Daily writing prompts from June 9th, 2008 to December 31st, 2022
Wednesday February 20th, 2019
The exercise: Write about: the forgotten fugitive. I don't know why, but this idea amuses the hell out of me. Though, I suppose, more serious takes are certainly possible.
I like the idea of a forgotten fugitive too, and I think you ought to provide us with your own take on it ;-) When you can find time. I had a few ideas run through my head, but I suspect that since I gave you the Ilmatu recently I ought to compensate and pick up where left off a little while ago.
The forgotten fugitive Tomasz talked animatedly in Polish for a while with the three soldiers. Samual, unable to follow any of the conversation, looked around a little nervously. The quarry felt unwelcoming to him, and the dead bodies, the atrocity that Grace had carried out, and the strange behaviour of the magic that he'd been hoping would take them home all combined to make him wonder if he'd made the right choice in coming here at all. He sighed softly, and marked out a mental boundary in his head, and started to pace along it, standing guard. It was the least he could do while the others sorted things out. After two circuits Szymon joined him, falling quickly into step and the two men patrolled in silence.
Tomasz put his hands on his hips and stared up into the night sky. Stars burned there, untwinkling and in strange constellations. The sky was as cloudless as ever, and Lord Derby, watching him, wondered briefly if it ever rained in Carcosa. "They say they were sent as messengers," he said, in English. "I don't know how much of the conversation you followed?" "Some," said Lord Derby. "You talk fast, and there were words in there I don't know." "They're from the East," said Tomasz. "There's Ukrainian mixed in a bit. They think they were disposable, they think they were going to be killed when they returned. So they deserted." His words were flat, clipped. "Is it deserting, really?" "They failed to do their duty," said Tomasz. "That duty may have been stupid, or lethal, but what good is a soldier who cannot follow orders?" "I s-" "I don't expect you to understand," said Tomasz. "But Command is Command. And it doesn't matter if lives are spared, or saved, or whatever fancy word you have, they disobeyed orders. Hah! Imagine, milord, if your chess pawns walked off the board when you weren't looking, because they no longer wanted to follow your orders!" "So what do you want to do with them?" Tomasz was silent for over a minute, but Lord Derby waited him out. "They disobeyed orders," he said. "But they were not under my command then. So-" Now Lord Derby interrupted him. "We may have to leave them here anyway," he said. "If you cannot trust them then I cannot allow them to pass through a gate into London." Tomasz's face twisted as though he'd been punched in the stomach. "They're not dead yet," he said. "I'm not the Court Martial, to decide that." "Who else here is?" "That's vile!" "That's the way things are."
Tomasz turned so he could face Lord Derby directly. His face had reddened, and Ernest noted that his fists were clenched tightly at his sides, his knuckles white with pressure. Around them a faint mist was starting to rise from the ground, and Lord Derby noted absently that this meant there was definitely water in Carcosa. Somewhere. "I thought you'd decided to be in charge." His voice was tight as though he was forcing each word out, fighting against their unwillingness to leave his throat. "I thought you didn't accept my right to be so." "I don't." Silence again. The footsteps of Jakov broke it briefly as he decided to join the men on patrol. "Then their fate lies in your hands," said Lord Derby. "I will probably have to remain here no matter what. I think you referred to it as 'being a hero'. They may have to remain as well, so I hope you view them as equally heroic." "Always words. Always twisting, tricky words with you." "They mentioned Labdaris." "What of it? Some sorcerer, I think. He sent them to deliver the message to some Enclave somewhere, not in Poland. They said they watched men die and then cast a spell. It sounds... unlikely." "Labdaris," said Lord Derby, "is an unfortunate name. And an uncommon one, worse." "What do you mean? More mysteries, Derby?" Tomasz flung the words like a grenade. "Labdaris is... a forgotten fugitive. He was allowed to escape by a faction who felt he had only been following orders." Tomasz stiffened again. "They crippled him, but from what I've read about the case, there were experts at the time who thought that nothing short of death could stop him." "They said he sits in a wheelchair," said Tomasz. "It could be, I suppose." "Then perhaps he's... ah! Hence Grace!" "What?" Tomasz sounded suddenly tired instead of angry. "You leap to conclusions like a Bulgarian gymnast leaps across the arena. Can't you at least try and help the rest of us?" "Labdaris is a cripple sitting in a wheelchair. He could hardly come to Carcosa himself, so he's sent Grace. The spell the soldiers were sent to initiate -- that must be part of what Grace is doing here. I wonder... I wonder if the demons are an invading force? You found weapons at the table, maybe they invaded Carcosa first, years ago, and now Labdaris is going to use them for the same thing again?" Tomasz groaned. "You make me regret asking you to explain yourself. Every. Single. Time."
As it happens, this works out really well with my mechaniker friend—he's had a bit of A Time. ======== Sometimes the wind caught Qaz's breath, and the way the salt in the air stuck in his throat sharply reminded him of that searing exhaustion and frenzied panic that had cut across his chest. After eight years that panic should have faded—he had escaped, after all—but though it surfaced less frequently, he knew better than to hope for that panic to disappear entirely. It knew and he knew that he hadn't—and frankly couldn't—truly escape.
He'd had very low rank while with the Blackstone family, and never considered himself truly indispensable. But the fact that he was closely pursued in his flight all the way from the mountains, across the sea to the Trium capital, was an unsettling reminder just how tight a grip the family liked to keep on all their assets.
But he had fled eight years ago; eight years was a long time to remain uncaught. By any reasonable logic, he was safe. But the Blackstones' memory was long, and the list of deserters was short, easy to remember. He could recall all too well the instance where a defector had resurfaced, and even after a seventeen year absence the family still saw fit to snare this defector for a chat. Qaz never knew whether that poor soul lived through the ordeal, and was never quite sure which outcome would've been more merciful. But its meaning was quite clear: never mind whether it was on good terms or poor, no one could really ever leave the Blackstones' operation.
His safety was assured working in the complex of the Church of the First Star. His safety was assured working with the First Star's affiliates. He even felt safe in his assignment to a privateer working with the Inquisition, if only because the Commodore's outpost was remote and its location was a sworn secret. But now the truth about Inquisition was known, and the hunt was on to find any of its affiliates. Now he had been assigned to lead a party to Saltberg, and they had already been recognized as bounty targets twice.
He leaned on the ledge of this strange ship, finding no solace in the salt air and feeling totally exposed amid the open ocean. Now, he feared, it was only a matter of time before eight years caught up to him. ======= All he wants right now is a bench where he can make stuff, a good cup of tea, and otherwise be left alone. This will probably not be possible for quite some time.
4 comments:
I like the idea of a forgotten fugitive too, and I think you ought to provide us with your own take on it ;-) When you can find time. I had a few ideas run through my head, but I suspect that since I gave you the Ilmatu recently I ought to compensate and pick up where left off a little while ago.
The forgotten fugitive
Tomasz talked animatedly in Polish for a while with the three soldiers. Samual, unable to follow any of the conversation, looked around a little nervously. The quarry felt unwelcoming to him, and the dead bodies, the atrocity that Grace had carried out, and the strange behaviour of the magic that he'd been hoping would take them home all combined to make him wonder if he'd made the right choice in coming here at all. He sighed softly, and marked out a mental boundary in his head, and started to pace along it, standing guard. It was the least he could do while the others sorted things out.
After two circuits Szymon joined him, falling quickly into step and the two men patrolled in silence.
Tomasz put his hands on his hips and stared up into the night sky. Stars burned there, untwinkling and in strange constellations. The sky was as cloudless as ever, and Lord Derby, watching him, wondered briefly if it ever rained in Carcosa.
"They say they were sent as messengers," he said, in English. "I don't know how much of the conversation you followed?"
"Some," said Lord Derby. "You talk fast, and there were words in there I don't know."
"They're from the East," said Tomasz. "There's Ukrainian mixed in a bit. They think they were disposable, they think they were going to be killed when they returned. So they deserted." His words were flat, clipped.
"Is it deserting, really?"
"They failed to do their duty," said Tomasz. "That duty may have been stupid, or lethal, but what good is a soldier who cannot follow orders?"
"I s-"
"I don't expect you to understand," said Tomasz. "But Command is Command. And it doesn't matter if lives are spared, or saved, or whatever fancy word you have, they disobeyed orders. Hah! Imagine, milord, if your chess pawns walked off the board when you weren't looking, because they no longer wanted to follow your orders!"
"So what do you want to do with them?"
Tomasz was silent for over a minute, but Lord Derby waited him out.
"They disobeyed orders," he said. "But they were not under my command then. So-"
Now Lord Derby interrupted him. "We may have to leave them here anyway," he said. "If you cannot trust them then I cannot allow them to pass through a gate into London."
Tomasz's face twisted as though he'd been punched in the stomach. "They're not dead yet," he said. "I'm not the Court Martial, to decide that."
"Who else here is?"
"That's vile!"
"That's the way things are."
Tomasz turned so he could face Lord Derby directly. His face had reddened, and Ernest noted that his fists were clenched tightly at his sides, his knuckles white with pressure. Around them a faint mist was starting to rise from the ground, and Lord Derby noted absently that this meant there was definitely water in Carcosa. Somewhere.
"I thought you'd decided to be in charge." His voice was tight as though he was forcing each word out, fighting against their unwillingness to leave his throat.
"I thought you didn't accept my right to be so."
"I don't."
Silence again. The footsteps of Jakov broke it briefly as he decided to join the men on patrol.
"Then their fate lies in your hands," said Lord Derby. "I will probably have to remain here no matter what. I think you referred to it as 'being a hero'. They may have to remain as well, so I hope you view them as equally heroic."
"Always words. Always twisting, tricky words with you."
"They mentioned Labdaris."
"What of it? Some sorcerer, I think. He sent them to deliver the message to some Enclave somewhere, not in Poland. They said they watched men die and then cast a spell. It sounds... unlikely."
"Labdaris," said Lord Derby, "is an unfortunate name. And an uncommon one, worse."
"What do you mean? More mysteries, Derby?" Tomasz flung the words like a grenade.
"Labdaris is... a forgotten fugitive. He was allowed to escape by a faction who felt he had only been following orders." Tomasz stiffened again. "They crippled him, but from what I've read about the case, there were experts at the time who thought that nothing short of death could stop him."
"They said he sits in a wheelchair," said Tomasz. "It could be, I suppose."
"Then perhaps he's... ah! Hence Grace!"
"What?" Tomasz sounded suddenly tired instead of angry. "You leap to conclusions like a Bulgarian gymnast leaps across the arena. Can't you at least try and help the rest of us?"
"Labdaris is a cripple sitting in a wheelchair. He could hardly come to Carcosa himself, so he's sent Grace. The spell the soldiers were sent to initiate -- that must be part of what Grace is doing here. I wonder... I wonder if the demons are an invading force? You found weapons at the table, maybe they invaded Carcosa first, years ago, and now Labdaris is going to use them for the same thing again?"
Tomasz groaned. "You make me regret asking you to explain yourself. Every. Single. Time."
As it happens, this works out really well with my mechaniker friend—he's had a bit of A Time.
========
Sometimes the wind caught Qaz's breath, and the way the salt in the air stuck in his throat sharply reminded him of that searing exhaustion and frenzied panic that had cut across his chest. After eight years that panic should have faded—he had escaped, after all—but though it surfaced less frequently, he knew better than to hope for that panic to disappear entirely. It knew and he knew that he hadn't—and frankly couldn't—truly escape.
He'd had very low rank while with the Blackstone family, and never considered himself truly indispensable. But the fact that he was closely pursued in his flight all the way from the mountains, across the sea to the Trium capital, was an unsettling reminder just how tight a grip the family liked to keep on all their assets.
But he had fled eight years ago; eight years was a long time to remain uncaught. By any reasonable logic, he was safe. But the Blackstones' memory was long, and the list of deserters was short, easy to remember. He could recall all too well the instance where a defector had resurfaced, and even after a seventeen year absence the family still saw fit to snare this defector for a chat. Qaz never knew whether that poor soul lived through the ordeal, and was never quite sure which outcome would've been more merciful. But its meaning was quite clear: never mind whether it was on good terms or poor, no one could really ever leave the Blackstones' operation.
His safety was assured working in the complex of the Church of the First Star. His safety was assured working with the First Star's affiliates. He even felt safe in his assignment to a privateer working with the Inquisition, if only because the Commodore's outpost was remote and its location was a sworn secret. But now the truth about Inquisition was known, and the hunt was on to find any of its affiliates. Now he had been assigned to lead a party to Saltberg, and they had already been recognized as bounty targets twice.
He leaned on the ledge of this strange ship, finding no solace in the salt air and feeling totally exposed amid the open ocean. Now, he feared, it was only a matter of time before eight years caught up to him.
=======
All he wants right now is a bench where he can make stuff, a good cup of tea, and otherwise be left alone. This will probably not be possible for quite some time.
Greg - I shall have to find time, as I have a fairly clear idea in my head of what I'd want to write about.
Anyway, thank you for returning to this :) I'm enjoying watching the puzzle get pieced together, piece by piece.
g2 - hello again :)
Thank you for this continuation! I'm quite intrigued by this setting and this character. I hope to hear more of his goings on.
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