"Footprints in the Snow"
Prompt 136 (I think), all_unwritten
There were footprints, deep and distinct, in the snow. He looked at them, pushed the heavy hood from his forehead and ignored it when it fell back, unperturbed. There was no call for them to be there; it was the dead of winter, deep in the forest, and it was only his duties that roused him from his cold induced lethargy inside the guardhouse.
"Oi," he called back to the house.
The other one, blonde and nut-brown in the manner of these mountain folk, didn't respond. He was nodding in that peculiar way people have when they're about to fall asleep when he had left, and was probably out cold.
He looked around, glanced at the shabby cabin. It wasn't good, it was falling apart and let the bitter winter winds in the avenging breath of some slighted god, but there was a fire... He faltered, turning back, then gave a sigh of disgust and turned to follow the footprints.
This wasn't the place for him, this land of snows and frosts and ice. He was too dark, too distinct a patch against the endless whiteness. His hair was black, and his skin was olive and his eyes were dark and heavily lashed. He belonged in the sun, in the bright ocean harbors of Mihoven. He needed color, he needed noise and clamor, not the hushed tones of the reserved mountain peoples.
He rounded a bend, barely even watching the footprints. There was a girl, he'd known, with bright ribbons in her hair. She was no real beauty, pert and saucy with wrinkles already along her eyes from smiling. She wore--he couldn't remember what she wore, not those bright colors, not in those wasteland.
He wasn't paying attention, he wasn't watching. He tripped.
He sat up, looked around him. The frail memories of color and cacophony disappeared.
He couldn't see any footprints.
There were footprints, deep and distinct, in the snow. He looked at them, pushed the heavy hood from his forehead and ignored it when it fell back, unperturbed. There was no call for them to be there; it was the dead of winter, deep in the forest, and it was only his duties that roused him from his cold induced lethargy inside the guardhouse.
"Oi," he called back to the house.
The other one, blonde and nut-brown in the manner of these mountain folk, didn't respond. He was nodding in that peculiar way people have when they're about to fall asleep when he had left, and was probably out cold.
He looked around, glanced at the shabby cabin. It wasn't good, it was falling apart and let the bitter winter winds in the avenging breath of some slighted god, but there was a fire... He faltered, turning back, then gave a sigh of disgust and turned to follow the footprints.
This wasn't the place for him, this land of snows and frosts and ice. He was too dark, too distinct a patch against the endless whiteness. His hair was black, and his skin was olive and his eyes were dark and heavily lashed. He belonged in the sun, in the bright ocean harbors of Mihoven. He needed color, he needed noise and clamor, not the hushed tones of the reserved mountain peoples.
He rounded a bend, barely even watching the footprints. There was a girl, he'd known, with bright ribbons in her hair. She was no real beauty, pert and saucy with wrinkles already along her eyes from smiling. She wore--he couldn't remember what she wore, not those bright colors, not in those wasteland.
He wasn't paying attention, he wasn't watching. He tripped.
He sat up, looked around him. The frail memories of color and cacophony disappeared.
He couldn't see any footprints.