[Deaths] the Morrigan
Title: presents
'Verse/characters: Deaths; the Morrigan, Julian De'Ath
Prompt: "all the little things"
Word Count: 421
Notes: I'm inclined to think this is after the campaign, but it could potentially be before Julian's father went missing. My writing is very rusty, my apologies.
---------
The body of the eye-sized tin that came flying at her head as she walked in the door was blue, a cobalt enamel that reminded her pleasantly of long ago fights. She caught it, of course, shook an admonishing finger at her visitor, then realised exactly who it was and dropped her hand.
Julian De'Ath was sprawled in the elderly leather armchair by the window with a book in her sword hand, her hair coiled onto her chest in a spill of sunlit gold. When she tipped an imaginary hat in greeting the Morrigan very nearly threw the tin back at her head, and did bare her teeth a little. Worse than a cat, this one, gone and back and gone again as soon as one grew accustomed to her presence.
Restraining herself, she looked down at the tin instead of the De'Ath, discovered the lid was covered in a purply transparent enamel that did not hide the complicated sunburst etched into the metal. She tilted it from side to side briefly, thumb and forefinger curled around the sides, admiring the etching--hand-cut, or she'd eat a pot of tea-leaves--then untwisted the lid from the base and peered inside.
She blinked. Blinked again, then hesitantly brought the tiny pot of rose-swirled scarlet lip-colour up to her face, smelled the deep hot scent of real cassia cinnamon, a touch of anise and beeswax, and something faint beneath that. Heavy, a little sharp, more bitter--she caught herself before she touched the tip of her tongue to the surface, lowered the pot and glared at her guest.
"It's a cousin to the kermes," Julian remarked lazily as she swapped a proper book-mark in for the two fingers she'd been using. "They raise them in the south and send the dried bodies north as trade-goods--our scarlets are as good as any of the tar-based dyes, with far less alchemical cursing."
The Morrigan put her hands on her hips. "And?"
Julian chuckled, standing up and flopping her braid over her shoulder to her back. "I thought you'd appreciate colour that something died to make, and I was hardly going to presume to order you boots or a harness."
"Hmf," the Morrigan replied, her ill temper wobbling. "So you give me something you haven't tried--planning to see if it poisons me?"
Julian laughed, long and loud, unable to stop herself. "I assume you'll survive anything the courting girls in my city wear with no ill-effects, milady. Wear it or not, as you like, but its intent is as a gift that made me think of you."
'Verse/characters: Deaths; the Morrigan, Julian De'Ath
Prompt: "all the little things"
Word Count: 421
Notes: I'm inclined to think this is after the campaign, but it could potentially be before Julian's father went missing. My writing is very rusty, my apologies.
---------
The body of the eye-sized tin that came flying at her head as she walked in the door was blue, a cobalt enamel that reminded her pleasantly of long ago fights. She caught it, of course, shook an admonishing finger at her visitor, then realised exactly who it was and dropped her hand.
Julian De'Ath was sprawled in the elderly leather armchair by the window with a book in her sword hand, her hair coiled onto her chest in a spill of sunlit gold. When she tipped an imaginary hat in greeting the Morrigan very nearly threw the tin back at her head, and did bare her teeth a little. Worse than a cat, this one, gone and back and gone again as soon as one grew accustomed to her presence.
Restraining herself, she looked down at the tin instead of the De'Ath, discovered the lid was covered in a purply transparent enamel that did not hide the complicated sunburst etched into the metal. She tilted it from side to side briefly, thumb and forefinger curled around the sides, admiring the etching--hand-cut, or she'd eat a pot of tea-leaves--then untwisted the lid from the base and peered inside.
She blinked. Blinked again, then hesitantly brought the tiny pot of rose-swirled scarlet lip-colour up to her face, smelled the deep hot scent of real cassia cinnamon, a touch of anise and beeswax, and something faint beneath that. Heavy, a little sharp, more bitter--she caught herself before she touched the tip of her tongue to the surface, lowered the pot and glared at her guest.
"It's a cousin to the kermes," Julian remarked lazily as she swapped a proper book-mark in for the two fingers she'd been using. "They raise them in the south and send the dried bodies north as trade-goods--our scarlets are as good as any of the tar-based dyes, with far less alchemical cursing."
The Morrigan put her hands on her hips. "And?"
Julian chuckled, standing up and flopping her braid over her shoulder to her back. "I thought you'd appreciate colour that something died to make, and I was hardly going to presume to order you boots or a harness."
"Hmf," the Morrigan replied, her ill temper wobbling. "So you give me something you haven't tried--planning to see if it poisons me?"
Julian laughed, long and loud, unable to stop herself. "I assume you'll survive anything the courting girls in my city wear with no ill-effects, milady. Wear it or not, as you like, but its intent is as a gift that made me think of you."