[Witches' Horses] Falcons' Feathers
Title: races
'Verse/characters: Falcons' Feathers; (Irina)
Prompt: 69C "flight"
Word Count: 1117
Notes: This is a sketch of the beginning of the story-as-told.
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In honour of Pyotr Feodorevich's visit, several days of revelry had been planned, interspersed with sumptuous meals and long hours of dancing and singing. He kept up as best he could, slowed by a foot with poor circulation that went to pins and needles on him at the least opportunity and the feeling that he wasn't as young as he'd once been.
He and his host went back a long ways--before either of them had married, they'd begun the small profitable runs his host continued, out here in the black, and that he merely ruled from his own home--so there was always a chair waiting for him, with either a stool or second chair occupied by a helpful member of his host's family to hold his bad leg aloft.
His friend's youngest daughter, a pretty little blond thing who wore her long hair in the maiden's braid tradition suggested but did not demand, was his usual companion when he had one, and she kept him telling her stories about his younger days. The attention was flattering, not least because she followed the threads of his tales well and asked questions that never touched on sore topics, bad memories.
Her elder sisters wanted stories about the cities, the things he'd seen not with a young man's eyes but his own, and he did his best to oblige them, too, but enjoyed it less.
The third day's afternoon entertainment was a race, which he had to decline participating in, and his host joined him, making a jest about judging from their screens instead of chancing the boys catching them up if they actually went out riding themselves.
It was a kind gesture, as was the chair and stool awaiting him at a place with a wonderful view of a mirror set up to display the race. No companions but his old friend--the elder girls had ventured off with their mother to see to the meal to follow the race, and the youngest had vanished into thin air as soon as the race was announced. He nearly assumed she had a sweetheart among the racers, but he knew his host too well for that.
The horses the mirror showed them were a motley crew, small two-man scouts up through sturdy five-man carthorses, sleek sides newly painted in bright colours side by side with old battered gunmetal and everything in between, their riders already inside them as he gingerly dropped himself into the chair, raised his leg into a comfortable position with a grunt of effort.
His host waited politely for him to fully settle, sit back with a glass of well water--he'd drink the waters of life as toasts tonight--before giving the signal for the race to begin as a flash of light from the end point of the course.
The horses leapt forward, spread themselves like a school of fish, dodging in and around one another, jostling for position, and it quickly turned into a wedge of five-man blocking the smaller, quicker horses from dodging through them, the riders of the bigger horses taking full advantage of their greater mass.
"Well, that was quick," Pyotr began to say, when one of the two-mans rolled, took itself out of the path the other horses were running in a well-defined series of parabolic helixes, and the words caught in his throat.
Glancing at his host, who was watching the race with a suddenly grim flat line to his mouth, Pyotr wondered if his old friend had managed to lure away one of the raiders, offered the man gold enough to leave home for Russian service and rewards.
If so, the man was certainly living up to the reputation the raiders held even back among the cities, let alone out here in the black where they were less legend and more neighbour. He'd slid himself in ahead of the wedge of five-mans with just enough room to spare to keep himself from being disqualified for missing a checkpoint along the course, and stretched his legs, kept and lengthened his lead.
Pyotr involuntarily leaned forward in his seat, interest sharpened more than he'd expected for an afternoon's game.
The rider barely slowed as he reached the midpoint of the course, whipped his horse around in a well-executed slingshot around the post, and it wasn't until Pyotr caught the flash of new gold against the horse's side that he even realised the rider had grabbed the prize without slowing, hooked it neatly free with a magnetised arm and slapped it back against his side to prevent it from being stolen by his speed.
Another two-man horse leapfrogged the wedge of fives, tried to cut off the leader. Pyotr held his breath as the leader didn't slow, even when the second two-man put its armoured back in the way, nearly on a collision course.
His jaw dropped as the leader at the very last moment flipped itself sideways, almost brushing bellies with its rival, slid past and free, spun itself three more times as a taunt and then straightened out, perfectly upside down to the other racers now.
"That one can ride," he murmured, heard his host grunt a response but couldn't bear to take his eyes from the mirror, lest he miss something.
The race was won, really, but none of the riders let up, the wedge of fives disintegrating as one of the flanking riders pushed his horse forward, and the twos took full advantage of the gap.
Flipping itself back into typical alignment with its rivals, the leading horse spun through another several helixes, then had to cut one in half to land without overshooting.
It nearly did anyway, sliding across the finish platform on its belly, the ring still held close to its side with the magnetised arm, expertly dropping the landing legs down only after the spin had finished, flipping the horse back towards the other racers, who were only then beginning the final approach.
When the rider emerged from the horse, went to wrest the ring from the horse and hold it aloft triumphantly, he leaned back in his seat, turned to his host.
"That girl is wasted in a sledge," he remarked.
His friend's mouth tightened further. "I'm aware. But what can I do? If she were a son--"
Pyotr nodded, gripped his friend's shoulder in commiseration. "She'll make a man a fine wife?" he offered, and his friend laughed.
"Only if he keeps her in horses and terem pearls--the girl's mad for both."
"I'll see that my son sends her pearls if he seeks courting gifts," Pyotr replied, smiling, and rose, began to work his way down to offer his congratulations and applause to the racers, all.
'Verse/characters: Falcons' Feathers; (Irina)
Prompt: 69C "flight"
Word Count: 1117
Notes: This is a sketch of the beginning of the story-as-told.
---------
In honour of Pyotr Feodorevich's visit, several days of revelry had been planned, interspersed with sumptuous meals and long hours of dancing and singing. He kept up as best he could, slowed by a foot with poor circulation that went to pins and needles on him at the least opportunity and the feeling that he wasn't as young as he'd once been.
He and his host went back a long ways--before either of them had married, they'd begun the small profitable runs his host continued, out here in the black, and that he merely ruled from his own home--so there was always a chair waiting for him, with either a stool or second chair occupied by a helpful member of his host's family to hold his bad leg aloft.
His friend's youngest daughter, a pretty little blond thing who wore her long hair in the maiden's braid tradition suggested but did not demand, was his usual companion when he had one, and she kept him telling her stories about his younger days. The attention was flattering, not least because she followed the threads of his tales well and asked questions that never touched on sore topics, bad memories.
Her elder sisters wanted stories about the cities, the things he'd seen not with a young man's eyes but his own, and he did his best to oblige them, too, but enjoyed it less.
The third day's afternoon entertainment was a race, which he had to decline participating in, and his host joined him, making a jest about judging from their screens instead of chancing the boys catching them up if they actually went out riding themselves.
It was a kind gesture, as was the chair and stool awaiting him at a place with a wonderful view of a mirror set up to display the race. No companions but his old friend--the elder girls had ventured off with their mother to see to the meal to follow the race, and the youngest had vanished into thin air as soon as the race was announced. He nearly assumed she had a sweetheart among the racers, but he knew his host too well for that.
The horses the mirror showed them were a motley crew, small two-man scouts up through sturdy five-man carthorses, sleek sides newly painted in bright colours side by side with old battered gunmetal and everything in between, their riders already inside them as he gingerly dropped himself into the chair, raised his leg into a comfortable position with a grunt of effort.
His host waited politely for him to fully settle, sit back with a glass of well water--he'd drink the waters of life as toasts tonight--before giving the signal for the race to begin as a flash of light from the end point of the course.
The horses leapt forward, spread themselves like a school of fish, dodging in and around one another, jostling for position, and it quickly turned into a wedge of five-man blocking the smaller, quicker horses from dodging through them, the riders of the bigger horses taking full advantage of their greater mass.
"Well, that was quick," Pyotr began to say, when one of the two-mans rolled, took itself out of the path the other horses were running in a well-defined series of parabolic helixes, and the words caught in his throat.
Glancing at his host, who was watching the race with a suddenly grim flat line to his mouth, Pyotr wondered if his old friend had managed to lure away one of the raiders, offered the man gold enough to leave home for Russian service and rewards.
If so, the man was certainly living up to the reputation the raiders held even back among the cities, let alone out here in the black where they were less legend and more neighbour. He'd slid himself in ahead of the wedge of five-mans with just enough room to spare to keep himself from being disqualified for missing a checkpoint along the course, and stretched his legs, kept and lengthened his lead.
Pyotr involuntarily leaned forward in his seat, interest sharpened more than he'd expected for an afternoon's game.
The rider barely slowed as he reached the midpoint of the course, whipped his horse around in a well-executed slingshot around the post, and it wasn't until Pyotr caught the flash of new gold against the horse's side that he even realised the rider had grabbed the prize without slowing, hooked it neatly free with a magnetised arm and slapped it back against his side to prevent it from being stolen by his speed.
Another two-man horse leapfrogged the wedge of fives, tried to cut off the leader. Pyotr held his breath as the leader didn't slow, even when the second two-man put its armoured back in the way, nearly on a collision course.
His jaw dropped as the leader at the very last moment flipped itself sideways, almost brushing bellies with its rival, slid past and free, spun itself three more times as a taunt and then straightened out, perfectly upside down to the other racers now.
"That one can ride," he murmured, heard his host grunt a response but couldn't bear to take his eyes from the mirror, lest he miss something.
The race was won, really, but none of the riders let up, the wedge of fives disintegrating as one of the flanking riders pushed his horse forward, and the twos took full advantage of the gap.
Flipping itself back into typical alignment with its rivals, the leading horse spun through another several helixes, then had to cut one in half to land without overshooting.
It nearly did anyway, sliding across the finish platform on its belly, the ring still held close to its side with the magnetised arm, expertly dropping the landing legs down only after the spin had finished, flipping the horse back towards the other racers, who were only then beginning the final approach.
When the rider emerged from the horse, went to wrest the ring from the horse and hold it aloft triumphantly, he leaned back in his seat, turned to his host.
"That girl is wasted in a sledge," he remarked.
His friend's mouth tightened further. "I'm aware. But what can I do? If she were a son--"
Pyotr nodded, gripped his friend's shoulder in commiseration. "She'll make a man a fine wife?" he offered, and his friend laughed.
"Only if he keeps her in horses and terem pearls--the girl's mad for both."
"I'll see that my son sends her pearls if he seeks courting gifts," Pyotr replied, smiling, and rose, began to work his way down to offer his congratulations and applause to the racers, all.