After all, fifteen-minute writing prompts were the source of such spiffy shidbits as Ooh, Shiny!, Run, and Replaced.

Title-- Aggressors
Rating and Warnings-- PG; no real warnings, other than a few mild cusswords.
Species and Characters-- Species = human, with mention of Nagas and centaurs. Characters = a grizzled human man and his son, sounding suspiciously like West Virginians. ^^;;
Summary and Notes-- Written to the prompt 159 in daily15--took me a snitch over 15 minutes to write 706 words. This takes place in no set world, (no not even collie_wing's Dnal, simply because she doesn't have Nagas there), and is totally random. ^^;; As for a summary? A man tells his son about the nature of men and aggression.


"Yer shittin' me," a gruff voice grated in unhappy surprise, a larged and heavily callused hand raising to scrub at bleary eyes with sausage-thick fingers before scratching underneath a coarse black ponytail with dirty fingernails. "That ain't right. The damn snakes and the fillies are workin' tagether?"

His comrade, a much younger and less toughened boy, looked with wide eyes at his father. "Why's it bad, Pops?"

The coal miner leveled one short, blunt finger towards the edge of the wood visible from where he sat on his self-built, rickety old porch. "Damn snakes're poison, boy! And those purty fillies don't deserve to work with poison." He turned his head and spat, the splatter of tobacco-colored juices staining the weathered wood a few shades darker, and the creak of the bench was loud as he resettled his considerable weight on the untreated wood. "Centaurs," he enunciated carefully, catching his son's wandering gaze, "are good people. They don't much like outsiders, they take care'f their own, and they fight damn well. I like 'em, and there've been a coupla times I met and left 'em without a damn scratch on them or me."

The boy, whose shaggy black hair--so much like his sire's--was just long enough to be in his eyes but too short to be pulled back yet, brushed irritably at his bangs as he watched his father intently. Around sixteen years old, he'd been working with his father around the house for ten years, and he'd been in the mine daily for four. "But the Nagas, Pops... they don't hurt us. They trade, and they give us all sorts of healing stuff. They ain't that bad, are they?" he asked, a little tentative, knowing all too well that his sire had very set opinions and offending them would bring on a two-hour lecture.

"Hells, boy!" The thunder of the bear-like voice made the younger man jump. "Think a little harder!" One ham-sized hand cuffed the unbrushed skull that only halfway succeeding in ducking. "The damn snakes are healers 'cause they're poison. The centaurs are fighters 'cause they ain't predators and they don't wanna be prey. Those two workin' tagether? It ain't no coincidence. It bodes ill for us honest humanfolk."

"But, Pops, Nagas ain't gonna start no big war with us, and we ain't hurt the centaurs 'round here. No trouble's gonna come our way, right?" the youth protested, a little worry shining through dark eyes and putting a tingle of red-hot fear in his already-scarred, capable hands. He didn't want to have to fight the beautiful serpent-folk that he secretly admired, and he knew the centaurs were impressive warriors. Though he could easily picture himself using the longbow and the bastard sword with which he'd been trained, he sure as hells didn't want to use them against those two races--he hoped he wouldn't have to choose between fighting for his family's life or fleeing like a coward.

"Boy, you don't know whatcher talkin' about." The bear of a man sounded a little more tired now, voice a bit more reflective. "They ain't gonna start shit, don't hafta worry 'bout that. But the menfolk in town, the lazy bastards, they ain't got good, solid work to keep 'em honest and busy. They'll see the snakes and the fillies, and some of them'll get jealous of the snakes, and the rest'll get all worried about their womenfolk at home, and next thing ya know, they'll mount a posse to go huntin'." A whoosh of a sigh was loud after those matter-of-fact words. "It'll be our fault any trouble starts, believe you me, and it'll be us folks on the fringe of town who feel their vengeance first."

"Shit, Pops! They wouldn't!" the boy nigh-shouted, almost rising from his place cross-legged on the porch floorboards before one wave of his father's heavy hand stopped him. "But..." he muttered, disconsolate and feeling unusually helpless, "whatter we gonna do then?"

"It'll be alright, boy. We'll fight the good fight." The miner's coal-black eyes drifted to the forestline again, where the sinuous shadow that was a cobra Naga and the bright, strawberry-roan silhouette that was a young centaur filly were conversing. "Hate to, but we'll fight 'em."