at what was once fine additions to sandwich layers, whiskers muchly trembling at nose did sniff sniff sniff for hint of a trace scent of tomato. Nothing but shale, scraped by his stub claws that did rake it. As if it had offended him directly by thwarting his efforts to accompany lettuce with juicy things beyond beetroot.

Beetroot. Damnable beetroot. Barnabus was sick of enduring it in the belly, on the muzzle. Healthy, yes. Stained fur something foul, even more so, yes. Traitorous thing to pluck from soil to linger on a coat as lunch sign inkblot.

Beetroot made for chuckling comments from those who he had served, and much scrubbing with bristle brush and soap that made him sneeze from the lather needed. Not that again, no. He would have something else. Something red. Something that did not stain.

Tomatoes would not betray him. Such had he thought, until as stones they had turned their back on juicy service to his lunches this day.

He made a fist, shook it at the trellis of stone that did creep tectonically slow in spurts of growth mineral as he replied to the Squire.

"That-is-what-I-would-like-to-know! And I'm no Syr, Squire. If I were a Syr, someone with title to bark some discipline into this now cobbled vineyard, I might shake these tomatoes out of their stone faced stupor! Shameful that they stand so,"

Barnabus took a tread towards the vines. The rocks, no doubt at peak of ripeness now shelled away in their rock transformation. All comfortable and smug that no juice would be bled from them.

"Shameful now-quarry," Barnabus mumbled and ruminated into his whiskers, again shaking his fist at them, baring teeth arranged all needle like, as if promising a future chewing out once his mystery was solved.

He turned more properly to the squire, cleared his throat, adjusted his collar and hat. As if he had been jostled directly by the statues of potential lunches. He gave run on instructions, made cases, sought remedy, a chain of actions which chased their own tail.

"Test the soil, test the mettle of these vines to abandon their tomfoolery, turn them back, find out what's to be done, pursue the meaning of it. Fix this terrible sight good Squire, I have not the wits to argue with these minerals to turn a new leaf. I am not much for munching of these sun kissed turned pebbledash vine gravel turncoats," Barnabus did grumble out. Hands to hips. A shake of head. Hands into pockets. Out again to protest the sight again, gesturing at the gall of it all.

"This vexes me muchly good Squire, muchly muchly. Have you ever seen of such thing? Why would this happen. How, I ask. Is someone sabotaging plants in want of rock gardens? Who would want that, beggar's belief, most vexing, most vexing," Barnabus asked, shaking his snout and placing hands in and out of pockets, as if he had forgotten a note that contained the answer within them. Each time he worked himself up into further confoundment and sounds of grumblings, eyes going from vine to squire, hands from pockets to gesturing. It was as if Barnabus was expecting the squire to reveal the details as to the conspiracy, to solve it instantly, as if they would be able to jump into answers. As if Barnabus were waiting for Squire Tobille to produce the answer from their own pockets. As if they were somehow holding out on Barnabus.

Barnabus' muzzle twitched and withheld a sneer and snarl, as if in memory of the scent of soap. A soap that had made him sneeze many hours after the inkblot stain from the unfortunate vulgaris had been scrubbed away.

@Tobille