Post by wordy on Sept 15, 2009 11:09:10 GMT 10
Title: Footrace (why yes, I'm very creative)
Rating: G
Prompt: #11 Race
A/N: You’re getting more Faleron, and you’re going to like itdammit! 
Also, this really made me want to write Faleron/Zahir. 
A wave of groans swept through the pages that were gathered in the courtyard. Lord Wyldon surveyed them without sympathy. Faleron felt like throwing a rock at him. He actually looked about himself for one too, but, alas, there were none in sight.
The daylight was fading quickly and it had been a long day. And now the Stump was going to torture them by making them run.
Lord Wyldon cleared his throat, a sign for the pages to stop their whinging. "Quick reflexes, agility, and stamina are all vital for knights. Therefore, we will be having a series of footraces for you to test your abilities in these three areas. In each race, some of you will be eliminated, and we will then hold a final race to determine the winner."
"What do we get if we win? Sir?" came a voice from the group.
"The satisfaction of winning," came Wyldon's dry reply. The pages groaned again.
They were given a few moments to warm up while Lord Wyldon decided who would be in each race. Faleron found himself next to Neal, who was frowning.
"What's up with you? Surely you'll be the one to gain 'the satisfaction of winning'" Faleron joked.
Neal gave him a look. "I can't win a race over a short distance."
"What?"
"Long distance, Fal. I've heard you all say that I've got horses blood, but do you know how many legs a horse has? They practically trip over themselves trying to get started."
"Oh."
"Yup."
"Could be worse," Faleron said as he stretched, "At least there's no punishment for coming last."
Neal snorted. "Wanna bet?"
Neal's comment left him felling slightly worried. He wasn't much of a runner, short or long distance. Glancing over to where the training master was standing, Faleron wondered if some of them would be facing a week of cleaning out the stables. The Stump wouldn't do that to them, would he?
Lord Wyldon finally called them to attention and announced who would be in the first race. Kel, Seaver, and Garvey were among the group, which consisted of about eight pages.
There was a lot of chatter as the runners lined up. They would be racing to the other side of the archery court and back, which was quite a short distance. The trouble would be when they had to turn, Faleron guessed.
At Lord Wyldon's calm "On your marks, get ready, go!" the pages shot off across the court, with some shoving of elbows. The watching pages cheered on the runners, but it was clear by the time they had all turned at the fence that Seaver would be the winner. Faleron joined their friends in cheering for him as he ran back to the edge of the courtyard.
There were two more races after that one, which Zahir and a quick first year won, and then it was Faleron's turn. Neal was in his race as well.
As they lined up at the edge of the courtyard, it felt as though his heart would burst from his chest. He may not be as fast as Seaver or Zahir, or have the stamina of Neal, but Faleron loved the thrill that came with running. He liked feeling the blood pumping through his body, the quickening of his pulse, the rush of adrenaline when he was beating someone else. For now, though, he had to concentrate on not coming last.
As soon as Lord Wyldon let them go, Faleron found himself being propelled forward. It was difficult to run with so many people beside him, but he managed. As they made it to the fence and turned, he caught sight of who was in the lead – it was a pale haired lad (Faleron had never been good with names), but close behind in second place was Neal.
The race was over almost as soon as it had begun, and Faleron found himself back at the starting point and trying to catch his breath. He hadn’t come last, which was a relief.
Kel and the others waved him over to sit on the fence near the courtyard. His aching legs made it hard to pull himself up, but after two tries he made it. Lord Wyldon was announcing that the pages who had come in first or second place would be in the final race.
“I reckon it’ll be that first year, he’s quick,” Merric said, swinging his legs. His face was still bright red, the same shade as his hair.
Kel was shaking her head, “Zahir or Seaver is my bet, there’s something about the Bazhir blood.” Faleron felt inclined to agree. Looking over to where the runners were catching their breath or stretching, he caught sight of Zahir. He had taken off his tunic and sweat marks stained the back of his shirt. But he looked confident.
The runners lined up, jostling for a prime position.
“Don’t any of you think Neal could win?” Faleron asked.
Merric snorted. “More like, we don’t want him to win. Can you imagine how big his ego would get if he got ‘the satisfaction of winning’”?
“I couldn’t agree more,” said Kel, “I think we deserve some satisfaction in Neal losing.”
Faleron laughed.
Rating: G
Prompt: #11 Race
A/N: You’re getting more Faleron, and you’re going to like it
Also, this really made me want to write Faleron/Zahir. 
A wave of groans swept through the pages that were gathered in the courtyard. Lord Wyldon surveyed them without sympathy. Faleron felt like throwing a rock at him. He actually looked about himself for one too, but, alas, there were none in sight.
The daylight was fading quickly and it had been a long day. And now the Stump was going to torture them by making them run.
Lord Wyldon cleared his throat, a sign for the pages to stop their whinging. "Quick reflexes, agility, and stamina are all vital for knights. Therefore, we will be having a series of footraces for you to test your abilities in these three areas. In each race, some of you will be eliminated, and we will then hold a final race to determine the winner."
"What do we get if we win? Sir?" came a voice from the group.
"The satisfaction of winning," came Wyldon's dry reply. The pages groaned again.
They were given a few moments to warm up while Lord Wyldon decided who would be in each race. Faleron found himself next to Neal, who was frowning.
"What's up with you? Surely you'll be the one to gain 'the satisfaction of winning'" Faleron joked.
Neal gave him a look. "I can't win a race over a short distance."
"What?"
"Long distance, Fal. I've heard you all say that I've got horses blood, but do you know how many legs a horse has? They practically trip over themselves trying to get started."
"Oh."
"Yup."
"Could be worse," Faleron said as he stretched, "At least there's no punishment for coming last."
Neal snorted. "Wanna bet?"
Neal's comment left him felling slightly worried. He wasn't much of a runner, short or long distance. Glancing over to where the training master was standing, Faleron wondered if some of them would be facing a week of cleaning out the stables. The Stump wouldn't do that to them, would he?
Lord Wyldon finally called them to attention and announced who would be in the first race. Kel, Seaver, and Garvey were among the group, which consisted of about eight pages.
There was a lot of chatter as the runners lined up. They would be racing to the other side of the archery court and back, which was quite a short distance. The trouble would be when they had to turn, Faleron guessed.
At Lord Wyldon's calm "On your marks, get ready, go!" the pages shot off across the court, with some shoving of elbows. The watching pages cheered on the runners, but it was clear by the time they had all turned at the fence that Seaver would be the winner. Faleron joined their friends in cheering for him as he ran back to the edge of the courtyard.
There were two more races after that one, which Zahir and a quick first year won, and then it was Faleron's turn. Neal was in his race as well.
As they lined up at the edge of the courtyard, it felt as though his heart would burst from his chest. He may not be as fast as Seaver or Zahir, or have the stamina of Neal, but Faleron loved the thrill that came with running. He liked feeling the blood pumping through his body, the quickening of his pulse, the rush of adrenaline when he was beating someone else. For now, though, he had to concentrate on not coming last.
As soon as Lord Wyldon let them go, Faleron found himself being propelled forward. It was difficult to run with so many people beside him, but he managed. As they made it to the fence and turned, he caught sight of who was in the lead – it was a pale haired lad (Faleron had never been good with names), but close behind in second place was Neal.
The race was over almost as soon as it had begun, and Faleron found himself back at the starting point and trying to catch his breath. He hadn’t come last, which was a relief.
Kel and the others waved him over to sit on the fence near the courtyard. His aching legs made it hard to pull himself up, but after two tries he made it. Lord Wyldon was announcing that the pages who had come in first or second place would be in the final race.
“I reckon it’ll be that first year, he’s quick,” Merric said, swinging his legs. His face was still bright red, the same shade as his hair.
Kel was shaking her head, “Zahir or Seaver is my bet, there’s something about the Bazhir blood.” Faleron felt inclined to agree. Looking over to where the runners were catching their breath or stretching, he caught sight of Zahir. He had taken off his tunic and sweat marks stained the back of his shirt. But he looked confident.
The runners lined up, jostling for a prime position.
“Don’t any of you think Neal could win?” Faleron asked.
Merric snorted. “More like, we don’t want him to win. Can you imagine how big his ego would get if he got ‘the satisfaction of winning’”?
“I couldn’t agree more,” said Kel, “I think we deserve some satisfaction in Neal losing.”
Faleron laughed.
