WIP: Books of the Raksura, Malachite/Dusk
I have 5 pictures to draw, with deadlines and everything, and after filling up about 30 photoshop layers with unsuccessful hockey sketches, I ended up doing this (which is actually something I owe umino_gaara, so I don't feel too bad):
Sundown
If she had been home, Malachite would have had plenty to do. But at Opal Night, there was almost nothing. She was a young foreign queen without family or faction, taken in as a favor to a distant ally, and nobody trusted her with anything.
“You can’t stay in here all day,” Nimbus said. Her groundling form was tall and lean, her shirt hanging open to expose the curve of one breast. A breeze moved the fabric, drawing Malachite’s eye. It didn’t make her want to leave.
Six months ago, the reigning queen of Malachite’s birthcourt had died of very old age. In the time honored practice of regime changes throughout the Reaches, the new reigning line had rounded up the old line’s younger queens and its promising but unnecessary consorts and started shipping them off to whichever colonies could be induced to accept them. These colonies would broaden their bloodlines while relieving Cerise Wing of an inconvenient political complication.
And so, Malachite of Cerise Wing became Malachite of Opal Night.
It wasn’t a bad place. Wealthy and strong and bustling with enough Raksura for Malachite to fade into the background. And the eerie, half-dead colony tree slowly growing into the mountain suited Malachite’s mood.
Malachite twitched her tail under Nimbus’ back, rolling the warrior towards her. Nimbus had been battle-tested time and again in Cerise Wing’s border patrols, and she caught herself easily over Malachite’s waist. It made tossing her around that much more satisfying. Malachite stuck her hand through the open front of the shirt and stroked her hand up Nimbus’ side from hip to breast.
Nimbus laughed. “Oh yeah, we’re getting out of here.”
A scrape at the bower entrance stopped them. Malachite recognized Hellebore’s particular earthy scent before he turned the corner carrying a bundle of cloth. His jewelry and dark clothing identified him as a consort, but the silver was tarnished and the clothing beginning to wear at the knees. He had the most beautiful profile Malachite had ever seen on a groundling face, and as far as she could tell, he had never had to do anything for himself until the day he’d been stolen from his birthcourt, stolen again, and somehow tumbled the rest of the way down the social ladder and into her bower. Which he sometimes set on fire while trying to make tea.
Hellebore dumped the silky bundle next to Nimbus, who gave him a skeptical look sitting as she was across Malachite’s waist with Malachite’s hand inside her shirt. The next thing he tossed on the pile was a needle and thread.
“Are you joking,” Nimbus said.
“I tried it myself, but I’m just not meant for this sort of work.”
“Find an Arbora.”
“We’re scum, sweet thing; there aren’t any Arbora for us. And the only thing Malachite knows about clothing is taking it off of other people.”
“That’s true,” Malachite said. She flipped Nimbus around, her back to Malachite’s front, and ran her hands up Nimbus’ stomach and over her breasts, enjoying the warm, pleasant feel of them and of Nimbus contained in her grasp. Nimbus took in a shaky breath, hand clutching at Malachite’s scaled knee for balance. Malachite added, “It’s alright; it’s not getting in my way.”
Nimbus shifted like she was trying to find a comfortable position, made awkward by Malachite effectively pinning her upper body. She was annoyed that Malachite had made submitting to Malachite and submitting to Hellebore one and the same. Malachite tapped Hellebore with her tail, and old, jaded consort that he was, he vaulted immediately onto the hanging bed, swaying it with his weight. Nimbus swore when he got his hands on her ankles because she knew she’d been outplayed.
“Ah, barter,” Hellebore said fondly, crawling up her legs. “This I understand.”
Nimbus snatched up the pants and sewing kit just as he got his fingers into her waistband. Malachite tightened her hands in approval. “And the best part is,” Nimbus said breathlessly, trying to thread the needle above Hellebore’s head, “this is still going to be better than fucking Hellebore could do.”
...to be continued.
This entry was originally posted at http://pentapus.dreamwidth.org/58592.html. Please comment there using OpenID. (
comments)
Sundown
If she had been home, Malachite would have had plenty to do. But at Opal Night, there was almost nothing. She was a young foreign queen without family or faction, taken in as a favor to a distant ally, and nobody trusted her with anything.
“You can’t stay in here all day,” Nimbus said. Her groundling form was tall and lean, her shirt hanging open to expose the curve of one breast. A breeze moved the fabric, drawing Malachite’s eye. It didn’t make her want to leave.
Six months ago, the reigning queen of Malachite’s birthcourt had died of very old age. In the time honored practice of regime changes throughout the Reaches, the new reigning line had rounded up the old line’s younger queens and its promising but unnecessary consorts and started shipping them off to whichever colonies could be induced to accept them. These colonies would broaden their bloodlines while relieving Cerise Wing of an inconvenient political complication.
And so, Malachite of Cerise Wing became Malachite of Opal Night.
It wasn’t a bad place. Wealthy and strong and bustling with enough Raksura for Malachite to fade into the background. And the eerie, half-dead colony tree slowly growing into the mountain suited Malachite’s mood.
Malachite twitched her tail under Nimbus’ back, rolling the warrior towards her. Nimbus had been battle-tested time and again in Cerise Wing’s border patrols, and she caught herself easily over Malachite’s waist. It made tossing her around that much more satisfying. Malachite stuck her hand through the open front of the shirt and stroked her hand up Nimbus’ side from hip to breast.
Nimbus laughed. “Oh yeah, we’re getting out of here.”
A scrape at the bower entrance stopped them. Malachite recognized Hellebore’s particular earthy scent before he turned the corner carrying a bundle of cloth. His jewelry and dark clothing identified him as a consort, but the silver was tarnished and the clothing beginning to wear at the knees. He had the most beautiful profile Malachite had ever seen on a groundling face, and as far as she could tell, he had never had to do anything for himself until the day he’d been stolen from his birthcourt, stolen again, and somehow tumbled the rest of the way down the social ladder and into her bower. Which he sometimes set on fire while trying to make tea.
Hellebore dumped the silky bundle next to Nimbus, who gave him a skeptical look sitting as she was across Malachite’s waist with Malachite’s hand inside her shirt. The next thing he tossed on the pile was a needle and thread.
“Are you joking,” Nimbus said.
“I tried it myself, but I’m just not meant for this sort of work.”
“Find an Arbora.”
“We’re scum, sweet thing; there aren’t any Arbora for us. And the only thing Malachite knows about clothing is taking it off of other people.”
“That’s true,” Malachite said. She flipped Nimbus around, her back to Malachite’s front, and ran her hands up Nimbus’ stomach and over her breasts, enjoying the warm, pleasant feel of them and of Nimbus contained in her grasp. Nimbus took in a shaky breath, hand clutching at Malachite’s scaled knee for balance. Malachite added, “It’s alright; it’s not getting in my way.”
Nimbus shifted like she was trying to find a comfortable position, made awkward by Malachite effectively pinning her upper body. She was annoyed that Malachite had made submitting to Malachite and submitting to Hellebore one and the same. Malachite tapped Hellebore with her tail, and old, jaded consort that he was, he vaulted immediately onto the hanging bed, swaying it with his weight. Nimbus swore when he got his hands on her ankles because she knew she’d been outplayed.
“Ah, barter,” Hellebore said fondly, crawling up her legs. “This I understand.”
Nimbus snatched up the pants and sewing kit just as he got his fingers into her waistband. Malachite tightened her hands in approval. “And the best part is,” Nimbus said breathlessly, trying to thread the needle above Hellebore’s head, “this is still going to be better than fucking Hellebore could do.”
...to be continued.
This entry was originally posted at http://pentapus.dreamwidth.org/58592.html. Please comment there using OpenID. (
comments)