Moonbird
05-05-08, 01:42 PM
Closed to the Writing Writer. Apologies for generic-ness and lack of length.
A chill wind blew from over the lake, frozen hard as diamond. A bleak smile curved the lips of the girl who sat near to it, a wood-and-glass chessboard set out in front of her. Her long fingers were toying with a small statuette - it appeared to be of herself, wearing a curious crown, carved of dark wood - moving it from one place on the board to another, too fast for the mind to follow. She was planning her attack. The opening was always the most important move of the game, after all.
After many minutes, she clambered to her feet. Her movements were slightly ungainly, as if unused to the surface beneath her feet, and she steadied herself with a hand to the cool ground from time to time. It was a near-summer day, so there was no snow on the ground, but it was not warm. Frost still glittered on the trees and the ice was thick on the lake.
Perfect weather, in other words. She liked the cold; it sharpened the mind, senses and reactions. If she took a deep breath, she could smell the thin scent of pine; if she reached out a hand, she could feel a sharp breeze against her fingers, though it was gentle and her hands were cold. With one of them, she traced her jawline, revelling in the smoothness of the skin and the roughness of her fingertips. She opened her mouth and tasted the air, bent down and buried her hand in chilled soil.
And then she was still. Her head turned, tilted to the right. A speck on the horizon betrayed the presence of another. Her body froze instinctively. Knees bent, poised, a knife concealed already in her hand. Perhaps it would be an ally - another black - perhaps a White.
Seconds passed. Minutes. She moved not a muscle.
And then the sound of howling - it was just a wolf or dog. She relaxed - mostly, at least - and then crouched down next to the chessboard. After a few movements, to look at the board from different positions (though never from the opposite side), she reached down to place the little statuette in the very corner, the square at the bottom of the bottom, and the right of the right. It was time to begin another game. Her knife vanished, and she sat down properly, picked up the wooden model and the board, and tucked them away into her bag.
And now she would wait. She looked out at the icy lake, unforgiving and merciless, and a look of calmness came into those alert eyes. Black hair, long (too long!) and straight, framed her sharp features, and her long, awkward limbs were folded around her. The clothes that hung on her thin frame were strange - a black tunic, with a belt made from creased, undyed cotton, and covered with accessories and amulets in the strangest colours. A dazzling pink talisman hung from her neck, while strings and strings of beads of every colour and shape dangled from her belt, wrists and ankles. Knotting her hair back was a vivid red ribbon, and her shoes were mustard-yellow and crafted from thick leather.
She made almost a comical figure, with such a brooding expression and such outlandish clothing; but instant of amusement, she invoked a feeling of ignorance. She was from a different place, was Lavinia Ash, and as much as she tried to fit in, she was a square peg in a round hole, and she could never entirely forget it.
A chill wind blew from over the lake, frozen hard as diamond. A bleak smile curved the lips of the girl who sat near to it, a wood-and-glass chessboard set out in front of her. Her long fingers were toying with a small statuette - it appeared to be of herself, wearing a curious crown, carved of dark wood - moving it from one place on the board to another, too fast for the mind to follow. She was planning her attack. The opening was always the most important move of the game, after all.
After many minutes, she clambered to her feet. Her movements were slightly ungainly, as if unused to the surface beneath her feet, and she steadied herself with a hand to the cool ground from time to time. It was a near-summer day, so there was no snow on the ground, but it was not warm. Frost still glittered on the trees and the ice was thick on the lake.
Perfect weather, in other words. She liked the cold; it sharpened the mind, senses and reactions. If she took a deep breath, she could smell the thin scent of pine; if she reached out a hand, she could feel a sharp breeze against her fingers, though it was gentle and her hands were cold. With one of them, she traced her jawline, revelling in the smoothness of the skin and the roughness of her fingertips. She opened her mouth and tasted the air, bent down and buried her hand in chilled soil.
And then she was still. Her head turned, tilted to the right. A speck on the horizon betrayed the presence of another. Her body froze instinctively. Knees bent, poised, a knife concealed already in her hand. Perhaps it would be an ally - another black - perhaps a White.
Seconds passed. Minutes. She moved not a muscle.
And then the sound of howling - it was just a wolf or dog. She relaxed - mostly, at least - and then crouched down next to the chessboard. After a few movements, to look at the board from different positions (though never from the opposite side), she reached down to place the little statuette in the very corner, the square at the bottom of the bottom, and the right of the right. It was time to begin another game. Her knife vanished, and she sat down properly, picked up the wooden model and the board, and tucked them away into her bag.
And now she would wait. She looked out at the icy lake, unforgiving and merciless, and a look of calmness came into those alert eyes. Black hair, long (too long!) and straight, framed her sharp features, and her long, awkward limbs were folded around her. The clothes that hung on her thin frame were strange - a black tunic, with a belt made from creased, undyed cotton, and covered with accessories and amulets in the strangest colours. A dazzling pink talisman hung from her neck, while strings and strings of beads of every colour and shape dangled from her belt, wrists and ankles. Knotting her hair back was a vivid red ribbon, and her shoes were mustard-yellow and crafted from thick leather.
She made almost a comical figure, with such a brooding expression and such outlandish clothing; but instant of amusement, she invoked a feeling of ignorance. She was from a different place, was Lavinia Ash, and as much as she tried to fit in, she was a square peg in a round hole, and she could never entirely forget it.