Slavegirl
11-30-09, 09:52 PM
Looking for some trouble to get into? Check out this open thread (http://www.althanas.com/world/showthread.php?t=20033) in The Peaceful Promenade:
She stood at the top of the stairwell. The hands pushed against her as gently as a lover pushing her down into bed. She stared in astonishment at the man, never having the chance to offer any resistance. She fell backwards. Their eyes met. She’d never forget the callousness in those eyes. Then, one foot left the ground. Lyrra did a dancer’s twist to try and get her feet back on the floor, but her foot found only unforgiving, terrible air. First she saw him, then the wall, then the ceiling as she toppled backwards. Everything seemed to slow. It was a pause in time. Then it rushed back in deadly force, and she hit the stairs. It felt as if every bone in her body had exploded. She…
…screamed. Lyrra jerked away, panting heavily. She was suddenly aware of where she was. She was staying in an inn called the Peaceful Promenade. It was the crossroad between realms. She meant for quite some time to travel there, but when she finally arrived, nothing had changed. The night haunts still tormented her. Always in her dream she fell. Lyrra’s hands moves frantically over her body, feeling for some hurt, but there was no scratch, not even a bruise. The fear was still there. It made her feel sick and sour. Bile rose in her throat. I am like some feeble child, cowering under the blankets. When will I ever be able to grow up? Her stomach roiled. She leaned away from her cot and wretched.
Lyrra realized someone was pounding on the door. The room was dimly lit, the knocks muffled by the thick door. How long have I been sitting here with the taste of vomit in my mouth? A hoarse voice called, “Sir, sir, are you unwell?” Even through the door she recognized the voice of one of the inn workers. Lyrra smoothed her hair and glanced down to see that she was decent. As ever, she was fully clothed.
“Yes,” she called out. “Nothing is amiss, sir.”
________________________________________________
Not ready to write, or looking for something to read while waiting on someone to post? Here's a lovely thread (http://www.althanas.com/world/showthread.php?t=20069) currently unfolding in Concordia, and featuring some of our newer players:
It has been one cycle of the sun since the Autumnal Queen, Brachia, set foot into the glade of our camp, her siren song calling the men of our people deep into the shadows. Taunting us and goading us, she challenged the priesthood to dare stand against her, to dare draw her from the very same exile we inflicted upon her so many decades ago. Her wrath is tumultuous, her vengeance assured, but we must act against her all the same to ensure the balance between the spirits of the forest’s children, and the Mother herself is preserved.”
With a sweeping hand and grace like breeze touched bough, Jennifer nodded and pointed to the woman stood patiently at her side, skin as old as the lichen that adorned her robes. With a shuffle of her naked feet she drew herself nearer the edge of the dais, looking down on the gathered few who’d found themselves in the throng of the fireside camp. It was an ancient temple, a crossroads between the north and the south which had served as a meeting point for covens and craven cavaliers longer than anyone could remember. The crumbling stone and bird filled anti-silence were a perfect background and ambience to such a solemn occasion.
“My name, children, is Mother Fiargo, priestess of the Nina and guardian of the forest’s borders. I hope you will listen, and take heed of our words, for you have come here by chance and the Fate’s have decreed you all guardians of nature, champions of the deep earth. Will you help us; will you hear our plan to release our fathers and sons from Brachia’s cold clasped heart?”
Time seemed to settle, encroaching deeper into the clearing as if reclaiming the ancient site of mystical power for its own unintended purpose. The Summoned, the Priestess, the Daughter, a tri-partite trilogy of repetitive but deeply understood traditions. Fiargo smiled at her fellow priest, and waited for an answer from the gathered strangers who’d stumbled upon her request. She still was too young, behind the withered face, to know if they’d been brought here by chance, or by the spirit’s guidance, but she was thankful under her breath that they had arrived all the same.
She stood at the top of the stairwell. The hands pushed against her as gently as a lover pushing her down into bed. She stared in astonishment at the man, never having the chance to offer any resistance. She fell backwards. Their eyes met. She’d never forget the callousness in those eyes. Then, one foot left the ground. Lyrra did a dancer’s twist to try and get her feet back on the floor, but her foot found only unforgiving, terrible air. First she saw him, then the wall, then the ceiling as she toppled backwards. Everything seemed to slow. It was a pause in time. Then it rushed back in deadly force, and she hit the stairs. It felt as if every bone in her body had exploded. She…
…screamed. Lyrra jerked away, panting heavily. She was suddenly aware of where she was. She was staying in an inn called the Peaceful Promenade. It was the crossroad between realms. She meant for quite some time to travel there, but when she finally arrived, nothing had changed. The night haunts still tormented her. Always in her dream she fell. Lyrra’s hands moves frantically over her body, feeling for some hurt, but there was no scratch, not even a bruise. The fear was still there. It made her feel sick and sour. Bile rose in her throat. I am like some feeble child, cowering under the blankets. When will I ever be able to grow up? Her stomach roiled. She leaned away from her cot and wretched.
Lyrra realized someone was pounding on the door. The room was dimly lit, the knocks muffled by the thick door. How long have I been sitting here with the taste of vomit in my mouth? A hoarse voice called, “Sir, sir, are you unwell?” Even through the door she recognized the voice of one of the inn workers. Lyrra smoothed her hair and glanced down to see that she was decent. As ever, she was fully clothed.
“Yes,” she called out. “Nothing is amiss, sir.”
________________________________________________
Not ready to write, or looking for something to read while waiting on someone to post? Here's a lovely thread (http://www.althanas.com/world/showthread.php?t=20069) currently unfolding in Concordia, and featuring some of our newer players:
It has been one cycle of the sun since the Autumnal Queen, Brachia, set foot into the glade of our camp, her siren song calling the men of our people deep into the shadows. Taunting us and goading us, she challenged the priesthood to dare stand against her, to dare draw her from the very same exile we inflicted upon her so many decades ago. Her wrath is tumultuous, her vengeance assured, but we must act against her all the same to ensure the balance between the spirits of the forest’s children, and the Mother herself is preserved.”
With a sweeping hand and grace like breeze touched bough, Jennifer nodded and pointed to the woman stood patiently at her side, skin as old as the lichen that adorned her robes. With a shuffle of her naked feet she drew herself nearer the edge of the dais, looking down on the gathered few who’d found themselves in the throng of the fireside camp. It was an ancient temple, a crossroads between the north and the south which had served as a meeting point for covens and craven cavaliers longer than anyone could remember. The crumbling stone and bird filled anti-silence were a perfect background and ambience to such a solemn occasion.
“My name, children, is Mother Fiargo, priestess of the Nina and guardian of the forest’s borders. I hope you will listen, and take heed of our words, for you have come here by chance and the Fate’s have decreed you all guardians of nature, champions of the deep earth. Will you help us; will you hear our plan to release our fathers and sons from Brachia’s cold clasped heart?”
Time seemed to settle, encroaching deeper into the clearing as if reclaiming the ancient site of mystical power for its own unintended purpose. The Summoned, the Priestess, the Daughter, a tri-partite trilogy of repetitive but deeply understood traditions. Fiargo smiled at her fellow priest, and waited for an answer from the gathered strangers who’d stumbled upon her request. She still was too young, behind the withered face, to know if they’d been brought here by chance, or by the spirit’s guidance, but she was thankful under her breath that they had arrived all the same.