Post by GeneT on Dec 30, 2003 17:14:02 GMT -5
Wide Open Places
It had been nine days since Tennison had left his lean-to along the wharf.
He scrabbled down a darkening alley buried in the sprawl of the metal workers district until he could stand it no more and crouched low, head between his knees, dry heaving in long silent coughs. Forcing himself upright, he staggered out into Copper Square and leaned against the wall of a collapsed apothecary, thin fingers nervously scratching at his neck until red angry lines gripped his throat.
Just a little farther, he thought. Just a little farther.
The noise of merchants and people washed over him, accosting his skin until it itched and his eyes watered. Retreating to the ground, he fell sitting and shuddered, burying his face into shaking hands, his legs repeatedly pushing him weakly into the wall as if he begged to burrow under it, as if he could wish himself back to safety of his single room hovel.
Sobbing into his hands, the sudden quiet of the square forced Tennison to peek between trembling fingers. They all just watched the burning man’s jolting dance. His mouth opening wide in a silent scream as sharp blue flames licked his skin and striped the hair from his skull. Mothers clutched their children as they watched him spin and shudder disjointedly, waving arms trailing strips of burning cloth until he collapsed into a heap of cackling flesh. Spent men muttered, meekly shaking their heads in agreement as angry shouts of action and screaming children weakly disturbed the silence until they all began filtering into the merchant stalls that lined the square, retreating to allow the din of trade to rise and blanket them.
Tennison covered his nose with the back of his hand and fled down a side street as soldiers burst into the square. He stumbled for an eternity through twisting byways towards the Armory, flinching as the sound of gears and steam punctuated the growing darkness.
Just a little farther, he thought. Just a little farther.
Along a soot blackened wall, he fingered a lose brick and disappeared. Waiting until the hinged section snapped shut, he scuttled down a torch lit tunnel, pressing his hands against his head to dull the Armory’s continuous derisive clamor.
Rill and Lisfol were arguing again, but he didn’t mind. The noise had stopped and only ten others were present. Tennison collapsed and praised dead Joran for the numerous quieting glyphs he had carved into the circular room’s dirt wall.
“The counsel had not agreed,” Rill said, slamming his hand down onto a small rectangular table in the room’s center.
“No matter. E’s dead now,” said Lisfol. “Whether an informer or no, one less to worry over.”
“We have no cause for killing,” Rill began
“No cause,” Lisfol said laughing. “They take the library and caste us out, blamin us for little rain and poor crops, and when the sickness hits, the crown watches’em hunt til we scatter like rats,” he continued pacing along the room, challenging each of them. “Have you no courage,” he taunted.
“Was a brick layer,” Tennision said quietly to himself. “A wife. Four kids.”
Lisfol yanked Tennison to his feet and shook him twice before pinning him to the wall with strong hands, savoring the squeal of fear that Tennison tried to swallow. Unconsciously, Tennison began a warding cantrip until Lisfol slammed a fist into his face, crumpling him to the ground. Tennison vaguely heard the whisperings of a faint melody as he struggled to stand and retain consciousness. The melody sharpened and Lisfol howled in anger as Rill's spell hurled him across the room. Scanning every face for support, Lisfol stood and turned to face Rill as he slowly brushed away the dirt from his clothes. Without the others, it was an even split and they all knew it. Tennison hardly counted.
“Time’s up,” Lisfol said pulling an odd gnomic contraption from his cloak and tapping its bronze case. “Let me know when the useful are done hiding.”
Waiting until Lisfol left, Rill helped Tennison to his feet. “Let’s go. I’ll take you back,” Rill said absently. “Lisfol is right. The counsel is too scared to stand.”
They took the south fork and Tennison winced, nearly faltering as he passed beneath Joran’s silencing ward and the Armory’s screeching barrage began anew. Rill dragged him forward, pulling him along the tunnel’s slow upward grade, his hand firm against Tennison’s elbow. The tunnel opened its entrance into a small alley filled with barrels of scrap metal, and they both had to crawl until reaching an opening concealed by clinging weeds and vines. Rill sang the opening spell as Tennison had barely the strength to withstand the thought of traversing streets choked with people. Nearly tumbling out as Rill pushed him forward, Tennison whimpered at the black maw of night that hung over the city.
“Easy now,” Rill said. “Just a short walk to the docks, eh Tenn.”
Slipping through the Armory’s cluttered back alleys, Rill led Tennison toward the wharf. As they distanced themselves from the Armory, life seemed to seep back into the streets, fighting against the soot and burrowing into the gray lifeless buildings that bracketed steam furnaces and dim workhouses until the south side’s main street came into view. Nudging Tennison, Rill smiled and eased his pace while keeping hold of his friend. Tennison frowned and bent his head down counting cobblestones, trying to distract himself from the pressure of bodies and the queasiness that rose from his stomach.
Just a little farther, he thought. Just a little farther.
As they crossed the street, two drunks careened into them, carrying Tennison partly down the street until he slipped and fell to his knees. The drunks held him down, kneeling on his back as a sound like thunder shook the long poles upon which the street’s torches sat and scattered people into screaming clumps. Tennison looked up, no longer fighting to rise; shielding his eyes with a single hand as a woman burst into flames.
One of the drunks leaned down and grabbed Tennison’s head and twisted it sharply. “Eh little man. He wants ya ta watch,” the drunk said in a wet nauseating voice as more people were engulfed by fire.
Tennison cried out. Rill hovered twenty feet above the street, his arms held tight against his body, his mouth moving spastically without sound. Guards yelled and rushed towards Rill with spears, thrusting them into his body until blood washed them clean. Tennison collapsed and the drunken men’s laughter gnawed at his ears while the smell of burning flesh suffocated him. An aura of magic forced him to look up again, giving him purpose. Lisfol huddled and hide from the crowd in the corner of a building, blank eyed and muttering, his fingers weaving intricate lines under the cover of his cloak.
The drunks tottered under the force of Tennison's cantrip, falling heavily to the ground with deep groans. Rising to his knees, Tennison’s simple spell caught Lisfol distracted, illuminating him in a filigree web of glowing light. Before Tennison could stand, the surrounding people, fueled by horror and their merchant lord’s righteous disdain for magic, reached Lisfol and tore him apart, throwing his remains into the canal.
Stumbling away, Tennison retreated home.
Just a little farther, he thought. Just a little farther.
**************************
A story I wrote a while back about an agoraphobic mage.
It had been nine days since Tennison had left his lean-to along the wharf.
He scrabbled down a darkening alley buried in the sprawl of the metal workers district until he could stand it no more and crouched low, head between his knees, dry heaving in long silent coughs. Forcing himself upright, he staggered out into Copper Square and leaned against the wall of a collapsed apothecary, thin fingers nervously scratching at his neck until red angry lines gripped his throat.
Just a little farther, he thought. Just a little farther.
The noise of merchants and people washed over him, accosting his skin until it itched and his eyes watered. Retreating to the ground, he fell sitting and shuddered, burying his face into shaking hands, his legs repeatedly pushing him weakly into the wall as if he begged to burrow under it, as if he could wish himself back to safety of his single room hovel.
Sobbing into his hands, the sudden quiet of the square forced Tennison to peek between trembling fingers. They all just watched the burning man’s jolting dance. His mouth opening wide in a silent scream as sharp blue flames licked his skin and striped the hair from his skull. Mothers clutched their children as they watched him spin and shudder disjointedly, waving arms trailing strips of burning cloth until he collapsed into a heap of cackling flesh. Spent men muttered, meekly shaking their heads in agreement as angry shouts of action and screaming children weakly disturbed the silence until they all began filtering into the merchant stalls that lined the square, retreating to allow the din of trade to rise and blanket them.
Tennison covered his nose with the back of his hand and fled down a side street as soldiers burst into the square. He stumbled for an eternity through twisting byways towards the Armory, flinching as the sound of gears and steam punctuated the growing darkness.
Just a little farther, he thought. Just a little farther.
Along a soot blackened wall, he fingered a lose brick and disappeared. Waiting until the hinged section snapped shut, he scuttled down a torch lit tunnel, pressing his hands against his head to dull the Armory’s continuous derisive clamor.
Rill and Lisfol were arguing again, but he didn’t mind. The noise had stopped and only ten others were present. Tennison collapsed and praised dead Joran for the numerous quieting glyphs he had carved into the circular room’s dirt wall.
“The counsel had not agreed,” Rill said, slamming his hand down onto a small rectangular table in the room’s center.
“No matter. E’s dead now,” said Lisfol. “Whether an informer or no, one less to worry over.”
“We have no cause for killing,” Rill began
“No cause,” Lisfol said laughing. “They take the library and caste us out, blamin us for little rain and poor crops, and when the sickness hits, the crown watches’em hunt til we scatter like rats,” he continued pacing along the room, challenging each of them. “Have you no courage,” he taunted.
“Was a brick layer,” Tennision said quietly to himself. “A wife. Four kids.”
Lisfol yanked Tennison to his feet and shook him twice before pinning him to the wall with strong hands, savoring the squeal of fear that Tennison tried to swallow. Unconsciously, Tennison began a warding cantrip until Lisfol slammed a fist into his face, crumpling him to the ground. Tennison vaguely heard the whisperings of a faint melody as he struggled to stand and retain consciousness. The melody sharpened and Lisfol howled in anger as Rill's spell hurled him across the room. Scanning every face for support, Lisfol stood and turned to face Rill as he slowly brushed away the dirt from his clothes. Without the others, it was an even split and they all knew it. Tennison hardly counted.
“Time’s up,” Lisfol said pulling an odd gnomic contraption from his cloak and tapping its bronze case. “Let me know when the useful are done hiding.”
Waiting until Lisfol left, Rill helped Tennison to his feet. “Let’s go. I’ll take you back,” Rill said absently. “Lisfol is right. The counsel is too scared to stand.”
They took the south fork and Tennison winced, nearly faltering as he passed beneath Joran’s silencing ward and the Armory’s screeching barrage began anew. Rill dragged him forward, pulling him along the tunnel’s slow upward grade, his hand firm against Tennison’s elbow. The tunnel opened its entrance into a small alley filled with barrels of scrap metal, and they both had to crawl until reaching an opening concealed by clinging weeds and vines. Rill sang the opening spell as Tennison had barely the strength to withstand the thought of traversing streets choked with people. Nearly tumbling out as Rill pushed him forward, Tennison whimpered at the black maw of night that hung over the city.
“Easy now,” Rill said. “Just a short walk to the docks, eh Tenn.”
Slipping through the Armory’s cluttered back alleys, Rill led Tennison toward the wharf. As they distanced themselves from the Armory, life seemed to seep back into the streets, fighting against the soot and burrowing into the gray lifeless buildings that bracketed steam furnaces and dim workhouses until the south side’s main street came into view. Nudging Tennison, Rill smiled and eased his pace while keeping hold of his friend. Tennison frowned and bent his head down counting cobblestones, trying to distract himself from the pressure of bodies and the queasiness that rose from his stomach.
Just a little farther, he thought. Just a little farther.
As they crossed the street, two drunks careened into them, carrying Tennison partly down the street until he slipped and fell to his knees. The drunks held him down, kneeling on his back as a sound like thunder shook the long poles upon which the street’s torches sat and scattered people into screaming clumps. Tennison looked up, no longer fighting to rise; shielding his eyes with a single hand as a woman burst into flames.
One of the drunks leaned down and grabbed Tennison’s head and twisted it sharply. “Eh little man. He wants ya ta watch,” the drunk said in a wet nauseating voice as more people were engulfed by fire.
Tennison cried out. Rill hovered twenty feet above the street, his arms held tight against his body, his mouth moving spastically without sound. Guards yelled and rushed towards Rill with spears, thrusting them into his body until blood washed them clean. Tennison collapsed and the drunken men’s laughter gnawed at his ears while the smell of burning flesh suffocated him. An aura of magic forced him to look up again, giving him purpose. Lisfol huddled and hide from the crowd in the corner of a building, blank eyed and muttering, his fingers weaving intricate lines under the cover of his cloak.
The drunks tottered under the force of Tennison's cantrip, falling heavily to the ground with deep groans. Rising to his knees, Tennison’s simple spell caught Lisfol distracted, illuminating him in a filigree web of glowing light. Before Tennison could stand, the surrounding people, fueled by horror and their merchant lord’s righteous disdain for magic, reached Lisfol and tore him apart, throwing his remains into the canal.
Stumbling away, Tennison retreated home.
Just a little farther, he thought. Just a little farther.
**************************
A story I wrote a while back about an agoraphobic mage.