Campfire Tales: "The Storm Within"
Title: The Storm Within
Rating: G
Word count: 1495 (waaaay over the limit; my apologies! I shaved as much as I could)
Character: Robin
Spoilers: none!
Summary: Robin seeks shelter from a storm in an abandoned village. (cross-posted at my journal)
Disclaimer: Actually... I think I can pretty much claim this as my own, since nothing's show-specific. But to be safe, let's say the show and its characters belong to the Beeb and TA, and not to me, et cetera.
Robin eyed the abandoned manor house warily. He wasn't nervous about the stories whispered by the people who had fled the village, nor did he particularly care that animals had probably moved in since the last lord's death, making it less than clean. What worried him was that it had been abused, bits and pieces taken by locals before they'd been frightened off, or by transients in need of firewood; so, there was a distinct possibility that it was no longer structurally sound.
But as lightning arced across the sky, with thunder following, he accepted that he had little choice. The roofs of the empty cottages had collapsed inward long before, and this storm promised to be a brutal one. Adjusting his bowstring where it rested across his chest, he loped toward the manor.
The door remained mostly intact, only one of the hinges bent. Robin was glad for its presence as the wind kicked up, flinging leaves around him and into the room, where they mingled with piles already stirring on the floor of the great room. He had to force the portal shut, the edge dragging heavily due to its crooked state. Throwing his whole body into the effort, he managed it just as the skies opened in sheets, accompanied by an exceptionally bright flash and an earth-rumbling boom. The latter made him jump, and he was glad to be alone; the lads wouldn't have let that go without comment.
Then, he turned, squinting into the darkness. Concerned that a floorboard might collapse beneath him, Robin carefully picked his way through the debris to the hearth. Arriving there unscathed, he crouched down-- and was startled to find a small pile of branches and scrap wood set in place. He twisted, glancing back at the closed door. Was somebody living here?
Well, it wouldn't hurt to light the wood; he'd replace it tomorrow. He quickly got a fire going, rubbing his hands in front of the blaze.
As he did, a floorboard creaked over his head.
Robin's gaze flew upwards. The stairs were in shadow, but they'd appeared hazardous when he glimpsed them upon his entrance. Could someone have risked the climb? Walking over to the landing, he called into the inky gloom above. "Hello?"
Silence.
Everything remained quiet, so he was about to shrug it off, when the sound came again. Crrrreeeeaaaak. Then again, and again; moving. Definitely footsteps, and definitely those of a person.
He had to find out who was up there. He made a makeshift torch and was about to set foot on the first step when a new sound reached his ears: a voice. A whisper, really; he couldn't even tell what it was saying, and was frankly surprised to be able to hear it over the unholy cadence the rain beat on the roof. It raised the hairs on the back of his neck and sent a ripple of goosebumps down his arms; there was something... not quite right about it.
Robin shook his head in disgust. He was getting carried away. There was a rational explanation for the sound, and he would discover it. Determinedly, he started up, attentive for rotted patches on the stairs. At the top, he looked around. He stood in a small corridor with three doors, all closed. The room to his left had to be where the footsteps had originated, so he tried that door first, half-expecting the latch to be rusted shut. Fortunately, it opened with ease, and he peered inside, swinging the torch to illuminate the scene.
There wasn't much to illuminate; it was empty, devoid of anything save evidence of four-legged visitors and a scrap of decaying fabric caught on the wall. No potential hiding places existed, so whoever was here must have moved into one of the other rooms.
As Robin thought that, a door slammed across the corridor, behind him.
He whirled round, sending sparks flying off of his torch, but saw nothing. Wondering which door it had been, he shoved aside the knowledge that they'd both been shut moments earlier. He was starting to get the feeling that somebody was playing games with him, and he didn't appreciate it.
With the idea of heading off anyone trying to escape, he tried the chamber closest to the stairs first. The only thing to set this room apart from the one he'd already checked was an aged blanket crumpled in the corner, too flat to allow for anyone underneath.
One chamber left.
Sliding over, Robin tried the latch. It gave, but the door wouldn't budge; either it was barred or blocked from within. His instincts were screaming that something was wrong, but the logical side of his mind wondered if he'd frightened whoever was hiding. "Hello!" he called again. "I mean you no harm. I was just seeking shelter from the storm."
There was no reply. He leaned his ear against the door, listening for any response--
--and flew back, automatically unsheathing his sword, when something crashed heavily into the wood on the other side, followed by a growl. A growl?
Enough was enough. He slammed his shoulder against the door, getting it to budge an inch before immediately closing again. So, it wasn't barred; it was being held shut. He backed up more for a second, unsuccessful, attempt. Irate now, Robin kicked the thing, succeeding in sending it flying into the wall behind it.
What he could see of the chamber appeared empty, but he distrusted it. "Come out, you coward!" he demanded, torch and sword at the ready. His heart nearly stopped when the floor reverberated from the force of an enormous clatter-- that came from directly behind him.
He spun round, backing up as he did, to keep both areas in his line of vision.
There was nothing there. Not a thing.
That was when the whispers started anew, low at first, but growing in intensity, all around him, everywhere and nowhere and still unintelligible.
Wide-eyed, Robin backed toward the stairs, the sounds following him, getting louder with each second. When he reached the top step, he turned and fled, dropping his torch, his feet moving so quickly they didn't have time to fall through the rotted spots.
The whispers followed, becoming voices, and by the time he grasped the handle on the front door, they were yelling. It sounded as though a score of people were running around upstairs in heavy boots. Robin barely registered that the fire had gone out, although it was a blessing, since the dry leaves scattered everywhere were being sucked into a whirlwind in the center of the great room. The door, so difficult to close in the first place, resisted his efforts to get it open. In order to free up his other hand, he sheathed his sword-- a move that was natural to him, but which took four tries, he was so shaken; he, who had stared death in the face countless times.
He yanked at the door handle, bracing his foot on the doorframe as he pulled, muttering, "Come on, come on, come on!" His hair was whipped about by the whirlwind, his hood blown sideways along his neck, as he strained to get the blasted door open. The whole house shook from thuds emanating from the upper story; it was an organic sound, like a body being dropped from the ceiling, but one at least the size of a horse. The voices were screaming, the wind inside howling-- and then the door budged.
It was only the slightest movement, but it felt like a gift. Redoubling his efforts, Robin got it wide enough to fit his arm through, and he turned to push it open.
Then he saw the shadow.
It was darker than the other shadows, denser, about the size of a man, and it was gliding down the stairs.
Robin stared at it, frozen, watching as it neared the landing.
When it reached the ground floor, he suddenly sprang back into action, pushing on the door at the same time he tried to squeeze through the narrow opening he'd managed to gain. Slowly, slowly, the gap widened, wood grating on wood as the portal budged. The shadow seemed aware of Robin's predicament, and took its time approaching him, passing directly through the whirlwind, which parted for it. It was two yards away, one yard, reaching toward him with an armlike protuberance...
...and he slid outside, into the storm, bumping his cheek on the frame in the process.
As he skidded to a halt at the foot of the path, the door slammed shut with such force, plaster chunks flew off the face of the house.
He gaped in disbelief for a moment, and then took off down the village road, back toward Sherwood. He was already soaked to the skin, and sure to get ill from this, but he didn't care. He'd much rather weather the storm outside than the one within.
Rating: G
Word count: 1495 (waaaay over the limit; my apologies! I shaved as much as I could)
Character: Robin
Spoilers: none!
Summary: Robin seeks shelter from a storm in an abandoned village. (cross-posted at my journal)
Disclaimer: Actually... I think I can pretty much claim this as my own, since nothing's show-specific. But to be safe, let's say the show and its characters belong to the Beeb and TA, and not to me, et cetera.
Robin eyed the abandoned manor house warily. He wasn't nervous about the stories whispered by the people who had fled the village, nor did he particularly care that animals had probably moved in since the last lord's death, making it less than clean. What worried him was that it had been abused, bits and pieces taken by locals before they'd been frightened off, or by transients in need of firewood; so, there was a distinct possibility that it was no longer structurally sound.
But as lightning arced across the sky, with thunder following, he accepted that he had little choice. The roofs of the empty cottages had collapsed inward long before, and this storm promised to be a brutal one. Adjusting his bowstring where it rested across his chest, he loped toward the manor.
The door remained mostly intact, only one of the hinges bent. Robin was glad for its presence as the wind kicked up, flinging leaves around him and into the room, where they mingled with piles already stirring on the floor of the great room. He had to force the portal shut, the edge dragging heavily due to its crooked state. Throwing his whole body into the effort, he managed it just as the skies opened in sheets, accompanied by an exceptionally bright flash and an earth-rumbling boom. The latter made him jump, and he was glad to be alone; the lads wouldn't have let that go without comment.
Then, he turned, squinting into the darkness. Concerned that a floorboard might collapse beneath him, Robin carefully picked his way through the debris to the hearth. Arriving there unscathed, he crouched down-- and was startled to find a small pile of branches and scrap wood set in place. He twisted, glancing back at the closed door. Was somebody living here?
Well, it wouldn't hurt to light the wood; he'd replace it tomorrow. He quickly got a fire going, rubbing his hands in front of the blaze.
As he did, a floorboard creaked over his head.
Robin's gaze flew upwards. The stairs were in shadow, but they'd appeared hazardous when he glimpsed them upon his entrance. Could someone have risked the climb? Walking over to the landing, he called into the inky gloom above. "Hello?"
Silence.
Everything remained quiet, so he was about to shrug it off, when the sound came again. Crrrreeeeaaaak. Then again, and again; moving. Definitely footsteps, and definitely those of a person.
He had to find out who was up there. He made a makeshift torch and was about to set foot on the first step when a new sound reached his ears: a voice. A whisper, really; he couldn't even tell what it was saying, and was frankly surprised to be able to hear it over the unholy cadence the rain beat on the roof. It raised the hairs on the back of his neck and sent a ripple of goosebumps down his arms; there was something... not quite right about it.
Robin shook his head in disgust. He was getting carried away. There was a rational explanation for the sound, and he would discover it. Determinedly, he started up, attentive for rotted patches on the stairs. At the top, he looked around. He stood in a small corridor with three doors, all closed. The room to his left had to be where the footsteps had originated, so he tried that door first, half-expecting the latch to be rusted shut. Fortunately, it opened with ease, and he peered inside, swinging the torch to illuminate the scene.
There wasn't much to illuminate; it was empty, devoid of anything save evidence of four-legged visitors and a scrap of decaying fabric caught on the wall. No potential hiding places existed, so whoever was here must have moved into one of the other rooms.
As Robin thought that, a door slammed across the corridor, behind him.
He whirled round, sending sparks flying off of his torch, but saw nothing. Wondering which door it had been, he shoved aside the knowledge that they'd both been shut moments earlier. He was starting to get the feeling that somebody was playing games with him, and he didn't appreciate it.
With the idea of heading off anyone trying to escape, he tried the chamber closest to the stairs first. The only thing to set this room apart from the one he'd already checked was an aged blanket crumpled in the corner, too flat to allow for anyone underneath.
One chamber left.
Sliding over, Robin tried the latch. It gave, but the door wouldn't budge; either it was barred or blocked from within. His instincts were screaming that something was wrong, but the logical side of his mind wondered if he'd frightened whoever was hiding. "Hello!" he called again. "I mean you no harm. I was just seeking shelter from the storm."
There was no reply. He leaned his ear against the door, listening for any response--
--and flew back, automatically unsheathing his sword, when something crashed heavily into the wood on the other side, followed by a growl. A growl?
Enough was enough. He slammed his shoulder against the door, getting it to budge an inch before immediately closing again. So, it wasn't barred; it was being held shut. He backed up more for a second, unsuccessful, attempt. Irate now, Robin kicked the thing, succeeding in sending it flying into the wall behind it.
What he could see of the chamber appeared empty, but he distrusted it. "Come out, you coward!" he demanded, torch and sword at the ready. His heart nearly stopped when the floor reverberated from the force of an enormous clatter-- that came from directly behind him.
He spun round, backing up as he did, to keep both areas in his line of vision.
There was nothing there. Not a thing.
That was when the whispers started anew, low at first, but growing in intensity, all around him, everywhere and nowhere and still unintelligible.
Wide-eyed, Robin backed toward the stairs, the sounds following him, getting louder with each second. When he reached the top step, he turned and fled, dropping his torch, his feet moving so quickly they didn't have time to fall through the rotted spots.
The whispers followed, becoming voices, and by the time he grasped the handle on the front door, they were yelling. It sounded as though a score of people were running around upstairs in heavy boots. Robin barely registered that the fire had gone out, although it was a blessing, since the dry leaves scattered everywhere were being sucked into a whirlwind in the center of the great room. The door, so difficult to close in the first place, resisted his efforts to get it open. In order to free up his other hand, he sheathed his sword-- a move that was natural to him, but which took four tries, he was so shaken; he, who had stared death in the face countless times.
He yanked at the door handle, bracing his foot on the doorframe as he pulled, muttering, "Come on, come on, come on!" His hair was whipped about by the whirlwind, his hood blown sideways along his neck, as he strained to get the blasted door open. The whole house shook from thuds emanating from the upper story; it was an organic sound, like a body being dropped from the ceiling, but one at least the size of a horse. The voices were screaming, the wind inside howling-- and then the door budged.
It was only the slightest movement, but it felt like a gift. Redoubling his efforts, Robin got it wide enough to fit his arm through, and he turned to push it open.
Then he saw the shadow.
It was darker than the other shadows, denser, about the size of a man, and it was gliding down the stairs.
Robin stared at it, frozen, watching as it neared the landing.
When it reached the ground floor, he suddenly sprang back into action, pushing on the door at the same time he tried to squeeze through the narrow opening he'd managed to gain. Slowly, slowly, the gap widened, wood grating on wood as the portal budged. The shadow seemed aware of Robin's predicament, and took its time approaching him, passing directly through the whirlwind, which parted for it. It was two yards away, one yard, reaching toward him with an armlike protuberance...
...and he slid outside, into the storm, bumping his cheek on the frame in the process.
As he skidded to a halt at the foot of the path, the door slammed shut with such force, plaster chunks flew off the face of the house.
He gaped in disbelief for a moment, and then took off down the village road, back toward Sherwood. He was already soaked to the skin, and sure to get ill from this, but he didn't care. He'd much rather weather the storm outside than the one within.