Scrap: 009
Title: n/a
Genre: Fantasy, faint Angst
Fandom/Original: Original
Prompt: n/a
Status: Complete
Word Count: 1218
Author’s Notes: Drabble, untitled. Might possibly become part of a larger series, but might also not.
Summary: Jaden and Ciarán loiter around uselessly in a House of crea.
Scrap: 009.
“He’s beautiful.”
“Incredibly so.”
“And the hair-so fine!”
“I do believe that was the point.”
“It is like rubies, the color.”
Jaden squinted up at the crea. “I don’t see any appeal whatsoever. How annoying,” he said finally, and huffed in irritation. “It looks very much like a child.”
The woman who had been admiring the crea in front of them looked back, scandalized. Jaden stuck his tongue out, and she turned back her companion, sniffing disdainfully. “Uncultured heathens,” he could hear her muttering.
Jaden eyed the complicated mess that was comprised of the woman’s hair and what seemed like an entire kitchen’s supply of chopsticks, slightly insulted; he wasn’t the one wearing chopsticks, but thinking that didn’t really help, because having chopsticks for hair accessories was probably ‘in fashion’ or something else that didn’t really make any sense at all. Then Jaden grinned.
‘Uncultured heathens’ were they?
Jaden resisted the urge to rub his hands together and cackle like a maniac; however, he didn’t bother resisting the urge to be as uncultured a heathen as possible and leer up at the body held for display against the wall-but that was the point. “Perhaps we should buy it, anyway?” Jaden asked, and wagged his eyebrows perversely when the woman looked back again, this time askance. “Such pale skin. It would look delightfully flushed with little effort, don’t you think?” He directed the question as much to the woman as to Ciarán, whose lips quirked in amusement.
The woman gasped, horrified, then her brows furrowed in agitation and her heavily painted brown eyes narrowed into a glare. “To mention depravities so freely,” she said. “Surely you are unfamiliar with the regulations of this House.”
Her companion had, by then, turned fully to watch them with appraising eyes. “Indeed,” he said, unruffled, although his mustache twitched, “and, if so-”
“I had thought your tastes more matured than this, my lord,” Ciarán said at his side, cutting in smoothly, and his pale, grey eyes flickered briefly up to the crea that was the subject of their conversation for emphasis. And completely ignoring the two humans who had turned to him, one affronted and one with an inscrutable expression upon his face. “Perhaps this crea is of age, but the body it has been Crafted into seems a trifle young.”
“Oh, I am sure I can manage,” Jaden said, licking his lips lasciviously. He had seen enough people making the gesture to be confident that he was imitating it with some accuracy, if not perfection. However, considering the barely concealed look of disgust that came over the faces of his audience, his skills weren’t lacking too badly that he should despair over them.
Jaden had to bite the inside of his cheek to keep from laughing but couldn’t help leering at the woman and her companion. “I am sorry. Had you wanted to make a suggestion? I admit to being slightly unlearned when it comes to the matter of creas, and what, exactly, they may be used for, though I do have some ideas.”
“We’ve heard,” the woman snapped coldly. Her companion patted her hand briefly.
Then he reached into his pocket and brought out a sheaf of paper. “I believe that my lords would be interested in this. It is a vastly different sort of crea House than the one you are in, presently,” he said, ignoring the confused look that the woman was giving him.
Jaden took the papers, and stared at the curving, black script that ran across the top of the first page he saw. It read ‘House of Lord Adelaide Creighton, Crafter of Slaves of All Vocations,’ with an address of the main House and the addresses of minor Houses that were listed as affiliates below it in neat printed letters.
“My thanks, my good sir,” he said, without looking up. His emotions had twisted in on themselves, until it was difficult for him to discern whether or not his amusement was due to the woman’s reactions or his own plans failing spectacularly and, at once, without ceremony. When he looked up, he grinned at the man and woman. “How fortunate that we’ve come across one another.”
The man nodded, though the woman only looked more baffled than she had before.
“Good day to you, my lords. Come Dalia,” the man said, and started leading the woman away, “there is still more we have not seen yet. Had you not said that you wanted a child that looked like us?”
When the couple finally disappeared around a corner, Jaden looked over at Ciarán and smirked. “It seems, my friend, that the humans have changed little since we’ve left them last,” he said, and carelessly tossed the papers he held into the air; they burst into flickering white and yellow-orange flames, quickly burning away the sheets of paper, before twisting out of existence.
Ciarán snorted. “If you had asked, I would have told you that much.”
“What’s the fun in that?” Jaden asked, watching as ash settled faintly on the pale skin of the crea.
Suspended above their heads by magic that was barely distinguishable from the magic inherent in the grounds of the manor, the crea remained motionless and silent. Its eyes, a dark amber-brown, stared unseeingly from beneath a fringe of messily cut red hair.
Jaden imagined hundreds, perhaps thousands, of the same perfectly created human bodies lined against a wall, some old and regal, others as young and delicate as the body above them. He found that he couldn’t feel any sympathy, either for the creatures who had been twisted from their original shapes to fit the whims of strangers or the humans who bought, again and again, crea to use and discard like trash, while they lorded their superiority and morality over others. Still-
Jaden raised a hand and sketched the lines of the sigil for ‘breath’ into the air, lips curving mischievously in a smile. For the briefest of seconds, nothing appeared; then, light traced after his fingers, glowing a faint pink shade that quickly darkened into the color of blood. Then into a black that made the sigil look almost solid.
He looked up at the expressionless face above him. “Dying is so much easier, isn’t it?” he asked, not expecting much of an answer. When none came, Jaden looked back at his sigil and gently blew a faint breath into the magic he’d shaped; the sigil fractured, then scattered into slivers that slowly disappearing into nothing. “For my amusement at your expense,” he said, winking at the blank features of the crea.
Cheerfully ignoring the exasperated expression that Ciarán wore, Jaden turned and left. “If we don’t hurry, we’ll be even more late,” he said brightly, and snickered, imagining the faces of the human dignitaries they were supposed to have met over an hour ago. Humans always had the most amusing expressions, really. “Do you think his highness will believe us if we said that we were distracted trying to save lives?” he asked over his shoulder.
“We?” Ciarán raised an eyebrow. “I’m planning on blaming you entirely.”
“What do you mean a crea’s dead!”
“We don’t know! When we released it from its stasis spells, it wasn’t breathing! Or responding to any of the magics that the healers applied!”
"WHAT?"
Genre: Fantasy, faint Angst
Fandom/Original: Original
Prompt: n/a
Status: Complete
Word Count: 1218
Author’s Notes: Drabble, untitled. Might possibly become part of a larger series, but might also not.
Summary: Jaden and Ciarán loiter around uselessly in a House of crea.
Scrap: 009.
“He’s beautiful.”
“Incredibly so.”
“And the hair-so fine!”
“I do believe that was the point.”
“It is like rubies, the color.”
Jaden squinted up at the crea. “I don’t see any appeal whatsoever. How annoying,” he said finally, and huffed in irritation. “It looks very much like a child.”
The woman who had been admiring the crea in front of them looked back, scandalized. Jaden stuck his tongue out, and she turned back her companion, sniffing disdainfully. “Uncultured heathens,” he could hear her muttering.
Jaden eyed the complicated mess that was comprised of the woman’s hair and what seemed like an entire kitchen’s supply of chopsticks, slightly insulted; he wasn’t the one wearing chopsticks, but thinking that didn’t really help, because having chopsticks for hair accessories was probably ‘in fashion’ or something else that didn’t really make any sense at all. Then Jaden grinned.
‘Uncultured heathens’ were they?
Jaden resisted the urge to rub his hands together and cackle like a maniac; however, he didn’t bother resisting the urge to be as uncultured a heathen as possible and leer up at the body held for display against the wall-but that was the point. “Perhaps we should buy it, anyway?” Jaden asked, and wagged his eyebrows perversely when the woman looked back again, this time askance. “Such pale skin. It would look delightfully flushed with little effort, don’t you think?” He directed the question as much to the woman as to Ciarán, whose lips quirked in amusement.
The woman gasped, horrified, then her brows furrowed in agitation and her heavily painted brown eyes narrowed into a glare. “To mention depravities so freely,” she said. “Surely you are unfamiliar with the regulations of this House.”
Her companion had, by then, turned fully to watch them with appraising eyes. “Indeed,” he said, unruffled, although his mustache twitched, “and, if so-”
“I had thought your tastes more matured than this, my lord,” Ciarán said at his side, cutting in smoothly, and his pale, grey eyes flickered briefly up to the crea that was the subject of their conversation for emphasis. And completely ignoring the two humans who had turned to him, one affronted and one with an inscrutable expression upon his face. “Perhaps this crea is of age, but the body it has been Crafted into seems a trifle young.”
“Oh, I am sure I can manage,” Jaden said, licking his lips lasciviously. He had seen enough people making the gesture to be confident that he was imitating it with some accuracy, if not perfection. However, considering the barely concealed look of disgust that came over the faces of his audience, his skills weren’t lacking too badly that he should despair over them.
Jaden had to bite the inside of his cheek to keep from laughing but couldn’t help leering at the woman and her companion. “I am sorry. Had you wanted to make a suggestion? I admit to being slightly unlearned when it comes to the matter of creas, and what, exactly, they may be used for, though I do have some ideas.”
“We’ve heard,” the woman snapped coldly. Her companion patted her hand briefly.
Then he reached into his pocket and brought out a sheaf of paper. “I believe that my lords would be interested in this. It is a vastly different sort of crea House than the one you are in, presently,” he said, ignoring the confused look that the woman was giving him.
Jaden took the papers, and stared at the curving, black script that ran across the top of the first page he saw. It read ‘House of Lord Adelaide Creighton, Crafter of Slaves of All Vocations,’ with an address of the main House and the addresses of minor Houses that were listed as affiliates below it in neat printed letters.
“My thanks, my good sir,” he said, without looking up. His emotions had twisted in on themselves, until it was difficult for him to discern whether or not his amusement was due to the woman’s reactions or his own plans failing spectacularly and, at once, without ceremony. When he looked up, he grinned at the man and woman. “How fortunate that we’ve come across one another.”
The man nodded, though the woman only looked more baffled than she had before.
“Good day to you, my lords. Come Dalia,” the man said, and started leading the woman away, “there is still more we have not seen yet. Had you not said that you wanted a child that looked like us?”
When the couple finally disappeared around a corner, Jaden looked over at Ciarán and smirked. “It seems, my friend, that the humans have changed little since we’ve left them last,” he said, and carelessly tossed the papers he held into the air; they burst into flickering white and yellow-orange flames, quickly burning away the sheets of paper, before twisting out of existence.
Ciarán snorted. “If you had asked, I would have told you that much.”
“What’s the fun in that?” Jaden asked, watching as ash settled faintly on the pale skin of the crea.
Suspended above their heads by magic that was barely distinguishable from the magic inherent in the grounds of the manor, the crea remained motionless and silent. Its eyes, a dark amber-brown, stared unseeingly from beneath a fringe of messily cut red hair.
Jaden imagined hundreds, perhaps thousands, of the same perfectly created human bodies lined against a wall, some old and regal, others as young and delicate as the body above them. He found that he couldn’t feel any sympathy, either for the creatures who had been twisted from their original shapes to fit the whims of strangers or the humans who bought, again and again, crea to use and discard like trash, while they lorded their superiority and morality over others. Still-
Jaden raised a hand and sketched the lines of the sigil for ‘breath’ into the air, lips curving mischievously in a smile. For the briefest of seconds, nothing appeared; then, light traced after his fingers, glowing a faint pink shade that quickly darkened into the color of blood. Then into a black that made the sigil look almost solid.
He looked up at the expressionless face above him. “Dying is so much easier, isn’t it?” he asked, not expecting much of an answer. When none came, Jaden looked back at his sigil and gently blew a faint breath into the magic he’d shaped; the sigil fractured, then scattered into slivers that slowly disappearing into nothing. “For my amusement at your expense,” he said, winking at the blank features of the crea.
Cheerfully ignoring the exasperated expression that Ciarán wore, Jaden turned and left. “If we don’t hurry, we’ll be even more late,” he said brightly, and snickered, imagining the faces of the human dignitaries they were supposed to have met over an hour ago. Humans always had the most amusing expressions, really. “Do you think his highness will believe us if we said that we were distracted trying to save lives?” he asked over his shoulder.
“We?” Ciarán raised an eyebrow. “I’m planning on blaming you entirely.”
“What do you mean a crea’s dead!”
“We don’t know! When we released it from its stasis spells, it wasn’t breathing! Or responding to any of the magics that the healers applied!”
"WHAT?"