Monochrome Extremely Rough In-progress Chapter
[Spoiler (click to open)]
For the Wolves, the Sansey Gardens behind the Edge are a blur of white and color, with little animals jumping out almost every second and scurrying into the undergrowth, picking fallen apples or nuts and running back into the frantically contained snowstorm. The whole place gives off an unwelcoming scent. Like a storm, but more unsettling. Most of the time, the Wolves are only told to watch. Watching isn't so bad, but it can be boring for an Animal that was made for movement. Wolves want to pounce. To run down those long-legged Moose and trap them in the water while they climb on his back and eat him alive. The Wolves are hungry.
Sawney's pack is hungrier than most; they ingest the Hag's magical snow each day, and each day they crave it a little more. Sawney's mate, Zeta, swears that it gives her visions of the future. But none of these visions tell them where the good game is, the sweetest, plumpest flesh for them to eat. They're growing thin. They're growing impatient. They can only survive for so long on the stuff.
And the Sons of Adam are the final straw.
Sawney waits now with his mate in the woods, a little ways from the Hag's Nest, looking out over the trees and sniffing the forest scents which rise on the wind to them. He is a huge, shaggy Grey Wolf, about the size of a small Horse. Across his body are hundreds of scars, rightfully earned. Occasionally, Zeta will lean over and lick the deepest scar-- the one around his eye, where the Son of Adam kicked him with a boot spur. Sawney can't see out of it anymore. The pain had been unbearable, but snow from the Hag is wonderfully numbing. With its magic, he had been floating on it for days until she cut him off. It burns with infection. Zeta's cleaning can only keep infection at bay.
"I hope that great cat eats her alive," he says to himself, laying his head on his paws and watching the clouds dully.
Zeta licks him again, combing patches of matted fur with her needle-like teeth.
"She'll get what's coming to her, my love."
"It'd better be soon," he mutters. Then growls deeply, when she licks a painful spot.
Her thick grey ears droop and she whines. "Why can't we force her to give us the snow?" she asks him. "Sawney, love: rip out her throat so that we can feast again."
"If we try, her accursed Nest will kill us on the spot," Sawney says. It's an old conversation. "She won't come out of it anymore." Besides, Sawney is beginning to feel every one of his injuries, deep in his bones.
"I want to kill that Son of Adam," Zeta shouts, almost directly into his ear. "First your eye, then he kills Fengo in his escape! I want to rip his throat out in my teeth!"
"Oh, shut up," Sawney tells her. "With magic like hers, she's the only hope we have of bringing back our White Lady. We need her alive if we want the Winter to return to Narnia."
Winter and snow and the kind of magic which can hold even Death at bay-- what was promised to them all for loyalty to Her. A bite from the fruit of the Apple Tree.
Of course, that Tree had been destroyed a hundred years ago-- her little sorcerer had made sure of that, right before the battle with young King Camlann. No one really saw what became of the he-witch. It was rumored that the king's horse trampled him underfoot. Others were convinced that Jadis had spirited him away to some world where he could wait to be summoned. Sawney hadn't cared for Jaeden any more than he does for Jaeden's mum. They're both failed lieutenants. Servants who rose to power too quickly to maintain it.
Not to mention how the Hag had hidden the Sons of Adam from him.
A shrill whistle pauses his glowering.
Zeta's ears prick up, swiveling. Her black gums peel back in disdain. "It's the Cailleach. She wants a word with you."
"Of course she does."
Sawney creaks to his feet, stretching his front limbs out with a wide-jawed yawn, and pads in the direction of the Nest. The place reeks of magicked blood, leftover from her little session with the smaller Adam. Sawney tries to cap his frustration at the memory of it. She hadn't let him touch the brat once-- instead, she insisted her way, the way of illusions and tricks, would be the thing to break him.
It hadn't.
In fact, Sawney thinks, it only incensed him.
He stops in front of the Nest, wary of the barrier. He watches until he sees her shadow fill the entrance, stopping just before the edge, by the withered trunk of the oak. He can see her with his good eye, but he cannot hope to touch her while she remains inside. For a moment, they wait for each other to speak.
"What?" Sawney finally says.
"The Nest has just woken up," she mutters. "Something is happening at the old Gardens."
"Something is always happening at the Gardens," Sawney retorts. "It looks like a blasted flurry."
"Something significant, then. How prepared are your Fell beasts for a battle?"
Sawney hesitates.
"We're dead, then," she says, before he can reply.
"Hang it!" Sawney growls. "My Fell are always ready for a fight! But what in the Witch makes you think they are?"
"Because they have more time to prepare than we do-- our minutes are hours to them. Days, even."
"You can do the same thing inside of your precious Nest, Cailleach."
"I can. But something significant has happened at the Gardens."
"What, then? What's so significant?"
"The apple has browned."
Spoiler Alert: Craptastic writing ahoy.
For the Wolves, the Sansey Gardens behind the Edge are a blur of white and color, with little animals jumping out almost every second and scurrying into the undergrowth, picking fallen apples or nuts and running back into the frantically contained snowstorm. The whole place gives off an unwelcoming scent. Like a storm, but more unsettling. Most of the time, the Wolves are only told to watch. Watching isn't so bad, but it can be boring for an Animal that was made for movement. Wolves want to pounce. To run down those long-legged Moose and trap them in the water while they climb on his back and eat him alive. The Wolves are hungry.
Sawney's pack is hungrier than most; they ingest the Hag's magical snow each day, and each day they crave it a little more. Sawney's mate, Zeta, swears that it gives her visions of the future. But none of these visions tell them where the good game is, the sweetest, plumpest flesh for them to eat. They're growing thin. They're growing impatient. They can only survive for so long on the stuff.
And the Sons of Adam are the final straw.
Sawney waits now with his mate in the woods, a little ways from the Hag's Nest, looking out over the trees and sniffing the forest scents which rise on the wind to them. He is a huge, shaggy Grey Wolf, about the size of a small Horse. Across his body are hundreds of scars, rightfully earned. Occasionally, Zeta will lean over and lick the deepest scar-- the one around his eye, where the Son of Adam kicked him with a boot spur. Sawney can't see out of it anymore. The pain had been unbearable, but snow from the Hag is wonderfully numbing. With its magic, he had been floating on it for days until she cut him off. It burns with infection. Zeta's cleaning can only keep infection at bay.
"I hope that great cat eats her alive," he says to himself, laying his head on his paws and watching the clouds dully.
Zeta licks him again, combing patches of matted fur with her needle-like teeth.
"She'll get what's coming to her, my love."
"It'd better be soon," he mutters. Then growls deeply, when she licks a painful spot.
Her thick grey ears droop and she whines. "Why can't we force her to give us the snow?" she asks him. "Sawney, love: rip out her throat so that we can feast again."
"If we try, her accursed Nest will kill us on the spot," Sawney says. It's an old conversation. "She won't come out of it anymore." Besides, Sawney is beginning to feel every one of his injuries, deep in his bones.
"I want to kill that Son of Adam," Zeta shouts, almost directly into his ear. "First your eye, then he kills Fengo in his escape! I want to rip his throat out in my teeth!"
"Oh, shut up," Sawney tells her. "With magic like hers, she's the only hope we have of bringing back our White Lady. We need her alive if we want the Winter to return to Narnia."
Winter and snow and the kind of magic which can hold even Death at bay-- what was promised to them all for loyalty to Her. A bite from the fruit of the Apple Tree.
Of course, that Tree had been destroyed a hundred years ago-- her little sorcerer had made sure of that, right before the battle with young King Camlann. No one really saw what became of the he-witch. It was rumored that the king's horse trampled him underfoot. Others were convinced that Jadis had spirited him away to some world where he could wait to be summoned. Sawney hadn't cared for Jaeden any more than he does for Jaeden's mum. They're both failed lieutenants. Servants who rose to power too quickly to maintain it.
Not to mention how the Hag had hidden the Sons of Adam from him.
A shrill whistle pauses his glowering.
Zeta's ears prick up, swiveling. Her black gums peel back in disdain. "It's the Cailleach. She wants a word with you."
"Of course she does."
Sawney creaks to his feet, stretching his front limbs out with a wide-jawed yawn, and pads in the direction of the Nest. The place reeks of magicked blood, leftover from her little session with the smaller Adam. Sawney tries to cap his frustration at the memory of it. She hadn't let him touch the brat once-- instead, she insisted her way, the way of illusions and tricks, would be the thing to break him.
It hadn't.
In fact, Sawney thinks, it only incensed him.
He stops in front of the Nest, wary of the barrier. He watches until he sees her shadow fill the entrance, stopping just before the edge, by the withered trunk of the oak. He can see her with his good eye, but he cannot hope to touch her while she remains inside. For a moment, they wait for each other to speak.
"What?" Sawney finally says.
"The Nest has just woken up," she mutters. "Something is happening at the old Gardens."
"Something is always happening at the Gardens," Sawney retorts. "It looks like a blasted flurry."
"Something significant, then. How prepared are your Fell beasts for a battle?"
Sawney hesitates.
"We're dead, then," she says, before he can reply.
"Hang it!" Sawney growls. "My Fell are always ready for a fight! But what in the Witch makes you think they are?"
"Because they have more time to prepare than we do-- our minutes are hours to them. Days, even."
"You can do the same thing inside of your precious Nest, Cailleach."
"I can. But something significant has happened at the Gardens."
"What, then? What's so significant?"
"The apple has browned."
Spoiler Alert: Craptastic writing ahoy.