[Deaths] the Morrigan
Title: porcelain
'Verse/characters: Death be not Proud; Julian De'Ath, the Morrigan
Prompt: 02C "the blues"
Word Count: 360
Notes: For whatever reason, I always hear the Elton John song refrain ('I guess that's why they call it the blues') when I look at that prompt, sung by a mezzo. Go figure.
She rose late. Very late, judging by the sun streaming in the west facing window. Her father and her uncle were probably long since gone, re-establishing old connections and building new. If they'd needed her, they'd have woken her, so she took her time lazing around under the covers before rising and dressing.
She pulled a big, slouchy sweater over her head after she did, chilled but not quite shivering in the air outside the blankets. Pulled her braid out from under it, let it flop down her back, scruffy and in need of brushing out and rebraiding. Later.
She found the Morrigan in the downstairs drawing room, sitting at a steel and glass table with a formal tea set steaming gently on the glass, one of the ones built of white porcelain and gold edging. A gramaphone was humming the blues, just slightly too soft to determine it as anything more than 'something from the big band period', the one that had danced gracefully through a depression, as opposed to the recent revival.
There was, she concluded, something deeply surreal in watching the Morrigan conducting an invisible orchestra with a forefinger, her other hand curved lovingly around a translucent teacup. Especially when the last time she'd seen the other woman, the Morrigan had been sweaty, disheveled, splashed lightly with someone else's blood, and grinning like she'd come straight out of a war over someone's prize cow, instead of a dance hall with a tendency for riots.
On reflection, possibly the place was better described as a riot with a tendency to music and dancing.
"Ah, the layabout rises!" the Morrigan was grinning at her, teacup raised and the saucer held in the other hand. "Do sit down. I'll doubt your ancestry if you try to tell me you're not hungry."
If she craned her neck, she could see the plate of pastries behind the teapot.
"You're stalking," the Morrigan put in, laughing, and she made herself lengthen her stride, walk instead of pad.
The music was one of the ladies, not rough-velvet voiced but bell-like, easy to hear now that she was actually in the room instead of arrested midstep in the hallway.
'Verse/characters: Death be not Proud; Julian De'Ath, the Morrigan
Prompt: 02C "the blues"
Word Count: 360
Notes: For whatever reason, I always hear the Elton John song refrain ('I guess that's why they call it the blues') when I look at that prompt, sung by a mezzo. Go figure.
She rose late. Very late, judging by the sun streaming in the west facing window. Her father and her uncle were probably long since gone, re-establishing old connections and building new. If they'd needed her, they'd have woken her, so she took her time lazing around under the covers before rising and dressing.
She pulled a big, slouchy sweater over her head after she did, chilled but not quite shivering in the air outside the blankets. Pulled her braid out from under it, let it flop down her back, scruffy and in need of brushing out and rebraiding. Later.
She found the Morrigan in the downstairs drawing room, sitting at a steel and glass table with a formal tea set steaming gently on the glass, one of the ones built of white porcelain and gold edging. A gramaphone was humming the blues, just slightly too soft to determine it as anything more than 'something from the big band period', the one that had danced gracefully through a depression, as opposed to the recent revival.
There was, she concluded, something deeply surreal in watching the Morrigan conducting an invisible orchestra with a forefinger, her other hand curved lovingly around a translucent teacup. Especially when the last time she'd seen the other woman, the Morrigan had been sweaty, disheveled, splashed lightly with someone else's blood, and grinning like she'd come straight out of a war over someone's prize cow, instead of a dance hall with a tendency for riots.
On reflection, possibly the place was better described as a riot with a tendency to music and dancing.
"Ah, the layabout rises!" the Morrigan was grinning at her, teacup raised and the saucer held in the other hand. "Do sit down. I'll doubt your ancestry if you try to tell me you're not hungry."
If she craned her neck, she could see the plate of pastries behind the teapot.
"You're stalking," the Morrigan put in, laughing, and she made herself lengthen her stride, walk instead of pad.
The music was one of the ladies, not rough-velvet voiced but bell-like, easy to hear now that she was actually in the room instead of arrested midstep in the hallway.