Sorry for the delay! Had a busy weekend start and then I was abducted by the SO for some overdue time spent.
Also, took a few liberties. Hope I didn't overstep.
Also, took a few liberties. Hope I didn't overstep.
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pretentious jerk
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Mansour Ayem-Seht, she wrote across the page, or at least a close approximation based on elven spelling, fittingly within the gloomy shadow cast down by the man himself.
Something beckoned her to look upward to address him, so reluctantly she did. This was no kobold or Lizardman, but something that required more consideration. Not just a human—oh no, most of them were quite unremarkable—but a human who was somewhat about himself. These were always the more dangerous sorts. They never followed the rules.
Just as a passing though, Wynn casually measured the distance between him and herself and mentally inserted the types of weapons that could extend beyond the gap.
She leaned back slightly.
“My name is Don’t-Have-Time-For-Pleasantries, Mansour.” She looked down at her page again. “If you don’t mind.”
Wynn begin to fill in the other fields for the man’s personal file, including an estimate of age and measurements including height, weight, and relative state of health. She marked ‘able’.
“Elves wield magic better than most races, in fact,” she casually explained, not to appease his curiosity so much as encourage him to make this as simple and swift as possible. His was one of hundreds of names she had already penned down in the last week. “But sailors don’t know the half of it, I assure you. A warrior-monk, did you say?”
Wynn ran over a mental list of possible places within the Cooperative which that sort of aptitude could serve. Bodyguard, gladiator, weapons trainer, manual labor. He might serve with the border scouts, fighting giant arachnids and overgrown drakes venturing too close to Cooperative operations.
“Please specify religion, deity, or philosophy which you serve,” she listed off dully. “And did you say you had anyone else to document, or are you alone? A wife or sister or what-have-you will be considered along with your placement. Do you understand what the Cooperative is, Mansour?" The question was genuine, not harsh, but it was every bit as perfunctory as her previous inquiries. "We shall endeavor to accommodate you based on your individual talents.”
Something beckoned her to look upward to address him, so reluctantly she did. This was no kobold or Lizardman, but something that required more consideration. Not just a human—oh no, most of them were quite unremarkable—but a human who was somewhat about himself. These were always the more dangerous sorts. They never followed the rules.
Just as a passing though, Wynn casually measured the distance between him and herself and mentally inserted the types of weapons that could extend beyond the gap.
She leaned back slightly.
“My name is Don’t-Have-Time-For-Pleasantries, Mansour.” She looked down at her page again. “If you don’t mind.”
Wynn begin to fill in the other fields for the man’s personal file, including an estimate of age and measurements including height, weight, and relative state of health. She marked ‘able’.
“Elves wield magic better than most races, in fact,” she casually explained, not to appease his curiosity so much as encourage him to make this as simple and swift as possible. His was one of hundreds of names she had already penned down in the last week. “But sailors don’t know the half of it, I assure you. A warrior-monk, did you say?”
Wynn ran over a mental list of possible places within the Cooperative which that sort of aptitude could serve. Bodyguard, gladiator, weapons trainer, manual labor. He might serve with the border scouts, fighting giant arachnids and overgrown drakes venturing too close to Cooperative operations.
“Please specify religion, deity, or philosophy which you serve,” she listed off dully. “And did you say you had anyone else to document, or are you alone? A wife or sister or what-have-you will be considered along with your placement. Do you understand what the Cooperative is, Mansour?" The question was genuine, not harsh, but it was every bit as perfunctory as her previous inquiries. "We shall endeavor to accommodate you based on your individual talents.”
The Lord Mayor sat with the elves, nervously tapping his foot. He wanted to be sure they honored their agreement, so he wasn’t willing to leave them alone. The male priest continued his reading, unperturbed by the world at large, including the very odd assembly of canines that had arrived to circle the demon tree. Apparently more empathetic, the female priest continued watching, noting that a new dog had recently joined the enthralled pack.
Moments later its owner had come after it, pleading and calling with the animal to come home. It didn’t work, of course, so she was forced to pick up the animal and carry it away, while it caterwauled and struggled in her arms.
Poor thing.
Suddenly coming into view was a member of the Yost townguard, with a white haired girl in tow. Out of respect, the female elven priest rose to her feet, reclaiming every inch of her lithe, willowy grace. She gave off the presence of an older sister, welcoming an estranged relation back into the fold.
“Byalin, she has arrived,” she ushered to the male priest, who closed his book and lifted his head, but remained seating.
The Lord Mayor got to his feet at once, looking something like tumbling idiot next to the fairer race. He was a corpulent, well fed man who his his chins within a thick, graying beard.
“Aha, Miss Beltran!” the Lord Mayor greeted, as if they were old friends. To best recollection, they had never before spoken directly. “So good of you to come! Ah—” He beckoned to the guard, only to dismiss him with a gesture. “That’ll be all, Devon, thank you kindly. So, Marelli!” Unsure where to go next, he trailed off and glanced at the elf.
“There is a matter we bring that involves you personally, Miss Beltran,” the female elf spoke, ignoring the Lord Mayor in such a way that it seemed she was unaware that he had spoken at all. “I am Jawene, a priestess of Lum, the moon goddess. This is Byalin, a priest of the same.”
Byalin spoke some phrase in elvish. Although the words were foreign, it sounded friendly enough to be a polite greeting.
Jawene stared at the girl a moment, considering the red in her eyes. She seemed disconcerted.
“Janus of Red Crest has died.” It was no one Marelli has ever heard of. “My condolences, Miss Beltran, but I must inform you that Janus has left you, and only you, an inheritance. To claim it, you must accompany Byalin and I to his home in Crens.”
Moments later its owner had come after it, pleading and calling with the animal to come home. It didn’t work, of course, so she was forced to pick up the animal and carry it away, while it caterwauled and struggled in her arms.
Poor thing.
Suddenly coming into view was a member of the Yost townguard, with a white haired girl in tow. Out of respect, the female elven priest rose to her feet, reclaiming every inch of her lithe, willowy grace. She gave off the presence of an older sister, welcoming an estranged relation back into the fold.
“Byalin, she has arrived,” she ushered to the male priest, who closed his book and lifted his head, but remained seating.
The Lord Mayor got to his feet at once, looking something like tumbling idiot next to the fairer race. He was a corpulent, well fed man who his his chins within a thick, graying beard.
“Aha, Miss Beltran!” the Lord Mayor greeted, as if they were old friends. To best recollection, they had never before spoken directly. “So good of you to come! Ah—” He beckoned to the guard, only to dismiss him with a gesture. “That’ll be all, Devon, thank you kindly. So, Marelli!” Unsure where to go next, he trailed off and glanced at the elf.
“There is a matter we bring that involves you personally, Miss Beltran,” the female elf spoke, ignoring the Lord Mayor in such a way that it seemed she was unaware that he had spoken at all. “I am Jawene, a priestess of Lum, the moon goddess. This is Byalin, a priest of the same.”
Byalin spoke some phrase in elvish. Although the words were foreign, it sounded friendly enough to be a polite greeting.
Jawene stared at the girl a moment, considering the red in her eyes. She seemed disconcerted.
“Janus of Red Crest has died.” It was no one Marelli has ever heard of. “My condolences, Miss Beltran, but I must inform you that Janus has left you, and only you, an inheritance. To claim it, you must accompany Byalin and I to his home in Crens.”
As Alice began to run for her life, Sasha merely turned his head. Before dashing after her, he sighed and glanced down to examine his nails for half an instant.
He was inhumanly fast, and the gust of air he left in his wake was enough to wobble the mirrors and pushed a short table well out of place. Instead of moving to intercept Alice, he grabbed at the lower hem of her skirt, attempting to trip her and send her off her footing. After that, it was only a matter of placing himself beside her and holding out an arm so that he could gently catch her before she tumbled to the ground.
“Your shop is closed, Alice Lynch,” Sasha informed her cheerfully, his chestnut eyes slanted down at her. He ran one hand over his hair and looked around the shop to assess its noticeable lack of customers. “It so happens that I do know about about your ancestry, so allow me to enlighten you.”
Although it was clear that he didn’t intend to allow her to flee, Sasha made no further attempt to keep her physically in his grasp. If she ran again, he would only stop her again. Let her exhaust herself and surrender, he thought, rather than subduing her with brute strength. He wasn’t a savage. Especially not in this female-empowered, post feminist era. Women could even own land these days, or choose their own husbands, or even keep their own names after marriage.
“Alasdair was a Celt and your great grandfather to some obscene degree.” Sasha placed a hand to his chest. “I knew him as Aleksander, but he still called himself Alasdair in his own journals. From what I can read in that ancient tongue. He must have thousands of descendents by now—one of which is you—” He pointed at Alice. “But he had a favored bloodline. Eldest children, typically.”
He grimaced.
“If you’re not willing to cooperate, I suppose I could use your father instead.” Sasha looked down at the waifish girl. “Or… do you have any siblings?”
He was inhumanly fast, and the gust of air he left in his wake was enough to wobble the mirrors and pushed a short table well out of place. Instead of moving to intercept Alice, he grabbed at the lower hem of her skirt, attempting to trip her and send her off her footing. After that, it was only a matter of placing himself beside her and holding out an arm so that he could gently catch her before she tumbled to the ground.
“Your shop is closed, Alice Lynch,” Sasha informed her cheerfully, his chestnut eyes slanted down at her. He ran one hand over his hair and looked around the shop to assess its noticeable lack of customers. “It so happens that I do know about about your ancestry, so allow me to enlighten you.”
Although it was clear that he didn’t intend to allow her to flee, Sasha made no further attempt to keep her physically in his grasp. If she ran again, he would only stop her again. Let her exhaust herself and surrender, he thought, rather than subduing her with brute strength. He wasn’t a savage. Especially not in this female-empowered, post feminist era. Women could even own land these days, or choose their own husbands, or even keep their own names after marriage.
“Alasdair was a Celt and your great grandfather to some obscene degree.” Sasha placed a hand to his chest. “I knew him as Aleksander, but he still called himself Alasdair in his own journals. From what I can read in that ancient tongue. He must have thousands of descendents by now—one of which is you—” He pointed at Alice. “But he had a favored bloodline. Eldest children, typically.”
He grimaced.
“If you’re not willing to cooperate, I suppose I could use your father instead.” Sasha looked down at the waifish girl. “Or… do you have any siblings?”
<Snipped quote by vietmyke>
I can guarantee that absolutely none of you are going to guess it, but Frozen's defs on the right track.
Well, now I feel I've been challenged.
I was guessing some sort of utter catastrophe. Not some small event, but something that will wipe Alonso from the map. Whether it's the efertide, the Army of Heroes clashing with the Legion, or some hitherto unknown threat like a horde of demons or some sort of abyssal magic font that erupts like a volcano and rends the earth asunder.
That would be pretty neato.
I'll reply tomorrow. Today I am dead.
Nah it's cool. I believe in writing enough, not writing to fill space.
I will reply tomorrow.
I will reply tomorrow.
Will post tomorrow. Today was liafeajdjwaliwjdjewa
Whoa, that's pretty awesome.
Alistair. The name struck Sasha with physical force, seen in the narrowing of his eyes. It was only her father’s name, of course, but he knew it was inherited. That confirmed it. And good thing, too, finding her had required an enormous amount of research through paper databases and online ancestry sites. Stealing credit cards to pay for those documents had become tiresome.
After a beat, Sasha released Alice’s wrist, and then he folded his arms again. He had breached beyond accepted etiquette by now. There was no uncertainty of a hostile element at play; he had bared his intentions. Now she was either going to try to run, or phone police. Sasha watched her, prepared to prevent her from doing either.
“Ransom?” He indulged in a chuckle and the roll of his eyes. “Darling, what I need can’t be bought. I meant what I said. I need you. Have you ever been to Marseille?”
Feeling a trace of oddly human guilt, Sasha conceded with a sigh and let his shoulders droop.
“You can stop puffing out your chest, sweetheart.” He batted the air with the back of one hand before tucking it back into his elbow. “I have no desire to hurt you. But you and I are leaving, tonight.”
Looking to his left, Sasha feathered his hair as he looked at the mirror, pretending that he could see his reflection in a mockery of vanity.
“Alistair. It’s a family name, isn’t it?” He already knew that it was. “How much do you know about your ancestry? Back to the Celts?”
After a beat, Sasha released Alice’s wrist, and then he folded his arms again. He had breached beyond accepted etiquette by now. There was no uncertainty of a hostile element at play; he had bared his intentions. Now she was either going to try to run, or phone police. Sasha watched her, prepared to prevent her from doing either.
“Ransom?” He indulged in a chuckle and the roll of his eyes. “Darling, what I need can’t be bought. I meant what I said. I need you. Have you ever been to Marseille?”
Feeling a trace of oddly human guilt, Sasha conceded with a sigh and let his shoulders droop.
“You can stop puffing out your chest, sweetheart.” He batted the air with the back of one hand before tucking it back into his elbow. “I have no desire to hurt you. But you and I are leaving, tonight.”
Looking to his left, Sasha feathered his hair as he looked at the mirror, pretending that he could see his reflection in a mockery of vanity.
“Alistair. It’s a family name, isn’t it?” He already knew that it was. “How much do you know about your ancestry? Back to the Celts?”
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