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Grum leaned back in his seat, his back groaning in protest, and frowned.  His rough hands thumbed listlessly through the novel he was holding - some new zombie thriller he had bought on a whim some weeks ago - but his heart wasn't in it.  The words kept swimming in front of him, boring, pointless.  Even zombies weren't as scary as what lay ahead in the afternoon.
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Thousand Roads lay in the tall grass, and dozed.  The light drifted over his skin, still pale after days out in the sun.  It contrasted nicely with the dark green skin of the woman lying next to him, tucked up close against his chest.

The grass waved; one strand kept touching his cheek.  Eyes closed, he raised his hand once or twice to ward it away, but it continued its assault.  Finally, he opened one eye.  Trixie's smiling face filled his vision, sunlight dancing over her cheek.

She tossed the dead strand of vegetation back to the meadow, and grinned.  Her eyes flashed at having his undivided attention.

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I love the moon in this place.  It is pleasing to see it rise above the treeline, waxing, pale-cream and full of her cold light.  It is good for Him as well, that He might better see the Way in the darkness.  I sometimes think He would do well to wear glasses, or gain access to a lamp of some kind.  He stumbles more upon the road than He once did.  I will meditate on the luminescence of the Moon, and pray for Her to guide Him.

You're wasting your time.  The moon can't hear anything you say.  It's just a white disc in the sky; it doesn't care about you, or me, or Him either.

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Early Winter
A Thursday
Sometime before midnight

"You seem troubled this evening, Mister Volsung," the Queen of Eluviar murmured, lips brushing the edge of her glass.  The ruby-bright wine shivered as her words passed over the surface of the liquid.  She looked across the marble terrace to the old adventurer, and took a swallow of the liquid.  It was a precise movement, perfectly timed and considered.  Everything she did was much the same; and little missed her eyes for poise and precision.  But something was bothering her drinking partner this evening, something beyond the normal tribulations brought along by children and running a company of mercenaries.  He'd had three glasses of the priceless wine, one after another, and told no stories under the moon that night.  In her memory, this had never happened before.  Well, the drinking, yes, but never the quiet.  'Quiet' was a word that really didn't belong within several miles of Grum Volsung.Read more...Collapse )


The sooner this post is filled with writing prompts, the sooner I can wreck your LJ feeds with my nonsense.

Have at it.

Also, thanks.

The wyrd witch slapped a hand to his wrist and growled.  His eyes blazed red at the grinning man across from him.

"You're fast, at least," Duncan muttered to his friend, rubbing the stinging wound the practice foil had left behind.  Tristan grinned wider, and offered a mock bow.

"Have to be in my line of work," the gunslinger remarked, nodding his head and returning to his defensive stance.  "Fast, or dead.  Those are your choices, I believe."

"Can't argue with that," Duncan replied, hefting his blade up once more before springing forward.

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"Look, I'm not saying guns are worthless," Tristain slurred drunkenly to his companion.  "I'm just sayin', is, just...stuff ain't the same on Solace as it is, uh, here.  Wherever here is.  This...bar, thingy.  Place.  What's your name again?"

He cast his gaze around the smoky room.  Shapes loomed out of the dim light, people making their way to and from tables, or waitresses carrying blades and trays of drinks.  Everyone seemed very intent on their own business, and paid the gunfighter no attention whatsoever.  He sniffed to himself and took another pull of what passed for their top-shelf beer.  The stuff was foul, but little by little, it was doing the trick.  Soon he wouldn't be able to remember his own name, and it would be all downhill from there.
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In his mind, his people screamed, and the monastery burned.

It was always burning, every time he visited.  Always in a perpetual state of partial ruination, flames licking and crawling up the tumbled stone.  Banners blazed, calligraphy going up in ink-black smoke.  Ancient statues and works of art were put to the hammer, the torch, the boot.  The Crimson Host destroyed everything it touched, or could pull down with a prybar.  The same tools took man and woman apart just as easily, and with more pleasure.

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Thousand Roads's finger probed again at the arrow wound.  It never ceased to itch, or burn, but it hurt worse when he pawed at it.  It was a compulsion, a desire to see if this time, this time it would not sting.  Normally, it would be the simplest of tasks to shunt this offending desire aside, to simply switch it off.  But the days of late were long and pained, and fiddling with the open blood kept his mind occupied.

It was certainly better than thinking about what was going on around him.
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Mirror Mirror Highlights (as I recall them)

My brain was a sieve this event.  Lots of running around, overtired, mind churning as I struggled to remember stories to tell.  A mental exercise I have not had in ages, if ever.  Very enjoyable event, though.

Highlights in no order:

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