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tamingthemuseTitle: Dark as Moonrise
Fandom: Original
Prompt: Keloid
Warnings: None
Rating: PG
Summary: “Swallowing ponds, if I’m not mistaken,” Steel replies, indicating the sinkholes. “Just don’t go near, don’t touch them, don’t set foot by the edge. Eat you up as soon as look at you.”
Cassandra stares in horror. “What the hell are those? What are the . . .” She doesn’t go pale, not exactly, but there’s a definite look to her like she’s going to be sick. City folk. Live in those big sparkly towers, but they can’t take the real stuff.
“Swallowing ponds, if I’m not mistaken,” Steel replies, indicating the sinkholes. “Just don’t go near, don’t touch them, don’t set foot by the edge. Eat you up as soon as look at you.”
He sees straight off that’s a mistake. She goes in a moment from nauseous to intrigued, and all right, this isn’t a woman who’s gotten where she is by doing as she’s told. “What does that mean? Are they getting something from them? Is it valuable, the black stuff?”
She’s stepping forward to peer in, so he plants a hand firmly on her breastbone to stop her. “What they are is dangerous. Stand back.”
It’s a gamble to try and talk -- could waste more time than it saves -- but just running hasn’t done them much good so far, so better to try something new, he judges. So watching where he places his feet, Steel picks his way over to one of the folk, avoiding the more active ponds. It looks like a good crew, maybe better than theirs back home, especially now that his ma is so poorly: lots of young men, harpoons that have to be city-made, and the ponds right roiling.
A fleshy beak surfaces not a handspan from his foot, gasping silently, and then drops like a stone through the muddy waters. He hears a quick motion behind him, and sighs internally. Of course she followed him.
Steel makes himself not look back -- it’ll only encourage Cassandra if she sees the irritation writ large across his face -- but instead scans the area for someone who looks accessible, and settles on a young woman the next pond over. She’s bent over a kneeling child, probably her sister, and is guiding her hands on a spear, murmuring instructions in the girl’s ear. Looks bored as anything with the job, though, so she might be willing to chat with a stranger.
Needs an excuse, though, so he splays his fingers and examines his hands, front and back. Sure enough, he finds a dark, raised ridge under the skin, which he promptly pins between index finger and thumb. He closes his eyes for a moment and consciously thickens the Northern accent he gets from his mother -- it’s an affectation for him, he can speak city-common just as easily, but they don’t welcome strangers here -- and greets the woman. “Hallo. I’m Steel -- who’s got the knife round here?”
The woman makes a slight “me?” gesture, then, at Steel’s nod, pats the child’s shoulder and straightens. “That’s me, then. Lemme see.” She comes over, and Steel extends his hands to her. It only takes her a moment to see the black line where it squirms between his tendons, then her leather gloves go on a hillock beside a pile of dismembered tentacles and a knife comes from her belt.
The woman’s tongue pokes between her teeth as she works, the knife so sharp Steel can hardly feel it. He watches intently, fascinated by the tangle of fingers and the fine motions of the blade. His hands are so smooth and pale that the skin is almost clear, and the thing thrashing about and whipping its tail back and forth within his hand stands out like a line of ink on paper. Her hands are almost as pale, but they’re scarred up and down, long jagged lines like whipcord raised so high he wants to touch them to see what they’d feel like beneath the pads of his fingers. There’s a long dark shadow on one hand from the tip of her index finger stretching nearly down to her elbow, the faint trace of a contamination too deep to be cut out.
Cassandra is leaning in, her curls falling out from her kerchief into the corner of his field of vision. Interested, but refraining from commenting, which is definitely something. She does make a little gagging noise in the back of her throat when the younger woman pulls the slimy strand from Steel’s hand and tosses it onto the heap, but you can’t ask for everything, he supposes.
“Still mostly clean, then,” the woman says. Not probing, just making conversation. Her mouth is tired, but there’s a smile dancing at the corners of her eyes.
Steel smiles back, readily. “Well, I ain’t doing the good work, either. Cut my own hand open if I tried, like as not.”
“Like as not,” she agrees, and pulls her gloves back on over her scarred hands.
Fandom: Original
Prompt: Keloid
Warnings: None
Rating: PG
Summary: “Swallowing ponds, if I’m not mistaken,” Steel replies, indicating the sinkholes. “Just don’t go near, don’t touch them, don’t set foot by the edge. Eat you up as soon as look at you.”
Cassandra stares in horror. “What the hell are those? What are the . . .” She doesn’t go pale, not exactly, but there’s a definite look to her like she’s going to be sick. City folk. Live in those big sparkly towers, but they can’t take the real stuff.
“Swallowing ponds, if I’m not mistaken,” Steel replies, indicating the sinkholes. “Just don’t go near, don’t touch them, don’t set foot by the edge. Eat you up as soon as look at you.”
He sees straight off that’s a mistake. She goes in a moment from nauseous to intrigued, and all right, this isn’t a woman who’s gotten where she is by doing as she’s told. “What does that mean? Are they getting something from them? Is it valuable, the black stuff?”
She’s stepping forward to peer in, so he plants a hand firmly on her breastbone to stop her. “What they are is dangerous. Stand back.”
It’s a gamble to try and talk -- could waste more time than it saves -- but just running hasn’t done them much good so far, so better to try something new, he judges. So watching where he places his feet, Steel picks his way over to one of the folk, avoiding the more active ponds. It looks like a good crew, maybe better than theirs back home, especially now that his ma is so poorly: lots of young men, harpoons that have to be city-made, and the ponds right roiling.
A fleshy beak surfaces not a handspan from his foot, gasping silently, and then drops like a stone through the muddy waters. He hears a quick motion behind him, and sighs internally. Of course she followed him.
Steel makes himself not look back -- it’ll only encourage Cassandra if she sees the irritation writ large across his face -- but instead scans the area for someone who looks accessible, and settles on a young woman the next pond over. She’s bent over a kneeling child, probably her sister, and is guiding her hands on a spear, murmuring instructions in the girl’s ear. Looks bored as anything with the job, though, so she might be willing to chat with a stranger.
Needs an excuse, though, so he splays his fingers and examines his hands, front and back. Sure enough, he finds a dark, raised ridge under the skin, which he promptly pins between index finger and thumb. He closes his eyes for a moment and consciously thickens the Northern accent he gets from his mother -- it’s an affectation for him, he can speak city-common just as easily, but they don’t welcome strangers here -- and greets the woman. “Hallo. I’m Steel -- who’s got the knife round here?”
The woman makes a slight “me?” gesture, then, at Steel’s nod, pats the child’s shoulder and straightens. “That’s me, then. Lemme see.” She comes over, and Steel extends his hands to her. It only takes her a moment to see the black line where it squirms between his tendons, then her leather gloves go on a hillock beside a pile of dismembered tentacles and a knife comes from her belt.
The woman’s tongue pokes between her teeth as she works, the knife so sharp Steel can hardly feel it. He watches intently, fascinated by the tangle of fingers and the fine motions of the blade. His hands are so smooth and pale that the skin is almost clear, and the thing thrashing about and whipping its tail back and forth within his hand stands out like a line of ink on paper. Her hands are almost as pale, but they’re scarred up and down, long jagged lines like whipcord raised so high he wants to touch them to see what they’d feel like beneath the pads of his fingers. There’s a long dark shadow on one hand from the tip of her index finger stretching nearly down to her elbow, the faint trace of a contamination too deep to be cut out.
Cassandra is leaning in, her curls falling out from her kerchief into the corner of his field of vision. Interested, but refraining from commenting, which is definitely something. She does make a little gagging noise in the back of her throat when the younger woman pulls the slimy strand from Steel’s hand and tosses it onto the heap, but you can’t ask for everything, he supposes.
“Still mostly clean, then,” the woman says. Not probing, just making conversation. Her mouth is tired, but there’s a smile dancing at the corners of her eyes.
Steel smiles back, readily. “Well, I ain’t doing the good work, either. Cut my own hand open if I tried, like as not.”
“Like as not,” she agrees, and pulls her gloves back on over her scarred hands.
