So, I promised my sister I'd write this two days ago, but although I tried I couldn't think of a story until today. Also she specified that she wanted something funny, and I find humour hard to write. (whinge, whine, make excuses) Ultimately I came up with this and it was just going to be a quick little one-shot, but it's taking me longer to write than I thought, so I'm splitting it up. Also worth noting: the roster is the same but the hierarchy isn't. We all had a chat a while ago and decided our new jobs would be:
Finesse: Leader
Chronal: Tech Guy
Amity: Medic
Lyric: General Infantry. With a sword.
Shift: Tactician
Wraith: Person most likely to be eaten in a survival situation.
(Yeah, I'm not including the last one.)
Anyway: Tell us a story, Jackanory.
Scribblers: Going Green
Issue One
Scene the First: In Da Pit. The Scribblers are all chillin' out in their expansive and swanky living area, doing various activities. LYRIC is sparring with FINESSE, WRAITH is drawing amusing charicatures of everyone, SHIFT is hunting through the sofa cushions for a pack of cards and AMITY and CHRONAL are drawing up a list of rules for a new card game. I say AMITY and CHRONAL – AMITY is coming up with most of them while CHRONAL makes the list, because it's an Obsession.
AMITY
And I think there should be some brilliantly poetic rule about the picture cards in various situations! Like, if the king or queen gets put on top of a Tower of the same suit it counts as a look-out.
WRAITH
I'm never playing this game. It has more rules than I have fingers.
AMITY
But that's why we're writing them down!
CHRONAL
I'm making a List!
FINESSE
Yes, good boy.
CHRONAL
Yay!
AMITY
And it follows its own logic.
WRAITH
Logic is for squares.
CHRONAL
So's your face.
WRAITH pretends to cry. He is largely ignored. SHIFT suddenly straightens from her hunting in the sofa cushions, a pack of cards clutched triumphantly in one hand.
SHIFT
Success get! I have found the cards! Also: three pence in coins, a boiled sweet, two pens and Chronal's communicator.
FINESSE
All of Chronal's stuff, then.
CHRONAL
Excellent! I've been needing the pens.
FINESSE
Well yes. And, I imagine, the communicator.
LYRIC
Finesse, stop talking to them. I nearly broke your nose twice then.
FINESSE
But suavely.
SHIFT
Um... I'm not sure we can use these cards for this, actually.
CHRONAL
Really? Why not?
WRAITH
I bet they're Lyric's secret porn cards.
LYRIC
Why? Why is it always me at the receiving end of sex jokes?
FINESSE
Focus, Lyric. I nearly broke your wrist, then.
SHIFT
They aren't porn, they just have 'Amity won the poker' written across them all.
There's a brief pause as everyone looks at AMITY, who beams.
AMITY
I did win the poker! I'd forgotten! That was a great day.
CHRONAL
But... You wrote it across all of the cards?
FINESSE
And then forgot anyway?
SHIFT
Yeah, I can't help but see a wasted effort there. Also wasted cards.
Suddenly: darkness strikes! As in, there's a power cut and it's night, so there is abrupt darkness and an accompanying abrupt outpouring of noise. WRAITH, in the middle of his drawing, shouts out; CHRONAL, in the middle of his list, does the same; and there's a series of yelps as FINESSE and LYRIC, both in the middle of sparring, collide with each other and fall over in a tangled heap amid much swearing and threats of vengeance.
SHIFT
What on earth...?
AMITY
Er... Finesse? Lyric? Are you guys okay?
FINESSE
I'm not sure who's leg this is...
LYRIC
Is this - ?
FINESSE
No, that's me!
LYRIC
Er... sorry...
AMITY
Hang on.
She gets up to poke the lightbulb but promptly trips over WRAITH, who is trying to do the same thing. More crashes follow.
LYRIC
Ow! That's definitely not me!
FINESSE
Nor me...
WRAITH
Argh! It's me, you dystopia! Stop it!
SHIFT
He won't stop. This is exactly the excuse Lyric's been waiting for.
LYRIC
Again, why is it always me...
CHRONAL
Hang on, let me help...
OTHER SCRIBBLERS EN MASSE
NO!!!!!
It's too late. Chronal, aka Captain Clumsy, gets up and promptly trips over nothing so much as his own feet and lands on the pile of bodies, narrowly missing SHIFT as he does. There is much yelling and swearing once more.
LYRIC
God damn it!
SHIFT
I can't get around you all now to get to the lights. That's very inconvenient.
AMITY
Not the best decision you've ever made, Chrone.
WRAITH
Who's that, now?
LYRIC
That would be me. I'd tell you to stop, but apparently that would be out of character.
CHRONAL
Well, that just made everything a bit less comfortable.
FINESSE
Oh, for god's sake enough!
She flings out an arm and catches SHIFT's ankle.
SHIFT
Why, what are you – argh! Warn me before you do that!
LYRIC
Good lord, what has she done?
SHIFT
She turned my eyes into cat's eyes!
FINESSE
I can turn your vocal chords and ears into a bat's, if you'd prefer.
SHIFT
No! No, cat's eyes are fine. Warning is better.
FINESSE
Oh, whatever. The independent power supply switch is in the communications room.
SHIFT
Yeah, yeah...
She edges past the mass of bodies on the floor and leaves the room.
WRAITH
What, she couldn't have helped us up first? What kind of a friend is she?
AMITY
I know! We could play a game to pass the time!
FINESSE
Ooh, yes. "Statements That Could Make This Situation Worse." I'll go first : Argh, Lyric! Why are you naked?!
CHRONAL
Yes, that definitely makes it worse.
LYRIC
Firstly, that's actually a question, not a statement –
FINESSE
My game, my rules.
LYRIC
And secondly I'm going to kick your arse next time we spar. Oh yes. You will rue.
SHIFT (returning)
My turn! How about, "I can't find the switch"?
WRAITH
That had better be part of the game.
SHIFT
Sorry.
CHRONAL
Yes, that also makes it worse. Well done. Whose elbow is that?
AMITY
Oh, could be mine. Sorry.
FINESSE
It's next to the Solariax fusebox, on the left.
SHIFT
Oh, that! Hang on...
She leaves again.
AMITY
Remember when I won the poker? That was a great day.
LYRIC
Why is this even happening? I thought this building had solar panels and that stuff! Why are we not using the independent power supply anyway?
CHRONAL
Because Solariax were just starting out, and we wanted to support them. And since it's still green energy it seemed like the right thing to do.
FINESSE
The heroic thing, if you will.
LYRIC
Yeah, well, since they supply half the country now, I vote we switch back to our own power again.
FINESSE
You say that like you're not loving this.
AMITY
Yeah. We know the truth, Lyric.
WRAITH
Er... I think the table's about to fall on us.
AMITY
Are we still playing the game?
Suddenly the lights flicker on, revealing a comedy pile of limbs and costumes in the middle of the floor. There's a slight, awkward pause, and then everyone sets about extricating themselves as though nothing happened.
AMITY
So that list, eh?
CHRONAL
Oh, yes. And those cards. I think we could work them into the rules.
WRAITH
I can't find my pen. Can I have one of the sofa pens?
CHRONAL
Yeah, why not?
FINESSE
Enough practice for today?
LYRIC
No. You will rue.
SHIFT
Um, actually, ruing, carding and penning will have to wait. We've had a call.
FINESSE
From whom?
SHIFT
The Government.
Scene the Next: the Senedd, which is in Cardiff. The Scribblers park the Trans-Jet on the roof and slide down the big tree bit in the middle to land in the main council chamber. Lots of important Governmental types are there, and some worried-looking scientists. There's even the Prime Minister, who shall go unnamed so as not to date this otherwise stellar piece of historic fiction.
PRIME MINISTER
Welcome, Scribblers! We're glad you could make it. It seems we have a bit of an emergency.
FINESSE
The power cut?
PRIME MINISTER
Yes, although it's more than just a power cut, which would have been catastrophic enough itself. Er, this is Professor Clarkson, he'll be briefing you.
A slimy-looking middle aged man sidles forward, all white coat, clipboard and comb-over. He smiles at them, although it looks like an expression he has to practice several times a night in the mirror to remove much of the slime, and even as he does knows that he will only ever be moderately successful in doing so.
PROF CLARKSON
Scribblers! Delighted to meet you, although under such unfortunate cirumstances. If you'll all take a seat?
SHIFT (whispered to FINESSE)
Why must he speak in sentence fragments?
FINESSE (whispered back)
He hates the verb 'to be'.
The Scribblers all take a seat about three rows back from the front, because only squares sit by the teacher. SHIFT and FINESSE start passing notes to each other in a small notebook; WRAITH begins drawing amusing pictures of PROF CLARKSON and LYRIC aims a rubber band at CHRONAL's head. AMITY actually listens, because she's a good girl. PROF CLARKSON, meanwhile, starts off a power point presentation.
PROF CLARKSON
The power cut itself can be traced directly back to Solariax Ltd, who supply approximately sixty percent of the country with power including all hospitals, schools, police stations and other such municipal buildings. Fortunately, by now we've managed to reconnect all such structures by linking them up to the grid supplied by FossCarbon Inc.
AMITY
Already? That was quick.
PROF CLARKSON
Oh, FossCarbon is very efficient, my dear. Although, it's not quite as astonishing as you might think. They've long thought that over-dependence on something as unreliable as renewable energy might be... unwise, and so had such contingency structures in place.
AMITY has an Opinion on this opinion and exchanges a small glance with FINESSE, but they say nothing, because they are superheroes and it would be unseemly.
PROF CLARKSON
Now: to the problem itself. Solariax uses Heulobattery technology in order to store the electricity it produces before supplying it to the country. Unfortunately, the technology has been sabotaged from within, and it seems it has reversed its polarity – instead of sending the electricity outwards it is currently drawing it all back in, but it's still producing electricity. It doesn't have the storage capacity for all of the electricity. If it's not stopped, it will explode; the ensuing explosion will probably destroy most of south Wales.
FINESSE
How long do we have?
PROF CLARKSON
Right now, forty seven minutes.
FINESSE
Jesus god.
LYRIC
Well, that bites hard.
CHRONAL
So what do we do?
PROF CLARKSON
Well, there is the good news! We've been worried about this for quite some time, and so we've developed an energy signature that we can send to the Heulobattery that will trigger the auto-destruct sequence. It's designed to implode, so we can use it with up to five minutes to go and it will only destroy the plant and a five-mile radius around it.
SHIFT
So who's sabotaged it?
A new photo appears on screen of a slightly creepy-looking scientist with a Hitler moustache and stupid hair. It's really stupid hair, too. In fact, I won't even try to hide from you that this guy is a bad guy, because his hair is just too stupid to bother, so screw him. Bad Guy ahoy. WRAITH studiously begins an amusing picture of him, because this is how WRAITH explores the world and new concepts.
PROF CLARKSON
This man, a Professor Pearce-Morgan. He worked extensively on the Heulobattery, so whatever he's done, it's inherently in the system and can't be changed by anyone else. He's demanding the immediate transfer of all FossCarbon systems to Solariax.
CHRONAL
Or he'll blow up the country? What the hell is wrong with him?
FINESSE puts a hand on CHRONAL's arm and suddenly the world freezes around the Scribblers, leaving everyone else's face frozen in those incredibly unflattering freezeframes that cameras pick up but no one else. WRAITH snorts and throws the screwed- up drawing at PROF CLARKSON.
AMITY
He's lying.
LYRIC
What? Who? About what?
AMITY
Professor Clarkson. I can't be specific, but his brain is full of all the wrong chemicals and hormones and things. And he's in a high state of excitement; not nervous anticipation, positive excitement. He knows far more about this than he's letting on.
SHIFT
I could turn into a polar bear and beat him up until he confessed?
FINESSE
I'm not sure the PM would take that well.
CHRONAL
It did seem unlikely that a Solariax employee would sabotage the Heulobattery.
AMITY
Oh, er... that bit was true, I think.
CHRONAL
... Well, you know what that doesn't make? Sense.
LYRIC
Stupid hair, though.
FINESSE
I quite agree.
SHIFT
Solariax are slowly conquering the country anyway. Why on earth would he need to force a transfer?
FINESSE
He wouldn't, if he really was working for Solariax.
CHRONAL
Ah.
SHIFT
Oh.
LYRIC
Well, that can suck my inner –
FINESSE
You say such beautiful things. My theory, gang, is that we have a pair of evil scientists on our hands, here, and they're both working for FossCarbon.
WRAITH
Ahh. They had the power supply back so quickly.
CHRONAL
And such stupid hair.
AMITY
And when Solariax take over FossCarbon will be out of a job. So they've rigged the Heulobattery to blow or be blown up by us now, thus forcing the switch back to FossCarbon.
SHIFT
There must be some other way to shut it down, though? Mister Hitler there must have a back door.
FINESSE
That's true. Back to real time, Chronal, I have some questions.
CHRONAL concentrates and the world rushes back to normal, everyone's faces sliding into generally prettier expressions than the previous freakshow. It's not easy having time-freezy powers. You see gross faces all the time.
FINESSE
So, why can't we just stroll up to the main gate of the plant and force Professor Pearce-Morgan to undo what he's done?
PROF CLARKSON
Er... well, it's likely he can't. But even if he could, the Heulobattery is disrupting and draining all electrical equipment in an increasing radius. We couldn't get near except on foot, and it's locked down.
FINESSE
Aha! Well, fortunately, you're talking to the right people. We can get in.
PROF CLARKSON
But...
PRIME MINISTER
Do you think you could get him to reverse the process?
FINESSE
I have some persuasive team members, Prime Minister.
PRIME MINISTER
Well, that would solve everything!
PROF CLARKSON
But...
PRIME MINISTER
Yes, yes, okay. You have thirty minutes, Scribblers, but then we have to send the signal. Understand?
FINESSE
Yes, sir.
She pokes CHRONAL into another time freeze.
FINESSE
Right. Plan time, Shift.
SHIFT
Okay. Amity, you're staying here under the pretence of running dispatch, since they'll think our comms don't work. In reality you're keeping an eye and a mind on Professor Clarkson, and don't let him talk the Prime Minister into ditching Solariax.
AMITY
Okay, but your comms actually won't work, you know.
FINESSE
I have a plan for that.
SHIFT
Really?
FINESSE
Have you met my sister?
SHIFT
Brilliant! Fine. Chronal, you're going to need to push yourself – get to FossCarbon with Lyric and Wraith and find out whatever they did to the Heulobattery. You need to work out how to reverse it or at least disarm it in some way. You also need to find evidence.
CHRONAL
What about you?
FINESSE
We're going to Solariax. And we're going with my sister.
CHRONAL
Wow, I'm glad I'm not Professor Pearce-Morgan.
Friday, 12 September 2008
Thursday, 4 September 2008
Juncture, Straight On
(Ok, so its been 6 months since I started this. It's much shorter than it was supposed to be. The point was that you'd get a choice of posts to read. But I never wrote more than one, so it didn't work so well. Here's post no. 2!
NB: her convenient "friends house" only occurs in this post because of her choice of "straight on." It doesn't exist in the "right" or "left" universes.)
Juncture: Straight on
Checking one last time for any traffic, she crosses straight across the cross-roads and up the slight incline. The hedged verges drop away here to reveal stunning views of the open countryside; a majestic mountain curving up to her right, sliding down into a valley carpeted in woodland. Every now and then a flurry of birds erupt from the surrounding scene, with a burst of their trilling songs.
She is lost in her idling reflections when she hears one of the most welcome sounds she’s ever heard. From behind there is a car approaching and she quickly turns and holds out her arm, thumb aloft, hoping against hope that she doesn’t look like too much of a weirdo today.
She soon surmises that she mustn’t look too bad because the car indicates and pulls over. She doesn’t know much about cars, but she knew enough to feel the vibes of expense radiating from it. If she was ever going to tell anyone about this experience in the future, she’d call it the “pretty bluey-silver sportsy-type car,” to the despair of all metal-head’s in the area.
The driver’s door swooshed open and a Gorgeous Man stepped out. She blinked.
“Hi there,” he said, unoriginally.
“Urgh,” she replied, realising as she said it that that wasn’t a word. “Umineem,” she continued quickly, feeling more and more like a weirdo. Damn.
“Umm…” the Gorgeous Man said, looking a bit non-plussed. This was an accustomed expression for him.
“My car’s stopped,” she managed to blurt out suddenly, probably looking even more demented. “I don’t have a phone and errr… I kind of don’t really know what to do.” She stopped, determined not to add further embarrassment to that pitiful effort.
“Hey, no problem!” the Gorgeous Man said in that laid back, supposedly, charming way of all men who fancy themselves as Gorgeous. “Do you have the number of your insurance breakdown people?”
Shit. Crap. Bastards.
“Umm… no well, yes, but well, I keep it on my phone and I forgot my phone.”
Pathetic.
“Oh. Well can I give you a lift somewhere? I didn’t really have a destination in mind. I was just taking the car out, you know, cruising.”
She wonders briefly whether he is some kind of creepy murderer-rapist, or else just someone who lacks environmentalist principles. She decides the latter are more common.
“Ah- yes please!” she replies, trying to sound grateful, but not like some kind of freaky keeno. “I was on my way to a friend’s house- she lives about ten minutes drive from here. Would that be at all possible?” She allows herself to sound just a little bit desperate. She even toys with the idea of puppy-dog eyes.
“Sure!” he replies with an expansive arm gesture. “Climb on in.”
She steps into the car, sinking deeply into the squishy leather seating. She smiled at the decadence of her transportation as she snaps the seat belt into place. The Gorgeous Man slides into the driver’s seat and flicked on his indicator light, making a soft little puck-puck noise, almost like an embarrassed cough.
“You know, it’s the strangest thing, and I know this is going to sound like a line, but I can’t help but feel I know you from somewhere.” The Gorgeous Man glanced across at her, a slightly puzzled expression on his face.
She takes a closer look at him and with a sinking feeling, realises that yes, they have met before. He used to be in the same school, although two years older, and she had been part of a (now hideously embarrassing) fan club, devoted to his supreme gorgeousness and popularity. It was a supposedly a secret fan club. But this was a school after all.
To pretend you don’t know him: Stop! And continue reading the post entitled Juncture: I don’t know what you’re talking about.
To acknowledge the acquaintance, despite the embarrassment; continue reading below.
“Yes, actually, I don’t suppose you went to Hartfield School?” she asked, as nonchalantly as possible. She looked out the window as she said it, admiring the now very interesting scenery. In fact, she could just make out what seemed to be a castle, nestled in the bottom of the valley.
“Yes! I did!” the Man replied, slight excitement entering his tone. “Did you go there too?”
“Yes,” she replied neutrally, “I don’t think we were in the same year though.”
“School days were good fun, weren’t they? Do you remember Mr Pughes?”
“Yes! And how he always said everything as if it was from 1950. ‘Turn down the sound on your jukeboxes, children!’ He was a right laugh,” she replied, with a laugh.
“Yes! And do you remember that special assembly he lead?”
“Who doesn’t! I don’t think I’ve ever cringed so much.”
“Less said about that, the better,” he replied solemnly.
“At the next cross roads, it’s straight on,” she interrupted, pointing at the junction coming up in front of them.
“Ok,” he replied, still smiling. Looking both ways, he carefully crossed over the road.
“My friend’s house is coming up on the left soon,” she said, leaning forward and squinting at the hedge line.
“Is that it?” he asked, tilting his head at a house sitting set into the hillside.
“Yes!” she replied happily. “Thank you so much for driving me! I was really stuck back there.”
“It was my pleasure. Look, I don’t want to sound corny, but could I have you’re number?” He said the last part slightly rushed.
She smiled back at him. “Sure. But, as we know, my ability to keep my phone on me is not the best.”
He laughed in reply. “I suppose I’ll just have to be patient then!”
He handed her his phone and she keyed her number in.
“See you around then,” she said, stepping out of his car. “And thanks again for the lift.”
“No problem! Hopefully see you soon!”
With that he drove off into the sunset. Once he was out of sight, she jumped up and down on the spot laughing.
“No one from school will believe this!” she thought to herself, before running up to her friends door and ringing the bell.
“You alright?” her friend asked, opening the door.
“Fine!” she exclaimed, jubilantly, “but you are not going to believe what just happened!”
THE END
NB: her convenient "friends house" only occurs in this post because of her choice of "straight on." It doesn't exist in the "right" or "left" universes.)
Juncture: Straight on
Checking one last time for any traffic, she crosses straight across the cross-roads and up the slight incline. The hedged verges drop away here to reveal stunning views of the open countryside; a majestic mountain curving up to her right, sliding down into a valley carpeted in woodland. Every now and then a flurry of birds erupt from the surrounding scene, with a burst of their trilling songs.
She is lost in her idling reflections when she hears one of the most welcome sounds she’s ever heard. From behind there is a car approaching and she quickly turns and holds out her arm, thumb aloft, hoping against hope that she doesn’t look like too much of a weirdo today.
She soon surmises that she mustn’t look too bad because the car indicates and pulls over. She doesn’t know much about cars, but she knew enough to feel the vibes of expense radiating from it. If she was ever going to tell anyone about this experience in the future, she’d call it the “pretty bluey-silver sportsy-type car,” to the despair of all metal-head’s in the area.
The driver’s door swooshed open and a Gorgeous Man stepped out. She blinked.
“Hi there,” he said, unoriginally.
“Urgh,” she replied, realising as she said it that that wasn’t a word. “Umineem,” she continued quickly, feeling more and more like a weirdo. Damn.
“Umm…” the Gorgeous Man said, looking a bit non-plussed. This was an accustomed expression for him.
“My car’s stopped,” she managed to blurt out suddenly, probably looking even more demented. “I don’t have a phone and errr… I kind of don’t really know what to do.” She stopped, determined not to add further embarrassment to that pitiful effort.
“Hey, no problem!” the Gorgeous Man said in that laid back, supposedly, charming way of all men who fancy themselves as Gorgeous. “Do you have the number of your insurance breakdown people?”
Shit. Crap. Bastards.
“Umm… no well, yes, but well, I keep it on my phone and I forgot my phone.”
Pathetic.
“Oh. Well can I give you a lift somewhere? I didn’t really have a destination in mind. I was just taking the car out, you know, cruising.”
She wonders briefly whether he is some kind of creepy murderer-rapist, or else just someone who lacks environmentalist principles. She decides the latter are more common.
“Ah- yes please!” she replies, trying to sound grateful, but not like some kind of freaky keeno. “I was on my way to a friend’s house- she lives about ten minutes drive from here. Would that be at all possible?” She allows herself to sound just a little bit desperate. She even toys with the idea of puppy-dog eyes.
“Sure!” he replies with an expansive arm gesture. “Climb on in.”
She steps into the car, sinking deeply into the squishy leather seating. She smiled at the decadence of her transportation as she snaps the seat belt into place. The Gorgeous Man slides into the driver’s seat and flicked on his indicator light, making a soft little puck-puck noise, almost like an embarrassed cough.
“You know, it’s the strangest thing, and I know this is going to sound like a line, but I can’t help but feel I know you from somewhere.” The Gorgeous Man glanced across at her, a slightly puzzled expression on his face.
She takes a closer look at him and with a sinking feeling, realises that yes, they have met before. He used to be in the same school, although two years older, and she had been part of a (now hideously embarrassing) fan club, devoted to his supreme gorgeousness and popularity. It was a supposedly a secret fan club. But this was a school after all.
To pretend you don’t know him: Stop! And continue reading the post entitled Juncture: I don’t know what you’re talking about.
To acknowledge the acquaintance, despite the embarrassment; continue reading below.
“Yes, actually, I don’t suppose you went to Hartfield School?” she asked, as nonchalantly as possible. She looked out the window as she said it, admiring the now very interesting scenery. In fact, she could just make out what seemed to be a castle, nestled in the bottom of the valley.
“Yes! I did!” the Man replied, slight excitement entering his tone. “Did you go there too?”
“Yes,” she replied neutrally, “I don’t think we were in the same year though.”
“School days were good fun, weren’t they? Do you remember Mr Pughes?”
“Yes! And how he always said everything as if it was from 1950. ‘Turn down the sound on your jukeboxes, children!’ He was a right laugh,” she replied, with a laugh.
“Yes! And do you remember that special assembly he lead?”
“Who doesn’t! I don’t think I’ve ever cringed so much.”
“Less said about that, the better,” he replied solemnly.
“At the next cross roads, it’s straight on,” she interrupted, pointing at the junction coming up in front of them.
“Ok,” he replied, still smiling. Looking both ways, he carefully crossed over the road.
“My friend’s house is coming up on the left soon,” she said, leaning forward and squinting at the hedge line.
“Is that it?” he asked, tilting his head at a house sitting set into the hillside.
“Yes!” she replied happily. “Thank you so much for driving me! I was really stuck back there.”
“It was my pleasure. Look, I don’t want to sound corny, but could I have you’re number?” He said the last part slightly rushed.
She smiled back at him. “Sure. But, as we know, my ability to keep my phone on me is not the best.”
He laughed in reply. “I suppose I’ll just have to be patient then!”
He handed her his phone and she keyed her number in.
“See you around then,” she said, stepping out of his car. “And thanks again for the lift.”
“No problem! Hopefully see you soon!”
With that he drove off into the sunset. Once he was out of sight, she jumped up and down on the spot laughing.
“No one from school will believe this!” she thought to herself, before running up to her friends door and ringing the bell.
“You alright?” her friend asked, opening the door.
“Fine!” she exclaimed, jubilantly, “but you are not going to believe what just happened!”
THE END
Shift. Chapter 11
(Once again, cut short because of internet issues- I suppose its really Chapter 10, part two.)
One of the more interesting political structures in our modern world is that of the Kingdom of Callania. Whilst they maintain the overall hierarchical structure of many other Western nations, their royalty is selected by election, rather than by birth. The children of incumbent Kings or Queens are often put forward for election, but they are not always the favourite choice. The longest the throne has stayed with one direct family is three generations, culminating in the current leaders, King Tanon and Queen Elerina. Should one of their children win the next election, their family would be the most successful in history.
Excerpt from “Politics of Our time”
***
There was the faintest movement, a slight sway of the curtains and a flicker of the firelight. Penry looked up from his desk, his expression frozen, hesitant.
“Here already?” he queried into the darkness.
“I am,” she replied materialising suddenly just on the edge of his peripheral vision. He turned to face her, a smile creeping across his features.
“I call. You come. I could get used to this,” he said, in a slightly mocking tone. The figure blurred out of sight. Penry frantically glanced all round himself, his eyes finally alighting on her face, two inches from his left shoulder.
“Don’t,” was all she said, venom dripping from her tone.
“What a clever little pixie you are!” he exclaimed, trying to hide his consternation.
“Nice. But I am not a pixie.” She moved away from him, crossing to stand near the firelight.
“Can’t blame me for trying,” he replied with more composure. “So you’re not a pixie, an elf, a fairy or a hob. I’m getting quite a list here.” He pulled a sheet of paper towards himself and made a note.
“No. Those creatures are fictional.” She pushed the hood from her face, revealing a swathe of thick red hair, twisted up and tied in loops about her head. Her features had a slightly blurred appearance, although her eyes were clear and bright, brilliant white disks.
“No? Even hobs?” He replied, in mock seriousness.
“Especially hobs. So what do you want?” she asked, pacing in front of the fire, her image blurring and contorting slightly in unison with the waves of heat.
“Not so fast. Small talk first,” he replied evenly, folding his hands across his lap. “So, where have you been recently?”
“Working,” she replied tersely. “As I’m sure you know already. If you insist on asking me anything, ask me something you don’t know.”
“Working? I hope they paid you well,” he replied somewhat loftily.
“Of course.” She stopped her pacing, examining the objects lining the fireplace.
“I sometimes wonder, what does an evil, soulless creature like yourself actually spend money on?” Penry leaned back in his chair, a slight smirk playing about his lips.
“I often wonder the same of you,” she replied bluntly, picking up a strange little statue adorning the edge of the fireplace.
“Kings have numerous expenses,” Penry replied smoothly, totally unfazed by her reply. “I find that my Kingdom drinks gold like water. But you. You I just do not understand.”
“And that is why you will never have my powers,” she replied, glancing up from her examination of the ornament. “Why do you have this?” she continued, brandishing the ugly little thing, “Some sort of imp is it?”
“I was given that by an emissary from Wahalanang. It has some sort of importance there.” Penry shrugged. “Their ways are strange. I take it then, that I can cross “imp“ off my list as well then?”
“Wahalanang?” she replied, ignoring his latter comment, but with a slight inflection of curiosity entering her tone. “There are interesting stories about that part of the world.” She put the idol back in its place and turned to face him. “So? What did you want?”
“On to business already? How boringly efficient of you,” Penry replied with mock-hurt.
“I suppose you have more pointless and personal questions to put to me,” she answered in a dull and slightly scathing tone.
“Well, now that you mention it…” he began and then broke off with a laugh. “Ok, ok. I promise to waste no more of your precious time. To business then.” He held out an envelope, sealed in black wax. She reached across to take it and as she did so, he brushed his fingers lightly across hers. She hissed and snatched her hand back.
“Never touch me,” she spat at him, her eyes flaming white with anger. “You know that.”
“Sorry, I couldn’t resist,” he laughed back, putting his hand over his heart.
“Idiot,” she hissed, breaking the seal on the letter.
Penry leant forward, slamming one hand on the table in front of him. “Do not try my generosity,” he growled threateningly.
There was a sudden, complete stillness. She fixed her eyes on him, her features otherwise blurred in darkness.
“Then do not try mine,” she replied, her voice seeming to come from far away, as if down a long, echoing tunnel.
Penry shrugged and leant back in his chair. “So can you manage the job?” he asked, somewhat sulkily.
“Of course,” she replied, folding the letter up. “But next time you want to speak to me, do not send your servant. You know how to contact me.”
Penry shifted slightly uncomfortably in his seat. “Why? Embarrassed that my simple General can track the famous Assassin?”
There was a silence.
“I will not tolerate his presence again. I spared him in recognition of our long-standing contract. My patience is wearing very thin.”
“You are not as strong as you think,” Penry replied, turning away from her momentarily. When he looked back, she was gone.
***
SILVETERA CLAIMS CALLANIA
In a shock move, the Kingdom of Silvetera, lately swollen by the gain of the Kingdom of Arrozale, has moved against Callania, claiming this Kingdom as its own. What should our country do about such tyranny? That is the question being hotly debated in today’s Council Chamber…
Excerpt from “AETYORTHIRI TIMES”
***
With a flutter of wings, the two sisters settled on the ground, hidden deep amongst a cluster of close-growing trees. Srynia shifted back to human form first, collapsing to the floor. Riarna shifted shortly after, reaching down to assist her sister.
“Are you alright?” she asked anxiously.
“It’s the shift,” Srynia replied weakly, “It’s just taken it out of me a bit.”
Riarna shook her head. “I’m sorry. I should’ve let us stop sooner. I just wanted to put enough distance between us and those creatures.”
“I know, it’s not your fault,” Srynia immediately began to comfort her. “I wanted to keep going.”
“What’s wrong with your neck?” Riarna asked suddenly, looking at the deep gauges the Werserk had left.
“Nothing. Just that one that got me earlier,” Srynia looked sad, suddenly remembering what she had been trying to forget.
“Why didn’t you tell me? You need to heal that before we go any further!” Riarna stood over her sister, her posture slightly threatening.
“I don’t think I have the strength,” Srynia replied weakly.
“Let me,” Riarna said in a gentler tone. Crouching down again, she put her hands over the wounds and closed her eyes. Slowly, the flesh began to knit and colour, smoothing back to the texture of pure skin.
“Thank you,” Srynia said, flexing the muscles on her back and rubbing her shoulder. She touched the necklace that was still hanging around her neck.
“Look, I’ve got blood on it.” She began to rub at the flakes of dried blood encrusting the gold.
“Don’t worry about it. We’ll clean it up next time we stop for water.”
“It was our mothers,” Srynia continued dully, looking into her sister’s eyes. “What are we going to do without them?”
“We will go on,” Riarna replied firmly, swallowing the lump beginning to form in her throat. “We don’t have time to grieve now. We have to keep going. To do whatever we can to push back these scum, these invaders.” She clenched her fists, a furious expression crossing her face.
“We’d do better to leave. To take refuge in another country,” Srynia replied fatalistically.
“No. We must do what we can. You know that’s the right thing to do.”
Srynia bowed her head in silent acknowledgement of that fact.
“Fine. But where should we start?”
“The palace. That would be a primary target of the Silveterans, but we’re likely to be able to make contact with someone who can set us on the right course.”
“You hope,” Srynia replied tartly.
“I know,” Riarna asserted firmly. “I don’t know how I know. I can just feel it deep down inside me.”
“If you say so,” Srynia sighed. “How are we going to set about getting there?”
Riarna looked off into the distance, a slight frown creasing her features. “Horse-form. I’ll change occasionally to check our bearings, take bird-form to scout around. But we’ll mainly use horse-form.”
“That’ll be easy for me, but won’t it make us quite loud and slow?” Srynia asked, doubt tingeing her tone.
“No. It’ll be fine. You’ll need to save your strength in case we encounter any resistance.”
Riarna shifted into horse-form, bringing any further discussion to a close. Srynia shook her head and then joined her sister in horse-form. The two turned and setting out at the trot, soon disappeared amongst the overgrown forest.
***
C. H(aroni): By the time we decide to help them, it will be too late!
Disturbance. Quiet called.
C. K(aissen): But the question at stake is whether we should help them or not. A decision we should not make in haste!
C. H. And if we don’t help them, what next? You think that Kingdom’s greed will stop at our borders?
Disturbance. Quiet called.
C. K.: More reason to keep our forces here, where they can protect our land!
General uproar.
Minutes of the Meeting of the National Council, Aetyorthiri.
***
“They can’t keep us here! What right have they?” Prince Rhydyn repeated again to general mutters from his family.
“You can keep saying that, but it isn’t going to change anything,” King Tanon replied wryly, shaking his head at his son’s impatience.
“We haven’t done anything to them,” Rhydyn continued, reluctant to give up on his theme. “We’ve always been a very peaceful country.”
“But they haven’t,” Queen Elerina interjected with a sigh. “We share a world with warmongering nations. We were just not sufficiently prepared for this. To be honest I never expected Aleyn to allow it to go this far.”
“Aleyn is firmly under Penry’s thum,” Tanon replied with a snort of derision. “She is half the woman she used to be.”
“It is a shame.” Elerina shook her head and sighed again.
“A shame?” Rhydyn repeated, slightly incredulously. “I can’t believe how calmly you’re taking this!”
“Well, how else can we take it? It does no good to get worked up,” his mother replied gently. “We’re lucky to only be under house-arrest.”
“Long may it last,” Tanon added grimly. “I don’t trust Penry. I don’t think he’ll keep us alive unless he has some need of us.”
“If I could just get out of here,” Rhydyn said with a slightly exasperated sigh. “You know I can’t stand being stuck indoors.”
“I know, I know,” Elerina replied.
Rhydyn crossed to the window and stared out glumly over the fields surrounding the palace. He took a sudden step forward, leaning against the window frame, staring out into the distance.
“Who’s that?” he asked to the room in general. “Do they want to get themselves killed?”
“What is it?” Tanon asked curiously, getting to his feet and crossing to the window.
“Two horse-shifters. In the forest. They mustn’t realise that the Werserks are patrolling this area. But why come here in the first place?”
“I can’t see them, where are they?” Tanon asked, squinting at the trees.
“There. In amongst the trees. Two bays.”
“I can’t see them.”
“They’re there. Look!” Rhydyn pointed, his tone increasingly frustrated.
“They’re very well disguised. I can’t see them.”
Elerina alighted from her chair and swept across to the window.
“Can you see them mother?” Rhydyn asked, hope tingeing his voice.
“I think so,” Elerina replied cautiously. “They are standing very still.”
“But what are they doing here? Everyone else has fled,” Rhydyn continued, allowing himself to become just slightly excited.
“I don’t know,” Tanon replied gloomily, “But they’re going to get themselves killed.”
“I’m going to keep my eye on them,” Rhydyn stated firmly. “At least it’ll give me something to do whilst I’m stuck here.”
One of the more interesting political structures in our modern world is that of the Kingdom of Callania. Whilst they maintain the overall hierarchical structure of many other Western nations, their royalty is selected by election, rather than by birth. The children of incumbent Kings or Queens are often put forward for election, but they are not always the favourite choice. The longest the throne has stayed with one direct family is three generations, culminating in the current leaders, King Tanon and Queen Elerina. Should one of their children win the next election, their family would be the most successful in history.
Excerpt from “Politics of Our time”
***
There was the faintest movement, a slight sway of the curtains and a flicker of the firelight. Penry looked up from his desk, his expression frozen, hesitant.
“Here already?” he queried into the darkness.
“I am,” she replied materialising suddenly just on the edge of his peripheral vision. He turned to face her, a smile creeping across his features.
“I call. You come. I could get used to this,” he said, in a slightly mocking tone. The figure blurred out of sight. Penry frantically glanced all round himself, his eyes finally alighting on her face, two inches from his left shoulder.
“Don’t,” was all she said, venom dripping from her tone.
“What a clever little pixie you are!” he exclaimed, trying to hide his consternation.
“Nice. But I am not a pixie.” She moved away from him, crossing to stand near the firelight.
“Can’t blame me for trying,” he replied with more composure. “So you’re not a pixie, an elf, a fairy or a hob. I’m getting quite a list here.” He pulled a sheet of paper towards himself and made a note.
“No. Those creatures are fictional.” She pushed the hood from her face, revealing a swathe of thick red hair, twisted up and tied in loops about her head. Her features had a slightly blurred appearance, although her eyes were clear and bright, brilliant white disks.
“No? Even hobs?” He replied, in mock seriousness.
“Especially hobs. So what do you want?” she asked, pacing in front of the fire, her image blurring and contorting slightly in unison with the waves of heat.
“Not so fast. Small talk first,” he replied evenly, folding his hands across his lap. “So, where have you been recently?”
“Working,” she replied tersely. “As I’m sure you know already. If you insist on asking me anything, ask me something you don’t know.”
“Working? I hope they paid you well,” he replied somewhat loftily.
“Of course.” She stopped her pacing, examining the objects lining the fireplace.
“I sometimes wonder, what does an evil, soulless creature like yourself actually spend money on?” Penry leaned back in his chair, a slight smirk playing about his lips.
“I often wonder the same of you,” she replied bluntly, picking up a strange little statue adorning the edge of the fireplace.
“Kings have numerous expenses,” Penry replied smoothly, totally unfazed by her reply. “I find that my Kingdom drinks gold like water. But you. You I just do not understand.”
“And that is why you will never have my powers,” she replied, glancing up from her examination of the ornament. “Why do you have this?” she continued, brandishing the ugly little thing, “Some sort of imp is it?”
“I was given that by an emissary from Wahalanang. It has some sort of importance there.” Penry shrugged. “Their ways are strange. I take it then, that I can cross “imp“ off my list as well then?”
“Wahalanang?” she replied, ignoring his latter comment, but with a slight inflection of curiosity entering her tone. “There are interesting stories about that part of the world.” She put the idol back in its place and turned to face him. “So? What did you want?”
“On to business already? How boringly efficient of you,” Penry replied with mock-hurt.
“I suppose you have more pointless and personal questions to put to me,” she answered in a dull and slightly scathing tone.
“Well, now that you mention it…” he began and then broke off with a laugh. “Ok, ok. I promise to waste no more of your precious time. To business then.” He held out an envelope, sealed in black wax. She reached across to take it and as she did so, he brushed his fingers lightly across hers. She hissed and snatched her hand back.
“Never touch me,” she spat at him, her eyes flaming white with anger. “You know that.”
“Sorry, I couldn’t resist,” he laughed back, putting his hand over his heart.
“Idiot,” she hissed, breaking the seal on the letter.
Penry leant forward, slamming one hand on the table in front of him. “Do not try my generosity,” he growled threateningly.
There was a sudden, complete stillness. She fixed her eyes on him, her features otherwise blurred in darkness.
“Then do not try mine,” she replied, her voice seeming to come from far away, as if down a long, echoing tunnel.
Penry shrugged and leant back in his chair. “So can you manage the job?” he asked, somewhat sulkily.
“Of course,” she replied, folding the letter up. “But next time you want to speak to me, do not send your servant. You know how to contact me.”
Penry shifted slightly uncomfortably in his seat. “Why? Embarrassed that my simple General can track the famous Assassin?”
There was a silence.
“I will not tolerate his presence again. I spared him in recognition of our long-standing contract. My patience is wearing very thin.”
“You are not as strong as you think,” Penry replied, turning away from her momentarily. When he looked back, she was gone.
***
SILVETERA CLAIMS CALLANIA
In a shock move, the Kingdom of Silvetera, lately swollen by the gain of the Kingdom of Arrozale, has moved against Callania, claiming this Kingdom as its own. What should our country do about such tyranny? That is the question being hotly debated in today’s Council Chamber…
Excerpt from “AETYORTHIRI TIMES”
***
With a flutter of wings, the two sisters settled on the ground, hidden deep amongst a cluster of close-growing trees. Srynia shifted back to human form first, collapsing to the floor. Riarna shifted shortly after, reaching down to assist her sister.
“Are you alright?” she asked anxiously.
“It’s the shift,” Srynia replied weakly, “It’s just taken it out of me a bit.”
Riarna shook her head. “I’m sorry. I should’ve let us stop sooner. I just wanted to put enough distance between us and those creatures.”
“I know, it’s not your fault,” Srynia immediately began to comfort her. “I wanted to keep going.”
“What’s wrong with your neck?” Riarna asked suddenly, looking at the deep gauges the Werserk had left.
“Nothing. Just that one that got me earlier,” Srynia looked sad, suddenly remembering what she had been trying to forget.
“Why didn’t you tell me? You need to heal that before we go any further!” Riarna stood over her sister, her posture slightly threatening.
“I don’t think I have the strength,” Srynia replied weakly.
“Let me,” Riarna said in a gentler tone. Crouching down again, she put her hands over the wounds and closed her eyes. Slowly, the flesh began to knit and colour, smoothing back to the texture of pure skin.
“Thank you,” Srynia said, flexing the muscles on her back and rubbing her shoulder. She touched the necklace that was still hanging around her neck.
“Look, I’ve got blood on it.” She began to rub at the flakes of dried blood encrusting the gold.
“Don’t worry about it. We’ll clean it up next time we stop for water.”
“It was our mothers,” Srynia continued dully, looking into her sister’s eyes. “What are we going to do without them?”
“We will go on,” Riarna replied firmly, swallowing the lump beginning to form in her throat. “We don’t have time to grieve now. We have to keep going. To do whatever we can to push back these scum, these invaders.” She clenched her fists, a furious expression crossing her face.
“We’d do better to leave. To take refuge in another country,” Srynia replied fatalistically.
“No. We must do what we can. You know that’s the right thing to do.”
Srynia bowed her head in silent acknowledgement of that fact.
“Fine. But where should we start?”
“The palace. That would be a primary target of the Silveterans, but we’re likely to be able to make contact with someone who can set us on the right course.”
“You hope,” Srynia replied tartly.
“I know,” Riarna asserted firmly. “I don’t know how I know. I can just feel it deep down inside me.”
“If you say so,” Srynia sighed. “How are we going to set about getting there?”
Riarna looked off into the distance, a slight frown creasing her features. “Horse-form. I’ll change occasionally to check our bearings, take bird-form to scout around. But we’ll mainly use horse-form.”
“That’ll be easy for me, but won’t it make us quite loud and slow?” Srynia asked, doubt tingeing her tone.
“No. It’ll be fine. You’ll need to save your strength in case we encounter any resistance.”
Riarna shifted into horse-form, bringing any further discussion to a close. Srynia shook her head and then joined her sister in horse-form. The two turned and setting out at the trot, soon disappeared amongst the overgrown forest.
***
C. H(aroni): By the time we decide to help them, it will be too late!
Disturbance. Quiet called.
C. K(aissen): But the question at stake is whether we should help them or not. A decision we should not make in haste!
C. H. And if we don’t help them, what next? You think that Kingdom’s greed will stop at our borders?
Disturbance. Quiet called.
C. K.: More reason to keep our forces here, where they can protect our land!
General uproar.
Minutes of the Meeting of the National Council, Aetyorthiri.
***
“They can’t keep us here! What right have they?” Prince Rhydyn repeated again to general mutters from his family.
“You can keep saying that, but it isn’t going to change anything,” King Tanon replied wryly, shaking his head at his son’s impatience.
“We haven’t done anything to them,” Rhydyn continued, reluctant to give up on his theme. “We’ve always been a very peaceful country.”
“But they haven’t,” Queen Elerina interjected with a sigh. “We share a world with warmongering nations. We were just not sufficiently prepared for this. To be honest I never expected Aleyn to allow it to go this far.”
“Aleyn is firmly under Penry’s thum,” Tanon replied with a snort of derision. “She is half the woman she used to be.”
“It is a shame.” Elerina shook her head and sighed again.
“A shame?” Rhydyn repeated, slightly incredulously. “I can’t believe how calmly you’re taking this!”
“Well, how else can we take it? It does no good to get worked up,” his mother replied gently. “We’re lucky to only be under house-arrest.”
“Long may it last,” Tanon added grimly. “I don’t trust Penry. I don’t think he’ll keep us alive unless he has some need of us.”
“If I could just get out of here,” Rhydyn said with a slightly exasperated sigh. “You know I can’t stand being stuck indoors.”
“I know, I know,” Elerina replied.
Rhydyn crossed to the window and stared out glumly over the fields surrounding the palace. He took a sudden step forward, leaning against the window frame, staring out into the distance.
“Who’s that?” he asked to the room in general. “Do they want to get themselves killed?”
“What is it?” Tanon asked curiously, getting to his feet and crossing to the window.
“Two horse-shifters. In the forest. They mustn’t realise that the Werserks are patrolling this area. But why come here in the first place?”
“I can’t see them, where are they?” Tanon asked, squinting at the trees.
“There. In amongst the trees. Two bays.”
“I can’t see them.”
“They’re there. Look!” Rhydyn pointed, his tone increasingly frustrated.
“They’re very well disguised. I can’t see them.”
Elerina alighted from her chair and swept across to the window.
“Can you see them mother?” Rhydyn asked, hope tingeing his voice.
“I think so,” Elerina replied cautiously. “They are standing very still.”
“But what are they doing here? Everyone else has fled,” Rhydyn continued, allowing himself to become just slightly excited.
“I don’t know,” Tanon replied gloomily, “But they’re going to get themselves killed.”
“I’m going to keep my eye on them,” Rhydyn stated firmly. “At least it’ll give me something to do whilst I’m stuck here.”
Monday, 1 September 2008
Shift, Chapter 10
(This chapter is shorter than I was planning because I want to post this before I lose the internet. It's also a bit rusty because it's taking me a while to get back into writing this. Excuses over.)
***
TOP SECRET
Message for His Majesty, King Penry of Silvetera.
We have successfully crossed the border and troops are in position to move on Gaveny. There is some localised resistance, but nothing in significant strength to halt our progress.
Admiral Tern
Kylan, Ruth. The Red Run: secret messages unlocked.
***
The man closed up his shop and started the long walk home. His back was bowed against the world, his mind bent around his many troubles. It was a very still night, in a run-down district of the city. However, even then, he felt that there was something wrong. There was a terrible feeling of absence and something else, some indescribable and overwhelming sense of threat. With a terrible chill, he realised what this must mean. He began to run, his heart hammering in his chest, his mind racing faster than his legs.
With a sickening crack, he fell hard against the ground and rolled onto his back. His breath gasping in his throat, he searched frantically around himself, as the silence gradually grew and swelled. With one final sigh, he fell still, his eyes rolling up in their sockets. A single red tear welled up and fell, streaking a crimson line against his cheek. There was a moments silence and then a figure stepped forwards from the darkness, hovering over the man’s slumped form.
“I thought I might find you here,“ A man’s voice rumbled deeply from a nearby archway. “Your presence is required.”
The figure turned, fixing him with pure-white, disc-like eyes. It took a long-drawn, hissing breath, flexing the individual fingers on each hand.
“It will be worth your while,” he added, a slightly coaxing tone entering his voice. He took a half step back and swept his arm backwards in an inviting gesture.
“Very well,” it replied, the voice soft and feminine, but clear. She stepped away from the slumped form on the floor and slid into the protection of the shadows.
“What did this one do?” Klint asked, seized by a rare moment of curiosity.
“He made some very wealthy enemies,” she replied, the sound of her voice receding rapidly.
Klint half-smiled and allowed a brief growl of what would approximate laughter. He quickly shifted into the darkness and moved away into the still and silent night.
***
TOP SECRET
URGENT
Message for their Majesties, King Lahaldi and Queen Reya.
Greetings, honourable allies and leaders of our neighbouring nation, the highly esteemed Aetyorthiri.
Urgent news compels us to speak briefly. We are under attack by King Penry and Queen Aleyn of Silvetera, lately the acquisitors of the Kingdom of Arrozale. We have been friends and allies for many centuries and we now beg you to assist us in this war.
Send us your reply as soon as you can, we do not know how long we can hold them back by ourselves.
King Tanon and Queen Elerina, Elect of Callania.
***
“Do you hear that?” Srynia panted to her sister, pacing at the long loping stride of the wolf.
“Werserks,” Riarna growled back, her hackles slightly raising.
In unison, the sisters picked up the pace, lengthening out their strides, tracking the sounds ahead of them.
“Look there! Straight ahead!” Srynia barked.
In front of them, a pack of Werserks was circling around a figure lying on the floor. As the sisters closed in on them, the sound of the snarls and howls grew to near-deafening proportions. They were nearly on top of them when the first of the pack noticed, but too late to raise the alarm.
“Get dad, I’ll hold them,” Riarna half-snarled, half-roared as she launched into a pounce, shifting from wolf to lioness as she flew. Srynia branched off from her sister, making the figure on the floor her target.
“Dad! Can you hear me?” She asked, crouching low to his face. His eyes fluttered open, but his breath was low and raspy.
“Can you shift to something I can carry? Dad? Can you understand?” she continued, her voice more urgent.
Willan shook his head very slightly.
“No,” he replied, his voice very faint and whispery. “Too weak. Go, daughter. Go now while you still can.”
With a sudden punch, a Werserk landed on Srynia’s back, snarling and biting at her neck. She shook furiously to dislodge him, managing to make him slide onto the ground, teeth still wrapped around her throat. Struggling and shaking, she snapped and bit at whatever part of him that she could reach. With a sudden sense of release, she felt the Werserk lift from her back. She turned to see her father, still in human form, lifting the wolf, his hands buried in its thick, scruffy neck. Srynia scrambled to her feet, blood running in rivulets from the wounds in her neck.
With a sickening snap, the Werserk twisted and closed its teeth around Willan’s bare throat. The man collapsed backwards, his body crumpling as he fell.
“No!” Srynia howled, launching at the Werserk. He turned, a sneering contempt stretching across his wolf-features. Leaping agilely to the side, he put in a parting snap before bounding off to rejoin the fight, still raging furiously between Riarna and the rest of the pack.
Srynia rushed to her father’s side, shifting to human form, putting her hand over the strange contortion in his neck. She carefully shut his blankly staring eyes, tears falling silently and steadily from her face to his. Wiping her face hastily, she turned away, shifting back to wolf form.
“Riarna!” she called, seeing her sister was still holding off the pack. Twisting and biting, shifting and sliding between them, keeping up that incredible strength of energy she always seemed to possess. Riarna met her sister’s eyes across the distance, making a slight nod of acknowledgement that she could hear.
“He’s dead!” she wailed, turning to glance once again on Willan’s body. Riarna hesitated momentarily, before shifting out of the path of snapping teeth, letting them close on the air with a resounding clack. With a leap and a roll she cleared the group of Werserks, launching into the air and shifting into a hawk. Flying straight up, out of their reach, she kee-eed, calling her sister to join her. Focusing all her strength, Srynia mustered up one of the few bird-from shifts she could do, taking to the air as a sparrow.
“Hold the shift!” Riarna kee-eed to her sister, knowing very well how much difficulty she had with this one.
“Will do!” Srynia sang back, “Better not to talk. Keep the focus.”
“We’ll head north, far out of their range. Then we can change form to something easier. I’ll stay as a hawk, protect you and keep an eye on where we’re going.”
Srynia replied with a single chirrup of acknowledgement.
The two flew high and far away from the Werserks beneath them, still prowling and circling. They set a course straight north, the misty shapes of the distant mountain range before them.
***
TOP SECRET
Message for His Majesty, King Penry of Silvetera.
We have successfully crossed the border and troops are in position to move on Gaveny. There is some localised resistance, but nothing in significant strength to halt our progress.
Admiral Tern
Kylan, Ruth. The Red Run: secret messages unlocked.
***
The man closed up his shop and started the long walk home. His back was bowed against the world, his mind bent around his many troubles. It was a very still night, in a run-down district of the city. However, even then, he felt that there was something wrong. There was a terrible feeling of absence and something else, some indescribable and overwhelming sense of threat. With a terrible chill, he realised what this must mean. He began to run, his heart hammering in his chest, his mind racing faster than his legs.
With a sickening crack, he fell hard against the ground and rolled onto his back. His breath gasping in his throat, he searched frantically around himself, as the silence gradually grew and swelled. With one final sigh, he fell still, his eyes rolling up in their sockets. A single red tear welled up and fell, streaking a crimson line against his cheek. There was a moments silence and then a figure stepped forwards from the darkness, hovering over the man’s slumped form.
“I thought I might find you here,“ A man’s voice rumbled deeply from a nearby archway. “Your presence is required.”
The figure turned, fixing him with pure-white, disc-like eyes. It took a long-drawn, hissing breath, flexing the individual fingers on each hand.
“It will be worth your while,” he added, a slightly coaxing tone entering his voice. He took a half step back and swept his arm backwards in an inviting gesture.
“Very well,” it replied, the voice soft and feminine, but clear. She stepped away from the slumped form on the floor and slid into the protection of the shadows.
“What did this one do?” Klint asked, seized by a rare moment of curiosity.
“He made some very wealthy enemies,” she replied, the sound of her voice receding rapidly.
Klint half-smiled and allowed a brief growl of what would approximate laughter. He quickly shifted into the darkness and moved away into the still and silent night.
***
TOP SECRET
URGENT
Message for their Majesties, King Lahaldi and Queen Reya.
Greetings, honourable allies and leaders of our neighbouring nation, the highly esteemed Aetyorthiri.
Urgent news compels us to speak briefly. We are under attack by King Penry and Queen Aleyn of Silvetera, lately the acquisitors of the Kingdom of Arrozale. We have been friends and allies for many centuries and we now beg you to assist us in this war.
Send us your reply as soon as you can, we do not know how long we can hold them back by ourselves.
King Tanon and Queen Elerina, Elect of Callania.
***
“Do you hear that?” Srynia panted to her sister, pacing at the long loping stride of the wolf.
“Werserks,” Riarna growled back, her hackles slightly raising.
In unison, the sisters picked up the pace, lengthening out their strides, tracking the sounds ahead of them.
“Look there! Straight ahead!” Srynia barked.
In front of them, a pack of Werserks was circling around a figure lying on the floor. As the sisters closed in on them, the sound of the snarls and howls grew to near-deafening proportions. They were nearly on top of them when the first of the pack noticed, but too late to raise the alarm.
“Get dad, I’ll hold them,” Riarna half-snarled, half-roared as she launched into a pounce, shifting from wolf to lioness as she flew. Srynia branched off from her sister, making the figure on the floor her target.
“Dad! Can you hear me?” She asked, crouching low to his face. His eyes fluttered open, but his breath was low and raspy.
“Can you shift to something I can carry? Dad? Can you understand?” she continued, her voice more urgent.
Willan shook his head very slightly.
“No,” he replied, his voice very faint and whispery. “Too weak. Go, daughter. Go now while you still can.”
With a sudden punch, a Werserk landed on Srynia’s back, snarling and biting at her neck. She shook furiously to dislodge him, managing to make him slide onto the ground, teeth still wrapped around her throat. Struggling and shaking, she snapped and bit at whatever part of him that she could reach. With a sudden sense of release, she felt the Werserk lift from her back. She turned to see her father, still in human form, lifting the wolf, his hands buried in its thick, scruffy neck. Srynia scrambled to her feet, blood running in rivulets from the wounds in her neck.
With a sickening snap, the Werserk twisted and closed its teeth around Willan’s bare throat. The man collapsed backwards, his body crumpling as he fell.
“No!” Srynia howled, launching at the Werserk. He turned, a sneering contempt stretching across his wolf-features. Leaping agilely to the side, he put in a parting snap before bounding off to rejoin the fight, still raging furiously between Riarna and the rest of the pack.
Srynia rushed to her father’s side, shifting to human form, putting her hand over the strange contortion in his neck. She carefully shut his blankly staring eyes, tears falling silently and steadily from her face to his. Wiping her face hastily, she turned away, shifting back to wolf form.
“Riarna!” she called, seeing her sister was still holding off the pack. Twisting and biting, shifting and sliding between them, keeping up that incredible strength of energy she always seemed to possess. Riarna met her sister’s eyes across the distance, making a slight nod of acknowledgement that she could hear.
“He’s dead!” she wailed, turning to glance once again on Willan’s body. Riarna hesitated momentarily, before shifting out of the path of snapping teeth, letting them close on the air with a resounding clack. With a leap and a roll she cleared the group of Werserks, launching into the air and shifting into a hawk. Flying straight up, out of their reach, she kee-eed, calling her sister to join her. Focusing all her strength, Srynia mustered up one of the few bird-from shifts she could do, taking to the air as a sparrow.
“Hold the shift!” Riarna kee-eed to her sister, knowing very well how much difficulty she had with this one.
“Will do!” Srynia sang back, “Better not to talk. Keep the focus.”
“We’ll head north, far out of their range. Then we can change form to something easier. I’ll stay as a hawk, protect you and keep an eye on where we’re going.”
Srynia replied with a single chirrup of acknowledgement.
The two flew high and far away from the Werserks beneath them, still prowling and circling. They set a course straight north, the misty shapes of the distant mountain range before them.
Saturday, 2 August 2008
Cymru - Chapter 14
So, in my plan he last three chapters were all one chapter. Unfortunately, this part of the story just doesn't want to write itself. The upshot of this is poor structure and bad planning. Also, even though it's incredibly late in the game to do so, watch this space for a potential new plot thread on the grounds that this was only ever a first draft so I haven't thought through all angles. Apologies, etc.
MADOG
"They'll cope, you know," Dylan said. Madog blinked, jolted out of his reverie, and looked at his Deputy. Dylan's hair, as ever, was in a crazed mass about his head, but currently it shielded his eyes from the sun that was pouring in through the expansive windows in the reception room, blinding the rest of them. Madog raised one hand to protect his own eyes and met Dylan's. For once, they were still, settled entirely on Madog.
"Come again?" Madog asked. Dylan smirked slightly.
"You know what I'm talking about, you square," he said unabashedly. "Wrexham's not about to fall down without us. There are other Wings there, you're not that important."
"Of course I am," Madog informed him. "Ceri's leading them. Wrexham will be rubble by the time we return. I'm just deciding which city to join instead."
"Llangefni," Dylan said, nodding. "They'd have you. You'd fit right in."
"So would you," Madog countered. "As a mascot."
Despite the talk, he was worried. If it had just been over-jealous Saxon activity Madog wouldn't have minded leaving Wrexham, but the business with Lord Iestyn's possible political conspiracies had him worrying in the kind of way that was stopping him from sleeping.
"So's your mam," Dylan said languidly, stretching his legs out in front of him. "Anyway; relax. Seriously. We're on holiday."
There was just no point in throttling Dylan, Madog decided. He'd never learn.
"It's a shame you think that even when we're battling," he said instead. Dylan snorted.
"So's your face, boy," he retorted. "City hasn't changed much."
"No," Madog agreed. He liked Dylan's rapid-fire conversation turns. "Lord Gwilym's only just come into power, though. I doubt he's had time to do much more yet than look about himself a bit bemused."
"I'd have gotten rid of the statues," Dylan sniffed. "I think they were sculpted by someone blind."
"Whereas I'd have made some excellently liberating new social policies to help the people," Madog said dryly. "But, you know, that's why I'm in charge and all that."
Dylan's response, although doubtlessly riveting, was lost in the sudden fanfare that blared seemingly out of the walls around them, punctuating the opening of the double doors with much aplomb and flair. The Wing snapped hurriedly to their feet as Lord Gwilym entered sedately, a smile fixed on his face and a green travel cloak held in one arm, which he prompty off-loaded into a corner the second the door was closed. Madog bowed to hide his smile.
"Riders," Lord Gwilym said. "Welcome to Aberystwyth. I hope your journey here was easy?"
"Very, thank you, Sovereign," Madog returned. "I am Leader Madog; this is my Deputy, Dylan."
"A pleasure to meet you," Lord Gwilym smiled. He sat in the ornate chair at the head of the table, and the Wing took their cue and followed suit. "On to business, then?"
It was a strange experience, speaking with Gwilym. Most Sovereigns were fairly easy to handle; they valued formal procedure, and simply remembering to bow in the right places so as not to appear threatening was enough. Lady Marged was a famous exception, but she was easy enough in her own way, since all she required were a few jokes and a card trick she hadn't seen before. Gwilym, though, was nothing like Madog had been expecting.
For one thing, he didn't have the air of superiority usual in Sovereigns that made them look slightly resentfully at Riders for secretly being a higher social class. Nor did Marged, but she was crazy, and therefore didn't count. Gwilym genuinely seemed to see other people on equal terms. Madog wondered what Dylan was making of him. Dylan was a surprisingly good judge of character.
The drawback was that Lord Gwilym was very much an unknown quantity, and Madog found it tricky therefore to deal with him. He kept wanting to be Gwilym's friend.
The meeting otherwise went as standard, and soon trundled smoothly to a close. Lord Gwilym stood and the Wing stood in response, a smooth, single motion. The doors opened to the brash sounds of the fanfare as an odd-looking aide positively minced into the room to Lord Gwilym's side, casting the hint of a disapproving look at the rumpled heap of green brocade beside the door before adopting a carefully cultivated air of neutrality. He whispered something in Lord Gwilym's ear, who glanced briefly at the doorway before turning back to the Wing.
"Anyway, Watkins here will show you to your rooms now," Gwilym said merrily. "Although, Leader, there is someone here who would like a moment of your time if you can spare it?"
Out of the corner of Madog's eye he could see Dylan's head turn sharply, interest suddenly spiked. Madog smiled. "Of course."
The aide cleared his throat and the rest of the Wing filed out, Dylan throwing him an aggrieved look as he went. Madog smirked. Considering the incredibly short attention span Dylan seemed to have he was insatiably curious about things; not being included in this prospective mystery conversation would bother him incessantly until Madog reported every tiny detail later.
"And this person is?" he asked Gwilym as the door closed behind Dylan's reproachful expression. Lord Gwilym looked strangely thoughtful.
"Actually I barely know her," he said. "But she says she's met you before. A Rider from Tregwylan."
Tregwylan? Madog paused. He wasn't really familiar with anyone in Tregwylan. There was the tutor near the border the other day, but what a tutor would be doing wandering around Aberystwyth was anyone's guess.
He didn't have long to wait, though. He'd barely finished the thought when suddenly the door burst open and Aerona was bouncing in, beads flying in her general aura of enthusiasm and, bizzarely, towing a slightly smug-looking Dylan by the wrist behind her.
"Madog!" she said merrily, throwing out a Salute with her free hand which Madog bemusedly returned. "Good to see you again!" and then she'd thrust Dylan at a chair and plonked herself down into one.
"And you," Madog said mildly, hoping his voice didn't sound quite as clueless as he felt. "Although it is unexpected. What on earth are you doing here?"
"Oh, well, that's a less fun story," Aerona sighed. "But first, is there any chance of tea?"
Aerona, Madog decided, was a woman after his own heart.
MADOG
"They'll cope, you know," Dylan said. Madog blinked, jolted out of his reverie, and looked at his Deputy. Dylan's hair, as ever, was in a crazed mass about his head, but currently it shielded his eyes from the sun that was pouring in through the expansive windows in the reception room, blinding the rest of them. Madog raised one hand to protect his own eyes and met Dylan's. For once, they were still, settled entirely on Madog.
"Come again?" Madog asked. Dylan smirked slightly.
"You know what I'm talking about, you square," he said unabashedly. "Wrexham's not about to fall down without us. There are other Wings there, you're not that important."
"Of course I am," Madog informed him. "Ceri's leading them. Wrexham will be rubble by the time we return. I'm just deciding which city to join instead."
"Llangefni," Dylan said, nodding. "They'd have you. You'd fit right in."
"So would you," Madog countered. "As a mascot."
Despite the talk, he was worried. If it had just been over-jealous Saxon activity Madog wouldn't have minded leaving Wrexham, but the business with Lord Iestyn's possible political conspiracies had him worrying in the kind of way that was stopping him from sleeping.
"So's your mam," Dylan said languidly, stretching his legs out in front of him. "Anyway; relax. Seriously. We're on holiday."
There was just no point in throttling Dylan, Madog decided. He'd never learn.
"It's a shame you think that even when we're battling," he said instead. Dylan snorted.
"So's your face, boy," he retorted. "City hasn't changed much."
"No," Madog agreed. He liked Dylan's rapid-fire conversation turns. "Lord Gwilym's only just come into power, though. I doubt he's had time to do much more yet than look about himself a bit bemused."
"I'd have gotten rid of the statues," Dylan sniffed. "I think they were sculpted by someone blind."
"Whereas I'd have made some excellently liberating new social policies to help the people," Madog said dryly. "But, you know, that's why I'm in charge and all that."
Dylan's response, although doubtlessly riveting, was lost in the sudden fanfare that blared seemingly out of the walls around them, punctuating the opening of the double doors with much aplomb and flair. The Wing snapped hurriedly to their feet as Lord Gwilym entered sedately, a smile fixed on his face and a green travel cloak held in one arm, which he prompty off-loaded into a corner the second the door was closed. Madog bowed to hide his smile.
"Riders," Lord Gwilym said. "Welcome to Aberystwyth. I hope your journey here was easy?"
"Very, thank you, Sovereign," Madog returned. "I am Leader Madog; this is my Deputy, Dylan."
"A pleasure to meet you," Lord Gwilym smiled. He sat in the ornate chair at the head of the table, and the Wing took their cue and followed suit. "On to business, then?"
It was a strange experience, speaking with Gwilym. Most Sovereigns were fairly easy to handle; they valued formal procedure, and simply remembering to bow in the right places so as not to appear threatening was enough. Lady Marged was a famous exception, but she was easy enough in her own way, since all she required were a few jokes and a card trick she hadn't seen before. Gwilym, though, was nothing like Madog had been expecting.
For one thing, he didn't have the air of superiority usual in Sovereigns that made them look slightly resentfully at Riders for secretly being a higher social class. Nor did Marged, but she was crazy, and therefore didn't count. Gwilym genuinely seemed to see other people on equal terms. Madog wondered what Dylan was making of him. Dylan was a surprisingly good judge of character.
The drawback was that Lord Gwilym was very much an unknown quantity, and Madog found it tricky therefore to deal with him. He kept wanting to be Gwilym's friend.
The meeting otherwise went as standard, and soon trundled smoothly to a close. Lord Gwilym stood and the Wing stood in response, a smooth, single motion. The doors opened to the brash sounds of the fanfare as an odd-looking aide positively minced into the room to Lord Gwilym's side, casting the hint of a disapproving look at the rumpled heap of green brocade beside the door before adopting a carefully cultivated air of neutrality. He whispered something in Lord Gwilym's ear, who glanced briefly at the doorway before turning back to the Wing.
"Anyway, Watkins here will show you to your rooms now," Gwilym said merrily. "Although, Leader, there is someone here who would like a moment of your time if you can spare it?"
Out of the corner of Madog's eye he could see Dylan's head turn sharply, interest suddenly spiked. Madog smiled. "Of course."
The aide cleared his throat and the rest of the Wing filed out, Dylan throwing him an aggrieved look as he went. Madog smirked. Considering the incredibly short attention span Dylan seemed to have he was insatiably curious about things; not being included in this prospective mystery conversation would bother him incessantly until Madog reported every tiny detail later.
"And this person is?" he asked Gwilym as the door closed behind Dylan's reproachful expression. Lord Gwilym looked strangely thoughtful.
"Actually I barely know her," he said. "But she says she's met you before. A Rider from Tregwylan."
Tregwylan? Madog paused. He wasn't really familiar with anyone in Tregwylan. There was the tutor near the border the other day, but what a tutor would be doing wandering around Aberystwyth was anyone's guess.
He didn't have long to wait, though. He'd barely finished the thought when suddenly the door burst open and Aerona was bouncing in, beads flying in her general aura of enthusiasm and, bizzarely, towing a slightly smug-looking Dylan by the wrist behind her.
"Madog!" she said merrily, throwing out a Salute with her free hand which Madog bemusedly returned. "Good to see you again!" and then she'd thrust Dylan at a chair and plonked herself down into one.
"And you," Madog said mildly, hoping his voice didn't sound quite as clueless as he felt. "Although it is unexpected. What on earth are you doing here?"
"Oh, well, that's a less fun story," Aerona sighed. "But first, is there any chance of tea?"
Aerona, Madog decided, was a woman after his own heart.
Wednesday, 23 July 2008
Cymru - Chapter 13
AERONA
"Rider." Lord Gwilym smiled at Aerona as she bowed to him. "It's a pleasure to meet you."
"And you, Sovereign," she returned happily, naturally falling into her being-extra-nice-to-strangers mode. She had a feeling she was overdoing it, but Adara was slightly intimidating. Awen's blank-voiced explanation on the way over of her despicable ex-Deputy had certainly justified it, but nonetheless Aerona wished Adara would just smile at her. Or even just stop her bird from glaring. The bird was starting to actually make her uncomfortable.
Although it was now turning to give Lord Gwilym much the same treatment, so Aerona felt less victimised. Adara was angry simply On Principle; considering the change in Awen, Aerona understood. She didn't belong to a fighting Wing herself, but if anyone in hers had tried to kill her... it was a miracle Awen was still able to function.
They now stood in what was probably called the Long Drawing Room, a room filled with one long table and lined with the paintings and obligatory statues that seemed to infest the Residence in Aberystwyth. They were incredibly old-fashioned and ornate, and really not to Aerona's taste. Strangely, she didn't get the impression that they'd be to Lord Gwilym's taste, either; the man all but had 'forward thinking' stamped on his forehead. But then, his entrance to the room had also been accompanied by a grand fanfare that he'd actively winced at. It instantly endeared him to Aerona.
Now, he shut the door firmly in the face of an advisor who somehow made Aerona long for a cup of tea before hauling his overly-ornate travel cloak off and hurling it at the nearest chair. Awen got to her feet and bowed to him.
"You could always try calling a state-wide demand for scrap metal," she said, the ghost of a smile touching her lips. Aerona blinked, and exchanged a bewildered glance with Adara. Lord Gwilym grinned.
"I actually thought of that," he said merrily. "I thought it might be excessive, though."
"More so than nubile food tasters and a pack of mutant birds?"
Awen had an eyebrow quirked, and Aerona suddenly found herself studying the pair of them intently. That had been an in joke. Either that or they'd both learned to spout gibberish together, but really. They'd formed in jokes together.
Lord Gwilym waved a hand dismissively. "Mutant bids are cool," he said decisively. "And the nubile food tasters will at least keep the Wing from Llangefni happy the next time they come down."
Adara snorted as Aerona giggled. Awen managed to control her impulse to a smirk, which was impressive, Aerona thought; but then, she was an Alpha Wingleader. You didn't get to that kind of position without the sort of self-control that could be used as an anvil. Thinking about it, that did explain why she hadn't fallen to pieces yet.
"Anyway," Lord Gwilym said, moving to the table and sitting on top of his discarded cloak, "Marged. She was planning something, but..."
He trailed off, apparently uneasy about finishing the sentence.
"It was inherently lovely and full of kittens?" Aerona suggested hopefully. It would be nice if that were true. She really liked the gloves she'd had from Marged.
Lord Gwilym grinned.
"Actually, yes," he said. "Non-literally. But you'll have to bear with me to the end of the explanation, it sounds terrible. She wants people to be able to choose who the Sovereigns are."
He paused, apparently braced for their collective outcry. Aerona forcibly bit her own tongue to control it, and noticed Adara open and close her mouth, the bird on her shoulder glaring fiercely at Gwilym. Awen didn't move, watching Lord Gwilym carefully, face impassive.
"Now, it wouldn't be like the days before Sovereignity," Gwilym continued, seemingly buoyed up by their non-interruption. "She's worked out a system. The idea is, every twenty or so years each city state has an Etholiad, in which five potential Sovereigns tell the people about what they propose to do as Sovereign. Then the people all choose who they want, and that person gets into power. Twenty years later it all happens again. The Union reinforces all the ground rules still, and the Senedd still meets once a year in the Archwiliadau."
A slightly stunned silence met him as he finished, and they all absorbed what he'd said. Aerona stared at Lord Gwilym, trying to work out if he was serious or not.
"Oh gods." Awen slumped over the table, head in hand. "That's brilliant. That's a superb system. No wonder Flyn wants her head."
"An Etholiad," Aerona echoed, wondering. Would that work? Could that work? People choosing their rulers without despotism flaring up again? It sounded so perfect and just; Aerona had had enough of Lady Gwenda to last a lifetime already.
"Hang on," Adara murmured. "Surely that's a system ripe for corruption?" Her bird chirruped, cocking its head. "I mean... What happens when the people actually choose? It would be easy enough to force a vote."
"Oh, I don't think she'd worked out the details yet," Lord Gwilym said, and a shadow passed over his face. "It wasn't her plan originally. I'd imagine you'd just have to set up some way in which the voting was secret, so no one could know who voted for whom. And, of course, it would require the Union to enforce it all."
"Yeah, thanks for that," Awen muttered, but with no real vitriol. She was sitting upright again, eyes fixed on the far wall, apparently thinking hard. "He has to have known about this," she said, more or less to herself. "Otherwise he wouldn't be trying to counteract it, he'd just let it fall."
"Who? Flyn?" Lord Gwilym asked. "He knew; it was suggested to him two years ago. By my father," he added, and Awen looked sharply at him. "It was his idea originally, it seems."
"And then your family was killed," Aerona said quietly. Lord Gwilym nodded, his expression heavy.
"Yes," he said quietly. "Marged doesn't think it was coincidence, either. She reckons it was either Flyn or Gwenda."
There was a short, awkward pause where the Riders looked at each other, realising they were all sworn to one or the other. Aerona resisted the urge to tear the Tregwylan livery off of her shoulders, and noticed Adara fidgeting slightly, picking at the embroidery on her gloves in the black and amber of Casnewydd. Awen seemed to be thinking again.
"I'm missing something," she said at last. "If Flyn had your family killed why would he try it with you? I was sent to ask you to join him, but that bowman attacked before I'd even had the chance to talk to you."
"It could have been someone else," Aerona shrugged. "Who have you really offended recently? Any psychotic ex-girlfriends? Disgruntled employees? Underpaid bards?"
"Lady Blodwen," Lord Gwilym said promptly. "But I did so at the same time as the assassination attempt, and really only mildly, so this seems extreme."
"We need to talk to that boy." Awen was running her left thumb along the scar on her right palm, a subconscious movement that promised dark and painful things. It was a shame. Aerona didn't like dark and painful things. "Can I interrogate him? I'm told I need your permission."
"Really?" Aerona asked brightly. "Good for you!"
Lord Gwilym smiled dryly at her. "You're about the only person who thinks so," he said. "Everyone else thinks I'm mad. Does torture have to be involved?"
"The threat of, at the very least," Awen said. Behind the impassive mask Aerona thought she saw a hint of mingled amusement and bewilderment. "But if he won't talk..."
"Before we do, there's something else you need to know, by the way," Aerona said. She really didn't want to think about what Awen was about to do. "I bring news from the border."
"The border?" Adara looked confused. "I thought you were from Tregwylan?"
"I am, but we take the children on field trips sometimes so they can make dens and eat berries and stuff; it's brilliant!" Three pairs of eyes stared at her. "Although not currently relevant," she conceeded sadly. "Anyway, I was doing it yesterday with the children and we ran into some trouble."
"Saxons?" Awen raised an eyebrow.
"Yes," Aerona confirmed. "A raid. They caught us just as we were taking off."
That took Awen's full attention, and Aerona remembered that she did, after all, come from a border city. She was well-versed in the threat of them.
"How?" she asked incredulously. "Were you on the border itself?"
"No," Aerona said. "We should have had fifteen minutes. We were in the air in five; they were there in four. I had to fight them off just to get the airbus up." The memory still made her shudder: one arrow would have been all it took and the whole bus would have been gone, children, Driver and all. "The border warning came late."
"Where? Where was this?"
"About thirty miles south of Wrexham," Aerona sighed. "I met up with the Alpha Wingleader, which was a mercy since I couldn't have gotten everyone out alive without the Wing turning up. But it seems it wasn't a one-off occurence. For the last two months or so they've had more and more raids, and in each case the border warnings have come too late."
"The Wrexham Wing are coming this afternoon," Lord Gwilym mused. "They'll be here any time soon, in fact, since I can hear the dulcet tones of my revoltingly ornamental yet sadly traditional clock down the hall."
"Can you stay until then?" Awen asked, glancing at Aerona. Aerona nodded. There was no way she was trying to teach those children at the moment; not until they'd come at least halfway down from the clouds. Near death experiences had such an incendiary effect on them, the dears.
"Right." Awen stood abruptly and bowed to Lord Gwilym, who gave her a strange look Aerona couldn't quite decipher. "With your permission, Sovereign, I'd like to see the prisoner now."
"Yes, I suppose." It was said with a resigned sigh before Lord Gwilym stood and opened the door. "Watkins?"
The assistant from before sidled into view, amplifying Aerona's bizarre desire for tea.
"My Lord?"
"Please escort the Riders down to the interrogation room and bring out the prisoner," Lord Gwilym said. His voice was suitably commanding, but Aerona could see in the set of his shoulders how uncomfortable an order it was for him. She sympathised. She couldn't even have given it.
They followed Watkins down through several layers of the Residence, past windows that looked out onto gardens Aerona wished she could have taken the children to, courtyards criss-crossed with washing lines and gossiping servants, rooms lined with paintings of Lord Gwilym's ancestors and one filled with row upon row of book shelves, the scent of old paper and parchment and glue drifting out like an olfactory promise. Their descent didn't finish at the ground floor; there they took yet another staircase down into a chilled and instantly damp corridor, barred by several sets of locked doors. Once through Aerona tried not to look at the cells to either side of them. Clearly, whoever had built them had done so to provide a healthy incentive for their subjects to remain out of them. Each was barely a metre square, with just enough headroom to stand and only one tiny ledge to act as a seat. She shuddered, and tried to focus on the positive fact that extremely few of them were occupied, presumably thanks to Gwilym's progrssive social policies. Aerona liked progressive social policies. They were happy things.
Too soon, they came to the end of the corridor where Watkins escorted them inside a room marked on the door as "Interrogation Room #1", which predictably was filled with the sorts of implements that made Aerona want to run away and cry whilst curled up in a ball so no one could get to her. Awen simply looked around, sweeping her analytical gaze across the tools lining the dank brick walls, assessing the resources and facilities she had to work with. It disturbed Aerona really more than it should have. A large part of her Wing not becoming an active fighting Wing was that more than one of them wouldn't have been capable of performing these kinds of tasks, but she knew that active Riders had to and did all the time; especially Alpha Wingleaders. But there was no worry, no concern, no guilt in Awen's eyes, and somehow, that made it all worse.
"I'll have the guards bring in the prisoner," Watkins murmured before bowing his head respectfully and slipping neatly from the room. Aerona watched him go, suddenly and uncharitably hoping he'd take a wrong turn, get lost in the catacombs and never find the guards. She turned back, looking away from the manacled table in the centre of the room to find Awen watching her.
"You don't have to stay," she said quietly. "I won't apologise for this, but I'll understand if you don't want to be part of it."
"I'm sorry," Aerona said. Awen shook her head, hair glimmering gold under the torchlight.
"Don't be. You've nothing to be sorry for." She looked away, and the red kite on Adara's shoulder fluttered over to Awen's instead. "I promise, I'll hurt him as little as possible."
Bizarrely, that wasn't comforting. Something about hearing Awen calmly talk about hurting someone, even in the context of promising to limit the pain, made it all suddenly seem too real. She was perfectly willing to do this. Adara shifted against the wall where she was leaning, and Aerona met her eyes.
"It's okay," Adara said softly. "It's very rare that Awen hurts people at all. Like we said to Lord Gwilym, the threat is usually enough."
Aerona nodded, and looked at Awen.
"No permanent damage," she said, trying to make it as commanding as possible. "Don't do anything he can't heal from entirely."
"I won't," Awen promised, but it didn't really help. Aerona left the room with the sharp taste of guilt in her mouth, trying to push the faces of the children out of her mind.
"Rider." Lord Gwilym smiled at Aerona as she bowed to him. "It's a pleasure to meet you."
"And you, Sovereign," she returned happily, naturally falling into her being-extra-nice-to-strangers mode. She had a feeling she was overdoing it, but Adara was slightly intimidating. Awen's blank-voiced explanation on the way over of her despicable ex-Deputy had certainly justified it, but nonetheless Aerona wished Adara would just smile at her. Or even just stop her bird from glaring. The bird was starting to actually make her uncomfortable.
Although it was now turning to give Lord Gwilym much the same treatment, so Aerona felt less victimised. Adara was angry simply On Principle; considering the change in Awen, Aerona understood. She didn't belong to a fighting Wing herself, but if anyone in hers had tried to kill her... it was a miracle Awen was still able to function.
They now stood in what was probably called the Long Drawing Room, a room filled with one long table and lined with the paintings and obligatory statues that seemed to infest the Residence in Aberystwyth. They were incredibly old-fashioned and ornate, and really not to Aerona's taste. Strangely, she didn't get the impression that they'd be to Lord Gwilym's taste, either; the man all but had 'forward thinking' stamped on his forehead. But then, his entrance to the room had also been accompanied by a grand fanfare that he'd actively winced at. It instantly endeared him to Aerona.
Now, he shut the door firmly in the face of an advisor who somehow made Aerona long for a cup of tea before hauling his overly-ornate travel cloak off and hurling it at the nearest chair. Awen got to her feet and bowed to him.
"You could always try calling a state-wide demand for scrap metal," she said, the ghost of a smile touching her lips. Aerona blinked, and exchanged a bewildered glance with Adara. Lord Gwilym grinned.
"I actually thought of that," he said merrily. "I thought it might be excessive, though."
"More so than nubile food tasters and a pack of mutant birds?"
Awen had an eyebrow quirked, and Aerona suddenly found herself studying the pair of them intently. That had been an in joke. Either that or they'd both learned to spout gibberish together, but really. They'd formed in jokes together.
Lord Gwilym waved a hand dismissively. "Mutant bids are cool," he said decisively. "And the nubile food tasters will at least keep the Wing from Llangefni happy the next time they come down."
Adara snorted as Aerona giggled. Awen managed to control her impulse to a smirk, which was impressive, Aerona thought; but then, she was an Alpha Wingleader. You didn't get to that kind of position without the sort of self-control that could be used as an anvil. Thinking about it, that did explain why she hadn't fallen to pieces yet.
"Anyway," Lord Gwilym said, moving to the table and sitting on top of his discarded cloak, "Marged. She was planning something, but..."
He trailed off, apparently uneasy about finishing the sentence.
"It was inherently lovely and full of kittens?" Aerona suggested hopefully. It would be nice if that were true. She really liked the gloves she'd had from Marged.
Lord Gwilym grinned.
"Actually, yes," he said. "Non-literally. But you'll have to bear with me to the end of the explanation, it sounds terrible. She wants people to be able to choose who the Sovereigns are."
He paused, apparently braced for their collective outcry. Aerona forcibly bit her own tongue to control it, and noticed Adara open and close her mouth, the bird on her shoulder glaring fiercely at Gwilym. Awen didn't move, watching Lord Gwilym carefully, face impassive.
"Now, it wouldn't be like the days before Sovereignity," Gwilym continued, seemingly buoyed up by their non-interruption. "She's worked out a system. The idea is, every twenty or so years each city state has an Etholiad, in which five potential Sovereigns tell the people about what they propose to do as Sovereign. Then the people all choose who they want, and that person gets into power. Twenty years later it all happens again. The Union reinforces all the ground rules still, and the Senedd still meets once a year in the Archwiliadau."
A slightly stunned silence met him as he finished, and they all absorbed what he'd said. Aerona stared at Lord Gwilym, trying to work out if he was serious or not.
"Oh gods." Awen slumped over the table, head in hand. "That's brilliant. That's a superb system. No wonder Flyn wants her head."
"An Etholiad," Aerona echoed, wondering. Would that work? Could that work? People choosing their rulers without despotism flaring up again? It sounded so perfect and just; Aerona had had enough of Lady Gwenda to last a lifetime already.
"Hang on," Adara murmured. "Surely that's a system ripe for corruption?" Her bird chirruped, cocking its head. "I mean... What happens when the people actually choose? It would be easy enough to force a vote."
"Oh, I don't think she'd worked out the details yet," Lord Gwilym said, and a shadow passed over his face. "It wasn't her plan originally. I'd imagine you'd just have to set up some way in which the voting was secret, so no one could know who voted for whom. And, of course, it would require the Union to enforce it all."
"Yeah, thanks for that," Awen muttered, but with no real vitriol. She was sitting upright again, eyes fixed on the far wall, apparently thinking hard. "He has to have known about this," she said, more or less to herself. "Otherwise he wouldn't be trying to counteract it, he'd just let it fall."
"Who? Flyn?" Lord Gwilym asked. "He knew; it was suggested to him two years ago. By my father," he added, and Awen looked sharply at him. "It was his idea originally, it seems."
"And then your family was killed," Aerona said quietly. Lord Gwilym nodded, his expression heavy.
"Yes," he said quietly. "Marged doesn't think it was coincidence, either. She reckons it was either Flyn or Gwenda."
There was a short, awkward pause where the Riders looked at each other, realising they were all sworn to one or the other. Aerona resisted the urge to tear the Tregwylan livery off of her shoulders, and noticed Adara fidgeting slightly, picking at the embroidery on her gloves in the black and amber of Casnewydd. Awen seemed to be thinking again.
"I'm missing something," she said at last. "If Flyn had your family killed why would he try it with you? I was sent to ask you to join him, but that bowman attacked before I'd even had the chance to talk to you."
"It could have been someone else," Aerona shrugged. "Who have you really offended recently? Any psychotic ex-girlfriends? Disgruntled employees? Underpaid bards?"
"Lady Blodwen," Lord Gwilym said promptly. "But I did so at the same time as the assassination attempt, and really only mildly, so this seems extreme."
"We need to talk to that boy." Awen was running her left thumb along the scar on her right palm, a subconscious movement that promised dark and painful things. It was a shame. Aerona didn't like dark and painful things. "Can I interrogate him? I'm told I need your permission."
"Really?" Aerona asked brightly. "Good for you!"
Lord Gwilym smiled dryly at her. "You're about the only person who thinks so," he said. "Everyone else thinks I'm mad. Does torture have to be involved?"
"The threat of, at the very least," Awen said. Behind the impassive mask Aerona thought she saw a hint of mingled amusement and bewilderment. "But if he won't talk..."
"Before we do, there's something else you need to know, by the way," Aerona said. She really didn't want to think about what Awen was about to do. "I bring news from the border."
"The border?" Adara looked confused. "I thought you were from Tregwylan?"
"I am, but we take the children on field trips sometimes so they can make dens and eat berries and stuff; it's brilliant!" Three pairs of eyes stared at her. "Although not currently relevant," she conceeded sadly. "Anyway, I was doing it yesterday with the children and we ran into some trouble."
"Saxons?" Awen raised an eyebrow.
"Yes," Aerona confirmed. "A raid. They caught us just as we were taking off."
That took Awen's full attention, and Aerona remembered that she did, after all, come from a border city. She was well-versed in the threat of them.
"How?" she asked incredulously. "Were you on the border itself?"
"No," Aerona said. "We should have had fifteen minutes. We were in the air in five; they were there in four. I had to fight them off just to get the airbus up." The memory still made her shudder: one arrow would have been all it took and the whole bus would have been gone, children, Driver and all. "The border warning came late."
"Where? Where was this?"
"About thirty miles south of Wrexham," Aerona sighed. "I met up with the Alpha Wingleader, which was a mercy since I couldn't have gotten everyone out alive without the Wing turning up. But it seems it wasn't a one-off occurence. For the last two months or so they've had more and more raids, and in each case the border warnings have come too late."
"The Wrexham Wing are coming this afternoon," Lord Gwilym mused. "They'll be here any time soon, in fact, since I can hear the dulcet tones of my revoltingly ornamental yet sadly traditional clock down the hall."
"Can you stay until then?" Awen asked, glancing at Aerona. Aerona nodded. There was no way she was trying to teach those children at the moment; not until they'd come at least halfway down from the clouds. Near death experiences had such an incendiary effect on them, the dears.
"Right." Awen stood abruptly and bowed to Lord Gwilym, who gave her a strange look Aerona couldn't quite decipher. "With your permission, Sovereign, I'd like to see the prisoner now."
"Yes, I suppose." It was said with a resigned sigh before Lord Gwilym stood and opened the door. "Watkins?"
The assistant from before sidled into view, amplifying Aerona's bizarre desire for tea.
"My Lord?"
"Please escort the Riders down to the interrogation room and bring out the prisoner," Lord Gwilym said. His voice was suitably commanding, but Aerona could see in the set of his shoulders how uncomfortable an order it was for him. She sympathised. She couldn't even have given it.
They followed Watkins down through several layers of the Residence, past windows that looked out onto gardens Aerona wished she could have taken the children to, courtyards criss-crossed with washing lines and gossiping servants, rooms lined with paintings of Lord Gwilym's ancestors and one filled with row upon row of book shelves, the scent of old paper and parchment and glue drifting out like an olfactory promise. Their descent didn't finish at the ground floor; there they took yet another staircase down into a chilled and instantly damp corridor, barred by several sets of locked doors. Once through Aerona tried not to look at the cells to either side of them. Clearly, whoever had built them had done so to provide a healthy incentive for their subjects to remain out of them. Each was barely a metre square, with just enough headroom to stand and only one tiny ledge to act as a seat. She shuddered, and tried to focus on the positive fact that extremely few of them were occupied, presumably thanks to Gwilym's progrssive social policies. Aerona liked progressive social policies. They were happy things.
Too soon, they came to the end of the corridor where Watkins escorted them inside a room marked on the door as "Interrogation Room #1", which predictably was filled with the sorts of implements that made Aerona want to run away and cry whilst curled up in a ball so no one could get to her. Awen simply looked around, sweeping her analytical gaze across the tools lining the dank brick walls, assessing the resources and facilities she had to work with. It disturbed Aerona really more than it should have. A large part of her Wing not becoming an active fighting Wing was that more than one of them wouldn't have been capable of performing these kinds of tasks, but she knew that active Riders had to and did all the time; especially Alpha Wingleaders. But there was no worry, no concern, no guilt in Awen's eyes, and somehow, that made it all worse.
"I'll have the guards bring in the prisoner," Watkins murmured before bowing his head respectfully and slipping neatly from the room. Aerona watched him go, suddenly and uncharitably hoping he'd take a wrong turn, get lost in the catacombs and never find the guards. She turned back, looking away from the manacled table in the centre of the room to find Awen watching her.
"You don't have to stay," she said quietly. "I won't apologise for this, but I'll understand if you don't want to be part of it."
"I'm sorry," Aerona said. Awen shook her head, hair glimmering gold under the torchlight.
"Don't be. You've nothing to be sorry for." She looked away, and the red kite on Adara's shoulder fluttered over to Awen's instead. "I promise, I'll hurt him as little as possible."
Bizarrely, that wasn't comforting. Something about hearing Awen calmly talk about hurting someone, even in the context of promising to limit the pain, made it all suddenly seem too real. She was perfectly willing to do this. Adara shifted against the wall where she was leaning, and Aerona met her eyes.
"It's okay," Adara said softly. "It's very rare that Awen hurts people at all. Like we said to Lord Gwilym, the threat is usually enough."
Aerona nodded, and looked at Awen.
"No permanent damage," she said, trying to make it as commanding as possible. "Don't do anything he can't heal from entirely."
"I won't," Awen promised, but it didn't really help. Aerona left the room with the sharp taste of guilt in her mouth, trying to push the faces of the children out of her mind.
Tuesday, 22 July 2008
Cymru - Chapter 12
Warning: this is very badly written. Very badly. It's also incredibly short and nothing much happens in it. This is because I haven't written this is months and needed to get back into the swing of things. But anyway: next chapter ought to be quite important.
AERONA
The Aberystwyth Landing Tower seemed strangely empty, and Aerona realised as she landed that in one specific sense it actually was: through the archway at the end of the runway she could see the clearly empty stalls normally occupied by the Alpha Wing merod, or in this case those of the visiting Wings. She bit back a curse. Short of some peculiar emergency that had called the Casnewydd Wing away to help out the city below her, Awen couldn't still be here.
Aerona trotted Briallu up the runway anyway and into the stables. If nothing else she could do with watering Briallu; the mare's neck was covered in sweat from the long ride, her wings drooping slightly at her sides. Hastily, Aerona moved her to the water trough, glancing nervously at the clock on the wall by the manager's station. It was midday. She could probably manage the flight to Milford Haven, if she hurried, but really that would have to be her outer limit today, or Briallu was going to drop out of the sky.
"My apologies, Rider! We didn't realise you were coming."
The voice came from behind her, anxious and hurried. Aerona glanced over her shoulder to see a man in his thirties scurrying up the spiral ramp, futiley trying to wipe his hands clean on a tunic that had clearly seen better days. As he neared he bowed to her, eyes downcast.
"It's fine," Aerona assured him wearily. "Honestly. This is an unsheduled visit, I was hoping to catch the Casnewydd Wing. I'll be gone again in a minute."
"Your timing is unfortunate, Rider," the man said, offering a small smile. "They flew not ten minutes ago. You ought to be able to catch them, they're headed for Milford Haven."
Relief surged through Aerona. Briallu whickered.
"Thank the gods," Aerona muttered. "Thank you. I should get going."
"Now?" the man asked, eyeing Briallu's drooping wings and sweat-slicked body. "You won't rest here first? They'll be at the Harbour a while."
"No," Aerona sighed. She felt tremendously guilty about it, but Briallu was tough. "No, I have to go. I need to speak to the Wingleader as soon as possible."
"Best not leave, then," a familiar voice said behind her. Aerona turned.
Awen was trotting into the Landing Tower on what may have been the biggest meraden Aerona had ever seen, tossing his head petulantly and snorting. She was flanked by another Rider Aerona hadn't met, whose beads marked her as a hunter and who carried a red kite on her shoulder. Aerona smiled at the sight of them, a knot of tension lifting itself from her shoulder blades.
She had to fight to keep the smile in place as Awen drew closer, however. The warmth Aerona remembered was gone from Awen's face, her expression grown hard and focused. Aerona quickly looked her over for obvious indicators as to why, and immediately her eyes fell on the scar, thin and sharp, running across Awen's throat just above the line of her collar. It had the look of something healing fast, the way wounds did when druidic magic had been involved, which suggested it had happened the day before. Looking further, Aerona noticed Awen's left shoulder set slightly too stiffly, her hand on the rein just a little too tight. The Rider with her was riding slightly closer than necessary as well, a hint of protectiveness that was otherwise well-hidden.
Awen smiled, an expression that was clearly forced but Aerona nonetheless felt it was genuine.
"Aerona," she greeted amiably. Aerona upgraded her own expression to a grin.
"Awen," she answered in kind. "I was starting to think I'd have to chase you all the way to the Archwiliad."
"Oh, you know," Awen shrugged; and that shoulder was definitely stiff. "I thought you could use a break from teaching for once, get some exercise. This is Adara, by the way," Awen added, glancing at the other Rider who nodded curtly. "And we need to talk."
"Yes, we do," Aerona sighed. Briallu snorted.
"At the Sovereign's Residence would be best," Awen said. "I need to speak to Lord Gwilym, and he should be back soon."
"With socks," Adara said. "Or gloves."
Ah. Awen had succeeded in roping Gwilym into talking to Marged, then. Aerona was impressed; she'd never have had the nerve to try. But then, she wasn't a Wingleader.
"Lead on, then," Aerona said as cheerfully as she could. "We can talk in the air."
AERONA
The Aberystwyth Landing Tower seemed strangely empty, and Aerona realised as she landed that in one specific sense it actually was: through the archway at the end of the runway she could see the clearly empty stalls normally occupied by the Alpha Wing merod, or in this case those of the visiting Wings. She bit back a curse. Short of some peculiar emergency that had called the Casnewydd Wing away to help out the city below her, Awen couldn't still be here.
Aerona trotted Briallu up the runway anyway and into the stables. If nothing else she could do with watering Briallu; the mare's neck was covered in sweat from the long ride, her wings drooping slightly at her sides. Hastily, Aerona moved her to the water trough, glancing nervously at the clock on the wall by the manager's station. It was midday. She could probably manage the flight to Milford Haven, if she hurried, but really that would have to be her outer limit today, or Briallu was going to drop out of the sky.
"My apologies, Rider! We didn't realise you were coming."
The voice came from behind her, anxious and hurried. Aerona glanced over her shoulder to see a man in his thirties scurrying up the spiral ramp, futiley trying to wipe his hands clean on a tunic that had clearly seen better days. As he neared he bowed to her, eyes downcast.
"It's fine," Aerona assured him wearily. "Honestly. This is an unsheduled visit, I was hoping to catch the Casnewydd Wing. I'll be gone again in a minute."
"Your timing is unfortunate, Rider," the man said, offering a small smile. "They flew not ten minutes ago. You ought to be able to catch them, they're headed for Milford Haven."
Relief surged through Aerona. Briallu whickered.
"Thank the gods," Aerona muttered. "Thank you. I should get going."
"Now?" the man asked, eyeing Briallu's drooping wings and sweat-slicked body. "You won't rest here first? They'll be at the Harbour a while."
"No," Aerona sighed. She felt tremendously guilty about it, but Briallu was tough. "No, I have to go. I need to speak to the Wingleader as soon as possible."
"Best not leave, then," a familiar voice said behind her. Aerona turned.
Awen was trotting into the Landing Tower on what may have been the biggest meraden Aerona had ever seen, tossing his head petulantly and snorting. She was flanked by another Rider Aerona hadn't met, whose beads marked her as a hunter and who carried a red kite on her shoulder. Aerona smiled at the sight of them, a knot of tension lifting itself from her shoulder blades.
She had to fight to keep the smile in place as Awen drew closer, however. The warmth Aerona remembered was gone from Awen's face, her expression grown hard and focused. Aerona quickly looked her over for obvious indicators as to why, and immediately her eyes fell on the scar, thin and sharp, running across Awen's throat just above the line of her collar. It had the look of something healing fast, the way wounds did when druidic magic had been involved, which suggested it had happened the day before. Looking further, Aerona noticed Awen's left shoulder set slightly too stiffly, her hand on the rein just a little too tight. The Rider with her was riding slightly closer than necessary as well, a hint of protectiveness that was otherwise well-hidden.
Awen smiled, an expression that was clearly forced but Aerona nonetheless felt it was genuine.
"Aerona," she greeted amiably. Aerona upgraded her own expression to a grin.
"Awen," she answered in kind. "I was starting to think I'd have to chase you all the way to the Archwiliad."
"Oh, you know," Awen shrugged; and that shoulder was definitely stiff. "I thought you could use a break from teaching for once, get some exercise. This is Adara, by the way," Awen added, glancing at the other Rider who nodded curtly. "And we need to talk."
"Yes, we do," Aerona sighed. Briallu snorted.
"At the Sovereign's Residence would be best," Awen said. "I need to speak to Lord Gwilym, and he should be back soon."
"With socks," Adara said. "Or gloves."
Ah. Awen had succeeded in roping Gwilym into talking to Marged, then. Aerona was impressed; she'd never have had the nerve to try. But then, she wasn't a Wingleader.
"Lead on, then," Aerona said as cheerfully as she could. "We can talk in the air."
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