Questions

The servers are still down and I’m itching for some creative stuff. Another installment of “Questions” for you all! We all think before we drift off to sleep, and often we’ll tally lists or think about our day. Every question here is unlabeled, and not prefaced. Enjoy this tiny snippet into everyone’s innermost consciousness.

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I do love work. How can I ever give that up?

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It’s worth it. Right? What if I get hurt?

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Why did I come out here again? This is less and less something I want.

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Have I found my primrose?

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Will anyone ever be able to replace you? Do I really want to find someone who would?

Secrets & Candles: I Ain’t Crazy.

Skyrah sat in the shaft of light, tiny dust particles dancing in the afternoon sun’s glow. She squinted and focused on the lump of beeswax in front of her, taking the small pouch and carefully making a line of gold dust in the wax. Reverently re-tying it, she stashed it on her lap before molding the wax, painstakingly folding the dust into it without spilling any. Hands expertly twisted the length of the wax, creating glittering trails of gold throughout. They glinted, almost glowing in the already warm light she used to see her craft. Despite her concentration, only one phrase kept running through her head. Three little words. She repeated them to herself, like a mantra.

I ain’t crazy.

Last night, she woke up after letting the fire burn a little too low, and she was still warm. There was a fur there, covering her; a little pillow that smelled so good; a cloak so nice, she still hadn’t had the nerve to put it on yet. This little pouch of dust that sparkled like gold itself. She wasn’t crazy. No one else would’ve done this. The flower was just beautiful. Why a lily, though? She’d have to track someone smart down, like Ian or somewhat. He’d probably know a lot about flowers, he always smelled like ’em and he always was reading something smart-like. Hands twisted, almost entirely free of her thought process. They caressed the silky smooth surface, flattening the candle into a long block. Sky cut the wick to the right length, lovingly setting it in the proper place before beginning to roll the candle’s final shape.

I ain’t crazy.

Long and thin. That’s how this candle should look. Graceful. Sparkling mysteriously. Nothing but the vaguely translucent white wax and golden specks. Once she finally had the desired shape, she wrapped it in some scrap paper, to protect from dust, and let it set in the dark coolness under the dresser. The small pouch of dust, half-used, was stashed in her drawer. She didn’t have much in the way of clothes to fill it, the pouch looking tiny in the mostly unused space. That’s when Sky turned her attention to the cloak. It was soft and warm…it even had holes for her arms. It was by far the nicest piece of clothing she’d ever had. Luned’s dresses were nice, and she even let Sky touch them, but those weren’t hers. This was hers.

I ain’t crazy.

Taking a deep breath, she pulled it to her chest and hugged it for a while. She finally allowed herself to pry it from her grasp and hold it out before her. A ripple of fabric fell almost to the floor. It was long enough – even for the strikingly tall young woman. One large button held it together. It was warm enough to almost be a blanket…at least, it looked warmer than her blanket. If you could call what she’d been using a blanket. Slowly unbuttoning it, she dared a look around the empty room before slipping it over her bony shoulders. Soft warmth enveloped her almost immediately. Her hands slipped through the holes, and she re-buttoned it. Her hands ran along the brown cloth, fingers delighting in the sensation. She finally had proof. She was wearing it. Real proof. In the privacy of her currently empty room, Sky let a goofy, crooked smile crack.

I ain’t crazy.

Through Another’s Eyes

The ever-lovely amimain with another prompt. Didn’t do all my characters this time, but these two (particularly Lori’s) just spoke to me. :3

We get chances to develop our characters’ personalities all the time, but it’s rarer that we get to develop how our characters are perceived by others. Write about your character from someone else’s point of view. That someone else cannot be any character that you play.

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She nodded politely to the woman, her fake smile softening some when her eyes drifted over the baby sack. Such a weird little sack, but it fit such a weird woman. Kind of practical, when you really thought about it: hands were free, but the baby was still pressed against you. The baby inside was absolutely adorable. It made sense, though. Such a gorgeous and exotic woman would bring forth such a beautiful babe. Shaking her head as slight jealousy built, Dori Wheeler made her way back from the road.

There was nothing wrong with the woman, except for her being a widow already. Such a shame! When she said who the father was, that shocked Dori. Michael Lawson went up north and married himself one of them Lossoths. That was right weird, but yet fit. He was always about going off and finding stuff. She was a right sorta woman, though. Mourned him properly, a whole year, and seemed keen on respectable work while she settled herself into life here. Still didn’t know why she didn’t take the baby up north again, back to her family; but who knows. Those people way up there were beyond Dori’s understanding: who would ever want to live in permanent snow, eating fatty meat and having to stay huddled around a fire? Ugh! Just the thought was troubling.

That baby was better off here. Nice, normal weather; nice, normal folks. Nice and average. Hopefully that woman would find a man again. No shame in marrying again when you’re widowed. Not after a year and not when you’ve got such a little one. Trick there was finding a man willing to marry a woman already having a babe. Men were proud creatures – she smiled fondly to her own husband’s set of clothes at that thought – and it was hard for them to accept a kid not of their blood as their own. She was darn pretty enough that Dori was sure even that Too…jah? Too… uh? Bah, she couldn’t pronounce that weird name. She was sure she could snag someone, even with broken Westron. Too pretty not to attract someone’s eye, no doubt.

Must be nice to be so pretty. She ran her hands through her brown hair with a sigh. Time to make some bread. She rolled up her sleeves, pondering the latest bit of gossip.

~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~

Emmett Beetly looked through his window, across the street. His neighbor slowly – almost comically – pulled plank after plank of wood into the house. No woman should be able to do that; they were sturdy pieces of wood, a man should be helping her bring them inside. Where was that foreigner she was living with? Oh, pardon him: her husband. They got married. Most in town were convinced that their gallivanting about had gotten her with child, so they married quietly…those rumors hadn’t been proven true. Yet. She stayed slim as ever, almost a month later. And hauling wood. No self-respecting pregnant woman would haul wood around, even her.

She was a walking scandal these days. Bah, most days? Try her whole life. He almost felt bad for her. Well, at first. Having no ma, supposedly – supposedly! – she was some foreigner as well, but no one ever knew. Crazy Rojer Snowberry just left one day, and years later just showed up with a kid. Never married again; according to him he did marry her ma, but no one around here believed him. Poor Lori Snowberry, stuck with her da’s reddish hair and being really clumsy. People still thought there was Dale in her da’s family. Red hair wasn’t Bree-hair.

These days, she brought all the scandal on herself. Did ever since she ran off for a whole year and lived with the Hobbits. Most were wary when she moved into Wildore, but they didn’t say anything. She stayed to herself, worked in her little garden, and didn’t bother nobody. Just an old maid. Like she should be, at her age. Minus that woodworking and whatnot. It was bad enough she walked around wearing pants most of the time, going to the Pony and Cask, drinking more than any respectable woman should drink. Then that foreign man started coming around: that was the talk of the town when everyone realized it. That was not something you did: living with a man, not married? Everyone knew what was going on there, too. They weren’t stupid around here. On top of that, not only was he not from Bree, people said he was a sailor on top of it. Rowdy, unreliable types, they were.

If a woman her age got it into her head she was somehow court-able, the least she could do was find herself a nice, local widower. Not some questionable sailor from another land. At least she started wearing dresses sometimes, and wasn’t drinking so much. Days like today, though…it was like a relapse. Tunic and pants, hauling large pieces of timber around, sitting on the stoop in the freezing cold as she drank deeply from one of her large mugs. It wasn’t right. Even if they were all married proper-like, she should be getting with child and cooking and wearing dresses. Indoors. None of this still working nonsense. Bah. He shook his head. Nothing to be done for it. At least they did the respectable thing and got hitched. Nothing anyone could say now. He went back to scrubbing the dishes.

Confessions

I have a meeting in three hours, but that derned amimain and her amazing prompts has awoken the muse. It must be fed, with words. There’s some slight language in the fourth one, so apologies and please avoid it if the f-bomb bothers you. Also any apologies if these surprise you in a negative way. I definitely got further into some of my character’s heads than ever before, and it’s a bit disconcerting: particularly Sky. These all are going to be fairly obvious, and I have nooooo apologies for that. This is not one I want to use to keep people guessing.

Another prompt! Confessions that your characters have. Something they’d maybe write down of a piece of paper, and then burn the paper. Maybe something they wouldn’t write down at all.

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I have a confession. I’m paralyzingly afraid. Normally I’m not afraid of too much, other than falling off a cliff or something like that that’ll kill me. Hah, you know what? It’s not even the fact that having a kid could kill me that bothers me. It really isn’t. Hazard that comes with the job, so to speak. I’m just terrified of having a child. Someone I’m responsible for. I can take care of myself alright, and my husband…well, he’s amazing. He helps me more than I could ever possibly help him. Argh, it breaks my heart. I can see it in his eyes; I don’t know if he thinks I notice, but I do. He loves me so much, even though I clam up a little whenever it’s mentioned. It hurts to hurt him like that, more than any cut or bruise I’ve ever gotten.

Even Helvia, sweet and smart a woman as she is, and I really mean that, even she managed to get some figurative balls and have a baby. Why does it scare me so much? It just does! I can’t explain it. I must be broken, maybe it’s a side effect of my brain being so off with my feet, who knows. It just scares me. I’m worried that the only way I’ll ever be ready is if I’m thrust into it. That’s why I jump headlong into so many things: I’m afraid. And if I just jump right in, I’ll figure it out. It’ll be too late to turn back, and I just have to deal with it. It’s why I talk before I think things through, it’s why I usually just start carving wood without a plan. If I have my knife to the wood, there’s no turning back. Every night, I go to sleep promising myself that I won’t drink that awful stuff, that I won’t warm it up. That I’ll be ready to carve that next step in my life. Then I chicken out every morning. I drag myself into the kitchen and I pour myself a cup. I put the timber away for another day of avoiding it.

Eru, I hope it just doesn’t work one day. I’ll never be able to give him what he truly wants if it doesn’t. I’m too much of a chicken to do it myself.

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I have a confession. I need to go home. I can’t do this. I thought I could, I thought I could be strong, but I can’t. I’m a young thing desperately in love, and I just can’t stay away. We have our entire lifetime together, it’s true…but even an eternity, until the end of time itself, isn’t enough time together. I was such a fool to think we could be apart. We aren’t married yet, not really, but our souls are already intertwined. I can feel it, like a pulsing heart, beating from across the ocean. Faint. Calling me home. It isn’t like the slow, gradual draw I felt from the sea itself. No, this is you, my beloved. You’re beckoning me to your arms, and my heart itself is answering. I’ve already learned so much here, but you’re more important. You’re all that matters to me. I’m coming home as soon as I can.

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I have a confession. I want to go home. I want to beg, pride thrown to the side, and ask my father to take me back. I am Lossoth. That is who I am. My heart, my soul, my very blood cries out for a shockingly cold wind; for the sight of the sun, searing in its beauty as it reflects off a glacier. To skate upon thick and hearty ice with luistin. To have a warm meal huddled inside a snow-covered tent lined with furs. It is the very core of my being. Every night I dream of returning, and every day I long for it. Yet the bundle to my right holds me back every time. If I leave, if I return and beg, my daughter will learn nothing from a mother not worthy to have her. As I said, I am Lossoth. We are a proud people, hearty and strong. My little Lempi will not have a mother too weak to stand on her own two feet. She will not learn at the knee of someone who bent to an unfair requirement. She had a father from Bree-land strong enough to master the winters of Forochel and gain the trust of the tribes of snow; she has a mother who was strong enough to forsake her home for a deep and abiding love. She has a proud and fierce blood in her, and I will die before any tell her otherwise.

But I want to go home. It’s killing me. My spirit dies further each day I’m torn from the land that birthed me. I may even die young, leaving my poor daughter to her own fate. It’s just too much.

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I have a confession. I wish I would die. I truly, deeply, utterly hate myself. I’m broken in all the wrong ways, and I’m not right in any way at all. My nose is too big, my freckles are too many, my hair is too mousey, I’m still too skinny even though I’ve gained a lot of weight since leaving…oh, and I’m an aesthetic. Or whatever the hell they called it. Broken, busted, defective: that’s what they should’ve said, because that’s what it is. I am who I am, and I refuse to be anything else, but it doesn’t mean I don’t hate it deep down. Hate me. All the other girls around me are happy, they’re receiving little gifts and they’re giggling about magic acorns and necklaces and kisses…me? I’m sitting in the corner. Making another candle. I do love candles, I love beeswax, but I need more than that. And I hate myself for it. Why can’t I just go through life not needing anyone, not needing to be loved, not needing to be needed in return? That would make things so simple. I could just shrug and go, “Oh, I just never found anyone!” and no one would look at me twice. Weird candle-lady, they’d call me. Crazy Sky and her apartment full’ve dogs. I’d be fine with that. But no. I need love.

From the wrong person. The wrong people. The wrong choice. For fuck’s sake, I’m sneaking out every night to spend the winter nights outside. At a camp site. Why? For what was most likely a figment of grief and imagination. She couldn’t have been real. She was mysterious and had grey eyes and bright hair and actually talked to me like I was a desirable object. A frightened rabbit she called me. Acted like I wasn’t broken for who I am. Of course it wasn’t real. No woman exists like that; I think she was a fairy. A fairy I made up, in order to make up for how pathetic I am. Maybe one night my fire will go out early and I’ll freeze to death. That’d make things nice and simple, now wouldn’t it? Go to sleep and never wake up. Bah, who am I kidding. I’d wake up and kindle the fire again. I’m too scared to die on purpose. Doesn’t mean I don’t want to anyway, sometimes.

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I have a confession. I am a selfish man. I left my home, my family, all who loved me, only to follow the whim of my heart. To travel and see exciting new places. No regard for anyone but myself and what I wanted. Things have not changed so much, not yet. I find myself in an area in which I do not belong. I stick out much like a sore thumb, one that has been smashed with a hammer or whatever would cause a thumb to be round and red, noticeable. My speech is formal in a land of little true education, and my clothing brightly colored yet surrounded by earth tones. But still I stay. I tell myself it is for her, but it is for me. I have never found anyone quite like her, one who stirs me so deeply yet inspires such restraint.

My true wish is that I could sweep her off her feet and walk until I could walk no more. If only that she were willing to travel. The places we could see! We could even travel as far as Ered Luin itself, see Duillond and its impressive library. Marvel at the Elven architecture and the clean, sweet air of fragrant blossoms in the spring. Perhaps there would even be a boat, docked and ready to carry Elven passengers home. Yet that is not something she wants. Not something she needs right now. I wish it were otherwise, and I am guilty for it; to wish she is something other than what she is is one of the greatest insults you could wish someone. She is who she is, and I-…I am fond of her. The frowns that are meant to be smiles, the soft, fluttery kisses akin to the touch of a butterfly’s wings, the steadfast pride that straightens her back and drives her to be as educated and independent as she is able. All of these things make up who she is. And yet I still find myself wanting more! I am a selfish fool of a poet, and a bad man.

She drives me to want to be a better man: a man who will do any and everything for the one for whom he cares, one who is not afraid to stand stationary. One who will think of others first and himself last. That is my confession: I am selfish. But I am trying.

RP Prompts: Flowers

I have been in a prompt mood lately, and I fell in love with the idea once it popped into my head! I love comparing characters to different things, and using certain actions/items in their lives as a way of exploring who they are as little people. The question is the following.

If your character were a flower, which would they be…and why?


Loriwen:

A bright yellow gerbera daisy. Daises in general are associated with joy and innocence. Gerbera daisies in particular are also considered to stand for cheerfulness because of their vibrant and happy colors. They are usually used to cheer people up, and she also likes to think of that as one of her main concerns in life: making sure others enjoy life.

Tegil:

If he were a flower, he would be a wisteria. These flowers on a vine grow where they will, with little regard for anything other than getting as much sun as possible. They are often associated with youth and poetry because of their free-growing nature.

Tuija:

The white asiatic lily, as with all lilies, is the classic flower to represent purity and fertility. Its long and elegant petals sway as Tuija does with the winds of change. Their icy-white color match her love of the snow-covered land from whence she came. The bold red stamen and pistils represent her deeply-rooted passion and love for family.

Leuedai:

Gladiolus flowers, meaning “sword” in Latin. They grow tall and straight, standing proud. They are boldly colored with deep streaks and sharp leaves. A beautiful flower of severe naming and presence. They are hard to miss, and so is she.

Skyrah:

Light purple lilacs, almost a pink hue. According to Greek legend, the beautiful nymph Syringa (lilac’s botanical name) caught the heart of the forest god, who loved her. She turned into the flower known as lilac to escape from his affections. They are known for youthful innocence and first loves. They are nondescript but beautifully fragrant, much like Sky who is incredibly average on the outside while retaining an exquisite strength of character deep down.

A Letter: Why?

He sat down and penned a letter, quick and decisive. It was short. It was blunt. It asked one question and then explained why he needed to know the answer. He read it when he was done, read it four times. Just as he stood up, anger took over and he crumpled it instead of folded it. It was tossed, with force fueled by discontent, into the pile of smoldering ashes. As he crawled into bed, the letter caught on fire and slowly crumpled in on itself. The last words visible on the paper, before transforming into their own ash, were the following:

I just want to know why. Is it me?

Remembering…

(Stolen from amimain, yet again. <33333 I wrote ENTIRELY too much, but I won’t apologize because this was a really great exercise. I hope you enjoy! ^_^)

Sky quietly slipped out of the room when she thought Luned had finally fallen asleep. Her roommate slept like a log most nights, making it much easier to slide away. She bundled herself up even further before silently exiting the warm house, trading comfort for freezing cold. Feet walked: left, right, left, right, making small crunches in the remaining snow. Every night, she went to this spot and every night she waited. All night. She had no idea if she’d ever see her again, but she’d always try. Was it a dream?

Ruff! A small puppy bounded up to the campsite shortly after Sky lit a fire. Bending down in a mess of limbs, she sat on the ground and held her arms out. The puppy, already freezing in the mid-winter night, quickly ran up to both young woman and fire: both warm. Sky hugged the puppy tight, glad for companionship as she held her vigil.

The little pup reminded her of Olly. Her eyes shifted from the small bundle of fur, over to the fire. As the flames crackled in the night, licked and climbed upward only to dissipate against the harsh coolness of the air, Sky sadly thought of her dear friend. Sometimes at night, she’d hug a pillow just to pretend it was her beloved dog once more. Not many things in this world are more crushing than losing your home, your family: but losing your pet cut deeply. They never found Olly after they escaped their home in the north. It was assumed that Olly died by an Orc’s hand. Her brows furrowed and she broke her gaze on the fire, dragging it to the shaggy creature curled in her lap. He wasn’t Olly, but he’d do. At least dogs liked her. She continued to play the waiting game.

«——————————»

The book slowly closed, shutting the door on all further adventures to the land of Lorien for the evening. Foreign symbols, Sindarin, faded from his mind slowly. It was his favorite book, a book of epic poetry dedicated to the Golden Wood. His hands softly caressed the cover, a faint smile playing on his lips. He’d never forget the first time this book had been placed into his hands.

A mischievous and melodic voice rang in his ear. “nendir, come along. I’ll read you your favorite book tonight. Just don’t tell Adar or Naneth!” His eyes widened and he ran to get ready to sleep. The book with all the Elves with the gold trees! No young boy ever cleaned up and got into his sleeping gown as quickly as he did that evening. Plopping into his large and soft mattress, he sat quietly. Eventually his sister slipped into the room, inciting silent but rousing applause from him.

“It’s your birthday today, nendir. I’m going to give you a treat, okay?” His eyes sparkled, just like she wanted. The older girl plopped an old, leather-bound book into his lap; it was well-loved, with an etching of a beautiful tree on the cover. It was their favorite poetry book, the one she promised to read to him tonight. Wide blue-gray eyes looked up to her in childish hope, small hands already crawling around to hold it to his chest. “Well, read it! I’m giving it to you, if you can read me the first stanza. Come on.”

Clearing his small, boyish throat, little nendir began to recite the long, twisting words written in the book. His Sindarin, even at the tender age of seven, was already properly accentuated. She smiled widely, impulsively leaning over to kiss her younger brother’s forehead.

Ah, Merileth. If there was one person from his family that he truly missed, with every fiber of his being, it was her. His feisty, loud, ever-caring sister. He even missed her nagging at times; he missed her advice most of all. She’s the one who convinced him that he needed to follow his heart and to leave. He would be sure to write her a separate letter next week. Quietly holding the old book to his chest, much like he did twelve years ago, Tegil transformed once more into young nendir, if only for a few heartbeats.

«——————————»

Lempi hiccuped so abruptly, the baby surprised herself. She blinked widely and looked to her mother for reassurance. Tuija gladly gave the infant exactly that, bringing her close to her chest. She softly murmured in her language as she handed the girl a crusty and chewy piece of bread to teeth upon. Lempi had learned fast, already weaned off breast milk at the age of eight months. Once that tooth began to come in, Tuija couldn’t handle feeding her any more. Too painful. Lempi loved crusty bread (which helped with her teething pains), so once the bottles were successfully accepted by the girl, everyone was happier.

Tuija kissed the crown of her daughter’s head, then pulled back to inspect the little face as it sloppily gnawed on the large baked good. It always took her breath away to see how Michael’s features were so easily transposed onto Lempi’s face. Her nose, the shape of her eyes…her lips. Especially her lips. Tuija’s were much fuller, more of a pout than a smile. Her daughter had a mouth begging to laugh, just like her father did. Tuija reached down to kiss Lempi’s cheek softly. The baby giggled and moved away; her mother was getting in the way of bread decimation, and that was not acceptable.

Michael loved bread, too. Tuija’s face twisted sorrowfully as she thought on how he loved her homemade flat breads. She remembered an old saying, one her mother would tell her every time she pouted for her duties as a girl. “Ei elämä irvistellen somene.”

“Life will not get more beautiful by making grimaces.”

Her mother was right. Tuija forced a smile.

«——————————»

The sun was shining, the snow was sparkling, and Loriwen Snowberry couldn’t have been in a better mood if she tried. She thought about skipping as she walked into the gate of Bree-town proper, but she wasn’t in that good a mood. It wouldn’t end well and she knew it. Plus, great mood or not, she was thirty. Just a little too old to be doing that in public. She’d skip at home. Alone. Lori turned away from the main road on her way to the lodge. She needed some new nails and her favorite store was around there. They had the best nail smithy, in her opinion. Sturdy but not ugly on the heads.

Just as she was about to bound up the stairs – carefully as always – her ears caught a sound all too familiar to her. Children. Children taunting someone or something. Lori slid her feet to the right, peering down the alleyway next to the shop. Four children stood around a fifth, who was curled into a ball. They were all girls. Her fantastic mood suddenly diminished, leaving a very unhappy woman to stalk down the alley toward them.

“Y’ know what they’re sayin’ ’round town ’bout yer ma, right?”

“Yeah! I heard my pop saying she’s a who–

A clear and stern voice rang out over the four girls, all of whom couldn’t have been more than eight. It cut them off most readily. “And what is going on here?” The voice’s owner put her hands on her hips, golden hair shining in the remaining shaft of light and teal eyes flashing with barely hidden anger.

The oldest of them, or at least the tallest of them, pointed to Lori and squeaked, “Ah! It’s her! Din’t she stab that guy in th’ Pony?! I heard my da’ talkin’ ’bout her! Quick! B’fore she stabs us, too!”

All four fled in a whirl of ratty ponytails and threadbare skirts, leaving the fifth girl still cowering against the wall. Lori smiled and squatted down, holding out her hand. “C’mon, it’s alright. They’re gone.” The little girl – definitely younger and seemingly prettier than the others – peeked up to stare at the older woman.

“Wh-.. what’re y’ doin’? They gonna get me good later, now..” She did take Lori’s hand, though, and let her help her shakily stand up.

“They do that often? Tease you, I mean.” Holding her hand, Lori led the little girl toward the way she stalked in; away from the the girls’ direction.

A soft nod and a sniffle answered her question. “S’no fair, I ain’t done nothin’ t’ them. Jus’ wanna be their friend.” Vibrant green eyes shone with tears as the small girl – she couldn’t have been more than six!! – looked up to Lori. Now she understood. Those girls were jealous; those were some beautiful eyes, and if there was anyone in the whole of Bree who knew what it was like to be berated for being different in a pretty way, it was Lori.

“Yer a bastard kid with straw hair ‘n eyes like a rotten robin’s egg!”

“Somethin’s wrong with Loony Lori, you ain’t got no momma an’ yer hair’s all weird! Where’d ya come from, Loony Lori?!”

Her brow creased at the memories; she wiped it from her face and squatted back down to face the brilliantly green-eyed girl. “What’s your name, sweetie?”

“Lizabeth…” Another sniffle, then a wiping of eyes. They blinked, focusing on the older woman for the first time. “…Yer real purty. Diff’rent lookin’.”

A soft but wide smile spread across Lori’s face. “Thank you, Lizabeth. You’re real pretty, yourself. You have some of the prettiest green eyes I’ve ever seen. They’re like a Yule tree.”

Those eyes shifted to the ground, a pout making itself obvious. “They all call ’em puke-green. Or rott’n eggs.”

“Well, don’t let them get to you. You have pretty eyes, and when you grow up, you’re going to find yourself the best guy around and he’s going to love them. Those girls will be so busy picking at each other, all the boys will ignore them and they’ll have to settle for living with crazy Ellie in her cat house on the Stairs.”

She was rewarded with a quiet giggle. “Ya think so?”

Lori stood up and mussed the girl’s brown hair. “I know so. I was teased, too, and now I’ve got the best guy ever. He loves my eyes.” She wrinkled her nose to accompany a sweet smile.

Lizabeth bit her lower lip and grinned up to the woman. “Really? You were teased an’ now yer all growed up and married?” Another big giggle erupted and the little girl ran off happily.

Her gaze shifted back to the alley, remembering some of her own little torture sessions as a small girl. One kid stood out in her mind, a boy. Mathias. He was a mean little boy, pulling her hair and sticking honey in her boots at lessons. He said a lot of horrible things to her; some of them still cut deep when she thought about them. Her fists began to clench as she remembered a particularly crude remark about her absent mother. Half-way to a scowl, she blinked and looked down to her hand. Something was digging into her fist. Oh. Oh, of course.

Lori held her hand up in the sun, the old and battered silver ring shining despite its age. Her wedding ring. She smiled to herself. Bah, sod Mathias. She was happier than he was, that was for sure. After all, he had to marry one of the bratty girls who tortured her as well. Now she tortured him instead. Serves him right. She planted an impulsive kiss on the ring, then nodded to herself and went about her business. Time to buy nails.

Wandering Poet: A Face!

Dear Tegil has been my hardest of challenges. I have gone through five – count that, five – separate pictures. I doctored them up in Photoshop, but none of them really captured the essence of who he was, what he looked like. I have finally found it! Tegil has been discovered, and quite well may I add. Some actor, Ben something, really caught my eye right as I was about to give up ever finding a picture of Tegil. It’s perfect. I doctored his eyes (I actually stole them from a previous Photoshop of Paul Newman ¬_¬) and made his hair black instead of dark brown, but otherwise everything was spot on…especially his chin, jaw, and lips. With no further ado, may I properly introduce everyone to Tegil, son of Gwainon of Gondor!

Oh, and click on the picture for a higher res version. I promise it’s worth it, the eyes are much more noticeable! 😀

Click for more goodness!

Kiss Me Like…

An idea stolen from the absolutely wonderful amimain.. Even if these characters have only kissed one person (or no one yet!), many of them still can be defined by their style of showing affection. It’s an interesting way of exploring different aspects or manifestations of their personality. Hee!

Loriwen:

Her kisses are yielding and open. Even when she initiates it, it’s rare for her to lead or be forceful in anything but moments of sheer passion; to the truly experienced, they would realize that’s because she usually has no idea what she’s doing. She makes up for her lack of knowledge with a deep-seated passion, swaying into her lover’s caress. She seems to treat her lengthier kisses as if they were her last. They always build in intensity: any kiss or embrace that starts off warm ends up scorching by the end. Small, sweeter kisses are usually followed or preceded by a kiss on the nose.

Tegil:

Deliberate, patient, and practiced. Never pushing the limits of what his partner seems to be comfortable with, his soft lips almost tease them into wanting more. His fingers play a much larger role than most people’s do; caresses along the cheek, ear, jawline and neck end up being reflexive and common accompaniments. He will often catch his breath through his nose mid-kiss, causing even more tension. Prone to kissing on the forehead after a particularly heated exchange.

Skyrah:

Soft. Uncertain. Short. A succession of short but sensual grazes of lips against lips. She will never lead, ever, and the shorter kisses only happen because she pulls away repeatedly. Incredibly inexperienced, she will often need to pull away to gasp for air with an apologetic peck to the corner of their mouth. More likely to be held than to hold, and certainly timid. Deep, open kisses are not what she will ever offer, but rather soft and tender.

Tuija:

Tuija’s quiet and subservient nature pales in comparison to her kiss. She acquiesces to her love’s every move, being able to almost preternaturally match their lead. Her breath is slow and steady; it only ever needs to be caught when something unexpected happens. When her quiet and subdued mask is cracked by a caught breath or indulgent touch, a sudden animalistic fervor breaks out in the form of a low noise and grasp. She quickly reigns herself back in, but the facade is broken; beneath her cool exterior lies a passionate young woman.

Leuedai:

She always heads straight to the point, even on a first kiss. Control is rarely given up by her and because of this, her kisses seem to slow the world around them. Easily parting her lips and running her tongue along her partner’s lower lip is almost immediate. Despite her domineering hold on the lead of a kiss, it is always soft. Always sultry. If the kiss is with a lover instead of just a partner (that has never happened to date), she will often break from their lips and instead spend much of her time grazing her lips along their neck and cheek.

A Letter: Cooking

A letter arrives at the Jailhouse of Bree, addressed to one Miss Cynewynne Cook. The handwriting on the envelope as well as the letter itself is bold and flowing. It reads:

Dear Miss Cook,

I was told this was the most direct way to reach you during your times off the field. I have a rather unusual request, if you will be gracious enough to entertain the idea. I seek to learn to prepare food for myself. Given the many meals at which I was privileged to sample your craft at The Broken Cask, you were the first person to whom my thoughts turned in this matter. You would certainly be compensated for your time and knowledge, if you would agree to take on such a task. I look forward to any and all responses. May your day be bright and full of joy. And please extend my warmest greetings to your beloved, my fellow countryman.

Sincerely,

Tegil, son of Gwainon, of Gondor