Princess Dorothea of Eldonia
22
Marshal August Derrick
29
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Princess Dorothea of Eldonia
22
Marshal August Derrick
29
Hey there, I'd be interested in a crazy-fantasy sort of story -- nothing held back, imagination run wild, insane beasts and colorful plots. There are a few recent writing samples in my post history, if you care for a look. :) Dimension-hopping is fun too!
The wounded sand-prince and his trusty horse are simply brilliant! And yes, that keyhole was pretty well hidden, oops. Yay horsie!
I don't think I made it too clear, but Dorian's wearing a British soldier's uniform without the jacket. He's in a long wooden hallway with more hallways branching off it, lit up by yellow glowing vines that line the ceiling. It's the interior of a massive seafaring ship.
I'm not sure if you read the previous version, but I changed the hallway from stone to wood because it makes more sense. xD
I don't think I made it too clear, but Dorian's wearing a British soldier's uniform without the jacket. He's in a long wooden hallway with more hallways branching off it, lit up by yellow glowing vines that line the ceiling. It's the interior of a massive seafaring ship.
I'm not sure if you read the previous version, but I changed the hallway from stone to wood because it makes more sense. xD
Dorian Foster ached with waiting. He was dying of waiting. He could hang himself with a rope of waiting, and the braiding of it would pass the time better than this. He sat now on the wooden floor with his arms on his knees, staring by the light of the vines at the mahogany door that Agatha would come back through any moment now.
Any. Moment.
There were deep white gashes in the iron-bolted door from the hours he'd spent striking it and leveraging it with a sword (which now lay in useless pieces on the floor). It was charred from the torchfire he'd set against it (an idea abandoned when the smoke filled his lungs). There was blood on the wood and on his torn fingernails. He'd have to go back through the halls for food soon, his stomach whined.
"You know," he told the door, "I don't think she's coming back." He sniffed, rubbed his nose, tipped his head. "Nah, she's left me. Found somebody sane. She's been eager for this, you know. A cruel joke." He shouted those last words as if Agatha would hear them and repent. He ran his tongue over his teeth and scrubbed his fingernails in his hair and leaped to his feet. "She'll pop in with that big innocent grin on her face and she'll have bought me a new hat and she'll make those big eyes and hell, I won't stay mad. I'm weak." He sighed and leaned back against the wall, lifted his arm, sniffed, and wheezed. His uniform had been drenched in sweat several times since he had decided Agatha was taking too long, and now the stains were deep and rank. "I'm a weak, weak man," he groaned, and he scratched at the whiskers at his chin, dreaming of a razor. For the first time in a week he considered abandoning Agatha in favor of a shower. He was bitterly proud of himself for that first step of acceptance.
But then, something clicked in the door, and all those thoughts of hatred and anger and sore smelly waiting were gone in a flood of relief. Instantly he was at the door, just as the first light shone through the seams. He picked up the biggest piece of the shattered sword, wedged it in the door and helped to pry it open, grinning through the effort, only imagining exactly what he would say to her when they finally stood face to face.
Only the face in front of him was a bit more beardy than what he was expecting.
Dorian stumbled backward, panting, the shard of sword clutched in one hand, his eyes wide as he stared at the dark intruder. He glanced once in alarm at the key, and then at the trail of blood seeping from the man's stomach, and back to that small-eyed face he didn't recognize. Slowly he put distance between them, until his back hit the wall. There were hallways to either side of him, and he knew he could outrun and lose this injured would-be attacker in the labyrinth, if necessary. He couldn't decide whether he should be helping this man or whether the intruder had sustained a wound while attacking Agatha, so he stayed where he was and watched the man's face carefully. He liked to think he was a good judge of character, and people mortally wounded, in his experience, tended to bare themselves handsomely.
Any. Moment.
There were deep white gashes in the iron-bolted door from the hours he'd spent striking it and leveraging it with a sword (which now lay in useless pieces on the floor). It was charred from the torchfire he'd set against it (an idea abandoned when the smoke filled his lungs). There was blood on the wood and on his torn fingernails. He'd have to go back through the halls for food soon, his stomach whined.
"You know," he told the door, "I don't think she's coming back." He sniffed, rubbed his nose, tipped his head. "Nah, she's left me. Found somebody sane. She's been eager for this, you know. A cruel joke." He shouted those last words as if Agatha would hear them and repent. He ran his tongue over his teeth and scrubbed his fingernails in his hair and leaped to his feet. "She'll pop in with that big innocent grin on her face and she'll have bought me a new hat and she'll make those big eyes and hell, I won't stay mad. I'm weak." He sighed and leaned back against the wall, lifted his arm, sniffed, and wheezed. His uniform had been drenched in sweat several times since he had decided Agatha was taking too long, and now the stains were deep and rank. "I'm a weak, weak man," he groaned, and he scratched at the whiskers at his chin, dreaming of a razor. For the first time in a week he considered abandoning Agatha in favor of a shower. He was bitterly proud of himself for that first step of acceptance.
But then, something clicked in the door, and all those thoughts of hatred and anger and sore smelly waiting were gone in a flood of relief. Instantly he was at the door, just as the first light shone through the seams. He picked up the biggest piece of the shattered sword, wedged it in the door and helped to pry it open, grinning through the effort, only imagining exactly what he would say to her when they finally stood face to face.
Only the face in front of him was a bit more beardy than what he was expecting.
Dorian stumbled backward, panting, the shard of sword clutched in one hand, his eyes wide as he stared at the dark intruder. He glanced once in alarm at the key, and then at the trail of blood seeping from the man's stomach, and back to that small-eyed face he didn't recognize. Slowly he put distance between them, until his back hit the wall. There were hallways to either side of him, and he knew he could outrun and lose this injured would-be attacker in the labyrinth, if necessary. He couldn't decide whether he should be helping this man or whether the intruder had sustained a wound while attacking Agatha, so he stayed where he was and watched the man's face carefully. He liked to think he was a good judge of character, and people mortally wounded, in his experience, tended to bare themselves handsomely.
She had heard them -- a pack of them, young, a litter and their mother, calling to the moon for their supper. Aliyah did not change her pace, did not look away from the towering rock before her, now so much clearer in the gray outline of morning. They were the tricksters, her people would say -- quick to take human form, to manipulate the weak-minded to swim in their own soup pot, to steal the lioness' mane and blame it on the antelope. In reality they were merely hungry, and she was easy if leather-tough prey.
"What are you doing there?" she demanded of the jackal on the dune, one gnarled hand clutched to her shawl. She waited, but no pups came to join her -- only a mournful yowl in the distance. Anger flared in the old woman's eyes. "You terrible, selfish mother. How dare you leave your babies behind. How dare you hunt for yourself while your children are starving. I'm more than a meal for you and them together, you know it, and you don't care. You turn your back on them." She took a shuddering breath, and she set her old teeth, and she waved her walking stick like a sword. "You go back and you fetch them. You tell them that if I fail today there'll be breakfast enough for all of you, but give me the time to try. I've waited long enough. Give me time." And she set the stick in the sand and shuffled off again, aching and creaking and panting, but she could see the cavern from here.
The great stone pillar was parted like a curtain near the sand, and the old woman ran her fingers over the dusty ancient paintings on the cavern wall. They depicted great wars and winged beasts, golden temples and gods long since lost, painted by the fingers of a dead people. She shuffled slowly along the wall, lit dimly by the first glimmers of sunlight, reading the pictures as if she had a clue what they meant.
She stopped, and her breath caught in her throat. Her finger rested on a small keyhole in the wall, at the eye of a bird-god. She licked her lips, and she turned one aching foot at a time to face it, to press her eye close to it, but there was nothing but darkness, as she knew there would be. She brushed the dust away from the keyhole, and she felt its edges with a shaking finger. For fear of failure she didn't want to try; she didn't want to know whether her hopes had all been for nothing. But she took the brass key from her pocket, and she ran her thumb over it and she whispered a prayer for luck.
"Please," she whispered to the wall, "I'm sorry. Please, just this once, only this once, for a moment, whatever you think of me, let me find what's become of him. I promise I will rest in peace, only knowing. I've left everything else finished, except this. I made a promise. I promised." She slipped the key into the lock in the wall and closed her eyes. "Please."
It did not turn.
She tried turning the other way. She took it out and shoved it back in. She jiggled it and wriggled it. She stabbed the wall with it as if she might make it bleed. The key clattered to the floor, and she slid down with her back to the wall. "So that's it, then." She smiled bitterly, and she laughed, and she laid her head back and sighed, while the sun illuminated the dead pictures.
She pulled a folded letter out of her skirt pocket -- several pages long -- and she read it over, and she read it aloud, and she added a few more lines to the bottom with a stick of charcoal, but never imagined anyone would read them now. She folded the letter to her breast with the key pressed against it, and she told the story of her life to the keyhole in the wall. And when the sun had risen higher and she had finished telling the story of her beautiful, beautiful grandchildren, her crackled voice faded from the echo of the cavern for the last time, and she was still.
"What are you doing there?" she demanded of the jackal on the dune, one gnarled hand clutched to her shawl. She waited, but no pups came to join her -- only a mournful yowl in the distance. Anger flared in the old woman's eyes. "You terrible, selfish mother. How dare you leave your babies behind. How dare you hunt for yourself while your children are starving. I'm more than a meal for you and them together, you know it, and you don't care. You turn your back on them." She took a shuddering breath, and she set her old teeth, and she waved her walking stick like a sword. "You go back and you fetch them. You tell them that if I fail today there'll be breakfast enough for all of you, but give me the time to try. I've waited long enough. Give me time." And she set the stick in the sand and shuffled off again, aching and creaking and panting, but she could see the cavern from here.
The great stone pillar was parted like a curtain near the sand, and the old woman ran her fingers over the dusty ancient paintings on the cavern wall. They depicted great wars and winged beasts, golden temples and gods long since lost, painted by the fingers of a dead people. She shuffled slowly along the wall, lit dimly by the first glimmers of sunlight, reading the pictures as if she had a clue what they meant.
She stopped, and her breath caught in her throat. Her finger rested on a small keyhole in the wall, at the eye of a bird-god. She licked her lips, and she turned one aching foot at a time to face it, to press her eye close to it, but there was nothing but darkness, as she knew there would be. She brushed the dust away from the keyhole, and she felt its edges with a shaking finger. For fear of failure she didn't want to try; she didn't want to know whether her hopes had all been for nothing. But she took the brass key from her pocket, and she ran her thumb over it and she whispered a prayer for luck.
"Please," she whispered to the wall, "I'm sorry. Please, just this once, only this once, for a moment, whatever you think of me, let me find what's become of him. I promise I will rest in peace, only knowing. I've left everything else finished, except this. I made a promise. I promised." She slipped the key into the lock in the wall and closed her eyes. "Please."
It did not turn.
She tried turning the other way. She took it out and shoved it back in. She jiggled it and wriggled it. She stabbed the wall with it as if she might make it bleed. The key clattered to the floor, and she slid down with her back to the wall. "So that's it, then." She smiled bitterly, and she laughed, and she laid her head back and sighed, while the sun illuminated the dead pictures.
She pulled a folded letter out of her skirt pocket -- several pages long -- and she read it over, and she read it aloud, and she added a few more lines to the bottom with a stick of charcoal, but never imagined anyone would read them now. She folded the letter to her breast with the key pressed against it, and she told the story of her life to the keyhole in the wall. And when the sun had risen higher and she had finished telling the story of her beautiful, beautiful grandchildren, her crackled voice faded from the echo of the cavern for the last time, and she was still.
Oohh a jackal! Sinister and somehow foreshadowing. I have an idea, but it'll probably take awhile to write. Maybe I can set the stage for another character to come along in the future. ;)
edit: Ok, yep, I'm kind of forcing you to find and use that key, sorry about that. ^^;
edit: Ok, yep, I'm kind of forcing you to find and use that key, sorry about that. ^^;
In
Looking for a few good... amoeba moosen. (g'on, ignore post count, eh?)
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11 yrs ago
Forum: 1x1 Interest Checks
Ha! I promise no mirrors. At least none whose purpose is expected of you.
I've written something! I hope there's enough for you to play with, I didn't leave much in the way of openings, I think. http://www.roleplayerguild.com/topics/2723/posts/ic
I've written something! I hope there's enough for you to play with, I didn't leave much in the way of openings, I think. http://www.roleplayerguild.com/topics/2723/posts/ic
Aliyah wasn't her name, really, was it? No, she'd had another name, a silly name long ago, too long ago to remember properly with any decent sort of attachment that people should put to names. That had been a dream, or like a dream, so intangible when placed beside her own sons and daughter, her granddaughters and grandsons, the sand and the sun and the horses and the thirst and the trail of small graves. But it had been true. She was not, by blood, one of these people she held so dear. The children's name for her meant pale grandmother -- for even after a lifetime of browning sun, her fragile skin and eyes and hair still drew questions she couldn't answer.
Aliyah, so her name had always been, sat in a crooked chair by the tent flap, a knobby veined hand against the canvas while a bleary eye peeked out at the night fires. She knew the fire well, and the voices that spoke quietly in its warmth. She could name the occupants of each of the other tents, and whether they would be sleeping now, and who was having a nightmare and who would sing them lullabies. She worried for them, she loved every hair on every head, and she kissed her fingers and brushed those kisses out of the tent, wishing them all the happiness of the world. If she said goodbye they would convince her to stay.
She leaned on her walking stick, her legs creaking while she stood, and she threw a shawl around her head and shoulders with an energy unbecoming of the elderly. She pulled open a reed drawer, and for a moment she paused before drawing out of it a plain and tarnished brass key. She fondled it a moment, hoping the thin pads of her fingers might find some memory locked deep away, and she dropped it into a pocket and looked out of the tent again.
The men by the fire -- keep them safe, may they be happy! -- finally stood and walked together to tend the horses, which had begun huffing and scuffing under the strange close moon. Now was her only chance.
She stole out of the tent and rounded it, and she shuffled past the tents that held her sleeping grandchildren, blowing silent kisses as she went, until the moon greeted her round and bright in a crust of endless stars. The dunes were blue in the night. Above them, in the distance, a single craggy rock rose like a sentinel. It was toward this she walked, determined, slipping sometimes in the sand, shuffling. She would make it by morning, she thought. By the time her dear family discovered her missing they would never find her again.
Aliyah, so her name had always been, sat in a crooked chair by the tent flap, a knobby veined hand against the canvas while a bleary eye peeked out at the night fires. She knew the fire well, and the voices that spoke quietly in its warmth. She could name the occupants of each of the other tents, and whether they would be sleeping now, and who was having a nightmare and who would sing them lullabies. She worried for them, she loved every hair on every head, and she kissed her fingers and brushed those kisses out of the tent, wishing them all the happiness of the world. If she said goodbye they would convince her to stay.
She leaned on her walking stick, her legs creaking while she stood, and she threw a shawl around her head and shoulders with an energy unbecoming of the elderly. She pulled open a reed drawer, and for a moment she paused before drawing out of it a plain and tarnished brass key. She fondled it a moment, hoping the thin pads of her fingers might find some memory locked deep away, and she dropped it into a pocket and looked out of the tent again.
The men by the fire -- keep them safe, may they be happy! -- finally stood and walked together to tend the horses, which had begun huffing and scuffing under the strange close moon. Now was her only chance.
She stole out of the tent and rounded it, and she shuffled past the tents that held her sleeping grandchildren, blowing silent kisses as she went, until the moon greeted her round and bright in a crust of endless stars. The dunes were blue in the night. Above them, in the distance, a single craggy rock rose like a sentinel. It was toward this she walked, determined, slipping sometimes in the sand, shuffling. She would make it by morning, she thought. By the time her dear family discovered her missing they would never find her again.
Oh, an OOC post first then? Well, here's something to write for the sake of writing something. Moose!
In
Looking for a few good... amoeba moosen. (g'on, ignore post count, eh?)
→
11 yrs ago
Forum: 1x1 Interest Checks
Aaahhh myyyy have I mentioned I've missed you? XD All your ideas are so tantalizingly brilliant, we should simply do them all. Time and space are merely our playthings!
The mysterious sands sound amazing -- she agrees we should start there! If you like, I'll go ahead and whip something up as a starter. As always, nothing is set in stone and everything can be manipulated and expanded upon if you feel so inspired.
Spelunking in new ideas is such fun! *cackles*
(RpG isn't going to go down again is it? Maybe should start saving posts.)
The mysterious sands sound amazing -- she agrees we should start there! If you like, I'll go ahead and whip something up as a starter. As always, nothing is set in stone and everything can be manipulated and expanded upon if you feel so inspired.
Spelunking in new ideas is such fun! *cackles*
(RpG isn't going to go down again is it? Maybe should start saving posts.)
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