[Witches' Horses] Witches' Horses
Title: introductions
'Verse/characters: Witches' Horses; Ilya, Sinclair
Prompt: 01D "introduction", 'a shower of sparks' (coastal_physics)
Word Count: 714
Notes: follows clearing the field, last of the active requests for more of Witches' Horses. I assume I should keep going or expect to get thwapped about the head and shoulders?
He'd never seen an eyepatch like that, he had time to think inanely as the man fetched up out of the current of people going past the tea-house into the space by the half-height wall, near Ilya's table. Black jacket that wouldn't take long to button up for a cold snap but not designed for vacuum, blond hair pulled back in the tight braid favoured by those who couldn't grow a set of dreadlocks, but the patch was by far the most memorable thing about the man.
The thing was . . showy, pale and iridescent as a water-opal but obviously pressed or extruded, hardly stone or fabric.
Most coverings for lost eyes were far plainer, from the typical opaque gray plastic down to scavenged cloth folded into a pad and held in place with twine or more cloth to cover the damage, the sort you saw on men who'd forgotten to wear eye protection when they should or just had the plain bad luck to be in the wrong place at the wrong time.
"Ilya Dmitriovich?" the man asked, and he jumped a little, both caught staring and apparently known.
"Yes?" he replied after a moment of random terror.
"Captain Miroslavovich said you were looking for a horse," the man said, hearing the question Ilya hadn't asked yet. "Captain Wolfe Sinclair of le Chevalier de Grammont," he continued, branding himself both a foreigner and a man who knew local history in seventeen syllables.
"Uh--" Ilya blinked, shuffled packages around, offered a hand. "Pleased to make your acquaintance?"
The Captain gave a nearly inaudible snort, took the hand and gave it a rider's brief grasp before letting go and putting his hand on the half-wall. "Likewise. Are you comfortable talking here, or would you prefer to go elsewhere?"
"My current quarters are hardly less public than this," Ilya told him wryly.
"Private box in the free stable?"
Ilya raised his eyebrows. " . . . Do you need an engineer particularly badly?"
Sinclair laughed, all the skin around the eyepatch crinkling, shook his head. "Lightning saints, no. l'Grammont had her last work done three months ago and aside from a mildly annoying fault somewhere that looks more like an itch than anything serious, she's in perfect running form."
Ilya eyed the man briefly, then began to turn away, go back to the abstract that described something very, very faintly like what he had hidden in a locker near the local guard station. Not too near, but near enough to hopefully keep blatant thievery down.
"There are a lot of rumours about you," Sinclair said, voice low enough not to be easily overheard. "Why you had a fight with your captain."
"People fight," Ilya replied. "I got tired of it, figured I'd go back to the academic life. The fights don't stop but they aren't where you live."
"Nice line," Sinclair's voice was bland, but something made Ilya look at him, "for a lie."
"Good day, captain," Ilya told him, rose, began the motions of gathering his packages and notes.
"Way more powerful than it should be, isn't it."
Ilya froze. "Your pardon?"
Sinclair did something that might have been a smile on another man's face. "As I said. There are a lot of rumours about you. Why you fought, what was stolen, how dangerous it is. People are starting to take an unhealthy interest."
"People like you?" Ilya asked carefully, wishing he hadn't responded to the sound of his name.
Sinclair spread his hands in a rider's spare shrug. "My current cargo's three-quarters sold and I need another. Doesn't much matter to me if it's more yarn or something else, and it seems to me a man who needs to get out of sight for a while would pay well for the privilege of a horse at his beck and call."
"--library," Ilya decided aloud, and watched the blue eye blink in surprise. "I'll speak with you in a library, captain. We can discuss terms and timing then."
"Ah," Sinclair said, gave a polite nod. "A message sent to my horse will reach me."
"Until then, Captain Sinclair," Ilya replied, watched the man move back out into the stream of traffic, then stood up, just a little shaky, settled his tab, and went back to his rented room to worry.
'Verse/characters: Witches' Horses; Ilya, Sinclair
Prompt: 01D "introduction", 'a shower of sparks' (coastal_physics)
Word Count: 714
Notes: follows clearing the field, last of the active requests for more of Witches' Horses. I assume I should keep going or expect to get thwapped about the head and shoulders?
He'd never seen an eyepatch like that, he had time to think inanely as the man fetched up out of the current of people going past the tea-house into the space by the half-height wall, near Ilya's table. Black jacket that wouldn't take long to button up for a cold snap but not designed for vacuum, blond hair pulled back in the tight braid favoured by those who couldn't grow a set of dreadlocks, but the patch was by far the most memorable thing about the man.
The thing was . . showy, pale and iridescent as a water-opal but obviously pressed or extruded, hardly stone or fabric.
Most coverings for lost eyes were far plainer, from the typical opaque gray plastic down to scavenged cloth folded into a pad and held in place with twine or more cloth to cover the damage, the sort you saw on men who'd forgotten to wear eye protection when they should or just had the plain bad luck to be in the wrong place at the wrong time.
"Ilya Dmitriovich?" the man asked, and he jumped a little, both caught staring and apparently known.
"Yes?" he replied after a moment of random terror.
"Captain Miroslavovich said you were looking for a horse," the man said, hearing the question Ilya hadn't asked yet. "Captain Wolfe Sinclair of le Chevalier de Grammont," he continued, branding himself both a foreigner and a man who knew local history in seventeen syllables.
"Uh--" Ilya blinked, shuffled packages around, offered a hand. "Pleased to make your acquaintance?"
The Captain gave a nearly inaudible snort, took the hand and gave it a rider's brief grasp before letting go and putting his hand on the half-wall. "Likewise. Are you comfortable talking here, or would you prefer to go elsewhere?"
"My current quarters are hardly less public than this," Ilya told him wryly.
"Private box in the free stable?"
Ilya raised his eyebrows. " . . . Do you need an engineer particularly badly?"
Sinclair laughed, all the skin around the eyepatch crinkling, shook his head. "Lightning saints, no. l'Grammont had her last work done three months ago and aside from a mildly annoying fault somewhere that looks more like an itch than anything serious, she's in perfect running form."
Ilya eyed the man briefly, then began to turn away, go back to the abstract that described something very, very faintly like what he had hidden in a locker near the local guard station. Not too near, but near enough to hopefully keep blatant thievery down.
"There are a lot of rumours about you," Sinclair said, voice low enough not to be easily overheard. "Why you had a fight with your captain."
"People fight," Ilya replied. "I got tired of it, figured I'd go back to the academic life. The fights don't stop but they aren't where you live."
"Nice line," Sinclair's voice was bland, but something made Ilya look at him, "for a lie."
"Good day, captain," Ilya told him, rose, began the motions of gathering his packages and notes.
"Way more powerful than it should be, isn't it."
Ilya froze. "Your pardon?"
Sinclair did something that might have been a smile on another man's face. "As I said. There are a lot of rumours about you. Why you fought, what was stolen, how dangerous it is. People are starting to take an unhealthy interest."
"People like you?" Ilya asked carefully, wishing he hadn't responded to the sound of his name.
Sinclair spread his hands in a rider's spare shrug. "My current cargo's three-quarters sold and I need another. Doesn't much matter to me if it's more yarn or something else, and it seems to me a man who needs to get out of sight for a while would pay well for the privilege of a horse at his beck and call."
"--library," Ilya decided aloud, and watched the blue eye blink in surprise. "I'll speak with you in a library, captain. We can discuss terms and timing then."
"Ah," Sinclair said, gave a polite nod. "A message sent to my horse will reach me."
"Until then, Captain Sinclair," Ilya replied, watched the man move back out into the stream of traffic, then stood up, just a little shaky, settled his tab, and went back to his rented room to worry.