three drabbles for Pea.

[lovepeaceohana]

Pea is my werecub, who used to be an NPC/quest object for a campaign I never got to run. Girl had to grow up sometime. Also, please note, I am shitty with titles so they tend toward sarcasm ... bleh.

Title: It Was My Mother's
Challenge/Prompt: #30 Necklace
Original Fiction
Rating: PG
Warnings: Child endangerment.
Summary: The orphaned Pea is found.

 

When they find her, she is naked except for the ring she wears on a necklace. “Mama,” she says to the man who tries to take it from her, and “No! No!” with all the fury of a two-year-old. She bites his hand and laughs as he curses, running away on her tiny stumpy legs for all she's worth.

The next person she finds is much nicer, and doesn't try to take her necklace when she says, firmly, “Mama.” The woman smiles, “Of course,” and leads her away to a place she learns to call home.

 

Title: Cuts Both Ways
Challenge/Prompt: #71 Silver
Original Fiction
Rating: PG
Warnings: None
Summary: I know it's kind of cliche, but Pea has always been melodramatic.

 

Pea deftly avoids touching the silver blade that the merchant hands her. She's had enough practice at it that the merchant doesn't even appear to notice, too busy describing the detail work – the filigree is just so exquisite, you won't find many pieces like this one – about which she could give less than a frozen rat's ass.

This was the blade that had killed her mother.

She could smell it, an faint iron tang with just a hint of familiarity and longing. For a moment, something painful swelled in her chest.

“I'll take it,” she told him.

 

Title: It's Called Karma
Challenge/Prompt: #7 Waiting
Original Fiction
Rating: R
Warnings: Off-screen death, implied violence. Sex.
Summary: Pea has found the paladin who killed her mother.

 

This must be how it feels to go mad.

Pea can feel it in her marrow, creeping along her skin like the change, a delirium of exhaustion and fierce satisfaction. She has waited nineteen years for this moment, and it is so tempting to prolong it, riding the sensation not unlike she is currently riding the pale, grunting man beneath her who still does not realize that death has come hunting. It is, she reflects, a poor time to be baring one's throat.

She thinks of her mother, dead at this man's hands, and the time for waiting is over.