03-03-2022, 11:18 PM
He’d meant to be quick-witted, not quick to wound the battle-hardened mare. That had been the least of his intentions tonight, but despite his best efforts the brute often came across those who never appreciated a well-timed joke. Even less so, there were a select few who claimed to find him annoying, which Kestrell hardly believed. Certainly she wasn’t one of them!
He couldn’t quite put a reason to it, but there was a good story here. Good enough that he allowed her insult to stand without reproaching it, while being wise enough himself not to assume their respective histories were anything alike. He could see how she might think less of him when comparing battle scars, but neither one had walked a mile in the other’s skin. She meant to wound him, but her attack only half-struck its mark.
“I’ve never been anything but myself.” He grunted, half-amused at her offer. “Let’s keep it that way.”
A little thrill of honest fear took him by surprise, then. Kestrell was too outwardly cool to let it slip, but the idea of how she would break him did cross his mind. From the looks of her, Ciri was certainly capable; he was wounded and she gave slight indications of being ‘unwell’, which leveled the playing field, but there was no denying what Kestrell had known all his life:
She was magical.
He wasn’t.
It’s because he’s known this truth for so long that the potential scare passes away quickly in his mind, here one second and gone the next. Ciri (sneering and tossing her head, disgusted by him) and all her stars could’ve struck him down right there in the Meadow, if they wanted to. Kestrell was nearly positive the substantial balls of light weren’t cool to the touch.
But she hadn’t. He’d been confronted with magical beings more than once, actually, and in situations much more dangerous when compared to an irritable alpha female, which was exactly why the forlorn rogue knew what it was like to be wounded by one. Maybe not broken like she claimed, but certainly something like it.
Poisonous vines, horse-eating birds, Kelpies, etc. If one could dream it up, one could find it dwelling in some dark corner of Beqanna or another - and they almost never gave their victim a choice when you stumbled across them. They were destructive, evil, and sometimes only kept at bay by stronger powers or sheer dumb luck, and of all the things in this world that gave Kestrell a reason to frown, they were first among them.
Ciri isn’t like that, he thinks. She’s once bitten, twice shy.
“And what if I need you?” She doesn’t get far before he asks, just loud enough that his voice will carry weight along with it.
He couldn’t quite put a reason to it, but there was a good story here. Good enough that he allowed her insult to stand without reproaching it, while being wise enough himself not to assume their respective histories were anything alike. He could see how she might think less of him when comparing battle scars, but neither one had walked a mile in the other’s skin. She meant to wound him, but her attack only half-struck its mark.
“I’ve never been anything but myself.” He grunted, half-amused at her offer. “Let’s keep it that way.”
A little thrill of honest fear took him by surprise, then. Kestrell was too outwardly cool to let it slip, but the idea of how she would break him did cross his mind. From the looks of her, Ciri was certainly capable; he was wounded and she gave slight indications of being ‘unwell’, which leveled the playing field, but there was no denying what Kestrell had known all his life:
She was magical.
He wasn’t.
It’s because he’s known this truth for so long that the potential scare passes away quickly in his mind, here one second and gone the next. Ciri (sneering and tossing her head, disgusted by him) and all her stars could’ve struck him down right there in the Meadow, if they wanted to. Kestrell was nearly positive the substantial balls of light weren’t cool to the touch.
But she hadn’t. He’d been confronted with magical beings more than once, actually, and in situations much more dangerous when compared to an irritable alpha female, which was exactly why the forlorn rogue knew what it was like to be wounded by one. Maybe not broken like she claimed, but certainly something like it.
Poisonous vines, horse-eating birds, Kelpies, etc. If one could dream it up, one could find it dwelling in some dark corner of Beqanna or another - and they almost never gave their victim a choice when you stumbled across them. They were destructive, evil, and sometimes only kept at bay by stronger powers or sheer dumb luck, and of all the things in this world that gave Kestrell a reason to frown, they were first among them.
Ciri isn’t like that, he thinks. She’s once bitten, twice shy.
“And what if I need you?” She doesn’t get far before he asks, just loud enough that his voice will carry weight along with it.
Image ©Karl Martens
@Ciri