Post by Rachy on May 30, 2010 19:38:18 GMT 10
Title: Heartless
Rating: PG
Prompt: #1: Feelings and Emotions
Category: 250 words
Word Count: 250 words
Summary: The leaders of the Rogue are heartless, but not afraid to feel.
He sees the new one sitting on his throne. He’s got that cold boy look of Scanra engrained in every scar, and he looks like a fountain statue made from the coldest ice. The blonde mot rests an elbow on his throne, spinning several daggers, and it’s an unwritten threat to watch them loop. She’s not as icy as he is, but she still gives off more toughness then most mots. The last mot sits on the table, and she looks more like a mot trying to be a lass, with her dark curls plaited back. He sees the scowl on her face and knows she’s a real mot, watching her set the cold hands of doom on the table for the Rogue. He doesn’t catch her soft and low murmur, but he sees the change in the figures of ice, sees the snowmen shatter. He hears his guffaw of laughter, echoing with a sense of warmth and bringing light with it, warming his heart, and it bounces around the half-empty tavern with the chimes and giggles of the laughter of the lasses, their smiles glowing. He watches as she lays the next card, and sees the cheer drain from her face, before echoing on his. The blonde lass sheathes her dagger and leans over, hand on his shoulder. The Rogue stands, storming tensely away and the lasses stare after him shakily, packing the cards. They may be the leaders of the Rogue, heartless, but they’re not afraid to feel.
Rating: PG
Prompt: #1: Feelings and Emotions
Category: 250 words
Word Count: 250 words
Summary: The leaders of the Rogue are heartless, but not afraid to feel.
He sees the new one sitting on his throne. He’s got that cold boy look of Scanra engrained in every scar, and he looks like a fountain statue made from the coldest ice. The blonde mot rests an elbow on his throne, spinning several daggers, and it’s an unwritten threat to watch them loop. She’s not as icy as he is, but she still gives off more toughness then most mots. The last mot sits on the table, and she looks more like a mot trying to be a lass, with her dark curls plaited back. He sees the scowl on her face and knows she’s a real mot, watching her set the cold hands of doom on the table for the Rogue. He doesn’t catch her soft and low murmur, but he sees the change in the figures of ice, sees the snowmen shatter. He hears his guffaw of laughter, echoing with a sense of warmth and bringing light with it, warming his heart, and it bounces around the half-empty tavern with the chimes and giggles of the laughter of the lasses, their smiles glowing. He watches as she lays the next card, and sees the cheer drain from her face, before echoing on his. The blonde lass sheathes her dagger and leans over, hand on his shoulder. The Rogue stands, storming tensely away and the lasses stare after him shakily, packing the cards. They may be the leaders of the Rogue, heartless, but they’re not afraid to feel.