The Prince and the QueenThe Prince and the Queen
The hooded cloak coiled around Akataras while he walked, white as the snow that fell from above. The black of mourning had not slipped from the elf's shoulders for long, before he had once again clad himself in light. Familiar pains were easier to bear perhaps, or he had found a new road, paved on the lives he had buried, that led to a more clear path.
His path was clear, but his mind and heart were not. His long and ragged brown hair was not in the style of one whose mind was settled, or heart healed. The white furs, silks and leathers he wore only warded against the frost outside, not within. The exhaustion in his eyes betrayed him, for they were as cold and as the snow beneath his feet.
He looked toward the road ahead with tired turquoise eyes, but did not truly see it. They gleamed in the moonlight and revealed more than the traveller had ever dared to share. As if he feared the moon and starlight could see his deepest secrets, he pu
Warmth of a denHe was breathing raggedly, all adrenaline spent as the last man in front of him slipped bonelessly to the floor. When the face of the unconscious hunter landed in the soaked sawdust, the squishing noise finished bringing him back to his senses and he took a deep shuddering inspiration which he regretted instantly, the air around being saturated with various stenches, spilled wine and vomit.Warmth of a den2 years ago in Short Stories
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The small move in front of him made him reach instantly for another of his daggers but the old man behind the counter merely smiled, putting on between them a cutlass, its blade stained and pitted with age but still impressive.
"I wouldn't if I was you, lad. I can still kick your ass if need be, so don't give me reasons."
From various corners, a few silhouettes were rising back on their feet and exiting as quietly as possible, intent on avoiding the fury of the young blond man they had just seen bring down a whole group of armed men. The room had been sparsely filled when he had entered and wa
Her Soothing Beauty"Hasar, light!"Her Soothing Beauty2 years ago in Short Stories
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An angry shout and a glare was all that was needed. The boy flinched instantly and held the mirror at a different angle, making sure his master was satisfied. The light filled the room once again, sun rays reflecting on the cold surface of the mirror, dancing their way merrily upon the woman's ebony hair. Hasar stood in awe, gazing at her smooth Qarista features.
"By the Duelling Moons", he thought. "Her beauty can only be compared to that of a goddess".
The woman rolled her eyes and for a fleeting moment they shared a glance. It was then that Hasar realised he was still staring at her. The boy's cheeks turned red and he quickly lowered his eyes to the ground, looking blankly at the wooden decking of his master's studio.
He had to always remember his place when HE was around. "A servant boy is not allowed to raise his eyes and look at anyone who is his superior", the master's voice resounded in his head. And in Hasar's case, everyone, even his own m
Two Grapes and a Glass of spilt RacameA warm spring breeze carried the sweet, melodic laughter of Lady Rithiell to Hasar's ears as he was heading to the garden. His heart pounded vividly in his chest, forcing him to stop and catch his breath. What was it about this woman that made his arms tremble like those of a sealh's*¹, when she is paying her respects to the Mighty Wind? His shaky hands betrayed him and, to his fright, he realised he had spilt some of the wine. Several droplets were spread on the stone-covered floor, the rich aroma of fruits, sanā*² and cassia*³ filling his sinuses, while another tear-shaped drop was sliding slowly down the crystalline surface of the goblet he was holding. Hasar pulled his sleeve and wrapped the fabric around the glass, carefully wiping it clean from any remnants. He had picked the most expensive wine the master had in the manor's cellar, a bottle purchased in the city of Viya in exchange for three slaves. "Racame", the name his mother's people had given to it, "the First Blood ofTwo Grapes and a Glass of spilt Racame2 years ago in Short Stories
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stumbling over wordsshe says Imaginestumbling over words2 years ago in Free Verse
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that god is the field beneath us,
and the trees are his angels -
(i pray to them, you know,
wrap myself around the bark like vines,
each of my thousand fingers curls to catch each twig.
but on bad days i am poison ivy
and my fingernails are nettles,
my long torso is tied in knots and clumps
like my hung over hair.)
- or Suppose
that love is a recluse and a painter,
and hate is his morbid self critic -
(i'm a painter too, you know,
my brush screeches up at me
as if to say breathe me, breathe me!
but on bad days i am a smoker
whose lungs wither like untended plants,
my tongue is tied in knots and clumps
that deep breaths can't unseam.)
drunk, i watch her Muse drift from her tongue
to tickle the trees nearby