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Ripped StockingsRipped Stockings
They hung, empty, from the end of the empty bed, a reminder of seasons long past, and the many bittersweet seasons that lay before us yet. They were, of course, her stockings. Threadbare, ripped, but above all, loved. They had been the stockings that she wore on her final night with us- just three short years to the day. Had any outsider seen the row of children's stockings hanging from each of their beds, no one would have guessed the weight that the empty pair of gaily colored stockings meant to us. Hers was a life taken far too soon, the reason we fled our old home to come here, where there was at least a hope for safety and protection from the armies that would claim the lands beneath our feet.
There was once a time when we'd leave our shoes out at the foot of the bed, left empty in hopes of the treasures that we might find stuffed in them the next morning, but even that tradition fell beneath the marching feet of the relentless arm
Courtly Matters -BradrichHe had once held the magnificent blade with such an ease that the glistening steel appeared weightless. He had once been a formidable warrior, a force to be reckoned with in the heat of battle. He had once been the pride of the household, the strength and honor of his liege lord and king. Now though, he had nothing but fallen glory to his name. With disgust, he glanced at the limp hand that lay on the bedspread over his legs. That hand was his. That brutally mangled, mostly healed, twitching lump of flesh was his hand. The fingers moved, he knew, but only with the aid of another.
With a grimace, he thought of his longtime friend, chirugeon, and most recently, his personal physician. The words from that mornings' conversations echoed in his mind, tolling like a bell as they spelled his future.
"You cannot fight again for many months, at best. If you do, and if you were to bruise the hand, it may never heal. The blood cannot flow as it should, and if you were to start bleeding,
Held Each Other CloseWe held each other close. It was the only thing that we could do at that point. Arrows whistled above our heads as I sheltered his badly bleeding body. Spears thumped uncomfortably near my feet, deeply embedded in the ground. The battle raged around us, but the only thing I could think to do was to shelter you, to hold you close in desperate hopes that you would not forsake me that night, for day had indeed vanished in the blackness of night by that point.
All that time though, you didn't say a word, didn't move a muscle save to let out the occasional wordless groan of pain as your lifeblood continued to flow out around you, despite your desperate attempts to keep it in. It was when you stopped groaning though that I began to fear. It pulsed through me like a wild beast, trying to rip itself out of the confines of what remained of my sense of self control. I held you close still, filling the empty spaces of your missing groans with prayers that seemed to pour from the depths of my hear
Choretime"I still don't see why Marcheil couldn't keep milking the cow," Rayin grumbled under her breath as she trudged outside, following behind her elder sister Nemia so that she could walk in her tracks in the crispy snow. "And I don't see why she has to be milked so early- the sun's not even up yet!"
Nemia groaned inwardly at her younger sister's many protests but couldn't help laughing slightly at the same time. "Marcheil's old enough to start working the farm," Nemia replied, her tone one of well practised patience as though she had had this conversation man times before- or perhaps, been on the receiving end of it one too many times. "And you are old enough to help with the milking."
"Why can't Thrya do it?" Rayin persisted as they trudged closer to the low standing building on the far side of the garden. "And you still didn't say why the cow has to be milked so early!"
"Thrya can't because she's too little." Nemia replied. "She's barely sleeping in her own cot now," she added as she sto
He was a quiet man, and preferred to keep his business to himself when it came to the root of matters. That was not to say however, that Mortael knew little of what went on around him, or didn't care; nor did it mean that that he did not have his own iron strong will and opinions on the things that mattered most. In fact, it was the complete opposite. In order to live to the next day, it was to his utmost benefit to be aware of his surroundings, and the politics and scheming of the the world he lived in. Mortael tended to spend the majority of his time outside of the Sage's halls, and frequently mingled with whichever mercenary bands happened to be at their stronghold at the time. His influence was small- only a name to most- but the news that he gathered for the Guild was often irreplaceable.
For the most part, his features were like the rest of his people's- middle length, brown hair which was often coated in the red dust of the land, and a full beard stretching a
Saraore and the Trial Poisons"How long until he wakes?"
"I do not know, my lord. He's the only one who has even thought of attempting this for each of the Trial Poisons.."
"But you are actively monitoring his state? I would not lose someone of his caliber- as you said, there are very few people who would even think of that as an opportunity once, let alone endure it twice."
"Of course," the stern faced Rhythiat replied coolly. "And I might add, I've been watching him myself. I have to say that I am rather curious as to how this turns out. If I dare say it, he will be one of our greatest."
The second Sage watching Saraóre nodded his agreement. "The future promises great things for this one, if his ideas do not kill him first." he said before leaving for the moment.
Rhythiat had his back to Saraóre, working on his most recent of research projects when a low groan emanated from the only occupied bed in the infirmary. "Saraóre?" he asked, setting aside his thick tome and notes.
The man's eyelids flicker
Throwing Knives"The thing about catching throwing knives," Brimoth panted, trying to hold the pain at bay as blood poured from his limp hands, "is that you tend to get cut."
"You're telling me that you caught two throwing knives? And your hands are still in one piece? Impressive, quite impressive." Mortael replied as he began to examine the still sticky knives that Brimoth had let fall to the table beside him. "There's not too many people with reflexes to do that without shredding their hands in the process."
"More importantly," Rhythiat cut in, all to aware of how deeply cut Brimoth's hands actually were as he dug out bandages and began to clean the neat slices, "Who threw them? And why?"
Brimoth hissed at the onslaught of renewed pain, refusing to allow his gaze to fall on his hands, nor on the blood steadily dripping to the floor.
Brimoth paused in his description to hiss a mild curse as Rhythiat began to stitch the deep gash shut. His arm jerked, but Mortael had already taken it upon himself to h
IowaIf you visit Iowa,
you'll call her fields empty,
but she wasn't born that way.
A part of her was carved out
when she was ripped between Virginia
and the purple mountains of New Mexico.
Her gold hair, she tore it out when she realized
it didn't make her a princess.
She laid her locks strung along every road
leading somewhere else.
White hairs on her cheeks
are scars from winter.
Her hair darkens with the dampness
of summer rains.
The storms are never silent,
but neither is life when there's a tear
in your childhood where
a parent ought to be.
I've been flooded by Iowa's sorrow.
The only way I can distract her from her own voided landscape
is if I hate myself harder than she cries.
She just wants to fly
and I want to bus or train,
not because I fear death, but because
I want to take living slow.
It's the only way I ever feel.
From the air it's hard to watch Earth's hips move.
But Earth can't compare to the country.
That's my girl.
Full grown even when harvesting season's j
To depression, for creating days without endWake up to the realization that you've been awake
for seconds, minutes, hours.
You've been awake in this warm, dark room
and you don't know how long it's been
but now you're conscious
and it starts again--
the pain, strong and steady, in your chest.
You gain consciousness in this too warm morning
and your thoughts whir in endless loops
because it's either that or face the weight in your chest.
Light breaks though the window, soft and unwelcome
but you take it as a reluctant gift--
a new distraction from the feelings awake in your chest.
Awake, but not conscious.
So you think yourself in circles a little while longer
waiting for those quiet pains
(the constant reminder)
to gain consciousness.
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scheinbar is a much-loved and well-known deviant. Just one look at her gallery, filled with enchanting photography, will have you mesmerized. A deviant for over 7 years, Christiane can always be found posting inspirational features as well as regularly commenting on other deviations and encouraging and empowering her fellow deviants. We are inspired and insist that you too stop by and congratulate ... Read More