Waking up; part two
Aug. 16th, 2011 02:12 am![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
soltianA follow-up to my post from...jesus, November? When I put together four short drabbles about four different characters waking up.
Here are six more.
Vito Tornincasa - The Sun-Land
The earth is vibrating. The smell of straw fills his nostrils and animal scent washes over him with a cold, biting breath of winter air. The ground…is shaking. No, it’s a cart. He’s moving, and he’s in someone’s cart, and he doesn’t remember how he got there. He tries moving his arms and legs, and they all respond, albeit half-numb from cold. He sits up, and his head swims. He squints upwards at the sun, and realizes he’s heading south. He can’t head south, father is in the northeast, drinking in a tavern somewhere, in desperate need of one swift knife to the side and a twist until his guts spill on his lady’s shoes. He finally realizes that the cart is being driven, and that he should tell the driver to stop.
“I feel sick,” he deadpans, as loud as he can. Not loud enough. He turns around and squints at the cart driver. A woman. Not an old woman, either, about the age of his mother. He gets to his feet, and using the rough slats of the cart as support, makes his way to the front of the cart. He grabs hold of her robe, and she looks over her shoulder at him. There’s no face, and barely any bone. She whispers something, and where there should be horror, he feels sorrow, sympathy, need. He reaches for her face and grasps nothing. He tries again, and a face forms under his palms, but she’s pitch black, and her eyes are empty. He can feel the heat of fever under his palms. Her mouth opens and closes silently, and he understands words that he can’t hear, but the cart has picked up speed, and the wind is rushing in his ears. He has to shout to be heard, and his throat is weak.
“I can’t help you,” he says, “We have to turn around. You can’t take me south – you just can’t. I won’t go to the Sun-Land.”
Grief strikes her face, and the cart hurtles onwards. Black tears slip past her tar cheeks, and cover his fingers, and trail after them when he tries to let go of her face.
I WILL TAKE YOU TO YOUR SISTERS, her voice suddenly rings from the clouds. I WILL TAKE YOU TO YOUR MOTHER. THEY ARE WAITING TO HEAR YOUR VOICE. THIS IS ALL THEY EVER WANTED.
❧
With a jolt, his eyes were open, and the room is dark and muggy and smells of sweat and blood and afterbirth. His arm is draped over the sleeping body of a heavy, angry woman, and the large windows letting in starlight and dense summer air remind him that he’s in Ilius’ manor. He checks, sleepily, to make sure Ken hasn’t woken. He doesn’t remember falling asleep next to her, and certainly not holding her, being allowed to hold her. A small sound calls his attention to it, and the baby stirs in its sleep, in a nest of stained blankets that has been shoved to the center of the wide bed. He reaches out, and tugs the bundle closer, gets a better look. He checks the pup’s pulse, and then its breathing. Too tired to think, he puts his arm back around Ken, and she stirs this time, stiffening in discontent. He drops his face against the damp, fair hair on her neck.
“Not tonight,” he whispers.
“Vito?” Ken growls, and he feels steely fingertips claw into his arm. The sting is a comfort. The growl is a comfort. Her stench is a comfort.
“The Sun-Land will have to wait.”
---
Piotr Sawicki - A Cabin in the Woods Somewhere
No alarm goes off, but he wakes up a little before seven, after having been asleep for three hours. The fireplace is dim and the scratchy green blanket has slipped to the side on his boulder-like body, leaving one arm and his shin exposed. His leg is fully covered by his corduroy and boot, but his forearm is bare and his elbow aches from cold and neglect. Rotating the sore joint, he shakes the blanket into a folded rectangle and lets it fall with a rush of cold air onto the thin mattress on the floor. Bedding taken care of, he crosses the raw wooden floor to the small refrigerator, and his hand swallows the short metal handle as he pulls it down, then open. There’s jam, and there’s bread. There’s also an uncovered hunk of corned beef, pepper clinging to its surface and a chilly stone plate underneath it stained with grease. He lifts the plate with three fingers and sets it on the table behind him without looking. Then he turns on the tap and scrubs his hands, face, and the back of his neck with cold water. The dish towel is still in his hand when he sits down at the table, and he lets it sag damply against the oak. His attention is on breaking apart the corned beef with his fingers, chewing, swallowing, at no particular pace other than slow. He pauses. The white noise of sleep-breathing in the room has stopped, and that brings his attention to the fact that it was there. He lets his eyes trail up a pale ladder in front of his bed to the tiny loft above, where half a face (two narrowed eyes, light brown hair, four skinny fingers) are watching him. The white morning light is stronger in the loft than it is down on the floor. He pauses, then lifts his greasy plate in greeting.
“Are you hungry?”
There’s a sullen hesitation before the sleepy face retreats, and he hears the rustle of sheets as the boy in the loft buries himself back into his blanket. He finishes his corned beef in continued silence, and the sleeping breath does not return. He wipes his hands and mouth with the towel before placing the stone plate in the sink. He then takes his coat and hat off of the pegs by the door and wraps them around himself, lifts a heavy satchel from the floor, and closes the door behind him.
---
Apollo Pythius - This Marble House
He woke up to the sound of the terrace door blowing open, and summer light pouring into the room. The floor was marble, the curtains blue, and air chilled his bare shoulders as the sea-salt breeze came inside after the door. There was a steady, pleasant sound of waves rustling on the beach, and soft singing outside from the servants going about their laundry – breathing in deeper he could almost smell the damp white linen. Cracking his eyes open, he stared at the patch of bright sunlight framed by the open door, uncertain for a few seconds whether it was pleasant, and then closed his eyes. The bright rectangle turned green and then bright orange behind his closed lids. A quiet sigh sounded behind him, and he rolled over, smiling, to greet his sister.
“Couldn’t stand to be alone all night, Artemis?”
“You know how it is,” she yawned, and arched her back like a satisfied cat. “My bed is usually made up of maidens, it’s hard to get comfortable without a decent amount of flesh to rest on.”
“Are you trying to finally tell me that my flesh is sufficient for you?”
“If you’re asleep, you do just fine… your back is like silk.” She ran her hands over it to emphasize her point, and he stiffened, hungrily acknowledging the bare nudity of her slender chest, her smooth hips, the dark softness between her thighs. “Let your hands follow your eyes and you may not have fingers for long,” she cooed, and his gaze snapped back up to her face, lips taut.
“And my mouth?”
“Do we always have to be scraping for loopholes, little brother?”
“I was asking if I could kiss you.”
She paused, amused, and continued her slow tease of slim fingers up his spine, down his shoulder blade, almost liquid. He allowed himself to gather her around the waist, her breasts brushing up against his chest, unbearably soft.
“You may,” she finally concluded, “But keep that blood in your face, where it belongs. If it starts to run south I won’t be seeing you for a week.”
It wasn’t worth the risk, he told himself, but he breathed in the scent of pine from her hair, and imagined Delos, and felt home come back all in one piece when his lips met hers.
---
Caile of the Mages - The Center of the Earth
He wakes up with his cheek against limestone, and his warmest blanket tucked with studious attention around most of his body. There’s a warm weight against his stomach, and he shivers, curling toward it, tail sweeping the cool floor as his body attempts to create a fetal position around the live creature sleeping next to him. His wet eyes stay open in the darkness, embers of a fire flickering, reflecting in them. He can hear the wind whistling through the tunnels that his little underground cavern leads to, the squeaking and chittering of small rodents calling to one another, directing traffic. It’s raining outside, he can smell it in the earth, that deep, cool, accepting scent of pure water being poured generously from the sky into the waiting soil. His entire body shivers, and the smaller one next to him shudders as well. He puts a hand on Forty’s back and shakes him, dragging his blanket out from underneath him gently, keeping it draped over his shoulders and arms like royalty.
“Up. Upstairs. You’re shaking like a leaf.”
Forty grumbles, rubs his good eye with a three-fingered hand. He stretches on all fours and walks that way, too, his stubby tail barely brushing Caile’s knees, oversized belly almost brushing the floor.
“You’re carrying me up the ladder. Coming down to make sure your ass doesn’t freeze is one thing, but climbing up at four in the morning is ridiculous.”
“It’d be good for you. I don’t know how you maintain that kind of figure on a diet of fruit and fish.”
“You bring dairy and honey from the market. And don’t try to tell me I shouldn’t touch it, I’ll kill myself before I let you force me to give up cheese.”
“It’s not right for your system, Forty.”
“So you keep telling me. Lift me up.”
Sighing, Caile bends his knees, and offers an arm for Forty to climb into. Holding him to his waist like a child under the cape of a blanket, he ascends the ladder to the surface with one hand and two feet, feeling his head get stuffier and more blank with each rung.
“Don’t fall,” Forty whispers, and lays his chin on his shoulder, his little hand pulsing concern against his chest.
---
Taurun of D'escan - The Walls We Build
He wakes up still seated, his elbows on his desk, his forehead pressed against a stack of books in front of him, like a fortress between his study and reality. His mind plays over a drone of white noise, recollections, memories, things that happened five minutes and fifteen years ago. His father telling him that paperwork had nothing to do with war, and that the numbers of men felled with a sword would force the numbers on paper to fall into place. What a terribly foolish man he had been. Bloodthirsty and stupid, there couldn’t possibly be a worse combination. It was lucky the man had died young in battle, or he might not have had time to fix his mistakes properly in his own lifetime. He looks over the papers scattered on his desk and the numbers start to swirl into each other. The desert colony costs this much to maintain, that much to euthanize. These troops need heavier gear because of unexpected weather and will be either useless or expensive. This area is just out of his reach because the locals have a geographical advantage. The Mages should be taking care of that, and it won’t cost anything, but they move at the pace of a snail. Patcha had him at a standstill for now, but he’d have his hands on fresh blood one way or another. He stops – breathes. He wishes, briefly, for less foresight, and tries to remind himself of his immense success. All that stares him in the face is everything he has not yet accomplished. He gathers the papers into a stack and takes momentary comfort in the smooth, unwrinkled pile they make. He lays a heavy book on top of them to keep them in place and gets to his feet, pulling his plainest cloak around his shoulders as he turns the knob on his lamp to dim the light.
A walk in the garden is the best remedy for an overcrowded mind. He allows himself the simplicity of that thought as he breathes in night air, as his boots rustle in the damp grass of his grounds. Lights are on at various points in the castle, as he walks away from it he can see them peppered along the expansive walls, turrets, and towers like a second starscape. He hears an upsurge of laughter from M’Kait’s tower, a flurry of movement and the clinking of glass. The guards should be doing their jobs instead of entertaining his son, but the night is quiet, and he lets it pass. The sounds and scents of the castle fade as he continues his trek over the grass and approaches the dark smudge of a hedge in the distance. Fog clings to the labyrinth like a delicate veil, and gives the black sky the illusion of extra light. When faced with the barred gate, he lifts a heavy key from his inner pocket, fits it to, and turns.
He waits to breathe in after closing the door behind him with a heavy, rustling thump. He tucks his broad tail in against the door under his cloak, letting the difference in scent come to him gradually now that he’s entered the maze. Outside the night is crisp and cool, sprinkled with dew and starlight. Inside the scent of spice and jungle flowers wafts toward him from the innocuous hedge – a selective after-effect of magic. He raises his hand casually and tugs a hidden thread near the top of the entrance archway. Bells ring from deep inside the maze.
---
Naso Durant - Blue on gray, gray, gray
He wakes up with his cheek against cotton sheets, mind still clinging to the sticky, wet remnants of a suffocating dream. It’s three am and it’s July and he’s sticky and damp in several ways. He lays still, breathing, keeping his eyes closed so he can try to keep some of the night images trapped inside of his head. He just remembers warm, and breathing, and heavy, hands, friendly pressure pushing him downward, coaxing, a voice in his ear, but no one in particular. The color of the dream was
gray, gray, gray
but it’s not like anyone dreamed in color… did they? He’s losing it, the images are fading, his mind is waking up, and his thighs are sticky. He opens his eyes, and peels himself away from the sheets. He can feel steam that isn’t there, and he rolls himself over, his mind rotating in his skull, taking in one deep breath and sighing it back out. He can either clean up and resolve himself to several sleepless hours of the night, or pretend he can sleep with come in his boxers. One of his knees lifts, then the other, and he leads himself to the shower, leaving the light off and the temperature of the water cool. Standing in the tub and looking down at the small gray drain, he holds his palms gently over his ears to warp the sound of the water. He pictures the ocean, and thinks about waves curling around his toes, and feels glad that the water is cool. After he dries off, he’s hungry, and spends some time finding fresh pajamas before walking down the stairs in his quiet house that smells like dogs and vanilla. He rifles through the fridge in the kitchen for a leftover slice of pizza, and a half-eaten piece of garlic bread he’s pretty sure only he would be inconsiderate enough to put back in the box. He leaves the light off again, and the kitchen has many shapes illuminated into obscurity by just the light pouring from inside the cool box. He sees yellow and blue shadows on the floor as he closes the door. On his way back upstairs the bathroom light is on in the hall, the door is open. His father is standing there, a glass of water in one hand, and a toothbrush in the other. He raises an eyebrow in surprise, and indicates Naso with his toothbrush, his voice a low but still too loud whisper.
“Bit early, isn’t it, champ?”
Naso shrugs, and smiles, eyes squinted against the bright warm lights of the bathroom.
“It’s too hot to sleep.”
His father smiles around the toothbrush he’s now scrubbing studiously against his teeth. Naso laughs, shaking his head and feeling a little warmer all over, and a little hungrier.
“See you later, dad. Have a good trip.”
His dad sticks a thumbs-up out of the bathroom door after he passes by, to make sure he gets the message of positive attitude. He smiles to himself and closes his bedroom door behind him. His phone is on the windowsill, and he notices it because it’s glowing. He walks over, flips it open.
New Text Message:
Bay
I know you’re asleep but you should know – the stars are beautiful here. We’ll come out together some time.
He lets his thumb navigate the tiny keypad, ripping a piece of cold pepperoni with his teeth thoughtlessly as he does.
I think I just had a dream about you.
Barely a minute later, the phone starts buzzing, and Bay’s name is on the caller ID, calling this time. He flips the phone open, and tosses the half-pizza and bread onto a plate he still had on his desk from lunch that afternoon.
“Why are you texting me at three in the morning, anyway?”
“Why are you dreaming about me at three in the morning, I should ask? Good dream, or bad dream?”
Naso snorts, taking another bite and not bothering to pretend he isn’t chewing.
“Good, I guess. I don’t remember much.”
“You remember I was in it. Give me details… you’re up, you might as well.”
“Aren’t you with Stea right now?”
“Sure, but he went to bed four hours ago. Sano’s here too, remember. Want me to tell you how that went?”
“Not right now. I think I want to hear more about the stars.”
“You wish you could get away with that. Tell me about your dream.”
“I don’t know. It was heavy. And warm, I guess. It wasn’t really detailed.”
“Sounds interesting, though.”
“I guess some part of me thought it was interesting.”
“And that means… not what I think it means, right?”
“Probably not.”
“Does that mean yes or no?”
Pause. Naso’s face heats in the already stifling warmth of his bedroom, picking at the crust of pizza on his plate, his knees pressed against the edge of his desk, sore and uncomfortable.
“I’m hearing yes.” Bay’s voice purrs warmly into the phone, picking up the slack.
Naso breathes out a laugh, shaking his head at no one to see.
“You’re hearing what you want to hear.”
Here are six more.
Vito Tornincasa - The Sun-Land
The earth is vibrating. The smell of straw fills his nostrils and animal scent washes over him with a cold, biting breath of winter air. The ground…is shaking. No, it’s a cart. He’s moving, and he’s in someone’s cart, and he doesn’t remember how he got there. He tries moving his arms and legs, and they all respond, albeit half-numb from cold. He sits up, and his head swims. He squints upwards at the sun, and realizes he’s heading south. He can’t head south, father is in the northeast, drinking in a tavern somewhere, in desperate need of one swift knife to the side and a twist until his guts spill on his lady’s shoes. He finally realizes that the cart is being driven, and that he should tell the driver to stop.
“I feel sick,” he deadpans, as loud as he can. Not loud enough. He turns around and squints at the cart driver. A woman. Not an old woman, either, about the age of his mother. He gets to his feet, and using the rough slats of the cart as support, makes his way to the front of the cart. He grabs hold of her robe, and she looks over her shoulder at him. There’s no face, and barely any bone. She whispers something, and where there should be horror, he feels sorrow, sympathy, need. He reaches for her face and grasps nothing. He tries again, and a face forms under his palms, but she’s pitch black, and her eyes are empty. He can feel the heat of fever under his palms. Her mouth opens and closes silently, and he understands words that he can’t hear, but the cart has picked up speed, and the wind is rushing in his ears. He has to shout to be heard, and his throat is weak.
“I can’t help you,” he says, “We have to turn around. You can’t take me south – you just can’t. I won’t go to the Sun-Land.”
Grief strikes her face, and the cart hurtles onwards. Black tears slip past her tar cheeks, and cover his fingers, and trail after them when he tries to let go of her face.
I WILL TAKE YOU TO YOUR SISTERS, her voice suddenly rings from the clouds. I WILL TAKE YOU TO YOUR MOTHER. THEY ARE WAITING TO HEAR YOUR VOICE. THIS IS ALL THEY EVER WANTED.
❧
With a jolt, his eyes were open, and the room is dark and muggy and smells of sweat and blood and afterbirth. His arm is draped over the sleeping body of a heavy, angry woman, and the large windows letting in starlight and dense summer air remind him that he’s in Ilius’ manor. He checks, sleepily, to make sure Ken hasn’t woken. He doesn’t remember falling asleep next to her, and certainly not holding her, being allowed to hold her. A small sound calls his attention to it, and the baby stirs in its sleep, in a nest of stained blankets that has been shoved to the center of the wide bed. He reaches out, and tugs the bundle closer, gets a better look. He checks the pup’s pulse, and then its breathing. Too tired to think, he puts his arm back around Ken, and she stirs this time, stiffening in discontent. He drops his face against the damp, fair hair on her neck.
“Not tonight,” he whispers.
“Vito?” Ken growls, and he feels steely fingertips claw into his arm. The sting is a comfort. The growl is a comfort. Her stench is a comfort.
“The Sun-Land will have to wait.”
---
Piotr Sawicki - A Cabin in the Woods Somewhere
No alarm goes off, but he wakes up a little before seven, after having been asleep for three hours. The fireplace is dim and the scratchy green blanket has slipped to the side on his boulder-like body, leaving one arm and his shin exposed. His leg is fully covered by his corduroy and boot, but his forearm is bare and his elbow aches from cold and neglect. Rotating the sore joint, he shakes the blanket into a folded rectangle and lets it fall with a rush of cold air onto the thin mattress on the floor. Bedding taken care of, he crosses the raw wooden floor to the small refrigerator, and his hand swallows the short metal handle as he pulls it down, then open. There’s jam, and there’s bread. There’s also an uncovered hunk of corned beef, pepper clinging to its surface and a chilly stone plate underneath it stained with grease. He lifts the plate with three fingers and sets it on the table behind him without looking. Then he turns on the tap and scrubs his hands, face, and the back of his neck with cold water. The dish towel is still in his hand when he sits down at the table, and he lets it sag damply against the oak. His attention is on breaking apart the corned beef with his fingers, chewing, swallowing, at no particular pace other than slow. He pauses. The white noise of sleep-breathing in the room has stopped, and that brings his attention to the fact that it was there. He lets his eyes trail up a pale ladder in front of his bed to the tiny loft above, where half a face (two narrowed eyes, light brown hair, four skinny fingers) are watching him. The white morning light is stronger in the loft than it is down on the floor. He pauses, then lifts his greasy plate in greeting.
“Are you hungry?”
There’s a sullen hesitation before the sleepy face retreats, and he hears the rustle of sheets as the boy in the loft buries himself back into his blanket. He finishes his corned beef in continued silence, and the sleeping breath does not return. He wipes his hands and mouth with the towel before placing the stone plate in the sink. He then takes his coat and hat off of the pegs by the door and wraps them around himself, lifts a heavy satchel from the floor, and closes the door behind him.
---
Apollo Pythius - This Marble House
He woke up to the sound of the terrace door blowing open, and summer light pouring into the room. The floor was marble, the curtains blue, and air chilled his bare shoulders as the sea-salt breeze came inside after the door. There was a steady, pleasant sound of waves rustling on the beach, and soft singing outside from the servants going about their laundry – breathing in deeper he could almost smell the damp white linen. Cracking his eyes open, he stared at the patch of bright sunlight framed by the open door, uncertain for a few seconds whether it was pleasant, and then closed his eyes. The bright rectangle turned green and then bright orange behind his closed lids. A quiet sigh sounded behind him, and he rolled over, smiling, to greet his sister.
“Couldn’t stand to be alone all night, Artemis?”
“You know how it is,” she yawned, and arched her back like a satisfied cat. “My bed is usually made up of maidens, it’s hard to get comfortable without a decent amount of flesh to rest on.”
“Are you trying to finally tell me that my flesh is sufficient for you?”
“If you’re asleep, you do just fine… your back is like silk.” She ran her hands over it to emphasize her point, and he stiffened, hungrily acknowledging the bare nudity of her slender chest, her smooth hips, the dark softness between her thighs. “Let your hands follow your eyes and you may not have fingers for long,” she cooed, and his gaze snapped back up to her face, lips taut.
“And my mouth?”
“Do we always have to be scraping for loopholes, little brother?”
“I was asking if I could kiss you.”
She paused, amused, and continued her slow tease of slim fingers up his spine, down his shoulder blade, almost liquid. He allowed himself to gather her around the waist, her breasts brushing up against his chest, unbearably soft.
“You may,” she finally concluded, “But keep that blood in your face, where it belongs. If it starts to run south I won’t be seeing you for a week.”
It wasn’t worth the risk, he told himself, but he breathed in the scent of pine from her hair, and imagined Delos, and felt home come back all in one piece when his lips met hers.
---
Caile of the Mages - The Center of the Earth
He wakes up with his cheek against limestone, and his warmest blanket tucked with studious attention around most of his body. There’s a warm weight against his stomach, and he shivers, curling toward it, tail sweeping the cool floor as his body attempts to create a fetal position around the live creature sleeping next to him. His wet eyes stay open in the darkness, embers of a fire flickering, reflecting in them. He can hear the wind whistling through the tunnels that his little underground cavern leads to, the squeaking and chittering of small rodents calling to one another, directing traffic. It’s raining outside, he can smell it in the earth, that deep, cool, accepting scent of pure water being poured generously from the sky into the waiting soil. His entire body shivers, and the smaller one next to him shudders as well. He puts a hand on Forty’s back and shakes him, dragging his blanket out from underneath him gently, keeping it draped over his shoulders and arms like royalty.
“Up. Upstairs. You’re shaking like a leaf.”
Forty grumbles, rubs his good eye with a three-fingered hand. He stretches on all fours and walks that way, too, his stubby tail barely brushing Caile’s knees, oversized belly almost brushing the floor.
“You’re carrying me up the ladder. Coming down to make sure your ass doesn’t freeze is one thing, but climbing up at four in the morning is ridiculous.”
“It’d be good for you. I don’t know how you maintain that kind of figure on a diet of fruit and fish.”
“You bring dairy and honey from the market. And don’t try to tell me I shouldn’t touch it, I’ll kill myself before I let you force me to give up cheese.”
“It’s not right for your system, Forty.”
“So you keep telling me. Lift me up.”
Sighing, Caile bends his knees, and offers an arm for Forty to climb into. Holding him to his waist like a child under the cape of a blanket, he ascends the ladder to the surface with one hand and two feet, feeling his head get stuffier and more blank with each rung.
“Don’t fall,” Forty whispers, and lays his chin on his shoulder, his little hand pulsing concern against his chest.
---
Taurun of D'escan - The Walls We Build
He wakes up still seated, his elbows on his desk, his forehead pressed against a stack of books in front of him, like a fortress between his study and reality. His mind plays over a drone of white noise, recollections, memories, things that happened five minutes and fifteen years ago. His father telling him that paperwork had nothing to do with war, and that the numbers of men felled with a sword would force the numbers on paper to fall into place. What a terribly foolish man he had been. Bloodthirsty and stupid, there couldn’t possibly be a worse combination. It was lucky the man had died young in battle, or he might not have had time to fix his mistakes properly in his own lifetime. He looks over the papers scattered on his desk and the numbers start to swirl into each other. The desert colony costs this much to maintain, that much to euthanize. These troops need heavier gear because of unexpected weather and will be either useless or expensive. This area is just out of his reach because the locals have a geographical advantage. The Mages should be taking care of that, and it won’t cost anything, but they move at the pace of a snail. Patcha had him at a standstill for now, but he’d have his hands on fresh blood one way or another. He stops – breathes. He wishes, briefly, for less foresight, and tries to remind himself of his immense success. All that stares him in the face is everything he has not yet accomplished. He gathers the papers into a stack and takes momentary comfort in the smooth, unwrinkled pile they make. He lays a heavy book on top of them to keep them in place and gets to his feet, pulling his plainest cloak around his shoulders as he turns the knob on his lamp to dim the light.
A walk in the garden is the best remedy for an overcrowded mind. He allows himself the simplicity of that thought as he breathes in night air, as his boots rustle in the damp grass of his grounds. Lights are on at various points in the castle, as he walks away from it he can see them peppered along the expansive walls, turrets, and towers like a second starscape. He hears an upsurge of laughter from M’Kait’s tower, a flurry of movement and the clinking of glass. The guards should be doing their jobs instead of entertaining his son, but the night is quiet, and he lets it pass. The sounds and scents of the castle fade as he continues his trek over the grass and approaches the dark smudge of a hedge in the distance. Fog clings to the labyrinth like a delicate veil, and gives the black sky the illusion of extra light. When faced with the barred gate, he lifts a heavy key from his inner pocket, fits it to, and turns.
He waits to breathe in after closing the door behind him with a heavy, rustling thump. He tucks his broad tail in against the door under his cloak, letting the difference in scent come to him gradually now that he’s entered the maze. Outside the night is crisp and cool, sprinkled with dew and starlight. Inside the scent of spice and jungle flowers wafts toward him from the innocuous hedge – a selective after-effect of magic. He raises his hand casually and tugs a hidden thread near the top of the entrance archway. Bells ring from deep inside the maze.
---
Naso Durant - Blue on gray, gray, gray
He wakes up with his cheek against cotton sheets, mind still clinging to the sticky, wet remnants of a suffocating dream. It’s three am and it’s July and he’s sticky and damp in several ways. He lays still, breathing, keeping his eyes closed so he can try to keep some of the night images trapped inside of his head. He just remembers warm, and breathing, and heavy, hands, friendly pressure pushing him downward, coaxing, a voice in his ear, but no one in particular. The color of the dream was
gray, gray, gray
but it’s not like anyone dreamed in color… did they? He’s losing it, the images are fading, his mind is waking up, and his thighs are sticky. He opens his eyes, and peels himself away from the sheets. He can feel steam that isn’t there, and he rolls himself over, his mind rotating in his skull, taking in one deep breath and sighing it back out. He can either clean up and resolve himself to several sleepless hours of the night, or pretend he can sleep with come in his boxers. One of his knees lifts, then the other, and he leads himself to the shower, leaving the light off and the temperature of the water cool. Standing in the tub and looking down at the small gray drain, he holds his palms gently over his ears to warp the sound of the water. He pictures the ocean, and thinks about waves curling around his toes, and feels glad that the water is cool. After he dries off, he’s hungry, and spends some time finding fresh pajamas before walking down the stairs in his quiet house that smells like dogs and vanilla. He rifles through the fridge in the kitchen for a leftover slice of pizza, and a half-eaten piece of garlic bread he’s pretty sure only he would be inconsiderate enough to put back in the box. He leaves the light off again, and the kitchen has many shapes illuminated into obscurity by just the light pouring from inside the cool box. He sees yellow and blue shadows on the floor as he closes the door. On his way back upstairs the bathroom light is on in the hall, the door is open. His father is standing there, a glass of water in one hand, and a toothbrush in the other. He raises an eyebrow in surprise, and indicates Naso with his toothbrush, his voice a low but still too loud whisper.
“Bit early, isn’t it, champ?”
Naso shrugs, and smiles, eyes squinted against the bright warm lights of the bathroom.
“It’s too hot to sleep.”
His father smiles around the toothbrush he’s now scrubbing studiously against his teeth. Naso laughs, shaking his head and feeling a little warmer all over, and a little hungrier.
“See you later, dad. Have a good trip.”
His dad sticks a thumbs-up out of the bathroom door after he passes by, to make sure he gets the message of positive attitude. He smiles to himself and closes his bedroom door behind him. His phone is on the windowsill, and he notices it because it’s glowing. He walks over, flips it open.
Bay
I know you’re asleep but you should know – the stars are beautiful here. We’ll come out together some time.
He lets his thumb navigate the tiny keypad, ripping a piece of cold pepperoni with his teeth thoughtlessly as he does.
Barely a minute later, the phone starts buzzing, and Bay’s name is on the caller ID, calling this time. He flips the phone open, and tosses the half-pizza and bread onto a plate he still had on his desk from lunch that afternoon.
“Why are you texting me at three in the morning, anyway?”
“Why are you dreaming about me at three in the morning, I should ask? Good dream, or bad dream?”
Naso snorts, taking another bite and not bothering to pretend he isn’t chewing.
“Good, I guess. I don’t remember much.”
“You remember I was in it. Give me details… you’re up, you might as well.”
“Aren’t you with Stea right now?”
“Sure, but he went to bed four hours ago. Sano’s here too, remember. Want me to tell you how that went?”
“Not right now. I think I want to hear more about the stars.”
“You wish you could get away with that. Tell me about your dream.”
“I don’t know. It was heavy. And warm, I guess. It wasn’t really detailed.”
“Sounds interesting, though.”
“I guess some part of me thought it was interesting.”
“And that means… not what I think it means, right?”
“Probably not.”
“Does that mean yes or no?”
Pause. Naso’s face heats in the already stifling warmth of his bedroom, picking at the crust of pizza on his plate, his knees pressed against the edge of his desk, sore and uncomfortable.
“I’m hearing yes.” Bay’s voice purrs warmly into the phone, picking up the slack.
Naso breathes out a laugh, shaking his head at no one to see.
“You’re hearing what you want to hear.”
no subject
Date: 2011-08-17 07:36 am (UTC)off-topic but you tumblred this (http://lucya.tumblr.com/post/8940003416/the-years-had-not-changed-him-much-petyr-had) several posts under a petecampbellbitchface and all the gears in my head clunked together, because Petyr Baelish is like, omg, Pete's id and superego mashed together, like Pete drained of all fumblings, and now I'm imagining Pete fangirling Littlefinger and getting sulky when Trudy doesn't share his sentiments.
off-topic the second: since you apparently watch/read Game of Thrones, which just like makes my universe because Jaime/Cersei omggg.
no subject
Date: 2011-08-17 08:08 am (UTC)I actually thought of you when I posted the Apollo and Artemis bit because I feel we are kindred spirits in NEEDING this down to the end oh god. She'll never let him have it but he'll just keep trying until eternity. I get this pining in my chest whenever I see art/paintings of Leto and her children like seriously it's so bad but I love it so much, so I guess I was trying to squeeze some of that out. I think I know what you mean about lust mode, too, I write....a lot of sex, okay almost mostly sex, but what's cool about it is that there are so many different kinds, you can almost trick people into thinking you're a respectable writer that way.
Oh...god, it's true, it's so true, that is what Pete would become in that setting so quickly. GOD I love the underhanded scrawny slippery little bitches who can't do things the conventional way and have to cheat and connive but still somehow win you over with their
adorable baby face and big blue eyes and pink pink lipscharm. And yes Jaime/Cersei sldkfj I'm reading the books now I feel like I totally cheated watching the series first.It's actually funny because you mentioned Pete and Trudy watching it but I was telling Kat "see Apollo would watch this and then look over at Artemis then point to the screen (at the "war for Cersei's cunt" scene, of course, and "we came into this world together we belong together") and then just stare at her and she would just hit him. But he'd know he was right."
no subject
Date: 2011-08-18 02:15 am (UTC)Super-flattered that you thought of me when you posted the Apollo/Artemis piece! "Keep trying until eternity" is pretty much Hell, which is perfect. Just keep on rolling that boner up the hill, bro/Apollo (bropollo?), your peen is never going to get to her. Here's to immortal unrequited love and many, many, many kinds of sex to write about.
[We can be cheaters together, because I just watched the show without reading the books beforehand. STOP READING HERE IF YOU AREN'T DONE WITH THE TV SERIES EVEN THOUGH I THINK YOU ARE]
Pete doesn't have enough game (o see what i did there) as Baelish, but I have a feeling that he'd be a quick study. You know that scene in episode 7, when Petyr rants about his motivations while his whores sort of awkwardly simulate sex in the background? When he snarls about Ned Stark and that sort of lantern-jaw honor&duty type, "I'm not going to fight them. I'm going to fuck them"? That is *exactly* Pete's approach. Underhanded scrawny slippery little bitches who can't do things the conventional way, indeed. Now I can't stop thinking about how Master of Coin is pretty much like Head of Accounts, and how Littlefinger's scar runs from navel to chin, and how there might be certain, ahem, possibilities along that vein. SOMEONE MAKE A MEME, STAT. OR PORN.
Christ, Jaime/Cersei so fanatically hot I can't even comprehend. I mean, he came out of the womb clutching her foot ajskdlf;salfkjasfkl creation myth the origin of love. And in my head he still spoons behind her and holds her heel when they sleep, and Cersei's like, "ugh this position is uncomfortable my legs are getting cramped and my ass is in your face" and he's like "i don't care this is symbolic" and then she tries to kick him but he's gripping her too hard. Arrogant, devastatingly attractive and quick-tempered twins = never let me go. Of course Bropollo is right.
P.S. I got to your tumblr by just randomly clicking around your LJ -- I don't have my own yet, although I should probably create one.
no subject
Date: 2011-08-18 02:53 am (UTC)Bropollo is his official new name, which I'm sure he hates, which makes me smile. (DON'T WORRY I WATCHED IT ALL DON'T THINK I STOPPED JUST BECAUSE I WAS CHEATING I WATCHED IT AAAAAAAAAAAALLLLL)
Um. You might have just. Triggered my drabble button. Like...really hard. There is no coherent commentary for this talk of scars from navel to neck because I need one hand for typing and the other for inspiration. Be back soon with more news.
Ghhhh fucking Lannisters WHY SO SEXY SERIOUSLY. Jaime/Cersei is one thing with their FOOT GRABBING and their doggy style tower sex and ("All your children are his?" "Yes, thank the gods.") and then fucking...Tyrion...I just...want to marry that small man so hard and touch him all over and DID HE WIN LIKE A MILLION EMMYS BECAUSE BY GOD I WILL KILL SOMETHING IF HE DIDN'T.
Okay keep me updated on the tumblr thing I will bother you mercilessly if you get one.
no subject
Date: 2011-08-19 08:01 am (UTC)Not that I'm enabling, but: Scar from navel to neck. Hiding under those high collars and dark, streamlined coats and that shiny mockingbird pin at his throat #imjustsaying #youmightwanttocleanthatup. aaaaand now i've just spent 40 minutes looking at posts tagged #petyr baelish on tumblr. see my shame here ----> http://mimaveil.tumblr.com/
It boggles me just how many characters I love in this damn series, Lannisters especially . I want a gif of Jaime in that white shirt thrusting into Cersei omgomg I ship them so hard in all orifices. How he's such a goddamn sullied romantic under that cocky cockery, and yeah she loves him too but /it's not enough/, there's always going to be something under her skin that he can't touch ((she's got that ambition, baby, you can rub her raw but you're only going to burn faster)). And I would womanhandle Tyrion for eternity, whores and all, because the man has swagg for miles. I just about died when Bronn fought for him, and then they exchange this little nod/smirk after the duel. Bad bronnmance.
Rec the first: http://archiveofourown.org/works/234853
Rec the second: http://archiveofourown.org/works/206954
no subject
Date: 2011-08-19 08:15 am (UTC)Okay I am going to apologize right off the bat for how terrible rushed and SURPRISINGLY REALLY DARK this turned out but here I ...I did impulsively write a thing. I also found out today that George R Martin is much like Matt Weiner in that he does NOT approve of fanfiction so they both hate me twice as bitterly for this #seeificare
beginning my shame-----
"Do you know how to gut a fish, Peter?"
His wrists ache from the chains holding them above his head and against the crude slab that serves as a rack in this mudhole. His blue silk and velvet were hanging in tatters, offering him no cushion or warmth. But beyond the pain, the indignity is insufferable. He hadn't even been part of the battle. He had just come to watch, from a safe distance. What he thought was a safe distance. He hadn't underestimated Draper's tenacity, or strength, or tactical skill. Those had all been accounted for. He had misunderstood his honor - it turns out he didn't have any. He glares at the walls of the Northerner's crude tunnel and says nothing, licking dried blood from his lips. The scraping starts again, and Pete tries not to flinch. Don sharpens a blade slowly, anger tempering his ferocity, but not his care. And he is angry. Some of his best men died today. His brother died today. He was meant to die with them.
"You sink your blade right into its belly, break the sternum apart in one quick blow. Then you slit its throat."
Peter is not able to feign indifference when Don's calloused, bloody hand is on his bared abdomen, staining his skin with the memory of the battle and filling his nostrils with the stink of death. Damn. Damn fuck shit damn damn. He'll be one of those twisted, unrecognizable corpses, head lopped off, comically turgid. Don's scent pulses red blood to his cock, but he doesn't get hard. He's been hard for hours.
"Don't...please...I'll do anything...Don, it's still me-"
His voice dies at the undisguised venom in Don's eyes. The dagger is at his navel now, and even he's almost ready to give up. Almost.
Soft footsteps announce her entrance, and she materializes like mist at Don's shoulder. Her eyes are ice and he can think only one thing.
She's going to watch me die.
No. Not her. Anyone but Margaret.
"I'm not going to kill you, Pete." The words fall heavy and reluctant from Don's lips, too angry to be false, too good to be true, and the knife doesn't sink in deep enough. "She'll have the final say."
no subject
Date: 2011-08-20 11:42 am (UTC)"He doesn't get hard. He's been hard for hours."
"No. Not her. Anyone but Margaret."
WOWWWtf those are like, desert-island lines/images right there. like yeah bro you can be building your fires and idk sending distress signals with your eminently sensible flares/magnifying glasses/Swiss army knives i'll just be buried in coconuts fapping to the idea of Pete being terror-aroused by torture and heartbreak-ing at the sight of cold angelic Medieval Peggy at Don's shoulder. Post this everywhere write more Mad Westeros plz be bald in your shaaaaame.
I've known about GRRM's disapproval of fanfiction for a while, and while I do feel guilty it is in my nature to soil pretty things, or in this case wonderfully elaborate universes with nuanced, savage characters and intrigue up various wazoos.
And now I have the strangest craving for Littlefinger/Trudy, like I can see the Littlefinger/Sansa potential (sexy whispered jousting exposition hurrah), but Sansa's not quite there yet, I mean I don't find her as UGHDIENOW as my friends do, she just hasn't reached that Awesome Point yet, like how Trudy was mostly babybabybabywhinepout in seasons 1&2 then emerged as a glorious sandwich-making, husband-soothing, Charleston-dancing butterfly out of a penis-hat chrysalis. And Trudy would OWN in the GoT-verse, all that cheerful calculation without the burden of neuroses. How Pete/Petyr types have to connive and thrash for every inch because they're sort of inherently put-upon/off-putting (LOL SORRY BOYS), but Trudy strives and plots out of love, really, not out of damage.
no subject
Date: 2011-08-21 05:56 am (UTC)Pete's boner for Don survives and grows in agonizing hate so I just imagine in Westeros it makes itself present in the most difficult of situations. Nothing hotter than a blood-soaked Northerner breathing down on you right you little freak.)IN SHORT YOU'RE TOO NICE TO ME THANK YOU. Also put-upon/off-putting is so perfect for them oh god poor saps. I am intrigued by Littlefinger/Trudy ESPECIALLY IF YOU WERE TO DRABBLE SOME YOU KNOW JUST IN CASE YOU FELT LIKE IT. Trudy WOULD own she is just....so adaptable, it'd be perfect, I keep casting more and more Mad Men characters in my head and it's terrible beautiful all at once. As for Sansa I'm finding myself awfully attracted to Hound/Sansa I can't unsee it after that handkerchief agh Hound is very oddly adorable.
DRABBLE SOME MORE
Date: 2011-08-24 09:04 am (UTC)-------------
The last time he set sight on Gertrude Vogel was five years ago, at some wretched court function. Scalding pink gown, hair woven with jewels. Childless then. Childless now.
Today she wore a rust-colored cloak and a gray dress, the only ornamentation an ermine pin -- her husband's crest -- at her throat. An elegant show of loyalty, especially considering that the men flanking her in the hall all carried her family's beaver insignia. A shame that the Dyckmans couldn't be bothered to send any soldiers to retrieve one of their own.
She kneeled, touched a hand to her chest. He was surprised she hadn't brought a painter to capture the display of wifely supplication. "My deepest grief for your loss."
"Keep your griefs," he spat, gripping the arm of his chair. "They'll do my brother little good."
From this angle on the dais, he couldn't see Gertrude's eyes, just the spill of her hair over her cheeks as she knelt. "I do not claim to know the dictates of the battlefield," she said, white hands worrying the hem of her drab dress. "And if my husband has given offense, we apologize ten thousand times over, with action commensurate to your--"
"What if he's dead already?" he barked, and at this Gertrude's face jolted up, wide ripped-open eyes, and behind him, he could hear Margaret sucking in her breath. "What if he's been moldering for weeks, and I waited for you to trek all this way first?" The move of a born-bled Southerner: Calling for an open hearing, so she could shame him. He hadn't felt any alternate to rage, no shame no lust no grief even, since that axe had ripped open Adam's chest two months ago.
"My lord, I..." and this was something Margaret used to do under duress, flapping her mouth and moving her head like a blind suckling bird (his hand on her neck, bridling without hurting: you have to learn stillness, Peggy.)
"You have nothing I want," he said. "Stand up and go home. With your father's holdings, it will be easy enough for you to find a titled suitor."
Gertrude clambered up from the floor stiffly, drawing her cloak closer to her. "That is not an option for me," she whispered, and seven hells if that wasn't so delicate a slight against Elizabeth, Elizabeth of lacy heart and chilly veins, Elizabeth who fled in the middle of the night with a collapsed-face noble, Elizabeth who wrote in a letter by raven "I deserted my birthright and my children because I so despise you."
"I have a villa," Elizabeth said, and when he rubbed the flat of his hand against his brow, she was gone. "I have a villa," Gertrude said. "On The Arbour, near the royal conservatory."
"And?"
"Beautiful, mild weather. Good ocean air. My father owns the land, for miles." Now her whole body was vibrating, not trembling, and he should have known that this wasn't fear, that this was the give before a rich, salty joke, this was the hasp of a spoiled, sullied boy's breath before he came-- "It would suit your sister-in-law, Lady Anna."
(Because she's dying, isn't she? And that's the one thing you could never give her -- sunshine.)
"There are plenty of villas in the world." He couldn't bear to incline his head in Margaret's direction, in anyone's direction.
"None near the conservatory," Gertrude said, hands folded across her skirt-front. The ermine pin seemed to glow at her pretty, crushable neck. "Your sister-in-law's musical talents are much vaunted."
Forever revolved in his throat. For Anna, always. "You'll leave the city by nightfall tomorrow, or I will set my troops upon your retinue. I'll decide whether your husband accompanies on a horse or in a hearse."
"We thank you for your mercy," Gertrude said with a curtsey, no venom trace in her voice, and Don briefly remembered their one dance at the court ball five years ago, how her body bent to his even as her eyes and mind slid away.
Re: DRABBLE SOME MORE
Date: 2011-08-24 05:24 pm (UTC)TRUDY YOU BEAUTIFUL, BEAUTIFUL WOMAN. Sometimes I remember that Pete doesn't actually deserve her but then I look how fucking pretty they both are together and remember I don't give a shit. LDSKFJ ERMINE. BEAVER. AAAAAAAAA. SERIOUSLY WHAT THE HELL I'M GOING TO PEE MYSELF. Also all these light insights into Westeros-Don's point of view are just...ngghhhhh..llks I mean. Betty, first of all, holy shit the description of her just has me pressing my forehead to the computer screen in an attempt to decipher how you could make it so perfect, but all these little things, too, like describing Trudy's neck as "pretty, crushable", and that little snippet of Don/Peggy and the ENDING JUST AGHSHG.
SERIOUSLY TRUDY WHY SO AMAZING. WHY.
(Also a whole villa for Pete's scrawny ass you're getting a seriously good deal Don don't pass it up.)
I..I would feel like a huge asshole continuing this when I would probably just royally screw it up and make all the wrong decisions that just amount to me keysmashing something like "DURHPEBDURP DURR, TRUDY/PETE GOOD STUFF!!!!" but would it be okay if I did.
I'm just gonna go ahead and read this again don't mind me.
Re: DRABBLE SOME MORE
Date: 2011-08-24 09:33 pm (UTC)DID YOU LIKE THAT ERMINE PETE IS A WEASEL I AM OBVIOUS. And I was searching for Trudy's animal and I couldn't resist making obvious beaver joke. Thrilled you liked the story; Westeros Don, gah, he's just so hard to write in any setting. I think I prefer Westeros Betty to the canon version because c'mon, she was born for that kind of cold consort role and her little written eff you to Don is kind of what I wish she'd done in S4. I wanted more Peggy in the drabble but then it would've been too complicated; I kind of imagine that conversation with Don later, like she's shaking her head and saying, "At least demand 1,000 gold pieces for Pete on top of the villa he'll be upset that he didn't warrant a larger ransom" and Don snaps, "Sorry you won't be keeping him forever" and then Peggy just about bites through her lip.
Umm I think we should cast all the Mad Men characters now because I am more entertained than I have any right to be. And now you have to explain why Margaret is pissed at Pete.
P.S. Sansa/Hound is adorbs too, like seriously why so grumpy Sansa, I have all these inappropriate men to ship you with.
Re: DRABBLE SOME MORE
Date: 2011-08-24 10:06 pm (UTC)Westeros Pete and Ken = CUTEST THING EVER. Pete's bitchiness gets magnified by 10000x in a situation where with the right twisting and manipulation he could get Ken killed or exiled. Oh god.
Also also me and
And Hildy as Trudy's handmaiden.
Re: DRABBLE SOME MORE
Date: 2011-08-24 11:02 pm (UTC)Roger is TOTALLY Robert. Former soldiers/sailors who are now "ra ra ruling sux I just want to party." Don being called to serve as Roger's Hand and then sulking all the way to the capital.
Urrrngh Joanie I just want her life to be better in all universes, but yeah I could see her as a brothel owner since in my Mad Men headcanon she's from a barely middle-class family and in GoT if you're not noble-born you're pretty much screwed. And Greg, of course, got sent to The Wall.
Red-headed handmaidens are the hottest new accessory, so of course Trudy has one. I'm trying to picture charas in the Cersei & Jamie roles, but no-one in Mad Men loves anyone else as much as the twins love each other, truflax(-en hair).
Re: DRABBLE SOME MORE
Date: 2011-08-24 11:27 pm (UTC)I can't see anyone as Cersei or Jaime, but if we need some Lannister-esque characters may I recommend the Lucky Strike family, to whom king Roger is half a kingdom in debt to. Lee Garner the Second strutting around the castle like he owns it because he pretty much does and creeping on allllll the boys, that's what we need, obviously. (Also Sal as the exotic "dancing" teacher?)
Re: DRABBLE SOME MORE
Date: 2011-08-25 12:28 am (UTC)Re: DRABBLE SOME MORE
Date: 2011-08-25 07:25 am (UTC)Re: DRABBLE SOME MORE
Date: 2011-08-25 01:14 am (UTC)AAAAAA THIS DON AND PEGGY SCENE IS SO PERFECT I would be screaming some more if I wasn't at work I just picture that and this happy happy grin comes over my face. (Also you bet your ass there is going to be ALL the scar fetishing and all the Trudy/Pete and screaming self-involved tantrums and nursing him back to happiness anyway because she's just too good of a person).
Oh and of course why is Margaret so very angry with Pete. I think the implied battle in the scene that I wrote was the parallel to Littlefinger's betrayal of Ned; that Pete had for many years been on Don's side and in Don's corner and then suddenly he made the cut-throat decision to sell him out and grab himself a chunk of glory/money/land/dragons/respect/whatever-hot thing-Pete-wants-today-but-will-not enjoy-tomorrow-because-he-sold-Don-out-and-it's-going-to-haunt-him-for-life-even-without-the-scarring-and-torture.
Pete and Peggy probably worked closely as Don's protege's and allies (albiet in different ways, Pete's more the political King's Landing brand and Peggy's almost a better warrior than Don is) and had some extra-marital dalliances along the way, of course. (Hunting fantasies. GoT can have them too.) All Don knows is that when he took the little shit as his prisoner Peggy insisted that he leave his fate up to her.
AM I STARTING TO SOUND CRAZY YET WAIT THAT WAS A WHILE AGO WASN'T IT
Re: DRABBLE SOME MORE
Date: 2011-08-25 02:10 am (UTC)Your Margaret & Pete background I am bloated with excitement glory/money/land/dragons CAN WE WRITE PETE OBSESSING OVER DRAGONS. I bet he'd sex up 40,000 Dothraki and their horses if it meant he'd have his own dragon. Pete as the political animal and Peggy as the military strategist I luuuuv.
Re: DRABBLE SOME MORE
Date: 2011-08-25 03:02 am (UTC)YES DRAGONS YES oh god just boyhood dreams and art pieces and tomes about dragon lore and maybe the "hunting" fantasy is actually about dragons in the first place. PLEASURE THOSE DOTHRAK, PETE, FOLLOW YOUR DREAMS.
Re: DRABBLE SOME MORE
Date: 2011-08-25 06:08 pm (UTC)Trying to figure out how Peggy got to where she is now, being HBIC in Winterfell now that Bets has absconded and Anna is ill. She served a brief stint as Sir Frederick Rumsen's squire before that old lout fell off a horse and died. She's always going to love Freddy though, because if he hadn't chosen her on a (drunk) lark she'd be another plain-type serving girl getting buggered by bored nobles or a priestess-type like her devout mother always wanted. And it's another thing for Don to lord over her, god, like when he gets surly from her naked ambition he yells, "You used to be my squire" even though it's technically incorrect.
no subject
Date: 2011-08-17 08:09 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2011-08-18 09:29 pm (UTC)wait is that Artemis? *delight!*
Not up to coherent, structured comments at this moment, just to say that I like every one of these and I ADORE Vito. That first piece was pitch-perfect, put me vaguely in mind of Abercrombie who I haven't read in ages *rambles* tldr you make pretty words, me like
no subject
Date: 2011-08-18 11:47 pm (UTC)And I LOVE. ARTEMIS. She and Apollo are my top favorites of the Greek pantheon,
do I have a thing for mythological siblings and sexual tension or what. Hermes and Dionysus also huge favorites.I hope you're getting enough rest!! You've sounded exhausted lately, I really really hope everything is okay. I'm really, really glad you enjoyed Vito's, even though he is a royal huge asshole. What is this Abercrombie you mention? <3 (slkjlf but seriously just thank you my mind keeps getting blown that talented writers like you and
no subject
Date: 2011-08-19 06:39 pm (UTC)<_< I... may have a small statue of her, next to which I... may... occasionally... leave small tributes. Not goats or any shit like that. Fruit peels. Bits of hair. (It's a really small statue.) Mostly because I'm worried she'll come to life in the night and turn me into a buck. (Ditto on Hermes. Postmen are sexy even when they aren't shirtless and winged.) btw, Caile and Forty are sweet, what's their backstory? Joe Abercrombie! Fantasy author, amazing man, conjures up atmosphere liek whoa. Something in the tone of your pieces reminds me of him. (thank you sweetie, everything's cool right now. :) )
no subject
Date: 2011-08-19 08:34 pm (UTC)I...might have...exactly the same thing. The only reason I don't have one of Apollo to go with her is because all the statues of Apollo SUCK for some reason. We have two incense burners, one for the sun and one for the moon and :I yeah. A million high fives from my heart. I will be checking out this author quite promptly, so that I can patch up this gap in my education, thanks for the rec!
Oh no, you asked about Caile and Forty. I'll try to keep a cap on my babble, but feel free to ignore me if I go too far. They're two characters from my fantasy story in progress - Caile is part of the clan of Mages, and Forty is a "rat" (made up fantasy creature, tiny visual reference sheet here (http://soltian.net/LJ/ocfattieswtext.jpg)). They ran away together when Caile's political rage at his family and general hate of humans came to a peak. Caile spends a lot of time underground trying to communicate with and save the planet from being sapped dry, and occasionally has disturbing/romantic dreams about a dead girl named Cornelia. I wrote/illustrated/comicked a very very disturbing story about Caile a while back, but unfortunately don't have anything socially acceptable to share.
So glad to hear that everything is okay, I hope it stays that way!