Your prompts are becoming hard to interpret again, and I wonder if it's to do with the secrets you mentioned were still being kept...? Or maybe you're just thinking of becoming a lumberjack ;-)
In the woods It was a small clearing in the woods where the ground was stony enough that trees had failed to take root in it. Boulders protruded from the earth like broken teeth in a boxer's jaw, and some of them had been dragged, with effort, into a rough semi-circle and a firepit dug. The ashes in the pit and a few scattered charcoaled branches indicated that it had last been used some time ago. Under the trees were mounds of brown, fallen leaves and slender branches so there was little shortage of firewood or kindling. Birds sang somewhere deeper in the woods, trilling mating calls and flitting shadow-like from branch to branch. Pestilence walked through, just intangible enough to be utterly silent and not disturb the mounded leaves or crack any dry twigs underfoot, but even so as he reached the clearing's edge the man sat on the largest of the boulders greeted him without turning to face him. "Pest," said the man and his voice was like a heavy snowfall in an Alpine village in the depth of winter. "Boss," said Pestilence easily. He walked across the clearing as, on the other side, another man appeared dragging a sack behind him. That man ignored both Death and Pestilence as they chose not to be visible to him, and looked around the clearing evaluating the trees. "I heard that War has an Emotional Support Animal," said Death. He looked like an accountancy student; neatly dressed in a shirt and smart trousers and shiny black shoes. Next to him, on the ground, was an orange plastic nerf gun. "Scuff told me," said Pestilence, sitting down on a nearby boulder. "I laughed for a good five minutes at that. Hilda, apparently." Across the clearing the other man stared thoughtfully at an old tree with long, thick branches that seemed to push the other trees away. Then he went to collect his sack. "This would be worrying if it were true," said Death. "It's sort of true," said Pestilence. The other man dragged his sack to the foot of the tree he'd chosen. "He's definitely telling people that Hilda is his Emotional Support. War's pet writer has written an article about them. "Hilda is a hell-hound," said Death. He sounded faintly curious. "I wonder what kind of emotions she can support?" The other man pulled a long rope free from his sack and started throwing an end up in the air, trying to get it over a tree branch. It was clearly too long and too heavy though.
"Amusement?" Pestilence had build a rapport with Hilda, who looked exactly like a chihuahua, and felt quite fond of her. "There's a warlord, apparently, someone from deep in Asia who's uncovered a manual from the Age of Kings, that talks about hellhounds." "Which Age of Kings, exactly?" asked Death. The other man, across the clearing, was now climbing the tree with his rope wrapped around his arm. "Pass," said Pestilence. "War didn't tell Scuff and Scuff didn't know enough to ask. He's still a kid, don't forget. But the Warlord is after a hell-hound." "And so War will provide him with access to one?" The man straddled the branch and started tying his rope around it, pulling hard on the knots and making sure that the rope held firmly. "War will provide a way that looks like access," said Pestilence. "And Scuff, Fam and I will do a little investigating as to what's really going on." On the tree branch the other man, satisfied with his rope-typing, tied the other end of the rope around his neck, checked the knot, and pushed himself off. Death waited until he'd stopped swinging before picking up the nerf-gun and shooting him between the eyes. "I might tag along," said Death thoughtfully. "I wonder which Age of Kings, exactly?"
3 comments:
Your prompts are becoming hard to interpret again, and I wonder if it's to do with the secrets you mentioned were still being kept...? Or maybe you're just thinking of becoming a lumberjack ;-)
In the woods
It was a small clearing in the woods where the ground was stony enough that trees had failed to take root in it. Boulders protruded from the earth like broken teeth in a boxer's jaw, and some of them had been dragged, with effort, into a rough semi-circle and a firepit dug. The ashes in the pit and a few scattered charcoaled branches indicated that it had last been used some time ago. Under the trees were mounds of brown, fallen leaves and slender branches so there was little shortage of firewood or kindling. Birds sang somewhere deeper in the woods, trilling mating calls and flitting shadow-like from branch to branch. Pestilence walked through, just intangible enough to be utterly silent and not disturb the mounded leaves or crack any dry twigs underfoot, but even so as he reached the clearing's edge the man sat on the largest of the boulders greeted him without turning to face him.
"Pest," said the man and his voice was like a heavy snowfall in an Alpine village in the depth of winter.
"Boss," said Pestilence easily. He walked across the clearing as, on the other side, another man appeared dragging a sack behind him. That man ignored both Death and Pestilence as they chose not to be visible to him, and looked around the clearing evaluating the trees.
"I heard that War has an Emotional Support Animal," said Death. He looked like an accountancy student; neatly dressed in a shirt and smart trousers and shiny black shoes. Next to him, on the ground, was an orange plastic nerf gun.
"Scuff told me," said Pestilence, sitting down on a nearby boulder. "I laughed for a good five minutes at that. Hilda, apparently."
Across the clearing the other man stared thoughtfully at an old tree with long, thick branches that seemed to push the other trees away. Then he went to collect his sack.
"This would be worrying if it were true," said Death.
"It's sort of true," said Pestilence. The other man dragged his sack to the foot of the tree he'd chosen. "He's definitely telling people that Hilda is his Emotional Support. War's pet writer has written an article about them.
"Hilda is a hell-hound," said Death. He sounded faintly curious. "I wonder what kind of emotions she can support?"
The other man pulled a long rope free from his sack and started throwing an end up in the air, trying to get it over a tree branch. It was clearly too long and too heavy though.
"Amusement?" Pestilence had build a rapport with Hilda, who looked exactly like a chihuahua, and felt quite fond of her. "There's a warlord, apparently, someone from deep in Asia who's uncovered a manual from the Age of Kings, that talks about hellhounds."
"Which Age of Kings, exactly?" asked Death. The other man, across the clearing, was now climbing the tree with his rope wrapped around his arm.
"Pass," said Pestilence. "War didn't tell Scuff and Scuff didn't know enough to ask. He's still a kid, don't forget. But the Warlord is after a hell-hound."
"And so War will provide him with access to one?"
The man straddled the branch and started tying his rope around it, pulling hard on the knots and making sure that the rope held firmly.
"War will provide a way that looks like access," said Pestilence. "And Scuff, Fam and I will do a little investigating as to what's really going on."
On the tree branch the other man, satisfied with his rope-typing, tied the other end of the rope around his neck, checked the knot, and pushed himself off. Death waited until he'd stopped swinging before picking up the nerf-gun and shooting him between the eyes.
"I might tag along," said Death thoughtfully. "I wonder which Age of Kings, exactly?"
Greg - one can never tell when it comes to me and being mysterious...
Love the scene setting in your opening. And, of course, the conversation between these two.
The background action is... unsettling in its normalcy.
Nicely done, all around!
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