Original Fic: "The Sorcerer," 300 words
The Sorcerer
Author:
beetle_comma_the
Fandom: Original Fiction
Rating: PG-13
Word Count: 300
Summary: Written for the prompts paint, wings, popcorn.
“Could you stomach some talick, Warrior? ‘Popcorn,’ my people call it. I’d offer you more substantial fare, but I’m afraid the rest of my stores are . . . nonexistent.”
“I won’t eat magicked food.” For the umpteenth time, Dallien tests the sorcerous bonds binding him head and foot.
“Ah, well. Shall I untie you, then?” The Sorcerer asks coyly, crossing his long arms over his chest. His strange, gold-green eyes seem to glow in the firelight. “And if I do, will you grow wings in the night, and fly away?”
Grimly eyeing the Sorcerer sitting across the fire, Dallien snorts. “You’ve bested me in battle. I’m your prisoner, until such time as you, or death release me,” he says bitterly, and the Sorcerer smiles his enigmatic smile.
“Then I shall take you at your word, Warrior.” The Sorcerer snaps his fingers, and Dallien’s bonds fall away. Surprised, he sits up and rubs his slightly numb wrists.
Meanwhile, the Sorcerer gracefully gets to his feet. His paint pony whickers a greeting, and he pats it on the nose.
Then he crosses to where Dallien sits and squats. Unable to help it, Dallien flinches back, making the sign of warding and averting his eyes, lest he be ensorcelled.
“Such a superstitious lot, you Agmenians are.” The Sorcerer takes Dallien’s wrists, examining them briefly. His touch is cool and impersonal, and Dallien is startled into meeting those disturbing eyes again. All he sees there is mirth. “Who goes a-journeying with nothing but talick?”
Suddenly the mirth is gone. “One who was burned out of his tower and who barely escaped with the clothes on his back. And the sack of talick tied to the horse he was forced to steal.”
Dallien looks away again, guiltily, and curses the day he ever picked up a match.
Author:
beetle_comma_the
Fandom: Original Fiction
Rating: PG-13
Word Count: 300
Summary: Written for the prompts paint, wings, popcorn.
“Could you stomach some talick, Warrior? ‘Popcorn,’ my people call it. I’d offer you more substantial fare, but I’m afraid the rest of my stores are . . . nonexistent.”
“I won’t eat magicked food.” For the umpteenth time, Dallien tests the sorcerous bonds binding him head and foot.
“Ah, well. Shall I untie you, then?” The Sorcerer asks coyly, crossing his long arms over his chest. His strange, gold-green eyes seem to glow in the firelight. “And if I do, will you grow wings in the night, and fly away?”
Grimly eyeing the Sorcerer sitting across the fire, Dallien snorts. “You’ve bested me in battle. I’m your prisoner, until such time as you, or death release me,” he says bitterly, and the Sorcerer smiles his enigmatic smile.
“Then I shall take you at your word, Warrior.” The Sorcerer snaps his fingers, and Dallien’s bonds fall away. Surprised, he sits up and rubs his slightly numb wrists.
Meanwhile, the Sorcerer gracefully gets to his feet. His paint pony whickers a greeting, and he pats it on the nose.
Then he crosses to where Dallien sits and squats. Unable to help it, Dallien flinches back, making the sign of warding and averting his eyes, lest he be ensorcelled.
“Such a superstitious lot, you Agmenians are.” The Sorcerer takes Dallien’s wrists, examining them briefly. His touch is cool and impersonal, and Dallien is startled into meeting those disturbing eyes again. All he sees there is mirth. “Who goes a-journeying with nothing but talick?”
Suddenly the mirth is gone. “One who was burned out of his tower and who barely escaped with the clothes on his back. And the sack of talick tied to the horse he was forced to steal.”
Dallien looks away again, guiltily, and curses the day he ever picked up a match.