I seem to be on a Sethan kick...
Strawberry #29. Rope with Hot Fudge
Rating : PG-13 (mild violence)
Timeframe : winter 1260
Since I already gave you the spoiler about these two, I might as well go on with them...
Sethan gave the rope a tug and released it with a sharp twang. The cord held taut between Tristan and the floor, its rough fibers digging into his wrists. Tristan scowled, but said nothing.
Still eyeing his handywork with smug satisfaction, Sethan retrieved a battered leather shield from where it lay against the wall. He threaded an arm through the straps as he backed slowly across the room.
“What are we doing?” Tristan asked. He figured he owed him that much.
“Testing a theory.” His grin broadened. “Now hit me.”
Tristan’s jaw dropped. He would have loved to comply, if only it was possible. “You must be ten feet away and you’ve tied me to the damned floor. What the hell kind of theory is this?”
“A very interesting one.”
He shook his head. “I’ve been spared by the gods only to wind up in the hands of a madman.”
Sethan settled back on his heels expectantly. “I should think you would rather not spend the remainder of the day tied to the floor. You had best get on with it.”
Tristan glared at the man as he flexed against his restraints. There had to be a trick to it. Every strain on the rope only forced it deeper into his flesh. He twisted and pulled until the fibers drew blood, but gained not even an inch. Sethan relaxed at the far end of the room, his wide smile growing ever more infuriating.
“Haven't you ever wondered how you were able to strike an opponant even before he could reach you? How you could barely see a blow coming and dodge it, no matter how close the quarters?”
“So I’m fast,” he said. “What of it?” He managed to wind his fingers around the rope and gave it a pull. It held fast to the anchor.
“Surely you must have contemplated it?” Tristan paused in his efforts to study his captor, as he calmly lectured him from across the room. “Your lover, she carves bones as she would butter.” His eyes narrowed as the man dared mention Ski. "Her sister,” he continued, “quashes flames with her hands, lights them with a glance.” Sethan’s cold blue gaze settled on the deep rents etched across his bare chest and he raised a brow. “You, who should be dead, healed.”
The implication that Sethan’s powers were anything akin to Rune’s sent a chill down his spine. Though they no longer pained him, the wounds were still raw and festering weeks later.
“I’ve seen mirales enough,” he admitted. “But not from my own hands. I’m just a soldier.”
There was laughter in Sethan’s eyes, though it did not reach his lips. “Just a soldier,” he said. “A mere mortal who bests any man he meets simply through skill and luck. Is that what you tell yourself?”
”It’s the truth.”
“Yes,” he said, turning to pace the far end of the room. “Much safer that you go on believing that. After all, what could one expect of an ordinary man, reliant on mortal speed and strength? One could hardly blame such a man for his inability to save his comrades.”
There was a crunch as Tristan’s knuckles met with flesh, and bone shattered beneath them. Sethan fell to the floor, skidding into the wall. He clutched his jaw as blood seeped between his thin fingers. Across the room, Tristan eyed the bruised joints of a hand still securely bound to the floor.
Sethan’s disfigured jaw twisted itself back into a grin and he laughed aloud. The sound made Tristan want to hit the man again, if only he could figure out how he had done it the first time. “What sort of magic is this?” he demanded.
“Not mine,” said Sethan amidst his own laughter. “Not mine.”
Rating : PG-13 (mild violence)
Timeframe : winter 1260
Since I already gave you the spoiler about these two, I might as well go on with them...
Sethan gave the rope a tug and released it with a sharp twang. The cord held taut between Tristan and the floor, its rough fibers digging into his wrists. Tristan scowled, but said nothing.
Still eyeing his handywork with smug satisfaction, Sethan retrieved a battered leather shield from where it lay against the wall. He threaded an arm through the straps as he backed slowly across the room.
“What are we doing?” Tristan asked. He figured he owed him that much.
“Testing a theory.” His grin broadened. “Now hit me.”
Tristan’s jaw dropped. He would have loved to comply, if only it was possible. “You must be ten feet away and you’ve tied me to the damned floor. What the hell kind of theory is this?”
“A very interesting one.”
He shook his head. “I’ve been spared by the gods only to wind up in the hands of a madman.”
Sethan settled back on his heels expectantly. “I should think you would rather not spend the remainder of the day tied to the floor. You had best get on with it.”
Tristan glared at the man as he flexed against his restraints. There had to be a trick to it. Every strain on the rope only forced it deeper into his flesh. He twisted and pulled until the fibers drew blood, but gained not even an inch. Sethan relaxed at the far end of the room, his wide smile growing ever more infuriating.
“Haven't you ever wondered how you were able to strike an opponant even before he could reach you? How you could barely see a blow coming and dodge it, no matter how close the quarters?”
“So I’m fast,” he said. “What of it?” He managed to wind his fingers around the rope and gave it a pull. It held fast to the anchor.
“Surely you must have contemplated it?” Tristan paused in his efforts to study his captor, as he calmly lectured him from across the room. “Your lover, she carves bones as she would butter.” His eyes narrowed as the man dared mention Ski. "Her sister,” he continued, “quashes flames with her hands, lights them with a glance.” Sethan’s cold blue gaze settled on the deep rents etched across his bare chest and he raised a brow. “You, who should be dead, healed.”
The implication that Sethan’s powers were anything akin to Rune’s sent a chill down his spine. Though they no longer pained him, the wounds were still raw and festering weeks later.
“I’ve seen mirales enough,” he admitted. “But not from my own hands. I’m just a soldier.”
There was laughter in Sethan’s eyes, though it did not reach his lips. “Just a soldier,” he said. “A mere mortal who bests any man he meets simply through skill and luck. Is that what you tell yourself?”
”It’s the truth.”
“Yes,” he said, turning to pace the far end of the room. “Much safer that you go on believing that. After all, what could one expect of an ordinary man, reliant on mortal speed and strength? One could hardly blame such a man for his inability to save his comrades.”
There was a crunch as Tristan’s knuckles met with flesh, and bone shattered beneath them. Sethan fell to the floor, skidding into the wall. He clutched his jaw as blood seeped between his thin fingers. Across the room, Tristan eyed the bruised joints of a hand still securely bound to the floor.
Sethan’s disfigured jaw twisted itself back into a grin and he laughed aloud. The sound made Tristan want to hit the man again, if only he could figure out how he had done it the first time. “What sort of magic is this?” he demanded.
“Not mine,” said Sethan amidst his own laughter. “Not mine.”