Post by wordy on Apr 24, 2013 10:53:15 GMT 10
Title: En Garde
Rating: PG
Word Count: 451
Pairing: George Cooper/Roger of Conte
Round/Fight: 1C
Summary: Set shortly after the end of A:tfA, with a difference: Alanna and Jon don’t return.
Roger knew when he was being watched. There was no sense in upholding the charade, so he carried on with seeing to his horse, letting the sounds of the stable at midnight flood over him. Finally, a thump signalled that his watcher had chosen to show himself; he had probably been concealing himself in the loft. Roger made no attempt to reach his sword. He had never really needed it, in any case.
“Not a jumpy fellow, are you?”
The sandy-haired man was leaning against one of the stalls, arms crossed. He looked fit enough to be a fighter, but something told Roger that to mistake him for only that would be a grave error.
“I rarely have reason to be,” said Roger. He closed the stall door on his horse and settled himself against it, taking a moment to consider his late night visitor. When his horse snuffled against his shirt sleeve he frowned, and brushed at the slaver.
“I could give you a reason or two.”
The anger in the man’s voice was controlled, but not undetectable. Now that Roger looked, the way that he stood, arms crossed casually before him, some safe distance away, was obviously done with the purpose of self-restraint. Intriguing.
“I’m sure I don’t know what you could be referring to,” Roger lied, with an easy smile. “Though, of course, if you mean to threaten me—”
The man smiled back at him, a vicious thing. “I don’t care for law courts. If the opportunity arises for me to make quick work of your death, believe me, the blood’ll be flooding from your guts before you can even try to magic me. I’ve a mind to take you right now, for what you did.”
Ice-water seemed to run along Roger’s veins at his words. Fear had never been something he had needed to consider before, but now, somehow, he found himself believing the man who stood before him. Without moving, he began to gather his Gift, the familiar heat of his power pooling into his hand.
Amazingly, his opponent’s gaze shifted to where his Gift was amassing in the palm of his hand. He was Sighted? Roger scowled inwardly, displeased at being read so easily. The man raised his eyes again, and shrugged.
“Maybe not,” he said, already backing away. “Don’t bother watching your back.”
Roger let him go. It was foolish, but if the man meant to kill him, there would be ample opportunities for them to meet again. He could be patient. Once he discovered the man’s identity, the duelling ground would be level.
But Roger had no intention of dying. This game—as with all others—would be tipped in his favour.
Rating: PG
Word Count: 451
Pairing: George Cooper/Roger of Conte
Round/Fight: 1C
Summary: Set shortly after the end of A:tfA, with a difference: Alanna and Jon don’t return.
Roger knew when he was being watched. There was no sense in upholding the charade, so he carried on with seeing to his horse, letting the sounds of the stable at midnight flood over him. Finally, a thump signalled that his watcher had chosen to show himself; he had probably been concealing himself in the loft. Roger made no attempt to reach his sword. He had never really needed it, in any case.
“Not a jumpy fellow, are you?”
The sandy-haired man was leaning against one of the stalls, arms crossed. He looked fit enough to be a fighter, but something told Roger that to mistake him for only that would be a grave error.
“I rarely have reason to be,” said Roger. He closed the stall door on his horse and settled himself against it, taking a moment to consider his late night visitor. When his horse snuffled against his shirt sleeve he frowned, and brushed at the slaver.
“I could give you a reason or two.”
The anger in the man’s voice was controlled, but not undetectable. Now that Roger looked, the way that he stood, arms crossed casually before him, some safe distance away, was obviously done with the purpose of self-restraint. Intriguing.
“I’m sure I don’t know what you could be referring to,” Roger lied, with an easy smile. “Though, of course, if you mean to threaten me—”
The man smiled back at him, a vicious thing. “I don’t care for law courts. If the opportunity arises for me to make quick work of your death, believe me, the blood’ll be flooding from your guts before you can even try to magic me. I’ve a mind to take you right now, for what you did.”
Ice-water seemed to run along Roger’s veins at his words. Fear had never been something he had needed to consider before, but now, somehow, he found himself believing the man who stood before him. Without moving, he began to gather his Gift, the familiar heat of his power pooling into his hand.
Amazingly, his opponent’s gaze shifted to where his Gift was amassing in the palm of his hand. He was Sighted? Roger scowled inwardly, displeased at being read so easily. The man raised his eyes again, and shrugged.
“Maybe not,” he said, already backing away. “Don’t bother watching your back.”
Roger let him go. It was foolish, but if the man meant to kill him, there would be ample opportunities for them to meet again. He could be patient. Once he discovered the man’s identity, the duelling ground would be level.
But Roger had no intention of dying. This game—as with all others—would be tipped in his favour.