Westmark-"The Great Muse"
I'm currently in my Westmark trilogy kick, so you'll probably be seeing a lot of it, in addition to (hopefully) some more of the high scorers from the Dracula crossovers poll. For now, onto the Westmark.
For rainbowjehan, we have a fluffy little Stock/Zara, (set pre-Westmark).
The Great Muse
Stock had gotten all the way past the table and halfway to the door before he realized that the lump in the corner was a person. The moonlight streaming through the window allowed him after a moment to determine that it was Zara, forehead to her knees and arms wrapped around herself. He reached out as though to touch her shoulder, but then pulled back. Why she should be down stairs at this time of night he didn’t know. He stood, debating what to do.
“I know you’re there, you great tromping oaf,” she muttered suddenly. Her eyes glittered in the dim light as she lifted her head. “A deaf man could have heard you coming down those stairs.”
Stock made a sweeping bow. “My apologies, my lady. I shall take your words to heart and do my best to curb my appetite for the fine raspberry tarts and other pastries which Jellinek so graciously provides us with after our grand feasts.”
“Shut up; you know as well as I that there hasn’t been sight of a pastry around here in months.” Zara got up from her corner. “What are you doing down here anyway?”
“I could ask you the same thing. As it so happens, the Great Muse herself awakened me with a shaft of moonlight through my window, and I though perhaps I would sit outside and compose a tribute to her glory.” Stock held up his sheaf of paper and the stubby pencils which were serving until he could replenish his inkpot and use a proper quill. Zara snorted.
“Tell your ‘Great Muse’ that she’s awfully inconsiderate to be waking you up in the middle of the night,” she muttered. Stock ignored her. “You’re welcome to join me if you like,” he said, and with another bow he turns and went outside.
He had been sitting scribbling away for several minutes, when he heard the soft rustle of fabric and grass behind him. He said nothing, and neither did she. He heard her shift again, and sensed she was reading over his shoulder, but he didn’t cover his unfinished poem, as he usually would have.
A long time had passed in silence before she softly spoke. “Those last two don’t rhyme.” Stock turned and looked at her. She was studying his paper intently. “It’s artistic license. ‘Beauteous’ and ‘lust’: they almost sound alike.”
Zara glared even harder at the paper. “But they don’t rhyme. All the other rhymes match.”
Stock smiled to himself. “You’re right.” The silence returned as Zara bored holes through the paper with her gaze. Stock pulled a clean sheet from his sheaf and offered it and an extra pencil to the young woman. She shot him a look at though he were offering her poison.
“I could teach you, you know,” he said quietly. Zara pulled back and glared at him. He shrugged and sat the spare writing equipment between them, then turned back to his own work. After a few minutes, he heard a slight scratching noise. He glanced back carefully to see her holding the pencil awkwardly, crudely and painstakingly writing out the alphabet. To both their surprise, she didn’t object when he gently placed his hand over hers and began to guide the letters.
Florian had an appointment with a man on the far side of Freyborg, and he wanted an early start before anyone else awakened and wanted the horse. He headed out just as the sun was rising. As he crossed the field, he stopped and smiled. The Russet Divinity slept soundly, head in the lap of the gently snoring Poet Laureate. Papers covered in two handwritings, one looping and precise, the other childlike and meandering, were scattered about them, corners fluttering with the slight morning breeze. Florian pulled the saddle blanket off the old nag and gently laid it over his sleeping children, and left them to awaken in their own time. He was never one to interrupt a rare moment of peace.
For rainbowjehan, we have a fluffy little Stock/Zara, (set pre-Westmark).
The Great Muse
Stock had gotten all the way past the table and halfway to the door before he realized that the lump in the corner was a person. The moonlight streaming through the window allowed him after a moment to determine that it was Zara, forehead to her knees and arms wrapped around herself. He reached out as though to touch her shoulder, but then pulled back. Why she should be down stairs at this time of night he didn’t know. He stood, debating what to do.
“I know you’re there, you great tromping oaf,” she muttered suddenly. Her eyes glittered in the dim light as she lifted her head. “A deaf man could have heard you coming down those stairs.”
Stock made a sweeping bow. “My apologies, my lady. I shall take your words to heart and do my best to curb my appetite for the fine raspberry tarts and other pastries which Jellinek so graciously provides us with after our grand feasts.”
“Shut up; you know as well as I that there hasn’t been sight of a pastry around here in months.” Zara got up from her corner. “What are you doing down here anyway?”
“I could ask you the same thing. As it so happens, the Great Muse herself awakened me with a shaft of moonlight through my window, and I though perhaps I would sit outside and compose a tribute to her glory.” Stock held up his sheaf of paper and the stubby pencils which were serving until he could replenish his inkpot and use a proper quill. Zara snorted.
“Tell your ‘Great Muse’ that she’s awfully inconsiderate to be waking you up in the middle of the night,” she muttered. Stock ignored her. “You’re welcome to join me if you like,” he said, and with another bow he turns and went outside.
He had been sitting scribbling away for several minutes, when he heard the soft rustle of fabric and grass behind him. He said nothing, and neither did she. He heard her shift again, and sensed she was reading over his shoulder, but he didn’t cover his unfinished poem, as he usually would have.
A long time had passed in silence before she softly spoke. “Those last two don’t rhyme.” Stock turned and looked at her. She was studying his paper intently. “It’s artistic license. ‘Beauteous’ and ‘lust’: they almost sound alike.”
Zara glared even harder at the paper. “But they don’t rhyme. All the other rhymes match.”
Stock smiled to himself. “You’re right.” The silence returned as Zara bored holes through the paper with her gaze. Stock pulled a clean sheet from his sheaf and offered it and an extra pencil to the young woman. She shot him a look at though he were offering her poison.
“I could teach you, you know,” he said quietly. Zara pulled back and glared at him. He shrugged and sat the spare writing equipment between them, then turned back to his own work. After a few minutes, he heard a slight scratching noise. He glanced back carefully to see her holding the pencil awkwardly, crudely and painstakingly writing out the alphabet. To both their surprise, she didn’t object when he gently placed his hand over hers and began to guide the letters.
Florian had an appointment with a man on the far side of Freyborg, and he wanted an early start before anyone else awakened and wanted the horse. He headed out just as the sun was rising. As he crossed the field, he stopped and smiled. The Russet Divinity slept soundly, head in the lap of the gently snoring Poet Laureate. Papers covered in two handwritings, one looping and precise, the other childlike and meandering, were scattered about them, corners fluttering with the slight morning breeze. Florian pulled the saddle blanket off the old nag and gently laid it over his sleeping children, and left them to awaken in their own time. He was never one to interrupt a rare moment of peace.