Post by Kit on Feb 19, 2010 23:42:42 GMT 10
Title: Looming
Rating: PG
Length: 520
Competitor: Baird
Round: 1/D
Summary: White-haired at thirty-three, and Expected, Lady Knight Keladry would rather be anywhere else.
Alanna’s old stories of her friend’s chronic panic during all fine events at the season—especially when Raoul backed them up himself, all deep groans and hand wringing and accounts of Sir Gareth’s less-than-gentle mockery—had always seemed exaggerated, to Kel.
No, that was unfair. He had, years ago, been genuinely lumpen. It was simply hard to remember such things when the ballroom, cavernous as it was, felt too small for body, and her former Knight Master sat laughing, free, with his wife. Buri is your curtain.
It was difficult to take refuge when you were white-haired at thirty-three, prone to loom and Expected.
(“You will attend, Lady Knight.” The words still made her wince.
“If I can, Sire, of course—“
“—This is not a request.”)
Laughter. Noise. Nervous Pages dropping plates and scampering in and out of sabotage.
Cleon, magnanimous surrounded by his prettily-dressed brood of not-quite-giants.
Merric, protecting New Hope.
Owen, laughing brightly as his bride leaned in to whisper something cutting—Lord Wyldon, almost as uncomfortable as Kel, perhaps, in velvet, looking on with a father’s slightly worried eye.
Dom, hitting something somewhere.
Prince Roald, beginning to look too old for the title, but content with it, was whispering something to the always glorious Shinkokami.
Smoke from the candles, grease from the floor and food. Scent and colour-flash Heavy and cloying. Fiddles, sweet and sickly. Recorders, trilling loops beneath and over the strings, a vivid treble thread. Dresses rustling, shoes scraping and squeaking over the floor.
Seaver in Sarain; Faleron—where was Faleron? Not a single right not to be here, in this mess.
Alanna, retired for he night with her husband’s hand sneaking too low on her back.
Neal, finally saddled with enough Yamani not to humiliate himself, was free of it, meeting in-laws before, as Yuki
had put it, “They give up waiting and die.”
“Lady Knight.”
She jumped, just a little, taking in a thin face and tilted smile. Greying hair fell into serious eyes that she could see she did not loom in. “Your Grace.”
“You seem a little lost.”
“In this crowd?”
“Particularly. Anything I might do to assist you?”
Kel laughed. “Give me a pox?” She kept her voice low. “Heal me up afterward, of course, but if I was standing right by Their Majesties and broke out in welts, maybe they wouldn’t ask…”
Baird laughed, just a little, taking his hands in hers. She squeezed them, amazed that they felt so light in hers, when she had seen them laid on dying bodies he would drag gently back to the world.
“Sadly,” he said, “My talents do not lie in that direction.”
“Shame.”
“I was thinking more along the lines of asking for this dance.”
Kel stared. The tilted smile was still there. “Didn’t you once dance with my mother?” she asked.
“Repeatedly,” he said. “But you are not your mother.”
“I also can’t dance.”
“I think we all can,” said the Duke, and now she was sure he was teasing her, deeper than Neal ever dared. “Just a little.”
He led her through madness, onto the floor.
Rating: PG
Length: 520
Competitor: Baird
Round: 1/D
Summary: White-haired at thirty-three, and Expected, Lady Knight Keladry would rather be anywhere else.
Alanna’s old stories of her friend’s chronic panic during all fine events at the season—especially when Raoul backed them up himself, all deep groans and hand wringing and accounts of Sir Gareth’s less-than-gentle mockery—had always seemed exaggerated, to Kel.
No, that was unfair. He had, years ago, been genuinely lumpen. It was simply hard to remember such things when the ballroom, cavernous as it was, felt too small for body, and her former Knight Master sat laughing, free, with his wife. Buri is your curtain.
It was difficult to take refuge when you were white-haired at thirty-three, prone to loom and Expected.
(“You will attend, Lady Knight.” The words still made her wince.
“If I can, Sire, of course—“
“—This is not a request.”)
Laughter. Noise. Nervous Pages dropping plates and scampering in and out of sabotage.
Cleon, magnanimous surrounded by his prettily-dressed brood of not-quite-giants.
Merric, protecting New Hope.
Owen, laughing brightly as his bride leaned in to whisper something cutting—Lord Wyldon, almost as uncomfortable as Kel, perhaps, in velvet, looking on with a father’s slightly worried eye.
Dom, hitting something somewhere.
Prince Roald, beginning to look too old for the title, but content with it, was whispering something to the always glorious Shinkokami.
Smoke from the candles, grease from the floor and food. Scent and colour-flash Heavy and cloying. Fiddles, sweet and sickly. Recorders, trilling loops beneath and over the strings, a vivid treble thread. Dresses rustling, shoes scraping and squeaking over the floor.
Seaver in Sarain; Faleron—where was Faleron? Not a single right not to be here, in this mess.
Alanna, retired for he night with her husband’s hand sneaking too low on her back.
Neal, finally saddled with enough Yamani not to humiliate himself, was free of it, meeting in-laws before, as Yuki
had put it, “They give up waiting and die.”
“Lady Knight.”
She jumped, just a little, taking in a thin face and tilted smile. Greying hair fell into serious eyes that she could see she did not loom in. “Your Grace.”
“You seem a little lost.”
“In this crowd?”
“Particularly. Anything I might do to assist you?”
Kel laughed. “Give me a pox?” She kept her voice low. “Heal me up afterward, of course, but if I was standing right by Their Majesties and broke out in welts, maybe they wouldn’t ask…”
Baird laughed, just a little, taking his hands in hers. She squeezed them, amazed that they felt so light in hers, when she had seen them laid on dying bodies he would drag gently back to the world.
“Sadly,” he said, “My talents do not lie in that direction.”
“Shame.”
“I was thinking more along the lines of asking for this dance.”
Kel stared. The tilted smile was still there. “Didn’t you once dance with my mother?” she asked.
“Repeatedly,” he said. “But you are not your mother.”
“I also can’t dance.”
“I think we all can,” said the Duke, and now she was sure he was teasing her, deeper than Neal ever dared. “Just a little.”
He led her through madness, onto the floor.