Isskoh
Apr 3rd, 2012, 07:48:01 AM
(OOC: Please contact me by PM or in the RP Discussion Forum before joining this thread. Thanks.)
The boy chewed thoughtfully on his weed. He squinted into the sun and wondered what time it was. The white-brick walls of the houses of Ben’ma glared with the light. His family was poor and hadn’t the money to buy him a watch, so his father had begun to teach him how to read the time from shadows and stars. He wagered it was late afternoon, but seasons came and went so quickly that it was hard to judge an hour by the suns position in the sky. The toll of a bell was a much surer sign. It struck three, echoing a dull peal throughout the small town.
A squall of wind disturbed some dust and debris at the boy’s feet. He caught sight of a flier advertising some long gone circus-troupe that had passed through the town years before he had even been born. The colours in the paper were all faded and the people’s faces looked sad and worn. The boy looked up, frowned, and murmured something like, “Ain’t that how it goes.”
He yawned and watched with idle curiosity as a preacher man exited the church, which was the largest and cleanest of all of the towns’ buildings. A small procession followed behind, huddled around… something the boy could not place. A coffin, perhaps. So many had died of late. His father blamed lowland felines and other prowlers for the deaths, but there were other stories, stories told between trusted friends over camp-fires when the moon was high.
A shadow came over the boy, as another figure approached, breaking free of the crowd at a jog. It was a younger boy, a few years shy of him. He panted through lack of breath in the sweltering sun, his blonde curls damp with sweat. “Pa says you have to come watch.”
The boy sucked in air through his teeth like a man wounded, but made no move. His junior stood in that awkward way children do, shifting his weight from one foot to another. He cautiously outstretched one hand and tipped back the hat the elder boy wore.
“Pa says-”
“I’m coming, hold your damn horses.”
The boy pushed the hat angrily back into its rightful place. He gave an exasperated sigh and got to his feet, brushing the knees of his slacks free of dust as he did so. The young boy fell into an easy step by his brother, walking quickly then having to pause a short while to allow his little brother to catch up. He walked with a deliberate slowness and an almost swaggering gait. The pair followed the shuffling processions footsteps in the dirt. It was no surprise where they found themselves headed.
“The crucifix yard.”
“Pa says they caught the killer, Buck.”
Buck, the boy, spat out his weed and nodded. He eyed the congregation with a mixture of interest and distaste. His father would swear by every word the preacher said, but he was not so fond of hot days spend kneeling in the pews. While the daily service was being conducted he would sometimes head out onto the prairie and practice shooting at mirages with the boom-stick his old grandpa had given him. It was a primitive weapon, but it was all he had and he was dead certain that in years to come he would have mastered it.
“See the filthy tool of the devil!”
All at once, the words of the preacher caught him. He had climbed onto the raised platform in deaths corner and was holding aloft something that Buck had never seen before. It was polished, gleaming and unlike everything in dusty little Ben’ma. The preacher looked at it as if simply by holding it he had committed some cardinal sin. So entranced was he by this that he failed, at first, to notice that the group had laid down what they had been carrying.
A man hooded in black, who Buck knew to be one of his fathers friends, began to gather the motionless form up, stringing it into place for the time being. Neither Buck nor his brother, raised onto his tiptoes, could see what was happening beyond this. For a community of religious pacifists, the crowd was particular rowdy and settled only when implored to do so by the preacher.
The two boys took this opportunity to push through the mob, edging their way to the front as quickly as possible. In this mass of people, it was difficult to discern left from right, but in time, they managed to find a spot that would allow them a keen look at the trio on the platform. In spite of his age, Buck had not yet grown enough to allow him to see more than the grim visage of the crucifier and the furious red face of the priest.
He had a mind to hoist his brother onto his shoulders, so that he might be able to relay what it was that they were mounting. With a casual brush of one hand, the boy knocked his hat away from his head, so that it rested against his shoulders, kept in place by a thin thread around his throat. He dipped to his knees and waited while his brother slid onto place, then rose once more. The priest had continued spitting venom but Buck had not been listening. He strained to look upwards, catching occasional glimpses of the shining trinket.
“What is it, Bay? What do you see?”
BANG went the first nail.
Bay was silent. He had never seen anything like it before. It made his stomach turn. For that matter, it felt like it was making his whole body turn. While it repulsed him, he also found himself unable to look away from it. Very slowly, Buck became aware that amidst the smell of sweat and straw, there was a hint of something else that made Bay tremble on his perch.
“Buck, I want to come down,” he whined.
“Tell me what you see, Bay.”
BANG went the second, the nail penetrating flesh and bone in one.
“Please, let me down.” There was a real urgency to Bays voice.
Just as there was anger in Bucks. “I want to know what he’s strung up.”
The younger boy had begun to sob quietly now, though he tried his hardest to hide it. He wiped one grubby hand across his grubby face, the tears leaving a smear of clear skin on his dusty cheeks. He averted his eyes from it and tried to compose himself as best he could. Looking down into his brothers eyes he could see determination. Bay knew Buck well, and that look said he would not relent.
“It’s…”
BANG went the third, almost the last.
He choked on his words. “It’s a…”
The boy chewed thoughtfully on his weed. He squinted into the sun and wondered what time it was. The white-brick walls of the houses of Ben’ma glared with the light. His family was poor and hadn’t the money to buy him a watch, so his father had begun to teach him how to read the time from shadows and stars. He wagered it was late afternoon, but seasons came and went so quickly that it was hard to judge an hour by the suns position in the sky. The toll of a bell was a much surer sign. It struck three, echoing a dull peal throughout the small town.
A squall of wind disturbed some dust and debris at the boy’s feet. He caught sight of a flier advertising some long gone circus-troupe that had passed through the town years before he had even been born. The colours in the paper were all faded and the people’s faces looked sad and worn. The boy looked up, frowned, and murmured something like, “Ain’t that how it goes.”
He yawned and watched with idle curiosity as a preacher man exited the church, which was the largest and cleanest of all of the towns’ buildings. A small procession followed behind, huddled around… something the boy could not place. A coffin, perhaps. So many had died of late. His father blamed lowland felines and other prowlers for the deaths, but there were other stories, stories told between trusted friends over camp-fires when the moon was high.
A shadow came over the boy, as another figure approached, breaking free of the crowd at a jog. It was a younger boy, a few years shy of him. He panted through lack of breath in the sweltering sun, his blonde curls damp with sweat. “Pa says you have to come watch.”
The boy sucked in air through his teeth like a man wounded, but made no move. His junior stood in that awkward way children do, shifting his weight from one foot to another. He cautiously outstretched one hand and tipped back the hat the elder boy wore.
“Pa says-”
“I’m coming, hold your damn horses.”
The boy pushed the hat angrily back into its rightful place. He gave an exasperated sigh and got to his feet, brushing the knees of his slacks free of dust as he did so. The young boy fell into an easy step by his brother, walking quickly then having to pause a short while to allow his little brother to catch up. He walked with a deliberate slowness and an almost swaggering gait. The pair followed the shuffling processions footsteps in the dirt. It was no surprise where they found themselves headed.
“The crucifix yard.”
“Pa says they caught the killer, Buck.”
Buck, the boy, spat out his weed and nodded. He eyed the congregation with a mixture of interest and distaste. His father would swear by every word the preacher said, but he was not so fond of hot days spend kneeling in the pews. While the daily service was being conducted he would sometimes head out onto the prairie and practice shooting at mirages with the boom-stick his old grandpa had given him. It was a primitive weapon, but it was all he had and he was dead certain that in years to come he would have mastered it.
“See the filthy tool of the devil!”
All at once, the words of the preacher caught him. He had climbed onto the raised platform in deaths corner and was holding aloft something that Buck had never seen before. It was polished, gleaming and unlike everything in dusty little Ben’ma. The preacher looked at it as if simply by holding it he had committed some cardinal sin. So entranced was he by this that he failed, at first, to notice that the group had laid down what they had been carrying.
A man hooded in black, who Buck knew to be one of his fathers friends, began to gather the motionless form up, stringing it into place for the time being. Neither Buck nor his brother, raised onto his tiptoes, could see what was happening beyond this. For a community of religious pacifists, the crowd was particular rowdy and settled only when implored to do so by the preacher.
The two boys took this opportunity to push through the mob, edging their way to the front as quickly as possible. In this mass of people, it was difficult to discern left from right, but in time, they managed to find a spot that would allow them a keen look at the trio on the platform. In spite of his age, Buck had not yet grown enough to allow him to see more than the grim visage of the crucifier and the furious red face of the priest.
He had a mind to hoist his brother onto his shoulders, so that he might be able to relay what it was that they were mounting. With a casual brush of one hand, the boy knocked his hat away from his head, so that it rested against his shoulders, kept in place by a thin thread around his throat. He dipped to his knees and waited while his brother slid onto place, then rose once more. The priest had continued spitting venom but Buck had not been listening. He strained to look upwards, catching occasional glimpses of the shining trinket.
“What is it, Bay? What do you see?”
BANG went the first nail.
Bay was silent. He had never seen anything like it before. It made his stomach turn. For that matter, it felt like it was making his whole body turn. While it repulsed him, he also found himself unable to look away from it. Very slowly, Buck became aware that amidst the smell of sweat and straw, there was a hint of something else that made Bay tremble on his perch.
“Buck, I want to come down,” he whined.
“Tell me what you see, Bay.”
BANG went the second, the nail penetrating flesh and bone in one.
“Please, let me down.” There was a real urgency to Bays voice.
Just as there was anger in Bucks. “I want to know what he’s strung up.”
The younger boy had begun to sob quietly now, though he tried his hardest to hide it. He wiped one grubby hand across his grubby face, the tears leaving a smear of clear skin on his dusty cheeks. He averted his eyes from it and tried to compose himself as best he could. Looking down into his brothers eyes he could see determination. Bay knew Buck well, and that look said he would not relent.
“It’s…”
BANG went the third, almost the last.
He choked on his words. “It’s a…”