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Snakeskin (Madellianverse: Jack)
(I've been lax on the 14 guys in 14 days thing. I'll pick that up tomorrow, I think. Too tired tonight.)
Jack Donovan, in his youth, had been fed a steady diet of b-movie adventures: Errol Flynn, Zorro, various iterations of Robin Hood, Star Wars - pirates and swashbuckling noblemen and rebels saving fair ladies. His favorite, however, had been Indiana Jones. Independent-minded Indy with his fedora hat and his dozens of languages, journeying through foreign countries, riding elephants and camels. They even shared the same fear of snakes.
But the coolest thing about Indy was the whip. The whip was what took him from mild mannered archeology professor to Infinitely Cool Guy. So of course, he had to buy one of his own. Walking the streets of the Sardovan capital without a weapon at night wasn't the safest idea in the world - he had his short sword, of course, but it never hurt to have a backup. At least that's what he told himself. It had nothing to do with Indiana Jones and the way he snatched Willie Scott around the waist and dragged her willingly protesting form toward him at the end of Indiana Jones and the Temple of Doom. Nothing at all.
Really. Absolutely nothing.
The whip itself was a threatening, satisfying shade of black that caught the light in such a way to made it seem alive; shadow-tricks played by the double sun made it look real enough to make his heart leap out of his chest for a fraction of a second if he caught it in the corner of his eye, curled up and purring like a menacing little pet. There was something that was right about using something made of snakes as a weapon, something akin to revenge.
It also had a mind of its own, like most good pets. He figured that out the first time he tried to use it.
He took it out to a clearing just outside of town - a small inlet littered with sand crabs and the peculiar whistlegrass that was common to southern Sardova - and set up a small teetering cairn of flat beachstones as a practice target.
It was a lot heavier than he'd expected; twelve feet of braided leather and snakeskin plus the thick twelve-inch wooden handle added up to a considerable weight. Hefting it, he twitched his wrist forward experimentally.
The whip cracked, breaking the air in two with its thick black line, and Jack fell to his knees. A flock of sandbirds scattered in a thousand directions, peeping and running into the cove.
Backlash. Right. He struggled to his feet again, and gave it a second attempt, bracing with his feet this time.
That was a little better. At least that time he'd managed to stay upright. Gritting his teeth with determination, he tried a third time. The whip curled and licked the air with its long black dragon's tongue, and Jack felt the grin spread across his cheeks in earnest. Yes.
The cairn of stones was almost too easy, after that; it was felled like a pile of childrens' blocks at the feet of an imaginary Godzilla. Several clumps of whistlegrass felt the fire of his wrath, but he was running out of victims. Shading his eyes, he looked around the cove.
A couple of hundred feet away was a large, cylindrical rock half-jutting out of the sand. Waves lapped gently against it; it was a cool, deep grey, and looked to be something similar to granite.
Perfect. He hefted the whip and strode across the sand determinedly, stopping about ten feet away. Bracing his feet carefully in the slippery muck, he attacked the offending slab.
The whip flicked, curving through the air, wrapping around the stone once, twice -
Suddenly Jack was being dragged through the mud face-first, nose filling with wet saltsand. He looked up in a daze, spluttering, his shoulder on fire and half-wrenched out of its socket.
The rock stood implacably before him, the whip wrapped around its waist. Jack struggled to his feet, groaning, and rubbed the sand off of his face. He pulled on the handle.
Nothing. It didn't even budge an inch. Groaning, he carefully unfurled the long black tail with a sigh.
Indiana Jones he definitely was not.
Jack Donovan, in his youth, had been fed a steady diet of b-movie adventures: Errol Flynn, Zorro, various iterations of Robin Hood, Star Wars - pirates and swashbuckling noblemen and rebels saving fair ladies. His favorite, however, had been Indiana Jones. Independent-minded Indy with his fedora hat and his dozens of languages, journeying through foreign countries, riding elephants and camels. They even shared the same fear of snakes.
But the coolest thing about Indy was the whip. The whip was what took him from mild mannered archeology professor to Infinitely Cool Guy. So of course, he had to buy one of his own. Walking the streets of the Sardovan capital without a weapon at night wasn't the safest idea in the world - he had his short sword, of course, but it never hurt to have a backup. At least that's what he told himself. It had nothing to do with Indiana Jones and the way he snatched Willie Scott around the waist and dragged her willingly protesting form toward him at the end of Indiana Jones and the Temple of Doom. Nothing at all.
Really. Absolutely nothing.
The whip itself was a threatening, satisfying shade of black that caught the light in such a way to made it seem alive; shadow-tricks played by the double sun made it look real enough to make his heart leap out of his chest for a fraction of a second if he caught it in the corner of his eye, curled up and purring like a menacing little pet. There was something that was right about using something made of snakes as a weapon, something akin to revenge.
It also had a mind of its own, like most good pets. He figured that out the first time he tried to use it.
He took it out to a clearing just outside of town - a small inlet littered with sand crabs and the peculiar whistlegrass that was common to southern Sardova - and set up a small teetering cairn of flat beachstones as a practice target.
It was a lot heavier than he'd expected; twelve feet of braided leather and snakeskin plus the thick twelve-inch wooden handle added up to a considerable weight. Hefting it, he twitched his wrist forward experimentally.
The whip cracked, breaking the air in two with its thick black line, and Jack fell to his knees. A flock of sandbirds scattered in a thousand directions, peeping and running into the cove.
Backlash. Right. He struggled to his feet again, and gave it a second attempt, bracing with his feet this time.
That was a little better. At least that time he'd managed to stay upright. Gritting his teeth with determination, he tried a third time. The whip curled and licked the air with its long black dragon's tongue, and Jack felt the grin spread across his cheeks in earnest. Yes.
The cairn of stones was almost too easy, after that; it was felled like a pile of childrens' blocks at the feet of an imaginary Godzilla. Several clumps of whistlegrass felt the fire of his wrath, but he was running out of victims. Shading his eyes, he looked around the cove.
A couple of hundred feet away was a large, cylindrical rock half-jutting out of the sand. Waves lapped gently against it; it was a cool, deep grey, and looked to be something similar to granite.
Perfect. He hefted the whip and strode across the sand determinedly, stopping about ten feet away. Bracing his feet carefully in the slippery muck, he attacked the offending slab.
The whip flicked, curving through the air, wrapping around the stone once, twice -
Suddenly Jack was being dragged through the mud face-first, nose filling with wet saltsand. He looked up in a daze, spluttering, his shoulder on fire and half-wrenched out of its socket.
The rock stood implacably before him, the whip wrapped around its waist. Jack struggled to his feet, groaning, and rubbed the sand off of his face. He pulled on the handle.
Nothing. It didn't even budge an inch. Groaning, he carefully unfurled the long black tail with a sigh.
Indiana Jones he definitely was not.