It's been September for a day for me here already, so I'm used to it. It's starting to cool down again here in Malta too, so I'm happy about that too!
Flash The rower was in a small boat that could have sat three, or four if they were on very good terms with each other. The oars dipped into the water with a crisp splash and as they drew closer they could hear the creak of the wood as the boat seemed to glide across the lake. “It’s a swan, fam,” said Famine. War and Pestilence nodded, but Scuffles looked confused. “Graceful up top, lots of effort and activity below,” said Pestilence. “Look with your senses, not just your eyes.” As the rower turned the boat so that it was side on to the reservoir bank, without getting close enough for a man standing on the side to jump in – or the rower to jump out without getting wet – Scuffles concentrated, wondering if this was a test, or if perhaps Pestilence was just playing games. He stiffened, controlling himself so as not to gasp, when he saw with Incarnate eyes that the rower was a pillar of flame, an Ifrit, and that the boat that looked like the kind of thing your grandmother would keep moored at the bottom of her garden (with or without a river) and take out for lazy Sunday afternoons and picnics was actually a spiked coracle made of rusted, scabrous iron. “Ahoy the shore!” called the rower. With ordinary eyes they looked like a muscular young woman wearing a tank-top, blue shorts and pink training shoes. Hilda barked a reply, and the woman tried to look confused. Light flashed around her shoulders momentarily and there was a smell of hot iron. “We can see what you are,” said War, his voice carrying easily across the reservoir. “And we know that Ifriti can speak Hellhound. So don’t pretend.” The young woman ran a hand through short-cut tousled hair and grinned impishly. “My name’s Frust’u’elvarraka,” she said, though she pronounced it like fire crackling through dry logs. “Call me Raka, it’s easier. I thought Hellhounds were… bigger?” Hilda’s next bark conveyed enough annoyance that Raka took a step back. One of the hippos came lazily to its feet and stepped out into the water. “Frust’u’elvarraka,” said Famine effortlessly. “is a nice name, but sure, we can call you Raka.” Thank Death, muttered words directly in Scuffles’s head. He looked at Pestilence curiously. Fam’s got a gift for languages, the rest of us just try and keep up. Hilda stepped out onto the back of the hippo, and it swam across to Raka’s boat. She looked nervous. “Hilda, be nice,” said War. He didn’t sound entirely convincing. “Are you here on behalf of Rijbka, on your own business, or are we interrupting something else entirely? We’re looking for the Infanta of Castile, if she might be attending your little get-together.” “The Swimmer beneath,” said Raka, eyeing Hilda even more nervously as she sniffed at Raka’s ankles, “is curious as to what is going on here. My actual instructions are to bring you to it so it can consume you and learn of what’s happened here since the valley was flooded, but clearly that’s not an option any more.” She reached down to stroke Hilda’s head, and Hilda growled. Raka pulled her hand back. “The Infanta of Castile? I wasn’t aware she was carnate again?” “She might not be yet, sis,” said Famine. “Tea is that someone’s trying to dig up those old bones—” “Shut up,” said War. “You make my head hurt trying to translate you. Raka, something odd is going on here. Narusheteli is stirring and the Infanta of Castile might or might not be returning. The Boss is unhappy, and we’ve been tasked with cheering him up again.” “That was less cryptic?” said Pestilence, his eyes wide. “I’d despair of you all, only that’s not my job.” “Narusheteli?” Raka rubbed a finger across her upper lip, and with his other eyes Scuffles saw tiny flashes of light and sparks ignite around her head. “That’s never good.”
Greg - well our September has started out pretty hot, but at least at this time of year the heat doesn't linger like it does midsummer. There's a pleasant night breeze blowing at the moment, which is bringing the temperature down quite nicely.
Enjoy your Maltese autumn!
All of this was great. The hippo-riding hellhound was obviously a highlight, but all the dialogue is excellent, as is all the stuff going on behind the scenes.
2 comments:
It's been September for a day for me here already, so I'm used to it. It's starting to cool down again here in Malta too, so I'm happy about that too!
Flash
The rower was in a small boat that could have sat three, or four if they were on very good terms with each other. The oars dipped into the water with a crisp splash and as they drew closer they could hear the creak of the wood as the boat seemed to glide across the lake.
“It’s a swan, fam,” said Famine. War and Pestilence nodded, but Scuffles looked confused.
“Graceful up top, lots of effort and activity below,” said Pestilence. “Look with your senses, not just your eyes.” As the rower turned the boat so that it was side on to the reservoir bank, without getting close enough for a man standing on the side to jump in – or the rower to jump out without getting wet – Scuffles concentrated, wondering if this was a test, or if perhaps Pestilence was just playing games. He stiffened, controlling himself so as not to gasp, when he saw with Incarnate eyes that the rower was a pillar of flame, an Ifrit, and that the boat that looked like the kind of thing your grandmother would keep moored at the bottom of her garden (with or without a river) and take out for lazy Sunday afternoons and picnics was actually a spiked coracle made of rusted, scabrous iron.
“Ahoy the shore!” called the rower. With ordinary eyes they looked like a muscular young woman wearing a tank-top, blue shorts and pink training shoes. Hilda barked a reply, and the woman tried to look confused. Light flashed around her shoulders momentarily and there was a smell of hot iron.
“We can see what you are,” said War, his voice carrying easily across the reservoir. “And we know that Ifriti can speak Hellhound. So don’t pretend.”
The young woman ran a hand through short-cut tousled hair and grinned impishly. “My name’s Frust’u’elvarraka,” she said, though she pronounced it like fire crackling through dry logs. “Call me Raka, it’s easier. I thought Hellhounds were… bigger?”
Hilda’s next bark conveyed enough annoyance that Raka took a step back. One of the hippos came lazily to its feet and stepped out into the water.
“Frust’u’elvarraka,” said Famine effortlessly. “is a nice name, but sure, we can call you Raka.”
Thank Death, muttered words directly in Scuffles’s head. He looked at Pestilence curiously. Fam’s got a gift for languages, the rest of us just try and keep up.
Hilda stepped out onto the back of the hippo, and it swam across to Raka’s boat. She looked nervous.
“Hilda, be nice,” said War. He didn’t sound entirely convincing. “Are you here on behalf of Rijbka, on your own business, or are we interrupting something else entirely? We’re looking for the Infanta of Castile, if she might be attending your little get-together.”
“The Swimmer beneath,” said Raka, eyeing Hilda even more nervously as she sniffed at Raka’s ankles, “is curious as to what is going on here. My actual instructions are to bring you to it so it can consume you and learn of what’s happened here since the valley was flooded, but clearly that’s not an option any more.” She reached down to stroke Hilda’s head, and Hilda growled. Raka pulled her hand back. “The Infanta of Castile? I wasn’t aware she was carnate again?”
“She might not be yet, sis,” said Famine. “Tea is that someone’s trying to dig up those old bones—”
“Shut up,” said War. “You make my head hurt trying to translate you. Raka, something odd is going on here. Narusheteli is stirring and the Infanta of Castile might or might not be returning. The Boss is unhappy, and we’ve been tasked with cheering him up again.”
“That was less cryptic?” said Pestilence, his eyes wide. “I’d despair of you all, only that’s not my job.”
“Narusheteli?” Raka rubbed a finger across her upper lip, and with his other eyes Scuffles saw tiny flashes of light and sparks ignite around her head. “That’s never good.”
Greg - well our September has started out pretty hot, but at least at this time of year the heat doesn't linger like it does midsummer. There's a pleasant night breeze blowing at the moment, which is bringing the temperature down quite nicely.
Enjoy your Maltese autumn!
All of this was great. The hippo-riding hellhound was obviously a highlight, but all the dialogue is excellent, as is all the stuff going on behind the scenes.
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