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rainbowfic2018-12-09 01:17 pm
dray) wrote in rainbowfic2018-12-09 01:17 pm
Iceberg 11, Silver 7, Ignition Yellow 19
Name: dray
Story:everwood
Colors: Iceberg 11) Ice skating, Silver 7) Mirror, Ignition Yellow 19) "I like to think I have everything I want from this life"
Supplies and Styles: Sketch, Frame, Acrylic, Yarn, Glitter, Glue (All for Dec. 9th 2018)
Word Count: 1426
Rating: E Everybody
Warnings: None
Boyce is a hermit who fled trauma to the woods and isolation. In Everwood he befriends a dryad, and in exchange for helping her reunite with her copse, they reward them by sharing their magic. He loses their company but gains some worrying dryad-like traits, causing him to wonder if he's losing his humanity. These drabbles take place about 5 years after the main course of the comic. You can find more organization and links to art and content ateverwood
When winter brought people together up and down the river road, folks like Boyce could get away with coming out from under the bare-branched canopy of the Evermarches. His only companion, Trellis, was deep in hibernation, and being on his own felt dreary in a way it rarely did when the big forest man was left to his own devices during warmer weather. Creatures that fed on humans, whether they were common wolves or looming trolls, tended to be more unpredictable and aggressive this far away from the protection of numbers, too.
He wasn't afraid, exactly, but he did grow unbearably tense over the long winter nights. It was around this time when he was little more than a boy that his home had been ransacked by things that had boiled up out of the mines, and he'd only survived by dint of the good sense to hide, and flee. The rumor of the disaster had outpaced him and he hadn't been welcome in any of the neighbouring towns, or when he was it was under threat that it was his fault. By comparison the forest had become a safer place for long enough that he got used to being alone, mostly.
It was an old hurt, but like a gnarl that causes a tree an ugly bend, he'd grown with it. There were few days when loneliness chafed, but this deep in winter, his feet grew restless the heavier his heart sat.
Nothing for it but a distraction. The weather was crisp and clear and freezing, the snow layer thick and tentatively crusted over in a way that made placing snowshoes a tricky business. Boyce's beard was caked with a rime of frost before he had hiked the length of the winding tributary that opened onto the River Road, and his toes were beginning to go numb. He'd thought to lade himself down with trade furs, which were needed, and this time of year he didn't have to worry about hiding the sprouts that liked to grow from his hair directly to mark him as something other than human. He looked like a man, otherwise, and if he understood people--which was a shaky concept--it was that they liked to make money. Even that was enough, he hoped, to sate his need for interaction. Anything too much more was out of his sadly stunted scope.
More than that, though, as he settled over the trader's counter to finish haggling and warm his nose, he had to admit that he missed the warm glow of lantern light, and the general sense of comfort in numbers that humans lived by. It was hard to feel like he fit in, and he was incredibly aware that the hard-eyed trader on the other side of the counter was giving him a stern glare as settled on a price. Most days, that would have driven him off, but under the guise of haggling he could believe she only expected him to be gouging her purse, not that she suspected he wasn't human. It was enough of a veneer that Boyce was able to make some coin for his hard work without folding just to escape, and in fact when the trade was completed she offered to fill his canteen with complimentary tea. Even so, he felt scraped raw, so he sealed the cap and made a break for the street outside. Despite the utter cold and the way the sweat on his brow instantly prickled back to frost, Boyce felt more exposed to the quantity of people than by the weather. Were they looking at him? Was he being marked? Had he been a terrible mistake in coming here? He pulled his scarf right up and patted his coin pocket, mittens on, pack secure, everything double-checked, performing a ritual to keep him from scattering back towards the forest. Nobody was looking at him. Nobody was alarmed.
Boyce's original plans seemed incredibly foolish now. He'd thought he might stay the night, use the new coin to purchase a bed and a meal and linger around a fireplace while men gossiped about trade and the evils of the woods, so he could have a quiet laugh at their suspicions, away from the spotlight of them. And then he'd go home, where he really belonged. That didn't feel likely now... but he'd come so far. Boyce thought for a few more seconds, and then adjusted his course for the river, instead of turning tail straight for the forest.
Luckily, he'd thought to prepare for this. He came down the the frozen riverbank and set his pack on the trampled snow, stashing his insulated canteen and turning open the main compartment. The gleam of skating blades, newly polished, were a welcome sight.
River road was a vital artery that connected the entirety of the kingdom, from the ocean-side palace to the Dragontooth Mountains of the frontier. During most of the year, fishing and transport boats from near the lakelands at the foot of the mountains plied up and down the river. When the river froze over the winter, though, sleighs and skates and skis came out, and it became a massive pedway, shavings of ice swept aside every day, even blizzard snow coatings pounded to submission by the traffic.
Boyce had found a snow bench right on the ice, a pedestrian convenience, far from the gaggle of young men who were strapping on their skates and inspecting their sticks and gossiping gladly about their upcoming game. They looked like young, shaggy warriors. Boyce smiled, privately, remembering that attitude and feeling at once divorced from it and alone with it.
He had tested the fit of his skates and repacked his bag, then slipped out onto the ice to drift with the quality of a staid swan. There really was nothing better than drifting onward like this, the heavy weight of his body lending directly to his momentum. He had a few moments of relative quiet before the gaggle had caught up with him, loud and harsh, overtaking him as they shouted to one another. Boyce, so startled, nearly caught himself up in a little circle. He straightened the hitch in his movements before he could fall, but he was once again on high alert. He held his breath as he watched a couple of young men divert course and circle, like wolves singling him out. This was a worse-case scenario and Boyce could feel himself sweating despite the wind and cold.
"You coming up to Maeston rink to watch the game?" one asked, circling out of immediate sight unless Boyce swivelled to keep track of him.
Before he could do that, the other swooped into view. "Yeah, we're bound to beat the snotsicles off 'em. Oraston Wolfhawks!" That, in turn, set off a series of howls up the ranks of their line.
Boyce, dumbfounded, skated stoicly onward if only because he didn't know how to respond. As a rule he avoided people, and they avoided him. The sweat exposed at his neck was prickling with cold, and he was sure he was going to need that tea when he stilled lest he freeze in his clothes. The boys circled once more and then hurried to catch up with their gang. Only by the time that they got out of range was he able to offer up any sort of answer. "A game?" He was glad for the relative privacy when the words left his cracked lips.
He put his head down and carried on up the river, hot embarrassment warming his cheeks better than his beard could. The warped reflection of his movements caught his attention in the polished ice, and he found himself embarrassed a second time. A grown man come out to support the local sports team was nothing to be ashamed of; he remembered whole villages turned up, when he was young. That these kids had mistaken him for a local was cause for both shame and relief. He didn't really belong out here, with others, on the river in plain sight. Better to weather the four-footed wolves than impose...
His reflection glanced up at him, and he pursed his lips. It would be a diversion, though maybe a little more excitement than he was ready for. He'd survived much worse, hadn't he? "You are local." he told it. "Next-to-local. Go to the damned game." If his reflection looked chastised, it was only because he hoped he'd survive the chaos. Maybe afterwards, by comparison, a cozy tavern would seem a quiet relief.
drayStory:
everwoodColors: Iceberg 11) Ice skating, Silver 7) Mirror, Ignition Yellow 19) "I like to think I have everything I want from this life"
Supplies and Styles: Sketch, Frame, Acrylic, Yarn, Glitter, Glue (All for Dec. 9th 2018)
Word Count: 1426
Rating: E Everybody
Warnings: None
Boyce is a hermit who fled trauma to the woods and isolation. In Everwood he befriends a dryad, and in exchange for helping her reunite with her copse, they reward them by sharing their magic. He loses their company but gains some worrying dryad-like traits, causing him to wonder if he's losing his humanity. These drabbles take place about 5 years after the main course of the comic. You can find more organization and links to art and content at
everwoodWhen winter brought people together up and down the river road, folks like Boyce could get away with coming out from under the bare-branched canopy of the Evermarches. His only companion, Trellis, was deep in hibernation, and being on his own felt dreary in a way it rarely did when the big forest man was left to his own devices during warmer weather. Creatures that fed on humans, whether they were common wolves or looming trolls, tended to be more unpredictable and aggressive this far away from the protection of numbers, too.
He wasn't afraid, exactly, but he did grow unbearably tense over the long winter nights. It was around this time when he was little more than a boy that his home had been ransacked by things that had boiled up out of the mines, and he'd only survived by dint of the good sense to hide, and flee. The rumor of the disaster had outpaced him and he hadn't been welcome in any of the neighbouring towns, or when he was it was under threat that it was his fault. By comparison the forest had become a safer place for long enough that he got used to being alone, mostly.
It was an old hurt, but like a gnarl that causes a tree an ugly bend, he'd grown with it. There were few days when loneliness chafed, but this deep in winter, his feet grew restless the heavier his heart sat.
Nothing for it but a distraction. The weather was crisp and clear and freezing, the snow layer thick and tentatively crusted over in a way that made placing snowshoes a tricky business. Boyce's beard was caked with a rime of frost before he had hiked the length of the winding tributary that opened onto the River Road, and his toes were beginning to go numb. He'd thought to lade himself down with trade furs, which were needed, and this time of year he didn't have to worry about hiding the sprouts that liked to grow from his hair directly to mark him as something other than human. He looked like a man, otherwise, and if he understood people--which was a shaky concept--it was that they liked to make money. Even that was enough, he hoped, to sate his need for interaction. Anything too much more was out of his sadly stunted scope.
More than that, though, as he settled over the trader's counter to finish haggling and warm his nose, he had to admit that he missed the warm glow of lantern light, and the general sense of comfort in numbers that humans lived by. It was hard to feel like he fit in, and he was incredibly aware that the hard-eyed trader on the other side of the counter was giving him a stern glare as settled on a price. Most days, that would have driven him off, but under the guise of haggling he could believe she only expected him to be gouging her purse, not that she suspected he wasn't human. It was enough of a veneer that Boyce was able to make some coin for his hard work without folding just to escape, and in fact when the trade was completed she offered to fill his canteen with complimentary tea. Even so, he felt scraped raw, so he sealed the cap and made a break for the street outside. Despite the utter cold and the way the sweat on his brow instantly prickled back to frost, Boyce felt more exposed to the quantity of people than by the weather. Were they looking at him? Was he being marked? Had he been a terrible mistake in coming here? He pulled his scarf right up and patted his coin pocket, mittens on, pack secure, everything double-checked, performing a ritual to keep him from scattering back towards the forest. Nobody was looking at him. Nobody was alarmed.
Boyce's original plans seemed incredibly foolish now. He'd thought he might stay the night, use the new coin to purchase a bed and a meal and linger around a fireplace while men gossiped about trade and the evils of the woods, so he could have a quiet laugh at their suspicions, away from the spotlight of them. And then he'd go home, where he really belonged. That didn't feel likely now... but he'd come so far. Boyce thought for a few more seconds, and then adjusted his course for the river, instead of turning tail straight for the forest.
Luckily, he'd thought to prepare for this. He came down the the frozen riverbank and set his pack on the trampled snow, stashing his insulated canteen and turning open the main compartment. The gleam of skating blades, newly polished, were a welcome sight.
River road was a vital artery that connected the entirety of the kingdom, from the ocean-side palace to the Dragontooth Mountains of the frontier. During most of the year, fishing and transport boats from near the lakelands at the foot of the mountains plied up and down the river. When the river froze over the winter, though, sleighs and skates and skis came out, and it became a massive pedway, shavings of ice swept aside every day, even blizzard snow coatings pounded to submission by the traffic.
Boyce had found a snow bench right on the ice, a pedestrian convenience, far from the gaggle of young men who were strapping on their skates and inspecting their sticks and gossiping gladly about their upcoming game. They looked like young, shaggy warriors. Boyce smiled, privately, remembering that attitude and feeling at once divorced from it and alone with it.
He had tested the fit of his skates and repacked his bag, then slipped out onto the ice to drift with the quality of a staid swan. There really was nothing better than drifting onward like this, the heavy weight of his body lending directly to his momentum. He had a few moments of relative quiet before the gaggle had caught up with him, loud and harsh, overtaking him as they shouted to one another. Boyce, so startled, nearly caught himself up in a little circle. He straightened the hitch in his movements before he could fall, but he was once again on high alert. He held his breath as he watched a couple of young men divert course and circle, like wolves singling him out. This was a worse-case scenario and Boyce could feel himself sweating despite the wind and cold.
"You coming up to Maeston rink to watch the game?" one asked, circling out of immediate sight unless Boyce swivelled to keep track of him.
Before he could do that, the other swooped into view. "Yeah, we're bound to beat the snotsicles off 'em. Oraston Wolfhawks!" That, in turn, set off a series of howls up the ranks of their line.
Boyce, dumbfounded, skated stoicly onward if only because he didn't know how to respond. As a rule he avoided people, and they avoided him. The sweat exposed at his neck was prickling with cold, and he was sure he was going to need that tea when he stilled lest he freeze in his clothes. The boys circled once more and then hurried to catch up with their gang. Only by the time that they got out of range was he able to offer up any sort of answer. "A game?" He was glad for the relative privacy when the words left his cracked lips.
He put his head down and carried on up the river, hot embarrassment warming his cheeks better than his beard could. The warped reflection of his movements caught his attention in the polished ice, and he found himself embarrassed a second time. A grown man come out to support the local sports team was nothing to be ashamed of; he remembered whole villages turned up, when he was young. That these kids had mistaken him for a local was cause for both shame and relief. He didn't really belong out here, with others, on the river in plain sight. Better to weather the four-footed wolves than impose...
His reflection glanced up at him, and he pursed his lips. It would be a diversion, though maybe a little more excitement than he was ready for. He'd survived much worse, hadn't he? "You are local." he told it. "Next-to-local. Go to the damned game." If his reflection looked chastised, it was only because he hoped he'd survive the chaos. Maybe afterwards, by comparison, a cozy tavern would seem a quiet relief.