Practice makes perfect – WWA short story

WWA-based one-shot.

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They had left two days ago. Two days and it felt much longer. True, he had much fun at the Scottish Wraith Hill Fort but he still missed them, even Tommy. Rhys would never admit that in public but he had really gotten used to that boy. Of course he missed DS much, much more. His right hand itched and he had to suppress the urge to scratch his feeding slit. But he not only missed her sweet life force, he missed everything about her. Her laughter, her teasing, her ability to sense what was on his mind. He wanted to surprise her by learning something new. Something she would like.

He casually waved at a Scottish Wraith who passed him by and took out the thing Connolly had given him for practising. Connolly had been very helpful and offered to give Rhys lessons. After the first few lessons Connolly had insisted that Rhys continued his practising alone though. And far away from the Hill Fort. Connolly had been very patient as he had said so to Rhys but the looks from the other Scottish Wraith hadn’t been patient at all.

So Rhys picked up the thing, sighed and left the Hill Fort on a narrow trail that lead him into the forest. It was a warm, sunny day as always and he was only wearing a kilt and his new woad tattoos. A breeze made his kilt fly up, shortly displaying what was underneath. Before he could adjust it he heard a faint multitude of giggles among the trees and he saw a flicker of movement. “Glad to have entertained you, ladies,” he grinned his toothy grin. Then he walked on, ignoring the continued giggling all around him.

Finally he arrived at his practising place. He sat down on a conveniently rounded rock and prepared to begin. One hand here, the other here, mind your fingers when you grasp it. There was still laughter and giggling in the trees. They were making fun of him. He took a deep breath. He took the mouthpiece and blew into it like Connolly had taught him. A pained and very loud whine tore the warm air apart. In a nearby tree a flock of birds took flight, one or two of them dropping unconscious to the ground with low thuds, some more circling disorientated around the tree.

The giggling turned into squeaking and exclamations of outrage. All of a sudden the Sith were gone. Ignorants, he thought. No one appreciates the powerful sound of the bagpipes any more. Then he happily continued practising the grips and the right breathing technique.

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