Post by Sighehelm of Kent on May 2, 2004 8:02:29 GMT -5
*He wakes up; or rather......he lies awake. The sounds, the sights of walls and floors and tapestries, hems of frocks and cups, tankards, as well as scents force on his mind; so different from beloved Kent.
And yet, even here, pebbles and gems, librettos and ditties, simple bread and cake. He had not intended to return to Windstorm. Yet the plea of the lady, and his wish to see her home safe thwarted his intentions. There was no destination to his travels, and as such no excuse to deny his duty the deed of escorting the royal wench.
And so he lies here, as he tries to sleep, the bed small, the room small, the bedding small. He smiles amused at the image he poses to those around him.........a Warrior with Veiled Eyes. His self induced torment of mirth, to nae look upon man or woman within the castle or the confines thereof, brings him unexpected pleasures. He finds, his senses deprived of sight, not by ailment of lack of eyes, but by promise and mirth, he finds that voices become magnified. Voices reveal the lilt of melodic pronunciation, the gentle caress of almost meek resonance spilling from unseen royal lips, yes even the clipped direct infusion of his ears, hard words uttered by one strong enough to equal men.
His nose has discerned scents that too often are lost within the beauty of eyes and silken lashes, the tender slope of a rose kissed cheek, and slightly parted lips, small marks of white teeth pressed into the bottom one with apprehension. The scents of lavender, citron, apple peel, pieces of quince, and even ………at times the loveliest of scents, myrrh and amberrheece. All this brings pleasure to his heart, it has been long that smile has willed its way from his lips. This pleasantry of a joke pleases him much, teaches him much.
The road has been quiet, pensive and thoughts his only companion at times. Petite willingly takes him where the leads indicate the steed to go, and had for neigh 3 months. But perhaps he should seek this king with the eyes of a hawk, and plead him to allow his eyes to see what others see, the beauty of the pebble and windstorm gems. Perhaps for a short while he should stay. The way the men walk the battlements and guard the stronghold, the rotation of shifts, the pride that they show in eyes and carriage of their weapons, all this has left him wondering who it is that forms this group of men, moulds this wall of protection to seeming perfection.
Igraham would be ecstatic to walk among them and learn; his former knave zealous and almost unstoppable in his quest to learn. He misses him, but the boy would be taught well by his cousin. The death of a father, the change of command had forced his feet to roam, and he had done so gladly, there was no regret. His daughter Marianne was old enough, and married.
He smiles, the girl did wrench his arm mightily, and his visits would joyous ones. He hoped his first would grant him the sight of grandchildren. His girl’s hips were wide, wide enough to carry many, and he hoped at least ten.
He stands……….. and mutters.*
Yes, ten would do nicely.
*He stretches, muscles protesting, and mock fights an unseen enemy, noting the sharpness of his stance is lacking, and slaps the strong flat surface of his stomach. He must spar soon, and much………*
……..perhaps when the dust settles one of the men here…………
*He walks to the window, a hand runs along his beard, and he nods, knowing the woman would fight with equal valour, but strength? He has never met a woman of her rank, or so the gossip tells him, guard to the king. The king is a dunce, trusting the lesser physique of a woman, or a brilliant strategist, having found a true and rare gem, one that would mesmerize and fool any man with seemingly feminine weakness, and, as he remembers, eyes that breathe fire. He laughs and decides that if there be a change to meet his steel with hers he would welcome it, gladly.
He stretches again and muses over the man that is the king, again running a hand along his beard, looking out, grinning. Eyes upon the horizon, and he turns back to the bed, to sleep.*
And yet, even here, pebbles and gems, librettos and ditties, simple bread and cake. He had not intended to return to Windstorm. Yet the plea of the lady, and his wish to see her home safe thwarted his intentions. There was no destination to his travels, and as such no excuse to deny his duty the deed of escorting the royal wench.
And so he lies here, as he tries to sleep, the bed small, the room small, the bedding small. He smiles amused at the image he poses to those around him.........a Warrior with Veiled Eyes. His self induced torment of mirth, to nae look upon man or woman within the castle or the confines thereof, brings him unexpected pleasures. He finds, his senses deprived of sight, not by ailment of lack of eyes, but by promise and mirth, he finds that voices become magnified. Voices reveal the lilt of melodic pronunciation, the gentle caress of almost meek resonance spilling from unseen royal lips, yes even the clipped direct infusion of his ears, hard words uttered by one strong enough to equal men.
His nose has discerned scents that too often are lost within the beauty of eyes and silken lashes, the tender slope of a rose kissed cheek, and slightly parted lips, small marks of white teeth pressed into the bottom one with apprehension. The scents of lavender, citron, apple peel, pieces of quince, and even ………at times the loveliest of scents, myrrh and amberrheece. All this brings pleasure to his heart, it has been long that smile has willed its way from his lips. This pleasantry of a joke pleases him much, teaches him much.
The road has been quiet, pensive and thoughts his only companion at times. Petite willingly takes him where the leads indicate the steed to go, and had for neigh 3 months. But perhaps he should seek this king with the eyes of a hawk, and plead him to allow his eyes to see what others see, the beauty of the pebble and windstorm gems. Perhaps for a short while he should stay. The way the men walk the battlements and guard the stronghold, the rotation of shifts, the pride that they show in eyes and carriage of their weapons, all this has left him wondering who it is that forms this group of men, moulds this wall of protection to seeming perfection.
Igraham would be ecstatic to walk among them and learn; his former knave zealous and almost unstoppable in his quest to learn. He misses him, but the boy would be taught well by his cousin. The death of a father, the change of command had forced his feet to roam, and he had done so gladly, there was no regret. His daughter Marianne was old enough, and married.
He smiles, the girl did wrench his arm mightily, and his visits would joyous ones. He hoped his first would grant him the sight of grandchildren. His girl’s hips were wide, wide enough to carry many, and he hoped at least ten.
He stands……….. and mutters.*
Yes, ten would do nicely.
*He stretches, muscles protesting, and mock fights an unseen enemy, noting the sharpness of his stance is lacking, and slaps the strong flat surface of his stomach. He must spar soon, and much………*
……..perhaps when the dust settles one of the men here…………
*He walks to the window, a hand runs along his beard, and he nods, knowing the woman would fight with equal valour, but strength? He has never met a woman of her rank, or so the gossip tells him, guard to the king. The king is a dunce, trusting the lesser physique of a woman, or a brilliant strategist, having found a true and rare gem, one that would mesmerize and fool any man with seemingly feminine weakness, and, as he remembers, eyes that breathe fire. He laughs and decides that if there be a change to meet his steel with hers he would welcome it, gladly.
He stretches again and muses over the man that is the king, again running a hand along his beard, looking out, grinning. Eyes upon the horizon, and he turns back to the bed, to sleep.*
