I find myself wondering if 'fallout' isn't somehow still related to dentistry, but I'm choosing to believe that there have been surprising repercussions to your latest assassination. Which, if my reading of the news serves me well, appears to have been of Brexit....
The fallout The Polish squad split up as they reached the bottom of the stairs with Tomasz and Szymon joining Lord Derby and Pyotr and Jakov heading to the other side of the stairs. "Where is she?" asked Tomasz. It was a sort-of whisper; the chanting was now so loud, and had an undercurrent from no human voice, that it was hard to heard without speaking at least at normal level. Lord Derby shrugged, and pointed to where he thought the chanting was coming from, undulating his hand to indicate his uncertainty. "And what's Samual doing?" For that Ernest had no answer at all. As he wondered what he could say there was a noise like wind rising for a gale and then Grace's chant terminated in a shriek that Lord Derby had heard only once before: when a banshee had cavorted atop Arthur's Seat in Edinburgh, warning a noble family of yet more deaths to come. He shivered, a full five seconds before the noise of the wind drowned out all other sound, and even thought, and was following by a drumming like a vast herd of horses racing across the stony, barren land of Carcosa. All the air in the quarry was pulled upwards like the wind was emerging from the ground and blowing into the sky, and the breath was pulled from their lungs. The piles of bodies stirred and moved, some splitting apart and collapsing, others just shuddering as though their contents were trying to come back to life. The patches of swirling darkness broke up into smaller and smaller blobs and drifted this way and that; where they touched other things they sparkled and the other things vanished. Lord Derby and the Polish soldiers gasped like stranded fish; Lord Derby quickly sat down and started a simple calming exercise in his mind, trying to convince himself that Grace wouldn't be able to breathe either, so this could only be short-lived. Tomasz and Szymon staying standing until the lack of oxygen started to take its toll on their bodies, and they half-fell, half-sat.
Across the quarry Elizabeth casually invoked a small bubble of power around herself and Memnith and then linked a microscopic Gate through to an Enclave. The air whistled coldly into their bubble, but the chill was preferably to not being able to breathe. "What the hell?" she said calmly. Memnith kept his silver spectacles on, and pointed towards where the bodies that were shielding Grace were collapsing. "Ritual magic is hard to focus," he said. "Which is probably why people prefer the modern stuff. Whoever's doing this -- it looks like a woman, by the way, but one who's been doing this kind of things for years. The Lords Thaumaturgical might classify her as a demon in her own right if they meet her -- I think wanted to scour the surface above this pit. What you're seeing now is the fallout from that spell." Elizabeth watched a blob of darkness wobble past them like a stunned sheep. "That's a fragment of an active Gate," she said slowly, probing into it with careful jabs of Power. "I repeat myself, but, What the Hell?" "If we get out of this-" Elizabeth glared at him, and he half-smiled. "When we get out of this," he corrected, "I'll send you out to Lancashire. There are some excellent Ritual mages up there, and they do excellent sausages."
Qaz snapped out of his reverie, almost dropping the dagger he was holding. Armus—one of the goblins in his crew—stood nearby, watching. "That's a nice knife," he said again.
"Oh. It is, thanks." He relaxed again, resting his elbows on his knees.
Armus came closer to peer at it. "You make it?"
"What, this? Nah, never got this good at smithing." Qaz held it out to him. "My sister Marti made it."
He inspected it closely: A narrow but substantial thing, with a dark handle and subtle turns on the crossguard. But what caught the eye was the blade itself—the metal was marbled with tiny curves and curls. He nodded, impressed, and handed it back. "She's good."
He smiled. "She is."
"She why you're here?"
The questions surprised him, and his smile vanished. "Hm?"
Armus nodded to the rest of the barrack, mostly empty. "Some folks send their pay back, right? Is that why you're here?"
He sighed and tried for a smile, but the effort was no good. "No, but she is why I'm here."
"What, she kick you out?"
He shook his head, turned the dagger over in his hands. "She got this offer. We got into a fight. Seventeen years, and we ain't never fought, not really. Definitely never like that. But I was a fool, and I left." He turned out his hands listlessly. "Here I am, two years out." He hadn't told anyone anything about that day before. In the moment it was easy enough to tell Armus, startlingly so, but even that small amount made his heart ache and he knew he wouldn't be able to bring himself to say anything else.
He could feel Armus' eyes on his face. After a long pause he asked, "You glad to still have it?"
Qaz nodded. It was one of the only things he'd had with him when he was brought from Westerly, and the only thing he had that she had made. It broke his heart, reminding him of his disastrously foolish mistake, but it also gave him an odd sort of hope.
Armus put a hand on his shoulder. "It's a nice knife."
"It is." ========== It's been another 13 years; they still haven't seen each other, because Stuff Happens.
If I had all the pieces this would've been the perfect prompt to put together that fight, but I'm still working on those, so we get brief reflection on it instead.
But, our gm suggested we start considering characters to switch to in our next arc (we just started our current one, so it'll probably be a while), and the situation is such that Qaz's sister is perfect for it, much to my delight and dismay—delight because figuring her out should be fun, dismay because I know it'll whack me with Feelings.
Greg - I was expecting/hoping for more definitive fallout from the eventful day, but that has yet to occur. So... we shall see what prompts this coming week produces.
Ah, the drama and tension continue apace. And I am still hoping for the best for Samual, but not really expecting much other than the worst...
4 comments:
I find myself wondering if 'fallout' isn't somehow still related to dentistry, but I'm choosing to believe that there have been surprising repercussions to your latest assassination. Which, if my reading of the news serves me well, appears to have been of Brexit....
The fallout
The Polish squad split up as they reached the bottom of the stairs with Tomasz and Szymon joining Lord Derby and Pyotr and Jakov heading to the other side of the stairs.
"Where is she?" asked Tomasz. It was a sort-of whisper; the chanting was now so loud, and had an undercurrent from no human voice, that it was hard to heard without speaking at least at normal level. Lord Derby shrugged, and pointed to where he thought the chanting was coming from, undulating his hand to indicate his uncertainty.
"And what's Samual doing?"
For that Ernest had no answer at all. As he wondered what he could say there was a noise like wind rising for a gale and then Grace's chant terminated in a shriek that Lord Derby had heard only once before: when a banshee had cavorted atop Arthur's Seat in Edinburgh, warning a noble family of yet more deaths to come. He shivered, a full five seconds before the noise of the wind drowned out all other sound, and even thought, and was following by a drumming like a vast herd of horses racing across the stony, barren land of Carcosa. All the air in the quarry was pulled upwards like the wind was emerging from the ground and blowing into the sky, and the breath was pulled from their lungs. The piles of bodies stirred and moved, some splitting apart and collapsing, others just shuddering as though their contents were trying to come back to life. The patches of swirling darkness broke up into smaller and smaller blobs and drifted this way and that; where they touched other things they sparkled and the other things vanished.
Lord Derby and the Polish soldiers gasped like stranded fish; Lord Derby quickly sat down and started a simple calming exercise in his mind, trying to convince himself that Grace wouldn't be able to breathe either, so this could only be short-lived. Tomasz and Szymon staying standing until the lack of oxygen started to take its toll on their bodies, and they half-fell, half-sat.
Across the quarry Elizabeth casually invoked a small bubble of power around herself and Memnith and then linked a microscopic Gate through to an Enclave. The air whistled coldly into their bubble, but the chill was preferably to not being able to breathe.
"What the hell?" she said calmly.
Memnith kept his silver spectacles on, and pointed towards where the bodies that were shielding Grace were collapsing. "Ritual magic is hard to focus," he said. "Which is probably why people prefer the modern stuff. Whoever's doing this -- it looks like a woman, by the way, but one who's been doing this kind of things for years. The Lords Thaumaturgical might classify her as a demon in her own right if they meet her -- I think wanted to scour the surface above this pit. What you're seeing now is the fallout from that spell."
Elizabeth watched a blob of darkness wobble past them like a stunned sheep. "That's a fragment of an active Gate," she said slowly, probing into it with careful jabs of Power. "I repeat myself, but, What the Hell?"
"If we get out of this-" Elizabeth glared at him, and he half-smiled. "When we get out of this," he corrected, "I'll send you out to Lancashire. There are some excellent Ritual mages up there, and they do excellent sausages."
"That's a nice knife."
Qaz snapped out of his reverie, almost dropping the dagger he was holding. Armus—one of the goblins in his crew—stood nearby, watching. "That's a nice knife," he said again.
"Oh. It is, thanks." He relaxed again, resting his elbows on his knees.
Armus came closer to peer at it. "You make it?"
"What, this? Nah, never got this good at smithing." Qaz held it out to him. "My sister Marti made it."
He inspected it closely: A narrow but substantial thing, with a dark handle and subtle turns on the crossguard. But what caught the eye was the blade itself—the metal was marbled with tiny curves and curls. He nodded, impressed, and handed it back.
"She's good."
He smiled. "She is."
"She why you're here?"
The questions surprised him, and his smile vanished. "Hm?"
Armus nodded to the rest of the barrack, mostly empty. "Some folks send their pay back, right? Is that why you're here?"
He sighed and tried for a smile, but the effort was no good. "No, but she is why I'm here."
"What, she kick you out?"
He shook his head, turned the dagger over in his hands. "She got this offer. We got into a fight. Seventeen years, and we ain't never fought, not really. Definitely never like that. But I was a fool, and I left." He turned out his hands listlessly. "Here I am, two years out."
He hadn't told anyone anything about that day before. In the moment it was easy enough to tell Armus, startlingly so, but even that small amount made his heart ache and he knew he wouldn't be able to bring himself to say anything else.
He could feel Armus' eyes on his face. After a long pause he asked, "You glad to still have it?"
Qaz nodded. It was one of the only things he'd had with him when he was brought from Westerly, and the only thing he had that she had made. It broke his heart, reminding him of his disastrously foolish mistake, but it also gave him an odd sort of hope.
Armus put a hand on his shoulder. "It's a nice knife."
"It is."
==========
It's been another 13 years; they still haven't seen each other, because Stuff Happens.
If I had all the pieces this would've been the perfect prompt to put together that fight, but I'm still working on those, so we get brief reflection on it instead.
But, our gm suggested we start considering characters to switch to in our next arc (we just started our current one, so it'll probably be a while), and the situation is such that Qaz's sister is perfect for it, much to my delight and dismay—delight because figuring her out should be fun, dismay because I know it'll whack me with Feelings.
Greg - I was expecting/hoping for more definitive fallout from the eventful day, but that has yet to occur. So... we shall see what prompts this coming week produces.
Ah, the drama and tension continue apace. And I am still hoping for the best for Samual, but not really expecting much other than the worst...
g2 - ah, my apologies. I've grown too used to only needing to reply to Greg's writing, it would appear.
This is nicely done. I'm glad the prompt led you to this, and I look forward to reading more of this story and place.
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