First cup of mead to dull the sorrow
We found him. Laid out on the altar. I guess he was not a werewolf. We did manage to bring back what we could. No, the mage did. She was good, though dressed too drearily. His brother mourned.
Second cup to admire my work
Praise the Chameleon! Introductions with our foe, trading names, making nice, get the body we sought and pay for our mess. Oh, but I do not have the coin. Thank you Turnip, for paying. I turned to leave, elven breath in Beleg’s ear. His spells flew first, his sword finished. And that was that. The cordial foe lay dead . I heard the Trickster's laughter, I know I did. A masterpiece of trickery!
Third cup of mead brings the dance
Under the moon I dance, glitter dust still falling from my hair. Trying to recall the pixie's name only brought more laughter. The silver-haired thief steals my thoughts, though he is not here dancing. Stumble and laugh. He stole my grace, too! Or was it the mead?
Fourth cup
Do I have a fourth cup? I do not remember. The bottle is empty. The soft ground is cool, Sehanine shining through the branches. I close my eyes, to remember and relive the last time I was here. I will probably come out of Reverie with painted face and knotted hair.
Cups
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Misty
- Proletarian Librarian
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- Joined: Wed Jun 16, 2004 4:10 pm
- Location: Lazin' by el Rio Blanco
Laurelin lay over the tree branch, arms and legs limply dangled. The mostly empty bottle fell to the forest floor some time ago. Three bottles in the moss, a pair of squirrels curiously sniffing them. She held no heart for dance this night, no amount of mead changed that. Ever the Fey Jester’s plaything, her thoughts tumbled faster in the absence of dance.
They will take it away.
Things changed when the dagger pierced her heart. She wondered how the first healing affected her, Selune’s grace hurriedly healing and warping her heart around the blade. Then it was removed. She demanded to keep it, no one argued. She could not say if it was good or bad. Probably bad, considering the source of the dagger was a thing from the Plane of Shadow, a Netherese. But it was her knife now, and she was not bad. Stuffy humans aside, her pranks were not bad. Well, there was the box of stirges, that was a little bad. But that was after her pierced heart. It was still funny; at the least, the other Quessir thought so.
Still, she noticed the change. Her sad moods turned darker, a desire to inflict pain wormed its way into her soul. Annoyance lately became anger became the need to drive her knife through the offender’s eyes. No! This was not her. Not her way. Was it? Could she change it? Would losing the knife change her back? What if it did not?
But it is not all bad. Is it? She began to feel the faint stirring of that. And that is not bad. Yet not so faint anymore, frighteningly intense. So fierce it made her cry. She knew the wave of desire coursing through her, making her face burn. Her head would get dizzy without a drop of mead. The rising spirits, the floating hope, and the pain of not taking that first sincere step. Yes, she remembered it all. All of seventy-two last time. He was ninety. They had fun for eight summers.
Mead-flavored wind blew over the butterfly threatening to land on her nose. It lit on her ear instead. She heard it laugh, but her arm was too heavy to push it away.
“Haveyouanyadvice?” she slurred in elven.
“Honeysuckle is sour this season,” the butterfly answered.
He would not believe her. Tease, he called her, and a tease she was, now she was not so sure she wanted to anymore. But maybe he would. He also called her a Joybringer. He danced with her better and more often than any other, and his joy was not false. He would not feel the same. Well, maybe he would. Would he allow himself, knowing it put her in danger? Would she allow herself, knowing it might distract him from his path? What pain she would feel if she were wrong. Pain enough to want to run away.
“Cave blossoms are all rotten,” the butterfly laughed.
No. She promised to stand beside her people in this land. She would not abandon her people when they needed aid. She left the other forest only by the many pleas for her to stay away, her survival more important to her friend than her bow. As there was nothing she did that several others could not do better, she refused to feel guilty for leaving. But here she would stay. She had wanted to hurt the damned human woman who thought she cared for nothing. She could not understand, so stiff and rigid she was, imposing her will on others everywhere she went. Judging without listening. She wanted to stab her eyes, hear her screams. Listen to her choke out some filthy sentiment of NO! This was not her! It had to be the knife. It had to be.
“The Violets and Forget-Me-Nots are exquisite, you really should taste them tomorrow,” the butterfly giggled.
Better to bear her dark moods alone, she decided in the mead-induced haze. No need to bring pain to anyone else, especially him. He had his own problems. They would dance, laugh, talk of ways to make paint. But nothing more. Was this the knife’s fault, too? They will take it away. Then they will know. But even if they are wrong, they will not return it. And if they are wrong, what does that say about the change in her pierced heart? Was it all in her head? Simply trauma, nothing more?
Funny how a rough tree branch felt soft to one in her cups. Reverie came gently, the butterfly snoring in her ear.
They will take it away.
Things changed when the dagger pierced her heart. She wondered how the first healing affected her, Selune’s grace hurriedly healing and warping her heart around the blade. Then it was removed. She demanded to keep it, no one argued. She could not say if it was good or bad. Probably bad, considering the source of the dagger was a thing from the Plane of Shadow, a Netherese. But it was her knife now, and she was not bad. Stuffy humans aside, her pranks were not bad. Well, there was the box of stirges, that was a little bad. But that was after her pierced heart. It was still funny; at the least, the other Quessir thought so.
Still, she noticed the change. Her sad moods turned darker, a desire to inflict pain wormed its way into her soul. Annoyance lately became anger became the need to drive her knife through the offender’s eyes. No! This was not her. Not her way. Was it? Could she change it? Would losing the knife change her back? What if it did not?
But it is not all bad. Is it? She began to feel the faint stirring of that. And that is not bad. Yet not so faint anymore, frighteningly intense. So fierce it made her cry. She knew the wave of desire coursing through her, making her face burn. Her head would get dizzy without a drop of mead. The rising spirits, the floating hope, and the pain of not taking that first sincere step. Yes, she remembered it all. All of seventy-two last time. He was ninety. They had fun for eight summers.
Mead-flavored wind blew over the butterfly threatening to land on her nose. It lit on her ear instead. She heard it laugh, but her arm was too heavy to push it away.
“Haveyouanyadvice?” she slurred in elven.
“Honeysuckle is sour this season,” the butterfly answered.
He would not believe her. Tease, he called her, and a tease she was, now she was not so sure she wanted to anymore. But maybe he would. He also called her a Joybringer. He danced with her better and more often than any other, and his joy was not false. He would not feel the same. Well, maybe he would. Would he allow himself, knowing it put her in danger? Would she allow herself, knowing it might distract him from his path? What pain she would feel if she were wrong. Pain enough to want to run away.
“Cave blossoms are all rotten,” the butterfly laughed.
No. She promised to stand beside her people in this land. She would not abandon her people when they needed aid. She left the other forest only by the many pleas for her to stay away, her survival more important to her friend than her bow. As there was nothing she did that several others could not do better, she refused to feel guilty for leaving. But here she would stay. She had wanted to hurt the damned human woman who thought she cared for nothing. She could not understand, so stiff and rigid she was, imposing her will on others everywhere she went. Judging without listening. She wanted to stab her eyes, hear her screams. Listen to her choke out some filthy sentiment of NO! This was not her! It had to be the knife. It had to be.
“The Violets and Forget-Me-Nots are exquisite, you really should taste them tomorrow,” the butterfly giggled.
Better to bear her dark moods alone, she decided in the mead-induced haze. No need to bring pain to anyone else, especially him. He had his own problems. They would dance, laugh, talk of ways to make paint. But nothing more. Was this the knife’s fault, too? They will take it away. Then they will know. But even if they are wrong, they will not return it. And if they are wrong, what does that say about the change in her pierced heart? Was it all in her head? Simply trauma, nothing more?
Funny how a rough tree branch felt soft to one in her cups. Reverie came gently, the butterfly snoring in her ear.
Last PC: Laurelin ~ dancer, trickster and professional pain-in-the-backside
Currently living like Rip van Winkle.
Currently living like Rip van Winkle.
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Misty
- Proletarian Librarian
- Posts: 1332
- Joined: Wed Jun 16, 2004 4:10 pm
- Location: Lazin' by el Rio Blanco
Three days without mead, but who can tell? That is as intoxicating. How did this come to pass, if I vowed to say nothing? Easy. I broke and spilled my worries at his feet. I did not want to, tried not to, but he asked! No, that is a lie. I tried not to, but I did want to. I wanted to share, as friends do. He reminded me that we were friends, so out they came. Those silly worries about the knife. But, perceptive he was, he did not see what he wanted, and continued to ask.
What did he want, you ask? A smile, something joyous from she he called joybringer. I can’t be happy all the time, especially feeling pangs of that. They would not go away, would not disappear. So, I just said it. Simple as that.
I am in love. He was surprised. I forget how people do not see it in others unless they wish to. There was answer enough in that gasp, but it was definitely too late. That sort of statement is one that can never be retracted without a good shovel to the head. And that has its own perils attached.
There. I said it. Now what? I just wanted to get it over with, get it out so I can get over it and go back to the way I was. That can get so messy. Worse than too much mead. Clouding your mind, and making you not care. But gods, does it feel grand.
See? There we go, losing our head and sighing like, what’s the term? Oh yes, like someone in love. He did not push me away, but did make clear he is beholden to another. How terrifically messy. I have his love, and he has mine, but there are strings attached.
Are you laughing, Chameleon? I hope so. Someone better be laughing at this joke, because I fear it will kill one of us. But, what’s a girl to do? I mean, really. He did not reject me, so there is some comfort in that. All a girl can do is revel in what she can, enjoy it while it lasts, and remember it fondly after it has passed. I wonder how long it will last?
You know what else? I definitely think too much. Not enough mead, or too many constraints, or too much of that. So, let’s get a few bottles; at least four, because three was certainly not enough. The butterfly said the Violets were sweet, so let us go forth and pick flowers! Maybe find some beets or cherries to make it more pink.
Surely you know what I intend, I’ve been planning it for months!
What did he want, you ask? A smile, something joyous from she he called joybringer. I can’t be happy all the time, especially feeling pangs of that. They would not go away, would not disappear. So, I just said it. Simple as that.
I am in love. He was surprised. I forget how people do not see it in others unless they wish to. There was answer enough in that gasp, but it was definitely too late. That sort of statement is one that can never be retracted without a good shovel to the head. And that has its own perils attached.
There. I said it. Now what? I just wanted to get it over with, get it out so I can get over it and go back to the way I was. That can get so messy. Worse than too much mead. Clouding your mind, and making you not care. But gods, does it feel grand.
See? There we go, losing our head and sighing like, what’s the term? Oh yes, like someone in love. He did not push me away, but did make clear he is beholden to another. How terrifically messy. I have his love, and he has mine, but there are strings attached.
Are you laughing, Chameleon? I hope so. Someone better be laughing at this joke, because I fear it will kill one of us. But, what’s a girl to do? I mean, really. He did not reject me, so there is some comfort in that. All a girl can do is revel in what she can, enjoy it while it lasts, and remember it fondly after it has passed. I wonder how long it will last?
You know what else? I definitely think too much. Not enough mead, or too many constraints, or too much of that. So, let’s get a few bottles; at least four, because three was certainly not enough. The butterfly said the Violets were sweet, so let us go forth and pick flowers! Maybe find some beets or cherries to make it more pink.
Surely you know what I intend, I’ve been planning it for months!
Last PC: Laurelin ~ dancer, trickster and professional pain-in-the-backside
Currently living like Rip van Winkle.
Currently living like Rip van Winkle.
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Misty
- Proletarian Librarian
- Posts: 1332
- Joined: Wed Jun 16, 2004 4:10 pm
- Location: Lazin' by el Rio Blanco
What have I done?
I lost count of the bottles.
He was just a human.
The mead comes through the pores of my skin, and still I cannot forget.
I think I made a mistake.
It was a terrible reason to kill him. To belong. To belong to what? I know they are lying to me, lying a little. Twisting the truth so it is not precisely a lie. But a lie all the same.
He was just a human, he would have died soon anyway.
But not like that. Not by my silvered blade. For some thin excuse of a reason.
I murdered him
No better than the disgusting orqu disguised as elves up north.
I cut off his head.
I cannot get caught. This is worse than boxed stirges.
Why? Why did I do it?
His suggestion. It is complicated.
No, it is stupidly simple.
He was right. I am learning the language he spoke. Do I want to learn more?
Yes.
I still hear his voice.
“If you are very good, then there is much fun to be had... more than you can imagine.”
I lost count of the bottles.
He was just a human.
The mead comes through the pores of my skin, and still I cannot forget.
I think I made a mistake.
It was a terrible reason to kill him. To belong. To belong to what? I know they are lying to me, lying a little. Twisting the truth so it is not precisely a lie. But a lie all the same.
He was just a human, he would have died soon anyway.
But not like that. Not by my silvered blade. For some thin excuse of a reason.
I murdered him
No better than the disgusting orqu disguised as elves up north.
I cut off his head.
I cannot get caught. This is worse than boxed stirges.
Why? Why did I do it?
His suggestion. It is complicated.
No, it is stupidly simple.
He was right. I am learning the language he spoke. Do I want to learn more?
Yes.
I still hear his voice.
“If you are very good, then there is much fun to be had... more than you can imagine.”
Last PC: Laurelin ~ dancer, trickster and professional pain-in-the-backside
Currently living like Rip van Winkle.
Currently living like Rip van Winkle.
Poetic, you have a real talent Misty, I'd forgotten how much so... beautifully done.
Awaiting more,
//Aer
Awaiting more,
//Aer
Currently: Sam'saer Blackbow - NWN2/TSM
RIP: Rukis Torhammer, Finn the Black, Elisaer the Wit, Gumphy Blackforge and 'ol Deg
<Ayergo> For the record, i'd like to say that the blackforge brothers r0xx0r.
RIP: Rukis Torhammer, Finn the Black, Elisaer the Wit, Gumphy Blackforge and 'ol Deg
<Ayergo> For the record, i'd like to say that the blackforge brothers r0xx0r.
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Misty
- Proletarian Librarian
- Posts: 1332
- Joined: Wed Jun 16, 2004 4:10 pm
- Location: Lazin' by el Rio Blanco
You better be laughing, I said to the Chameleon. I did not laugh, I was too frightened.
The light fled the chair beside me, timidly returning to reveal a slender figure, watching me with his warm green eyes. They seemed so kind, like teacher to student, with wispy hints of more, should the gods favor it. Do I trust what I see?
Do you ever get accused of being a god?
Never, he denied with a soft laugh. I like his laugh. Only a sneak. Though my practice has taken me beyond normal convention.... How do you fare?
Oh what a tease! I wanted to know more, but it was clear that conversation will be later. If the gods favor it. I answer the question, we talked more. I do not know if I fully believe him yet. I cannot tell if he is disappointed or not. I hope not.
Do you dance? I tried to keep the hope from my voice.
A bit. Yes.
That is the best news today. And it was.
His warm laugh sounded so right in my ears. No, I think you misunderstand. He was not stealing my heart. A laugh of quiet joy is, please forgive the cliche, music to my long ears. But before I laughed with him, his green eyes darkened, Care for a bit of mischief? That one magic word setting my blood afire.
Always!
Excellent, he whispered with a smile, leading me outside, There is a certain spot I know...
.
.
.
.
A couple hours later, I stood cornered in an alley, hand pressed firmly against my mouth. He stood before me, close enough that I learned his scent. His green eyes stared into mine while he asked questions. No, again I think you have the wrong idea. The hand was mine, trying to quiet the laughter. I answered between giggles. They almost caught me. Almost. Heh.
Well done tonight, he whispered when I calmed. Better to be empty handed than empty headed. He kissed my forehead. I like it when he does that.
I am a spectacular coward.
As am I, his whisper lingered though he did not. I must learn how he does that!
The light fled the chair beside me, timidly returning to reveal a slender figure, watching me with his warm green eyes. They seemed so kind, like teacher to student, with wispy hints of more, should the gods favor it. Do I trust what I see?
Do you ever get accused of being a god?
Never, he denied with a soft laugh. I like his laugh. Only a sneak. Though my practice has taken me beyond normal convention.... How do you fare?
Oh what a tease! I wanted to know more, but it was clear that conversation will be later. If the gods favor it. I answer the question, we talked more. I do not know if I fully believe him yet. I cannot tell if he is disappointed or not. I hope not.
Do you dance? I tried to keep the hope from my voice.
A bit. Yes.
That is the best news today. And it was.
His warm laugh sounded so right in my ears. No, I think you misunderstand. He was not stealing my heart. A laugh of quiet joy is, please forgive the cliche, music to my long ears. But before I laughed with him, his green eyes darkened, Care for a bit of mischief? That one magic word setting my blood afire.
Always!
Excellent, he whispered with a smile, leading me outside, There is a certain spot I know...
.
.
.
.
A couple hours later, I stood cornered in an alley, hand pressed firmly against my mouth. He stood before me, close enough that I learned his scent. His green eyes stared into mine while he asked questions. No, again I think you have the wrong idea. The hand was mine, trying to quiet the laughter. I answered between giggles. They almost caught me. Almost. Heh.
Well done tonight, he whispered when I calmed. Better to be empty handed than empty headed. He kissed my forehead. I like it when he does that.
I am a spectacular coward.
As am I, his whisper lingered though he did not. I must learn how he does that!
Last PC: Laurelin ~ dancer, trickster and professional pain-in-the-backside
Currently living like Rip van Winkle.
Currently living like Rip van Winkle.
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Misty
- Proletarian Librarian
- Posts: 1332
- Joined: Wed Jun 16, 2004 4:10 pm
- Location: Lazin' by el Rio Blanco
A bottle for the Trickster,
And a bottle for me.
With a cup of silver,
I drink to thee.
Sword of feather,
Shield of laughter,
The Trickster's challenge
Is what I'm after!
A house to the west,
A tree full of fruit,
the basement is full,
let's steal the loot!
Lest we be blamed
As common old thieves,
we leave gifts behind
of baubles and beads.
A bottle for the Trickster,
And a bottle for me.
With a cup of silver,
I drink to thee.
And a bottle for me.
With a cup of silver,
I drink to thee.
Sword of feather,
Shield of laughter,
The Trickster's challenge
Is what I'm after!
A house to the west,
A tree full of fruit,
the basement is full,
let's steal the loot!
Lest we be blamed
As common old thieves,
we leave gifts behind
of baubles and beads.
A bottle for the Trickster,
And a bottle for me.
With a cup of silver,
I drink to thee.
Last PC: Laurelin ~ dancer, trickster and professional pain-in-the-backside
Currently living like Rip van Winkle.
Currently living like Rip van Winkle.
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Frostfather
- Kobold Footpad
- Posts: 25
- Joined: Sun Jun 27, 2004 3:54 pm
- Location: Gothenburg Sweden
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Misty
- Proletarian Librarian
- Posts: 1332
- Joined: Wed Jun 16, 2004 4:10 pm
- Location: Lazin' by el Rio Blanco
thankie thankies!!
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I need to step away from the bottle. Never thought you would hear that, did you? Yes, this bottle of too strong wine called Waterdeep. It is bitter and sweet and gritty, the dance it calls forth different and exciting. But too long have I pulled from this bottle. I am off-balance, no longer in the fun way, but the poisoned way. Have you seen those people who drink so much for so long they are sick on their wine? That is how I am beginning to feel. I’ve been here without leave so long I feel poisoned.
I need to leave the bottle for a time. Water please. Sweet water.
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I need to step away from the bottle. Never thought you would hear that, did you? Yes, this bottle of too strong wine called Waterdeep. It is bitter and sweet and gritty, the dance it calls forth different and exciting. But too long have I pulled from this bottle. I am off-balance, no longer in the fun way, but the poisoned way. Have you seen those people who drink so much for so long they are sick on their wine? That is how I am beginning to feel. I’ve been here without leave so long I feel poisoned.
I need to leave the bottle for a time. Water please. Sweet water.
Last PC: Laurelin ~ dancer, trickster and professional pain-in-the-backside
Currently living like Rip van Winkle.
Currently living like Rip van Winkle.
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Misty
- Proletarian Librarian
- Posts: 1332
- Joined: Wed Jun 16, 2004 4:10 pm
- Location: Lazin' by el Rio Blanco
“There really is a port,” I pointed to the floor, “below?”
“Oh indeed,” his rich whisper affirmed. “Deep and dark, and deadly dangerous. Elves are as likely to be served for dinner, as they are to be served at dinner.”
And here I stand, at the prow of a ship, with no sky above. No sun. No moon, only mineral reflections of the ship’s light mocking the stars that ought to be above my head.
I step closer to Arvandor with every shaky breath.
So why am I here, now, on a boat to a city the gods have abandoned?
Ah, careful there my dear kitten.
I fear to say, even to myself. It will turn good, if we succeed.
Hide me, Chameleon.
“Oh indeed,” his rich whisper affirmed. “Deep and dark, and deadly dangerous. Elves are as likely to be served for dinner, as they are to be served at dinner.”
And here I stand, at the prow of a ship, with no sky above. No sun. No moon, only mineral reflections of the ship’s light mocking the stars that ought to be above my head.
I step closer to Arvandor with every shaky breath.
So why am I here, now, on a boat to a city the gods have abandoned?
Ah, careful there my dear kitten.
I fear to say, even to myself. It will turn good, if we succeed.
Hide me, Chameleon.
Last PC: Laurelin ~ dancer, trickster and professional pain-in-the-backside
Currently living like Rip van Winkle.
Currently living like Rip van Winkle.
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Misty
- Proletarian Librarian
- Posts: 1332
- Joined: Wed Jun 16, 2004 4:10 pm
- Location: Lazin' by el Rio Blanco
How does a Dalesman find sheep in tall grass?
Very satisfying.
And you know what they call stray lambs?
Baaaa-stards.
You know why they take sheep up to cliffs?
They push back better.
You know what they call a corral?
An open air brothel.
So there I was, sitting in my room at Madame Garah’s, crying with laughter while the dhearow sitting across from me told jokes. Bet you’re curious how this happened. I certainly did not PLAN it!
Speaking of plans, well, you will see. They mean terribly little. Our goal was to get something from this bard hiding in Skullport. Our plan was to dress me up as a leper and bumble around until we found him.
Instead, while still on the boat we woke in chains. Yes, chains. And hoods over our faces. The leper disguise did nothing. Nothing! The people who did this led us about the town until we arrived in this warm, sweet-smelling room. Incense. Nice. They started talking to someone, saying things like ‘healthy’ and ‘strong’ and ‘untouched’. Then they pulled the hoods off.
There was a DHEAROW staring at me! I thought I was going to die. Or vomit. It was terrible. He was our master. I tried to fathom what horrible fate to expect, but I could not. I could barely think. He, our master, called himself a tall dark hin. He expected us to drink wine and entertain any guests that came by.
Wait for it.
We were expected to do what we, Paran and I, do at every opportunity: drink, dance, sing and screw. That Chameleon is a slippery one!
So we found the bard, but he died. Our master is a bard. He helped us return to Waterdeep, and gave the song the other could not.
And now I cannot breathe from laughing so hard. See what I mean about plans?
Very satisfying.
And you know what they call stray lambs?
Baaaa-stards.
You know why they take sheep up to cliffs?
They push back better.
You know what they call a corral?
An open air brothel.
So there I was, sitting in my room at Madame Garah’s, crying with laughter while the dhearow sitting across from me told jokes. Bet you’re curious how this happened. I certainly did not PLAN it!
Speaking of plans, well, you will see. They mean terribly little. Our goal was to get something from this bard hiding in Skullport. Our plan was to dress me up as a leper and bumble around until we found him.
Instead, while still on the boat we woke in chains. Yes, chains. And hoods over our faces. The leper disguise did nothing. Nothing! The people who did this led us about the town until we arrived in this warm, sweet-smelling room. Incense. Nice. They started talking to someone, saying things like ‘healthy’ and ‘strong’ and ‘untouched’. Then they pulled the hoods off.
There was a DHEAROW staring at me! I thought I was going to die. Or vomit. It was terrible. He was our master. I tried to fathom what horrible fate to expect, but I could not. I could barely think. He, our master, called himself a tall dark hin. He expected us to drink wine and entertain any guests that came by.
Wait for it.
We were expected to do what we, Paran and I, do at every opportunity: drink, dance, sing and screw. That Chameleon is a slippery one!
So we found the bard, but he died. Our master is a bard. He helped us return to Waterdeep, and gave the song the other could not.
And now I cannot breathe from laughing so hard. See what I mean about plans?
Last PC: Laurelin ~ dancer, trickster and professional pain-in-the-backside
Currently living like Rip van Winkle.
Currently living like Rip van Winkle.
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Misty
- Proletarian Librarian
- Posts: 1332
- Joined: Wed Jun 16, 2004 4:10 pm
- Location: Lazin' by el Rio Blanco
He has forgotten about you.
No. He could not. How does one forget the sun?
You have forgotten him.
I did not. How can I forget the one who still holds my heart?
You did not return.
I am afraid.
Coward.
I am a spectacular coward.
Why are you so far east?
Finding my own path.
Do you like being afraid?
No.
The Chameleon favors the bold.
Bold gave me a pierced heart.
And new love.
Oh shut up.
You must find out.
Later.
Do not wait too long.
I wrote him a letter.
And you watched the river take it.
Let me find my path.
Do not lose yourself.
No. He could not. How does one forget the sun?
You have forgotten him.
I did not. How can I forget the one who still holds my heart?
You did not return.
I am afraid.
Coward.
I am a spectacular coward.
Why are you so far east?
Finding my own path.
Do you like being afraid?
No.
The Chameleon favors the bold.
Bold gave me a pierced heart.
And new love.
Oh shut up.
You must find out.
Later.
Do not wait too long.
I wrote him a letter.
And you watched the river take it.
Let me find my path.
Do not lose yourself.
Last PC: Laurelin ~ dancer, trickster and professional pain-in-the-backside
Currently living like Rip van Winkle.
Currently living like Rip van Winkle.
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PensivesWetness
- Frost Giant
- Posts: 702
- Joined: Thu Oct 28, 2004 4:25 am
- Location: Cleveland, Ohio (where? whut? dude...)
Tea cups (16Sep06 1630 local)
The little hand trembled as she reached for the metal cup, well trimmed and preened cuticles, painted blue like the sky outside the window. centimeters laughed as they reduced the distance from finger print to slim copper coil, the very air vibrating from anticipation. lips in grim touch with each other, facial muscles tight from effort, concentration, isolation, exhilaration.
Her mother would beat her little bottom blue and blue, had she found her middlest daughter, teetering on the chair, daring gravity and injury to GET-THAT-CUP. almost, so close. sweat dripping, vision waving, bebesha's lust beguiling to failure and doom...
GOT IT!
The little brunette hin nearly squealed aloud in triumph as she held that copper cup high, riding that feeling of euphoria, of success and naughty mischief. She turned and leaped from the chair, dashing outside, already grinning ear to ear to mouth as she formulated how to make her older sister snicker at her success (since normally it t'was Ginnia and Melody who did most of the trouble making in the Scamp's name) and cause little Robin to sniffle at anything.
she, of course being Millia, forgot the warning her mother told her about the cup, the erst stolen Chalice of Fury (obviously a gift to Torm himself BY Brandobaris) and though it was a wonderful tea party, all four girls earned blue and blue bottoms to complement their suddenly pink locks of hair...
<Gebb> ok, what does it mean to be "huggled"? <spidroth_esq> Something terrible. <Squamatus> buggered <Dran> sodomised <Squamatus> by an acorn on a stick <tresca> LOL <Gebb> that didn't help <alynn>