Post by ripshark on Oct 26, 2003 14:39:44 GMT -5
I have written this as the first part of a horde of short stories centered on the same characters, please tell me what you think of it (I already know how screwed up it is) enjoy!
The Legend Of Badger Vance White
The Legend of Badger Vance White Part One:
A Birth and a Departure
In a small hamlet nestled in a small green valley with a tiny trickle of a stream meandering through it, situated somewhere in the midst of the green rolling countryside of Middle Fern, a badger was born.
It was cold and wet that night, a typical December night long ago, just as the age of technology was peaking in the cities but still unbeknown in the world outside, no one is sure, definitely colder, then I can truly recall. The rain penetrated everything, the cloth sacks that the peasant had to wear, their pitiful mud hovels, and even your very being. The earth had been churned into mud that seemed to stain everything.
A single scream of a woman in labour pieced the thick shroud of the storm; a collective shudder went through the families of the village people all throughout the tiny valley, followed by a righteous bright flash of light and the almighty voice of thunder speaking from the heavens.
In the small hamlet, aptly named Hamlet for lack of more imaginative peasants, the entire family of the Whites, six in total, now awaited a new addition to their humble kin. In their small mud adobe, the women lay on her back on a sack of potatoes, breathing laboriously. A midwife sat by her side, grasping her hand and crooning soothing words into her ear while simultaneously praying for a safe delivery in this devil conjured storm.
That night, under the fury of a storm that blackened even the night sky, in a small mud hovel amidst the guttural screams of a peasant, our legend begins. First into this very green land of ours was the cold-as-dead-liver nose that emerged from Mrs White’s generous thighs.
The midwife let the hand fall from her own and took a step backwards, avidly crossing and re-crossing herself in an attempt to cause air friction, or to invoke an uninterested god. For, in this humble dwelling of the Whites’, in a dull place known only a Hamlet to those that have mistaken it for a labour party holiday resort camp, or just seriously lost, the long forgotten pagan gods were at play, meddling in the affairs of mortals once again.
The stout oak door burst outwards into the night, spilling warmth into the cold exterior, and a midwife who toppled backwards into the night, then scrambled away, screaming. The small bundle of bloody fur that slithered out of Mrs White’s womb half opened one of its beady little eyes, peeking out evilly and taking in all its surroundings. A small red glow, just visible in the darkness, for the White’s could not afford any wax for candles and had never heard of electricity, stared in horror at the single beam of red malevolence, intensified unearthly light from what they thought was the spawn of Satan.
“Dada” came a small hoarse voice, in that single word managing to cough up almost an ounce of fur ball covered in sticky red blood onto the floor.
“It. It said my name!”
“No it didn’t. Are you deaf or somefing? It said ‘Dada’. Your names not Dada!” Squawked one of the tribe of White children.
“Look, it said ‘Dada’ an’ that’s good ‘nough for me. Shut up! I don’ care what you fink anyways!”
The next morning, the little bundle of fur had grown twice of what it had been, for, after all it was a satanic thing and no one much really noticed. When its mother woke up, she noticed that the storm had cleared off, so she went to the little bundle of fur and thusly crooned into its supposed ear:
“Your name shall be Vance, for the son I never had. And though your life shall be a short and pain filled one, you might at least deserve a name, so me can curse you properly once you gone.” So with that final word of motherly love into her… badgers ear thingy, she picked the fur ball up and in one deft movement, tossed it out of the window, where he was later mistaken for a football. Then, like a good conservative housewife, she promptly forgot all about the unfortunate incident and went and told her son Herbert that there was a new footie outside for him.
Vance silently cursed. He hated the pagan gods. All too previously, he had been queuing up for the ‘Reincarnation in a Dull Place’ in heaven; they had waiting lists of up to 500 years! And he’d just joined the end. That’s when it’d happened. They had come to him, with a little proposal, a way to jump the queue, reincarnate instantly, no waiting time at all. So he’d said yeah hell! The dull life for me! Can’t wait for it. You see, in the previous life, which he unfortunately at the time had remembered all too vividly, he was an assassin, one of the best of his trade. His world was a dark one, killing ‘cause he had too. But only killing the ‘bad guys’. He was a hunted man, not by the law but by they other one. The Law, on the wrong side of the line. Eventually, they got to him, but that, my friends, is a tale for another time.
Now, Vance lay on the mud, the only evidence of the viscous battle of the thunder giants during the darkness, he heard footfalls beside his head, then with a resounding thud, a foot belonging to the eldest son of the White tribe covered in thick layers of mud sent him flying, the air crushed out of his tiny chest. Lying where he had fallen, covered by thick wet brush, he realized that he was not badly injured, quickly checking himself for any signs of broken bones he first realized just how deft and durable a badger was constructed. He wasn’t sure whether all badgers were like this though, for Vance knew that he had been placed here for some special purpose by the pagan gods, but why a Badger?
As he lay there in silent contemplation, he heard the excited cry of a child, then the dull slaps of a running feet approaching through the thick sludge. Acting out of instinct for survival more then anything else, he picked himself up and dived into the thick scrub, just in time, it seemed, for he could hear the bush behind him, where he had just lain explode, scattering damp leaves in all directions. He realised that there was no time to escape, so using his sharp claws, for all badgers were marvellous burrowers, he rapidly dug into the soft mud, which offered little resistance, and covered himself.
As he lay there, encompassed by the darkness, he felt the earth vibrate as the child drew nearer he remained absolutely still. They passed without slowing. He remained in the same position for the next twenty minutes or so, not daring to reveal himself, lest the croons promise took sudden physical form. After a while he felt it safe to venture from his safe haven, utilising his sharp claws once more to crawl out into the damp trees. He took large gasps of the fresh morning air, staggering a few paces quickly regaining his composure. He rapidly analysed his position, doing what he was trained to do best. There was no way he could go back. He was still Vance White, even in this form, but what options did he have left?
His damp nose suddenly kicked in, and he began sniffing the air tentatively. He was amazed how the badgers nose worked, he could practically smell people, animals and things that had passed this way, not more then three, maybe four days ago. Their smells hung thick in the air. He began sniffing about, looking for something that could help him. He could smell the villagers, bright and clear, yet most other smell seemed to have been washed away in the passing of the storm, so he could smell the scents of that morning clearer then he would have been able to otherwise. He caught the scent of running water, not far from where he was, and away from the village. It would be a good place to wash off the mud that stained his fur from the burrowing experience.
He set of at a determined pace on his two hind legs, still retaining much from his previous existence. The claws that also adorned his feet did prove a hindrance at first, but they were easily overcome with a sort of shuffling stride. And so he proceeded to his fate, at a lopsided march into the deep wild undergrowth of the Jolly Woods, where many a dark and evil creature thrived. He soon arrived at a strange river running green, drank some water and fell unconscious for the next three days.
The Legend of Badger Vance White Part II coming soon to a Badgery near you!
The Legend Of Badger Vance White
The Legend of Badger Vance White Part One:
A Birth and a Departure
In a small hamlet nestled in a small green valley with a tiny trickle of a stream meandering through it, situated somewhere in the midst of the green rolling countryside of Middle Fern, a badger was born.
It was cold and wet that night, a typical December night long ago, just as the age of technology was peaking in the cities but still unbeknown in the world outside, no one is sure, definitely colder, then I can truly recall. The rain penetrated everything, the cloth sacks that the peasant had to wear, their pitiful mud hovels, and even your very being. The earth had been churned into mud that seemed to stain everything.
A single scream of a woman in labour pieced the thick shroud of the storm; a collective shudder went through the families of the village people all throughout the tiny valley, followed by a righteous bright flash of light and the almighty voice of thunder speaking from the heavens.
In the small hamlet, aptly named Hamlet for lack of more imaginative peasants, the entire family of the Whites, six in total, now awaited a new addition to their humble kin. In their small mud adobe, the women lay on her back on a sack of potatoes, breathing laboriously. A midwife sat by her side, grasping her hand and crooning soothing words into her ear while simultaneously praying for a safe delivery in this devil conjured storm.
That night, under the fury of a storm that blackened even the night sky, in a small mud hovel amidst the guttural screams of a peasant, our legend begins. First into this very green land of ours was the cold-as-dead-liver nose that emerged from Mrs White’s generous thighs.
The midwife let the hand fall from her own and took a step backwards, avidly crossing and re-crossing herself in an attempt to cause air friction, or to invoke an uninterested god. For, in this humble dwelling of the Whites’, in a dull place known only a Hamlet to those that have mistaken it for a labour party holiday resort camp, or just seriously lost, the long forgotten pagan gods were at play, meddling in the affairs of mortals once again.
The stout oak door burst outwards into the night, spilling warmth into the cold exterior, and a midwife who toppled backwards into the night, then scrambled away, screaming. The small bundle of bloody fur that slithered out of Mrs White’s womb half opened one of its beady little eyes, peeking out evilly and taking in all its surroundings. A small red glow, just visible in the darkness, for the White’s could not afford any wax for candles and had never heard of electricity, stared in horror at the single beam of red malevolence, intensified unearthly light from what they thought was the spawn of Satan.
“Dada” came a small hoarse voice, in that single word managing to cough up almost an ounce of fur ball covered in sticky red blood onto the floor.
“It. It said my name!”
“No it didn’t. Are you deaf or somefing? It said ‘Dada’. Your names not Dada!” Squawked one of the tribe of White children.
“Look, it said ‘Dada’ an’ that’s good ‘nough for me. Shut up! I don’ care what you fink anyways!”
The next morning, the little bundle of fur had grown twice of what it had been, for, after all it was a satanic thing and no one much really noticed. When its mother woke up, she noticed that the storm had cleared off, so she went to the little bundle of fur and thusly crooned into its supposed ear:
“Your name shall be Vance, for the son I never had. And though your life shall be a short and pain filled one, you might at least deserve a name, so me can curse you properly once you gone.” So with that final word of motherly love into her… badgers ear thingy, she picked the fur ball up and in one deft movement, tossed it out of the window, where he was later mistaken for a football. Then, like a good conservative housewife, she promptly forgot all about the unfortunate incident and went and told her son Herbert that there was a new footie outside for him.
Vance silently cursed. He hated the pagan gods. All too previously, he had been queuing up for the ‘Reincarnation in a Dull Place’ in heaven; they had waiting lists of up to 500 years! And he’d just joined the end. That’s when it’d happened. They had come to him, with a little proposal, a way to jump the queue, reincarnate instantly, no waiting time at all. So he’d said yeah hell! The dull life for me! Can’t wait for it. You see, in the previous life, which he unfortunately at the time had remembered all too vividly, he was an assassin, one of the best of his trade. His world was a dark one, killing ‘cause he had too. But only killing the ‘bad guys’. He was a hunted man, not by the law but by they other one. The Law, on the wrong side of the line. Eventually, they got to him, but that, my friends, is a tale for another time.
Now, Vance lay on the mud, the only evidence of the viscous battle of the thunder giants during the darkness, he heard footfalls beside his head, then with a resounding thud, a foot belonging to the eldest son of the White tribe covered in thick layers of mud sent him flying, the air crushed out of his tiny chest. Lying where he had fallen, covered by thick wet brush, he realized that he was not badly injured, quickly checking himself for any signs of broken bones he first realized just how deft and durable a badger was constructed. He wasn’t sure whether all badgers were like this though, for Vance knew that he had been placed here for some special purpose by the pagan gods, but why a Badger?
As he lay there in silent contemplation, he heard the excited cry of a child, then the dull slaps of a running feet approaching through the thick sludge. Acting out of instinct for survival more then anything else, he picked himself up and dived into the thick scrub, just in time, it seemed, for he could hear the bush behind him, where he had just lain explode, scattering damp leaves in all directions. He realised that there was no time to escape, so using his sharp claws, for all badgers were marvellous burrowers, he rapidly dug into the soft mud, which offered little resistance, and covered himself.
As he lay there, encompassed by the darkness, he felt the earth vibrate as the child drew nearer he remained absolutely still. They passed without slowing. He remained in the same position for the next twenty minutes or so, not daring to reveal himself, lest the croons promise took sudden physical form. After a while he felt it safe to venture from his safe haven, utilising his sharp claws once more to crawl out into the damp trees. He took large gasps of the fresh morning air, staggering a few paces quickly regaining his composure. He rapidly analysed his position, doing what he was trained to do best. There was no way he could go back. He was still Vance White, even in this form, but what options did he have left?
His damp nose suddenly kicked in, and he began sniffing the air tentatively. He was amazed how the badgers nose worked, he could practically smell people, animals and things that had passed this way, not more then three, maybe four days ago. Their smells hung thick in the air. He began sniffing about, looking for something that could help him. He could smell the villagers, bright and clear, yet most other smell seemed to have been washed away in the passing of the storm, so he could smell the scents of that morning clearer then he would have been able to otherwise. He caught the scent of running water, not far from where he was, and away from the village. It would be a good place to wash off the mud that stained his fur from the burrowing experience.
He set of at a determined pace on his two hind legs, still retaining much from his previous existence. The claws that also adorned his feet did prove a hindrance at first, but they were easily overcome with a sort of shuffling stride. And so he proceeded to his fate, at a lopsided march into the deep wild undergrowth of the Jolly Woods, where many a dark and evil creature thrived. He soon arrived at a strange river running green, drank some water and fell unconscious for the next three days.
The Legend of Badger Vance White Part II coming soon to a Badgery near you!
