Well, technically you didn't do yesterday's prompt as a haiku either... :-p
Confirmation They moved on, visiting sheltered housing in a city centre where a middle-aged man with a scruffy beard and halitosis was conspiring with the manager of the accommodation to betray the trust of his father and the company; to a guildhall in London where three junior members were conspiring to break their oaths of allegiance and deliver secrets to a rival guild; to a banking office in China where both peoples’s trust and the expectations of the local political parties were about to be distorted and twisted to plebian ends and to half a dozen more. Each place confirmed Narusheteli’s hand in matters. Then Scuffles concentrated again and found a pearl of whiteness in the midst of all the other colours and, practically effortlessly now, reached out and pulled them all across to a new place. Open space was all around them and they were standing on sandy rock. It was night, and the stars above were clear, barely twinkling. The cold white light of the moon lit up the landscape around them in shades of grey; all colours disappeared and the world seemed almost two-dimensional from the lack of good depth perception. There was a dry, peaty smell in the air, like baked soil, and a hint of something floral and maybe spicy that drifted by now and then. “Chili peppers,” said Famine, sniffing. “Nice, this feels like one of the old places. We went to places like this on holiday when I was a kid.” War strolled away, his steps sounding oddly resonant, and after a few minutes he came back. “This is a mesa,” he said. “Hollow by the sounds of it. I think we’re in South America.” “Peru,” said Scuffles. “Pico Sira. We’re about a kilometre up. But something’s wrong, I can’t find the scuffle here.” “Inside?” War stamped a foot and there was a low sound, long and belling, that was like a gong-sound only downshifted by being made of rock instead of metal. “A lot of these things have taken place in small rooms, hidden places. Though… why is this hollow? This seems more like geography than anything man-made.” “Not man-made,” said Narusheteli, and they all turned to find the Oath-breaker in her form as a middle-aged woman with an understanding smile and a black umbrella behind them. “Elf-made, back when there were elves. They drew the carvings in the desert and hunted megafauna and lived paradisiacal lives until the climate changed and the air grew thick and heavy. Then they retreated and left a few places where they might return from. This is one of them. But why am I telling you this? You, who are interrupting my work and disturbing my peace?” Hilda barked. Narusheteli looked at her, and squinted slightly as though trying to see through her. She ran one hand through her hair. “Well?” she asked. “We were looking for you,” said Pestilence. “We wanted a chat.” “Elves?” said Scuffles. “Return?” said War. “A chat? Is this how you make all of your social appointments? Turn up in someone’s house and defecate on their lawn?” Pestilence’s hand moved as quickly as a snake striking to cover Famine’s mouth, so that whatever he was going to say became a mumbled objection to being silenced. Hilda, annoyed by being jolted by the sudden movement, sat up on Pestilence’s arm, nestled back into the crook of where his elbow was pressed against his body, and pricked her ears up. Narusheteli watched Hilda with narrowed eyes. “I’d say we were knocking firmly,” said Pestilence. “You know, like when you can hear the radio on and see the windows upstairs open, but maybe the lady of the house is just finishing up in the bathroom and needs a little time to be presentable, but you don’t want her to forget that you’re there.” “Elves?” said Scuffles, looking around. “Firebombers knock more delicately,” said Narusheteli. “I am not happy.” Hilda growled, and Narusheteli took a step back. “Not happy at all.”
The moment she could break away Martel dashed back to her quarters and slammed the door—the dragonwood would muffle the sound. She pressed back against it, sliding down it to a tight crouch, and cast aside her mask, although it did little to relieve the suffocating grasp of emotion.
He was alive. Qaz was here, he was alive. It had been fifteen years, and hundreds and thousands of miles—and there he was, not twenty feet away from her. Even briefly, even from a distance, she could see the lines of the boy he had been when she last saw him almost half their lives ago; but he had grown into himself. He looked assured—he looked tired.
The tremendous relief and ecstasy of seeing him again was overwhelming enough.
But twisting tight around it was a desperation and blinding despair—he was alive, and he was there, and she could do nothing. She was not her own self when behind the mask—there was only duty. Her heart desperately threw itself against her ribs, as a bird beats against its cage, and she had to ball her fist so tightly that even through her glove her nails bit into her palm—the mark of their teeth were still there. And when one of her peers led the tortle past her, and Qaz had tried to follow, she had to bite her tongue—hard enough that even now she still slightly tasted copper.
Her brother was there, and he was alive.
And she could do nothing.
She screamed. =============== Briefly: A while back, our party's turtle-person cleric was commandeered by a group of government assassins; and sometime thereafter our DM suggested we do a setting swap to this group of assassins, and we should think of who might be on this ship. And almost immediately I realized Qaz's sister would be.
Then last week we started planning for that setting swap, and I've only just learned that, contrary to my assumptions, she was present when this group of assassins had surrounded the party and usher them back to confinement.
I'm still not sure how exactly she's dealing with it, but overall I suspect it's in the ballpark of "not well."
Ah, Pest and Fame, somehow steadily becoming one of my favorite duos. And it is... good?... to meet the Oath Breaker at last. Curious to see what comes next.
And whether or not it involves Hilda...
g2 - good to see more of this story unfold. And yes, I'm sure it'll be fine. Eventually. One way or another...
3 comments:
Well, technically you didn't do yesterday's prompt as a haiku either... :-p
Confirmation
They moved on, visiting sheltered housing in a city centre where a middle-aged man with a scruffy beard and halitosis was conspiring with the manager of the accommodation to betray the trust of his father and the company; to a guildhall in London where three junior members were conspiring to break their oaths of allegiance and deliver secrets to a rival guild; to a banking office in China where both peoples’s trust and the expectations of the local political parties were about to be distorted and twisted to plebian ends and to half a dozen more. Each place confirmed Narusheteli’s hand in matters. Then Scuffles concentrated again and found a pearl of whiteness in the midst of all the other colours and, practically effortlessly now, reached out and pulled them all across to a new place.
Open space was all around them and they were standing on sandy rock. It was night, and the stars above were clear, barely twinkling. The cold white light of the moon lit up the landscape around them in shades of grey; all colours disappeared and the world seemed almost two-dimensional from the lack of good depth perception. There was a dry, peaty smell in the air, like baked soil, and a hint of something floral and maybe spicy that drifted by now and then.
“Chili peppers,” said Famine, sniffing. “Nice, this feels like one of the old places. We went to places like this on holiday when I was a kid.”
War strolled away, his steps sounding oddly resonant, and after a few minutes he came back. “This is a mesa,” he said. “Hollow by the sounds of it. I think we’re in South America.”
“Peru,” said Scuffles. “Pico Sira. We’re about a kilometre up. But something’s wrong, I can’t find the scuffle here.”
“Inside?” War stamped a foot and there was a low sound, long and belling, that was like a gong-sound only downshifted by being made of rock instead of metal. “A lot of these things have taken place in small rooms, hidden places. Though… why is this hollow? This seems more like geography than anything man-made.”
“Not man-made,” said Narusheteli, and they all turned to find the Oath-breaker in her form as a middle-aged woman with an understanding smile and a black umbrella behind them. “Elf-made, back when there were elves. They drew the carvings in the desert and hunted megafauna and lived paradisiacal lives until the climate changed and the air grew thick and heavy. Then they retreated and left a few places where they might return from. This is one of them. But why am I telling you this? You, who are interrupting my work and disturbing my peace?”
Hilda barked. Narusheteli looked at her, and squinted slightly as though trying to see through her. She ran one hand through her hair. “Well?” she asked.
“We were looking for you,” said Pestilence. “We wanted a chat.”
“Elves?” said Scuffles.
“Return?” said War.
“A chat? Is this how you make all of your social appointments? Turn up in someone’s house and defecate on their lawn?”
Pestilence’s hand moved as quickly as a snake striking to cover Famine’s mouth, so that whatever he was going to say became a mumbled objection to being silenced. Hilda, annoyed by being jolted by the sudden movement, sat up on Pestilence’s arm, nestled back into the crook of where his elbow was pressed against his body, and pricked her ears up. Narusheteli watched Hilda with narrowed eyes.
“I’d say we were knocking firmly,” said Pestilence. “You know, like when you can hear the radio on and see the windows upstairs open, but maybe the lady of the house is just finishing up in the bathroom and needs a little time to be presentable, but you don’t want her to forget that you’re there.”
“Elves?” said Scuffles, looking around.
“Firebombers knock more delicately,” said Narusheteli. “I am not happy.” Hilda growled, and Narusheteli took a step back. “Not happy at all.”
The moment she could break away Martel dashed back to her quarters and slammed the door—the dragonwood would muffle the sound. She pressed back against it, sliding down it to a tight crouch, and cast aside her mask, although it did little to relieve the suffocating grasp of emotion.
He was alive. Qaz was here, he was alive. It had been fifteen years, and hundreds and thousands of miles—and there he was, not twenty feet away from her. Even briefly, even from a distance, she could see the lines of the boy he had been when she last saw him almost half their lives ago; but he had grown into himself. He looked assured—he looked tired.
The tremendous relief and ecstasy of seeing him again was overwhelming enough.
But twisting tight around it was a desperation and blinding despair—he was alive, and he was there, and she could do nothing. She was not her own self when behind the mask—there was only duty. Her heart desperately threw itself against her ribs, as a bird beats against its cage, and she had to ball her fist so tightly that even through her glove her nails bit into her palm—the mark of their teeth were still there. And when one of her peers led the tortle past her, and Qaz had tried to follow, she had to bite her tongue—hard enough that even now she still slightly tasted copper.
Her brother was there, and he was alive.
And she could do nothing.
She screamed.
===============
Briefly: A while back, our party's turtle-person cleric was commandeered by a group of government assassins; and sometime thereafter our DM suggested we do a setting swap to this group of assassins, and we should think of who might be on this ship.
And almost immediately I realized Qaz's sister would be.
Then last week we started planning for that setting swap, and I've only just learned that, contrary to my assumptions, she was present when this group of assassins had surrounded the party and usher them back to confinement.
I'm still not sure how exactly she's dealing with it, but overall I suspect it's in the ballpark of "not well."
I'm sure it'll be fine.
Greg - eh, details.
Ah, Pest and Fame, somehow steadily becoming one of my favorite duos. And it is... good?... to meet the Oath Breaker at last. Curious to see what comes next.
And whether or not it involves Hilda...
g2 - good to see more of this story unfold. And yes, I'm sure it'll be fine. Eventually. One way or another...
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