I actually wrote this on my Second Life blog for my character in a roleplay sim known as Midian. Thought that since I was coming up on 500 pageviews, I'd celebrate it with a spot of fiction writing.
"MASTER DYRSSEN! Git thy rear back 'ere at once!"
Giles was Welsh, but he still had a rather strange, ancient manner of speaking. But right now, it was a strange, ancient manner of yelling as he pursued his charge across the fields of the manor house in Eastleigh, Hampshire. And the small boy in front of him was outrunning him by a good ten yards, the distance ever-increasing. Though he was small for his age, Arcann Dyrssen of the Hampshire Dyrssens was a fast lad.
"No, I won't! I want to play with my friends, and you aren't going to stop me, old fruit!" Though he was only ten years old, the boy had already adopted his father's manner of speech, and tried to use his affectations at every possible juncture. He had a penchant for trouble, and as he outstripped the older gentleman chasing after him, he giggled with childish glee as he felt superior to the man in the tweed jacket who served as his tutor and companion. The man faded and slowed as the lad ploughed through the green grass with the energy of a growing boy. As Giles huffed and puffed, bent over his stick, he shouted after Arc, "You'll regret this, laddie! I'm goin' te give ye such a hidin'!"
Arcann found his friends hanging out at the old pond down by the Waverley Farm. They tended to hang out there a lot, fishing, climbing the trees, wrestling with each other - a thoroughly wholesome way to spend one's childhood. He tumbled to a stop, laughing loudly as he rolled through the grass, springing back to his feet as he looked over at the small trio. James Winterbottom, William Johnson and Alexander Turner were all local children, not so high-born as Arc had been, and so they found it quite easy to manipulate the smaller, more innocent boy than they. James, the unofficial ringleader of the group, turned to grin widely at Arc, but the sincerity in the smile was visibly lacking... visible to all, that is, except the hyped-up Lord's son. "Hey Arc, we gots a dare for ya. You see that up there?" The older boy pointed to the old stone wall up the hill at the Waverley Farm. The wall was only about three feet high, no great feat for even a ten year old to scale, but what made it difficult was the iron fence that had been built into it. For some reason, one of the past Waverleys had had some kind of aspiration to be better than the other farmers in the district, and had built a totally impractical fence at the boundary of his property, with a sandstone base and iron railings built into the stone itself. The railings were tipped with a crossbar that ran all the way around, but also had mounted upon them some rather ornate spikes that ensured that there wouldn't be any trespassers anytime soon. James leant down from his already rather substantial five foot height, muttering, "You get over that fence, an' well give ya a pound." He reached into his pocket, pulling out a crisp pound note and snapping it in front of Arc's face. Where they had got such a lot of money, no one could tell. The lad's eyes lit up, and he looked as if he might almost jump out of his shoes as he bounced on his heels, "I'll do it! That pound is mine!" He scampered up the hill, taking each step with a leap and a bound, heading straight for the stone wall.
The boy mounted the stone wall with ease, taking it in his stride as he leapt up, slinging himself up to face the iron bars. Gripping them as he looked straight up to the top where the cruel spikes lay glinting in the sunlight, he slung his legs around them, trying to pull himself up by his arms as his legs slid up behind him. As he yanked his small body upwards, he suddenly lost his hold, slipping right down the railings as his fingers scrabbled for a better hold, hitting the sandstone with his rear, making an 'oof' sound as the air was knocked out of him. Hearing the distant laughs of his approaching 'friends', the boy flushed red, standing up with determination set on his face. Jumping up and taking hold of the crossbar, he swung from side to side, slowly getting up momentum before slinging himself right up, hooking a leg over the crossbar with a triumphant squeal. He giggled with pure joy as he envisioned that pound note in his pocket. Unfortunately, in his excitement, the boy failed to notice just where he was putting his foot, and as he tried to rise from his position straddling the rail, he slipped, and his rear was immediately impaled on one of the vicious spikes. His face paled, but he didn't dare move, not wanting the spike to go any deeper into his tender cheek. James, Will and Alex had already scampered - they weren't going to stick around to watch Arc get caught by old Mister Waverley. And so Arc sat there, as the seconds felt like minutes, and the minutes felt like hours.
But who should turn up but Giles. Faithful old Giles, still hobbling along behind the boy. As he tracked down the boy, he heard the whimpering cries of a child in pain, and he sighed as he heard a familiar tone to the child's voice. He found Arc frozen in pain atop the fence. Giles was six foot three, and despite being bent with age and arthritis, was still able to reach up and lift the boy off the fence. Brushing Arc down, he muttered, "What were ye doin' up there, lad? I thought ye knew better..." Arc didn't say a word. He just looked disappointed - almost indignant, in fact. As Giles bent down to check that he was alright, he grunted in his old, hoarse Welsh voice "What's got yer tongue? Why are ye starin' like that?"
"I should have got 50 pence for making it half the way over!"