boo.
the price we pay
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the soldier
alaric.
♡coded by uxie♡
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One x One boo's samples
- Thread starter boo.
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boo.
the price we pay
the bounty hunter
bit.
♡coded by uxie♡
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boo.
the price we pay
the empress
elodi.
♡coded by uxie♡
Last edited:
boo.
the price we pay
the king
auguste.
♡coded by uxie♡
boo.
the price we pay
shhh too lazy to format this one
“Take off his hood.”
A man’s scratchy baritone broke the stiff silence that had surrounded the informant for the past hour. The rough fabric hood was ripped from his head, revealing to him the dark, cavernous interrogation chamber, filled from end to end with shelves and dials and lights that blinked from the shadows in colors of green, yellow, and red. This wasn’t exactly the interrogation chamber perse, but it had the equipment they needed, and it was good enough.
“The chair, please. Yes, fasten there, and hold his shoulder down.”
Roman was pushed into a stiff-backed restraint chair by a few pairs of rough hands, all of which belonged to broad-shouldered, ugly men, all dressed in black and all looking incredibly displeased. This wasn’t the way the evening should have gone, and although the situation had not been entirely under their control, they knew that they would face consequences. It only made sense that they would see the informant as the issue. Roman’s hands and ankles were fastened to the arms and legs of the chair, and more hands pressed sharply down on his shoulder and elbow, keeping them still as a man in an immaculate white jacket approached, a butterfly needle in his hand. The sharp point glinted greedily in the dim light. The man wore a pair of thick, round glasses, and his black hair, which had once been swept neatly back, was tousled and messy as if he’d run the entire way here, which wasn’t far from the truth. His lips curled back in annoyance as he swabbed the exposed skin of Roman’s forearm with an alcohol pad and then plunged the needle in, not particularly caring when he realized he’d stuck it further in than he needed to. The body of the syringe slowly filled with crimson blood.
“You searched him?” Something in the man’s voice wavered, revealing a slight Japanese accent.
“Of course,” growled the man holding Roman’s arm in place, and his grip tightened. “Not our first time dragging someone out of an alleyway.”
The doctor sniffed and pulled the needle out, tapping the syringe so that the blood inside settled. “With everything else that went wrong, I just wanted to—”
“Shut the fuck up, Enokida.”
Enokida, Cobalt Syndicate’s chief biological consultant, shrugged and retreated to a nearby table, which was spread with various tools, tech screens, and other devices. “Whatever. Give me a few minutes.”
The man at Roman’s side released his grip and swiveled around to face Roman, his deep-set blue eyes frighteningly intense. His own hair was a drab brown and cropped close in a military style. He looked to be in about his mid-thirties, and there was a thin scar on the corner of his lip that twitched every time his mouth moved. A snarl played across his face, and suddenly he grabbed Roman’s chin, fingers digging into the skin, and forced his head to the side as if inspecting an animal. “Gonna be bloody hell to pay, asshole. If you think you’re in hot shit now—”
“Finn, I’d rather you didn’t.” Enokida barked sharply, not taking his eyes off the screen that was built into the tabletop in front of him. “He needs to be in one piece. Not a further scratch.”
Finn reluctantly released Roman, but made no move to get out of the man’s face. His breath was hot and sticky, and it fell heavy on Roman’s face. He didn’t speak but raked his eyes over Roman’s features slowly and methodically as if he was taking notes. There were a handful of other men in the chamber as well; they were gathered somewhere behind Finn, talking in low, sharp voices and occasionally turning an eye toward the captured informant. They’d put their lives on the line for a single dosage of vaccine, and instead had gotten a man who looked like he’d just stepped out of the office. This would not make Arden happy.
“How’d he know where the pickup was?” One of the men behind Finn ventured over Finn’s shoulder and stared down at Roman.
“Dunno. Those are secure lines. But see,” and at this, Finn pulled a wallet from his pocket. Not his own, but one he’d taken from Roman. Opening it revealed a small silver badge. “Police. This was a direct assault—a plan to take down Cobalt’s core.” Finn looked back up at Roman, eyes narrowing dangerously. “And they sent him.” He sounded incredibly unimpressed.
“And what did he manage to do?”
The smooth, sultry, and venemous tenor of someone descending from the far staircase seemed to freeze the room. All eyes turned toward the source of the voice, which materialized from the thick shadows after a few moments, and all eyes immediately fell downward, almost in muscle reflex. In the shadows, Dimi Arden looked every inch the head of Cobalt Syndicate; cool darkness played in the angles of his face, shifting with every move he made. His figure was slender, tapering from strong shoulders to a gentle waist, and he wore a black suit that hugged him like a glove. His hair was neatly tied back at the nape of his neck, although a strand of the brownish-black stuff had escaped to frame the side of his jaw. What attracted the most attention, however, were his eyes, which glowed an unnatural green, and which pierced through the darkness of the chamber like twin jewels. The second thing that someone would notice about him was the pistol clutched tightly in one of his hands.
The closer Dimi came, the more it became clear that something was wrong. A sheen of sweat coated his brow, and the skin over his face seemed stretched too tight for someone of his age. Although he tried to walk with his usual swaying saunter, he was actually struggling to stay upright, and as he entered more fully into the light, he wrapped his arm nonchalantly around Finn’s shoulders as if in camaraderie, but in reality, was leaning most of his weight on him. At this, Finn stiffened, but felt almost a little relieved. So he wasn’t in trouble—at least, not yet.
Dimi stared down at Roman, and the corner of his lips twitched, and suddenly he raised the pistol. It shook in his usually-steady grip. He was terribly pale, and the implanted wiring across the bridge of his nose pulsed faintly, sickly green against pale skin. “You,” he hissed, a vein bulging from his forehead. The trigger of the pistol was slick with sweat under his finger, and he was more visibly leaning against Finn now.
He was in a quandary. His life was dangling by a string, vaccine nowhere in sight, and the only person to blame was strapped in front of him, a life he could so easily end in an instant. But should he? God knew he wanted to. A fresh wave of hot sweat broke out across Dimi’s body, and he let out an involuntary shudder. His heart wasn’t going to have long. Even Enokida was staring at him, concerned eyes peering from behind those round glasses that magnified them.
“What did you do?”
“He injected himself with—”
“I didn’t ask you,” snapped Dimi, lurching away from Finn, who quickly sealed his lips. Dimi wavered in front of Roman, and for a moment Finn thought he might collapse. But the dying man only stared, eyes burning with hatred, pistol trained at Roman’s chest.
“Who are you, and who fucking sent you?”
“Take off his hood.”
A man’s scratchy baritone broke the stiff silence that had surrounded the informant for the past hour. The rough fabric hood was ripped from his head, revealing to him the dark, cavernous interrogation chamber, filled from end to end with shelves and dials and lights that blinked from the shadows in colors of green, yellow, and red. This wasn’t exactly the interrogation chamber perse, but it had the equipment they needed, and it was good enough.
“The chair, please. Yes, fasten there, and hold his shoulder down.”
Roman was pushed into a stiff-backed restraint chair by a few pairs of rough hands, all of which belonged to broad-shouldered, ugly men, all dressed in black and all looking incredibly displeased. This wasn’t the way the evening should have gone, and although the situation had not been entirely under their control, they knew that they would face consequences. It only made sense that they would see the informant as the issue. Roman’s hands and ankles were fastened to the arms and legs of the chair, and more hands pressed sharply down on his shoulder and elbow, keeping them still as a man in an immaculate white jacket approached, a butterfly needle in his hand. The sharp point glinted greedily in the dim light. The man wore a pair of thick, round glasses, and his black hair, which had once been swept neatly back, was tousled and messy as if he’d run the entire way here, which wasn’t far from the truth. His lips curled back in annoyance as he swabbed the exposed skin of Roman’s forearm with an alcohol pad and then plunged the needle in, not particularly caring when he realized he’d stuck it further in than he needed to. The body of the syringe slowly filled with crimson blood.
“You searched him?” Something in the man’s voice wavered, revealing a slight Japanese accent.
“Of course,” growled the man holding Roman’s arm in place, and his grip tightened. “Not our first time dragging someone out of an alleyway.”
The doctor sniffed and pulled the needle out, tapping the syringe so that the blood inside settled. “With everything else that went wrong, I just wanted to—”
“Shut the fuck up, Enokida.”
Enokida, Cobalt Syndicate’s chief biological consultant, shrugged and retreated to a nearby table, which was spread with various tools, tech screens, and other devices. “Whatever. Give me a few minutes.”
The man at Roman’s side released his grip and swiveled around to face Roman, his deep-set blue eyes frighteningly intense. His own hair was a drab brown and cropped close in a military style. He looked to be in about his mid-thirties, and there was a thin scar on the corner of his lip that twitched every time his mouth moved. A snarl played across his face, and suddenly he grabbed Roman’s chin, fingers digging into the skin, and forced his head to the side as if inspecting an animal. “Gonna be bloody hell to pay, asshole. If you think you’re in hot shit now—”
“Finn, I’d rather you didn’t.” Enokida barked sharply, not taking his eyes off the screen that was built into the tabletop in front of him. “He needs to be in one piece. Not a further scratch.”
Finn reluctantly released Roman, but made no move to get out of the man’s face. His breath was hot and sticky, and it fell heavy on Roman’s face. He didn’t speak but raked his eyes over Roman’s features slowly and methodically as if he was taking notes. There were a handful of other men in the chamber as well; they were gathered somewhere behind Finn, talking in low, sharp voices and occasionally turning an eye toward the captured informant. They’d put their lives on the line for a single dosage of vaccine, and instead had gotten a man who looked like he’d just stepped out of the office. This would not make Arden happy.
“How’d he know where the pickup was?” One of the men behind Finn ventured over Finn’s shoulder and stared down at Roman.
“Dunno. Those are secure lines. But see,” and at this, Finn pulled a wallet from his pocket. Not his own, but one he’d taken from Roman. Opening it revealed a small silver badge. “Police. This was a direct assault—a plan to take down Cobalt’s core.” Finn looked back up at Roman, eyes narrowing dangerously. “And they sent him.” He sounded incredibly unimpressed.
“And what did he manage to do?”
The smooth, sultry, and venemous tenor of someone descending from the far staircase seemed to freeze the room. All eyes turned toward the source of the voice, which materialized from the thick shadows after a few moments, and all eyes immediately fell downward, almost in muscle reflex. In the shadows, Dimi Arden looked every inch the head of Cobalt Syndicate; cool darkness played in the angles of his face, shifting with every move he made. His figure was slender, tapering from strong shoulders to a gentle waist, and he wore a black suit that hugged him like a glove. His hair was neatly tied back at the nape of his neck, although a strand of the brownish-black stuff had escaped to frame the side of his jaw. What attracted the most attention, however, were his eyes, which glowed an unnatural green, and which pierced through the darkness of the chamber like twin jewels. The second thing that someone would notice about him was the pistol clutched tightly in one of his hands.
The closer Dimi came, the more it became clear that something was wrong. A sheen of sweat coated his brow, and the skin over his face seemed stretched too tight for someone of his age. Although he tried to walk with his usual swaying saunter, he was actually struggling to stay upright, and as he entered more fully into the light, he wrapped his arm nonchalantly around Finn’s shoulders as if in camaraderie, but in reality, was leaning most of his weight on him. At this, Finn stiffened, but felt almost a little relieved. So he wasn’t in trouble—at least, not yet.
Dimi stared down at Roman, and the corner of his lips twitched, and suddenly he raised the pistol. It shook in his usually-steady grip. He was terribly pale, and the implanted wiring across the bridge of his nose pulsed faintly, sickly green against pale skin. “You,” he hissed, a vein bulging from his forehead. The trigger of the pistol was slick with sweat under his finger, and he was more visibly leaning against Finn now.
He was in a quandary. His life was dangling by a string, vaccine nowhere in sight, and the only person to blame was strapped in front of him, a life he could so easily end in an instant. But should he? God knew he wanted to. A fresh wave of hot sweat broke out across Dimi’s body, and he let out an involuntary shudder. His heart wasn’t going to have long. Even Enokida was staring at him, concerned eyes peering from behind those round glasses that magnified them.
“What did you do?”
“He injected himself with—”
“I didn’t ask you,” snapped Dimi, lurching away from Finn, who quickly sealed his lips. Dimi wavered in front of Roman, and for a moment Finn thought he might collapse. But the dying man only stared, eyes burning with hatred, pistol trained at Roman’s chest.
“Who are you, and who fucking sent you?”
boo.
the price we pay
Wasn’t that what he’d thought earlier? That all he wanted was to live in a state of being with? And right now, he was just about as “with” Mave as he’d ever been. Silence came again, but it wasn’t empty like before, and although the vulnerability hurt, it was a good pain. He’d hold onto it and everything would be okay for now.
The quiet settled like silt on a lakebed, undisturbed, smooth. But with a voice as soft as downy feathers, Mave dug her hand into the dirt and suddenly Kass couldn’t see through the water anymore.
“Will you lay down with me? Just… for a little while?”
His breath caught—not like it had caught before on the lump in his throat, but on itself, like he was tripping on his shoelaces. Surely Mave could feel it, the way his heart exploded like a rocket, how his face turned a million shades of red before settling into a particularly vibrant shade of pink that dusted the cheeks and the tips of his ears. And although pulling away from her made cold air rush between them, like a bag of air being opened underwater, he did it enough to be able to look at her. He was glad the window was to his back; with any luck she wouldn’t see the way he was flushing.
“I habtsga.” Gibberish. He cleared his throat. “Ibthf thst whaa—” Not helping. Amazing how a few words from Mave could change everything that he was feeling so suddenly and completely, as if he hadn’t been sobbing his heart out a minute ago, and as if he wasn’t fearing for his life. He still was, but suddenly it didn’t seem to bad anymore, if he could just get a little closer to her, and the way she proposed was so fucking close to the way he’d been imagining that it was physically impossible for him to proper thought without thinking, Lay down? With her? Like on the bed? Like can I touch her? Will she let me big spoon? I wanna be the big spoon I hope she lets me—
“Hah—” A fluttery, apologetic laugh rattled his ribcage. “I’d like that a lot.” But he couldn’t move; his legs were cramped, pressed against the side of the bed, and there wasn’t a single bone in his body that would push Mave off of him, even if it meant in doing so he could lay down beside her. On the bed.
The quiet settled like silt on a lakebed, undisturbed, smooth. But with a voice as soft as downy feathers, Mave dug her hand into the dirt and suddenly Kass couldn’t see through the water anymore.
“Will you lay down with me? Just… for a little while?”
His breath caught—not like it had caught before on the lump in his throat, but on itself, like he was tripping on his shoelaces. Surely Mave could feel it, the way his heart exploded like a rocket, how his face turned a million shades of red before settling into a particularly vibrant shade of pink that dusted the cheeks and the tips of his ears. And although pulling away from her made cold air rush between them, like a bag of air being opened underwater, he did it enough to be able to look at her. He was glad the window was to his back; with any luck she wouldn’t see the way he was flushing.
“I habtsga.” Gibberish. He cleared his throat. “Ibthf thst whaa—” Not helping. Amazing how a few words from Mave could change everything that he was feeling so suddenly and completely, as if he hadn’t been sobbing his heart out a minute ago, and as if he wasn’t fearing for his life. He still was, but suddenly it didn’t seem to bad anymore, if he could just get a little closer to her, and the way she proposed was so fucking close to the way he’d been imagining that it was physically impossible for him to proper thought without thinking, Lay down? With her? Like on the bed? Like can I touch her? Will she let me big spoon? I wanna be the big spoon I hope she lets me—
“Hah—” A fluttery, apologetic laugh rattled his ribcage. “I’d like that a lot.” But he couldn’t move; his legs were cramped, pressed against the side of the bed, and there wasn’t a single bone in his body that would push Mave off of him, even if it meant in doing so he could lay down beside her. On the bed.
boo.
the price we pay
context—crime boss experiencing his first crush on french twink
It was enough that Baroque had managed to catch him. Hugo’s heart went BATHUMP and a shaky breath snaked out from between his lips, pillowing across a face that was so incredibly close to his own. His mind’s eye flashed back to a certain alleyway, a smear of blood between his thumb and forefinger, and gratitude spoken into his mouth. The world seemed to pause in reverence of this moment, this split second of a decision battling in Hugo’s mind, desire against better judgment. It seemed an even split, a tug-of-war that would never get anywhere unless something were to tip the scales—
Oh.
We’re kissing now.
The walls around him came crumbling down in an instant, and with the rawness of a craving that could only have come from a man who had starved himself, Hugo threw himself into the flames and nudged his chin into the kiss.
He still tasted like wine. His scent was nearly overwhelming now—it was pine, he realized, the woody notes he hadn’t been able to place before. And he was so impossibly soft, like Hugo was kissing velvet, or fine mist, or a cream-filled pastry. It was a release so cathartic that Hugo still felt like he was falling, that he and Baroque were tangled in midair, that to kiss was the only thing left for them to do. More, he craved, give me all you have and I will return twofold.
And then it was over. Hugo’s legs straightened through a power he didn’t remember summoning, and the arm that had been so perfectly wrapped around him slipped away as if it had never existed at all. Dark eyes finally opened just in time to catch a blaze of pink and a rasped retreat to their next challenge.
Hugo stumbled backward, nearly falling again.
We kissed. He—I—I kissed him—but he—and I—
Staring vacantly ahead despite the fireworks exploding all around him, Hugo looked like he was physically rebooting.
He slapped his palms against his cheeks and felt the burn beneath them. A long, trembling sigh escaped from between his lips, which felt swollen and tingly despite the fact that they’d kissed for… well, it had felt like an eternity. But still not long enough. Something like a whimper was pushed from his chest, so quiet that only he could hear it, but still it thundered around in his skull as though it was only empty space.
Any other time, he would have been quick to assume that this kiss had been just another gimmick, another attempt to get a rise out of him (it was working), a gesture that meant absolutely nothing to the one administering (although Hugo still couldn’t decide who had kissed whom). But the image of a blush, a beautiful face turning away to hide an unexpected reaction was the only thing he could see. It made it hard to breathe.
Baroque? Flustered?
Then that could only mean…
How was he able to get his feet moving? Hugo wasn’t sure. He didn’t say anything as he found Baroque again and slid into a seat that was slightly more familiar, a simple game that played on his own reality, in some sense. The gun was plastic and held no weight, but instantly Hugo found a sliver of something normal to comfort himself within. Whatever this was, whatever had just happened—he desperately needed a glimpse of reality. An arcade shooting gallery game would just have to suffice. Eyes, still wide and unblinking, focused hard on the screen as if the answer to all of this was hidden behind the glass, within splatters of low-quality gore and bit-crushed screams.
Baroque wasn’t saying anything about the kiss. Neither was Hugo. Are we just going to pretend that didn’t happen? A victory banner flashed across Hugo’s screen, and the opposite on Baroque’s. He looked over for the first time in five minutes and found Baroque staring right back, catching him just as a finger tapped on his shoulder. He could see it coming and still he flinched at the touch.
“HUH?” It came out way louder than Hugo intended. He swallowed and looked to where Baroque was motioning, lips still hanging just slightly apart, refusing to gather themselves, simply because they craved the space filled by his—
“Oh… Ok.” Claw machines. That wasn’t really an arcade game, was it? Well, it was a game, and it was in an arcade, but… was this cheating? Or just even ground? Hugo wet his lips and got up from his seat—
Then froze. He stared down at Baroque, a bunny caught in a beartrap. He’d been struggling for weeks but something was telling him to stop. What had once been agony was now the one thing he needed.
“Wait.” Hands reached out, leaning down, touching the smooth, tender skin around the base of Baroque’s neck. The world seemed to come to a standstill once more, the earth ceasing its orbit to witness—
Hugo tugged on Baroque’s necklace, rotating the delicate chain so that the clasp was no longer visible. “Sorry. That was driving me crazy.”
He stepped down from the pedestal and made his way to the claw machines.
He’d never wanted to bang his head against a wall more in his life. Stupid. Stupid. Stupid. Stupid. Stupid. Why did you do that. Stupid. Stupid. Stupid.
But feeling Baroque’s skin tremble under his touch…
Oh, he wanted to do it again.
Claw machines seemed to be the no-man’s-land that would determine the winner of the evening. At this point, however, Hugo didn’t really care. The world had continued on its orbit but he was left in a standstill, reeling and dizzy, floating above the clouds and simultaneously buried six feet under. He could glide. He could die. He wanted to bury his hands in that hair and push him away, taste his breath and never see him again. What he wanted was so different from what he knew he should do; Baroque could escape without consequences that mattered, but Hugo could not. If he was someone else and he saw himself doing this, wanting what he did—he’d turn himself in in an instant.
His tongue was frozen as the last challenge began; since it was only fair if they tried at the same machine, he waited as Baroque went first. Thumb pressed down and a metal claw followed, but returned to its place empty. Then Hugo was thrust into the spotlight—or more accurately, he shuffled reluctantly into it himself, knowing that once this was over, everything, all of this, a night he wasn’t sure he’d ever be able to forget, would be brought to an end.
He didn’t want it to end like this, balancing on the edge of a new world. Hugo wanted to plunge over, but he couldn’t do it alone. If only he would extend his hand…
Suddenly the plunk of a little plastic orb landing in the metal box startled him. Oh. He’d gotten something on his first try; reaching down to retrieve it and pop the plastic lid open revealed a long strand of tacky fake pearls.
“I suppose… I won, then.” His voice sounded husky. Eyes shifted down before rising and melting into the soft browns he was becoming familiar with, and suddenly he extended his prize out and placed it in long, delicate fingers like a cat presenting a dead leaf as freshly-caught prey. “Here. Consolation prize.”
There was so much he could have said but all of it was lost on him. Words failed utterly when faced with the man who had been haunting his dreams for two weeks straight. Having that second taste had simply been a confirmation of what he already knew he wanted, but now that he was within his grasp, fear gripped at him, uncertainties and insecurities that had been hidden but were now rearing their heads.
Hugo, you’re too old for me.
It was just flirting. Didn’t mean anything.
I’m not into shorter guys.
You’re so gullible.
Hugo swallowed.
He still had the first place prize to redeem, a question that Baroque had pledged to answer. What did he want to know?
“What… hm.” There was a lump in his throat. This was stupid. Fingers crept into pockets, a safe place to hide when they felt strangely empty.
“This was all your idea. So… you must have had something you wanted to ask me, right from the start. What would you have asked, if you’d won?”
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boo.
the price we pay
context—awkward witch comforts the girl he's got a mega crush on after she has a nightmare
"Last night—when you said I could stay... Did you mean it?"
Laurie shivered at her question, and suddenly she was the predator, himself a stag struck through with the arrow of her fear. Echoes of it, of the sobs she’d shaken into his shoulder last night, shook through the air like static before lightning.
What was it he’d said to her exactly?
I want you to stay.
The profundity of that want was something that he couldn’t even begin to comprehend. He turned stutteringly toward her and found that the space she took up in his vision made him feel complete; her presence was more than welcome, it was needed; the way she spoke to him made him want to gather her in his arms and pledge his devotion. It frightened him and for just a moment, it shone in his eyes, a flash of trepidation in clear, watery brown, the same color as cherry wood.
He still felt that he hardly knew her but seeing her there, wrapped in his blankets and lying on his bed, made him feel like he’d been waiting for this ever since he left for Deux Swamp, as if the longing in his heart was a space where she fit perfectly. He couldn’t describe the way she made him feel complete.
“Oh, fawn…” The endearment flowed from his lips as naturally as breathing, and as he knelt down beside the bed, meeting her at eye-level, his expression devoid of any rough edges, any edges at all. “I’ll swear it to you here.” He laid his hand out flat, palm-up, on the mattress before her, and suddenly the lines in his palm began to flicker with warm, golden light, spilling over and pooling in the center like honey, pulsing softly with his heartbeat. The glow lit up his face, turning brown eyes amber, and there was a light smell of spun sugar.
“This is a witch’s vow. That—” His other hand pointed to the light, which was slowly gathering into an orb, not completely round but more of an egg shape. It started to emit a quiet heat. “—is my essence.” There was a beat of silence as he swallowed something, and when he spoke again, it was quiet, almost a whisper. “I’ve only shown it to two other people before. It…” His face was pink, but maybe it was just from the golden warmth. “It’s intimate. You don’t just show it to anyone.”
His eyes flicked up, and he nearly choked from the way Tif’s eyes sparkled in the light.
“If you want to stay… go ahead and touch it. That makes the vow.”
boo.
the price we pay
context—opening post, high fantasy, his world is falling apart and it's only a tuesday evening
It was going to rain tonight; he could smell it on the northern wind.
As much of a hassle as it was to spend a full day's travel to the next village, just to buy the paints he preferred, Winnie didn't actually mind. He might have griped about it to anyone who bothered to stop and listen, but he liked to watch the world slowly pass him by, as he took the familiar seaside road around the halfmoon bay. Whalebreak, his destination, would be just around the next curve; ripgut fences lined the right side of the road, blocking off grass fields where small white goats grazed in the hazy heat of early evening. Lazy stripes of purple and glowing orange were starting to stretch across the horizon and Winnie stopped for a few moments where there was a break in the trees, and he could look west over the beach and the lapping waters of the bay. It would have been a pretty scene to paint, but he was content to spend his time experiencing the moment and appreciating it for what it was worth.
The husky voice of an older woman called out above the cry of the gulls, calling her children in from the goat fields where they'd been busy herding the animals into the lean-to stable for the night. Winnie looked over at the pastoral scene and raised a brief hand in passing greeting, and the woman waved back, balancing a heavy basket on her hip, while her children swarmed around her skirts and through the door to the dinner that surely awaited them. He hadn't eaten yet but planned on grabbing something at the tavern, as well as a room for the night. Any other time and he might have gone home through the night, but he'd been out early this morning to fish before he left for Whalebreak, and the smell of stormclouds on the breeze wasn't exactly promising. But rain or no rain, he wanted to leave in the morning.
He'd timed his trip perfectly; while many of the marketplace vendors were beginning to fold up their multicolored awnings and retire, the one he was looking for kept later hours and he spotted the telltale paper lanterns and strings of origami from the other end of the packed dirt street. Shifting the leather bag on his shoulder, he made a beeline toward the little quiet stall, savoring the smells of grilled street food and combing a hand back through his dark, wind-tossed locks. He hadn't cut it in a while and it reached a little below his shoulders, wavy from the salt breeze and struck through with sun highlights. He'd braided a little strand that dangled by his ear, and a tiny ring of hammered metal fastened the end, every now and then knocking against his chin. The spattering of freckles over his nose had grown more noticeable in these past few months of summer sun, and his once-pale skin now glowed with healthy golden undertones. He looked like anyone else, or so he hoped. Coming here and blending in had been the whole point, after all.
The drawling notes of a reed flute grew louder as Winnie approached; there was an older man who occupied the painted stall, leaning back in his chair with his feet propped up on the back of his shelf of wares, eyes closed pleasantly as he drifted into his music. Old habits of politeness kept Winnie from interrupting, until a few minutes had passed and the man hadn't moved an inch, or so much as cracked an eye open, so there really was only one thing for Winnie to do, and that was to clear his throat. Twice.
A pinched grey eye slitted open to peer at Winnie, and the amateur flautist suddenly stopped, sitting forward with a sharp inhale of surprise. "You're back?"
Winnie avoided his gaze, instead inspecting a very interesting part of the wall behind the stall. "Yes."
"Two weeks? That has to be a new record, Winslow."
"You have what I need or not, Folmon?"
The older man barked in laughter. "Bloody pits of hell, you don't have to make it sound like I'm dealing out poisons. What d'you need this time?"
A folded slip of paper was dug from Winnie's pocket and handed off. "The usual, and some graphite. I'm trying to do more sketching like you suggested."
Creaking up from his seat, the man started to rifle through his wares—pastel-colored tin pots, tiny canisters wrapped in twine, and on the ground was a stack of canvas stretched over wooden frames. A creamy white candle burned in an empty corner of the stall and Winnie could see pencil rubbings on the side of the Folmon's weathered hands. He'd clearly been doing some sketching of his own.
"Good, good. I keep telling you you ought to go to one of them fancy cities, and do portraits for a living. You'd be a rich man," Folmon muttered under his breath as he started to gather little canisters, setting them one-by-one into a paper bag.
"Not what I came here for, and you know it."
"You want another canvas?"
"Looks like rain, and I'm heading out tomorrow. Maybe next time."
"Next week, most likely," huffed the older man, sitting down again and scribbling down figures on a scrap of paper. "How d'you find the time for anything else?"
"It's not like I spend all day drinking wine and painting," Winnie protested, putting his hands on his hips. "It's a hobby."
"You're crazy."
"It keeps me sane!"
"Never going to find a nice woman holed up in your cottage all day."
"I'm pretty sure I'm the only one who keeps you in business, Folmon," he countered, wrinkling his freckled nose. "Not my fault that everyone else around here couldn't tell a still life from a landscape. Turning what I love into a job would make the art lose its appeal; I do it all for myself, not to impress some..." But he trailed off upon realizing Folmon was no longer looking at him, but rather past him, sunken eyes blown wide with an expression Winnie couldn't quite place. He crossed his arms over his chest at the sudden chill in the air and furrowed his brows. "What?"
Someone screamed behind him. The sound of splintering wood shattered the idyllic atmosphere like a crack of lightning through blue skies. Without warning, the marketplace became a hive of chaos, and barely did Winnie have the time to whip over his shoulder when something slapped him sharply across the face, and he fell over Folmon's stall with a hoarse cry of his own, scrambling behind a wooden barrier and curling himself into a ball.
A woman's voice, angry and pitched, rose above the rest, followed by that of a man, his calmer but which sent a chill down Winnie's spine. A trembling hand touched at his cheek, expecting to find blood, perhaps a raw stripe of gore, but he found nothing, only cold skin. His linen shirt was soaked through; he looked down his chest and found that thin shavings of fluffy ice had stuck themselves to the fabric.
Ice? His head spun. He glanced dizzily over at Folmon, who was similarly pressed to the ground and looking at him wide-eyed, unspeaking. What could they do? What was happening?
Winnie dared to peek through the shelves, between toppled jars and broken paintbrushes. A man stood in the middle of the street, the ground covered in a thick layer of frost that rippled out from his feet like waves, like the beat of his heart, only Winnie's raced like the pounding hooves of a racehorse, and he could hardly hear for the ringing in his ears and the rush of his own blood like a dam had cracked and been set loose. That man out there was undoubtedly bad news; the air had flash-frozen and Winnie's breath came out in quick, white puffs, like nothing he'd ever seen before in all his years living by the coast. Something foul and magic was at play and he seemed to have been caught in the middle of it all; whoever the strange man was fighting was clearly putting up a good fight of her own, to force such a reaction like this.
Or, the man was merely destroying shit for the sake of destroying shit. People were crazy and that was why Winnie hated most of them.
He got to his hands and knees, shaking like a leaf, and dared to poke his head around the edge of the toppled stall for a better look at things—and narrowly missed a blast of something impossibly bright and crackling like a ball of thunder, which struck the side of the building and left a black char mark. Winnie whipped around to safety and pressed his back against the stall, panting like a dog.
So this wasn't great. One could even say it had the potential to be the worst day of his life.
The past sure did have a funny way of catching up with him, because he could recognize the thrum of well-trained magic anywhere.
It made his skin crawl.
It was going to rain tonight; he could smell it on the northern wind.
As much of a hassle as it was to spend a full day's travel to the next village, just to buy the paints he preferred, Winnie didn't actually mind. He might have griped about it to anyone who bothered to stop and listen, but he liked to watch the world slowly pass him by, as he took the familiar seaside road around the halfmoon bay. Whalebreak, his destination, would be just around the next curve; ripgut fences lined the right side of the road, blocking off grass fields where small white goats grazed in the hazy heat of early evening. Lazy stripes of purple and glowing orange were starting to stretch across the horizon and Winnie stopped for a few moments where there was a break in the trees, and he could look west over the beach and the lapping waters of the bay. It would have been a pretty scene to paint, but he was content to spend his time experiencing the moment and appreciating it for what it was worth.
The husky voice of an older woman called out above the cry of the gulls, calling her children in from the goat fields where they'd been busy herding the animals into the lean-to stable for the night. Winnie looked over at the pastoral scene and raised a brief hand in passing greeting, and the woman waved back, balancing a heavy basket on her hip, while her children swarmed around her skirts and through the door to the dinner that surely awaited them. He hadn't eaten yet but planned on grabbing something at the tavern, as well as a room for the night. Any other time and he might have gone home through the night, but he'd been out early this morning to fish before he left for Whalebreak, and the smell of stormclouds on the breeze wasn't exactly promising. But rain or no rain, he wanted to leave in the morning.
He'd timed his trip perfectly; while many of the marketplace vendors were beginning to fold up their multicolored awnings and retire, the one he was looking for kept later hours and he spotted the telltale paper lanterns and strings of origami from the other end of the packed dirt street. Shifting the leather bag on his shoulder, he made a beeline toward the little quiet stall, savoring the smells of grilled street food and combing a hand back through his dark, wind-tossed locks. He hadn't cut it in a while and it reached a little below his shoulders, wavy from the salt breeze and struck through with sun highlights. He'd braided a little strand that dangled by his ear, and a tiny ring of hammered metal fastened the end, every now and then knocking against his chin. The spattering of freckles over his nose had grown more noticeable in these past few months of summer sun, and his once-pale skin now glowed with healthy golden undertones. He looked like anyone else, or so he hoped. Coming here and blending in had been the whole point, after all.
The drawling notes of a reed flute grew louder as Winnie approached; there was an older man who occupied the painted stall, leaning back in his chair with his feet propped up on the back of his shelf of wares, eyes closed pleasantly as he drifted into his music. Old habits of politeness kept Winnie from interrupting, until a few minutes had passed and the man hadn't moved an inch, or so much as cracked an eye open, so there really was only one thing for Winnie to do, and that was to clear his throat. Twice.
A pinched grey eye slitted open to peer at Winnie, and the amateur flautist suddenly stopped, sitting forward with a sharp inhale of surprise. "You're back?"
Winnie avoided his gaze, instead inspecting a very interesting part of the wall behind the stall. "Yes."
"Two weeks? That has to be a new record, Winslow."
"You have what I need or not, Folmon?"
The older man barked in laughter. "Bloody pits of hell, you don't have to make it sound like I'm dealing out poisons. What d'you need this time?"
A folded slip of paper was dug from Winnie's pocket and handed off. "The usual, and some graphite. I'm trying to do more sketching like you suggested."
Creaking up from his seat, the man started to rifle through his wares—pastel-colored tin pots, tiny canisters wrapped in twine, and on the ground was a stack of canvas stretched over wooden frames. A creamy white candle burned in an empty corner of the stall and Winnie could see pencil rubbings on the side of the Folmon's weathered hands. He'd clearly been doing some sketching of his own.
"Good, good. I keep telling you you ought to go to one of them fancy cities, and do portraits for a living. You'd be a rich man," Folmon muttered under his breath as he started to gather little canisters, setting them one-by-one into a paper bag.
"Not what I came here for, and you know it."
"You want another canvas?"
"Looks like rain, and I'm heading out tomorrow. Maybe next time."
"Next week, most likely," huffed the older man, sitting down again and scribbling down figures on a scrap of paper. "How d'you find the time for anything else?"
"It's not like I spend all day drinking wine and painting," Winnie protested, putting his hands on his hips. "It's a hobby."
"You're crazy."
"It keeps me sane!"
"Never going to find a nice woman holed up in your cottage all day."
"I'm pretty sure I'm the only one who keeps you in business, Folmon," he countered, wrinkling his freckled nose. "Not my fault that everyone else around here couldn't tell a still life from a landscape. Turning what I love into a job would make the art lose its appeal; I do it all for myself, not to impress some..." But he trailed off upon realizing Folmon was no longer looking at him, but rather past him, sunken eyes blown wide with an expression Winnie couldn't quite place. He crossed his arms over his chest at the sudden chill in the air and furrowed his brows. "What?"
Someone screamed behind him. The sound of splintering wood shattered the idyllic atmosphere like a crack of lightning through blue skies. Without warning, the marketplace became a hive of chaos, and barely did Winnie have the time to whip over his shoulder when something slapped him sharply across the face, and he fell over Folmon's stall with a hoarse cry of his own, scrambling behind a wooden barrier and curling himself into a ball.
A woman's voice, angry and pitched, rose above the rest, followed by that of a man, his calmer but which sent a chill down Winnie's spine. A trembling hand touched at his cheek, expecting to find blood, perhaps a raw stripe of gore, but he found nothing, only cold skin. His linen shirt was soaked through; he looked down his chest and found that thin shavings of fluffy ice had stuck themselves to the fabric.
Ice? His head spun. He glanced dizzily over at Folmon, who was similarly pressed to the ground and looking at him wide-eyed, unspeaking. What could they do? What was happening?
Winnie dared to peek through the shelves, between toppled jars and broken paintbrushes. A man stood in the middle of the street, the ground covered in a thick layer of frost that rippled out from his feet like waves, like the beat of his heart, only Winnie's raced like the pounding hooves of a racehorse, and he could hardly hear for the ringing in his ears and the rush of his own blood like a dam had cracked and been set loose. That man out there was undoubtedly bad news; the air had flash-frozen and Winnie's breath came out in quick, white puffs, like nothing he'd ever seen before in all his years living by the coast. Something foul and magic was at play and he seemed to have been caught in the middle of it all; whoever the strange man was fighting was clearly putting up a good fight of her own, to force such a reaction like this.
Or, the man was merely destroying shit for the sake of destroying shit. People were crazy and that was why Winnie hated most of them.
He got to his hands and knees, shaking like a leaf, and dared to poke his head around the edge of the toppled stall for a better look at things—and narrowly missed a blast of something impossibly bright and crackling like a ball of thunder, which struck the side of the building and left a black char mark. Winnie whipped around to safety and pressed his back against the stall, panting like a dog.
So this wasn't great. One could even say it had the potential to be the worst day of his life.
The past sure did have a funny way of catching up with him, because he could recognize the thrum of well-trained magic anywhere.
It made his skin crawl.
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