another very short piece
Pistachio #25. Morning After with a Cherry
Rating : PG-13
Timeframe : winter 1260
Cherry for complete lack of dialogue.
Rune’s eyes fluttered open and, at the bitter sting of the dry air, he quickly forced them shut again. The harsh taste of soot filled his mouth, and he coughed and gagged as consciousness forced itself upon him. He struggled to free his mind from the hold of the throbbing pain that emanated from his left arm. The first thought that came with any clarity was that he should be dead.
Killing himself certainly hadn’t been his intent, not that spitting in the face of the gods was any more rational a thing to do. Nevertheless, it should have been the only reasonable result.
He slowly pried the lids from parched eyes to survey the damage around him. From his position on the floor, the heavily charred surface of the temple walls was readily visible. Not an inch had been spared, but the blackened walls stood, apparently as sturdy as ever. Rune’s gaze followed them to the floor, which he found to be just as badly scarred by flame. The evidence of last night’s destruction continued along the floorboards until it came to a sudden halt. It was as if a circle had been etched in the floor, and everything inside it remained untouched, while just outside its perfect boundaries all was in ruins.
Forcing the elbow of his good arm beneath him, Rune propped himself nearly to a sitting position. Every movement brought pain to the other. He could feel the tight stretch and faint crackle of skin that had blistered and healed.
His sleeve was still forced up around his shoulder where he had left it. The injury to his arm was as well contained as that to the temple. Flesh once marked by pigment had been seared away, the ink replaced with a layer of angry red. His heart sank as he realized that the sigil he’d long ago inked into his skin was no more, but never had the claim of the gods on him been more apparant.
Rating : PG-13
Timeframe : winter 1260
Cherry for complete lack of dialogue.
Rune’s eyes fluttered open and, at the bitter sting of the dry air, he quickly forced them shut again. The harsh taste of soot filled his mouth, and he coughed and gagged as consciousness forced itself upon him. He struggled to free his mind from the hold of the throbbing pain that emanated from his left arm. The first thought that came with any clarity was that he should be dead.
Killing himself certainly hadn’t been his intent, not that spitting in the face of the gods was any more rational a thing to do. Nevertheless, it should have been the only reasonable result.
He slowly pried the lids from parched eyes to survey the damage around him. From his position on the floor, the heavily charred surface of the temple walls was readily visible. Not an inch had been spared, but the blackened walls stood, apparently as sturdy as ever. Rune’s gaze followed them to the floor, which he found to be just as badly scarred by flame. The evidence of last night’s destruction continued along the floorboards until it came to a sudden halt. It was as if a circle had been etched in the floor, and everything inside it remained untouched, while just outside its perfect boundaries all was in ruins.
Forcing the elbow of his good arm beneath him, Rune propped himself nearly to a sitting position. Every movement brought pain to the other. He could feel the tight stretch and faint crackle of skin that had blistered and healed.
His sleeve was still forced up around his shoulder where he had left it. The injury to his arm was as well contained as that to the temple. Flesh once marked by pigment had been seared away, the ink replaced with a layer of angry red. His heart sank as he realized that the sigil he’d long ago inked into his skin was no more, but never had the claim of the gods on him been more apparant.