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rainbowfic2013-10-09 08:32 pm
kay_brooke) wrote in rainbowfic2013-10-09 08:32 pm
Admin Yellow #3, Dirt Brown #2, Tango Pink #23
Name: kay_brooke
Story: The Eighth Saimar
Colors: Admin Yellow #3 (just a guy at the right place at the right time), Dirt Brown #2 (barren), Tango Pink #23 (rumba)
Styles/Supplies: Canvas
Word Count: 896
Rating/Warnings: PG-13; no standard warnings apply
Summary: Grefflen, fleeing for his life, finds an unexpected ally.
Note: Constructive criticism is welcome, either through comments or PM. Inspired by a prompt frombookblather.
Grefflen ducked behind a pillar and just stood for a moment, trying to calm his racing heart. The music, lately so loud that he could hear nothing over it and the sound of his own panicking heart, faded from his hearing as he focused wholly on how much trouble he was in and what he was going to do now.
His hand strayed toward his belt, but it was a vain effort. No weapons were allowed in the hall while the festivities were ongoing. Grefflen was not someone who had ever carried a weapon, not until a few months before, when the dagger seemed expedient not for protection but because it became clearer with each passing day that he might very well have to use it on himself.
But he was a coward. Always had been, and the dagger was nothing more than a prop, its weight against his hip the false promise of the ultimate escape. He knew he would never use it.
Especially not now, because even his false promise had been taken from him.
The party whirled along behind him, just beyond the pillar, and Grefflen forced himself to only look forward, toward the door so tantalizingly close. Guards beyond it, of course, but he had gotten there before the ones who were chasing him. He might even believe he had lost those guards entirely, his obvious guilt lost amid the gaily-colored masses of the dancers. But he knew that his luck wasn't that good. If it was, he wouldn't be in this situation in the first place. He wouldn't have given away...he wouldn't have given any of it away.
Calmer now, the reality that he was a fugitive—if not already, then soon—not yet reconciled in his head, no plan as to where he was going to go or what he was going to do next, Grefflen strode toward the door and pulled it open. A blast of cold winter air hit him, but he ignored it, his body moving forward almost of its own volition, his mind still eerily focused on nothing more than getting off the estate, his feet making a straight line for the gate.
“There he is!”
And with that, the gibbering panic returned, and Grefflen started running. Not in the direction of the gate, not anymore, his fear confusing his sense of direction but somehow knowing that the gate was now a bad place to go. He ran instead toward the woods at the back of the estate, in the hope he would lose them in the trees.
Even as he reached the tree line, he knew it was a vain hope. The little woods was too small and ran up against a wide, open field that lay bare and without cover, nothing left of the months-gone harvest but scattered, desiccated stalks. And the guards lived at the estate. They knew every inch of it. He was as good as dead. They would catch him. They would take him before the Brey. No, probably not even that; he wasn't in good standing even with his own family, much less among the city elite. The Light Guard would just spirit him away, never to be seen again. They would execute him in secret, in a silent place where no one would hear him screaming. No one would miss him. No one would care.
He stopped.
If his fate was decided, and there was no one to care what it was, why was he running?
That was when someone grabbed him and swung him hard against the nearest tree. A gloved hand came up and covered his mouth before he could protest. Not a guard. A small, thin figure in a hooded wool coat that covered a bright lavender dress that trailed into the frost behind her.
He knew that dress. Its owner had showed it to him in excitement only a month ago, back when his life was still somewhat bearable.
He pushed her hand away. “Caris?”
She shoved the hood back. She was all made up for the party, with bright face paint and silver earrings. Her hair was starting to fall out of its tight braids, and her face was flushed beyond the paint. Without saying anything, she took his hand and pressed something into it. A purse, its weight dangling from his fingertips, and he almost dropped it.
“Take it!” she growled at him, forcibly closing his hand around the purse.
“What...what?” he sputtered. “Carie, what--”
“Shut up and go!” she said, pointing toward the field. “I'll distract the guards.”
“But why?” he managed. Caris was helping him. Vapid, stupid Caris, concerned only with the prettiest dresses and the latest jewelry styles, a jewel herself that his parents had tried to buy for him in their sorry attempt to save his name. Such a wasted, failed effort, and he had thought he would never see Caris again, and even if he did, she would rather die than acknowledge his presence.
“I know what you think of me,” she said. “You're wrong. There's no time to explain. Go! Now!” As she said it, she backed away, heading toward the shouting guards, who had entered the woods and were fanning out in search of him.
“Go!” she said again, and Grefflen, clutching the purse as if it was a promise of life, turned and fled.
kay_brookeStory: The Eighth Saimar
Colors: Admin Yellow #3 (just a guy at the right place at the right time), Dirt Brown #2 (barren), Tango Pink #23 (rumba)
Styles/Supplies: Canvas
Word Count: 896
Rating/Warnings: PG-13; no standard warnings apply
Summary: Grefflen, fleeing for his life, finds an unexpected ally.
Note: Constructive criticism is welcome, either through comments or PM. Inspired by a prompt from
bookblather.Grefflen ducked behind a pillar and just stood for a moment, trying to calm his racing heart. The music, lately so loud that he could hear nothing over it and the sound of his own panicking heart, faded from his hearing as he focused wholly on how much trouble he was in and what he was going to do now.
His hand strayed toward his belt, but it was a vain effort. No weapons were allowed in the hall while the festivities were ongoing. Grefflen was not someone who had ever carried a weapon, not until a few months before, when the dagger seemed expedient not for protection but because it became clearer with each passing day that he might very well have to use it on himself.
But he was a coward. Always had been, and the dagger was nothing more than a prop, its weight against his hip the false promise of the ultimate escape. He knew he would never use it.
Especially not now, because even his false promise had been taken from him.
The party whirled along behind him, just beyond the pillar, and Grefflen forced himself to only look forward, toward the door so tantalizingly close. Guards beyond it, of course, but he had gotten there before the ones who were chasing him. He might even believe he had lost those guards entirely, his obvious guilt lost amid the gaily-colored masses of the dancers. But he knew that his luck wasn't that good. If it was, he wouldn't be in this situation in the first place. He wouldn't have given away...he wouldn't have given any of it away.
Calmer now, the reality that he was a fugitive—if not already, then soon—not yet reconciled in his head, no plan as to where he was going to go or what he was going to do next, Grefflen strode toward the door and pulled it open. A blast of cold winter air hit him, but he ignored it, his body moving forward almost of its own volition, his mind still eerily focused on nothing more than getting off the estate, his feet making a straight line for the gate.
“There he is!”
And with that, the gibbering panic returned, and Grefflen started running. Not in the direction of the gate, not anymore, his fear confusing his sense of direction but somehow knowing that the gate was now a bad place to go. He ran instead toward the woods at the back of the estate, in the hope he would lose them in the trees.
Even as he reached the tree line, he knew it was a vain hope. The little woods was too small and ran up against a wide, open field that lay bare and without cover, nothing left of the months-gone harvest but scattered, desiccated stalks. And the guards lived at the estate. They knew every inch of it. He was as good as dead. They would catch him. They would take him before the Brey. No, probably not even that; he wasn't in good standing even with his own family, much less among the city elite. The Light Guard would just spirit him away, never to be seen again. They would execute him in secret, in a silent place where no one would hear him screaming. No one would miss him. No one would care.
He stopped.
If his fate was decided, and there was no one to care what it was, why was he running?
That was when someone grabbed him and swung him hard against the nearest tree. A gloved hand came up and covered his mouth before he could protest. Not a guard. A small, thin figure in a hooded wool coat that covered a bright lavender dress that trailed into the frost behind her.
He knew that dress. Its owner had showed it to him in excitement only a month ago, back when his life was still somewhat bearable.
He pushed her hand away. “Caris?”
She shoved the hood back. She was all made up for the party, with bright face paint and silver earrings. Her hair was starting to fall out of its tight braids, and her face was flushed beyond the paint. Without saying anything, she took his hand and pressed something into it. A purse, its weight dangling from his fingertips, and he almost dropped it.
“Take it!” she growled at him, forcibly closing his hand around the purse.
“What...what?” he sputtered. “Carie, what--”
“Shut up and go!” she said, pointing toward the field. “I'll distract the guards.”
“But why?” he managed. Caris was helping him. Vapid, stupid Caris, concerned only with the prettiest dresses and the latest jewelry styles, a jewel herself that his parents had tried to buy for him in their sorry attempt to save his name. Such a wasted, failed effort, and he had thought he would never see Caris again, and even if he did, she would rather die than acknowledge his presence.
“I know what you think of me,” she said. “You're wrong. There's no time to explain. Go! Now!” As she said it, she backed away, heading toward the shouting guards, who had entered the woods and were fanning out in search of him.
“Go!” she said again, and Grefflen, clutching the purse as if it was a promise of life, turned and fled.
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