Post by wordy on May 4, 2012 10:18:00 GMT 10
Series: Provenance
Title: Plainsong
Rating: PG
Event: Drama Discus
Words: 413
Summary: ”She danced for seven kings in Aliput, and eight queens,” Pasco babbled as they walked towards the open doors. “She danced for the emperor in Yanjing, just for him, for a whole year, and he made her a dress covered in blue pearls. Blue pearls, can you imagine! For dancing for one year for him and no one else!” – Magic Steps, p. 132
Yazmín lowered her hand once more and set her kohl brush on the dressing table, cursing under her breath. Her hand would not stop trembling. She clenched it into a fist, then the other, watching the henna stretch across her skin like crimson-dark vines, like rivulets of blood.
“Damn you,” she whispered, “and your war.”
She had the news from Lark this morning, had heard all about Dedicate Rosethorn and her young charges tangled up in it all, seen the stress marked on her friend’s face. Lark had told her, then left. But Summersea had caught wind of the stench days ago; she’d watched the city roil and tremble, folk flapping their tongues while half a world away ordinary men and women were having theirs cut out.
And even from half a world away, Yazmín was suffocating.
Pushing away from the table, her face left unpainted, she crossed to her wardrobe. It had been a habit of hers, born from years of travelling, to collect mementos; many of the items tucked away in her wardrobe, hidden from the world, had some measure of personal meaning to her. Perhaps that was what made it so very difficult.
The material was faded, a washed-away blue. Yet even with her body blocking out the yellow light that sprayed in through the windows behind her, the tiny pearls shone, luminous, a delicate cascade of jewels. She ran her fingers across them and allowed her eyes to flutter shut.
But the memories were tainted. Opening her eyes, she pursed her lips and returned the dress to its place. Oh, how she wished she had the will to burn it! Such a wish was foolish, though; for all her anger at the man she had once known, she was too weak even for the smallest of rebellions. People were fighting—dying—and she was safe in the comfort of her memories, far away here in Summersea.
She closed the wardrobe and returned to her seat, picking up her brush. Her hand still trembled, but she managed to still it long enough to apply her face. There seemed to be a sadness to the curve of her lip as she painted her mouth red, but that soon disappeared as well. When she was done, she raised her arms and stretched, cat-like, eyes falling shut momentarily at the pleasant burn of her muscles.
There were students and dancers waiting below, warming up their bodies, preparing to dance, half a world away.
Title: Plainsong
Rating: PG
Event: Drama Discus
Words: 413
Summary: ”She danced for seven kings in Aliput, and eight queens,” Pasco babbled as they walked towards the open doors. “She danced for the emperor in Yanjing, just for him, for a whole year, and he made her a dress covered in blue pearls. Blue pearls, can you imagine! For dancing for one year for him and no one else!” – Magic Steps, p. 132
Yazmín lowered her hand once more and set her kohl brush on the dressing table, cursing under her breath. Her hand would not stop trembling. She clenched it into a fist, then the other, watching the henna stretch across her skin like crimson-dark vines, like rivulets of blood.
“Damn you,” she whispered, “and your war.”
She had the news from Lark this morning, had heard all about Dedicate Rosethorn and her young charges tangled up in it all, seen the stress marked on her friend’s face. Lark had told her, then left. But Summersea had caught wind of the stench days ago; she’d watched the city roil and tremble, folk flapping their tongues while half a world away ordinary men and women were having theirs cut out.
And even from half a world away, Yazmín was suffocating.
Pushing away from the table, her face left unpainted, she crossed to her wardrobe. It had been a habit of hers, born from years of travelling, to collect mementos; many of the items tucked away in her wardrobe, hidden from the world, had some measure of personal meaning to her. Perhaps that was what made it so very difficult.
The material was faded, a washed-away blue. Yet even with her body blocking out the yellow light that sprayed in through the windows behind her, the tiny pearls shone, luminous, a delicate cascade of jewels. She ran her fingers across them and allowed her eyes to flutter shut.
But the memories were tainted. Opening her eyes, she pursed her lips and returned the dress to its place. Oh, how she wished she had the will to burn it! Such a wish was foolish, though; for all her anger at the man she had once known, she was too weak even for the smallest of rebellions. People were fighting—dying—and she was safe in the comfort of her memories, far away here in Summersea.
She closed the wardrobe and returned to her seat, picking up her brush. Her hand still trembled, but she managed to still it long enough to apply her face. There seemed to be a sadness to the curve of her lip as she painted her mouth red, but that soon disappeared as well. When she was done, she raised her arms and stretched, cat-like, eyes falling shut momentarily at the pleasant burn of her muscles.
There were students and dancers waiting below, warming up their bodies, preparing to dance, half a world away.
Maybe once we'd have seen it during Smackdown!