[Witches' Horses]
Title: deal
'Verse/characters: Witches' Horses; Sinclair, Grammont, the New Gent
Prompt: 51C "flippancy"
Word Count: 227
Notes: follows directly from here.
He let the silence stretch briefly, long enough for the cuffs to reach immaculate as well as aligned, then shook his head. "Not now."
He'd considered flippancy, discarded it as useless.
The man nodded, straightening up, spine a perfect--terem dweller, not rider--curve. "I'd wondered if you were establishing yourself as a force, before declaring an allegiance." His mouth curved into a not-really-amused smile. "Or that you'd conceived a dislike for our mutual acquaintance."
"Well, that's true enough," Sinclair said dryly. "The man's a fool."
I can probably hit him from here, the horse put in, printing over the infrared readings on the eyepatch.
He twitched, just a little, then typed back Fancy a war, do you? with the hand hidden by his pose.
"He certainly is, that," the man agreed easily, checked a time piece. "A meal, perhaps?"
He's just a man. He's not even in any of the directories.
He was not going to cover his eye with his hand. He was not going to--Think about what you just said, you witch-ridden nag. He's not in the terem's directories. What, exactly, might that imply about his influence, that he's standing here and isn't exactly dressed in rags? "A drink?"
Her drive popped meaningfully, but she didn't put any more words on the patch.
"Done."
'Verse/characters: Witches' Horses; Sinclair, Grammont, the New Gent
Prompt: 51C "flippancy"
Word Count: 227
Notes: follows directly from here.
He let the silence stretch briefly, long enough for the cuffs to reach immaculate as well as aligned, then shook his head. "Not now."
He'd considered flippancy, discarded it as useless.
The man nodded, straightening up, spine a perfect--terem dweller, not rider--curve. "I'd wondered if you were establishing yourself as a force, before declaring an allegiance." His mouth curved into a not-really-amused smile. "Or that you'd conceived a dislike for our mutual acquaintance."
"Well, that's true enough," Sinclair said dryly. "The man's a fool."
I can probably hit him from here, the horse put in, printing over the infrared readings on the eyepatch.
He twitched, just a little, then typed back Fancy a war, do you? with the hand hidden by his pose.
"He certainly is, that," the man agreed easily, checked a time piece. "A meal, perhaps?"
He's just a man. He's not even in any of the directories.
He was not going to cover his eye with his hand. He was not going to--Think about what you just said, you witch-ridden nag. He's not in the terem's directories. What, exactly, might that imply about his influence, that he's standing here and isn't exactly dressed in rags? "A drink?"
Her drive popped meaningfully, but she didn't put any more words on the patch.
"Done."