Over the river and through the woods
Aug 27, 2018 9:56:05 GMT -5
Stormm, The Anarchist, and 3 more like this
Post by Grimm on Aug 27, 2018 9:56:05 GMT -5
Their horses pawed the ground, sparking when hooves struck chert scattered along the path. They shook their heads, tossed their manes, anxious for the fight.
Did you give the horse its might? It laughs at fear, and is not dismayed.
No rain fell but the air in these woods felt wet. The canopy closed in overhead, and, though the occasional gap allowed a glimpse of late afternoon outside, it left them projecting terrible displays in the dark. These two figures on horseback, here on one of their Ember Days. This Brother and Sister. They sat holding the reins just beyond a bend in the path.
“They’re supposed to pass this way,” said Brother.
Sister said, “Don’t worry. They’ll be here.”
Brother, he of the shock of red hair and Beard, sat on a dapple grey horse appearing more suited to work than war. A massive steed the color of a storm, its dark eyes full of fury stared straight ahead. Brother wore a coat the shade of the moss spread round the trees, green with flecks of blue mimicking lichen. The coat reached down the thighs of his woolen trousers.
(You just know thick pads of leather and pieces of metal have been strategically placed underneath.)
Brother wore a small buckler on his left forearm. It stoically bore the scars of past battles.
Sister waited atop a chestnut mare as dark and as sleek as her hair. On this day she wore an oiled leather suit enveloped in a silver cloak. A bandolier of daggers peeked from beneath the cloak. Sister was known to possess certain skills, and as such no doubt any number of poisons were hidden on her person.
Without looking at his sister, Brother said, “I trust your visit with Mortimer went well.”
“Yes, quite. He’s doing much better these days. Between Granny’s poultices and Doctor Barber’s bleedings, his humours are nearly balanced. I dare say he’ll make a full recovery.”
“Bleedings? The last time I saw him he was bleeding quite enough already.”
“Are you a barber? No? I didn’t think so.”
The forest was alive. Insects buzzed, giving these woods an incessant low thrum. Leaves rustled on the ground and in the boughs. Birds called to one another. There was none of this “Listen! There’s no sound!” nonsense.
“Either way, that’s good to hear. Maybe it will bring the Zenith to a better place.”
Sister said, “Well, we shall see. He’s been through much lately. First the assault on Mortimer, then the death of his betrothed.”
“We’re all dying. It’s as natural to die as it is to be born.”
“Perhaps. But to see it happen before your very eyes…to see it under those terrible circumstances…it couldn’t have been worse. He’s in a raw state.”
One of those birds, a crow, croaked something it knew of death.
“But more to your point, yes, I believe he’s coming back around. And that can only mean good things for the Order. And for us. Once they figure out how to maneuver themselves within the labyrinths of the Black Hand, all will be on the correct course.”
Deeper rustlings betrayed the movements of larger creatures. Cold breaths weaved around the trees and through the briers. A shadow moved, and they caught a glimpse of a wilted silhouette swinging from a branch, leaving behind empty spaces in the shape of anguish.
“All will be on the correct course once we determine why each of them has offered their services to us. How they fit into the grander architecture. Some, admittedly, just like the feeling of power. Some believe they’re influencing events towards an inevitable greater good. Some want to believe they’re part of something bigger than themselves. Some simply want a feeling of control, no matter how slight, over the chaos. A feeling that they have a modicum of influence on the coincidences and happenstances that make up a life.”
“ While yet others are born into it – they’re groomed for it. They have no choice in the matter.”
Brother nodded. “Yes, that too. We’ll figure them each out, sooner or later. And decide what to do with the ones who are a little too…enthusiastic about certain aspects of our authority.”
Fairies are portrayed in popular culture as lovely little ladies or fancy lads in acorn caps, flitting around on gossamer wings, singing songs, doing what they can to keep the outside world from encroaching on their small pieces of paradise. That could not be further from the truth. Fairies are an aberration, an abomination of nature. They suffer from maladies and various disfigurements. They fling curses and accusations at anyone unfortunate enough to stumble upon them. These fairies, the real ones, are not far removed from the minor imps and demons condemned to writhing out their eternities in Pandemonium.
As such, Brother waved them off like so many no-see-ums buzzing in his ears. Minor inconveniences at best. Sister, though, had not the patience today. In one smooth motion she produced a dagger, whipped it through the air, and pinned one particularly irritating fairy to an oak tree. The rest scattered, leaving these two to some semblance of calm.
A salamander scurried through leaf mold. Cobwebs fluttered in a breeze. Brother stiffened, sitting higher in the saddle. He raised his head and sniffed. Sister closed her eyes and raised her hands. Her fingers twitched, feeling the air.
Brother exhaled a smattering of ice and rime on his beard. Sister said, “Here they are.”
And there they were, the two of them, rounding the path into view. The first emerged in full armor, black as pitch, dented from years of conflict. His helmet rested with the faceguard down, leaving his identity hidden to all but those who had heard the tales of such a man traveling these lands in such a battle-weary suit. The horse upon which he rode, though just as black as the knight, had been touched by a swipe of white upon its face. The knight, or those who serve him, had marked the horse as its masters with swaths of orange paint on its chest and back legs. The paint spoke, “War.” The knight wielded in one hand an enormous sword of black steel that somehow seemed to both devour the light and yet reflect it back as a flash upon those whose blood it craved. A shield, just as black as the rest of his personage save for a white lighting bolt cutting a jagged slash down the front, rested in his other hand.
A single black glove swung from a strap fixed to the saddle. Whether the glove was meant to serve as a reminder of allegiance, a comment on solidarity, or simply a provocation, only the knight knew.
The second appeared on foot. He moved cautious, on alert, with an arrow notched in his bow and ready to let fly at the slightest hint of adversity. This warrior’s long blond hair had been collected in a ponytail and was unfettered by any manner of helmet. He stepped lightly in leather boots, and moved with ease in a suit of leather dotted with studs of iron. Brown eyes darted this way and that, taking in all his surroundings.
Those eyes as well as those of the knight soon came to rest on Brother and Sister. Brother’s own eyes fixed them both with a stare of frozen tides, cold and severe and focused on a singular purpose. He reached into his coat and produced two midwinter axes, forged by dwarves under the northern mountains and honed to keen edges. Brother and knight nodded. And spurred on their horses. At that, a fourth figure, decked out in the finest leathers and chain mail that gold could buy and swinging a very fine sword indeed, burst out of the underbrush. The archer turned and raised his bow.
And Sister sat back on her horse. Upon the unfolding of the carnage, she smiled that smile. You know the one. It was that Dillinger smile, familiar to anyone who had ever stood across from those Brothers Gruesome of hers.
** Thanks to Stormm , Tyrone "Crazy Boy" Smith , and Gerard Angelo for contributing their own visions of their characters to me for this piece. **
Did you give the horse its might? It laughs at fear, and is not dismayed.
No rain fell but the air in these woods felt wet. The canopy closed in overhead, and, though the occasional gap allowed a glimpse of late afternoon outside, it left them projecting terrible displays in the dark. These two figures on horseback, here on one of their Ember Days. This Brother and Sister. They sat holding the reins just beyond a bend in the path.
“They’re supposed to pass this way,” said Brother.
Sister said, “Don’t worry. They’ll be here.”
Brother, he of the shock of red hair and Beard, sat on a dapple grey horse appearing more suited to work than war. A massive steed the color of a storm, its dark eyes full of fury stared straight ahead. Brother wore a coat the shade of the moss spread round the trees, green with flecks of blue mimicking lichen. The coat reached down the thighs of his woolen trousers.
(You just know thick pads of leather and pieces of metal have been strategically placed underneath.)
Brother wore a small buckler on his left forearm. It stoically bore the scars of past battles.
Sister waited atop a chestnut mare as dark and as sleek as her hair. On this day she wore an oiled leather suit enveloped in a silver cloak. A bandolier of daggers peeked from beneath the cloak. Sister was known to possess certain skills, and as such no doubt any number of poisons were hidden on her person.
Without looking at his sister, Brother said, “I trust your visit with Mortimer went well.”
“Yes, quite. He’s doing much better these days. Between Granny’s poultices and Doctor Barber’s bleedings, his humours are nearly balanced. I dare say he’ll make a full recovery.”
“Bleedings? The last time I saw him he was bleeding quite enough already.”
“Are you a barber? No? I didn’t think so.”
The forest was alive. Insects buzzed, giving these woods an incessant low thrum. Leaves rustled on the ground and in the boughs. Birds called to one another. There was none of this “Listen! There’s no sound!” nonsense.
“Either way, that’s good to hear. Maybe it will bring the Zenith to a better place.”
Sister said, “Well, we shall see. He’s been through much lately. First the assault on Mortimer, then the death of his betrothed.”
“We’re all dying. It’s as natural to die as it is to be born.”
“Perhaps. But to see it happen before your very eyes…to see it under those terrible circumstances…it couldn’t have been worse. He’s in a raw state.”
One of those birds, a crow, croaked something it knew of death.
“But more to your point, yes, I believe he’s coming back around. And that can only mean good things for the Order. And for us. Once they figure out how to maneuver themselves within the labyrinths of the Black Hand, all will be on the correct course.”
Deeper rustlings betrayed the movements of larger creatures. Cold breaths weaved around the trees and through the briers. A shadow moved, and they caught a glimpse of a wilted silhouette swinging from a branch, leaving behind empty spaces in the shape of anguish.
“All will be on the correct course once we determine why each of them has offered their services to us. How they fit into the grander architecture. Some, admittedly, just like the feeling of power. Some believe they’re influencing events towards an inevitable greater good. Some want to believe they’re part of something bigger than themselves. Some simply want a feeling of control, no matter how slight, over the chaos. A feeling that they have a modicum of influence on the coincidences and happenstances that make up a life.”
“ While yet others are born into it – they’re groomed for it. They have no choice in the matter.”
Brother nodded. “Yes, that too. We’ll figure them each out, sooner or later. And decide what to do with the ones who are a little too…enthusiastic about certain aspects of our authority.”
Fairies are portrayed in popular culture as lovely little ladies or fancy lads in acorn caps, flitting around on gossamer wings, singing songs, doing what they can to keep the outside world from encroaching on their small pieces of paradise. That could not be further from the truth. Fairies are an aberration, an abomination of nature. They suffer from maladies and various disfigurements. They fling curses and accusations at anyone unfortunate enough to stumble upon them. These fairies, the real ones, are not far removed from the minor imps and demons condemned to writhing out their eternities in Pandemonium.
As such, Brother waved them off like so many no-see-ums buzzing in his ears. Minor inconveniences at best. Sister, though, had not the patience today. In one smooth motion she produced a dagger, whipped it through the air, and pinned one particularly irritating fairy to an oak tree. The rest scattered, leaving these two to some semblance of calm.
A salamander scurried through leaf mold. Cobwebs fluttered in a breeze. Brother stiffened, sitting higher in the saddle. He raised his head and sniffed. Sister closed her eyes and raised her hands. Her fingers twitched, feeling the air.
Brother exhaled a smattering of ice and rime on his beard. Sister said, “Here they are.”
And there they were, the two of them, rounding the path into view. The first emerged in full armor, black as pitch, dented from years of conflict. His helmet rested with the faceguard down, leaving his identity hidden to all but those who had heard the tales of such a man traveling these lands in such a battle-weary suit. The horse upon which he rode, though just as black as the knight, had been touched by a swipe of white upon its face. The knight, or those who serve him, had marked the horse as its masters with swaths of orange paint on its chest and back legs. The paint spoke, “War.” The knight wielded in one hand an enormous sword of black steel that somehow seemed to both devour the light and yet reflect it back as a flash upon those whose blood it craved. A shield, just as black as the rest of his personage save for a white lighting bolt cutting a jagged slash down the front, rested in his other hand.
A single black glove swung from a strap fixed to the saddle. Whether the glove was meant to serve as a reminder of allegiance, a comment on solidarity, or simply a provocation, only the knight knew.
The second appeared on foot. He moved cautious, on alert, with an arrow notched in his bow and ready to let fly at the slightest hint of adversity. This warrior’s long blond hair had been collected in a ponytail and was unfettered by any manner of helmet. He stepped lightly in leather boots, and moved with ease in a suit of leather dotted with studs of iron. Brown eyes darted this way and that, taking in all his surroundings.
Those eyes as well as those of the knight soon came to rest on Brother and Sister. Brother’s own eyes fixed them both with a stare of frozen tides, cold and severe and focused on a singular purpose. He reached into his coat and produced two midwinter axes, forged by dwarves under the northern mountains and honed to keen edges. Brother and knight nodded. And spurred on their horses. At that, a fourth figure, decked out in the finest leathers and chain mail that gold could buy and swinging a very fine sword indeed, burst out of the underbrush. The archer turned and raised his bow.
And Sister sat back on her horse. Upon the unfolding of the carnage, she smiled that smile. You know the one. It was that Dillinger smile, familiar to anyone who had ever stood across from those Brothers Gruesome of hers.
** Thanks to Stormm , Tyrone "Crazy Boy" Smith , and Gerard Angelo for contributing their own visions of their characters to me for this piece. **
