Post by rainstormamaya on Feb 17, 2010 10:01:40 GMT 10
Titles: Reliability
Rating: PG
Length: 212
Competitor: Vania
Round/Fight: 1/F
Summary: Princess Vania prefers self-sufficiency.
*****
“There are no words,” said a voice conversationally from the lump thrown over Kel’s shoulder, “to describe how much I hate being carried.”
“Your Highness, you are rather short on options,” Kel snapped, ducking hastily as a small ball of blazebalm flew over her head and exploded on a tree, spattering the surroundings with the deadly viscous liquid and sending the tree up in flames.
“Oh... I know... I mean, the battle and everything... but I hate being carried... It’s lucky you’re strong,” Princess Vania remarked dreamily.
Kel reflected that she was right. Princess Vania was five foot ten in her stocking feet, solidly built – she had a figure to die for, and it wasn’t as if it wasn’t all muscle, as Kel was growing increasingly aware, but she was built on her mother’s Amazonian lines rather than delicate Conté flower ones – and, when her Rider Group’s healer accidentally gave her slightly more poppy juice than he had meant to for the gaping, bloody gash in her shoulder, she had been rendered unable to walk herself off the battlefield and too heavy for anyone else in her Group to carry.
“I just don’t like relying on people,” Vania continued. “Oooh, colours!”
“That’s a mage duel, princess,” Kel said patiently, breath coming in sharp gasps.
“Except my Group, of course,” Vania murmured. “Love my Group... wonderful people... kind of drunken, but wonderful... And I rely on Jasson, of course... and Roald, they’re my favouritest brothers ever... but mostly I don’t like to rely on anyone... Is that an elephant?”
“It’s a hallucination, princess,” Kel informed her, barrelling through the half-opened gate with Dom and Lerant hard on her heels, and laying Vania carefully face down on a waiting stretcher. She turned to go, but Vania caught her hand and smiled lazily, dreamily up at her, head turned, cheek pressed against the stretcher. Clever, slate-blue eyes glanced up through long black lashes, bitten and chapped lips curved languidly, and the thick, short dark waves of hair, darkened by sweat, tumbled around Vania’s head like a deadly chiaroscuro, just flicking the edges of the blood-soaked split in her chain-mail vest, leather jerkin, shirt, tunic, skin.
“I like you,” Vania announced. “I could rely on you. I bet lots of people rely on you.”
Rating: PG
Length: 212
Competitor: Vania
Round/Fight: 1/F
Summary: Princess Vania prefers self-sufficiency.
*****
“There are no words,” said a voice conversationally from the lump thrown over Kel’s shoulder, “to describe how much I hate being carried.”
“Your Highness, you are rather short on options,” Kel snapped, ducking hastily as a small ball of blazebalm flew over her head and exploded on a tree, spattering the surroundings with the deadly viscous liquid and sending the tree up in flames.
“Oh... I know... I mean, the battle and everything... but I hate being carried... It’s lucky you’re strong,” Princess Vania remarked dreamily.
Kel reflected that she was right. Princess Vania was five foot ten in her stocking feet, solidly built – she had a figure to die for, and it wasn’t as if it wasn’t all muscle, as Kel was growing increasingly aware, but she was built on her mother’s Amazonian lines rather than delicate Conté flower ones – and, when her Rider Group’s healer accidentally gave her slightly more poppy juice than he had meant to for the gaping, bloody gash in her shoulder, she had been rendered unable to walk herself off the battlefield and too heavy for anyone else in her Group to carry.
“I just don’t like relying on people,” Vania continued. “Oooh, colours!”
“That’s a mage duel, princess,” Kel said patiently, breath coming in sharp gasps.
“Except my Group, of course,” Vania murmured. “Love my Group... wonderful people... kind of drunken, but wonderful... And I rely on Jasson, of course... and Roald, they’re my favouritest brothers ever... but mostly I don’t like to rely on anyone... Is that an elephant?”
“It’s a hallucination, princess,” Kel informed her, barrelling through the half-opened gate with Dom and Lerant hard on her heels, and laying Vania carefully face down on a waiting stretcher. She turned to go, but Vania caught her hand and smiled lazily, dreamily up at her, head turned, cheek pressed against the stretcher. Clever, slate-blue eyes glanced up through long black lashes, bitten and chapped lips curved languidly, and the thick, short dark waves of hair, darkened by sweat, tumbled around Vania’s head like a deadly chiaroscuro, just flicking the edges of the blood-soaked split in her chain-mail vest, leather jerkin, shirt, tunic, skin.
“I like you,” Vania announced. “I could rely on you. I bet lots of people rely on you.”