The Last Vanilla!
Vanilla #14. Around the Campfire
Story : knights
Rating : PG
Timeframe : spans the better part of the story - scattered scenes from the 1240's to 1260
Word Count : 2561
The final prompt decided to make a project of itself. I just couldn't decide on a single campfire scene that would be profound enough to merit a story of its own, so here is a whole string of them, and I do think they tie together in a way. I didn't think dates or frames of reference were necesarry on any of them - I rather hope they can be inferred, but if you have questions about it, let me know. In the first section they are kids, but as it's just one of eight, I didn't really think it merited Whipped Cream.
It was just the two of them, an armload of kindling, and Lyssa’s penchant for matches. Ski lay back on the grass, the soft carpet of dew laden blades gently folding beneath her, newly risen stars blinking above, and set to peeling the wrapping from a cake.
Lyssa peered over the blaze, a ruddy glow flicking over her features, a long, sturdy branch in one hand. She gave the logs a jab, and the flames leapt with a pop and a crack. “Got one for me?”
“No,” said Ski, even as she pulled another from the pile. “I thought I should keep them to myself.” She tossed the cake her sister’s way, and Lyssa snatched it from the air.
The branch secured under her arm, Lyssa tore the cloth from her cake and tossed it to the ground. Mouth open wide, she looked from the morsel in her palm to the pile beside Ski and made one bite of the thing. Ski shook her head and nibbled a corner of her own.
“Wha‘?” said Lyssa, around a mouthful of food. “No’ like there i’nt plenny more.”
Ski followed her gaze to the mound of cloth wrapped pastries. “However fast you eat them, you still get half,” she said, tossing her another anyway.
Lyssa frowned, or at least she supposed it was a frown; it was hard to tell the way her cheeks were still bulging. Ski scraped another corner from her cake with her teeth. Lyssa swallowed hard, making more room for words. “You’re going to take all night to eat that one, aren’t you?”
Ski hoisted the cake to arm’s length above her and slowly turned the thing this way and that. Lyssa’s eyes fixed on it, her tongue slid over her lips, and Ski grinned. “Yes,” she said, “I think I just might.”
Just the same, an hour later, when Lyssa reached for the last tiny package, which, by Ski’s count, clearly was hers, tucking it into her palm without so much as a "please," she assured herself she was full.
There they were, the whole lot of them her responsibility, this band of heroes off to save the world, or at least the bit of it that surrounded the fort to which they were headed.
Skewers balanced on knees, they all gazed quietly into the low, rolling flames, as their dinners popped and sizzled. The trio clustered together, a conspiratorial whisper passing from Ilya to Tess, the latter erupting in laughter that sent both reeling and clutching their sides, and a shake of the head from Farran as the two scrambled to keep their food from the flames.
Ski sighed, rolled her skewer over, and blew a cinder from her meat. Across the way, the boy offered her a tentative smile. She shook her head. She had best stop thinking of Rune as a boy unless she wanted to label herself a child as well, but he looked so young, gangly legs a good half foot longer than his pants, eyes wide and deep blue as a babe’s. She gave her skewer another flip and returned the smile with as much force as it had been given.
Ski poked at the fire, beckoning a light out of the damp wood, her nails still caked with the mud she’d scraped from it. The flurry of white beside her that was Ilya rummaged through her pack, a sturdy, black pot already laid at her feet.
“You know,” said Ilya, a pair of wooden spoons dropping into the pot, “when we get to Tirwel, the first thing I think I shall do is have a proper bath. Never in my life have I seen so much mud.”
With a noncommittal grunt, Ski prodded the tinder again.
Ilya gave the contents of the sack a frown. “I should like a proper meal as well,” she said. “Not that Rune won’t be able to do something with this, but the same rations every night are getting rather tired. Rune?” she called across the clearing.
At the sound of his name, the man looked up from his conversation with Tess, his eyes panning over Ilya, settling on Ski. She met them for only the slightest moment before ducking her head to poke, once more, at the fire, her lip tucked firmly between her teeth. She kept her eyes on the flames until they watered and burned, not venturing so much as a glance as Rune crossed the camp and he and Ilya set to discussing dinner.
The stick in her hand caught, wavering tendrils of orange licking their way slowly up its tip. Ski tossed the thing into the fire and swept the back of her hand over her eyes.
The flames leapt and snapped in a swift, churning dance that kept pace with the bawdy lyrics that rolled off Lyssa’s tongue. The red knight swayed, half-drunk bottle in her hand. Rune sat beside her, eyes wide and cheeks crimson, and she threw an arm around his shoulders at the approach of the chorus. Ski shook her head and fed a chunk of green pepper onto her skewer without a word.
Tess elbowed Ilya and added her own deep voice to the refrain, while the white knight flushed and sputtered. Lyssa passed them the bottle, and Ilya drank deeply and joined in on the phrases she thought might be safe as she handed it off to Tess.
Grinning ear to ear, Tess brought it to her lips and threw her head back. With the nearly empty bottle, she prodded Farran, who looked down her nose at the both of them, but accepted the offer just the same. She took a dainty sip in silence, slowly swishing the meager remains about, a look of distant amusement on her features as the three continued their song.
Ski threaded a piece of meat on the spit, her lip tucked between her teeth as Lyssa launched into a verse even more salacious than the last. She felt the cold touch of glass against her shoulder and looked up to find Farran bent over her, bottle in hand. She raised a hand to protest but found the drink pressed to her palm.
With a sigh, she took a sip. The liquor, sweet and bitter, tore a path down her throat. She held the bottle at arm’s length, swallowed hard against the acrid, choking flow of alcohol, and passed it hastily on to the still blushing Rune.
He took a frantic gulp as Lyssa aimed a particularly graphic turn of phrase his way, and Ski settled back, with a sigh, into her solitary position to wonder how it was that the more companions joined her, the lonlier such a place felt.
A crack along the steep mountain pass, nestled beneath an overhang, tucked away from the wind, and here they were, the lot of them, save one, settled into their usual arrangement around a fire.
Tess and Farran held one corner of the camp, their playful exchange far less boisterous than the norm in light of Ilya’s absence and the fact that their supply of liquor had already been depleted days ago.
Rune was fussing over Lyssa and her freshly mended arm, lips and fingers trailing affectionately over her newest scar. Ski frowned and tossed another branch onto the fire.
“What were you thinking?” she asked her sister for, perhaps, the third time.
“Thought I was getting firewood,” said Lyssa.
“But a roc?” said Ski. “What possessed you to take on a roc?”
Lyssa rolled her eyes, and the fire spit a wave of sparks into the air. “Right,” she said. “Gathering wood wasn’t thrilling enough, so I decided to pick a fight with a giant bird. Makes perfect sense.”
The two glared at each other a moment in silence while the fire crackled. “It came after me and I did the best I could to get away,” Lyssa said. Ski could only shake her head. “’sides,” she added, with a pat to Rune’s arm and a grin. “I’ve got Rune to put me back together.
A scowl knit the man’s thin features and his hold on her tightened. “That’s not funny, Lyss.”
Lyssa laughed, just the same.
It was just the two of them for once, a cozy little blaze, and the beginnings of what promised to be a most pleasant trip. Somehow, things were just easier this way. Ski sat near the fire, branch beside her to tend it, an utterly pointless measure, but it gave her hands something to do. Across the way, Lyssa was rummaging through the packs for Ski knew not what, as dinner had already passed.
“Got something,” said Lyssa.
“Oh?” said Ski, half expecting to be shown a bottle. Instead, her sister held up a box.
“Cookies.” Lyssa threw back the lid to reveal an assortment of wafers smeared with pink, green, and blue. “With frosting,” she added, with a quick swipe of her tongue across her lip.
Of course, if not liquor, it would be confections. Ski shook her head and poked at the fire. “Figures,” she said.
“What?” said Lyssa. “His doing, not mine.”
“Yes,” said Ski, with another shake of her head. “Gods forbid the man send you out not fully laden with sugar.”
Lyssa snorted. “Got that right. Can’t have the man, might as well have the goods.” She plucked one cookie from the pile and frowned at it as she held it up. “Well, some of the goods anyway.” She took a bite of the thing. “’sides, it’s my birthday.”
Ski sniffed and turned a log. “You enjoy them, then.”
“What?” said Lyssa, around a mouthful of crumbs. “You think I’m not going to share them with you?”
Ski raised her head just in time to find a pink-iced disc sailing her way. She caught the cookie and held it before her, turning it slowly this way and that. Tipping the cookie her sister’s way, she grinned. “Thank you,” she said. “I do so appreciate your sharing Rune’s ‘goods’ with me.” The words passed from her, somehow, without thought, and she took a hasty bite to keep from tumbling into the awkward apology that threatened to follow, her cheeks flooding with warmth.
Lyssa gave a snort of a laugh, the rest of the package rattling about in her grip as she made her way around the fire and settled beside her. She eyed the contents a moment before popping one, whole, into her mouth. Morsel swallowed, she turned to Ski. “Where,” she said, offering up another cookie, “do you suppose we’d be without him?”
“A few more scars and a few less pounds?” said Ski, accepting the treat.
Lyssa laughed, her eyes on the package in her lap as if it held so much more than a few bits of flour and sugar. “I think you’re right,” she said, drawing another cookie from the rest. Taking just a bite this time, she settled back onto her hands and gave the fire the same distant look and grinned. “Though, I’d rather not know for sure.”
A spectacular bonfire had taken up residence at the center of the courtyard, broad coils of red sparking and lapping at the evening sky. Every inch of the yard was wrapped in its sweltering heat, the walls awash with the dancing glow.
Every soldier in the fort was gathered about the blaze, the majority in patches and scraps of armor, weapons strapped close at hand, more than a few nursing the remnants of wounds. Food and drink passed freely among them, with broad smiles and hearty laughter, as if, for just one night, everyone was in agreement to cast a blind eye to all the steel and blood among them.
From her place against the wall, Ski scanned the crowd. Lyssa was there, bottle in hand, as was to be expected, Rune stationed beside her with an arm tight across her shoulders and a scowl at any man that looked her way. Wyatt, in particular, was taking great care not to catch his ire, his back set firmly to the both of them. In response to every angry glare, Lyssa would slap Rune’s arm or jab him in the ribs, and nervous laughter would pass between the two.
A glass in her tiny hand, Ilya gave the flames a gloomy stare. She forced a smile into place as Tess and Farran came to fuss over her. Before long, the pretense faded and tension drained, and the three knights laughed in earnest.
Kairn, huddled nervous mass that he was, clung to the shadows along the wall. Shasa, waddling slowly, staggering under her own misbalanced weight, refused to be dissuaded in her efforts to drag him out into the light, or to ply him with food, much as he continued to protest.
Ski took a sip of her drink and sighed, shaking her head at the dissarray, the bit of celebration in the midst of war. How unreal the whole thing seemed. A great, hulking form shuffled close, armor rattling, the only member of her crew she’d yet to account for.
“Everything alright?” said Tristan, sliding into place beside her.
A big, thick hand engulfed her own. “Yes,” she said, gazing down at their entwined fingers, and she couldn’t help but smile. She gave his hand a squeeze. “For the moment, I think it is.”
It was just the two of them again, a sad little fire before them, just enough to see, just enough to heat the needle.
“You can’t just go charging into things.” Ski pulled taut a stich and Lyssa, having long since given up on cursing her out, simply flinched and scowled. “You have got to realize Rune is no longer here to-” The wounded arm snapped from her grip, needle and thread flying with it, and Lyssa set smoldering eyes on her. “-to patch you up,” she finished quietly, as the campfire leapt with a roar and a flash.
“Right.” Lyssa settled back into place between Ski‘s legs, arm out, the tired glower resuming. “Wasn’t enough of a reminder when I rolled over this morning and found you next to me.”
Ski slid a hand back around her arm, and took up the needle in her fingers. “At least he’s still alive.”
Lyssa tensed, but did not pull away. “That’s what it always comes down to, isn’t it?” She snatched up the bottle at her feet and took a gulp as Ski returned to her work. “You’re just waiting for me to run off and leave you to find him, aren’t you?”
Ski paused, needle poised in the air, the metal rolling between her fingertips, her throat painfully tight. “If that is what you wish to do. I won’t detain-”
The fire swelled again, and Ski bit her lip and eyed the surrounding brush, wondering if it was about to catch. The flames died back as Lyssa raised the bottle, again, to her lips. “You need to realize,” she said, slowly, her gaze at Ski‘s middle instead of her eyes, “that I’m here because I want to be. Because you need me. I’ll find Rune later.” She took another gulp and grimaced at the arm and the needle hovering over it. “You about done with that?”
Ski swallowed hard and brought the needle back to her skin. “Very nearly,” she said.
Story : knights
Rating : PG
Timeframe : spans the better part of the story - scattered scenes from the 1240's to 1260
Word Count : 2561
The final prompt decided to make a project of itself. I just couldn't decide on a single campfire scene that would be profound enough to merit a story of its own, so here is a whole string of them, and I do think they tie together in a way. I didn't think dates or frames of reference were necesarry on any of them - I rather hope they can be inferred, but if you have questions about it, let me know. In the first section they are kids, but as it's just one of eight, I didn't really think it merited Whipped Cream.
It was just the two of them, an armload of kindling, and Lyssa’s penchant for matches. Ski lay back on the grass, the soft carpet of dew laden blades gently folding beneath her, newly risen stars blinking above, and set to peeling the wrapping from a cake.
Lyssa peered over the blaze, a ruddy glow flicking over her features, a long, sturdy branch in one hand. She gave the logs a jab, and the flames leapt with a pop and a crack. “Got one for me?”
“No,” said Ski, even as she pulled another from the pile. “I thought I should keep them to myself.” She tossed the cake her sister’s way, and Lyssa snatched it from the air.
The branch secured under her arm, Lyssa tore the cloth from her cake and tossed it to the ground. Mouth open wide, she looked from the morsel in her palm to the pile beside Ski and made one bite of the thing. Ski shook her head and nibbled a corner of her own.
“Wha‘?” said Lyssa, around a mouthful of food. “No’ like there i’nt plenny more.”
Ski followed her gaze to the mound of cloth wrapped pastries. “However fast you eat them, you still get half,” she said, tossing her another anyway.
Lyssa frowned, or at least she supposed it was a frown; it was hard to tell the way her cheeks were still bulging. Ski scraped another corner from her cake with her teeth. Lyssa swallowed hard, making more room for words. “You’re going to take all night to eat that one, aren’t you?”
Ski hoisted the cake to arm’s length above her and slowly turned the thing this way and that. Lyssa’s eyes fixed on it, her tongue slid over her lips, and Ski grinned. “Yes,” she said, “I think I just might.”
Just the same, an hour later, when Lyssa reached for the last tiny package, which, by Ski’s count, clearly was hers, tucking it into her palm without so much as a "please," she assured herself she was full.
There they were, the whole lot of them her responsibility, this band of heroes off to save the world, or at least the bit of it that surrounded the fort to which they were headed.
Skewers balanced on knees, they all gazed quietly into the low, rolling flames, as their dinners popped and sizzled. The trio clustered together, a conspiratorial whisper passing from Ilya to Tess, the latter erupting in laughter that sent both reeling and clutching their sides, and a shake of the head from Farran as the two scrambled to keep their food from the flames.
Ski sighed, rolled her skewer over, and blew a cinder from her meat. Across the way, the boy offered her a tentative smile. She shook her head. She had best stop thinking of Rune as a boy unless she wanted to label herself a child as well, but he looked so young, gangly legs a good half foot longer than his pants, eyes wide and deep blue as a babe’s. She gave her skewer another flip and returned the smile with as much force as it had been given.
Ski poked at the fire, beckoning a light out of the damp wood, her nails still caked with the mud she’d scraped from it. The flurry of white beside her that was Ilya rummaged through her pack, a sturdy, black pot already laid at her feet.
“You know,” said Ilya, a pair of wooden spoons dropping into the pot, “when we get to Tirwel, the first thing I think I shall do is have a proper bath. Never in my life have I seen so much mud.”
With a noncommittal grunt, Ski prodded the tinder again.
Ilya gave the contents of the sack a frown. “I should like a proper meal as well,” she said. “Not that Rune won’t be able to do something with this, but the same rations every night are getting rather tired. Rune?” she called across the clearing.
At the sound of his name, the man looked up from his conversation with Tess, his eyes panning over Ilya, settling on Ski. She met them for only the slightest moment before ducking her head to poke, once more, at the fire, her lip tucked firmly between her teeth. She kept her eyes on the flames until they watered and burned, not venturing so much as a glance as Rune crossed the camp and he and Ilya set to discussing dinner.
The stick in her hand caught, wavering tendrils of orange licking their way slowly up its tip. Ski tossed the thing into the fire and swept the back of her hand over her eyes.
The flames leapt and snapped in a swift, churning dance that kept pace with the bawdy lyrics that rolled off Lyssa’s tongue. The red knight swayed, half-drunk bottle in her hand. Rune sat beside her, eyes wide and cheeks crimson, and she threw an arm around his shoulders at the approach of the chorus. Ski shook her head and fed a chunk of green pepper onto her skewer without a word.
Tess elbowed Ilya and added her own deep voice to the refrain, while the white knight flushed and sputtered. Lyssa passed them the bottle, and Ilya drank deeply and joined in on the phrases she thought might be safe as she handed it off to Tess.
Grinning ear to ear, Tess brought it to her lips and threw her head back. With the nearly empty bottle, she prodded Farran, who looked down her nose at the both of them, but accepted the offer just the same. She took a dainty sip in silence, slowly swishing the meager remains about, a look of distant amusement on her features as the three continued their song.
Ski threaded a piece of meat on the spit, her lip tucked between her teeth as Lyssa launched into a verse even more salacious than the last. She felt the cold touch of glass against her shoulder and looked up to find Farran bent over her, bottle in hand. She raised a hand to protest but found the drink pressed to her palm.
With a sigh, she took a sip. The liquor, sweet and bitter, tore a path down her throat. She held the bottle at arm’s length, swallowed hard against the acrid, choking flow of alcohol, and passed it hastily on to the still blushing Rune.
He took a frantic gulp as Lyssa aimed a particularly graphic turn of phrase his way, and Ski settled back, with a sigh, into her solitary position to wonder how it was that the more companions joined her, the lonlier such a place felt.
A crack along the steep mountain pass, nestled beneath an overhang, tucked away from the wind, and here they were, the lot of them, save one, settled into their usual arrangement around a fire.
Tess and Farran held one corner of the camp, their playful exchange far less boisterous than the norm in light of Ilya’s absence and the fact that their supply of liquor had already been depleted days ago.
Rune was fussing over Lyssa and her freshly mended arm, lips and fingers trailing affectionately over her newest scar. Ski frowned and tossed another branch onto the fire.
“What were you thinking?” she asked her sister for, perhaps, the third time.
“Thought I was getting firewood,” said Lyssa.
“But a roc?” said Ski. “What possessed you to take on a roc?”
Lyssa rolled her eyes, and the fire spit a wave of sparks into the air. “Right,” she said. “Gathering wood wasn’t thrilling enough, so I decided to pick a fight with a giant bird. Makes perfect sense.”
The two glared at each other a moment in silence while the fire crackled. “It came after me and I did the best I could to get away,” Lyssa said. Ski could only shake her head. “’sides,” she added, with a pat to Rune’s arm and a grin. “I’ve got Rune to put me back together.
A scowl knit the man’s thin features and his hold on her tightened. “That’s not funny, Lyss.”
Lyssa laughed, just the same.
It was just the two of them for once, a cozy little blaze, and the beginnings of what promised to be a most pleasant trip. Somehow, things were just easier this way. Ski sat near the fire, branch beside her to tend it, an utterly pointless measure, but it gave her hands something to do. Across the way, Lyssa was rummaging through the packs for Ski knew not what, as dinner had already passed.
“Got something,” said Lyssa.
“Oh?” said Ski, half expecting to be shown a bottle. Instead, her sister held up a box.
“Cookies.” Lyssa threw back the lid to reveal an assortment of wafers smeared with pink, green, and blue. “With frosting,” she added, with a quick swipe of her tongue across her lip.
Of course, if not liquor, it would be confections. Ski shook her head and poked at the fire. “Figures,” she said.
“What?” said Lyssa. “His doing, not mine.”
“Yes,” said Ski, with another shake of her head. “Gods forbid the man send you out not fully laden with sugar.”
Lyssa snorted. “Got that right. Can’t have the man, might as well have the goods.” She plucked one cookie from the pile and frowned at it as she held it up. “Well, some of the goods anyway.” She took a bite of the thing. “’sides, it’s my birthday.”
Ski sniffed and turned a log. “You enjoy them, then.”
“What?” said Lyssa, around a mouthful of crumbs. “You think I’m not going to share them with you?”
Ski raised her head just in time to find a pink-iced disc sailing her way. She caught the cookie and held it before her, turning it slowly this way and that. Tipping the cookie her sister’s way, she grinned. “Thank you,” she said. “I do so appreciate your sharing Rune’s ‘goods’ with me.” The words passed from her, somehow, without thought, and she took a hasty bite to keep from tumbling into the awkward apology that threatened to follow, her cheeks flooding with warmth.
Lyssa gave a snort of a laugh, the rest of the package rattling about in her grip as she made her way around the fire and settled beside her. She eyed the contents a moment before popping one, whole, into her mouth. Morsel swallowed, she turned to Ski. “Where,” she said, offering up another cookie, “do you suppose we’d be without him?”
“A few more scars and a few less pounds?” said Ski, accepting the treat.
Lyssa laughed, her eyes on the package in her lap as if it held so much more than a few bits of flour and sugar. “I think you’re right,” she said, drawing another cookie from the rest. Taking just a bite this time, she settled back onto her hands and gave the fire the same distant look and grinned. “Though, I’d rather not know for sure.”
A spectacular bonfire had taken up residence at the center of the courtyard, broad coils of red sparking and lapping at the evening sky. Every inch of the yard was wrapped in its sweltering heat, the walls awash with the dancing glow.
Every soldier in the fort was gathered about the blaze, the majority in patches and scraps of armor, weapons strapped close at hand, more than a few nursing the remnants of wounds. Food and drink passed freely among them, with broad smiles and hearty laughter, as if, for just one night, everyone was in agreement to cast a blind eye to all the steel and blood among them.
From her place against the wall, Ski scanned the crowd. Lyssa was there, bottle in hand, as was to be expected, Rune stationed beside her with an arm tight across her shoulders and a scowl at any man that looked her way. Wyatt, in particular, was taking great care not to catch his ire, his back set firmly to the both of them. In response to every angry glare, Lyssa would slap Rune’s arm or jab him in the ribs, and nervous laughter would pass between the two.
A glass in her tiny hand, Ilya gave the flames a gloomy stare. She forced a smile into place as Tess and Farran came to fuss over her. Before long, the pretense faded and tension drained, and the three knights laughed in earnest.
Kairn, huddled nervous mass that he was, clung to the shadows along the wall. Shasa, waddling slowly, staggering under her own misbalanced weight, refused to be dissuaded in her efforts to drag him out into the light, or to ply him with food, much as he continued to protest.
Ski took a sip of her drink and sighed, shaking her head at the dissarray, the bit of celebration in the midst of war. How unreal the whole thing seemed. A great, hulking form shuffled close, armor rattling, the only member of her crew she’d yet to account for.
“Everything alright?” said Tristan, sliding into place beside her.
A big, thick hand engulfed her own. “Yes,” she said, gazing down at their entwined fingers, and she couldn’t help but smile. She gave his hand a squeeze. “For the moment, I think it is.”
It was just the two of them again, a sad little fire before them, just enough to see, just enough to heat the needle.
“You can’t just go charging into things.” Ski pulled taut a stich and Lyssa, having long since given up on cursing her out, simply flinched and scowled. “You have got to realize Rune is no longer here to-” The wounded arm snapped from her grip, needle and thread flying with it, and Lyssa set smoldering eyes on her. “-to patch you up,” she finished quietly, as the campfire leapt with a roar and a flash.
“Right.” Lyssa settled back into place between Ski‘s legs, arm out, the tired glower resuming. “Wasn’t enough of a reminder when I rolled over this morning and found you next to me.”
Ski slid a hand back around her arm, and took up the needle in her fingers. “At least he’s still alive.”
Lyssa tensed, but did not pull away. “That’s what it always comes down to, isn’t it?” She snatched up the bottle at her feet and took a gulp as Ski returned to her work. “You’re just waiting for me to run off and leave you to find him, aren’t you?”
Ski paused, needle poised in the air, the metal rolling between her fingertips, her throat painfully tight. “If that is what you wish to do. I won’t detain-”
The fire swelled again, and Ski bit her lip and eyed the surrounding brush, wondering if it was about to catch. The flames died back as Lyssa raised the bottle, again, to her lips. “You need to realize,” she said, slowly, her gaze at Ski‘s middle instead of her eyes, “that I’m here because I want to be. Because you need me. I’ll find Rune later.” She took another gulp and grimaced at the arm and the needle hovering over it. “You about done with that?”
Ski swallowed hard and brought the needle back to her skin. “Very nearly,” she said.