Sneaking this in even though you said you wanted to get down to 50 prompts before opening it back up again.
It's from this story btw. @internutter/challenge-03240-h331-not-as-expected#@internutter/re-bkf-r3v5fl
As Wraithvine sat without even batting an eye to let the older woman cut the hair, the woman rather surprised to say the least that they'd just sit and allow it, another comes into the home. This being looked almost exactly like the immortal elf. Wore clothing similar, though they traveled alone and had a pouch very well filled with coin, gems, and magic items. When asked, they claimed to be Wraithvine, at least until Wraithvine hirself was seen. Of course, as far as this being was concerned, this was likely yet another imposter. But, well, they learn why it's not nice to pretend to be someone they're not. -- DaniAndShali
[AN: With reference to @internutter/challenge-03240-h331-not-as-expected ]
Elves just don't cut their hair. It's a cultural thing. Elven children have their hair cut short for hygiene reasons, but after their Seventies, they are more or less expected to maintain their own hygiene. Long hair is a source of pride in their kind. The longer the hair, the more years it has been since their last grievous error.
Naturally, others prize Elven hair as a good luck charm.
When an Elf knelt humbly before Varicelle, and spoke of just letting her cut hir hair, it was a shock to say the least. Then ze let down the intricate braids hidden under the hat. For an Elf, it was unusually thin. For an Elf, it was unusually lacklustre. Not as dull as the Rock Elves, and the wrong colour besides. There was still a gilded sheen to the yellowish locks, but not nearly as bright as the Sun Elves. But it was very, very long.
"I was getting tired of combing and rebraiding it every other day," said probably-Wraithvine. "I keep forgetting to get it trimmed."
Elf hair, they said, only grew an inch a year. Which is why they treasured its length. Every inch was a year of perfection. Varicelle considered the shears in her hands and the long coils of hair at her feet. This was starting to feel like a crime.
"You're sure about this?" she said, picking a braid close to hir nape.
"You were."
The companions didn't seem to give a shit. The Orc was idly tapping his fingers on a hand drum and the bugbear had settled in the shade of a tree to meditate.
"Okay," said Varicelle, and began clipping. Regimented braids became ropes of hair at her feet. Clip. Clip. Clip. The Elf didn't mind it. She half expected lightning to strike her for doing it at all.
Then the other one came. They were a groat-player's idea of a Wizard. Cloth-of-gold stars on their robes. A tall, pointy hat that dripped with occult symbols that would also keep the flies away from their mouth. Occult jewelry that could make its own percussion section whenever they moved.
This Elven individual took offense at the sight of Wraithvine getting hir hair cut, but they rallied well. "Ah, good potioneer. When you are done teaching that miscreant the error of their ways, I would purchase some education from you. I can pay you well. Perhaps you've heard of me, my name is Wraithvine."
Actually-Wraithvine raised an eyebrow and moved a single finger. Two cubic feet of earth moved away from under the impostor's feet and then returned to bury them up to their shoulders. "The real Wraithvine would be able to get out of that."
Varicelle's hands shook a little more as she bought the shears close to Wraithvine's scalp. "You could have done the same to me."
"Probably," ze agreed. "I came to learn, and a student accepts the knowledge they are given. A student may also ask salient questions as they occur, but they always pay the price for knowledge." Freed of hir last braid, Wraithvine ran a hand over hir short crop of hair and turned it ebony. "I have been gold of hair too long, it seems."
The impostor's more golden hair was a mummer's wig, and the brown locks underneath were already cut close to their skin. More telling, there was a felon's brand at their nape. The ears were also false extensions.
"A quarter Elf," Wraithvine guessed. "I understand why you want immortality, but to what purpose? You've already made an abundance of mistakes, most recent of which has been impersonating me. So. Speak honestly." One graceful finger traced an ancient rune for truth in front of the impostor. "Who are you and why do you want to live forever?"
"The only name I was given was Scum," they said. "I look enough like an Elf for the mummers, but... I'm not enough to get anywhere. Everywhere I look, you lot have more. Get more. Do more. You're known before you die. I have an Elf's youthful face, but a Humans' grey hairs. I don't want to die as Scum."
"Ah," said Wraithvine. "That. If we gave you a century, what would you do with it?"
"Less scams for sure," said Scum. "I dunno how to help folks, not really... but I know acting. I can... I've been you on the stage. Told some of your stories. I want to be better than I am, true, but... bad habits." A sob. "Oh gods, I'm going to die as a nobody in a hole."
Wraithvine looked to Varicelle. "Well, honoured teacher? Shall we teach him together?"
"I can give 'em a Century to learn, and give you more of the time they want since I know you don't care for it." She put herself in Scum's eyeline. "Do as you're told and I can guarantee you a better name."
"Yes'm," said Scum hurriedly.
There would be a lot of learning in the next few weeks.
[Image (c) Can Stock Photo / severija]
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