Daily writing prompts from June 9th, 2008 to December 31st, 2022
Wednesday January 1st, 2020
The exercise: Happy New Year! Write about what happens: should old acquaintance be forgot. If I had more time I'd use this as an excuse to visit a character that I've neglected. You guys do what you will with it though.
So, for the moment I'm staying with the Inspectral, though if you have any requests for longer stories, please let me know :) Technically this is a new acquaintance, so I'm meeting the prompt by forgetting about all those old acquaintances we've had over the past ten years or so :)
Acquaintance Christopher Collins was a slim young man with ginger hair, green eyes and a complexion pale enough that a lot of people he met expected him to have a Scottish accent. He slipped his trainers on in the police locker room, stamping his foot to get the old, sagging leather comfortable, and then nearly had a heart attack as a middle-aged, athletic-looking man walked through the lockers behind him. “Sorry,” said the ghost. “Didn’t see you there. Wasn’t looking either, if I’m honest. Shouldn’t you be on duty already?” Collins saluted, and the ghost snorted a laugh. “We’re not in the army, lad,” he said. “Though it’s nice to see a bit of respect around here again. Now, are you going to answer my question?” “I’m changing my footwear, Sir,” said Collins. He looked down at his feet and wished his trainers weren’t so old. “Gotta go beachcombing.” “Poltergeists?” The ghost waited until Collins had nodded. “Aha, you must be working with the Inspectral then. You can learn a lot from him. We’re… old friends.” The ghost turned away, then turned back again. Collins noticed that he could see the far wall faintly through the ghost’s body when he moved: it was as though motion allowed light through somehow. When the ghost was still there was no way of telling that he was a ghost; well, Collins thought, except that he wasn’t breathing. He was too still to be alive. “The Inspectral likes to you learn on the job,” said the ghost. “And I agree with him, but I also think that stopping and talking to your colleagues counts as learning too. We differ a bit on where the line is drawn there. So… don’t tell him that I mentioned this to you, right? No point getting his ectoplasm all runny now. But on your way over to the beach you might want to just stop off in the ju-ju shop and ask them about charms to protect you from noisy spirits.” * The ju-ju shop had a black and yellow sign and was sandwiched between Butlers, an aspirational living store featuring feathered cushions and plates that looked as though they’d been tie-dyed, and Clerks, a shoe-shop with a wide selection of brown shoes in their window. Collins pushed open the door expecting a jangle of chimes and getting the clatter and clack of dried, yellowing bones instead. He looked up: the usual wind-chimes had been replaced with what looked like finger-bones. He swallowed and decided he hadn’t seen them. There was the strong pine scent of disinfectant in the air, and though the shelves were tightly packed and the shop’s two aisles were narrow, the lighting was bright and there was a black-haired woman stood at the counter logging inventory in a ledger. He paused for a moment, trying to decide if she was alive or dead. “What are you looking for?” She sounded foreign to him, but he didn’t recognise the accent. “Um,” he said, wondering what to say. “You can browse, just don’t knock anything off the shelves or over.” “No, no,” he said. He edged nervously down an aisle to the counter. “I, er, I was told you might have something, maybe, to help with poltergeists?” She looked up and smiled. She had brown eyes and crooked teeth. “Attracting them, or repelling them?” “Protecting me from them,” he said, feeling relief that he didn’t seem to have said anything stupid. Her smile widened just a little. “Over here,” she said. “Silver bracelet set with black obsidian for protection from bad luck, fire agate for protection from negative attacks, and activated peridot to protect against energy draining. Try not to get it wet. For you… eighty euros.”
Going at this with the idea that, in this case, an old acquaintance should be forgot—or, that moment when your mentor crosses path with the second highest member of the crime family you're hiding from. ======== The opportunities to either share things they had made or travel beyond the city came very rarely. So when the opportunity to do both came with a visit from one of their cousins, of course Strojnikii was inclined to take it. They hesitated at first—the clock and the complex tended to need them—but Qaz would be there. He knew what he was doing, and after a year in the complex knew how things there worked, he could handle whatever arose in the next week or so.
This is how, several days later, Strojnikii found themself in a market in Ravenswood, unloading a crate of devices and gizmos with the help of Kladka, the cousin who’d traveled with them, and Paijat, another relative who lived in the city and kept the market stall for the family workshop. The nearby port was busy, especially for its modest size, and a fair bit of that bustle found its way to the market. A fine place to start lightening a load of wares to ease the rest of the trip.
Business was brisk throughout the day, and Strojnikii’s items garnered a fair bit of attention, to their delight. But in the late afternoon, nudging the border of evening, a shadow caught their eye, however slightly—a pair of figures approaching the stall—and something didn't feel quite right. Paijat made to attend to them, but Strojnikii caught his eye and gave a slight shake of their head. They finished the receipt they were writing for a customer, exchanged a nod with Paijat, and went to meet this pair, now further down the table.
The both were paler humans, dressed simply but smartly, like any young merchants. One, inspecting an astrolabe, had dark hair slicked back, and sharp dark eyes. The other, hair lighter and slightly scruffier, stood respectfully close to inspect it as well. At first glance the two appeared colleagues, but Strojnikii could tell which was in charge. “Might I help you, sirs?”
The one beside looked up, but the other took another moment to admire the astrolabe. “A lovely piece,” he said finally, holding it out slightly. “Don’t you agree, Titus?”
“I do, Master Simon,” replied Titus with a nod, “very nice.”
Strojnikii’s ear twitched, but kept a straight face. Perhaps the moniker was a coincidence. “Thank you, sir. Is there something I can help you find?”
“Simply perusing for now,” said this Master Simon. He set down the astrolabe. “You’re certainly prolific, friend-master.”
“I always feel my best when I’m making something, sir.”
“And we’re the beneficiaries, lucky us.” Cordial as he was, there was no mistaking the saccharine overtone of condescension—in certain company it could be construed as charm, but Strojnikii didn’t much enjoy such company. But they could be patient, for the sake of business. He picked up a small cylinder, turned it over in his hand. “Now what might this be? The etching is very fine.”
“Ah, now that would be a whimsy,” they replied, brightening slightly. “They’re technical exercises I’ve given students and apprentices over the years, joyfully presented. Hold the top rim, and twist the bottom.”
Simon briefly glanced to Titus, but did as instructed—the aperture on the top slid away and a tiny metal flower sprouted and bloomed. His simper was barely a smile. “How charming.”
“Good work, though,” Titus added.
“Indeed.” He twisted the canister closed, then turned it over. “Has the student made a name for themselves in the meantime?”
They got up on a stool to confirm the maker’s mark. “She has—Mariana Pepperdine, she’s a jeweler of some note in one of the Kingdoms.”
“What about this one?” Titus had picked up a pyramid that, when twisted, fanned out into a seven-pointed star, and tiny faceted disks within the points and in the center spun.
Simon looked markedly more interested in this one. “Yes, what about this one?” He lifted it from Titus’ hands, and rotated the base back and forth slightly to see the disks turn before closing the pyramid to inspect the bottom. “It’s not our jeweler friend.”
Strojnikii’s throat went dry. It was one of Qaz’s. There was no way they could say anything, if there was any sliver of a chance that this man was who they thought he was. “Ah.” They put out a hand, and after a moment’s reluctance Simon handed it over. That was definitely Qaz’s mark, they could tell before they put on their specs. But they still put them on, and they frowned at it thoughtfully. “Apologies, sir, I’m afraid I don’t remember this mark.”
“A pity,” he sighed, sounding less than disappointed. “I could’ve sworn I recognized it.”
“Looks a bit like something from that old tinker kid,” Titus offered.
“Yes, the one who kept the clocks for us.” Simon nodded, surveying the table. He strolled along its length, closer to Strojnikii, and turned its corner. “A fine worker, very clever. Good with finding things.”
Titus dutifully followed. “Whatever happened to him, sir?”
“Difficult to say, unfortunately.” His eyes fell on a narrow handle, dark silver and finely filigreed. It perched on his fingertips as he lifted it to inspect it. “Slipped away into the night, only he knows why.”
“Who knows if anything’s happened to him.”
Simon’s slight smile curled. “Indeed.” Then, as if caught in a breeze, the handle twirled through his fingers, and he now held the butterfly knife with a master’s easy confidence.
“Very nice, sir.” Titus leaned to inspect it. “You could do some fine work with that.”
“I’d certainly like to.” Now he looked to Strojnikii.
All the while Strojnikii had been inspecting the whimsy, while keeping half an eye on Simon. “I remember this mark now,” they said, looking up. “Sweet child, brilliant. Got caught in the crossfire in the Border Islands at the start of the War, the poor thing.” A soul dead before Qaz or the family knew of each other—they desperately hoped he'd take the tale.
Titus glanced to Simon, but Simon held Strojnikii’s gaze another long moment before nodding slightly. “A shame to lose such obvious talent.”
“A shame indeed, sir.”
They made to set the whimsy back, but Simon cut in, “I think I’ll take that trinket, along with this.” He flicked the knife closed, and handed it over. “They’re for something very special.”
“Very good, sir.” They wrapped up the whimsy and the knife—which they had assembled, with the handle worked by Qaz—and completed the exchange. “A pleasant evening to you, sir.”
“And you, friend-master.” And with a nod to Titus, the two disappeared back out into the thinning evening crowd.
As the three cousins were closing up the stall shortly thereafter, Kladka gave them a nudge. “What’s the trouble, rodnya?”
Strojnikii glanced back to the street, then looked between her and Paijat. “Did you take note of those two humans?” they asked in Gnomish, voice low.
“I did,” replied Paijat in kind, “but I didn’t recognize them.”
“Nor I, by face, but I suspect my assistant would have.”
Kladka sobered. “Who are they?”
“Worthy of grave caution at best, and of seeking sanctuary after fleeing another continent at worst.”
Paijat nodded. “I’ll advise the kith here, we’ll be mindful of questions.”
“And we can adjust our itinerary.”
Strojnikii looked back out to the street. The rising mist felt coldly watchful. “That would be wise.”
4 comments:
So, for the moment I'm staying with the Inspectral, though if you have any requests for longer stories, please let me know :) Technically this is a new acquaintance, so I'm meeting the prompt by forgetting about all those old acquaintances we've had over the past ten years or so :)
Acquaintance
Christopher Collins was a slim young man with ginger hair, green eyes and a complexion pale enough that a lot of people he met expected him to have a Scottish accent. He slipped his trainers on in the police locker room, stamping his foot to get the old, sagging leather comfortable, and then nearly had a heart attack as a middle-aged, athletic-looking man walked through the lockers behind him.
“Sorry,” said the ghost. “Didn’t see you there. Wasn’t looking either, if I’m honest. Shouldn’t you be on duty already?”
Collins saluted, and the ghost snorted a laugh. “We’re not in the army, lad,” he said. “Though it’s nice to see a bit of respect around here again. Now, are you going to answer my question?”
“I’m changing my footwear, Sir,” said Collins. He looked down at his feet and wished his trainers weren’t so old. “Gotta go beachcombing.”
“Poltergeists?” The ghost waited until Collins had nodded. “Aha, you must be working with the Inspectral then. You can learn a lot from him. We’re… old friends.” The ghost turned away, then turned back again. Collins noticed that he could see the far wall faintly through the ghost’s body when he moved: it was as though motion allowed light through somehow. When the ghost was still there was no way of telling that he was a ghost; well, Collins thought, except that he wasn’t breathing. He was too still to be alive.
“The Inspectral likes to you learn on the job,” said the ghost. “And I agree with him, but I also think that stopping and talking to your colleagues counts as learning too. We differ a bit on where the line is drawn there. So… don’t tell him that I mentioned this to you, right? No point getting his ectoplasm all runny now. But on your way over to the beach you might want to just stop off in the ju-ju shop and ask them about charms to protect you from noisy spirits.”
*
The ju-ju shop had a black and yellow sign and was sandwiched between Butlers, an aspirational living store featuring feathered cushions and plates that looked as though they’d been tie-dyed, and Clerks, a shoe-shop with a wide selection of brown shoes in their window. Collins pushed open the door expecting a jangle of chimes and getting the clatter and clack of dried, yellowing bones instead. He looked up: the usual wind-chimes had been replaced with what looked like finger-bones. He swallowed and decided he hadn’t seen them. There was the strong pine scent of disinfectant in the air, and though the shelves were tightly packed and the shop’s two aisles were narrow, the lighting was bright and there was a black-haired woman stood at the counter logging inventory in a ledger. He paused for a moment, trying to decide if she was alive or dead.
“What are you looking for?” She sounded foreign to him, but he didn’t recognise the accent.
“Um,” he said, wondering what to say.
“You can browse, just don’t knock anything off the shelves or over.”
“No, no,” he said. He edged nervously down an aisle to the counter. “I, er, I was told you might have something, maybe, to help with poltergeists?”
She looked up and smiled. She had brown eyes and crooked teeth.
“Attracting them, or repelling them?”
“Protecting me from them,” he said, feeling relief that he didn’t seem to have said anything stupid. Her smile widened just a little.
“Over here,” she said. “Silver bracelet set with black obsidian for protection from bad luck, fire agate for protection from negative attacks, and activated peridot to protect against energy draining. Try not to get it wet. For you… eighty euros.”
Going at this with the idea that, in this case, an old acquaintance should be forgot—or, that moment when your mentor crosses path with the second highest member of the crime family you're hiding from.
========
The opportunities to either share things they had made or travel beyond the city came very rarely. So when the opportunity to do both came with a visit from one of their cousins, of course Strojnikii was inclined to take it. They hesitated at first—the clock and the complex tended to need them—but Qaz would be there. He knew what he was doing, and after a year in the complex knew how things there worked, he could handle whatever arose in the next week or so.
This is how, several days later, Strojnikii found themself in a market in Ravenswood, unloading a crate of devices and gizmos with the help of Kladka, the cousin who’d traveled with them, and Paijat, another relative who lived in the city and kept the market stall for the family workshop. The nearby port was busy, especially for its modest size, and a fair bit of that bustle found its way to the market. A fine place to start lightening a load of wares to ease the rest of the trip.
Business was brisk throughout the day, and Strojnikii’s items garnered a fair bit of attention, to their delight. But in the late afternoon, nudging the border of evening, a shadow caught their eye, however slightly—a pair of figures approaching the stall—and something didn't feel quite right. Paijat made to attend to them, but Strojnikii caught his eye and gave a slight shake of their head. They finished the receipt they were writing for a customer, exchanged a nod with Paijat, and went to meet this pair, now further down the table.
The both were paler humans, dressed simply but smartly, like any young merchants. One, inspecting an astrolabe, had dark hair slicked back, and sharp dark eyes. The other, hair lighter and slightly scruffier, stood respectfully close to inspect it as well. At first glance the two appeared colleagues, but Strojnikii could tell which was in charge.
“Might I help you, sirs?”
The one beside looked up, but the other took another moment to admire the astrolabe. “A lovely piece,” he said finally, holding it out slightly. “Don’t you agree, Titus?”
“I do, Master Simon,” replied Titus with a nod, “very nice.”
Strojnikii’s ear twitched, but kept a straight face. Perhaps the moniker was a coincidence. “Thank you, sir. Is there something I can help you find?”
“Simply perusing for now,” said this Master Simon. He set down the astrolabe. “You’re certainly prolific, friend-master.”
“I always feel my best when I’m making something, sir.”
“And we’re the beneficiaries, lucky us.”
Cordial as he was, there was no mistaking the saccharine overtone of condescension—in certain company it could be construed as charm, but Strojnikii didn’t much enjoy such company. But they could be patient, for the sake of business.
He picked up a small cylinder, turned it over in his hand. “Now what might this be? The etching is very fine.”
“Ah, now that would be a whimsy,” they replied, brightening slightly. “They’re technical exercises I’ve given students and apprentices over the years, joyfully presented. Hold the top rim, and twist the bottom.”
Simon briefly glanced to Titus, but did as instructed—the aperture on the top slid away and a tiny metal flower sprouted and bloomed. His simper was barely a smile. “How charming.”
“Good work, though,” Titus added.
“Indeed.” He twisted the canister closed, then turned it over. “Has the student made a name for themselves in the meantime?”
They got up on a stool to confirm the maker’s mark. “She has—Mariana Pepperdine, she’s a jeweler of some note in one of the Kingdoms.”
“What about this one?” Titus had picked up a pyramid that, when twisted, fanned out into a seven-pointed star, and tiny faceted disks within the points and in the center spun.
Simon looked markedly more interested in this one. “Yes, what about this one?” He lifted it from Titus’ hands, and rotated the base back and forth slightly to see the disks turn before closing the pyramid to inspect the bottom. “It’s not our jeweler friend.”
Strojnikii’s throat went dry. It was one of Qaz’s. There was no way they could say anything, if there was any sliver of a chance that this man was who they thought he was.
“Ah.” They put out a hand, and after a moment’s reluctance Simon handed it over. That was definitely Qaz’s mark, they could tell before they put on their specs. But they still put them on, and they frowned at it thoughtfully. “Apologies, sir, I’m afraid I don’t remember this mark.”
“A pity,” he sighed, sounding less than disappointed. “I could’ve sworn I recognized it.”
“Looks a bit like something from that old tinker kid,” Titus offered.
“Yes, the one who kept the clocks for us.” Simon nodded, surveying the table. He strolled along its length, closer to Strojnikii, and turned its corner. “A fine worker, very clever. Good with finding things.”
Titus dutifully followed. “Whatever happened to him, sir?”
“Difficult to say, unfortunately.” His eyes fell on a narrow handle, dark silver and finely filigreed. It perched on his fingertips as he lifted it to inspect it. “Slipped away into the night, only he knows why.”
“Who knows if anything’s happened to him.”
Simon’s slight smile curled. “Indeed.”
Then, as if caught in a breeze, the handle twirled through his fingers, and he now held the butterfly knife with a master’s easy confidence.
“Very nice, sir.” Titus leaned to inspect it. “You could do some fine work with that.”
“I’d certainly like to.”
Now he looked to Strojnikii.
All the while Strojnikii had been inspecting the whimsy, while keeping half an eye on Simon.
“I remember this mark now,” they said, looking up. “Sweet child, brilliant. Got caught in the crossfire in the Border Islands at the start of the War, the poor thing.”
A soul dead before Qaz or the family knew of each other—they desperately hoped he'd take the tale.
Titus glanced to Simon, but Simon held Strojnikii’s gaze another long moment before nodding slightly. “A shame to lose such obvious talent.”
“A shame indeed, sir.”
They made to set the whimsy back, but Simon cut in, “I think I’ll take that trinket, along with this.” He flicked the knife closed, and handed it over. “They’re for something very special.”
“Very good, sir.”
They wrapped up the whimsy and the knife—which they had assembled, with the handle worked by Qaz—and completed the exchange. “A pleasant evening to you, sir.”
“And you, friend-master.” And with a nod to Titus, the two disappeared back out into the thinning evening crowd.
As the three cousins were closing up the stall shortly thereafter, Kladka gave them a nudge. “What’s the trouble, rodnya?”
Strojnikii glanced back to the street, then looked between her and Paijat. “Did you take note of those two humans?” they asked in Gnomish, voice low.
“I did,” replied Paijat in kind, “but I didn’t recognize them.”
“Nor I, by face, but I suspect my assistant would have.”
Kladka sobered. “Who are they?”
“Worthy of grave caution at best, and of seeking sanctuary after fleeing another continent at worst.”
Paijat nodded. “I’ll advise the kith here, we’ll be mindful of questions.”
“And we can adjust our itinerary.”
Strojnikii looked back out to the street. The rising mist felt coldly watchful. “That would be wise.”
Greg - hah, nicely played. Also: hurray, more Inspectral!
Um, is it too late/early to ask that this be what you run with for the next little while? Because I am digging this a whole lot.
g2 - that was highly enjoyable. Great scene setting and atmosphere. You did some fine work with this one :)
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