[Deaths] Eduard De'Ath
Title: old soldiers
'Verse/characters: Death be not Proud; Eduard De'Ath, the Morrigan
Prompt: 97C "salt"
Word Count: 615
Notes: one of the beginning threads of this story.
The note arrived with the evening's second round of single malt; one of the untaxed stills' productions, redolent of smoke and the sea. The bottles ran slightly expensive in comparison to their legitimate relations but he couldn't manage to force himself to feed the bureaucracy.
He didn't look at the note until well after the first glass had been poured, savoured, and swallowed.
The headers were longer than the body of the note; it had come a long way to reach him, including six other clubs in this city alone, by the forwarding addresses.
The body of the note, on the other hand, only said
Bide.
Well. He could do that. He'd been doing that, longer than he really cared to think about.
So he ordered another bottle, and settled in comfortably, brushing the edge of his hand across the pommel of the sword he still kept nearby. If this was an assassination attempt, well. It was creative, at least.
---
They'd ordered in another supply from the stills, but he was stretching out the last case. Amazing what a week could do.
"Sir," the man fetching bottles said at his shoulder, bent at the waist and radiating disapproval, "there is a woman wishing to speak with you."
"Is there?" he replied, setting down the glass. "Well, then. Show her in."
"Sir."
He half-turned in the chair, gave the man a slow, cold stare. "Show her in."
Affronted disapproval flashed briefly into fear, then "You're aware of the club rules, sir. You may settle your tab when you leave."
"Oh, indeed. In the meantime, show the lady in."
His visitor was the Morrigan, a little travel stained about the edges but hardly dressed poorly enough to be referred to as a 'woman' even by the most supercilious of waitstaff. She must have said something.
He started to offer her a glass, waving her to a seat, when she said "He's alive," and dropped a sheaf of papers on the table.
He blinked. Blinked again, set down the bottle, picked up the top sheet and started reading.
It took less than ten seconds for the stone of the words to hit the walls of the alcohol and years of purposeful neglect, and shatter through.
" . . Who did you take these from?"
"I was. Well." She favoured him with the brief, wintry smile he hadn't seen in a century, since the last time she'd gotten bored and decided to take out a god. "I was hunting, and happened to bag a head of council."
That couldn't have been an easy fight, he noted in passing. She'd been getting better while he'd been pickling.
"Go kill somebody," she suggested. Smiled when he looked up, startled out of mental cursing in anglo-saxon by both tone and suggestion. "It might help your mood."
"I doubt it, unless you've got Kali tied up in a sack in the foyer."
"Not yet. Want me to work on it?"
He paused, bit off the first response his lightly inebriated brain suggested, shook his head. "I'll get him. Right after we get my brother back."
Her face split into a hungry grin. "I was hoping you'd say that. What can I do, my lord?"
"Go cause trouble somewhere I can reach you. I need a few days to plan." 'And sober up,' he didn't add, but expected she heard anyway.
She curtsied, took her leave, smiling sweetly at the older gentleman she passed in the hallway, who proceeded to glare in at him after she was out of sight.
He ignored the old fool. He'd be dead in a month, and someone else would have the duty. He himself'd be long gone, on campaign again.
Finally.
'Verse/characters: Death be not Proud; Eduard De'Ath, the Morrigan
Prompt: 97C "salt"
Word Count: 615
Notes: one of the beginning threads of this story.
The note arrived with the evening's second round of single malt; one of the untaxed stills' productions, redolent of smoke and the sea. The bottles ran slightly expensive in comparison to their legitimate relations but he couldn't manage to force himself to feed the bureaucracy.
He didn't look at the note until well after the first glass had been poured, savoured, and swallowed.
The headers were longer than the body of the note; it had come a long way to reach him, including six other clubs in this city alone, by the forwarding addresses.
The body of the note, on the other hand, only said
Bide.
Well. He could do that. He'd been doing that, longer than he really cared to think about.
So he ordered another bottle, and settled in comfortably, brushing the edge of his hand across the pommel of the sword he still kept nearby. If this was an assassination attempt, well. It was creative, at least.
---
They'd ordered in another supply from the stills, but he was stretching out the last case. Amazing what a week could do.
"Sir," the man fetching bottles said at his shoulder, bent at the waist and radiating disapproval, "there is a woman wishing to speak with you."
"Is there?" he replied, setting down the glass. "Well, then. Show her in."
"Sir."
He half-turned in the chair, gave the man a slow, cold stare. "Show her in."
Affronted disapproval flashed briefly into fear, then "You're aware of the club rules, sir. You may settle your tab when you leave."
"Oh, indeed. In the meantime, show the lady in."
His visitor was the Morrigan, a little travel stained about the edges but hardly dressed poorly enough to be referred to as a 'woman' even by the most supercilious of waitstaff. She must have said something.
He started to offer her a glass, waving her to a seat, when she said "He's alive," and dropped a sheaf of papers on the table.
He blinked. Blinked again, set down the bottle, picked up the top sheet and started reading.
It took less than ten seconds for the stone of the words to hit the walls of the alcohol and years of purposeful neglect, and shatter through.
" . . Who did you take these from?"
"I was. Well." She favoured him with the brief, wintry smile he hadn't seen in a century, since the last time she'd gotten bored and decided to take out a god. "I was hunting, and happened to bag a head of council."
That couldn't have been an easy fight, he noted in passing. She'd been getting better while he'd been pickling.
"Go kill somebody," she suggested. Smiled when he looked up, startled out of mental cursing in anglo-saxon by both tone and suggestion. "It might help your mood."
"I doubt it, unless you've got Kali tied up in a sack in the foyer."
"Not yet. Want me to work on it?"
He paused, bit off the first response his lightly inebriated brain suggested, shook his head. "I'll get him. Right after we get my brother back."
Her face split into a hungry grin. "I was hoping you'd say that. What can I do, my lord?"
"Go cause trouble somewhere I can reach you. I need a few days to plan." 'And sober up,' he didn't add, but expected she heard anyway.
She curtsied, took her leave, smiling sweetly at the older gentleman she passed in the hallway, who proceeded to glare in at him after she was out of sight.
He ignored the old fool. He'd be dead in a month, and someone else would have the duty. He himself'd be long gone, on campaign again.
Finally.