Vignette: Taikrin ran.
Date: Day 20, Month 3, Turn 26 of Interval 10.
Summary: Taikrin is no longer on punishment sweeps, but she has been forbidden her three favorite things: drinking, brawling, and whoring. Life is hard.
Taikrin ran.
She wanted to punch someone. It didn't really matter who; anyone who looked at her crossways, who looked like they might have some fight in them, would do. She wanted to feel her blood singing, hear Szadath exulting in her mind at each blow, taste the happy exhaustion that came from beating your opponent to the ground.
She wanted a drink. She wanted to lose herself in the warm fuzziness of a glass of whiskey, in the roughhousing and revelry that grew up spontaneously around a table laden with pints of ale. She craved the feeling of invincibility, the sense of comradery from a table full of drunks, the lightness of heart that came when memories dimmed and receded.
Most of all, she wanted a fuck. Making love, having sex, screwing-- any of it was good. Mostly she craved the feeling of another naked body against hers, dominating and surrendering in turn. It set her blood afire better than any fistfight she'd ever been in, sent her higher than any alcohol she'd ever found.
But all of these things were denied her, and so Taikrin ran in endless loops around the bowl. She echoed the punishment Szadath himself had so recently been freed from, pushing herself around and around until she collapsed, trembling, and allowed Szadath to return her to the sanctity of her Weyr. It had been thus since they resumed normal duties, and would continue until she was freed from the dual burden of the Wingleader's and the Weyrleader's restrictions. Until she could once more find her sweet, sweet release.
Until then, Taikrin ran.
Summary: Taikrin is no longer on punishment sweeps, but she has been forbidden her three favorite things: drinking, brawling, and whoring. Life is hard.
Taikrin ran.
She wanted to punch someone. It didn't really matter who; anyone who looked at her crossways, who looked like they might have some fight in them, would do. She wanted to feel her blood singing, hear Szadath exulting in her mind at each blow, taste the happy exhaustion that came from beating your opponent to the ground.
She wanted a drink. She wanted to lose herself in the warm fuzziness of a glass of whiskey, in the roughhousing and revelry that grew up spontaneously around a table laden with pints of ale. She craved the feeling of invincibility, the sense of comradery from a table full of drunks, the lightness of heart that came when memories dimmed and receded.
Most of all, she wanted a fuck. Making love, having sex, screwing-- any of it was good. Mostly she craved the feeling of another naked body against hers, dominating and surrendering in turn. It set her blood afire better than any fistfight she'd ever been in, sent her higher than any alcohol she'd ever found.
But all of these things were denied her, and so Taikrin ran in endless loops around the bowl. She echoed the punishment Szadath himself had so recently been freed from, pushing herself around and around until she collapsed, trembling, and allowed Szadath to return her to the sanctity of her Weyr. It had been thus since they resumed normal duties, and would continue until she was freed from the dual burden of the Wingleader's and the Weyrleader's restrictions. Until she could once more find her sweet, sweet release.
Until then, Taikrin ran.