Hmm, this feels like it might be related to the clutter prompt: are you giving up things you're not completely happy to leave behind or throw out?
Relinquished “Off where?” he said. “You gave no sign of recognition when I told you about Allhallows, so I’d say this marshy, dangerous land with little to no trackways through it is no less dangerous that the Isle of Wights. To the unprepared, of course.” “There are no wights here,” said Tristram. His face flushed and his hands tensed into fists again. “True enough,” said the Ghost. “The striga would enslave any they found, and the feral boggarts will eat anything: their own children, their own mothers, and definitely anything that tried to eat them first. The marsh-rats are a hardy species too, they have to be to hold their own here, and the—” “Stop,” said David. He looked around, wondering if he dared to get out of the boat now. “Stop, we get the message. Either we come with you or you feed us to the local wildlife. Been there, done that, worn the t-shirt.” He looked up at the Ghost as he said that, and for a moment he thought he saw a glint of admiration in the Ghost’s eye. “Do the boggarts and striga swim?” Tristram’s voice sounded almost petulant. “No,” said the Ghost. “But that wouldn’t be sensible given the Weirlings and Lloigor.” David looked back and forth for a few seconds, curious as to how this battle of wills would play out. The Ghost looked smug, sitting still in the boat with his hands laying on his knees and his gaze holding Tristram’s. Tristram looked angry, his face flushed and his foot tapping, splashing gently in the marshy water where he stood. The salty smell of rotting seaweed drifted past them, but it seemed like David was the only one who noticed. “Fine.” Tristram’s word was practically bullet-like in the speed of delivery and abrupt, punctuating sound. “We’ll come. Because I want my tarot deck back, and until I’m rid of you, that can’t happen.” “Compromise is such a happy word,” said the Ghost. “Let’s get packing then.” The Ghost led the way through the marshy lands, where long reed-like grass up to knee-height and concealed large and deep puddles of water and long channels that were rivers on an ant-scale. Trees grew here and there, usually in copses or small stands where the ground mounded up enough of the water to not rot their roots away, and when they were well established they were thick-trunked and broad-branched, adept at letting the winds sough through them. As they moved slowly inland, with cursing when an unseen puddle claimed another ankle, bushes appeared now and then; squat spiky evergreen things that the Ghost walked well clear of. “Nests,” he explained when David asked, and Tristram glared at David until he decided not to ask more. He came last in their tiny file, watching Tristram alertly, and dreading the fear that something that might come up behind him. Tristram, he felt, had relinquished his desire to get away from the Ghost just a little too easily; David remembered many occasions when Tristram had seemed to give in, to give up on something, and then there’d been the late-night arrival, the professional breaking and entering, and the blood-soaked massacre that left a message that Tristram Blunt was not to be taken lightly. But then, clearly, neither was the Ghost. “Allhallows Church is up ahead,” said the Ghost.
The mastermind paced in her hidden lair. She should have had word from the hit team by now: the target should be dead. Finally, the command phone rang. It was the hit team leader. "We encountered interference and had to relinquish the target." A scream of rage filled the air of headquarters.
Greg - nah, just heard the word shortly before sitting down to put a prompt together and it stuck with me.
Quite enjoying this adventure you're taking us on. Curious to see how it plays out. I suspect this church is going to play a role, though.
Morganna - I like how nicely you handled the prompt while still moving the story forward. Not always an easy task around here, as Greg can surely attest.
3 comments:
Hmm, this feels like it might be related to the clutter prompt: are you giving up things you're not completely happy to leave behind or throw out?
Relinquished
“Off where?” he said. “You gave no sign of recognition when I told you about Allhallows, so I’d say this marshy, dangerous land with little to no trackways through it is no less dangerous that the Isle of Wights. To the unprepared, of course.”
“There are no wights here,” said Tristram. His face flushed and his hands tensed into fists again.
“True enough,” said the Ghost. “The striga would enslave any they found, and the feral boggarts will eat anything: their own children, their own mothers, and definitely anything that tried to eat them first. The marsh-rats are a hardy species too, they have to be to hold their own here, and the—”
“Stop,” said David. He looked around, wondering if he dared to get out of the boat now. “Stop, we get the message. Either we come with you or you feed us to the local wildlife. Been there, done that, worn the t-shirt.” He looked up at the Ghost as he said that, and for a moment he thought he saw a glint of admiration in the Ghost’s eye.
“Do the boggarts and striga swim?” Tristram’s voice sounded almost petulant.
“No,” said the Ghost. “But that wouldn’t be sensible given the Weirlings and Lloigor.”
David looked back and forth for a few seconds, curious as to how this battle of wills would play out. The Ghost looked smug, sitting still in the boat with his hands laying on his knees and his gaze holding Tristram’s. Tristram looked angry, his face flushed and his foot tapping, splashing gently in the marshy water where he stood. The salty smell of rotting seaweed drifted past them, but it seemed like David was the only one who noticed.
“Fine.” Tristram’s word was practically bullet-like in the speed of delivery and abrupt, punctuating sound. “We’ll come. Because I want my tarot deck back, and until I’m rid of you, that can’t happen.”
“Compromise is such a happy word,” said the Ghost. “Let’s get packing then.”
The Ghost led the way through the marshy lands, where long reed-like grass up to knee-height and concealed large and deep puddles of water and long channels that were rivers on an ant-scale. Trees grew here and there, usually in copses or small stands where the ground mounded up enough of the water to not rot their roots away, and when they were well established they were thick-trunked and broad-branched, adept at letting the winds sough through them. As they moved slowly inland, with cursing when an unseen puddle claimed another ankle, bushes appeared now and then; squat spiky evergreen things that the Ghost walked well clear of.
“Nests,” he explained when David asked, and Tristram glared at David until he decided not to ask more. He came last in their tiny file, watching Tristram alertly, and dreading the fear that something that might come up behind him. Tristram, he felt, had relinquished his desire to get away from the Ghost just a little too easily; David remembered many occasions when Tristram had seemed to give in, to give up on something, and then there’d been the late-night arrival, the professional breaking and entering, and the blood-soaked massacre that left a message that Tristram Blunt was not to be taken lightly. But then, clearly, neither was the Ghost.
“Allhallows Church is up ahead,” said the Ghost.
The mastermind paced in her hidden lair. She should have had word from the hit team by now: the target should be dead. Finally, the command phone rang. It was the hit team leader. "We encountered interference and had to relinquish the target." A scream of rage filled the air of headquarters.
Greg - nah, just heard the word shortly before sitting down to put a prompt together and it stuck with me.
Quite enjoying this adventure you're taking us on. Curious to see how it plays out. I suspect this church is going to play a role, though.
Morganna - I like how nicely you handled the prompt while still moving the story forward. Not always an easy task around here, as Greg can surely attest.
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