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Molasses #7. Root of All Evil with Hot Fudge, Whipped Cream, and Sprinkles
Story : knights and necromancers
Rating : PG
Timeframe : 1249
Word Count : 736
“Come to watch the training, have you?” Berwyk tipped his head in his direction. Leaning casually against the wall, the old man was smiling. Arms folded and scowling, Ephram strode to the rail without an answer.
He set his hands to the wood and leaned out to peer below. A dozen or so apprentices milled about in the dirt, the bones of a roc splayed over the circle between them, and Tarek’s hunched, little body in its baggy, dark robes shuffling from group to group. Ephram sniffed.
“They’re not bad,” said Berwyk. “Some of them,” he amended as the smallest of the boys dropped the armload of bones he’d been attempting to sort into the dust.
This brought a round of laughter from the larger boys poised at the head and wings. Tarek was quick to silence them, put them back to work arranging their own parts of the beast, while the boy fumbled to right his mess.
“Here,” said Berwyk, “watch this.” Another boy leaned in as if to help the first, the effeminate one with the perpetual self-satisfied smirk. Ephram tightened his jaw; he’d seen enough of Berwyk’s star pupil. The boy gave a look to the others, as if to see if they were watching, found it returned by none, and flicked a hand at the heap of bones before the other. The scattered bits came to attention, danced and wobbled end to end, and laid themselves in place at the end of the bird’s leg.
Ephram shook his head. “I thought as much,” he said. “You know what he is, don’t you?” He turned on Berwyk.
The old man shrugged and plucked a bit of unseen dust from the front of his robes. “I suspect I know better than you do.”
“A chosen,” said Ephram, watching as the boys settled back on the ground, one nervous, the other smug as Tarek approached to inspect their work. “The boy’s an affront to all we stand for.”
“On the contrary,” said Berwyk, idly dusting another spot that hardly needed it, “some of the greatest advancements I’ve seen have been from the chosen. This one’s particularly bright; finds meanings in puzzles our masters couldn’t begin to understand, draws as if the forms were in his blood-”
“Of course he does. There’s a god holding his hand.”
One of Berwyk’s ring-covered hands settled on his arm. “If I am to wait for the rest of this rabble to catch on, surely I should not live that long.”
“And when his loyalty to you impedes upon his loyalty to her? I heard what happened to your last apprentice.”
Berwyk shrugged. The hand slipped away. He propped himself the rail, beaming at the scene below as if it were his grandchildren at play he was watching and not the attempted resurrection of a fifteen foot, winged and taloned monster. “Everything has its price,” he said, cheerfully. the thoughts behind the heavily wrinkled smile unreadable.
“And the prophecies?” The boy was helping the others now, manually sorting the joint of a wing into place while a silver haired boy glowered from over his shoulder. “Divine wrath and destruction. Put that on your tab?”
Berwyk chuckled. The corners of his saccharine smile quirked, for a moment into something more sinister. “There’s not a girl in ten miles that will touch him,” he said, tone no less jovial. “On fear of death.”
Ephram shook his head. “There are easier means, you know. It’s not as if your purposes demand he stay intact.”
Berwyk leveled his eyes, suddenly cold and sober, at his own. “I would far sooner live fearing the wrath of a god I’ve yet to see, brought by a child yet to be conceived, than invoke that of the one that sleeps at my doorstep, thank you. Answer me this.” The wrinkled hand found Ephram’s arm again. “Were he not my ward, were it all left to chance…how would you feel about the prophecies then?”
As Ephram’s scowl deepened, the other’s smile returned. He tensed and pulled away. “I’d sooner wash my hands of the chosen just the same.”
Berwyk waved a hand his way as he slunk back towards the door. “Bring him on your studies tomorrow, and any of the others you like, and see if that changes.” He grimaced, his hand on the knob. Not an offer he supposed he would be permitted to refuse.
Story : knights and necromancers
Rating : PG
Timeframe : 1249
Word Count : 736
“Come to watch the training, have you?” Berwyk tipped his head in his direction. Leaning casually against the wall, the old man was smiling. Arms folded and scowling, Ephram strode to the rail without an answer.
He set his hands to the wood and leaned out to peer below. A dozen or so apprentices milled about in the dirt, the bones of a roc splayed over the circle between them, and Tarek’s hunched, little body in its baggy, dark robes shuffling from group to group. Ephram sniffed.
“They’re not bad,” said Berwyk. “Some of them,” he amended as the smallest of the boys dropped the armload of bones he’d been attempting to sort into the dust.
This brought a round of laughter from the larger boys poised at the head and wings. Tarek was quick to silence them, put them back to work arranging their own parts of the beast, while the boy fumbled to right his mess.
“Here,” said Berwyk, “watch this.” Another boy leaned in as if to help the first, the effeminate one with the perpetual self-satisfied smirk. Ephram tightened his jaw; he’d seen enough of Berwyk’s star pupil. The boy gave a look to the others, as if to see if they were watching, found it returned by none, and flicked a hand at the heap of bones before the other. The scattered bits came to attention, danced and wobbled end to end, and laid themselves in place at the end of the bird’s leg.
Ephram shook his head. “I thought as much,” he said. “You know what he is, don’t you?” He turned on Berwyk.
The old man shrugged and plucked a bit of unseen dust from the front of his robes. “I suspect I know better than you do.”
“A chosen,” said Ephram, watching as the boys settled back on the ground, one nervous, the other smug as Tarek approached to inspect their work. “The boy’s an affront to all we stand for.”
“On the contrary,” said Berwyk, idly dusting another spot that hardly needed it, “some of the greatest advancements I’ve seen have been from the chosen. This one’s particularly bright; finds meanings in puzzles our masters couldn’t begin to understand, draws as if the forms were in his blood-”
“Of course he does. There’s a god holding his hand.”
One of Berwyk’s ring-covered hands settled on his arm. “If I am to wait for the rest of this rabble to catch on, surely I should not live that long.”
“And when his loyalty to you impedes upon his loyalty to her? I heard what happened to your last apprentice.”
Berwyk shrugged. The hand slipped away. He propped himself the rail, beaming at the scene below as if it were his grandchildren at play he was watching and not the attempted resurrection of a fifteen foot, winged and taloned monster. “Everything has its price,” he said, cheerfully. the thoughts behind the heavily wrinkled smile unreadable.
“And the prophecies?” The boy was helping the others now, manually sorting the joint of a wing into place while a silver haired boy glowered from over his shoulder. “Divine wrath and destruction. Put that on your tab?”
Berwyk chuckled. The corners of his saccharine smile quirked, for a moment into something more sinister. “There’s not a girl in ten miles that will touch him,” he said, tone no less jovial. “On fear of death.”
Ephram shook his head. “There are easier means, you know. It’s not as if your purposes demand he stay intact.”
Berwyk leveled his eyes, suddenly cold and sober, at his own. “I would far sooner live fearing the wrath of a god I’ve yet to see, brought by a child yet to be conceived, than invoke that of the one that sleeps at my doorstep, thank you. Answer me this.” The wrinkled hand found Ephram’s arm again. “Were he not my ward, were it all left to chance…how would you feel about the prophecies then?”
As Ephram’s scowl deepened, the other’s smile returned. He tensed and pulled away. “I’d sooner wash my hands of the chosen just the same.”
Berwyk waved a hand his way as he slunk back towards the door. “Bring him on your studies tomorrow, and any of the others you like, and see if that changes.” He grimaced, his hand on the knob. Not an offer he supposed he would be permitted to refuse.