Post by Deleted on May 1, 2011 8:57:32 GMT 10
Title: Slide (12)
Rating: PG
Word Count: 299
Pairing: Circlecest
Round/Fight: 2/C
Summary: It's really Briar she's worried about. Mentioned character death.
It isn't raining.
It's a strange feeling, this vague, puzzling sensation of something being out of place. The source is so simple, it takes her half the burial to figure out what it is. She remembers all these unimportant, disconnected bits and pieces associated with her teachers' separate funerals, like how rain thundered down at each of them; but Rosethorn is being buried beneath a small garden of her herbs, and it isn't raining.
Sandry should be glad. She's certainly not dressed for wild weather, and doesn't expect it even if a weather-witch grieves by her side: Tris has too much control and respect to let her powers run untamed at a monumental occasion like this. Tris's eyes are red, but not weeping; she looks too drained for tears. She looks, Sandry thinks, like she'll indulge in their... method... of dealing with grief, after the funeral. Daja, leaning heavily on her staff, standing at Tris's side and clothed in eye-smarting red, certainly doesn't seem like she'll protest spending the night with Tris, should she ask.
(These things usually go unsaid though, among members of the Circle. It's all action, all sudden impulse.)
They'll keep walking, however heavily. The person Sandry's most worried about is Briar.
"Go 'way," he mumbled from behind his closed, locked door.
"No," she said, mastering her voice so it did not shake and quiver with her personal grief for Rosethorn. "You're going to let me in or I'll know why."
There was a sharp, surprisingly brittle laugh in reply, making her jump; he sounded like he'd just returned from war and still saw the slaughtered shamans around every corner.
She pushed uselessly at the door. She battered his mind with words, too caught up with her point to note that he didn't shut her out.
QC: by Cassandra
Rating: PG
Word Count: 299
Pairing: Circlecest
Round/Fight: 2/C
Summary: It's really Briar she's worried about. Mentioned character death.
It isn't raining.
It's a strange feeling, this vague, puzzling sensation of something being out of place. The source is so simple, it takes her half the burial to figure out what it is. She remembers all these unimportant, disconnected bits and pieces associated with her teachers' separate funerals, like how rain thundered down at each of them; but Rosethorn is being buried beneath a small garden of her herbs, and it isn't raining.
Sandry should be glad. She's certainly not dressed for wild weather, and doesn't expect it even if a weather-witch grieves by her side: Tris has too much control and respect to let her powers run untamed at a monumental occasion like this. Tris's eyes are red, but not weeping; she looks too drained for tears. She looks, Sandry thinks, like she'll indulge in their... method... of dealing with grief, after the funeral. Daja, leaning heavily on her staff, standing at Tris's side and clothed in eye-smarting red, certainly doesn't seem like she'll protest spending the night with Tris, should she ask.
(These things usually go unsaid though, among members of the Circle. It's all action, all sudden impulse.)
They'll keep walking, however heavily. The person Sandry's most worried about is Briar.
"Go 'way," he mumbled from behind his closed, locked door.
"No," she said, mastering her voice so it did not shake and quiver with her personal grief for Rosethorn. "You're going to let me in or I'll know why."
There was a sharp, surprisingly brittle laugh in reply, making her jump; he sounded like he'd just returned from war and still saw the slaughtered shamans around every corner.
She pushed uselessly at the door. She battered his mind with words, too caught up with her point to note that he didn't shut her out.
QC: by Cassandra