Post by Shhasow on Apr 5, 2011 11:52:54 GMT 10
Title: Hatred
Rating: PG
Word Count: 397
Pairing: A/R
Round/Fight: 1/G
Summary: Roger considers his pages, including one page Alan. Notice how he never uses the same insult twice. He's too good to repeat himself.
Hate was not a strong enough word.
Duke Roger pondered this linguistic problem as he lectured to the dim, dull little boys.
He hated them, truly, each and every last one of these ‘Gifted’ children who aspired to be knights. Not one of them deserved the title.
He hated that his brother forced him to teach the brats. It took time away from his plots and plans and pleasant diversions. Nor did any of the impudent pustules appreciate his expertise; by the Black God, he could be a black robe! Roger took a second to turn that delightful turn of phrase over in his mind. He decided that he liked it.
Still, these yammering dullards should consider themselves blessed by the Great gods that he deigned to lower himself to such a degrading task and shoving information down their throats.
His... cousin was a exception, unpleasant as it was to acknowledge. Everything would be easier if he were Giftless, or a fool like his favorite, Alan of Trebond.
Roger glanced at the fire-topped slender boy as he diligently scratched out notes.
Alan of Trebond was a fool. A lucky fool, judging by that artifact he wore as a sword, but a fool nonetheless. His violet eyes - what a putrid color for eyes! - were absurdly large, guileless, and blank. Delving into his mind was like walking in a white abyss, characterized by absence of anything of worth.
Lucky, too, because the boy possessed a Gift of excessive strength, though Roger of course did everything in his power to convince the idiot that his Gift was average, hardly worth training, that the Sweating Sickness had been an intervention by the gods and not by any particular talent of his own. From all appearances, it seemed that Roger had succeeded, as the troublingly-Gifted boy devoted more time to swordplay than magic.
Well, now that he had considered the matter, Roger decided that he couldn’t truly hate page Alan. He was a useful pawn, or would be in the future. Fools could be used and discarded without effort. So therefore, what he felt for the boy was more akin to disgust, not hatred.
But the rest of the slow, slimy, dunderheads, Roger of Conte hated them.
No. His clever mind finally supplied the word, and the corners of his mouth curled up into a slight smirk.
Not hated. Loathed.
QC by: greenie
Rating: PG
Word Count: 397
Pairing: A/R
Round/Fight: 1/G
Summary: Roger considers his pages, including one page Alan. Notice how he never uses the same insult twice. He's too good to repeat himself.
Hate was not a strong enough word.
Duke Roger pondered this linguistic problem as he lectured to the dim, dull little boys.
He hated them, truly, each and every last one of these ‘Gifted’ children who aspired to be knights. Not one of them deserved the title.
He hated that his brother forced him to teach the brats. It took time away from his plots and plans and pleasant diversions. Nor did any of the impudent pustules appreciate his expertise; by the Black God, he could be a black robe! Roger took a second to turn that delightful turn of phrase over in his mind. He decided that he liked it.
Still, these yammering dullards should consider themselves blessed by the Great gods that he deigned to lower himself to such a degrading task and shoving information down their throats.
His... cousin was a exception, unpleasant as it was to acknowledge. Everything would be easier if he were Giftless, or a fool like his favorite, Alan of Trebond.
Roger glanced at the fire-topped slender boy as he diligently scratched out notes.
Alan of Trebond was a fool. A lucky fool, judging by that artifact he wore as a sword, but a fool nonetheless. His violet eyes - what a putrid color for eyes! - were absurdly large, guileless, and blank. Delving into his mind was like walking in a white abyss, characterized by absence of anything of worth.
Lucky, too, because the boy possessed a Gift of excessive strength, though Roger of course did everything in his power to convince the idiot that his Gift was average, hardly worth training, that the Sweating Sickness had been an intervention by the gods and not by any particular talent of his own. From all appearances, it seemed that Roger had succeeded, as the troublingly-Gifted boy devoted more time to swordplay than magic.
Well, now that he had considered the matter, Roger decided that he couldn’t truly hate page Alan. He was a useful pawn, or would be in the future. Fools could be used and discarded without effort. So therefore, what he felt for the boy was more akin to disgust, not hatred.
But the rest of the slow, slimy, dunderheads, Roger of Conte hated them.
No. His clever mind finally supplied the word, and the corners of his mouth curled up into a slight smirk.
Not hated. Loathed.
QC by: greenie