#Inger and her weavers are spider-kin and spiderlings respectively
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marmotsomsierost · 6 months ago
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Jenny was the closest- she'd been running for the chicken coop at the back of my house, and I'd watched her be felled by the archers lurking in the trees. Poor lovey, it had taken three of the vicious things to bring her to the tilled earth of my garden, the new green sprouts no higher than her fingers that now lay mere inches from the stoop. The shouting from the trees was louder, jeering and congratulatory and rude, growing more bold and cruel each time they hurt something of mine. They'd gone for the chickens next, since Jenny had opened the hatch and sent them darting out in search of their midafternoon treats only to be met with stones and a few arrows. I knew then that there would be no opportunity for peaceful surrender.
I smoothed the oiled paper back into position and knelt by the door. It was safe to push it open, I judged- the door and vine-covered trellis blocked most sight angles between my house and the forest's edge by design. With the door out of the way the threshold lifted easily away, and I set it gently in the little slot by the shoe-rack Eivind had gifted me not three months before. He was gone, surely- if anyone had been capable of keeping Jenny safe at home, she would not be in my garden. I let that sadness pass by as I brushed the layer of sweet grass and straw away from the packed dirt foundation of my house. My hands were warm when I placed them on the cold earth, and as they cooled I breathed in the knowledge the land gave me. Not everyone was dead, surprisingly enough- I couldn't feel most of the children, nor Inger and her weavers. Maybe I would consider some mercy of my own, if they had not just remained hidden but had been truly left alone during the attack.
Unlikely. Jenny was also a child.
I inhaled deeply, breathing in the living green-growth spice of the earth, and watched Jenny's chest rise, then fall as I exhaled. We breathed together, once, twice, and on the third breath she rose. The jeering from the forest stopped as the world paused- then broke into confusion and alarm as Jenny bolted across the threshold into my home, the rush of her movement slamming the door behind her.
"I'm sorry," she coughed, brushing dirt from her cheeks and the folds of her dress, "I forgot you had moved your garden." I handed her a damp cloth, motioning for her to turn so I could remove the arrows before sensation truly returned to her flesh.
"It's fine. The chickens will have earned a spring seedling treat after this, and there's plenty of time to reseed." I winced at the sight of the tears in the fabric. "Oh, your embroidery is ruined, my dear. I wish I could repair it for you."
"Ah, I need the practice anyway if I want to finish my apprenticeship. Do you want me to open the cellar, or are you waiting for someone to come gloat?"
"Neither." I motioned her to one side, just in case, and pushed the door open again. We surveyed the sad lumps of feathers scattered around my little garden, and when I looked back at Jenny I saw the same delight I felt reflected in her eyes. "I think I'll let the chickens handle this one."
"Shall I start the tea and soup, then?" At my nod Jenny turned to my kitchen, which was much larger than would be expected of someone living alone, with pots and stoves enough to feed a village. I could hear her building the fire as I set my hands back down on the earth, reaching this time for the rapid hearts and darting breaths of my flock of chickens- and then I shut the door quickly on the stunned silence of a forest full of murderers watching a flock of chickens rise and turn as one.
I supposed it is a little uncharitable of me to be so annoyed that these invaders never learn from the chronicles and writings of those that survived before them. I'm sure they assume they're the ravings of men gone mad from my wicked, evil magics. And I doubt most of them had any idea about what the usual size of a chicken coop is for one house, or how big a flock is usually manageable for one person. That's peasant farmer knowledge, not worth anything to a righteous mercenary beyond knowing who to coerce food from.
After all, what's one chicken to an armed man? Lunch. What's one armed man to a flock of angry chickens?
Lunch.
“When those armies came, they slaughtered the village and cornered me in my cottage. They said that they had me surrounded, but they didn’t seem to realise that the last thing you should let a necromancer have access to is fresh corpses.”
#i had other plans for this but the mental image of cuccos descending on Link blipped into my mind and it was all over after that#Inger and her weavers are spider-kin and spiderlings respectively#newcomers to the village are rare but the betting on how they're going to react to their first attack is brutal#granny keeps the books and she is merciless when it comes to interpretation and payouts#twice the invaders came and left without issue#the first time the mercenary group looked at the small thriving village and thought back to the tight nervous faces of the villagers#of the lord who'd hired them and went 'nah fam we're good'#and left full of fresh bread and terrible beer.#they did technically lose two of their number but Magda took one taste of that beer and went 'absolutely the fuck not'#and Eivind looked at the half-built framing of the long-desired sheep pen and shearing space and also went 'absolutely the fuck not'#the second time another newcomer recognized the heraldry on the knights and rode out to meet them#(we thought they were evil! we thought you were dead!) (sure they're evil if you get into a pun-off but i'm not dead twice over so chill)#(twice over?) (don't worry about it. come have a drink)#the time before this they left the chickens alone#things got...messy#Inger is still annoyed about how long it took to pick bits of fleeing idiots out of her webs#(no survivors at all that time. necromancer is not about to let rumors of spiderkin get out. that invites fire and nothing to save after)#skrivens
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