Wednesday Thursday Friday
Both my phone and email is playing up and have been since wednesday, so if I haven't talked to you and was supposed to, sorry.
Wednesday eve was a pub quiz which I was useless at except when I stuck a deck of playing cards together with wax to build the highest card-tower =) Some people might say that was cheating, I call it using my initiative. Our team won due to Dave and Tim's knowledge of current events. Seriously. I think they must read newspapers or watch the news or something =P Then one of the other teams came over to join us and I read tarot for people and chatted with a nice Irish girl. It was an unexpectedly shiny evening. Come the early hours my neurons were awake and deciding whether to go back to throwing the flid they'd temporarily abandoned. I sat in a park whilst they dithered. It started to rain. Flid was looking like the winning option when a small black and white cat turned up, demanded to have some of the chicken I had in my bag, and then fell asleep on my coat. You might not know this, but it's kinda hard to go crazy when you're lying in a park at night wearing a huge naval officer's coat with a cat asleep on it. Just saying.
Thursday was mostly blongey until I dragged myself up to play the Flashing Blades / Three Musketeers / Pirates game Dave T is running. That was utterly brilliant. It was comic, dramatic, dashing and doomed in all the right places - and it just worked. I went home with neurons which were terribly awake and demanding I write story. Which I did. Until 5am. At that point I realised my typing had got so awful it would be a wonder I'd have any clue what I was going on about and I probably wasn't wonderfully coherent either.
Here (because dashing heroics and blind idiocy plus supernatural doom and sword fights are COOL) is
She followed him, one hand still clasped around her ribs although the pain had all but vanished and the last gout of blood she’d spat into the fire-grate had been when the mad Scot in a skirt offered her brandy. For someone who’d been pierced through the left lung and almost died scarce an hour before she was surprisingly spritely. “Antoine?” she hurried tiredly after him wishing he’d sit down and explain things instead of rushing off like an idiot with a death wish.
The Chevalier had been troubled all evening. Not off his game, no, his swordsmanship and panache were as sharp as ever. But he’d had a cold rage in him that worried her, made her fear - not for herself, but for him. (Which in turn gave her a brief insight into the tribulations she must have caused her brother when he was alive.)
Perhaps she had no right to claim his friendship, to force herself as confidant upon him... but she’d do it anyway. Because she was fond of him, approved of him... And most of all because she had a strange half memory of him - as the shadows whispered and the blood filled her lungs - saying something very serious to her with an intensity she was lost to know how she deserved.
He was hammering on a door - a fencing school by the looks of it - demanding in French and butchred Italian that the door be opened now, this instant.
A porter in his velvet night gown unlatched the door; he held a rushlight and peered with it at the young man before him.
“Wake your students, sir. Call your best. I will have a duel.”
“Ah, signor, is late. No duel. Tomorrow, signor, tomorrow.”
“I will not be denied!”
“Antoine what the hell are you talking about?” She tried to argue with him but it was hard. He seemed to have left his humour and patience a street or so back but apparently had righteous desperation and anguish to spare. He wanted a duel. He required a duel - and by god he would have one.
Keziah de la Mara forsaw several possible outcomes.
The Chevalier would rage and stamp until some one agreed to fight, and then he would kill them or die trying and she wasn’t sure which outcome would be the worse. Or, the guard would be called and he would be either be clubbed on the head and slung in a cell, or he’d have a fight which lead back to he’d kill them all or die trying. Possibly the mad Scot in the skirt could club him over the head, but then the boy would wake up in a worse mood and whatever was eating at him would fester.
There was of course, one other solution, neater and more elegant by far - if she managed not to kill herself trying. “Fine,” she said, straightening her spine, unclasping her ribs and taking a step away to face him in a duelist’s stance.
“Lady, I...”
“Come then,” she commanded quietly, drawing from her belt the swirled Venetian glass hilt with its blade of shadow, smiling as she did so.
He nodded once, grimly, accepting her challenge and settling his stance.
They circled, unhurried and alert. They had fought duels in practice together and neither was in any doubt as to the other’s skill. A measured pace. A second measured pace. The chevalier lunged at her.
Keziah managed to twist aside - barely, but it was enough - she turned, a half spin that brought her under his guard, sliced her blade straight through her own arm as she brought it to bear, and plunged her sword through his heart.
His expression changed in an instant, steely desperation replaced by shock and an unhappy satisfaction. He shuddered, coughed like a man who had a blade through his lungs and sank to his knees.
Keziah’s eyes widened with panic and for a second she was in hell with the knowledge that she had just killed him. Bloody minded fury, as was often the case with her, took over. “Stop it!” she hissed. “There’s no blood! You can’t die when there’s no blood! It’s only shadow.” She pulled the blade out, a phantasm edge with a dark glass hilt that should have severed her hand before it found his heart were it more substantial than a narrow twist of darkness.
He twitched again and murmured something which might have been ‘thank you’ or ‘forgive me’ and once more Keziah’s panic rose to drown her.
“You can’t die - Antoine it’s shadow - it can’t kill you - breathe you idiot!” And, since he looked to be set on dying out of shock or perhaps spite, she leant down and kissed him with a fierce passion: distraction and challenge all at once.
For some moments they both forgot how to breathe.
The next quarter of an hour was one of the most surreal of Kez’s life. She felt they were in a dance; Antoine knew the steps, she didn’t, and was spending all her energy ensuring they didn’t waltz off a cliff.
The young man broke his father’s sword and spoke of dying for her, of giving her his heart and soul.
Keziah said things like, ‘Antoine, do get up,’ and ‘what would I do with hearts or souls?’ and ‘you’d better bloody not’.
The boy spoke of fate, of loyalties, of honour and from then on how he was hers, even though she would not be his, of how he would never love another woman…
Keziah blinked, certain she had missed something. Had she just been propositioned and brushed off in the same sentence? “What?” she said.
“You saved my life, lady. You bested me. I love you - and although I know you will not have me, I...”
“Don’t presume!” she told him tartly.
It was his turn to look puzzled. “My lady...”
“God above why are boys so dense?” she despaired quietly. “Antoine. I would not have duelled with you if I didn’t care for you. And I would not have kissed you if I didn’t love you.”
And that was how she became bound in blood with the Chevalier and how later she bedded him and was certain she would never find anyone she’d rather spend her life with than this earnest, dashing, ridiculously honourable young man.
She was still somewhat uncertain how it came to be that a priest was held at dagger point and ordered to marry them at two in the morning. Nor was she certain why a ghost sought to guard them against demons and powers unseen.
But she did know without a doubt they had just done something that was set to cause them a lifetime of glorious trouble...
And now I want thigh high boots and a corset, britches, a floofy shirt, a short cloak and some pistols. Well, alright I've wanted them before but my neurons are doubly distracted by musketeer Alatriest style stuff now.
Wednesday eve was a pub quiz which I was useless at except when I stuck a deck of playing cards together with wax to build the highest card-tower =) Some people might say that was cheating, I call it using my initiative. Our team won due to Dave and Tim's knowledge of current events. Seriously. I think they must read newspapers or watch the news or something =P Then one of the other teams came over to join us and I read tarot for people and chatted with a nice Irish girl. It was an unexpectedly shiny evening. Come the early hours my neurons were awake and deciding whether to go back to throwing the flid they'd temporarily abandoned. I sat in a park whilst they dithered. It started to rain. Flid was looking like the winning option when a small black and white cat turned up, demanded to have some of the chicken I had in my bag, and then fell asleep on my coat. You might not know this, but it's kinda hard to go crazy when you're lying in a park at night wearing a huge naval officer's coat with a cat asleep on it. Just saying.
Thursday was mostly blongey until I dragged myself up to play the Flashing Blades / Three Musketeers / Pirates game Dave T is running. That was utterly brilliant. It was comic, dramatic, dashing and doomed in all the right places - and it just worked. I went home with neurons which were terribly awake and demanding I write story. Which I did. Until 5am. At that point I realised my typing had got so awful it would be a wonder I'd have any clue what I was going on about and I probably wasn't wonderfully coherent either.
Here (because dashing heroics and blind idiocy plus supernatural doom and sword fights are COOL) is
She followed him, one hand still clasped around her ribs although the pain had all but vanished and the last gout of blood she’d spat into the fire-grate had been when the mad Scot in a skirt offered her brandy. For someone who’d been pierced through the left lung and almost died scarce an hour before she was surprisingly spritely. “Antoine?” she hurried tiredly after him wishing he’d sit down and explain things instead of rushing off like an idiot with a death wish.
The Chevalier had been troubled all evening. Not off his game, no, his swordsmanship and panache were as sharp as ever. But he’d had a cold rage in him that worried her, made her fear - not for herself, but for him. (Which in turn gave her a brief insight into the tribulations she must have caused her brother when he was alive.)
Perhaps she had no right to claim his friendship, to force herself as confidant upon him... but she’d do it anyway. Because she was fond of him, approved of him... And most of all because she had a strange half memory of him - as the shadows whispered and the blood filled her lungs - saying something very serious to her with an intensity she was lost to know how she deserved.
He was hammering on a door - a fencing school by the looks of it - demanding in French and butchred Italian that the door be opened now, this instant.
A porter in his velvet night gown unlatched the door; he held a rushlight and peered with it at the young man before him.
“Wake your students, sir. Call your best. I will have a duel.”
“Ah, signor, is late. No duel. Tomorrow, signor, tomorrow.”
“I will not be denied!”
“Antoine what the hell are you talking about?” She tried to argue with him but it was hard. He seemed to have left his humour and patience a street or so back but apparently had righteous desperation and anguish to spare. He wanted a duel. He required a duel - and by god he would have one.
Keziah de la Mara forsaw several possible outcomes.
The Chevalier would rage and stamp until some one agreed to fight, and then he would kill them or die trying and she wasn’t sure which outcome would be the worse. Or, the guard would be called and he would be either be clubbed on the head and slung in a cell, or he’d have a fight which lead back to he’d kill them all or die trying. Possibly the mad Scot in the skirt could club him over the head, but then the boy would wake up in a worse mood and whatever was eating at him would fester.
There was of course, one other solution, neater and more elegant by far - if she managed not to kill herself trying. “Fine,” she said, straightening her spine, unclasping her ribs and taking a step away to face him in a duelist’s stance.
“Lady, I...”
“Come then,” she commanded quietly, drawing from her belt the swirled Venetian glass hilt with its blade of shadow, smiling as she did so.
He nodded once, grimly, accepting her challenge and settling his stance.
They circled, unhurried and alert. They had fought duels in practice together and neither was in any doubt as to the other’s skill. A measured pace. A second measured pace. The chevalier lunged at her.
Keziah managed to twist aside - barely, but it was enough - she turned, a half spin that brought her under his guard, sliced her blade straight through her own arm as she brought it to bear, and plunged her sword through his heart.
His expression changed in an instant, steely desperation replaced by shock and an unhappy satisfaction. He shuddered, coughed like a man who had a blade through his lungs and sank to his knees.
Keziah’s eyes widened with panic and for a second she was in hell with the knowledge that she had just killed him. Bloody minded fury, as was often the case with her, took over. “Stop it!” she hissed. “There’s no blood! You can’t die when there’s no blood! It’s only shadow.” She pulled the blade out, a phantasm edge with a dark glass hilt that should have severed her hand before it found his heart were it more substantial than a narrow twist of darkness.
He twitched again and murmured something which might have been ‘thank you’ or ‘forgive me’ and once more Keziah’s panic rose to drown her.
“You can’t die - Antoine it’s shadow - it can’t kill you - breathe you idiot!” And, since he looked to be set on dying out of shock or perhaps spite, she leant down and kissed him with a fierce passion: distraction and challenge all at once.
For some moments they both forgot how to breathe.
The next quarter of an hour was one of the most surreal of Kez’s life. She felt they were in a dance; Antoine knew the steps, she didn’t, and was spending all her energy ensuring they didn’t waltz off a cliff.
The young man broke his father’s sword and spoke of dying for her, of giving her his heart and soul.
Keziah said things like, ‘Antoine, do get up,’ and ‘what would I do with hearts or souls?’ and ‘you’d better bloody not’.
The boy spoke of fate, of loyalties, of honour and from then on how he was hers, even though she would not be his, of how he would never love another woman…
Keziah blinked, certain she had missed something. Had she just been propositioned and brushed off in the same sentence? “What?” she said.
“You saved my life, lady. You bested me. I love you - and although I know you will not have me, I...”
“Don’t presume!” she told him tartly.
It was his turn to look puzzled. “My lady...”
“God above why are boys so dense?” she despaired quietly. “Antoine. I would not have duelled with you if I didn’t care for you. And I would not have kissed you if I didn’t love you.”
And that was how she became bound in blood with the Chevalier and how later she bedded him and was certain she would never find anyone she’d rather spend her life with than this earnest, dashing, ridiculously honourable young man.
She was still somewhat uncertain how it came to be that a priest was held at dagger point and ordered to marry them at two in the morning. Nor was she certain why a ghost sought to guard them against demons and powers unseen.
But she did know without a doubt they had just done something that was set to cause them a lifetime of glorious trouble...
And now I want thigh high boots and a corset, britches, a floofy shirt, a short cloak and some pistols. Well, alright I've wanted them before but my neurons are doubly distracted by musketeer Alatriest style stuff now.