but a hundred years to a steadfast heart are but a day
WHO: Maleficent, the Princess Tutu cast, and anyone they happen to drag into what's going on.
WHERE: A mausoleum.
WHEN: March 20th, near sundown.
WARNINGS: Violence and not one but two character deaths.
SUMMARY: Once upon a time, a wicked witch kidnapped a noble prince. His brave protector knight and the princess who loved him resolved to set him free.
FORMAT: long-winded-osity
Sunset spooled out in a long bloody spill over the quiet graveyard, marking the strange and breathless hour just between winter and spring. Headstones glowed a pink gold in the odd light, a few shades from true red; bizarre angular shadows showed on the monuments like knife wounds.
Maleficent felt power growing in the air, and waited.
It still frustrated her that in this petty little world, her powers seemed to have shrunk--no longer was her rage sufficient to twist her body into a great black dragon's, and instead she was, as far as she could tell, at the mercy of some astronomical pattern. But that didn't mean she couldn't experiment. The twilight hour between seasons might give her enough power to deliver the prince in her grasp a fitting end; so too might spilling his blood in a house of the dead. One never knew if one didn't try.
On her shoulder, Diablo shifted restlessly, a split second before she heard a soft moan from Mytho's direction. Smoothly she turned to look at the boy: really, when you cut princes down to size, they were all pathetic in very much the same way. Noble, but helpless, their hopes pitifully fragile. This particular prince made a very pretty picture, draped as he was in the arms of a marble angel and held fast by black thorns. The sculpted book on which he lay was a lovely piece of unintentional irony--he looked like an illustration of exquisite agony come to life.
His disappointing little princess might come, for all she cared, or that ridiculous stripling who called himself a knight. She could almost taste her victory, in any of its infinite variations.
She might begin the new season with an apprentice yet. Or she might spill the heart's blood of a prince, or shatter the naive dreams of all the City's useless royal children at a single fell stroke.
The end of this particular chapter was in sight, and she could see, in great black letters, her own version of happily ever after.
WHERE: A mausoleum.
WHEN: March 20th, near sundown.
WARNINGS: Violence and not one but two character deaths.
SUMMARY: Once upon a time, a wicked witch kidnapped a noble prince. His brave protector knight and the princess who loved him resolved to set him free.
FORMAT: long-winded-osity
Sunset spooled out in a long bloody spill over the quiet graveyard, marking the strange and breathless hour just between winter and spring. Headstones glowed a pink gold in the odd light, a few shades from true red; bizarre angular shadows showed on the monuments like knife wounds.
Maleficent felt power growing in the air, and waited.
It still frustrated her that in this petty little world, her powers seemed to have shrunk--no longer was her rage sufficient to twist her body into a great black dragon's, and instead she was, as far as she could tell, at the mercy of some astronomical pattern. But that didn't mean she couldn't experiment. The twilight hour between seasons might give her enough power to deliver the prince in her grasp a fitting end; so too might spilling his blood in a house of the dead. One never knew if one didn't try.
On her shoulder, Diablo shifted restlessly, a split second before she heard a soft moan from Mytho's direction. Smoothly she turned to look at the boy: really, when you cut princes down to size, they were all pathetic in very much the same way. Noble, but helpless, their hopes pitifully fragile. This particular prince made a very pretty picture, draped as he was in the arms of a marble angel and held fast by black thorns. The sculpted book on which he lay was a lovely piece of unintentional irony--he looked like an illustration of exquisite agony come to life.
His disappointing little princess might come, for all she cared, or that ridiculous stripling who called himself a knight. She could almost taste her victory, in any of its infinite variations.
She might begin the new season with an apprentice yet. Or she might spill the heart's blood of a prince, or shatter the naive dreams of all the City's useless royal children at a single fell stroke.
The end of this particular chapter was in sight, and she could see, in great black letters, her own version of happily ever after.