Post by rainstormamaya on Jul 1, 2009 7:39:26 GMT 10
Title: Philanthropism
Rating: PG-13
Prompt #4
Summary: Philanthropism, Buri-style.
“You must have seen this before,” Raoul comments to Buri as he sits on his horse, supervising the orderly distribution of food at Fief Legann, badly hit by the famine. “In Sarain, I mean,” he qualifies as Buri looks up at him, black eyes narrowed against the sun. She has her hand firmly in her pony’s reins as she watches the crowd and the members of the Own keeping order, and her expression, as ever, is inscrutable. She has two rolls and an apple tucked into her saddlebags, he knows- the breakfast she hasn’t had time to eat yet.
“Yes,” she says, lips thin, and pauses. “You don’t get used to it. Here.” She stuffs the reins into his hands and slips down into the melee, to a little family on the fringes, its matriarch a girl of no more than sixteen, dressed in rags and painfully thin, holding an emaciated brother by the hand and carrying a starving baby. Maybe her parents are dead. She would not be the first such orphan Raoul has encountered.
He watches in astonishment- and he can only see it because of George’s patient tuition years ago in the ignoble art of pickpocketing –as Buri’s hand flashes out, and drops the apple and one of the rolls into the girl’s pocket, and Buri herself melts away into the crowd.
Five minutes later, she returns and takes her reins back with a nod of thanks, and then scowls at him. (He didn’t say anything, he didn’t look at her oddly, but since when has she needed an excuse?)
“What?” she says, voice a challenge. “It’s not as if I needed them.”
Rating: PG-13
Prompt #4
Summary: Philanthropism, Buri-style.
“You must have seen this before,” Raoul comments to Buri as he sits on his horse, supervising the orderly distribution of food at Fief Legann, badly hit by the famine. “In Sarain, I mean,” he qualifies as Buri looks up at him, black eyes narrowed against the sun. She has her hand firmly in her pony’s reins as she watches the crowd and the members of the Own keeping order, and her expression, as ever, is inscrutable. She has two rolls and an apple tucked into her saddlebags, he knows- the breakfast she hasn’t had time to eat yet.
“Yes,” she says, lips thin, and pauses. “You don’t get used to it. Here.” She stuffs the reins into his hands and slips down into the melee, to a little family on the fringes, its matriarch a girl of no more than sixteen, dressed in rags and painfully thin, holding an emaciated brother by the hand and carrying a starving baby. Maybe her parents are dead. She would not be the first such orphan Raoul has encountered.
He watches in astonishment- and he can only see it because of George’s patient tuition years ago in the ignoble art of pickpocketing –as Buri’s hand flashes out, and drops the apple and one of the rolls into the girl’s pocket, and Buri herself melts away into the crowd.
Five minutes later, she returns and takes her reins back with a nod of thanks, and then scowls at him. (He didn’t say anything, he didn’t look at her oddly, but since when has she needed an excuse?)
“What?” she says, voice a challenge. “It’s not as if I needed them.”
Maybe once we'd have seen it during Smackdown!