[Deaths] the Morrigan
Title: one two three, one two three . . .
'Verse/characters: Deaths; the Morrigan
Prompt: 43B "celebration"
Word Count: 297
Notes: coastal_physics suggested 'hot copper pipes' when cornered and poked with a stick. Pre-campaign, prompted by a poll response.
She can hear the water hissing through the radiator, coils of copper tubes sharing warmth with the room. They should really have been turned off at some point--the room is overwarm with the mass of bodies currently dancing the waltz to the sound of recorded music. Her skin is sticky beneath the cloth of her dress not from exertion but simple temperature.
She does not mind earned sweat, even seeks it out given half a chance, but the feel of sticking to her corset, to her dress, makes her irritable. She does not show it, smiles delightedly when someone else comes to fill her dance card, draws her away from the wall and the radiator and into the swirl of bodies.
The soldiers have come home from war, and she invisible with them. Her acquaintance with generals and counts (some of whom were soldiers once, and some of whom have been her lovers, past and present) earns her invitations to every celebration in the city, rejoicing in the end of war.
The froth of laughter and the rustle of skirts does not, quite, drown out the sound of cawing in her head. Time alone will arrange that, so she is gracious and accepts the invitations. Allows men to bow low over her hands, sails past the jealous stares of women (one of whom might have been a priestess to her name, given a different time and place) with a secretive smile, laughs aloud when rumour attempts to paint her what she is not, dismisses it out of hand with such ease that people believe her.
And if an old general dies with a smile on his face, that is the way of things. She has a taste for heros, but she has learned to let them live.
'Verse/characters: Deaths; the Morrigan
Prompt: 43B "celebration"
Word Count: 297
Notes: coastal_physics suggested 'hot copper pipes' when cornered and poked with a stick. Pre-campaign, prompted by a poll response.
She can hear the water hissing through the radiator, coils of copper tubes sharing warmth with the room. They should really have been turned off at some point--the room is overwarm with the mass of bodies currently dancing the waltz to the sound of recorded music. Her skin is sticky beneath the cloth of her dress not from exertion but simple temperature.
She does not mind earned sweat, even seeks it out given half a chance, but the feel of sticking to her corset, to her dress, makes her irritable. She does not show it, smiles delightedly when someone else comes to fill her dance card, draws her away from the wall and the radiator and into the swirl of bodies.
The soldiers have come home from war, and she invisible with them. Her acquaintance with generals and counts (some of whom were soldiers once, and some of whom have been her lovers, past and present) earns her invitations to every celebration in the city, rejoicing in the end of war.
The froth of laughter and the rustle of skirts does not, quite, drown out the sound of cawing in her head. Time alone will arrange that, so she is gracious and accepts the invitations. Allows men to bow low over her hands, sails past the jealous stares of women (one of whom might have been a priestess to her name, given a different time and place) with a secretive smile, laughs aloud when rumour attempts to paint her what she is not, dismisses it out of hand with such ease that people believe her.
And if an old general dies with a smile on his face, that is the way of things. She has a taste for heros, but she has learned to let them live.