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Cinnamon Swirl #30. In the Blink of an Eye with Malt
Story : knights & necromancers
Rating : R
Timeframe : 1240
Word Count : 687 (7 part pocky chain)
Malt Prompt : Stocking Stuffer '09 from C - "That's not magic."
So, I have just one more of these I really should do. I think I'm starting to lose steam on them. Tristan probably gets the least attention of all my MC's, I should probably do something about that.
The ball is sailing through the air, so high in its arc it’s little more than a blot against the bright blue expanse of sky. Tristan’s racing through the grass as fast as his legs will churn, but it’s clear the ball will be well past the fence before it comes down.
There’s a crowd of boys closing in on him as he reaches the fence and pulls himself up on the rails. The ball is still way above him.
And then it’s not.
His fingers are curling over the leather and he’s tumbling into the grass, gaping in disbelief.
“Where’d you say you come from again, kid?”
“Nanton.” Tristan passes the wooden sword nervously from hand to hand. There are at least a dozen boys around him nursing bruises, half of which he doesn’t remember dealing.
“Merchant’s boy?” The pacing drillmaster doesn’t bother looking his way.
“Yes, sir.” Tired of his peers’ reproachful looks, Tristan is staring at the battered training blade in his hands.
The man stops, spinning to face him. “I don’t buy it.”
“I’m just fast, sir,” says Tristan. “Always have been. And the sellswords taught me a few moves.”
The instructor simply shakes his head.
He’s heard other soldiers talk about the rush of excitement they get in a fight. The heightened senses, the drive to draw on more than you think you’ve got inside you. But he’s not sure he can put the same words on it that they do.
There’s a roar in his ears when he’s charging, that has no grounds in the world around him. There’s a fire in his spine that flows like water to his hands. And with every swing of the blade it’s as if there is no space between him and his mark.
“How do you do it?” Wyatt’s doubled over, hands on his knees, panting and sweating, but grinning ear to ear.
Tristan shrugs and hands him the canteen. “I’m just fast.”
Wyatt laughs as he straightens himself. He gulps from the canteen and swipes the back of a hand across his lips. “No one-” He looks at the track behind them and shakes his head. “No one is that fast.” He shoves the water back into Tristan‘s hands. “You’re not even breathing hard.”
Tristan shrugs again. He’s gotten used to everyone else’s disbelief. If only he could get over his own.
There’s some great, hulking shadowy mess of teeth and claws and bone racing towards him, jaws wide open in a deafening roar. And he really should be swinging; it’s not like he can’t reach it. Or he should be dodging; it’s not like he can’t outpace the thing on its legs cobbled together of mismatched bones. But the most beautiful creature he’s ever seen is there, with a blade of her own, and in an instant she’s slicing the demon to ribbons and all he can do is blink and gape.
He can see the claw coming down, and it must be all of a second, but it feels like every inch of its descent holds its own moment. And he can see the panic on Ski’s face as she’s struggling to pull her blade free of the demon’s chest. It’s too far for him to reach, too close for her to bolt.
Then there’s a thunderclap that threatens to rip his skull apart, the world takes a dizzying turn, and that claw is falling is from above. His scream seems unreal as everything else as the demon hurls him down.
“I’m just fast,” says Tristan. “I’m just good. I’ve been holding a sword since anyone would let me, and I’m a fast learner, and… you’re laughing at me.”
Sethan’s sitting there with his usual half grin, drumming his boney fingers on the edge of the table. “And if I swung at you?”
“I’d block it.”
“Threw this glass at you?”
“You’d miss.”
“And if you wanted a knife on the other side of the room,” his tone growing sharper as Tristan begins to open his mouth, “on a shelf ten feet high.”
“That’s not magic,” Tristan insists. “Not mine anyway.”
Story : knights & necromancers
Rating : R
Timeframe : 1240
Word Count : 687 (7 part pocky chain)
Malt Prompt : Stocking Stuffer '09 from C - "That's not magic."
So, I have just one more of these I really should do. I think I'm starting to lose steam on them. Tristan probably gets the least attention of all my MC's, I should probably do something about that.
The ball is sailing through the air, so high in its arc it’s little more than a blot against the bright blue expanse of sky. Tristan’s racing through the grass as fast as his legs will churn, but it’s clear the ball will be well past the fence before it comes down.
There’s a crowd of boys closing in on him as he reaches the fence and pulls himself up on the rails. The ball is still way above him.
And then it’s not.
His fingers are curling over the leather and he’s tumbling into the grass, gaping in disbelief.
“Where’d you say you come from again, kid?”
“Nanton.” Tristan passes the wooden sword nervously from hand to hand. There are at least a dozen boys around him nursing bruises, half of which he doesn’t remember dealing.
“Merchant’s boy?” The pacing drillmaster doesn’t bother looking his way.
“Yes, sir.” Tired of his peers’ reproachful looks, Tristan is staring at the battered training blade in his hands.
The man stops, spinning to face him. “I don’t buy it.”
“I’m just fast, sir,” says Tristan. “Always have been. And the sellswords taught me a few moves.”
The instructor simply shakes his head.
He’s heard other soldiers talk about the rush of excitement they get in a fight. The heightened senses, the drive to draw on more than you think you’ve got inside you. But he’s not sure he can put the same words on it that they do.
There’s a roar in his ears when he’s charging, that has no grounds in the world around him. There’s a fire in his spine that flows like water to his hands. And with every swing of the blade it’s as if there is no space between him and his mark.
“How do you do it?” Wyatt’s doubled over, hands on his knees, panting and sweating, but grinning ear to ear.
Tristan shrugs and hands him the canteen. “I’m just fast.”
Wyatt laughs as he straightens himself. He gulps from the canteen and swipes the back of a hand across his lips. “No one-” He looks at the track behind them and shakes his head. “No one is that fast.” He shoves the water back into Tristan‘s hands. “You’re not even breathing hard.”
Tristan shrugs again. He’s gotten used to everyone else’s disbelief. If only he could get over his own.
There’s some great, hulking shadowy mess of teeth and claws and bone racing towards him, jaws wide open in a deafening roar. And he really should be swinging; it’s not like he can’t reach it. Or he should be dodging; it’s not like he can’t outpace the thing on its legs cobbled together of mismatched bones. But the most beautiful creature he’s ever seen is there, with a blade of her own, and in an instant she’s slicing the demon to ribbons and all he can do is blink and gape.
He can see the claw coming down, and it must be all of a second, but it feels like every inch of its descent holds its own moment. And he can see the panic on Ski’s face as she’s struggling to pull her blade free of the demon’s chest. It’s too far for him to reach, too close for her to bolt.
Then there’s a thunderclap that threatens to rip his skull apart, the world takes a dizzying turn, and that claw is falling is from above. His scream seems unreal as everything else as the demon hurls him down.
“I’m just fast,” says Tristan. “I’m just good. I’ve been holding a sword since anyone would let me, and I’m a fast learner, and… you’re laughing at me.”
Sethan’s sitting there with his usual half grin, drumming his boney fingers on the edge of the table. “And if I swung at you?”
“I’d block it.”
“Threw this glass at you?”
“You’d miss.”
“And if you wanted a knife on the other side of the room,” his tone growing sharper as Tristan begins to open his mouth, “on a shelf ten feet high.”
“That’s not magic,” Tristan insists. “Not mine anyway.”