Peitho's RA birb blog

“You little sneak! Get back here!”

Will raced towards the tree, sweat pouring down the back of his neck as Horace chased him. He had won (fairly, he might add) at a game of cards, but Horace found a card on the ground and fully believed Will was cheating. He reached the tree and just managed to find a hold and scramble up it with practiced ease, placing his feet on the branches and climbing up before Horace could grab him. He did this almost every day. He knew what he was doing.

But he was not as practiced as he thought.

One branch broke under his foot, and he gasped, digging his nails into the branch he currently held on to in an instinctual attempt to save himself. He’s nearly fallen before. He knew what to do, didn’t he? He kicked out, trying to dig his heels into the bark and find a foothold. But the branch he was clinging to was too weak to hold his weight, and it snapped with a foreboding SNAP!.

Time froze for a second. Will could almost see eyes glinting in the shadows of the leave.

The branches flew past at breakneck speed as he plummeted to the ground, and he wanted to scream but couldn’t. He flailed hopelessly, turning this way and that, but it hit him – he was going to hit the ground. He was going to die, and this was it. He was supposed to be a knight, wasn’t he? Make his father’s memory proud?

What a useless way to die.

Tears sprung to his eyes - was it from their air, or from his own impending doom?

He landed on his head. It was over before he could do anything else. Blood and brain matter sprayed everywhere, the sound of the impact echoing through the air.

Horace froze, blood splattering over him. Alyss and Jenny screamed. George gaped, eyes widening as he stared on.

“H-Horace….” George stammered, as though Horace could explain what he did, what had happened. That saying his name could reverse what happened.

Horace didn’t know what to do, either.

The caretakers rushed forward, ushering Horace away from the splattered mess that was once Will. Horace could barely register what had happened, just that one caretaker was fetching Baron Arald, another was trying to comfort him uselessly, and the rest were pulling the others away from the bloody mess. Alyss was fighting them, trying to reach the split corpse as though convinced she could put him back together.

Alyss was always used to putting things back together. Of fixing everything when even Jenny couldn’t.

Yet she couldn’t understand, in her grief filled haze, that she couldn’t put everything back together this time.

-o-

Baron Arald was mindlessly spinning his late wife’s necklace in his hands when a caretaker notified him of the death. He glanced up, grayish eyes marked by black, dead veins and full of sadness and surprise.

“A death? How? Who?” He questioned, sitting up. The caretaker swallowed, blood still on her shaking hands.

“H-Horace…Will….” She stammered, before managing to collect herself enough to make a better attempt to tell him what had happened. “Horace was chasing little Will around again, and he went up the tree, and…and he…he fell. All thirty feet. Landed on his head, Baron.”

“And what of the body?” Baron asked, leaving his chair to ghost closer to the young woman. Recalling his less than mortal self when she flinched, he apologetically retreated back to his chair.

“We had the knights collect it.” She looked away, swallowing nervously. “Is he…?”

“Of course he will be. The Vulture has been waiting for him to die, honestly. He always talked about what he’d use him for if he died – he probably orchestrated this.” Baron Arald replied sharply. He settled back, hearing Pauline rattling the shelves. A bauble from last year’s Harvest Fest falls to the floor and shatters. At that, he sits up and shoots the rattling shelves a glare.

“Pauline, you forget yourself!” He snapped, and the shaking stopped abruptly. All was still, then a heavy book from the shelf flies at him and nearly hits him. He catches it and sharpens his glare. “Pauline, you are not a child. I understand you hate…no, despise him, and I fully understand that, but you can’t pitch the world’s greatest fit over any mention of him. At the very least, leave my items out of your fit.”

He could feel Pauline’s glare in return, but she indeed settled down and instead darted to his bedroom to shatter his mirror, the only sign of her existence a white, almost smoky form wisping past with the speed of a bird in flight. He sighed, turning to the obviously terrified caretaker.

“Please summon a servant to clean the glass. I shall notify The Vulture of this.” He commanded firmly. She nodded and scampered off.

He sat there, contemplating just saving the poor thing from such a fate, of running the corpse to some other fief to be buried. But The Vulture would know.

He always did.

After some mourning, he heaved a great sigh and got up to light the fireplace. He sat back as the flames ate at the wood greedily. He was oddly reminded of him and King Duncan.

“Thinking about me, Arald?”

Baron Arald shuddered.

The Vulture King has arrived.

King Duncan stepped from behind his chair, black eyes dead and slightly crinkled in a smile. It still looked hollow, false. Baron Arald kept his eyes focused on the flames, watching him from his peripheral vision.

“He’s a dead man smiling.” He thought, and the vestiges of humanity still left in him bristled, unnerved. He almost had to remind himself that he, too, was pretty much entirely dead.

Almost.

“My liege,” Baron Arald spoke, eyes still fixed on the flames. “I have news.”

“Oh? Do tell,” The Vulture replied, face clothed in shadow. His tone showed he already knew it, but only wanted him to say it. He grit his teeth slightly, and King Duncan laughed.

“Oh, Baron Arald! Don’t be so mad~,” He cooed, cupping his face and digging those cold, cold nails slightly into his cheek. A threat, a tease, and a flirt all in one. Baron Arald knew very well King Duncan was only so nice and flirty if he wanted something.

And right now, Duncan wanted him to applaud him.

“Your eye for new rangers is admirable, dear king.” He answered, turning his gaze to his king, and King Duncan smiled wider, soulless black eyes trained on him. “Who do you think shall take the young one?”

“O'Carrick. Who else?” Duncan answered. He smiled, looking out the window to study the blood left on the ground, shining on the grass. “Hmm…I should give him feathers. A little birdie, maybe? Since he fell and all.” Duncan added with a laugh. Baron Arald wanted to snap back and say it wasn’t funny, but he kept his mouth shut, feeling Duncan dig his claws in.

“Would it not be unwise to have a bird with…well, a glorified fish?” He regretted his words as soon as he spoke them, but shockingly, King Duncan laughed at that.

“Glorified fish! How amusing!” He tossed his head back, the flames roaring up before sputtering, dying slowly in his presence. “As for unwise…no! He raised a vampire, he can raise a little birdie. Don’t you agree, Pauline?”

The entire shelf flies at them at that. Baron Arald immediately shied away out of leftover instinct, but Duncan simply pulled him to his chest and blocked him from the shelf. King Duncan could not feel pain, but he knew Baron Arald could. And his favorite little Baron would not feel pain.

“Now now, Pauline. Don’t throw a hissy fit. Come see me! Show that pretty face. A pretty woman shouldn’t be so vicious to her king.” He drawled, smiling wider as the small light above Arald’s desk swung wildly, the candles flickering. The windows chilled, handprints left on the glass. King Duncan just laughs, blonde hair tossed by her fury.

“Well, little Arald. Let’s give her time to calm down. Come back to my palace! Help me put our newest little ranger together.” King Duncan grinned, and Baron Arald swallowed, knowing those grinning teeth would be at his throat later. Whether he played his cards right or very, very wrong, only when he was with him would he tell.

“...yes. Okay, my liege.”

Horace watches the knights scraping whatever they could off the grass. He needed a bath, but he couldn’t make himself move. He smelled of blood, was coated in blood.

Will’s blood was on Horace’s hands, figuratively and literally.

A book suddenly soared through the air and hit the back of his head. He whirled around, and saw George behind him, chest heaving. Stunned grief had turned to fury, and George was more furious than he had ever seen the young boy.

“You…You murderer! You killed him! Are you happy now?! You’ve always been a Gods’ Damned bully!” He shouted, arming himself with another book. Jenny jumped up, grabbing George’s wrist.

“George, stop!” She cried, tears streaming down her puffy cheeks. “This isn’t the answer!”

“It is! He’s a murderer and I hate him!” George snarled, ripping his arm away from Jenny and hurling another book at him. This time, Horace dodged, his own grief fueling his anger.

“I didn’t do anything!” Horace howled, grabbing the book and tossing it back. It struck the smaller boy square in the head, making him cry out and stumble back. “He fell by himself! He chose to climb the tree!”

Alyss stood, rushing over to grab George. She shot Horace a tearful glare, full of blame and anger.

“Don’t blame Will. You always blamed him when he got hurt from your actions, and now you’re too stupid to accept you caused someone’s death. Just…go to Hells!”

With that, she dragged George to the bedrooms, slamming the door firmly. Jenny looked at him.

And he knew all she saw was a murderer.

“I-I can’t believe you did this,” She hiccuped, and she, too, turned her back on him and escaped to the kitchens.

In truth, Horace blamed himself for the entire ordeal. But he couldn’t process it, not yet. He was stunned and guilty, his young mind unable to process the tragic death.

He went to the prayer room and knelt at the statue of the Soul Guide. He cupped his hands at his heart and whispered a prayer.

“You little sneak! Get back here!”

Will raced towards the tree, sweat pouring down the back of his neck as Horace chased him. He had won (fairly, he might add) at a game of cards, but Horace found a card on the ground and fully believed Will was cheating. He reached the tree and just managed to find a hold and scramble up it with practiced ease, placing his feet on the branches and climbing up before Horace could grab him. He did this almost every day. He knew what he was doing.

But he was not as practiced as he thought.

One branch broke under his foot, and he gasped, digging his nails into the branch he currently held on to in an instinctual attempt to save himself. He’s nearly fallen before. He knew what to do, didn’t he? He kicked out, trying to dig his heels into the bark and find a foothold. But the branch he was clinging to was too weak to hold his weight, and it snapped with a foreboding SNAP!.

Time froze for a second. Will could almost see eyes glinting in the shadows of the leave.

The branches flew past at breakneck speed as he plummeted to the ground, and he wanted to scream but couldn’t. He flailed hopelessly, turning this way and that, but it hit him – he was going to hit the ground. He was going to die, and this was it. He was supposed to be a knight, wasn’t he? Make his father’s memory proud?

What a useless way to die.

Tears sprung to his eyes - was it from their air, or from his own impending doom?

He landed on his head. It was over before he could do anything else. Blood and brain matter sprayed everywhere, the sound of the impact echoing through the air.

Horace froze, blood splattering over him. Alyss and Jenny screamed. George gaped, eyes widening as he stared on.

“H-Horace….” George stammered, as though Horace could explain what he did, what had happened. That saying his name could reverse what happened.

Horace didn’t know what to do, either.

The caretakers rushed forward, ushering Horace away from the splattered mess that was once Will. Horace could barely register what had happened, just that one caretaker was fetching Baron Arald, another was trying to comfort him uselessly, and the rest were pulling the others away from the bloody mess. Alyss was fighting them, trying to reach the split corpse as though convinced she could put him back together.

Alyss was always used to putting things back together. Of fixing everything when even Jenny couldn’t.

Yet she couldn’t understand, in her grief filled haze, that she couldn’t put everything back together this time.

-o-

Baron Arald was mindlessly spinning his late wife’s necklace in his hands when a caretaker notified him of the death. He glanced up, grayish eyes marked by black, dead veins and full of sadness and surprise.

“A death? How? Who?” He questioned, sitting up. The caretaker swallowed, blood still on her shaking hands.

“H-Horace…Will….” She stammered, before managing to collect herself enough to make a better attempt to tell him what had happened. “Horace was chasing little Will around again, and he went up the tree, and…and he…he fell. All thirty feet. Landed on his head, Baron.”

“And what of the body?” Baron asked, leaving his chair to ghost closer to the young woman. Recalling his less than mortal self when she flinched, he apologetically retreated back to his chair.

“We had the knights collect it.” She looked away, swallowing nervously. “Is he…?”

“Of course he will be. The Vulture has been waiting for him to die, honestly. He always talked about what he’d use him for if he died – he probably orchestrated this.” Baron Arald replied sharply. He settled back, hearing Pauline rattling the shelves. A bauble from last year’s Harvest Fest falls to the floor and shatters. At that, he sits up and shoots the rattling shelves a glare.

“Pauline, you forget yourself!” He snapped, and the shaking stopped abruptly. All was still, then a heavy book from the shelf flies at him and nearly hits him. He catches it and sharpens his glare. “Pauline, you are not a child. I understand you hate…no, despise him, and I fully understand that, but you can’t pitch the world’s greatest fit over any mention of him. At the very least, leave my items out of your fit.”

He could feel Pauline’s glare in return, but she indeed settled down and instead darted to his bedroom to shatter his mirror, the only sign of her existence a white, almost smoky form wisping past with the speed of a bird in flight. He sighed, turning to the obviously terrified caretaker.

“Please summon a servant to clean the glass. I shall notify The Vulture of this.” He commanded firmly. She nodded and scampered off.

He sat there, contemplating just saving the poor thing from such a fate, of running the corpse to some other fief to be buried. But The Vulture would know.

He always did.

After some mourning, he heaved a great sigh and got up to light the fireplace. He sat back as the flames ate at the wood greedily. He was oddly reminded of him and King Duncan.

“Thinking about me, Arald?”

Baron Arald shuddered.

The Vulture King has arrived.

King Duncan stepped from behind his chair, black eyes dead and slightly crinkled in a smile. It still looked hollow, false. Baron Arald kept his eyes focused on the flames, watching him from his peripheral vision.

“He’s a dead man smiling.” He thought, and the vestiges of humanity still left in him bristled, unnerved. He almost had to remind himself that he, too, was pretty much entirely dead.

Almost.

“My liege,” Baron Arald spoke, eyes still fixed on the flames. “I have news.”

“Oh? Do tell,” The Vulture replied, face clothed in shadow. His tone showed he already knew it, but only wanted him to say it. He grit his teeth slightly, and King Duncan laughed.

“Oh, Baron Arald! Don’t be so mad~,” He cooed, cupping his face and digging those cold, cold nails slightly into his cheek. A threat, a tease, and a flirt all in one. Baron Arald knew very well King Duncan was only so nice and flirty if he wanted something.

And right now, Duncan wanted him to applaud him.

“Your eye for new rangers is admirable, dear king.” He answered, turning his gaze to his king, and King Duncan smiled wider, soulless black eyes trained on him. “Who do you think shall take the young one?”

“O'Carrick. Who else?” Duncan answered. He smiled, looking out the window to study the blood left on the ground, shining on the grass. “Hmm…I should give him feathers. A little birdie, maybe? Since he fell and all.” Duncan added with a laugh. Baron Arald wanted to snap back and say it wasn’t funny, but he kept his mouth shut, feeling Duncan dig his claws in.

“Would it not be unwise to have a bird with…well, a glorified fish?” He regretted his words as soon as he spoke them, but shockingly, King Duncan laughed at that.

“Glorified fish! How amusing!” He tossed his head back, the flames roaring up before sputtering, dying slowly in his presence. “As for unwise…no! He raised a vampire, he can raise a little birdie. Don’t you agree, Pauline?”

The entire shelf flies at them at that. Baron Arald immediately shied away out of leftover instinct, but Duncan simply pulled him to his chest and blocked him from the shelf. King Duncan could not feel pain, but he knew Baron Arald could. And his favorite little Baron would not feel pain.

“Now now, Pauline. Don’t throw a hissy fit. Come see me! Show that pretty face. A pretty woman shouldn’t be so vicious to her king.” He drawled, smiling wider as the small light above Arald’s desk swung wildly, the candles flickering. The windows chilled, handprints left on the glass. King Duncan just laughs, blonde hair tossed by her fury.

“Well, little Arald. Let’s give her time to calm down. Come back to my palace! Help me put our newest little ranger together.” King Duncan grinned, and Baron Arald swallowed, knowing those grinning teeth would be at his throat later. Whether he played his cards right or very, very wrong, only when he was with him would he tell.

“...yes. Okay, my liege.”

Horace watches the knights scraping whatever they could off the grass. He needed a bath, but he couldn’t make himself move. He smelled of blood, was coated in blood.

Will’s blood was on Horace’s hands, figuratively and literally.

A book suddenly soared through the air and hit the back of his head. He whirled around, and saw George behind him, chest heaving. Stunned grief had turned to fury, and George was more furious than he had ever seen the young boy.

“You…You murderer! You killed him! Are you happy now?! You’ve always been a Gods’ Damned bully!” He shouted, arming himself with another book. Jenny jumped up, grabbing George’s wrist.

“George, stop!” She cried, tears streaming down her puffy cheeks. “This isn’t the answer!”

“It is! He’s a murderer and I hate him!” George snarled, ripping his arm away from Jenny and hurling another book at him. This time, Horace dodged, his own grief fueling his anger.

“I didn’t do anything!” Horace howled, grabbing the book and tossing it back. It struck the smaller boy square in the head, making him cry out and stumble back. “He fell by himself! He chose to climb the tree!”

Alyss stood, rushing over to grab George. She shot Horace a tearful glare, full of blame and anger.

“Don’t blame Will. You always blamed him when he got hurt from your actions, and now you’re too stupid to accept you caused someone’s death. Just…go to Hells!”

With that, she dragged George to the bedrooms, slamming the door firmly. Jenny looked at him.

And he knew all she saw was a murderer.

“I-I can’t believe you did this,” She hiccuped, and she, too, turned her back on him and escaped to the kitchens.

In truth, Horace blamed himself for the entire ordeal. But he couldn’t process it, not yet. He was stunned and guilty, his young mind unable to process the tragic death.

He went to the prayer room and knelt at the statue of the Soul Guide. He cupped his hands at his heart and whispered a prayer.