Melanie felt she'd done pretty well with the first few days of hiking. She hadn't complained, she'd treated the blisters by herself, and she'd been nice to Esme, her maid, when Esme got frightened.
But it had gotten much worse since the bandit attack and the 'rescue' by the fauns. She was pretty sure now that the whole thing had been staged and the fauns had not rescued them, they had been kidnapped.
They were on a forced march deep into the mountains. Every morning, the fauns woke them with a kick at dawn. They had to refill their own water bottles and then they hiked without a pause until they dropped. Then the fauns would grudgingly give them food. One water bottle had to last all day. They hiked until they could not see the trail, then slept where they were. Jenny, the faun Melanie had trusted, had disappeared after the other fauns appeared and had not reappeared since.
@Morganna: this is interesting; I'm curious about the fauns and the mountains and this forced march. I'm looking forward to seeing more of this this week.
Come as you are Emma sipped from a glass of white wine, her fingers leaving smudges in the condensation on the outside of the glass. It was overchilled and nearly tasteless, but she'd had to stifle a laugh when the gallery owner had declared the refreshment table open and practically the entire crowd had stopped pretending to look at the art and descended on it. Red 5 was still there in the middle of them, digging his elbows into people's sides and standing on people's feet, all while complaining at the top of his voice about the decline in quality of potted meat since the War and that pickles didn't taste the same any more. He did, she thought, really get into character well. She turned casually, looking at a picture of what she thought might be a constipated wolf. The suspected Tanguy was still in sight, though if you were over by it you'd probably not realise that. As a shadow fell across the painting she turned again, seemingly away from the picture, but in fact to where the huge gallery plate-glass windows obliging reflected everything going on around the Tanguy. She was unsurprised to see that it was the woman from the pair who'd been avoiding the picture. She raised her glass to her lips and sipped again. "Might I have the pleasure of this dance?" She didn't look away from the window as she processed the voice -- she didn't recognise it, and she wasn't expecting to be spoken to. She let her lips form a slight smile that might have been a sneer if you were looking for it. "I think you're in the wrong place," she replied. "I save my dancing for bank robberies; I'm just here for a half-kilo of beef mince and some lamb cutlets." "And you're intrigued by something going on outside? You haven't even looked at me." A hand touched her elbow. "Are you worth it? And if you don't take your hand off me I'm going to get my rape whistle out and see how many blasts it takes for you to go deaf." The hand released her and there was a soft chuckle. "You'll never know if you don't look at me, will you?" The woman at the painting was walking away now, so Emma looked at her new conversational partner. It was, as she'd expected, the man who was pretending not to know the woman who'd been looking at the painting. "I'd say you're an 8," she said. "That good." "I use a 30-point scale." The smile on his face was forced. "Well. I know who you are, you're the editor of a discretely circulated but influential little newsletter. I have something I'd like you to publish." "You're wrong," said Emma. She raised her glass to her lips, but didn't drink. "As you will. I'll be in the Hart and Hounds after this. Come as you are." "Butterfingers," said Emma sweetly, dropping her glass of wine so that it bounced off his suit and spilled all over his shoes.
Rustling undergrowth pricked Roz's ear, and she planted her feet and gripped her staff, trying to ignore how her hands shook. She must have made more noise than intended, because the rustling stopped its approach. Roz strained to hear, her ears twitching, but then startled to hear a voice call, "Hello?" The rustling came closer, and just before Roz could tell where it was coming from a figure emerged. She yelped, then brandished the end of her staff at this figure.
The figure turned out to be an old and wizened human woman, about as short as Roz but sturdy in her frame. Coming across a young elf brandishing a staff at her was clearly a surprise, but still she smiled.
"Hello lilliput," she said kindly. "I thought I heard someone out here."
Roz tightened her grip on her staff.
"It's alright, lilliput. I mean no harm." The woman turned out her hands. "People get lost out this way, I just wanted to make sure you were alright."
"I'm alright," Roz grunted. The words felt so awkward in her mouth. "I'm not lost." She wished the woman would stop looking at her---those eyes were so kind, and she desperately wanted to trust them, but who would possibly help her?
"Very well, you're not lost," she said with no trace of mockery. "But it is starting to get dark. Perhaps I can offer you something to eat?"
Roz wanted to say yes, so badly that even she could see the end of her staff shaking. But this woman didn't know what she was, and it felt like a lie not to tell her. It might mean dashing her hopes of her first real meal in days, but she couldn't accept food on a lie.
"I'm. . . not well."
"Are you ill?"
Roz hissed at herself and shook her head---damn this language! "No. No, I'm not. . . not good." She tapped at her heart. "I'm not good."
The woman peered at her curiously, then smiled again. "You're good at this moment, lilliput." She turned to extend her arm the way she had come. "Good or no, you can still come and eat."
Roz blinked. Was she understanding what she was hearing? "I'm not good, but. . . I still come and eat?"
The woman nodded. "Come and eat."
Timidly, Roz nodded. The woman's smile brightened, and she waved for her to follow, only starting back when Roz was beside her. ====================================== I've had my very first rpg character kicking around my head for a few months, and even though we've only just started playing I'm working out a lot of things about her past.
Morganna - consider me intrigued. I look forward to reading more of this.
Greg - ah, how I do miss these two. Nicely done with the prompt, by the way.
g2 - hello again, good to hear from you :)
I think my favorite part of this is 'She tapped at her heart. "I'm not good."' There's so much said in that action and with those words. I can't wait to hear more :)
4 comments:
Melanie felt she'd done pretty well with the first few days of hiking. She hadn't complained, she'd treated the blisters by herself, and she'd been nice to Esme, her maid, when Esme got frightened.
But it had gotten much worse since the bandit attack and the 'rescue' by the fauns. She was pretty sure now that the whole thing had been staged and the fauns had not rescued them, they had been kidnapped.
They were on a forced march deep into the mountains. Every morning, the fauns woke them with a kick at dawn. They had to refill their own water bottles and then they hiked without a pause until they dropped. Then the fauns would grudgingly give them food. One water bottle had to last all day. They hiked until they could not see the trail, then slept where they were. Jenny, the faun Melanie had trusted, had disappeared after the other fauns appeared and had not reappeared since.
@Morganna: this is interesting; I'm curious about the fauns and the mountains and this forced march. I'm looking forward to seeing more of this this week.
Come as you are
Emma sipped from a glass of white wine, her fingers leaving smudges in the condensation on the outside of the glass. It was overchilled and nearly tasteless, but she'd had to stifle a laugh when the gallery owner had declared the refreshment table open and practically the entire crowd had stopped pretending to look at the art and descended on it. Red 5 was still there in the middle of them, digging his elbows into people's sides and standing on people's feet, all while complaining at the top of his voice about the decline in quality of potted meat since the War and that pickles didn't taste the same any more. He did, she thought, really get into character well.
She turned casually, looking at a picture of what she thought might be a constipated wolf. The suspected Tanguy was still in sight, though if you were over by it you'd probably not realise that. As a shadow fell across the painting she turned again, seemingly away from the picture, but in fact to where the huge gallery plate-glass windows obliging reflected everything going on around the Tanguy. She was unsurprised to see that it was the woman from the pair who'd been avoiding the picture. She raised her glass to her lips and sipped again.
"Might I have the pleasure of this dance?"
She didn't look away from the window as she processed the voice -- she didn't recognise it, and she wasn't expecting to be spoken to. She let her lips form a slight smile that might have been a sneer if you were looking for it.
"I think you're in the wrong place," she replied. "I save my dancing for bank robberies; I'm just here for a half-kilo of beef mince and some lamb cutlets."
"And you're intrigued by something going on outside? You haven't even looked at me." A hand touched her elbow.
"Are you worth it? And if you don't take your hand off me I'm going to get my rape whistle out and see how many blasts it takes for you to go deaf."
The hand released her and there was a soft chuckle. "You'll never know if you don't look at me, will you?"
The woman at the painting was walking away now, so Emma looked at her new conversational partner. It was, as she'd expected, the man who was pretending not to know the woman who'd been looking at the painting.
"I'd say you're an 8," she said.
"That good."
"I use a 30-point scale."
The smile on his face was forced. "Well. I know who you are, you're the editor of a discretely circulated but influential little newsletter. I have something I'd like you to publish."
"You're wrong," said Emma. She raised her glass to her lips, but didn't drink.
"As you will. I'll be in the Hart and Hounds after this. Come as you are."
"Butterfingers," said Emma sweetly, dropping her glass of wine so that it bounced off his suit and spilled all over his shoes.
Rustling undergrowth pricked Roz's ear, and she planted her feet and gripped her staff, trying to ignore how her hands shook. She must have made more noise than intended, because the rustling stopped its approach. Roz strained to hear, her ears twitching, but then startled to hear a voice call, "Hello?" The rustling came closer, and just before Roz could tell where it was coming from a figure emerged. She yelped, then brandished the end of her staff at this figure.
The figure turned out to be an old and wizened human woman, about as short as Roz but sturdy in her frame. Coming across a young elf brandishing a staff at her was clearly a surprise, but still she smiled.
"Hello lilliput," she said kindly. "I thought I heard someone out here."
Roz tightened her grip on her staff.
"It's alright, lilliput. I mean no harm." The woman turned out her hands. "People get lost out this way, I just wanted to make sure you were alright."
"I'm alright," Roz grunted. The words felt so awkward in her mouth. "I'm not lost." She wished the woman would stop looking at her---those eyes were so kind, and she desperately wanted to trust them, but who would possibly help her?
"Very well, you're not lost," she said with no trace of mockery. "But it is starting to get dark. Perhaps I can offer you something to eat?"
Roz wanted to say yes, so badly that even she could see the end of her staff shaking. But this woman didn't know what she was, and it felt like a lie not to tell her. It might mean dashing her hopes of her first real meal in days, but she couldn't accept food on a lie.
"I'm. . . not well."
"Are you ill?"
Roz hissed at herself and shook her head---damn this language! "No. No, I'm not. . . not good." She tapped at her heart. "I'm not good."
The woman peered at her curiously, then smiled again. "You're good at this moment, lilliput." She turned to extend her arm the way she had come. "Good or no, you can still come and eat."
Roz blinked. Was she understanding what she was hearing?
"I'm not good, but. . . I still come and eat?"
The woman nodded. "Come and eat."
Timidly, Roz nodded. The woman's smile brightened, and she waved for her to follow, only starting back when Roz was beside her.
======================================
I've had my very first rpg character kicking around my head for a few months, and even though we've only just started playing I'm working out a lot of things about her past.
Morganna - consider me intrigued. I look forward to reading more of this.
Greg - ah, how I do miss these two. Nicely done with the prompt, by the way.
g2 - hello again, good to hear from you :)
I think my favorite part of this is 'She tapped at her heart. "I'm not good."' There's so much said in that action and with those words. I can't wait to hear more :)
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