Right, we shall have something a little Christmassy: there shall be snow, there shall be Winter festivities, and maybe there will be even be a Christmas miracle. So, to kick it all off, you've decided we should start with... The Riot The Unreal City sat on the east bank of the river Riot, compact and crowded, constrained in its growth by the hills that surrounded it. On the west bank there were marshes, and while a few small settlements had started to spring up, the largest of which was Burman’s See, they were slow to grow and the Unreal City regarded them with suspicion. The Riot continued south, growing broader as it reached the sea some fifty miles downstream, and then a small archipelago of forty or fifty islands stuck out of the waters and confounded the shipping. Snow was falling on the Isle of Wights, a medium sized island that was home to the White Lighthouse and an ancient graveyard on its north coast, and a swathe of moorland and even more ancient burial mounds further south. A precarious rope bridge connected it across a very narrow channel, something that would barely have been a river if it was mainland, to the neighbouring Isle of Goats. The planks were already dangerously icy, and the few residents of both islands were waiting for the snow to stop so that they could clear the bridge. In a small house that abutted the White Lighthouse three men gathered in a cold kitchen around a wobbly wooden table made of planks clumsily nailed together. There was wood in the fireplace, with a dusting of snow atop it that had fallen down the chimney already, and a soot-blackened kettle sat on a cast-iron range nearby. A bucket of water was also on the range, with small lumps of ice bobbing in it like an iceberg diorama. Despite the chill there was a smell of old root vegetables in the air. “Jacob said that he took them from crone’s daughter,” said one of the men. He threw an oilskin-wrapped rectangular package, book-shaped and sized, onto the table and then plunged his hands back into the pockets of his coat. He was wearing a fisherman’s coat, heavy and waterproof, over a thick grey woollen jumper. “Not Sosotris herself?” The man next to him was wearing a tatty jacket with holes in the elbows that was buttoned up tightly. A long, pale-blue scarf was wound several times round his neck, and his hands were partly covered by fingerless gloves. His skin was white, with a hint of blue, and he shivered now and then. “If they belong to Sosotris we can’t use them.” “Definitely not the crone,” said the first man. “Jacob wouldn’t go near her anyway, he’s afraid of the evil eye.” “He’s afraid of his own shadow,” said the third man. He was wearing a long black wool coat that reached to his knees, where shiny leather boots started and covered up his calves and feet. “And superstitious as a baby. What’s so special about the crone anyway? Old women get in the way, but not for long.” “Sosotris is more than just a crone, David” said the second man. “She’s an actual Seer, pronounced by the Piccadilly Throne.” David’s face had started to twist into a sneer, but it untwisted quickly. “The Thrones acknowledge her? All of them?” “All of them,” said the second man. “So if we have her cards she will find us.” “Jacob said he got them from her daughter,” said the first man. “I don’t know why you have to keep flapping your mouth Tris. He did what you asked. I did what you asked. So pay up and let’s get away from here before the storms start.” “Jacob’s mostly reliable,” said Tristram. “But… open the cards.” The first man took a step backwards. “I never agreed—” he started, lifting his hands, but David moved lithely and swiftly behind him. A knife blade appeared at his throat, and the first man pulled his head back, trying to avoid the blade, and David’s free arm wrapped across his chest, holding him firmly. “Open the cards,” he said, his voice pleasant and conversational, as though he wasn’t threatening the man’s life. “Tris, hand him the package so he can do that, please.”
The three people dressed in black on the afternoon ferry would have preferred not to be seen at all. Their leader assured them that the invisibility cloaks would be ready soon, but not quite yet. So in the absence of invisibility cloaks, they were trying to disappear wearing all black. It wasn't working. The farmers and tourists on the boat were trying unsuccessfully not to stare. It was a relief when the ferry bumped the Jersey pier. They got quickly to their feet, ready to proceed with their mission. They got as far as the pier end but a large crowd of shouting people with signs blocked their way.
"What is this riot?" hissed the man to the tall woman.
"I think they are protesting the building of a new ferry terminal," she hissed back.
They pushed and elbowed to no avail. There was no way through the crowd, and every time they tried to get around, the crowd flowed that direction. They tried to follow the tourists and farmers through, but the crowd permitted them through and closed smoothly behind them. They were herded away from the pier long enough for the travellers to the mainland to board the ferry, and then herded back onto the ferry for the long journey back to their starting point. Baffled, they stared out at the Channel glumly for the second time today.
Greg - hahahaha... in my defense, I'm only now reading about your desire for a festive December. Still, though, my apologies for such a difficult starting point.
... And of course you choose this setting for your festive tale. I should have known.
(Also: fascinating start. I look forward to discovering where you go with this)
Morganna - hah, I like these three. I'm not sure if I should feel sympathy for them, but part of me does anyway.
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Right, we shall have something a little Christmassy: there shall be snow, there shall be Winter festivities, and maybe there will be even be a Christmas miracle. So, to kick it all off, you've decided we should start with...
The Riot
The Unreal City sat on the east bank of the river Riot, compact and crowded, constrained in its growth by the hills that surrounded it. On the west bank there were marshes, and while a few small settlements had started to spring up, the largest of which was Burman’s See, they were slow to grow and the Unreal City regarded them with suspicion. The Riot continued south, growing broader as it reached the sea some fifty miles downstream, and then a small archipelago of forty or fifty islands stuck out of the waters and confounded the shipping.
Snow was falling on the Isle of Wights, a medium sized island that was home to the White Lighthouse and an ancient graveyard on its north coast, and a swathe of moorland and even more ancient burial mounds further south. A precarious rope bridge connected it across a very narrow channel, something that would barely have been a river if it was mainland, to the neighbouring Isle of Goats. The planks were already dangerously icy, and the few residents of both islands were waiting for the snow to stop so that they could clear the bridge.
In a small house that abutted the White Lighthouse three men gathered in a cold kitchen around a wobbly wooden table made of planks clumsily nailed together. There was wood in the fireplace, with a dusting of snow atop it that had fallen down the chimney already, and a soot-blackened kettle sat on a cast-iron range nearby. A bucket of water was also on the range, with small lumps of ice bobbing in it like an iceberg diorama. Despite the chill there was a smell of old root vegetables in the air.
“Jacob said that he took them from crone’s daughter,” said one of the men. He threw an oilskin-wrapped rectangular package, book-shaped and sized, onto the table and then plunged his hands back into the pockets of his coat. He was wearing a fisherman’s coat, heavy and waterproof, over a thick grey woollen jumper.
“Not Sosotris herself?” The man next to him was wearing a tatty jacket with holes in the elbows that was buttoned up tightly. A long, pale-blue scarf was wound several times round his neck, and his hands were partly covered by fingerless gloves. His skin was white, with a hint of blue, and he shivered now and then. “If they belong to Sosotris we can’t use them.”
“Definitely not the crone,” said the first man. “Jacob wouldn’t go near her anyway, he’s afraid of the evil eye.”
“He’s afraid of his own shadow,” said the third man. He was wearing a long black wool coat that reached to his knees, where shiny leather boots started and covered up his calves and feet. “And superstitious as a baby. What’s so special about the crone anyway? Old women get in the way, but not for long.”
“Sosotris is more than just a crone, David” said the second man. “She’s an actual Seer, pronounced by the Piccadilly Throne.”
David’s face had started to twist into a sneer, but it untwisted quickly. “The Thrones acknowledge her? All of them?”
“All of them,” said the second man. “So if we have her cards she will find us.”
“Jacob said he got them from her daughter,” said the first man. “I don’t know why you have to keep flapping your mouth Tris. He did what you asked. I did what you asked. So pay up and let’s get away from here before the storms start.”
“Jacob’s mostly reliable,” said Tristram. “But… open the cards.”
The first man took a step backwards. “I never agreed—” he started, lifting his hands, but David moved lithely and swiftly behind him. A knife blade appeared at his throat, and the first man pulled his head back, trying to avoid the blade, and David’s free arm wrapped across his chest, holding him firmly.
“Open the cards,” he said, his voice pleasant and conversational, as though he wasn’t threatening the man’s life. “Tris, hand him the package so he can do that, please.”
The three people dressed in black on the afternoon ferry would have preferred not to be seen at all. Their leader assured them that the invisibility cloaks would be ready soon, but not quite yet. So in the absence of invisibility cloaks, they were trying to disappear wearing all black. It wasn't working. The farmers and tourists on the boat were trying unsuccessfully not to stare. It was a relief when the ferry bumped the Jersey pier. They got quickly to their feet, ready to proceed with their mission. They got as far as the pier end but a large crowd of shouting people with signs blocked their way.
"What is this riot?" hissed the man to the tall woman.
"I think they are protesting the building of a new ferry terminal," she hissed back.
They pushed and elbowed to no avail. There was no way through the crowd, and every time they tried to get around, the crowd flowed that direction. They tried to follow the tourists and farmers through, but the crowd permitted them through and closed smoothly behind them. They were herded away from the pier long enough for the travellers to the mainland to board the ferry, and then herded back onto the ferry for the long journey back to their starting point. Baffled, they stared out at the Channel glumly for the second time today.
Greg - hahahaha... in my defense, I'm only now reading about your desire for a festive December. Still, though, my apologies for such a difficult starting point.
... And of course you choose this setting for your festive tale. I should have known.
(Also: fascinating start. I look forward to discovering where you go with this)
Morganna - hah, I like these three. I'm not sure if I should feel sympathy for them, but part of me does anyway.
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