Wild Roses fic prompt 001 "Beginnings"
Title: crazy as your blood
’Verse/characters: Wild Roses; Hernén
Prompt: 001 "Beginnings"
Word Count: 843
Rating: PG
Notes: some thousand years before the war. Sparked by dormouse_in_tea’s replying “someone in the old woods who isn't normally there, and isn't considered to belong.” to my request for a prompt.
He didn't belong here, among the great trees and the parasitic vines that draped between them.
He carried a single firearm, and a knife of the length for killing men, not great beasts.
He was cautious, as all men with any sort of sanity were in the Old Wood. He watched where he stepped, and he watched above him--better than some of the men who died beneath the canopies of the trees, their bodies decomposing to feed both trees and vine. Outcasts from the cities and the ships rarely thought to look up for danger, and there were many things that climbed or flew.
Foolish human, for all his caution, as he paused near the center of the clearing to load his gun. Most humans would have had it loaded long since, as soon as they left the easy sight of river-docks or riding paths. The Old Wood was no place to wander with only a knife for company, even if the shells one carried were all the colours of the rainbow, and white beside.
The things that watched him from the shadows flinched back, startled at the flash and sound as the man fired the gun. The trees would probably have flinched if they could, as white fire bloomed from the muzzle of his gun to the vines wrapped strangler-tight around them.
Heat wilted the runners, leaves curling and browning in the heat, seeds popping with tiny unhappy crunches, and the vines writhed.
He fired twice more, into the root ball, until all the vines were writhing, falling from the branches of their supports to curl upon the ground, and more fire blossomed along them, young man's free hand dictating the course of burning.
"I am not my grandfather," the man said in the silence broken only by crackling, burning vines. "Nor am I the King in keep and harbour."
The trees around him rustled softly in a breeze that doesn't exist, stretching beneath their newfound freedom.
The man smiled, his head tilted to one side as he reloaded his shotgun. "But I do believe I have the power to make humans one of your many walking predators again."
"Arrogant boy," sighed one of the trees, and another replied "Just one boy."
"Stubborn boy," he corrected, "and not alone--there are men here already." Short, harsh laugh. "Some of them stupid enough to believe that ten years here is enough to make them invisible to other human eyes."
"Crazy king's-child," said a man-deep voice from the shadows of a thicket of ice-roses, and the man in the clearing jerked his gun to face it.
"Trickster's gift won't keep you alive, out here," echoed another voice, this one female, and a great gray wolf trotted out to sit by a burning vine, staring unimpressed down the muzzle of the gun as it swung back. "We are not hounds."
"No," the man agreed. "But are you smart?"
The wolf hackled, then blurred, became a crouched woman with iron-gray hair dressed in brown and gray. "I could kill you where you stand, little mage-blood."
He grinned at her, thin mouth pulled wide but not--quite--back over the tips of his canines. "But you think I'm an interesting crazy mageblood--either that or I'm rabid and you're waiting to see if I start frothing."
"There is that," she agreed dryly as other wolves half-fanned the clearing, far enough out that he'd get one at a time if he tried shooting.
"I'm not, as it happens," he said, eyes flicking around at the pack. "Crazy or rabid," he amended, and she barked a laugh.
"Couldn't tell it from here, mage-blood."
"I'm entitled to 'Sabaey' if I want to wear it."
"But you don't," she told him, certain, "or you'd be back among the ships, vying for a place in the King's eye."
His lip curled, and she snarled back, briefly, until he smoothed it out again. "My name is Hernén."
She considered, then grinned, sharp white teeth flashing. "I've been called Belladonna, though if it's because they're crazy enough to call me pretty lady or because I ate half a plant when I was a pup I'll leave to your imagination. What brings an only-crazy-as-his-blood-makes-him man to my range, packing a shotgun with too few shells and a knife sized for man?"
"Telling the Sandovals to fuck off kind of tends to remove a few lines of credit."
She blinked. "And you say you're not crazy?"
"I'd rather play games with predators willing to show fangs instead of hiding them behind pretty promises of what might be--that make me crazy?"
"You'll be dead in a week, you stay the way you're aiming," she told him, flat. "Less, if you keep picking fights."
He grinned at her again, and this time he really did look crazy. "Care to make it a bet?"
Wolfish snort in a human mouth. "What do you have that I could want, that I don't already have?"
"Meet me here in a month, and find out," still grinning, weird light in his eyes.
" . . . As you will," she replied, thoughtfully, and blurred again, leading the exodus of four-legged forms from the clearing, and the stench of smouldering vines.
’Verse/characters: Wild Roses; Hernén
Prompt: 001 "Beginnings"
Word Count: 843
Rating: PG
Notes: some thousand years before the war. Sparked by dormouse_in_tea’s replying “someone in the old woods who isn't normally there, and isn't considered to belong.” to my request for a prompt.
He didn't belong here, among the great trees and the parasitic vines that draped between them.
He carried a single firearm, and a knife of the length for killing men, not great beasts.
He was cautious, as all men with any sort of sanity were in the Old Wood. He watched where he stepped, and he watched above him--better than some of the men who died beneath the canopies of the trees, their bodies decomposing to feed both trees and vine. Outcasts from the cities and the ships rarely thought to look up for danger, and there were many things that climbed or flew.
Foolish human, for all his caution, as he paused near the center of the clearing to load his gun. Most humans would have had it loaded long since, as soon as they left the easy sight of river-docks or riding paths. The Old Wood was no place to wander with only a knife for company, even if the shells one carried were all the colours of the rainbow, and white beside.
The things that watched him from the shadows flinched back, startled at the flash and sound as the man fired the gun. The trees would probably have flinched if they could, as white fire bloomed from the muzzle of his gun to the vines wrapped strangler-tight around them.
Heat wilted the runners, leaves curling and browning in the heat, seeds popping with tiny unhappy crunches, and the vines writhed.
He fired twice more, into the root ball, until all the vines were writhing, falling from the branches of their supports to curl upon the ground, and more fire blossomed along them, young man's free hand dictating the course of burning.
"I am not my grandfather," the man said in the silence broken only by crackling, burning vines. "Nor am I the King in keep and harbour."
The trees around him rustled softly in a breeze that doesn't exist, stretching beneath their newfound freedom.
The man smiled, his head tilted to one side as he reloaded his shotgun. "But I do believe I have the power to make humans one of your many walking predators again."
"Arrogant boy," sighed one of the trees, and another replied "Just one boy."
"Stubborn boy," he corrected, "and not alone--there are men here already." Short, harsh laugh. "Some of them stupid enough to believe that ten years here is enough to make them invisible to other human eyes."
"Crazy king's-child," said a man-deep voice from the shadows of a thicket of ice-roses, and the man in the clearing jerked his gun to face it.
"Trickster's gift won't keep you alive, out here," echoed another voice, this one female, and a great gray wolf trotted out to sit by a burning vine, staring unimpressed down the muzzle of the gun as it swung back. "We are not hounds."
"No," the man agreed. "But are you smart?"
The wolf hackled, then blurred, became a crouched woman with iron-gray hair dressed in brown and gray. "I could kill you where you stand, little mage-blood."
He grinned at her, thin mouth pulled wide but not--quite--back over the tips of his canines. "But you think I'm an interesting crazy mageblood--either that or I'm rabid and you're waiting to see if I start frothing."
"There is that," she agreed dryly as other wolves half-fanned the clearing, far enough out that he'd get one at a time if he tried shooting.
"I'm not, as it happens," he said, eyes flicking around at the pack. "Crazy or rabid," he amended, and she barked a laugh.
"Couldn't tell it from here, mage-blood."
"I'm entitled to 'Sabaey' if I want to wear it."
"But you don't," she told him, certain, "or you'd be back among the ships, vying for a place in the King's eye."
His lip curled, and she snarled back, briefly, until he smoothed it out again. "My name is Hernén."
She considered, then grinned, sharp white teeth flashing. "I've been called Belladonna, though if it's because they're crazy enough to call me pretty lady or because I ate half a plant when I was a pup I'll leave to your imagination. What brings an only-crazy-as-his-blood-makes-him man to my range, packing a shotgun with too few shells and a knife sized for man?"
"Telling the Sandovals to fuck off kind of tends to remove a few lines of credit."
She blinked. "And you say you're not crazy?"
"I'd rather play games with predators willing to show fangs instead of hiding them behind pretty promises of what might be--that make me crazy?"
"You'll be dead in a week, you stay the way you're aiming," she told him, flat. "Less, if you keep picking fights."
He grinned at her again, and this time he really did look crazy. "Care to make it a bet?"
Wolfish snort in a human mouth. "What do you have that I could want, that I don't already have?"
"Meet me here in a month, and find out," still grinning, weird light in his eyes.
" . . . As you will," she replied, thoughtfully, and blurred again, leading the exodus of four-legged forms from the clearing, and the stench of smouldering vines.