I would be curious to see what you'd write to this prompt. It feels like you had something in mind when you chose it :)
The skeptic and the dreamer They came slowly, but they came. Usually individually, but sometimes in pairs. And Death even tried to raise an eyebrow, before remembering that he was wearing his real face, when the Moirae came all three together. The musicians turned up as well, strolling in from outside smelling of smoke and autumn bonfires, bright-eyed but mellow, their minds a million miles away listening to perfect music and trying to figure out how to reproduce it here. They sat down and tuned up in under a minute, nodding to themselves and each other as the notes harmonized, and their fingers stroked their instruments tenderly, appreciating the construction and rare materials that had gone into making them. Then they launched into Believer by Imagine Dragons and Death’s bony foot tapped along in time. “You call this music?” said a skeletal being, clad in tattered robes that looked like they’d been buried for a century then dug up and brushed off. It turned an antlered head and a blue eye blazed like a police searchlight out of a desiccated eyesocket. “Couldn’t you have picked something a little more… romantic?” “Romantic?” Mercy had appeared from wherever she’d skulked off to and was sitting on the edge of the raised platform where Death’s chair was, her legs turned beneath her to show off silken calves and painted toenails. “Death? Romantic?” Cernunnos gestured with a hairy hand. “Death can be romantic,” he said. “Death can be lots of things. Often painful, lingering and slow.” “You may call me a skeptic,” said Mercy, frowning. “And I would call you a dreamer.” “It’s not my fault,” said Death. “If it were up to me I’d just nerf them and be done with it, but they will insist on struggling. Fighting. Challenging me to winner-takes-all games.” “Are they still asking you to play chess?” Cernunnos’s voice was raspy, as though he hadn’t drunk anything in a long time. “Not since the humans figured out that it’s essentially finite,” said Death. “If you assume that I’ve had long enough to see all positions and remember all outcomes, then it’s clear the best you can do is a draw. They’ve started asking me to play Scrabble instead. I think they’re hoping I don’t keep up to date with slang, fam. Anyway, I think you’ve all turned up now, and anyone who’s late get the usual penalties applied. Time to start.” Cernunnos eyed Death’s nerf-gun, lying on the floor as though discarded with his blazing blue eye but said nothing. “You have gathered,” said Death, his voice carrying easily across the long hall. The musicians didn’t stop playing but they did decrease the volume slightly, and they switched to Mike Oldfield’s The Killing Fields album. “Because you are as aware as I am, that the Accords have been invoked. The Infanta of Castile, dormant for nearly 400 years, is being awoken with the intent of using her permission to command me. Of you all, only five of you are granted this by the Accords, and only one of you is currently ‘alive’ in the way that I understand that word. The question I have for you gathered here, is whether you are happy with this, or if it is time to change the Accords.”
"They're gonna send you back in a box one'a these days, Marti." Qaz set a bowl of stew next to his sister, all but slumped over on the table.
Martel stirred and propped up on her elbows just high enough to pull the bowl to herself. "If so, so be it, long as they pay me and my arms are still attached." She took a spoonful of broth, and quietly rested in its warmth, nodding her approval to Qaz. "Long days happen when there's projects what need finishing, it's fine."
He sat down across from her, arms folded. "There's been a lotta those lately."
"Exactly—project finishing."
"There's been a lot of other long days, more often than not."
"Not like this."
"Not far off."
"It's what the work needs." She tapped the side of her bowl with her spoon. "Wouldn't have this without'm."
"Maybe." He looked to one side thoughtfully. "When was the last time you really spent time on your own work, Marti?"
Not this again—she shrugged, keeping her gaze on her stew.
"Not since our first month here, by my count." He peered at her with some concern. "That's no good, that ain't right."
"It's what the work needs right now."
"But it ain't your work."
"My work is for the shop right now."
"And it ain't even the shop's, really—it's still that big project for the Republic, yeah?"
She took a deep breath. "What of it?"
"What craft is there in that?"
Martel glanced up at him, raised a brow. "I'm doing it, aren't I?"
"Well yeah, but you're you, you always do good work. Big mechanism like that can't appreciate craft, not really."
She looked back to her stew as Qaz went on: "You need to do your work, we need to get back to our work, I miss our work." He smiled. "I think we should set up our own shop."
The corner of her mouth twitched up. "Someday."
"Someday soon, real soon. I've been thinking about it, seeing how Uč’čiva Irse's set up. I think we could do it—we'd keep ourselves, do the work we want—cripes, maybe even make space for other folk!"
Martel only nodded occasionally as Qaz yammered on brightly. His idea was the eventual goal, and Uč’čiva Irse was a good example. But she had been working for about as long as Martel had been alive, that kind of success took time. If the two of them were back in Sestry, or in one of the other river port towns, they could maybe cobble together an enterprise at such an early stage, and maybe it stood a chance of surviving. But in a big city like Westerlyport? They'd be buried in all the red tape that the city required of an enterprise by the end of the year, if they weren't starved out by the competition first. Even if their skills weren't so relatively new, neither of them had the reputation to make an endeavor float out here—it was almost as important as skill alone, if not more so in a place like this. That's what the apprenticeship was for, that's what this workshop job was for. They needed time.
But she was too tired to have this argument just now. So for now she half-listened and focused on her stew. It's what the work needed right now. ============ I've been sitting on this prompt a while, and only now words decided to cooperate.
3 comments:
I would be curious to see what you'd write to this prompt. It feels like you had something in mind when you chose it :)
The skeptic and the dreamer
They came slowly, but they came. Usually individually, but sometimes in pairs. And Death even tried to raise an eyebrow, before remembering that he was wearing his real face, when the Moirae came all three together. The musicians turned up as well, strolling in from outside smelling of smoke and autumn bonfires, bright-eyed but mellow, their minds a million miles away listening to perfect music and trying to figure out how to reproduce it here. They sat down and tuned up in under a minute, nodding to themselves and each other as the notes harmonized, and their fingers stroked their instruments tenderly, appreciating the construction and rare materials that had gone into making them. Then they launched into Believer by Imagine Dragons and Death’s bony foot tapped along in time.
“You call this music?” said a skeletal being, clad in tattered robes that looked like they’d been buried for a century then dug up and brushed off. It turned an antlered head and a blue eye blazed like a police searchlight out of a desiccated eyesocket. “Couldn’t you have picked something a little more… romantic?”
“Romantic?” Mercy had appeared from wherever she’d skulked off to and was sitting on the edge of the raised platform where Death’s chair was, her legs turned beneath her to show off silken calves and painted toenails. “Death? Romantic?”
Cernunnos gestured with a hairy hand. “Death can be romantic,” he said. “Death can be lots of things. Often painful, lingering and slow.”
“You may call me a skeptic,” said Mercy, frowning. “And I would call you a dreamer.”
“It’s not my fault,” said Death. “If it were up to me I’d just nerf them and be done with it, but they will insist on struggling. Fighting. Challenging me to winner-takes-all games.”
“Are they still asking you to play chess?” Cernunnos’s voice was raspy, as though he hadn’t drunk anything in a long time.
“Not since the humans figured out that it’s essentially finite,” said Death. “If you assume that I’ve had long enough to see all positions and remember all outcomes, then it’s clear the best you can do is a draw. They’ve started asking me to play Scrabble instead. I think they’re hoping I don’t keep up to date with slang, fam. Anyway, I think you’ve all turned up now, and anyone who’s late get the usual penalties applied. Time to start.”
Cernunnos eyed Death’s nerf-gun, lying on the floor as though discarded with his blazing blue eye but said nothing.
“You have gathered,” said Death, his voice carrying easily across the long hall. The musicians didn’t stop playing but they did decrease the volume slightly, and they switched to Mike Oldfield’s The Killing Fields album. “Because you are as aware as I am, that the Accords have been invoked. The Infanta of Castile, dormant for nearly 400 years, is being awoken with the intent of using her permission to command me. Of you all, only five of you are granted this by the Accords, and only one of you is currently ‘alive’ in the way that I understand that word. The question I have for you gathered here, is whether you are happy with this, or if it is time to change the Accords.”
Greg - yeah, I'm sure it would have been fantastic.
Too late now though!
I appreciate Death's choice of music, even if Mercy does not. Loved the descriptions in this one, by the way.
"They're gonna send you back in a box one'a these days, Marti." Qaz set a bowl of stew next to his sister, all but slumped over on the table.
Martel stirred and propped up on her elbows just high enough to pull the bowl to herself. "If so, so be it, long as they pay me and my arms are still attached." She took a spoonful of broth, and quietly rested in its warmth, nodding her approval to Qaz. "Long days happen when there's projects what need finishing, it's fine."
He sat down across from her, arms folded. "There's been a lotta those lately."
"Exactly—project finishing."
"There's been a lot of other long days, more often than not."
"Not like this."
"Not far off."
"It's what the work needs." She tapped the side of her bowl with her spoon. "Wouldn't have this without'm."
"Maybe." He looked to one side thoughtfully. "When was the last time you really spent time on your own work, Marti?"
Not this again—she shrugged, keeping her gaze on her stew.
"Not since our first month here, by my count." He peered at her with some concern. "That's no good, that ain't right."
"It's what the work needs right now."
"But it ain't your work."
"My work is for the shop right now."
"And it ain't even the shop's, really—it's still that big project for the Republic, yeah?"
She took a deep breath. "What of it?"
"What craft is there in that?"
Martel glanced up at him, raised a brow. "I'm doing it, aren't I?"
"Well yeah, but you're you, you always do good work. Big mechanism like that can't appreciate craft, not really."
She looked back to her stew as Qaz went on: "You need to do your work, we need to get back to our work, I miss our work." He smiled. "I think we should set up our own shop."
The corner of her mouth twitched up. "Someday."
"Someday soon, real soon. I've been thinking about it, seeing how Uč’čiva Irse's set up. I think we could do it—we'd keep ourselves, do the work we want—cripes, maybe even make space for other folk!"
Martel only nodded occasionally as Qaz yammered on brightly. His idea was the eventual goal, and Uč’čiva Irse was a good example. But she had been working for about as long as Martel had been alive, that kind of success took time. If the two of them were back in Sestry, or in one of the other river port towns, they could maybe cobble together an enterprise at such an early stage, and maybe it stood a chance of surviving. But in a big city like Westerlyport? They'd be buried in all the red tape that the city required of an enterprise by the end of the year, if they weren't starved out by the competition first. Even if their skills weren't so relatively new, neither of them had the reputation to make an endeavor float out here—it was almost as important as skill alone, if not more so in a place like this. That's what the apprenticeship was for, that's what this workshop job was for. They needed time.
But she was too tired to have this argument just now. So for now she half-listened and focused on her stew. It's what the work needed right now.
============
I've been sitting on this prompt a while, and only now words decided to cooperate.
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