[Witches' Horses] Sibir
Title: new arrival
'Verse/characters: Sibir; Ruslan Sergeievich & his new subordinate
Prompt: 59C "resignation"
Word Count: 495
Notes: Yes, I'm aware that that's neither the British nor the American spelling of the title. Neither of those sounded right for the context. Also, if you know where Sergeievich sparked from, you might be able to guess at where Stas came from.
Surnames were actually moderately rare until relatively recently in Russia and various neighbouring countries; you were [name] [name's child] to most of the people you'd meet, anyway. Which is why I'm generally using the structure I am for the Witches' Horses names.
Prompted by a poll response. Sometime after bare shoulders and suns.
""Stanislav'." He eyed the paper with mild distaste, then put it down on the magnetic strip to hold it in place while he scrubbed at his eyes. "You must be joking."
"Nah, family's been military since the dawn of recorded history or something," said an unfamiliar voice, and Ruslan jerked his head up, spine snapping into an acceptably neutral pose.
The transfer was older than he'd feared, but that didn't really help much, given the nearly feral grin on the man's face. Taller than Ruslan might have expected, with the broad shoulders of a foot-soldier but a rider's short dark dreadlocks knotted back in a rooster-crest out of his eyes. He was slouched in the doorway, but one ankle was out of sight and if Ruslan was any judge that foot was tucked into a hold in case of unexpected rolls.
"Lievtenant," he said evenly, inclining his head briefly in acknowledgment. "You weren't expected until tomorrow at the earliest."
"Caught a lift on the courier running messages." Stanislav's insubordinate grin widened, nearly imperceptibly. "Couldn't tell you if they were that eager to send you more people or if they just wanted to get rid of me, though."
He was not going to beat his head on his desk. Enough damage to the prefrontal lobes and he'd probably start hearing voices, like that poor sergeant who'd taken one too many hits on the helmet.
While he was thinking about it he made a note to check up on the man.
"You've seen action, I presume?" he asked after putting the note away.
"I survived the lake outside Novhy-Novgorod," Stanislav said, sobering. "Rumour had it you were why there were survivors at all."
He blinked at the man twice, taking in the cues behind the smile lines and the hair, then nodded, slowly. "It cost us."
"War does."
"One would imagine anyone surnamed 'glorious stand' would know that," he said dryly, and Stanislav laughed, the grin reappearing as he did the form salutations.
"Lievtenant Itzaak Nicolaievich Stanislav, late of Captain Ivanov's druzhina."
Ruslan unbelted, stood to acknowledge the form, one foot hooked under a support, just in case. "Welcome aboard, Lievtenant."
"'Stas', usually."
Ruslan considered the nickname, feeling one eyebrow climb up his forehead, then shook his head. "Get out of my office, Stanislav--go browbeat the riders you'll be herding or something."
"As you command, Captain," the lievtenant replied cheerfully, and moved out of the doorway as soundlessly as he'd arrived.
Ruslan eyed the doorway, then sank down, rubbing at his temples. He really, really hoped this one wasn't glory-hungry, like the one before him, or a spy from one of the boyars, like the one before that. He was tired of working around his subordinates, though he'd never breathe a word of it to any of the riders or foot-soldiers. They had a nasty tendency of 'helping', though he'd mentioned pointedly that there were only so many ways one could hide 'killed for being an idiot' in the after-battle report.
'Verse/characters: Sibir; Ruslan Sergeievich & his new subordinate
Prompt: 59C "resignation"
Word Count: 495
Notes: Yes, I'm aware that that's neither the British nor the American spelling of the title. Neither of those sounded right for the context. Also, if you know where Sergeievich sparked from, you might be able to guess at where Stas came from.
Surnames were actually moderately rare until relatively recently in Russia and various neighbouring countries; you were [name] [name's child] to most of the people you'd meet, anyway. Which is why I'm generally using the structure I am for the Witches' Horses names.
Prompted by a poll response. Sometime after bare shoulders and suns.
""Stanislav'." He eyed the paper with mild distaste, then put it down on the magnetic strip to hold it in place while he scrubbed at his eyes. "You must be joking."
"Nah, family's been military since the dawn of recorded history or something," said an unfamiliar voice, and Ruslan jerked his head up, spine snapping into an acceptably neutral pose.
The transfer was older than he'd feared, but that didn't really help much, given the nearly feral grin on the man's face. Taller than Ruslan might have expected, with the broad shoulders of a foot-soldier but a rider's short dark dreadlocks knotted back in a rooster-crest out of his eyes. He was slouched in the doorway, but one ankle was out of sight and if Ruslan was any judge that foot was tucked into a hold in case of unexpected rolls.
"Lievtenant," he said evenly, inclining his head briefly in acknowledgment. "You weren't expected until tomorrow at the earliest."
"Caught a lift on the courier running messages." Stanislav's insubordinate grin widened, nearly imperceptibly. "Couldn't tell you if they were that eager to send you more people or if they just wanted to get rid of me, though."
He was not going to beat his head on his desk. Enough damage to the prefrontal lobes and he'd probably start hearing voices, like that poor sergeant who'd taken one too many hits on the helmet.
While he was thinking about it he made a note to check up on the man.
"You've seen action, I presume?" he asked after putting the note away.
"I survived the lake outside Novhy-Novgorod," Stanislav said, sobering. "Rumour had it you were why there were survivors at all."
He blinked at the man twice, taking in the cues behind the smile lines and the hair, then nodded, slowly. "It cost us."
"War does."
"One would imagine anyone surnamed 'glorious stand' would know that," he said dryly, and Stanislav laughed, the grin reappearing as he did the form salutations.
"Lievtenant Itzaak Nicolaievich Stanislav, late of Captain Ivanov's druzhina."
Ruslan unbelted, stood to acknowledge the form, one foot hooked under a support, just in case. "Welcome aboard, Lievtenant."
"'Stas', usually."
Ruslan considered the nickname, feeling one eyebrow climb up his forehead, then shook his head. "Get out of my office, Stanislav--go browbeat the riders you'll be herding or something."
"As you command, Captain," the lievtenant replied cheerfully, and moved out of the doorway as soundlessly as he'd arrived.
Ruslan eyed the doorway, then sank down, rubbing at his temples. He really, really hoped this one wasn't glory-hungry, like the one before him, or a spy from one of the boyars, like the one before that. He was tired of working around his subordinates, though he'd never breathe a word of it to any of the riders or foot-soldiers. They had a nasty tendency of 'helping', though he'd mentioned pointedly that there were only so many ways one could hide 'killed for being an idiot' in the after-battle report.