David prefers to ride at night once summertime reaches a fever pitch, especially during particularly hot years like this one. The harsh sun gives way to the softer, more merciful glow of the gibbous moon overhead, the pale light resting on his shoulders and the hindquarters of the black mare beneath him. It's their usual ride, one that winds along the sandy trail leading to the ruins crowning the top of the hill, and it is beautifully quiet. Grass rustles alongside the rasping of a great reed warbler somewhere a few hundred meters out; the sandy path grinds against the soles of his mount's hooves; crickets sing in the undergrowth bordering the trail.
They round a small cluster of aspen trees and at last the ruins come into sight as they have on every ride - as well as a pale, shimmering form, vaguely humanoid, standing utterly motionless at their center some 20 meters away. The horse's ears swivel toward him in unison, then forward along with the lifting and stiffening of her long neck a moment later. Her nostrils flare and she softly but audibly blows out a gust of warm air. There is no reply from the shape, which certainly looks like a ghost.
It's not, obviously. It can't be - ghosts aren't real, nor can they be. If anything, it's probably some trick being played by the teenagers who come up here now that they're on holiday with nothing to occupy themselves with, simply because they know that many of the locals buy into the myths around this place. To their credit, the figure looks incredibly real, breathtaking even, as if composed of suspended stardust.
"Easy," he says quietly, reaching down to scratch her neck with one hand while pulling back on the reins with the other. "You're alright." The sun-bleached ends of her tail lash against her hindquarters as she blows again, more loudly this time, still with no reply. Her forelegs fumble on the ground as her weight shifts forward in an all-too-familiar change of posture - she certainly seems to be thinking about kicking, and rearing isn't too far from that. A fake ghost isn't dangerous, but a terrified horse is.
"Back. Come on." She takes one step back but doesn't go any further, breathing heavier, ears beginning to flatten. David's heart beats a little faster in his chest as his hands tighten on the reins. Stupid kids. There are a hundred other ways to keep yourself occupied.
"Stop that," he says, projecting his voice as far as he can while keeping it level. "You aren't funny and this isn't Halloween."
➣ Prompt 2
The best time to visit a museum, especially one in the midst of an upsurge in traffic, is in the early morning. It is quiet then, with no crowds and as close a view of the exhibit as the museum's rules will allow. This works quite well for David - he wakes at 5:00 in the morning to feed the horses and is usually in the feed room putting away buckets by about 6:15, as is the case on this particular day.
He showers, pulls his hair into a small ponytail, and dresses, then leaves for the museum. As expected, it is almost entirely unoccupied when he arrives; save for the echoes of a few sets of footsteps in other rooms, the building is silent as he stands at the edge of the rope fencing around the newly renovated ship and examines its hull.
That is, until another person enters the room - he looks up when he hears the soles of their shoes on the floor tiles and offers a polite smile upon accidentally making eye contact.
Captain David Collins | BBC's Banished | Stable Boy
David prefers to ride at night once summertime reaches a fever pitch, especially during particularly hot years like this one. The harsh sun gives way to the softer, more merciful glow of the gibbous moon overhead, the pale light resting on his shoulders and the hindquarters of the black mare beneath him. It's their usual ride, one that winds along the sandy trail leading to the ruins crowning the top of the hill, and it is beautifully quiet. Grass rustles alongside the rasping of a great reed warbler somewhere a few hundred meters out; the sandy path grinds against the soles of his mount's hooves; crickets sing in the undergrowth bordering the trail.
They round a small cluster of aspen trees and at last the ruins come into sight as they have on every ride - as well as a pale, shimmering form, vaguely humanoid, standing utterly motionless at their center some 20 meters away. The horse's ears swivel toward him in unison, then forward along with the lifting and stiffening of her long neck a moment later. Her nostrils flare and she softly but audibly blows out a gust of warm air. There is no reply from the shape, which certainly looks like a ghost.
It's not, obviously. It can't be - ghosts aren't real, nor can they be. If anything, it's probably some trick being played by the teenagers who come up here now that they're on holiday with nothing to occupy themselves with, simply because they know that many of the locals buy into the myths around this place. To their credit, the figure looks incredibly real, breathtaking even, as if composed of suspended stardust.
"Easy," he says quietly, reaching down to scratch her neck with one hand while pulling back on the reins with the other. "You're alright." The sun-bleached ends of her tail lash against her hindquarters as she blows again, more loudly this time, still with no reply. Her forelegs fumble on the ground as her weight shifts forward in an all-too-familiar change of posture - she certainly seems to be thinking about kicking, and rearing isn't too far from that. A fake ghost isn't dangerous, but a terrified horse is.
"Back. Come on." She takes one step back but doesn't go any further, breathing heavier, ears beginning to flatten. David's heart beats a little faster in his chest as his hands tighten on the reins. Stupid kids. There are a hundred other ways to keep yourself occupied.
"Stop that," he says, projecting his voice as far as he can while keeping it level. "You aren't funny and this isn't Halloween."
➣ Prompt 2
The best time to visit a museum, especially one in the midst of an upsurge in traffic, is in the early morning. It is quiet then, with no crowds and as close a view of the exhibit as the museum's rules will allow. This works quite well for David - he wakes at 5:00 in the morning to feed the horses and is usually in the feed room putting away buckets by about 6:15, as is the case on this particular day.
He showers, pulls his hair into a small ponytail, and dresses, then leaves for the museum. As expected, it is almost entirely unoccupied when he arrives; save for the echoes of a few sets of footsteps in other rooms, the building is silent as he stands at the edge of the rope fencing around the newly renovated ship and examines its hull.
That is, until another person enters the room - he looks up when he hears the soles of their shoes on the floor tiles and offers a polite smile upon accidentally making eye contact.