[Deaths] on campaign
Title: an adverse weather conditions advisory is in effect . . .
'Verse/characters: Death be not Proud; Azrael
Prompt: 49C "bridges"
Word Count: 373
Notes: Campaign era, in the space between escalation and wake up.
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It was an intensely foggy night. One of the sort that drinkers and theatre-goers would half-joke about not tempting fate by walking down alleys for fear they wouldn't emerge, the old stories about fog being a thief and a murderer's best friend surfacing again as they always did in weather like this.
The tall lamps lining the sides of the closed-to-vehicle-traffic-for-the-night bridge glowed in the fog, rendering the dark spaces between them bluer by the contrast with their sodium-yellow haloes. Water condensed on overcoats, hats, the cases some of the walkers carried, dripping to the stones with heavy splashes as droplets met, grew, ran, and fell.
Two of the lamps cycled, bulbs shutting down to cool off, sizzling in the fog and dropping a whole section of the bridge into darkness, fog twice as thick for the sudden change in lighting.
A muffled shout, just a little too intense to be a toe stubbed in the dark, echoed briefly off the surrounding fog.
Three fewer men walked out of the dark patch than had gone in, giving one another wary looks, and casting glances back over their shoulders at the dark spot.
When the lamps cycled back up, though, there were no bodies on the bridge, no skidded patches on the wet stones, mute testimony of a fight that led to the edge of the railing and over.
Five more men disappeared, though, in crossing the bridge, and a group of six stood finally at one end, staring across the span with worried expressions, holding tight to oilskin-wrapped bundles in their hands or hands disappeared beneath their heavy over layers, resting at belt level.
Someone sighed as the fog thinned, just a little, losing most of its blue tinge as a man stepped out of the fog on the other end of the bridge.
He wore no hat, no coat against the chill and the wet, and there was a sword strapped to his belt, though his hands were held loosely at his sides as he looked at the group, head tilted just a little to one side.
"Come on then," he called, smiling, when they didn't move, his young man's voice loud enough to carry. "Try to take my bridge from me."
'Verse/characters: Death be not Proud; Azrael
Prompt: 49C "bridges"
Word Count: 373
Notes: Campaign era, in the space between escalation and wake up.
---------
It was an intensely foggy night. One of the sort that drinkers and theatre-goers would half-joke about not tempting fate by walking down alleys for fear they wouldn't emerge, the old stories about fog being a thief and a murderer's best friend surfacing again as they always did in weather like this.
The tall lamps lining the sides of the closed-to-vehicle-traffic-for-the-night bridge glowed in the fog, rendering the dark spaces between them bluer by the contrast with their sodium-yellow haloes. Water condensed on overcoats, hats, the cases some of the walkers carried, dripping to the stones with heavy splashes as droplets met, grew, ran, and fell.
Two of the lamps cycled, bulbs shutting down to cool off, sizzling in the fog and dropping a whole section of the bridge into darkness, fog twice as thick for the sudden change in lighting.
A muffled shout, just a little too intense to be a toe stubbed in the dark, echoed briefly off the surrounding fog.
Three fewer men walked out of the dark patch than had gone in, giving one another wary looks, and casting glances back over their shoulders at the dark spot.
When the lamps cycled back up, though, there were no bodies on the bridge, no skidded patches on the wet stones, mute testimony of a fight that led to the edge of the railing and over.
Five more men disappeared, though, in crossing the bridge, and a group of six stood finally at one end, staring across the span with worried expressions, holding tight to oilskin-wrapped bundles in their hands or hands disappeared beneath their heavy over layers, resting at belt level.
Someone sighed as the fog thinned, just a little, losing most of its blue tinge as a man stepped out of the fog on the other end of the bridge.
He wore no hat, no coat against the chill and the wet, and there was a sword strapped to his belt, though his hands were held loosely at his sides as he looked at the group, head tilted just a little to one side.
"Come on then," he called, smiling, when they didn't move, his young man's voice loud enough to carry. "Try to take my bridge from me."