Chavie
01-15-2006, 12:42 AM
Part One: Curse You, Smokeywood Pastures.
They told him he would have a very short life, but that while he lived, nothing could hurt him... except fire. He was immune to all kinds of magics and weapons. They told him he would spread the cheer of the season wherever he went. They put him in a little box, and wrapped it up, and placed it under the tree.
He had listened eagerly as, one day, the wrapping paper was ripped off. He had braced himself when the box, his little house, was shaken a bit. And then the lid opened, and he smiled up into... a grinning, rotting face wearing a leather mask. He watched the face's grin slide into what seemed to be severe disappointment. He wasn't sure about the emotion, though. He hadn't been around people much--and also, his new owner's mouth was a little deformed, so she looked like she was smiling all the time. She stank of death.
What could he do? He was bound to her. Whenever she took him out of his little box, he had to follow her and stay near her. At first she was content to try to outrun him. He would toddle along after her on his miniscule little legs, feeling panicked, desperate not to lose her. She would make as if to strike him, but, true to his manufacturing, he couldn't be hurt. He liked to think she was just playing around. That she knew she couldn't hurt him.
Until one day she took him into a fireplace and began dancing. He caught fire. His skin blistered and burned. His clothes were aflame. He couldn't breathe. His owner made as if to heal him, as she was healing herself (and he hated, hated watching her burns heal with a lazy wave of her hand!), but then she would shrug. Oh well, she seemed to say. Immune to magic.
And he died, suffering more pain than he thought possible.
But that wasn't the end. Oh, no. She put him back in his box, where he regenerated. When she opened it the next time, her grotesque smile streatched wide, and she laughed. No longer disappointed in her gift.
This had been going on for weeks. The Feast was long done with.
He wondered when she'd run out of snowballs.
They told him he would have a very short life, but that while he lived, nothing could hurt him... except fire. He was immune to all kinds of magics and weapons. They told him he would spread the cheer of the season wherever he went. They put him in a little box, and wrapped it up, and placed it under the tree.
He had listened eagerly as, one day, the wrapping paper was ripped off. He had braced himself when the box, his little house, was shaken a bit. And then the lid opened, and he smiled up into... a grinning, rotting face wearing a leather mask. He watched the face's grin slide into what seemed to be severe disappointment. He wasn't sure about the emotion, though. He hadn't been around people much--and also, his new owner's mouth was a little deformed, so she looked like she was smiling all the time. She stank of death.
What could he do? He was bound to her. Whenever she took him out of his little box, he had to follow her and stay near her. At first she was content to try to outrun him. He would toddle along after her on his miniscule little legs, feeling panicked, desperate not to lose her. She would make as if to strike him, but, true to his manufacturing, he couldn't be hurt. He liked to think she was just playing around. That she knew she couldn't hurt him.
Until one day she took him into a fireplace and began dancing. He caught fire. His skin blistered and burned. His clothes were aflame. He couldn't breathe. His owner made as if to heal him, as she was healing herself (and he hated, hated watching her burns heal with a lazy wave of her hand!), but then she would shrug. Oh well, she seemed to say. Immune to magic.
And he died, suffering more pain than he thought possible.
But that wasn't the end. Oh, no. She put him back in his box, where he regenerated. When she opened it the next time, her grotesque smile streatched wide, and she laughed. No longer disappointed in her gift.
This had been going on for weeks. The Feast was long done with.
He wondered when she'd run out of snowballs.