Daniel Newwyn
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Fabrisse Book 2 (Chapter 14)
🕑 Added 2025-08-16 12:34:44 +0000 UTCIt seemed nature had decreed that every misfortune should befall Celine Moose. A fresh blemish had appeared on her forehead, and now she’d learned that Greg Johnson was unlikely to appear at the jousting tournament. She’d also overslept again, by no fault of her own. An all-nighter devouring her latest detective story was just too enticing to resist, by nature. Her worst nightmare, however, was that her blood tasted too sweet and attracted the entire surrounding mosquito population; which was plenty, considering they were at the edge of the forest.
The first stop on their field trip was a scrubby clearing just off the main trail, where the grass thinned into patches of hard-packed dirt and wiry weeds. Low stone ridges hemmed it in on three sides, forming a sort of natural corral. This, apparently, was prime habitat for Nibberhares—aetherically-imbued rabbit-like pests no larger than a rat, with stubby ears and teeth sharp enough to shear through garden roots.
“What do you mean he won’t come?” Celine cocked her hip to the side as she put a hand on it.
“Well . . . It’s not that he ‘won’t’ come. He’s just not likely to.” Fabrisse rubbed the back of his head then rubbed his nose.
“You said he will just yesterday.” Celine looked like she was having none of it today. Her blemish poked out angrily as she asked, equally angrily. “Did you ask him, Fabrisse? Did you really ask?”
“I—well, yes, but that was—uh—” He glanced at the ground, then the sky, then back at her as if one of them might provide a better answer. His mouth opened, closed, opened again, closed again, then opened the third time, but no words volunteered.
Celine had come armed for the occasion—her Thaumaturgical Rabbit-Hunting Package (Standard Edition) slung neatly at her side: a collapsible snare etched with binding runes, a pouch of powdered repellent for warding the burrows, even a pocket-sized lattice lamp designed to lure the nibberhares out at dusk. She had had everything prepared, except for the mosquito spray.
And yet, none of it seemed to matter now.
“You forgot to ask him, didn’t you?” she said with a voice as sharp as the little teeth of the pests they were meant to exterminate.
Fabrisse wilted. His shoulders hunched, his gaze dropped, and the loose thread he’d been worrying at his sleeve began to fray.
“Forget it,” Celine snapped, turning on her heel so abruptly that the snare clinked against her hip. “I’m not in the mood anymore.”
Fortunately for Fabrisse, Celine had managed to rope along a familiar figure who’d act as the voice of reason: Liene.
Liene stepped in between them and spoke in her damage control voice, “You got all your gears ready, Celine. It would be a shame to back out now.”
“Well you have fun with him!” Celine stomped on the ground. “You didn’t like it last time he forgot about you, did you?”
Fabrisse turned away instinctively as the memories of how he’d let Liene wait half a day returned. Liene couldn’t say anything to that, so she just let Celine stomped her way out of sight like a sulky child.
The moment Celine disappeared from sight, Liene heaved a sigh. “That wasn’t very nice of you. She’s right to be upset.”
He knew that. Celine had put effort into helping him with lots of things, all for something deceptively simple in return.
“What do I do now?” Fabrisse asked in a tiny voice.
“Do what she asked you to do. Try your best to convince Greg to go see the jousting tourney tomorrow. She really looked forward to it, you know.”
In any case, they needed to solve their immediate problem: they needed four people for the excursion, and they had two. Fabrisse hoped that their supervisor, Kaldrin, wasn’t too strict with the rules, since they were only hunting rabbits after all. Kaldrin had always seemed like the rather lax kind.
Unfortunately, the one who showed up wasn’t Kaldrin.
“Professor Kaldrin has urgent business to attend to today,” Lorvan spoke as he approached them. “I’ll be your supervisor.”
Great . . . We’re never getting clearance for this field trip then.
“Well, Mentor. It seems like we have a tinyyyy problem,” Liene dug her toe into the ground awkwardly. “We’re missing a few party members.”
“Then we cancel the trip,” Lorvan said.
“But we can’t . . .” Fabrisse tried to protest. He’d prepared, too. He’d even brought a slingshot with him in case he ran out of aether to fling stones at rabbits.
Liene slid in before Fabrisse could say more. “My wonderful mentor,” she began, drawing out the word with her softest smile, “surely we don’t need the full four people for nibberhares. They’re practically vermin. Even the villagers manage with nothing more than brooms and baskets.”
Lorvan folded his arms. “The villagers don’t need to file incident reports, Miss Lugano. I do. The protocol is four members minimum for any sanctioned excursion. End of discussion.”
“But you know us,” she pressed, voice lilting in that sing-song way she always used when trying to disarm him. “I’ll keep an eye on Fabrisse. You won’t even need to lift a finger. We’ll be careful, promise.”
Lorvan said flatly. “I know you, and I know him, and I know how you two do not have a care for safety. Safety regulations aren’t optional, not even for pest control. You’ll both return to the Hall, and that’s final.”
Before Liene could mount another appeal, a figure approached with her gaze lowered, fingers twitching minutely as she sketched sigils into being without even looking. Lines of pale glyphlight stitched together from her fingertips as she walked.
Of course Fabrisse realized that green hair and those crystal-clear emerald eyes even when downcast. It was Veliane Veist. He hadn’t been thinking about her anymore, but it didn’t mean she got any less attractive.
Glyphweaving as she walked meant only one thing: she was shadowing Lorvan again, as part of her independent study.
Liene eyed Fabrisse as she said, “You could stare a bit less obviously, you know.”
He leaned toward her, whispering. “It’s Veist. If she tags along, that makes three.”
“Which means . . .”
“Maybe . . . if we convince her that hunting nibberhares counts as practical glyphwork—”
“I don’t think she’ll agree.”
Veliane’s glyphwork vanished into the air as she slowed to a stop before them. “Good morning, Mentor,” she politely bowed to Lorvan before turning to Liene and Fabrisse. “Good morning. Are you allowed to go on excursions with only two members?”
“Of course not,” Lorvan answered without hesitation. “They’re about to return now.”
Fabrisse braced himself for dismissal—until Veliane spoke again. “I will help, if you want.”
Fabrisse’s jaw went slack. Veliane Veist, offering to join them? He’d never imagined such a thing. She was a Scion; people approached her. That was the natural order.
But she stood there, expectant, as though the choice was his.
Lorvan folded his arms, unimpressed. “If you want to make it challenging, limit yourself to glyphcraft alone during the excursion.”
Veliane nodded. “Understood, Mentor.”
Fabrisse was still staring, a little too wide-eyed, until Liene jabbed him lightly in the ribs.
Lorvan’s gaze swept over them, steady as granite outcrop. “You’re still one short,” he reminded. “Three is not four.”
As if the world itself had conspired to answer, the crunch of boots on frost-fractured quartzite rose from the path. A tall figure emerged from between the trees. His hiking pack slung across one shoulder, and a staff balanced loosely in his hand. Svetoslav Kovrin looked up at the gathered cluster and broke into a grin.
“Well now, this looks like a council of doom.” His voice carried the rough warmth of someone who never minded intruding. “What’s all this about?”
Sven? Why would he bring a staff to a hike?
He tipped his head first to Liene, eyes lighting with a familiar friendliness. “Morning, Liene.”
“Hey, Sven,” she answered with a little wave. “I didn’t know you hike.”
“Not usually,” Sven said, tapping the staff against his boot. “Research. We’re staging Ashes of Caldanor next term, and I figured I should know how to look like I’ve walked somewhere farther than from the Hall to the bakery.”
Of course. Always for the stage.
“So, you’re doing something? Party excursion, maybe?” He looked at the snare over Liene’s shoulder.
“Yeah. We’re missing one person, actually. Care to join?” Liene returned him a little grin.
Sven thought for a moment, then shrugged. “Why not? It still counts as hiking, just with extra steps.”
Liene turned to Lorvan, “Can we go into the woods then, Mentor?”
Lorvan nodded unceremoniously.
Fabrisse frowned just a little. It felt like he’d been running into Sven everywhere lately. At this point, he kind of expected to find Sven lurking behind a shrub with stage makeup on. But it wasn’t his concern now. With Sven, they’d have a full party, and he’d finally be able to test the new spells he’d learned. If anything, he was in luck.
NOTE: There is never a wrong time to prolong Celine Moose's suffering for no reason.
Comments
topley
Celine doesn’t deserve to suffer, she is after all the only character with good enough sense to realise Greg is the best person around
yosef melul
Poor Celine…
