[Wild Roses] somewhere in the Trickwood . . .
Title: relatives: occasionally useful
'Verse/characters: Wild Roses; Hernén, Sebastien, Donnel
Prompt: 84C "shotgun"
Word Count: 731
Notes: Possibly around the same time as for the attempt but likely before. Certainly before the wars started.
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Donnel came out in late spring, brought his own horses with him when he did. He took the ritual mocking with better grace than he had in a while--that blond girl really was good for him--and then introduced Hernén to his son Sebastien.
Hernén startled at that, covered it quick and held out his hand in greeting. He'd known Donnel and the blonde--Lydia, that was her name--had a kid, but hadn't ever had occasion to be in the area and offer greetings before.
The kid was going to be tall--shorter than his dad, but tall--and needed a haircut to get dark hair out of eyes grey as his dad's. Nobody'd ever doubt his parentage, that was sure, and fortunately he didn't look much like Ruadhan.
Certainly didn't have hands like Ruadhan had, just light callouses along the sides of several fingers and ink under his nails, instead of string and sword and stock.
Winter he missed Ruadhan. Letting go of the kid's hand, he asked "You write?", nodding to the ink.
"No, sir. Draw," the kid replied, glancing at his nails like he was surprised the ink had soaked in that far. "I'm not very good yet."
"He's a liar," his father put in, and the kid gave him the abused look all children did as Donnel continued "Pen and watercolour--his portraits are pretty good."
"Huh," Hernén replied politely, then gave the kid a break and changed the subject.
The kid was pretty quiet; he knew wolves well enough not to cause problems and horses well enough to gentle some of the snippier ones with murmurs in their ears and broad-palmed petting. Hernén left him to his father's pack, didn't exclude the kid but also didn't include him in discussions, which suited both of them just fine as far as he could tell.
Summer was coming fast, spring's floods nearly all diverted from habitations and travel routes into holding ponds and occasionally people who'd conveniently forgotten allegiances and alliances.
One of which got nasty about it, denying safe passages and actually taking a potshot at the last boat, which meant that Hernén and Donnel and a couple of others were circling in, meeting on a sunny hill about a day away from the valley.
Hernén'd beat the others by a half day, so it was his gar they came to, the map table set up outside it, and he went inside to fetch the relevant sheets, current as he could get them. Which in this case was very much so, weeks at most, as the last boat had had a mapmaker aboard.
As the others converged and the wolf bunched herself up onto two feet to get a better look, he spread the map out on the table, holding down the curling edges with a couple of spare guns. "Alright, we're going to have to circle in from here--"
"That map's wrong," said an unfamiliar voice, and Hernén snapped his head around, frowning, found himself holding a stare with his brother's kid.
Who slouched under the attention, but didn't shrink or avert his eyes.
"What makes you say so?" his brother asked, and Hernén looked farther, found Donnel watching his kid with every sign of interest.
"I don't know," the kid sounded frustrated, but still hadn't backed off or changed his words. "But it is, and what's changed ain't friendly."
"I can get a couple of scouts through there and back by morning," the wolf murmured, low enough the kid couldn't hear.
Hernén thought about it, then dropped his chin in an infinitesimal nod.
The wolf leaned away from the table, which she'd propped her hands on to see where he was indicated, dropped down to four feet, and trotted away from the clearing, disappearing into the trees.
When she came back, just after his second cup of tea the next morning, he took himself and his tea off to Donnel's gar.
"Figure out how to turn that into cartography and I'll pay you in pigment," he told Donnel's son when the kid appeared over Donnel's shoulder in the felt-draped doorway.
The kid blinked. Then, "I was right?"
"To the tune of someone nearly getting eaten last night. Thanks."
"I, ah--you're welcome. I'll try to figure it out."
Hernén saluted him with the cup in his hand and wandered off again.
'Verse/characters: Wild Roses; Hernén, Sebastien, Donnel
Prompt: 84C "shotgun"
Word Count: 731
Notes: Possibly around the same time as for the attempt but likely before. Certainly before the wars started.
---------
Donnel came out in late spring, brought his own horses with him when he did. He took the ritual mocking with better grace than he had in a while--that blond girl really was good for him--and then introduced Hernén to his son Sebastien.
Hernén startled at that, covered it quick and held out his hand in greeting. He'd known Donnel and the blonde--Lydia, that was her name--had a kid, but hadn't ever had occasion to be in the area and offer greetings before.
The kid was going to be tall--shorter than his dad, but tall--and needed a haircut to get dark hair out of eyes grey as his dad's. Nobody'd ever doubt his parentage, that was sure, and fortunately he didn't look much like Ruadhan.
Certainly didn't have hands like Ruadhan had, just light callouses along the sides of several fingers and ink under his nails, instead of string and sword and stock.
Winter he missed Ruadhan. Letting go of the kid's hand, he asked "You write?", nodding to the ink.
"No, sir. Draw," the kid replied, glancing at his nails like he was surprised the ink had soaked in that far. "I'm not very good yet."
"He's a liar," his father put in, and the kid gave him the abused look all children did as Donnel continued "Pen and watercolour--his portraits are pretty good."
"Huh," Hernén replied politely, then gave the kid a break and changed the subject.
The kid was pretty quiet; he knew wolves well enough not to cause problems and horses well enough to gentle some of the snippier ones with murmurs in their ears and broad-palmed petting. Hernén left him to his father's pack, didn't exclude the kid but also didn't include him in discussions, which suited both of them just fine as far as he could tell.
Summer was coming fast, spring's floods nearly all diverted from habitations and travel routes into holding ponds and occasionally people who'd conveniently forgotten allegiances and alliances.
One of which got nasty about it, denying safe passages and actually taking a potshot at the last boat, which meant that Hernén and Donnel and a couple of others were circling in, meeting on a sunny hill about a day away from the valley.
Hernén'd beat the others by a half day, so it was his gar they came to, the map table set up outside it, and he went inside to fetch the relevant sheets, current as he could get them. Which in this case was very much so, weeks at most, as the last boat had had a mapmaker aboard.
As the others converged and the wolf bunched herself up onto two feet to get a better look, he spread the map out on the table, holding down the curling edges with a couple of spare guns. "Alright, we're going to have to circle in from here--"
"That map's wrong," said an unfamiliar voice, and Hernén snapped his head around, frowning, found himself holding a stare with his brother's kid.
Who slouched under the attention, but didn't shrink or avert his eyes.
"What makes you say so?" his brother asked, and Hernén looked farther, found Donnel watching his kid with every sign of interest.
"I don't know," the kid sounded frustrated, but still hadn't backed off or changed his words. "But it is, and what's changed ain't friendly."
"I can get a couple of scouts through there and back by morning," the wolf murmured, low enough the kid couldn't hear.
Hernén thought about it, then dropped his chin in an infinitesimal nod.
The wolf leaned away from the table, which she'd propped her hands on to see where he was indicated, dropped down to four feet, and trotted away from the clearing, disappearing into the trees.
When she came back, just after his second cup of tea the next morning, he took himself and his tea off to Donnel's gar.
"Figure out how to turn that into cartography and I'll pay you in pigment," he told Donnel's son when the kid appeared over Donnel's shoulder in the felt-draped doorway.
The kid blinked. Then, "I was right?"
"To the tune of someone nearly getting eaten last night. Thanks."
"I, ah--you're welcome. I'll try to figure it out."
Hernén saluted him with the cup in his hand and wandered off again.