Post by journeycat on Mar 31, 2010 21:22:44 GMT 10
Title: Jesslaw Eyes
Rating: G
Length: 298 words
Competitor: Owen
Round/Fight: Final
Summary: Just because you win the battle doesn’t mean you win the war.
-----
“Uncle Owen!”
The familiar voice made his heart constrict as usual, and Owen turned to sweep the little girl up in his arms and kiss her, like he always did. Instead, he turned to face a pretty girl almost as tall as he was, lean and muscular and not at all as he remembered. It was only her wild chestnut curls, her gray eyes with their long, curling lashes and her impish grin that confirmed her identity.
“Fainne,” he sputtered, gaping at her. “I barely recognized you.”
She laughed, flashing white teeth. When did she get so old? he wondered, horrified. And when did she get so pretty?
“That’s what everyone says,” she said, embarrassed. “Lord Padraig may be old, but he still knows how to whip us pages into shape, I think.”
“You remind me of your mother,” he said, as she flung herself at him for an affectionate hug. “You look just like her, you know.”
“Everyone says that, too,” she said with a smile. “I don’t mind. Will you eat with us later? We’re celebrating.”
“For what?”
“I was chosen as a squire, silly. Sir Prosper chose me.”
“Did he now,” Owen exclaimed. “Well, congratulations. He’s a good man. We were year-mates, you know.”
“He mentioned it,” she said. “Papa wants me—Lady Alanna is treating us to a meal at The Dancing Dove in two bells, if you want to come.”
“I’ll be there,” he promised.
Fainne grinned at him and flounced away, her curls bouncing on her shoulders. Owen watched Domitan sling an arm around her and kiss her brow, and felt a nasty curl of triumph. Fainne may have been born to Masbolle, but the proof of her heritage was in the gray of her Jesslaw eyes.
Rating: G
Length: 298 words
Competitor: Owen
Round/Fight: Final
Summary: Just because you win the battle doesn’t mean you win the war.
-----
“Uncle Owen!”
The familiar voice made his heart constrict as usual, and Owen turned to sweep the little girl up in his arms and kiss her, like he always did. Instead, he turned to face a pretty girl almost as tall as he was, lean and muscular and not at all as he remembered. It was only her wild chestnut curls, her gray eyes with their long, curling lashes and her impish grin that confirmed her identity.
“Fainne,” he sputtered, gaping at her. “I barely recognized you.”
She laughed, flashing white teeth. When did she get so old? he wondered, horrified. And when did she get so pretty?
“That’s what everyone says,” she said, embarrassed. “Lord Padraig may be old, but he still knows how to whip us pages into shape, I think.”
“You remind me of your mother,” he said, as she flung herself at him for an affectionate hug. “You look just like her, you know.”
“Everyone says that, too,” she said with a smile. “I don’t mind. Will you eat with us later? We’re celebrating.”
“For what?”
“I was chosen as a squire, silly. Sir Prosper chose me.”
“Did he now,” Owen exclaimed. “Well, congratulations. He’s a good man. We were year-mates, you know.”
“He mentioned it,” she said. “Papa wants me—Lady Alanna is treating us to a meal at The Dancing Dove in two bells, if you want to come.”
“I’ll be there,” he promised.
Fainne grinned at him and flounced away, her curls bouncing on her shoulders. Owen watched Domitan sling an arm around her and kiss her brow, and felt a nasty curl of triumph. Fainne may have been born to Masbolle, but the proof of her heritage was in the gray of her Jesslaw eyes.