The Right to Dream Main Page

CHANGELING FICTION CONTEST
brought to you by the White Wolf Changeling Forum

The Orphan

The old couple strolled through the park, quietly aware of what was happening around them. Although slow now with age, they'd seen a lot in their younger days and you didn't grow up in this part of town without picking up some basic survival skills. Like knowing that that path lead under a sprawling Maple tree, almost custom built for muggers and bag-snatchers. Like knowing that the young punks over by the corner fence dealt in more than just casual violence. Like knowing that even youngsters were capable of violence. Like that little boy playing with the knife over by the bench.

* * * * * Weevil leaned casually against the bench running his thumb across the sharp blade of his jagged knife, watching the old couple stroll past. He was a youngster, sure, but he noted with interest their wary gaze as it peered out under the grey shawl and the musty hat, and the way they kept casually away from the leafy bushes surrounding the path. Old, maybe, but these two had been around. Weevil nodded to himself. He liked professionals. He'd make it to that age, he was sure, and others, youngsters like he was now, would be watching him wander past with the same quite confidence these two possessed. It was dark now, the broken lights near the bench doing nothing to aid the moonlight as it struggled through the cloud. Weevil still stood by the bench, casually twirling his blade as he waited. His prey would be here soon and he would be ready. The cloud broke, the moon shining through, and he heard the faint snap of branches. The prey had come. He licked his lips, his tongue caressing the sharp points of his teeth, freshly filed this morning. This would be his first kill, a chance to dip his cap in the blood of a fallen enemy, to mark himself a terrible warrior amongst the wavering Court that claimed rulership over the City. They'd see his might in the blood-drenched cap he'd be wearing by midnight tonight and he'd see the fear in their eyes as they realised that another terror walked amongst them. They might still call him a loner, or an orphan, or a misfit, but at least they'd tremble when they said it.

* * * * * * The creature stalked the park, this human forest, its large club perched over its shoulder as it sniffed the air. It could sense a victim, smelling the sweet stench of its sweat as it drifted along in the faint breeze. The creature raised itself up to its full height, some eleven feet tall, its mottled skin reflecting wanly in the dim moonlight. It was ugly, by any standards, but its ugliness was less noteworthy than its massive size. Muscles rippled under skin as it slinked quietly along the path, its heavy body sinking an inch or two into the soft earth. Over the hedges it could make out its victim, a youth, idly waiting under the old tree, waiting for a friend no doubt, or a lover. By the time the giant finished with its victim, there would be nothing left for anyone to love.

* * * * * * Weevil felt a gaze upon him and saw the rustle from the hedge. The prey was here. He'd heard about the fearsome predator that ruled the park and had come prepared. He was small, but had studied from old books he'd found lying around the Court. The Court of Fools. They hadn't the sense to realise what it was they were so casually leaving about, the wondrous magic that could turn a youngster like himself into a giant-slayer. He'd show them an orphaned child could make, without their help. Yes, he'd come prepared alright. He reached into his pocket and took out the frog. The Book had said much about the magic in all living things and the frog had caught his eye. He drew a small syringe from another pocket, keeping watch on the movement in the hedges, and plunged the needle straight into the squirming body. The potion was thick, pungent, but a quick squeeze got most of it in. The frog's squirms got more violent as the potion started burning it from the inside. Weevil dropped the syringe and raised the frog to his mouth, his needle-sharp teeth easily chewing through the rubbery hide. It burned a little as it went down, more so than most frogs he'd eaten before. In fact, it tasted positively ghastly and he felt himself gag a little. Now THAT was unusual, for he could eat anything! Then the Magic hit him, and the world slowed down.

* * * * * * The Giant burst from the hedges, scattering branches, shrubs and leaves in all directions as he raced for his victim. The child looked up, startled, his small hand clutching a sharp, jagged knife, which the Giant ignored. It had been stabbed before, by fierce old knights with their swords of flame, and muscled trolls with their sharp, beaked axes. It had lived through them all, getting stronger every time it recovered, and this child's sharp toy would hardly scratch its thick hide. The Giant lifted the club back for a mighty swing, a tree-shattering swing that would pulp this boy into easily swallowed mush. It grinned evilly at the thought, its toothless mouth open like a gaping chasm into which smashed flesh would soon fall.

* * * * * * Weevil felt the fire burn through his body, stinging him, scalding him. He felt his senses come alive - his hearing sharpened, his eyes pierced the gloom as if the moonlight was a shining beacon. His skin, however, felt everything a hundred-fold - the grass beneath his bare feet were like needles, the cool breeze like a raging, frozen gale against his bare arms and face. It hurt to walk, to move. He saw the Giant lumber towards him, almost in slow motion as he felt the fire burning him from the inside. The constant agony of it all burnt through him, threatening to close his mind, to shut him out of his own body. The only respite against the fire was pain. Lots of pain. He moved like he had never moved before. Weevil leapt forward, driving in under the slowly descending club. He jumped, his jagged blade driving deep into the Giant's belly as he scrambled up, his toes finding purchase in the creature's hard flesh, his left hand gripping the thick hair growing on its chest. Again and again the knife plunged in, meeting thick skin at first, then softer tissue underneath as the skin parted. He held on tightly, knowing that to fall to the ground would leave him at the mercy of the Giant's club, and he knew the Giant would show no mercy at all.

* * * * * * The Giant stumbled forward as the child ducked beneath the club, a small blur moving faster than other victims had ever moved before. It lost sight of the victim as it passed under his massive chest, then felt a sharp pain in its side. The victim had dared fight back. The child-warrior was upon it now, clambering up its body to bring the tiny weapon against his thick chest. Briefly, the Giant tried to swat the child away with the club, but he was too close, and too fast. It dropped the club and reached out to grab the tiny dynamo, jerking its hand back as a flurry of slashes opened up its palm and severed several fingers. Pain was starting to creep into its thick skull and, for the first time in years, a trace of fear. For once, its muscles and size were of no use, and it knew it might die. Not for a thousand years had the Giant needed more than strength and brute force. Not for thousand years had it met a warrior who had thought to use cunning rather than might, guile rather than rage. Not for a thousand years had the Giant needed to think in the heat of battle. It knew that it mus think, think back over a thousand years, or it would fall at the hands of a child. Then it sunk in. Fall. With a roar of triumph, the Giant fell, flat on its face.

* * * * * * Weevil tasted the sweetness of the Giant's blood as it began to flow freely from the torn chest. He'd lost his footing in the struggle, and was hanging on to a mass of wiry hairs, but that gave him more freedom to move. He was able to swing around as he felt the giant paw closing in on him, slashing wildly with his jagged blade as fingers and blood flew off. He sensed the panic growing in the creature, his heightened senses able to identify exactly when the scent turned into the raw stench of fear. He relished the scent, knowing that tonight, his cap dripping with this creature's blood, he would sense the same stench of fear amongst the Court as he presented his kill to the foppish Baron. Suddenly, the creature bellowed, the sound almost bursting his ear-drums as the Magic within him intensified the noise. No roar of fear this, but a bellow of triumph. Weevil felt the world turn around as the creature fell. He knew the Giant wasn't dead yet, and he knew that he was in trouble. Before he could do more than let go, he hit the ground, the massive figure crushing him as it bore him to the ground. The pain was indescribable and he felt his senses slipping, pushing him towards unconsciousness. He fought to hold on, to stay conscious to the end. He knew the end wasn't far away, but he wanted to be there for it. Somehow, it seemed only right.

* * * * * * The Giant rolled off the child, sure it had all but crushed the life from him. Good, he was still alive - it wanted to make the child suffer for what it had done. It stood slowly, the wound in its chest streaming blood. It would heal, it always healed, and a good meal would make it heal all the more. First, though, some sport. It picked the child up callously, careless of any pain and suffering it may cause. The jagged knife fell from the loose fingers and the Giant grimaced as the child's eyes came focussed on his toothless, grinning mouth. He squeezed, hard, feeling a bone pop under his hands, watching with delight as the child's face screwed up in agony. This could be fun. With a flick of his massive wrist, he flung the child over to the bench, listening to the sickening thud of impact with satisfaction. A few more hours of this and the child would be as soft as if he'd clubbed it to death himself. Slower, yet somehow more enjoyable. Food should always be prepared that way.

* * * * * * Weevil knew now he was going to die. He knew he'd fought well, and with a few more years of battle-cunning he'd have been alert for the Giant's fall. His only wish was that someone could have witnessed his first real battle, and maybe understood how close he'd been to real victory. If only the stupid Court had been here, just to watch him die, not a loser, but trying as best an orphan could. He lay against the bench, a few bones broken and his knife well out of reach. Even the fire burning within him was starting to go out. Not that he could run anywhere in this state, but at least he'd be able to get to his feet and make the Giant kill him quickly, rather than slowly as it so clearly intended. He watched as the Giant approached, its grimace a black pit into which he knew he would soon fall. He regretted the lingering magic that still heightened his senses. He could smell the acidic bile on the Giant's breath, the bile which would soon dissolve him and feed the creature, as it had fed on so many others over the centuries. It just didn't seem right somehow. Weevil heard a faint step on the path to his left and turned his head to look, as eager to see what was there as perhaps to avoid the death with approached. It was the old couple. From where they walked they would be unable to see the Giant, and would turn the corner and be more food for the beast. He raised his hands, struggling against pain to shout, to wave them off, but if they saw his feeble movements in the dim moonlight they never slowed their path. They stepped out onto the path just as the Giant reached the bench and the broken child.

* * * * * * The Giant stopped short as the two old ones stepped out. For a moment, confusion set in as it pondered the change. More enemies? Was the child merely bait? If so, it could be in trouble in his weakened state. The choices of fight or flight struggled within its tiny brain. It chose Fight. Best to smash these old ones first, then finish of the child and eat them all later. It roared, its torn hand swinging out into the old woman, smashing her into the shattered hedge from which it had burst some mere minutes before. The old man staggered away, pulled by the woman until the force of the blow broke their firm grasp on one another. The Giant's other hand swung, his sharp nails like claws trying to rip the old man in two, whistling through the air as the old man danced back. The Giant followed up, both fists pounding at the old man, who dodged and weaved as best he could around the old tree, trying to keep his distance. To no avail. The Giant was an old hand at herding its victims like this, and soon the old man was trapped against the tree, no where to go. Almost casually, the Giant reached its torn hand out to snare the oldster, ready to crush the life from him and swallow his pulped body whole.

* * * * * * Weevil tried to struggle to his feet. The old woman was probably still alive, but the old man wouldn't be for long. He wanted to help, to draw the beast to himself while they escaped. He wanted to reach his knife and kill the beast before it harmed them. He wanted to save them and have them parade before the Court and tell of his prowess and might, before the foppish Baron and his foppish attendants. Then the Baron would accept him. Then, he realised the truth. He wanted to kill the Giant. Not for glory. Not to save the old couple. Not to impress the Court. No. He wanted to kill the Giant because killing felt right. He wanted to kill it, to hurt it, to taste its warm flesh. He wanted to dip his cap in its blood, a sign to all he met that if they weren't careful, their flesh would fill his sharp, hungry mouth. He struggled to his feet, limping slowly to his knife. The oldsters could rot as far as he was concerned - if they slowed the Giant down long enough for him to reach his knife, that was good enough for him. He looked up to see the old woman struggle out of the hedge, a big pistol appearing from her hand-bag. She aimed casually, and fired. The bullet flew inches past Weevil's face, slamming into the Giant's back. Weevil watched as it arched slowly backward, then toppled, the old man falling with it.

* * * * * * The old man slowly regained his feet. He was getting too old for this, though he still walked the park at night on the off-chance that something may happen. His wife dusted herself off as she walked slowly towards him, stepping around that dangerous kid with the knife. He'd been wounded, a nail from the creature tearing open a slash in his arm. His wife removed her shawl, quickly twisting it into a tourniquet and wrapping it around his arm, her dark hair bundled under her cap as she smiled up at him. She was old as well, and had been away from this sort of thing for some time, but had come through in the end, as she always did.

* * * * * * Weevil watched, stunned, as the old woman removed her shawl and began bandaging the old man's wounds. Her hair was bundled under a dark red cap, old and worn. She looked up at her husband, their filed teeth shining in the moonlight as they smiled tenderly at each other. She reached up, lifting his musty hat and brushing his tousled hair back under his equally red cap. Weevil felt their gaze turn upon him, swallowing the growing ball of fear in his throat as the old man reached under his coat and drew out a sharp dagger of Cold Iron.

* * * * * * The old man drew the iron knife and took a step forward, looking at the boy, then down at the Giant. He grinned at his wife, their needle-pointed teeth still sharp after all these years, then stared back towards the boy. He'd fought well, extremely well for a childling. A few more years and he'd have been able to take the Giant single-handed. He dropped to his haunches, the knife slicing a thick, red strip from the Giant's chest. Mouth full, he looked up. "Come on boy, dip your cap and start eating. We've got a lot to go through before the sun comes up."

* * * * * Weevil took a cautious step forward, then dropped to his knees as pain and hunger hit him at once. His jagged knife took a thin strip from the Giant and he stuffed the morsel into his mouth, relishing the sweet taste, feeling the strength flow back into his battered body. He was alive. He was victorious. He was blooded. Better yet, he was home. He smiled through the pain at the two old Redcaps, and knew that this was far better than the stupid Court could ever be.

by Steve