Lioness Rampant [1]
anonymous
April 6 2009, 09:23:12 UTC
The damn problem was, Antonio reflected to himself, that he forgot that England was an island kingdom.
Spain made his fortune, his steady rise, in ships, yes. But he forgot, oh Dios, he forgot that he was not the only one with ships.
He wanted to laugh and he did, a steady trail of sharp chuckles that erupted from his bloody, cracked mouth. His hands went up to his face and caused the chains of his manacles to clink against each other, so gently. Dios…
He was in her personal cabin, sparse, clean, and oddly elegant. This didn’t do at all but she was always such a damnably grim sort of individual. Dour and matter-of-fact and lacking any sort of spirituality. It was a pity, because he could see the beauty in her, waiting, stunted, hibernating-
The door opened and booted feet stomped upon the creaking floorboards. He turned his head around and managed a smile for her as he got to his feet shakily and made his bow.
“Doña Alana,” he said pleasantly, as the chains clinked and weighed down his weary worn wrists.
“Always a gentlemen, Antonio,” came the rich, strong, clear voice from that singularly infuriating, singularly dour and- antagonistic woman. She was dressed brazenly in scarlet, a bloody red that made no pretense at all of being anything but military wear. But she wore it not with military bearing, only her own arrogance and assurance in her own power.
It was almost attractive.
He smiled still, because it was all he could really do, raising his manacled wrists. “If you could be so kind?”
“I am not that stupid, Antonio.” She went over to built-in cabinet, pulling out a bottle of wine and two glasses. He watched her hips sway and her powerful, exposed legs move in those scandalous trousers. His eyes followed her red mouth and her strong white teeth as she bit into the cork, tugging it out far too easily. She poured the Madeira carelessly before shoving a glass into his hands and setting in a chair right in front of him.
The sun was setting outside and it cast the cabin in bloody light as they drank silently. He watched her for signs of inebriation but she seemed positively steady. Out of necessity and practicality, she tied back her leonine gold mane of hair with a striking blue and red ribbon, it still glowed in a meandering, curly stream down her back and her green, green eyes (poisonous eyes, hissed his Catholic blood) glowed like finest beryls. She still wore her hat, a massive monstrosity of a thing in black felt trimmed with obscene amounts of gold braid, trimmed with pale, fluffy plumes from some foreign bird and held in place with a hatpin fastened from gold and an enormous blue carbuncle.
“Are you to ransom me, señorita?” he asked pleasantly.
“In due time. And kindly don’t call me that.”
“I must commend you on your… cunning.” He canted his head. “And what am I to call you then?”
She grinned at him, a wicked expression that seemed madness and lasciviousness and cruelty incarnate. “I am evil bitch and you know it, Spain.” She sipped from her glass almost daintily; he tried not to think of a lioness drinking from a pool of blood. “And my name is just fine, thank you.” Her grin then became that much more… perverse. “Or Mistress.”
Re: Lioness Rampant [1]
anonymous
April 6 2009, 09:31:22 UTC
Making my leisurely and much-impressed way through this, and quite curious as to whether the title and England's name might be a reference to a certain book series...?
The name was completely by accident (I didn't even realize it until now) and the minute after I typed the title I realized the reference (but kept it because it works xD).
Not a DELIBERATE reference but completely subconscious (that's why I shouldn't write late at night...)
Spain made his fortune, his steady rise, in ships, yes. But he forgot, oh Dios, he forgot that he was not the only one with ships.
He wanted to laugh and he did, a steady trail of sharp chuckles that erupted from his bloody, cracked mouth. His hands went up to his face and caused the chains of his manacles to clink against each other, so gently. Dios…
He was in her personal cabin, sparse, clean, and oddly elegant. This didn’t do at all but she was always such a damnably grim sort of individual. Dour and matter-of-fact and lacking any sort of spirituality. It was a pity, because he could see the beauty in her, waiting, stunted, hibernating-
The door opened and booted feet stomped upon the creaking floorboards. He turned his head around and managed a smile for her as he got to his feet shakily and made his bow.
“Doña Alana,” he said pleasantly, as the chains clinked and weighed down his weary worn wrists.
“Always a gentlemen, Antonio,” came the rich, strong, clear voice from that singularly infuriating, singularly dour and- antagonistic woman. She was dressed brazenly in scarlet, a bloody red that made no pretense at all of being anything but military wear. But she wore it not with military bearing, only her own arrogance and assurance in her own power.
It was almost attractive.
He smiled still, because it was all he could really do, raising his manacled wrists. “If you could be so kind?”
“I am not that stupid, Antonio.” She went over to built-in cabinet, pulling out a bottle of wine and two glasses. He watched her hips sway and her powerful, exposed legs move in those scandalous trousers. His eyes followed her red mouth and her strong white teeth as she bit into the cork, tugging it out far too easily. She poured the Madeira carelessly before shoving a glass into his hands and setting in a chair right in front of him.
The sun was setting outside and it cast the cabin in bloody light as they drank silently. He watched her for signs of inebriation but she seemed positively steady. Out of necessity and practicality, she tied back her leonine gold mane of hair with a striking blue and red ribbon, it still glowed in a meandering, curly stream down her back and her green, green eyes (poisonous eyes, hissed his Catholic blood) glowed like finest beryls. She still wore her hat, a massive monstrosity of a thing in black felt trimmed with obscene amounts of gold braid, trimmed with pale, fluffy plumes from some foreign bird and held in place with a hatpin fastened from gold and an enormous blue carbuncle.
“Are you to ransom me, señorita?” he asked pleasantly.
“In due time. And kindly don’t call me that.”
“I must commend you on your… cunning.” He canted his head. “And what am I to call you then?”
She grinned at him, a wicked expression that seemed madness and lasciviousness and cruelty incarnate. “I am evil bitch and you know it, Spain.” She sipped from her glass almost daintily; he tried not to think of a lioness drinking from a pool of blood. “And my name is just fine, thank you.” Her grin then became that much more… perverse. “Or Mistress.”
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Not a DELIBERATE reference but completely subconscious (that's why I shouldn't write late at night...)
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