[Witches' Horses] Witches' Horses
Title: say what?
'Verse/characters: Witches' Horses; Stas, Sergeievich, Sinclair
Prompt: 41C "tulip"
Word Count: 377
Notes: follows questions that aren't questions.
The civilian considered them, then leaned back in his chair, elbows coming up to rest on the edges of the high back, his hands ostentatiously in view. "So," he said conversationally, his visible eyebrow slightly raised, "which mouthful am I addressing you by? Vashe Visokoblagorodie, or Vashe Visokoprevoskhoditelstvo?"*
He didn't stumble over the cumbersome addresses, much to Stas' private surprise, but that he put the polkovnik's title before the general's implied a degree of insolence Stas wished he could take visible exception to.
By the way the man glanced up, then flashed a tiny grin at him, hiding his reactions was a waste of time. Didn't matter, though--Stas was a piece of furniture, a bit of weird paint in the room.
"'Sir' would work," Sergeivich replied calmly, his face the mask he wore to official functions.
"'Sir' implies you've got authority over me, which as I haven't seen official documentation or a string of syllables placing me under arrest--" the civilian smirked, leaving the sentence hanging, but he'd tensed slightly in the chair, the way riders did before they needed to move. Stas hid a grin of his own. Man wasn't as confidant as he'd like them to think.
"It can also imply politeness or respect," Sergeievich leaned back in his own chair, his arms crossed over his chest, hiding the places he might have been wearing rank symbols. Which he wasn't, and everyone in the room knew it, but it was a polite fiction.
"Alright, sir, what brings you to the terem stables?"
"What's your cargo?" The question was calm, almost disinterested.
"Tulips."
Everyone military in the room blinked, Sergeievich included.
"Tulips?" he repeated, and the civilian grinned widely for a second.
"Tulips. Flower, blooms about so big--" he gestured with one hand, easy rider's grace in the movement of his wrist "--usually transported as the seedbulb because they're smaller, hardier, and easy to stack together. A merchant's wife has conceived a passion for them and her kindly husband has put in an order, which I am delivering after picking up feed here."
*: translated as 'your high nobleness' and 'your high superiority', the former an address to the sixth degree of military rank (an army colonel (a polkovnik) of calvary), the latter an address to the first degree of military rank (an army infantry general field-marshal)--effectively speaking Sinclair's asking if he's talking to the official hat.
'Verse/characters: Witches' Horses; Stas, Sergeievich, Sinclair
Prompt: 41C "tulip"
Word Count: 377
Notes: follows questions that aren't questions.
The civilian considered them, then leaned back in his chair, elbows coming up to rest on the edges of the high back, his hands ostentatiously in view. "So," he said conversationally, his visible eyebrow slightly raised, "which mouthful am I addressing you by? Vashe Visokoblagorodie, or Vashe Visokoprevoskhoditelstvo?"*
He didn't stumble over the cumbersome addresses, much to Stas' private surprise, but that he put the polkovnik's title before the general's implied a degree of insolence Stas wished he could take visible exception to.
By the way the man glanced up, then flashed a tiny grin at him, hiding his reactions was a waste of time. Didn't matter, though--Stas was a piece of furniture, a bit of weird paint in the room.
"'Sir' would work," Sergeivich replied calmly, his face the mask he wore to official functions.
"'Sir' implies you've got authority over me, which as I haven't seen official documentation or a string of syllables placing me under arrest--" the civilian smirked, leaving the sentence hanging, but he'd tensed slightly in the chair, the way riders did before they needed to move. Stas hid a grin of his own. Man wasn't as confidant as he'd like them to think.
"It can also imply politeness or respect," Sergeievich leaned back in his own chair, his arms crossed over his chest, hiding the places he might have been wearing rank symbols. Which he wasn't, and everyone in the room knew it, but it was a polite fiction.
"Alright, sir, what brings you to the terem stables?"
"What's your cargo?" The question was calm, almost disinterested.
"Tulips."
Everyone military in the room blinked, Sergeievich included.
"Tulips?" he repeated, and the civilian grinned widely for a second.
"Tulips. Flower, blooms about so big--" he gestured with one hand, easy rider's grace in the movement of his wrist "--usually transported as the seedbulb because they're smaller, hardier, and easy to stack together. A merchant's wife has conceived a passion for them and her kindly husband has put in an order, which I am delivering after picking up feed here."
*: translated as 'your high nobleness' and 'your high superiority', the former an address to the sixth degree of military rank (an army colonel (a polkovnik) of calvary), the latter an address to the first degree of military rank (an army infantry general field-marshal)--effectively speaking Sinclair's asking if he's talking to the official hat.