(no subject)
Elderberry #4. Ward of Lights with Butterscotch and Hot Fudge
Story : knights
Rating : PG
Timeframe : circa 1000 through 1240's
Word Count : 992 (10 part pocky chain)
Spoiler infested pocky chain for my newest character. He's only made a couple of appearances so far, but I do intend to make a big deal out of him. Not sure at this point if he warrants hot fudge for himself, but he's hanging out with enough people in this piece that do.
He was Luka once, the name his mother gave him. And he liked being Luka well enough, but it wouldn’t stick.
His mother would use it to call him in for dinner. She could bark it with a tone that made him go cold when he’d been bad. And she could whisper it with such sweetness that the word itself was like a hug.
She’d tuck him into bed, with prayers to all the gods and wishes for sweet dreams. But it was a different voice that sang to him in his sleep, and she called him nothing at all.
***
Master Garilus called him disciple. Mother called him blessed. They both still called him Luka. She still called him in the night.
He didn’t take the first vial his master offered, the glass filled with bubbling blue. He left that for Marcus. He died the next day. Nor did he drink the second concoction that Garilus slaved over for the next three years. Theo drank that and was never quite the same. But when he showed up with a cup of red sludge, Luka held out his hand and drank to the last drop. He fled out his window that night.
***
He threw off the name Luka, just as he threw out his old clothes and the old rules. Garilus would be looking, but he knew he wouldn’t find him.
Jerod had friends, lovers even, and a job pouring drinks at an inn, that he supposed not many would envy but that suited him well enough. But when five years had passed and the innkeeper turned to him and said with a chuckle, “You know, you don’t look a day older than when I first met you.” it was time to move on.
***
It got to be a bit of a game after awhile. Not dying was all well and good, but carrying on for ages when you already knew what was going to happen got a bit tedious at times. Just once, he’d like to wake up in the morning and be completely surprised. At least a new name every few years made for a nice diversion.
Sometimes he’d wander back into his old haunts to see what became of past lives‘ friends, playing the part of his own son. Sometimes he’d go for decades without sleeping in the same place twice.
***
He was sitting in a cell when he first met Berwyk. Not exactly a new predicament. Diversions needed diversions after all, and sometimes the local law didn’t quite agree with his latest persona’s idea of fun.
He’d stayed away from mages since his first adventures when he really was the youth he still looked to be, and when the boy shackled on the bench beside him turned his way and the voice in his head rose in excitement, it was all he could do not to groan. He still took him with when he snuck past the guards that night.
***
There were two visions she shared with him the most. The one she would dwell on involved a temple, a quaint little place he had the occasion to visit now and then, though in the dreams it was always burned from the inside. There was a boy with wild black curls and piercing blue eyes, and an eruption of power such that he could feel its warmth even in his sleep.
The other she’d pretend was a mistake whenever it slipped out, and he would make careful measure of what details he could while it lasted. It was the end.
***
“So, I do get this right eventually?” Berwyk was saying. The table was covered in sigils. An assortment of pots, cups, and vials, brimming and bubbling with liquids in all sorts of hues, was strewn across it.
Darin, as he called himself at the moment, drummed his fingers in the widest open space he could find. “Eventually,” he said.
“You can’t just tell me how your master did it?”
He shrugged. “Too long ago. I don’t remember anymore.”
“Then you can’t tell me how I am going to do it?” He made a vaguely magical gesture.
“That would be cheating.”
***
Filas caught him by the shoulder, rolled him over, and fixed them with those big doe eyes of his.
“Roul-” he started, since that was what he called himself these days.
“I already know what you’re going to say.”
Filas crumpled. “I’ll be back, you know.”
“No you won’t.” Roul yawned and settled back on the pillows. “You’re going to die.”
Filas laughed at that, a nervous, broken chuckle. He leaned in, dragging a finger across his chest while searching his face for cues. “If you really thought so, you’d try to stop me.”
“I already know there’s no point.”
***
He kept a list of people that would see things to the end. Berwyk was on it. The man all but asked to be led in the right direction. Kinari wasn’t hard to find either. In fact, she came looking for him.
“So they are out there this very moment?” she asked.
“Right under your nose.” He was polishing the buttons from one sleeve on the other. Nobles and their politicking he could do without, the clothes on the other hand…
“Oh?”
“Daughters of a friend of yours, I believe.”
Convenient how these folks lined themselves up. Almost like fate.
***
He was back at Berwyk’s -- still Roul, he found he’d grown rather fond of the name -- watching his latest batch of recruits work their way through rudimentary forms. The boy in front of him, she’d let it slip that it would be his hand to pull the trigger in the end. He dropped his chalk, scrambled to retrieve it, blushing as his classmates snickered. Sometimes fate made choices that were so absurd he couldn’t help but laugh at them.
“Sethan,” Roul tapped the shoulder of another boy hunched over his own forms. “Seems Kairn could use a hand.”
Story : knights
Rating : PG
Timeframe : circa 1000 through 1240's
Word Count : 992 (10 part pocky chain)
Spoiler infested pocky chain for my newest character. He's only made a couple of appearances so far, but I do intend to make a big deal out of him. Not sure at this point if he warrants hot fudge for himself, but he's hanging out with enough people in this piece that do.
He was Luka once, the name his mother gave him. And he liked being Luka well enough, but it wouldn’t stick.
His mother would use it to call him in for dinner. She could bark it with a tone that made him go cold when he’d been bad. And she could whisper it with such sweetness that the word itself was like a hug.
She’d tuck him into bed, with prayers to all the gods and wishes for sweet dreams. But it was a different voice that sang to him in his sleep, and she called him nothing at all.
***
Master Garilus called him disciple. Mother called him blessed. They both still called him Luka. She still called him in the night.
He didn’t take the first vial his master offered, the glass filled with bubbling blue. He left that for Marcus. He died the next day. Nor did he drink the second concoction that Garilus slaved over for the next three years. Theo drank that and was never quite the same. But when he showed up with a cup of red sludge, Luka held out his hand and drank to the last drop. He fled out his window that night.
***
He threw off the name Luka, just as he threw out his old clothes and the old rules. Garilus would be looking, but he knew he wouldn’t find him.
Jerod had friends, lovers even, and a job pouring drinks at an inn, that he supposed not many would envy but that suited him well enough. But when five years had passed and the innkeeper turned to him and said with a chuckle, “You know, you don’t look a day older than when I first met you.” it was time to move on.
***
It got to be a bit of a game after awhile. Not dying was all well and good, but carrying on for ages when you already knew what was going to happen got a bit tedious at times. Just once, he’d like to wake up in the morning and be completely surprised. At least a new name every few years made for a nice diversion.
Sometimes he’d wander back into his old haunts to see what became of past lives‘ friends, playing the part of his own son. Sometimes he’d go for decades without sleeping in the same place twice.
***
He was sitting in a cell when he first met Berwyk. Not exactly a new predicament. Diversions needed diversions after all, and sometimes the local law didn’t quite agree with his latest persona’s idea of fun.
He’d stayed away from mages since his first adventures when he really was the youth he still looked to be, and when the boy shackled on the bench beside him turned his way and the voice in his head rose in excitement, it was all he could do not to groan. He still took him with when he snuck past the guards that night.
***
There were two visions she shared with him the most. The one she would dwell on involved a temple, a quaint little place he had the occasion to visit now and then, though in the dreams it was always burned from the inside. There was a boy with wild black curls and piercing blue eyes, and an eruption of power such that he could feel its warmth even in his sleep.
The other she’d pretend was a mistake whenever it slipped out, and he would make careful measure of what details he could while it lasted. It was the end.
***
“So, I do get this right eventually?” Berwyk was saying. The table was covered in sigils. An assortment of pots, cups, and vials, brimming and bubbling with liquids in all sorts of hues, was strewn across it.
Darin, as he called himself at the moment, drummed his fingers in the widest open space he could find. “Eventually,” he said.
“You can’t just tell me how your master did it?”
He shrugged. “Too long ago. I don’t remember anymore.”
“Then you can’t tell me how I am going to do it?” He made a vaguely magical gesture.
“That would be cheating.”
***
Filas caught him by the shoulder, rolled him over, and fixed them with those big doe eyes of his.
“Roul-” he started, since that was what he called himself these days.
“I already know what you’re going to say.”
Filas crumpled. “I’ll be back, you know.”
“No you won’t.” Roul yawned and settled back on the pillows. “You’re going to die.”
Filas laughed at that, a nervous, broken chuckle. He leaned in, dragging a finger across his chest while searching his face for cues. “If you really thought so, you’d try to stop me.”
“I already know there’s no point.”
***
He kept a list of people that would see things to the end. Berwyk was on it. The man all but asked to be led in the right direction. Kinari wasn’t hard to find either. In fact, she came looking for him.
“So they are out there this very moment?” she asked.
“Right under your nose.” He was polishing the buttons from one sleeve on the other. Nobles and their politicking he could do without, the clothes on the other hand…
“Oh?”
“Daughters of a friend of yours, I believe.”
Convenient how these folks lined themselves up. Almost like fate.
***
He was back at Berwyk’s -- still Roul, he found he’d grown rather fond of the name -- watching his latest batch of recruits work their way through rudimentary forms. The boy in front of him, she’d let it slip that it would be his hand to pull the trigger in the end. He dropped his chalk, scrambled to retrieve it, blushing as his classmates snickered. Sometimes fate made choices that were so absurd he couldn’t help but laugh at them.
“Sethan,” Roul tapped the shoulder of another boy hunched over his own forms. “Seems Kairn could use a hand.”