Summer Piece #6
Vanilla Malt Custard #8. I'm sorry, I'm not allowed to fraternize with victims of the evil plot
and Cheeseburger #5. trufax with Hot Fudge
Story : knights & necromancers
Rating : PG
Timeframe : Book 1, young necromancers
Word Count : ~1300
Shortly after Ephram & Hakaro's arrival. I'm on a Roul kick. It seems he and Ephram have some unpleasant history (which has been canon in my head for awhile, but I suck at getting around to these things, so...).
Not expecting any sort of invitation from the room’s occupant but figuring some measure of civility was in order, Roul simply rapped on the doorframe as he passed through it.
The man he had come to see was stooped over behind the massive work table that occupied the center of the room, rummaging through the open crates set about the floor. He righted himself, a massive jar filled with something green and murky and clearly swimming of its own accord carefully clutched in both hands, and Roul stopped short. In his three hundred years, he’d seen enough people grow up and grow old that the concept did little to faze him anymore. Nonetheless, it was unsettling when a face he knew intimately would resurface a decade or two later, and the one glowering at him now resembled the boyish one he still attributed to its owner just enough to set him on edge. Worse, it looked just as close to a face he knew he’d not be seeing again.
“I see you are still here,” Ephram said sourly, and all resemblance to his twin was banished for the moment.
“A pleasure to see you too,” Roul answered with mock sweetness.
The jar joined a collection of others, with a variety of equally unappealing contents of their own, gathered on the table. “Berwyk failed to mention you when he invited me back,” said Ephram. “I thought maybe you’d seen fit to pull another of your disappearing acts, but it seems it was just a misguided effort to save my feelings.”
“A useless endeavor.” Roul peered into a crate as he approached the table and found a jar of disembodied eyes, suspended in pale brine, staring back. “We all know you don’t have any of those.”
Ephram emerged from the clutter, this time with a jar of what appeared to be blood. “What do you want?”
Roul shrugged. “Just to see what’s become of you.” He bent to prop his elbows on the table and scanned the rest of its contents, which ranged from vials, both full and empty, to an assortment of files, knives, and saws, to the most bizarre looking plant he’d ever seen - a twisted mass of rope-like tendrils that spilled out in all directions over the rim of a pot etched with sigils. “Master Ephram, the greatest necromancer the world has ever seen, aside from Berwyk.” He didn’t miss the twitch that brought to Ephram’s face, the barely repressed urge to refute such a claim. “The horrors I hear you’ve raised… Last I saw you, we were just boys.”
“You still are.” Ephram met his eyes as he set the new specimen with its fellows. There were far too many lines on him for someone so young and Roul couldn’t help but wonder if the same face would have aged better on the other who had once worn it.
He banished the thought, laughing instead at the comment, and Ephram turned back to his unpacking. “You really thought twenty years would see the end of me? Time is nothing to the gods. It hasn’t been particularly kind to your face though. Shame.”
“A god now, are you?” said Ephram from amidst the crates. “More like a cockroach.”
“Well, I do quite hope to survive the end, so perhaps I should take that assessment as an encouraging sign?”
The next, and apparently the last, at least for now, of the jars was filled to the lid with an assortment of teeth in varying degrees of size and sharpness piled together into a convoluted jigsaw of ivory. Ephram kicked aside the empty crate he’d taken it from and laid his hands flat on the table to lean in and glare across it at Roul. “You’ll last as long as you’re of use to them and not a moment more.”
Roul shrugged. “As will you. Lucky for me,” he added brightly, “I’m incredibly useful. You, on the other hand…” He shook his head sadly.
“I have no intention of playing along with your gods or their petty games.”
“Your choice in friends says otherwise.”
Ephram gave him a long, hard look before beginning to port his collection to the shelves on the rear wall. “Don’t flatter yourself,” he called over his shoulder. “You’ve never been my friend.”
“I would never dream of being so presumptuous.” Feigning boredom, he reached for the potted plant, idly examining one long, coiling vine.
“Don’t think I’m so terribly fond of Berwyk either.” He eyed the hand Roul had twined in the plant but said nothing of it. “The man’s a convenient source of funds and bodies.”
Roul sighed. “You overlook the obvious.” Ephram scowled at him, obviously perplexed. “Silver haired behemoth,” Roul continued, lifting a hand overhead to indicate the swordsman’s height. “Follows you around like a puppy. Ringing any bells?”
“There’s nothing special about Hakaro.” Ephram turned to stock another jar.
“He’s a Child of the Wind.”
“So’s half the Empire.”
“Only to the untrained eye.”
Ephram returned, eyes narrowed in a calculating stare. “You’re bluffing. You’re saying this just to mess with me. I know you, Luka,” he all but spat Roul’s given name at him, as if reminding him that he knew it might give him leverage. “It’s what you do. And I’m not falling for it.”
“Perhaps,” said Roul. “Then again, maybe I’m telling the truth. Maybe your big gray friend is another piece in my puzzle. And here you go, dropping him right in my lap. Filas would be proud.”
“You’ve no right to speak for my brother,” said Ephram, the disdainful tone turned to that of barely contained rage.
“Oh,” said Roul, innocently. “I don’t, do I? I may not have loved him as much as you did, but I understood him far better.”
Ephram lunged towards him. His hand shot out, reaching not for Roul but for the pot. The sigils flared as his fingers hit the clay, and the thick vines stiffened and snapped themselves around Roul’s wrist while Ephram leered at him.
Roul simply watched, mildly amused even as the vines’ grip tightened painfully. He’d have to ask sometime where Ephram had managed to find such a plant. But for now it seemed prudent to wrap up the subject at hand. “Filas knew his place. Watch out or you’ll learn yours the hard way.”
Ephram planted his hands on the table to either side of the pot, leaning in menacingly. “Is that a threat?”
Roul shrugged. “It’s a prediction.”
“I’ve read your prophecies. I’m not in them.”
“Who says I wrote everything down?” He struggled to wiggle fingers that were rapidly going numb.
Ephram gave the hand a look that said he didn’t want to have to explain its loss to Berwyk later. “You may be immortal, but that doesn’t make you invincible. Stay out of my way or you’ll be learning a few things the hard way yourself.” He pressed another mark on the pot and the vines went limp. “I trust you’ve seen enough of me to make a suitable impression and you’ll be leaving now.”
“Yes, quite,” said Roul, vigorously shaking the feeling back into his hand. “Just one last thing.” He shuffled back a pace under the dark look Ephram aimed him at this request. “Have you met my little Godslayer?”
“I hear that’s what you call the runt who gets half his sigils backwards.”
“Yes, that’s the one.” Roul paused, his attention suddenly drawn, for reasons he couldn’t quite pin down, to a stack of boards propped against the wall.
“Well? What of him?”
He pried his gaze from the boards, shook his head and said, cheerfully, “Don’t get on the wrong side of him.”
Ephram looked at him for a moment, confused, then let out a laugh. “Now I know you’re bluffing. Go find someone else to listen to your nonsense!” he said as he shooed him out the door.
and Cheeseburger #5. trufax with Hot Fudge
Story : knights & necromancers
Rating : PG
Timeframe : Book 1, young necromancers
Word Count : ~1300
Shortly after Ephram & Hakaro's arrival. I'm on a Roul kick. It seems he and Ephram have some unpleasant history (which has been canon in my head for awhile, but I suck at getting around to these things, so...).
Not expecting any sort of invitation from the room’s occupant but figuring some measure of civility was in order, Roul simply rapped on the doorframe as he passed through it.
The man he had come to see was stooped over behind the massive work table that occupied the center of the room, rummaging through the open crates set about the floor. He righted himself, a massive jar filled with something green and murky and clearly swimming of its own accord carefully clutched in both hands, and Roul stopped short. In his three hundred years, he’d seen enough people grow up and grow old that the concept did little to faze him anymore. Nonetheless, it was unsettling when a face he knew intimately would resurface a decade or two later, and the one glowering at him now resembled the boyish one he still attributed to its owner just enough to set him on edge. Worse, it looked just as close to a face he knew he’d not be seeing again.
“I see you are still here,” Ephram said sourly, and all resemblance to his twin was banished for the moment.
“A pleasure to see you too,” Roul answered with mock sweetness.
The jar joined a collection of others, with a variety of equally unappealing contents of their own, gathered on the table. “Berwyk failed to mention you when he invited me back,” said Ephram. “I thought maybe you’d seen fit to pull another of your disappearing acts, but it seems it was just a misguided effort to save my feelings.”
“A useless endeavor.” Roul peered into a crate as he approached the table and found a jar of disembodied eyes, suspended in pale brine, staring back. “We all know you don’t have any of those.”
Ephram emerged from the clutter, this time with a jar of what appeared to be blood. “What do you want?”
Roul shrugged. “Just to see what’s become of you.” He bent to prop his elbows on the table and scanned the rest of its contents, which ranged from vials, both full and empty, to an assortment of files, knives, and saws, to the most bizarre looking plant he’d ever seen - a twisted mass of rope-like tendrils that spilled out in all directions over the rim of a pot etched with sigils. “Master Ephram, the greatest necromancer the world has ever seen, aside from Berwyk.” He didn’t miss the twitch that brought to Ephram’s face, the barely repressed urge to refute such a claim. “The horrors I hear you’ve raised… Last I saw you, we were just boys.”
“You still are.” Ephram met his eyes as he set the new specimen with its fellows. There were far too many lines on him for someone so young and Roul couldn’t help but wonder if the same face would have aged better on the other who had once worn it.
He banished the thought, laughing instead at the comment, and Ephram turned back to his unpacking. “You really thought twenty years would see the end of me? Time is nothing to the gods. It hasn’t been particularly kind to your face though. Shame.”
“A god now, are you?” said Ephram from amidst the crates. “More like a cockroach.”
“Well, I do quite hope to survive the end, so perhaps I should take that assessment as an encouraging sign?”
The next, and apparently the last, at least for now, of the jars was filled to the lid with an assortment of teeth in varying degrees of size and sharpness piled together into a convoluted jigsaw of ivory. Ephram kicked aside the empty crate he’d taken it from and laid his hands flat on the table to lean in and glare across it at Roul. “You’ll last as long as you’re of use to them and not a moment more.”
Roul shrugged. “As will you. Lucky for me,” he added brightly, “I’m incredibly useful. You, on the other hand…” He shook his head sadly.
“I have no intention of playing along with your gods or their petty games.”
“Your choice in friends says otherwise.”
Ephram gave him a long, hard look before beginning to port his collection to the shelves on the rear wall. “Don’t flatter yourself,” he called over his shoulder. “You’ve never been my friend.”
“I would never dream of being so presumptuous.” Feigning boredom, he reached for the potted plant, idly examining one long, coiling vine.
“Don’t think I’m so terribly fond of Berwyk either.” He eyed the hand Roul had twined in the plant but said nothing of it. “The man’s a convenient source of funds and bodies.”
Roul sighed. “You overlook the obvious.” Ephram scowled at him, obviously perplexed. “Silver haired behemoth,” Roul continued, lifting a hand overhead to indicate the swordsman’s height. “Follows you around like a puppy. Ringing any bells?”
“There’s nothing special about Hakaro.” Ephram turned to stock another jar.
“He’s a Child of the Wind.”
“So’s half the Empire.”
“Only to the untrained eye.”
Ephram returned, eyes narrowed in a calculating stare. “You’re bluffing. You’re saying this just to mess with me. I know you, Luka,” he all but spat Roul’s given name at him, as if reminding him that he knew it might give him leverage. “It’s what you do. And I’m not falling for it.”
“Perhaps,” said Roul. “Then again, maybe I’m telling the truth. Maybe your big gray friend is another piece in my puzzle. And here you go, dropping him right in my lap. Filas would be proud.”
“You’ve no right to speak for my brother,” said Ephram, the disdainful tone turned to that of barely contained rage.
“Oh,” said Roul, innocently. “I don’t, do I? I may not have loved him as much as you did, but I understood him far better.”
Ephram lunged towards him. His hand shot out, reaching not for Roul but for the pot. The sigils flared as his fingers hit the clay, and the thick vines stiffened and snapped themselves around Roul’s wrist while Ephram leered at him.
Roul simply watched, mildly amused even as the vines’ grip tightened painfully. He’d have to ask sometime where Ephram had managed to find such a plant. But for now it seemed prudent to wrap up the subject at hand. “Filas knew his place. Watch out or you’ll learn yours the hard way.”
Ephram planted his hands on the table to either side of the pot, leaning in menacingly. “Is that a threat?”
Roul shrugged. “It’s a prediction.”
“I’ve read your prophecies. I’m not in them.”
“Who says I wrote everything down?” He struggled to wiggle fingers that were rapidly going numb.
Ephram gave the hand a look that said he didn’t want to have to explain its loss to Berwyk later. “You may be immortal, but that doesn’t make you invincible. Stay out of my way or you’ll be learning a few things the hard way yourself.” He pressed another mark on the pot and the vines went limp. “I trust you’ve seen enough of me to make a suitable impression and you’ll be leaving now.”
“Yes, quite,” said Roul, vigorously shaking the feeling back into his hand. “Just one last thing.” He shuffled back a pace under the dark look Ephram aimed him at this request. “Have you met my little Godslayer?”
“I hear that’s what you call the runt who gets half his sigils backwards.”
“Yes, that’s the one.” Roul paused, his attention suddenly drawn, for reasons he couldn’t quite pin down, to a stack of boards propped against the wall.
“Well? What of him?”
He pried his gaze from the boards, shook his head and said, cheerfully, “Don’t get on the wrong side of him.”
Ephram looked at him for a moment, confused, then let out a laugh. “Now I know you’re bluffing. Go find someone else to listen to your nonsense!” he said as he shooed him out the door.