All Hail the Shifter King
Title: Welcome
Word Count: 872
Crossposted here at runaway-tales
Author's Note: Feels weird to write a section for this verse that just feels so... normal.
By the time the tiny taxi plane landed at the equally tiny Rion Fell airport, Katrina’s stomach was in her throat and her fingers were cramped from their white-knuckled grip on the arm rest. She’d been on some nightmare flights before, including a harrowing six hour excursion on a mail-carrier to a snowed-in tundra outpost - in the middle of a windstorm no less - but they paled in comparison to the near-drunken, practically death-defying antics of this particular pilot. When she staggered down the narrow steps from the cabin to the sweltering heat, she had to resist the urge to drop to her knees and kiss the tarmac.
Customs consisted of a battered desk near the single luggage carousel, manned by a grey-haired gentleman in a heat-wrinkled uniform who spent several long minutes studying the green-haired photo on her work visa - “It was a phase,” she explained lamely - before he finally stamped her in. Retrieving her tall suitcase, she adjusted her backpack on her shoulders and strolled out onto the cracked sidewalk, digging her sunglasses from her purse to cover her strained eyes.
It was slightly cooler in the shade than it had been on the open runway, but not by much. It coiled around her like a snake, squeezing her until sweat coated her pale skin and trickled the length of her back. If nothing else it was a rather unpleasant reminder of how long it had been since she’d traveled south of the equator or, rather, how long she’d been working in climates where the temperature only wanders a handful of degrees above freezing on the best of days.
Beyond the sidewalk and the small amount of cover provided by the metal awning above her, the pavement of the pothole-ridden parking lot shimmered under the unwavering sun. A few cars were parked here and there - as she watched, a battered school bus that had been repurposed as public transit lumbered through, picking up some local workers who were leaving the airport - but otherwise there was no sign of life. And, more importantly, no sign of Gavin, who had promised to meet her.
“Typical,” she muttered, rummaging in her pockets until she found her cell phone, realizing only as she jammed her thumb to the screen to unlock it that until she set herself up with the camp carrier, there was no point in trying to send him a nasty text message. Pursing her lips, she checked up and down the sidewalk for the direction of the nearest road, figuring that perhaps she could catch a taxi or -
“Miss Shan?”
Katrina flinched, stepping back from the curb, and peered warily over the top of her sunglasses at the man beside her. Sun-kissed with a tousled mop of wavy caramel hair, he beamed a dazzling smile and offered her his hand.
"You're Katrina Shan, yes?" he asked. His accent was the smooth, almost musical tone of the Rion Fell locals, but he looked oddly foreign, with angular features and a stronger, more musclar build than any of the people she'd seen in her briefing videos.
"I am," she confirmed, shaking his hand.
"Eli Prescott. Welcome to Rion Fell." He removed a thin metal ID card from his pocket and handed it to her - when she pressed her thumb to the scan-chip, the tiny screen displayed his name and camp permit number. "Gavin apologizes for not being able to make it. He's not feeling well."
"He's hungover, you mean," she corrected, returning the card. He chuckled at this, then gestured at her luggage.
"May I?" When she reluctantly handed over the heavy suitcase, he lifted it effortless off the curb and motioned for her to follow. "It's about two hours to camp," he told her, leading the way across the parking lot to a green SUV emblazoned with the Taggart Industries logo. He thumbed the auto-start as they walked. "I brought some lunch for you, if you're hungry."
"What about the daily reports?" she asked, waiting for him to pop the locks on the vehicle. When she opened the door, the blast of air conditioning was glorious - she slid into the passenger seat with a sigh of relief, nesting her backpack and purse in the generous footwell. Eli hefted her suitcase into the back, and when he climbed into the driver's seat he dropped a heavy leather portfolio in her lap.
"He said you would want those, too," he said, still smiling. Though still annoyed that Gavin couldn't control his drinking habit long enough to ensure he was sober to pick her up, Katrina had to admit that Eli was a pleasant substitute. "Feel free to ask questions," he added as he reversed out of the parking spot and steered the SUV toward the main road. "I believe I can fill in anything that may be missing."
"You can, can you?" she asked, giving him a curious, if not somewhat teasing, smile. He didn't catch it, though, watching a pack of youngsters on battered scooters buzz by before turning out into the narrow, one lane road.
"Of course," he said. "I can assure you, I'm very familiar with what's going on here."
Word Count: 872
Crossposted here at runaway-tales
Author's Note: Feels weird to write a section for this verse that just feels so... normal.
By the time the tiny taxi plane landed at the equally tiny Rion Fell airport, Katrina’s stomach was in her throat and her fingers were cramped from their white-knuckled grip on the arm rest. She’d been on some nightmare flights before, including a harrowing six hour excursion on a mail-carrier to a snowed-in tundra outpost - in the middle of a windstorm no less - but they paled in comparison to the near-drunken, practically death-defying antics of this particular pilot. When she staggered down the narrow steps from the cabin to the sweltering heat, she had to resist the urge to drop to her knees and kiss the tarmac.
Customs consisted of a battered desk near the single luggage carousel, manned by a grey-haired gentleman in a heat-wrinkled uniform who spent several long minutes studying the green-haired photo on her work visa - “It was a phase,” she explained lamely - before he finally stamped her in. Retrieving her tall suitcase, she adjusted her backpack on her shoulders and strolled out onto the cracked sidewalk, digging her sunglasses from her purse to cover her strained eyes.
It was slightly cooler in the shade than it had been on the open runway, but not by much. It coiled around her like a snake, squeezing her until sweat coated her pale skin and trickled the length of her back. If nothing else it was a rather unpleasant reminder of how long it had been since she’d traveled south of the equator or, rather, how long she’d been working in climates where the temperature only wanders a handful of degrees above freezing on the best of days.
Beyond the sidewalk and the small amount of cover provided by the metal awning above her, the pavement of the pothole-ridden parking lot shimmered under the unwavering sun. A few cars were parked here and there - as she watched, a battered school bus that had been repurposed as public transit lumbered through, picking up some local workers who were leaving the airport - but otherwise there was no sign of life. And, more importantly, no sign of Gavin, who had promised to meet her.
“Typical,” she muttered, rummaging in her pockets until she found her cell phone, realizing only as she jammed her thumb to the screen to unlock it that until she set herself up with the camp carrier, there was no point in trying to send him a nasty text message. Pursing her lips, she checked up and down the sidewalk for the direction of the nearest road, figuring that perhaps she could catch a taxi or -
“Miss Shan?”
Katrina flinched, stepping back from the curb, and peered warily over the top of her sunglasses at the man beside her. Sun-kissed with a tousled mop of wavy caramel hair, he beamed a dazzling smile and offered her his hand.
"You're Katrina Shan, yes?" he asked. His accent was the smooth, almost musical tone of the Rion Fell locals, but he looked oddly foreign, with angular features and a stronger, more musclar build than any of the people she'd seen in her briefing videos.
"I am," she confirmed, shaking his hand.
"Eli Prescott. Welcome to Rion Fell." He removed a thin metal ID card from his pocket and handed it to her - when she pressed her thumb to the scan-chip, the tiny screen displayed his name and camp permit number. "Gavin apologizes for not being able to make it. He's not feeling well."
"He's hungover, you mean," she corrected, returning the card. He chuckled at this, then gestured at her luggage.
"May I?" When she reluctantly handed over the heavy suitcase, he lifted it effortless off the curb and motioned for her to follow. "It's about two hours to camp," he told her, leading the way across the parking lot to a green SUV emblazoned with the Taggart Industries logo. He thumbed the auto-start as they walked. "I brought some lunch for you, if you're hungry."
"What about the daily reports?" she asked, waiting for him to pop the locks on the vehicle. When she opened the door, the blast of air conditioning was glorious - she slid into the passenger seat with a sigh of relief, nesting her backpack and purse in the generous footwell. Eli hefted her suitcase into the back, and when he climbed into the driver's seat he dropped a heavy leather portfolio in her lap.
"He said you would want those, too," he said, still smiling. Though still annoyed that Gavin couldn't control his drinking habit long enough to ensure he was sober to pick her up, Katrina had to admit that Eli was a pleasant substitute. "Feel free to ask questions," he added as he reversed out of the parking spot and steered the SUV toward the main road. "I believe I can fill in anything that may be missing."
"You can, can you?" she asked, giving him a curious, if not somewhat teasing, smile. He didn't catch it, though, watching a pack of youngsters on battered scooters buzz by before turning out into the narrow, one lane road.
"Of course," he said. "I can assure you, I'm very familiar with what's going on here."