[Witches' Horses] Witches' Horses
Title: run like you stole it
'Verse/characters: Witches' Horses; Ilya, Grammont, Sinclair
Prompt: 90C "guilt", klgaffney: "an oddly warm and friendly light"
Word Count: 664
Notes: This follows introductions by less than eighteen hours. Yes, this is indeed where Ilya first meets Grammont, though he doesn't know it yet.
This section of the free-stable was old, the wall panels sealed so many times over so many years that you could almost guess their ages based on how tarnished the sealant had gotten, if it was chipped and cracked or flaking from where men had bashed themselves or other things into the walls.
Le Chevalier de Grammont's box door was closed, a light outside it burning oddly warm and likely falsely friendly, the mix of gases tinged a little to neon instead of purely carbon dioxide.
Ilya kept himself from squeezing the case dangling from his hand nervously, then reached out, pressed the singer that announced visitors.
"I'm listening," a woman's voice replied, and he jumped, just a little, reminded himself that that wasn't his old captain's accent, even if this woman spoke in as low a register.
"I-uh--is Captain Sinclair there?" he asked, stepping sideways out of the pool of light, knowing it made him look like he had something to hide but unable to stand with his back to the corridor between boxes.
"One moment while I check," the voice said, and the singer irised closed.
--
"Incoming," she remarked in his ear, and would have laughed at the curse word he muttered under his breath if she'd understood it.
"Engineer?" he muttered back.
"Of course. Looks nervous, too."
"On my way."
--
"Gospodin?" the woman asked as soon as the iris reopened, small bright blur in the puddle of light.
"I'm still here."
"Oh, good. The Captain's on his way, you should see him in about thirty seconds."
And with that she left him to the darkness again.
He made a face.
Sinclair was instantly recognisable when the man turned into the corridor, between the eyepatch and the black jacket, and well within the thirty seconds the woman had estimated.
The eyebrow on the patchless side rose in silent inquiry when Sinclair got close enough to stand beneath the stable light and give himself a saint's halo in reflection.
Ilya made another face, inclined his head delicately towards the stable door.
Sinclair flashed a lightning-quick mirthless grin, then pressed a palm to the door, waved Ilya in before him as the pressure seals released and the door opened.
The horse, judging by her exterior scars, was--at best--on her third owner, whipmarks across her head and down her sides, repairing welds in at least four different hands all over her. Her lines were good, though, not cobbled together from multiple horses but a single one repaired many times.
Better, maybe, than his last horse, and that felt like a betrayal to think, somehow.
There was a smudge of grainy pink sealant across the horse's nose.
"The tube said it was iron-gray," Sinclair remarked when he stepped up beside Ilya, head turned in the same direction, hands out of sight in his black pockets. "So. What brings you here, before our appointed meeting in a library?"
Ilya closed his eyes, jerked his carrysack higher up his shoulder, and tried not to squeeze the case in his hand. "You mentioned a few rumours about me," he started, then paused to swallow. "How fast can you be ready to leave the stable?"
"If you're not a picky eater and the stablemaster gives us an early place in the line, two or three hours. We'll be hauling a bit of cargo with us, so your fee--"
"Fine," Ilya said, then winced as the man's eye narrowed. 'Should have haggled,' he thought despairingly.
"You'll be sharing the Captain's shift," the woman put in suddenly, before Sinclair could open his mouth. "Which means you should both be getting to bed, for a by-the-grace-of-the-stablemaster departure."
Sinclair snorted through his nose. "My engineer," was all he said, by way of introduction, and Ilya wondered if he should know the woman, if only by reputation.
"I'll show you your quarters," the captain inclined his head toward the belly of the horse, and the cool night-time lighting within it.
So Ilya walked aboard le Chevalier de Grammont and hoped, very quietly, that he wasn't trading uncertain capture for certain death.
'Verse/characters: Witches' Horses; Ilya, Grammont, Sinclair
Prompt: 90C "guilt", klgaffney: "an oddly warm and friendly light"
Word Count: 664
Notes: This follows introductions by less than eighteen hours. Yes, this is indeed where Ilya first meets Grammont, though he doesn't know it yet.
This section of the free-stable was old, the wall panels sealed so many times over so many years that you could almost guess their ages based on how tarnished the sealant had gotten, if it was chipped and cracked or flaking from where men had bashed themselves or other things into the walls.
Le Chevalier de Grammont's box door was closed, a light outside it burning oddly warm and likely falsely friendly, the mix of gases tinged a little to neon instead of purely carbon dioxide.
Ilya kept himself from squeezing the case dangling from his hand nervously, then reached out, pressed the singer that announced visitors.
"I'm listening," a woman's voice replied, and he jumped, just a little, reminded himself that that wasn't his old captain's accent, even if this woman spoke in as low a register.
"I-uh--is Captain Sinclair there?" he asked, stepping sideways out of the pool of light, knowing it made him look like he had something to hide but unable to stand with his back to the corridor between boxes.
"One moment while I check," the voice said, and the singer irised closed.
--
"Incoming," she remarked in his ear, and would have laughed at the curse word he muttered under his breath if she'd understood it.
"Engineer?" he muttered back.
"Of course. Looks nervous, too."
"On my way."
--
"Gospodin?" the woman asked as soon as the iris reopened, small bright blur in the puddle of light.
"I'm still here."
"Oh, good. The Captain's on his way, you should see him in about thirty seconds."
And with that she left him to the darkness again.
He made a face.
Sinclair was instantly recognisable when the man turned into the corridor, between the eyepatch and the black jacket, and well within the thirty seconds the woman had estimated.
The eyebrow on the patchless side rose in silent inquiry when Sinclair got close enough to stand beneath the stable light and give himself a saint's halo in reflection.
Ilya made another face, inclined his head delicately towards the stable door.
Sinclair flashed a lightning-quick mirthless grin, then pressed a palm to the door, waved Ilya in before him as the pressure seals released and the door opened.
The horse, judging by her exterior scars, was--at best--on her third owner, whipmarks across her head and down her sides, repairing welds in at least four different hands all over her. Her lines were good, though, not cobbled together from multiple horses but a single one repaired many times.
Better, maybe, than his last horse, and that felt like a betrayal to think, somehow.
There was a smudge of grainy pink sealant across the horse's nose.
"The tube said it was iron-gray," Sinclair remarked when he stepped up beside Ilya, head turned in the same direction, hands out of sight in his black pockets. "So. What brings you here, before our appointed meeting in a library?"
Ilya closed his eyes, jerked his carrysack higher up his shoulder, and tried not to squeeze the case in his hand. "You mentioned a few rumours about me," he started, then paused to swallow. "How fast can you be ready to leave the stable?"
"If you're not a picky eater and the stablemaster gives us an early place in the line, two or three hours. We'll be hauling a bit of cargo with us, so your fee--"
"Fine," Ilya said, then winced as the man's eye narrowed. 'Should have haggled,' he thought despairingly.
"You'll be sharing the Captain's shift," the woman put in suddenly, before Sinclair could open his mouth. "Which means you should both be getting to bed, for a by-the-grace-of-the-stablemaster departure."
Sinclair snorted through his nose. "My engineer," was all he said, by way of introduction, and Ilya wondered if he should know the woman, if only by reputation.
"I'll show you your quarters," the captain inclined his head toward the belly of the horse, and the cool night-time lighting within it.
So Ilya walked aboard le Chevalier de Grammont and hoped, very quietly, that he wasn't trading uncertain capture for certain death.