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impertinences) wrote2024-02-19 01:49 pm
impertinences) wrote2024-02-19 01:49 pm
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Writing is a thing!
Which I have not done in MONTHS!
So, here's a little something, that may or may not be crap, but at least it's writing, ya know?
--
“My life was a storm, since I was born
How could I fear any hurricane?
If someone asked me at the end
I'll tell them put me back in it”
The water is warm and clear blue, unlike the sordid gray of the ocean, which stank of bottom-feeders and decay. The Brimgate Islands are known for this, of course–the idyllic points of paradise nestling within their lavender-colored groves, the secret waterfalls thundering into placid pools, the temperate breezes soothing the skin.
Augusta is unimpressed.
It is her typical state of being.
Radomir, however, appreciates the water gently flowing between his calloused palms, the beauty of the moment. Still, he is an intimidating man even here, submerged up to his waist, the sun warm on his scarred backs and shoulders. He’d shorn his hair for the journey, and the water runs down the sides of his face, clings to his eyebrows, his eyelashes, his mouth.
“You are a mountain creature,” Augusta says from the edge of the water, her legs half in the lake as she reclines on a mossy boulder. “You should be afraid of the water.”
Radomir runs a hand across the left side of his face, wiping away the wetness there. “What good am I to you if water scares me?”
“True. You are endlessly fearless, regardless of the terrain.”
He takes the compliment with a grin then shrugs in a mock-modest way. “If I am fearless, then you are terrifying.”
“The very essence of my appeal, no doubt.”
“Guest-right,” Augusta sneers, glancing over her shoulder at the two micipna the Magister had sent to accompany them on the day’s excursion. They wear the blue tattoos of their station on their arms, their necks, their wrists. The taller one has a peculiar mark below his right eye, almost a burn, except cerulean. They stay on the perimeter of the waterfall, stoic, silent, mute as dumb beasts awaiting an order, but she does not trust them.
“Guest-right is an ancient tradition. It dates back–”
She holds a hand up, cutting him off. “Don’t. I know the history lessons. Some traditions are worth leaving behind. This is why the Vries do not frequently have guests.”
He smirks. “You cannot assassinate your way through the world.”
“I can’t,” she says pointedly, and his laughter is a deep rumble from his chest.
“It is guest-right that protects us now, here.”
“It is the Vries name that protects us here. You do not start a political war by murdering a visiting diplomat from one of the most powerful families from the mainland. Guest-right is the veneer the Trifecta hide their fear behind. I am tired of these niceties.”
“Yet your brother still lives.”
Augusta rolls her eyes skyward. “Harrow’s own ineptitude will be his downfall. I cannot usurp him. Once he has finally shown his true colors and ruined Albtraum, I will prove myself.”
Her hair is a dark coil down the back of her shoulder, gathered into the intricate braids the wealthy women of the island wear to show their status. She is sun-kissed in the water, her usually pale skin turned golden by the afternoons in the sun, a flush of peach over the bridge of her nose and the curves of her shoulders. She is still young, no touch of silver in her hair, no fine lines near the corners of her eyes or mouth, but she has made herself sharp, like her brother, a woman of angles meant to cut. A blade.
When she stands in front of him, he is a whole head taller. Her hands skim his shoulders, feeling the old scars from his years in the fighting pits.
He must look down at her, but she is the one with the gaze of iron and steel. When she catches his face in one hand, her thumb digs into the tender spot below his chin. “Do you ever miss the fights?”
“I miss the noise sometimes. The waterfall sounds like the pounding of the stadium footsteps, the cheering. This island is too quiet. It’s all birdsong and chatter.”
“You were exhilarating to watch.” Her thumb traces the curve of his bottom lip. Not too long ago, his mouth had been hidden by the metal bars of a muzzle; emboldened now, he presses a kiss to the center of her palm when her hand passes across his mouth.
He does not know what to do with his hands now that she is in the water with him, as naked as he is, her silken dress the Magister had loaned her left on the side of the lake. She presses her hips into him, returns her hands to his shoulders, pushing her nails into the muscle there. She can feel his excitement between them, see the way his gaze is heavy with desire and shame and uncertainty. Slowly, as though she may be a viper about to strike, he moves his arms to circle her waist, the very tips of her hair touching the ends of his fingers against the small of her back.
She has to push herself to her toes in order to press her mouth to his thick jaw, near his ear. “Tell me about devotion.”
Augusta knows that he would bury himself in her if she would allow it. That his head would dip to her neck to breathe her in and he would lift her effortlessly, held by his strength and the water both, her legs coming to anchor around his waist. He would kiss her eyelids, her temples, dig his battle-born fingers into the strands of her braid and unwind them with the tenderness of a worshiper. He would show her his devotion if she did not insist on the words.
But because she has, he presses his forehead against hers, his voice pitched low, and he tells about the kind of loyalty that is born in chains. He talks about the scent of blood in the air and the feel of death between his palms and the taste of frenzy on his mouth and the many ways his violence took the shape of allegiance.
Which I have not done in MONTHS!
So, here's a little something, that may or may not be crap, but at least it's writing, ya know?
--
“My life was a storm, since I was born
How could I fear any hurricane?
If someone asked me at the end
I'll tell them put me back in it”
The water is warm and clear blue, unlike the sordid gray of the ocean, which stank of bottom-feeders and decay. The Brimgate Islands are known for this, of course–the idyllic points of paradise nestling within their lavender-colored groves, the secret waterfalls thundering into placid pools, the temperate breezes soothing the skin.
Augusta is unimpressed.
It is her typical state of being.
Radomir, however, appreciates the water gently flowing between his calloused palms, the beauty of the moment. Still, he is an intimidating man even here, submerged up to his waist, the sun warm on his scarred backs and shoulders. He’d shorn his hair for the journey, and the water runs down the sides of his face, clings to his eyebrows, his eyelashes, his mouth.
“You are a mountain creature,” Augusta says from the edge of the water, her legs half in the lake as she reclines on a mossy boulder. “You should be afraid of the water.”
Radomir runs a hand across the left side of his face, wiping away the wetness there. “What good am I to you if water scares me?”
“True. You are endlessly fearless, regardless of the terrain.”
He takes the compliment with a grin then shrugs in a mock-modest way. “If I am fearless, then you are terrifying.”
“The very essence of my appeal, no doubt.”
“Guest-right,” Augusta sneers, glancing over her shoulder at the two micipna the Magister had sent to accompany them on the day’s excursion. They wear the blue tattoos of their station on their arms, their necks, their wrists. The taller one has a peculiar mark below his right eye, almost a burn, except cerulean. They stay on the perimeter of the waterfall, stoic, silent, mute as dumb beasts awaiting an order, but she does not trust them.
“Guest-right is an ancient tradition. It dates back–”
She holds a hand up, cutting him off. “Don’t. I know the history lessons. Some traditions are worth leaving behind. This is why the Vries do not frequently have guests.”
He smirks. “You cannot assassinate your way through the world.”
“I can’t,” she says pointedly, and his laughter is a deep rumble from his chest.
“It is guest-right that protects us now, here.”
“It is the Vries name that protects us here. You do not start a political war by murdering a visiting diplomat from one of the most powerful families from the mainland. Guest-right is the veneer the Trifecta hide their fear behind. I am tired of these niceties.”
“Yet your brother still lives.”
Augusta rolls her eyes skyward. “Harrow’s own ineptitude will be his downfall. I cannot usurp him. Once he has finally shown his true colors and ruined Albtraum, I will prove myself.”
Her hair is a dark coil down the back of her shoulder, gathered into the intricate braids the wealthy women of the island wear to show their status. She is sun-kissed in the water, her usually pale skin turned golden by the afternoons in the sun, a flush of peach over the bridge of her nose and the curves of her shoulders. She is still young, no touch of silver in her hair, no fine lines near the corners of her eyes or mouth, but she has made herself sharp, like her brother, a woman of angles meant to cut. A blade.
When she stands in front of him, he is a whole head taller. Her hands skim his shoulders, feeling the old scars from his years in the fighting pits.
He must look down at her, but she is the one with the gaze of iron and steel. When she catches his face in one hand, her thumb digs into the tender spot below his chin. “Do you ever miss the fights?”
“I miss the noise sometimes. The waterfall sounds like the pounding of the stadium footsteps, the cheering. This island is too quiet. It’s all birdsong and chatter.”
“You were exhilarating to watch.” Her thumb traces the curve of his bottom lip. Not too long ago, his mouth had been hidden by the metal bars of a muzzle; emboldened now, he presses a kiss to the center of her palm when her hand passes across his mouth.
He does not know what to do with his hands now that she is in the water with him, as naked as he is, her silken dress the Magister had loaned her left on the side of the lake. She presses her hips into him, returns her hands to his shoulders, pushing her nails into the muscle there. She can feel his excitement between them, see the way his gaze is heavy with desire and shame and uncertainty. Slowly, as though she may be a viper about to strike, he moves his arms to circle her waist, the very tips of her hair touching the ends of his fingers against the small of her back.
She has to push herself to her toes in order to press her mouth to his thick jaw, near his ear. “Tell me about devotion.”
Augusta knows that he would bury himself in her if she would allow it. That his head would dip to her neck to breathe her in and he would lift her effortlessly, held by his strength and the water both, her legs coming to anchor around his waist. He would kiss her eyelids, her temples, dig his battle-born fingers into the strands of her braid and unwind them with the tenderness of a worshiper. He would show her his devotion if she did not insist on the words.
But because she has, he presses his forehead against hers, his voice pitched low, and he tells about the kind of loyalty that is born in chains. He talks about the scent of blood in the air and the feel of death between his palms and the taste of frenzy on his mouth and the many ways his violence took the shape of allegiance.