Lyssa's Pocky Chain
Pear #15. Fire & Ice with Cookie Crumbs and Whipped Cream
Story : knights & necromancers
Rating : PG
Timeframe : 1240's-70's
Word Count : 1043 - 11 part chain
cookie crumbs for First & Last
Continuing with the character sketches. I think they make good teasers and introductions to the cast if you haven't read me before. So far I have Kairn, Sethan, and Reida. Now I'm moving on to the knights.
There’s something about a match. Something - though the word’s not with her now, when she looks back later, it’s the one that fits - seductive. It’s just sitting there, dead piece of wood, just asking for that little flick that will bring it to life.
She pulls one from the box and swipes the tip along the leg of her pants. She can feel it when it snaps and sparks, somewhere deep in her gut.
The wispy little flame dances its way down the withering stalk. When it licks her fingers, she snuffs it out with her other hand.
Tiny white crystals cascade from the sky. She’s running, barefoot, over the withered grass, head thrust forward, tongue out, hoping to catch them as they fall.
Ski, racing after her, coat in her hands, yelling that she’ll catch her death, only makes her laugh and run faster.
Lyssa gives the dresser a shove. The jumbled mass of trinkets, books, and weaponry strewn across its top rattles and threatens to spill. She stops to peer around it. Half hidden now, under the legs, along the far side of the dresser, there is a great, gaping hole scorched into the rug.
Mother would have a fit if she saw it. Ski, well Ski would tell Mother. Wondering what either will have to say about her peculiar rearrangement of the furniture, she gives the dresser another push.
Next time she gets angry, she’ll have to remember to do so outside.
There’s a boy. Well, there’s always a boy; boys usually, hovering about like moths on a candle, looking for a good peek down her shirt. Alright, so she brings it on herself, Lyssa admits. The shirt, after all, dips so low one doesn’t need to look very hard to see more than enough.
But this boy is lucky. He’s caught her on a day when she feels like being more than gawked at. They’re sprawled in the grass, behind the wall. The hand making its way up her skirt feels as good as the flame it’s kindling in her spine.
He’s not looking at her. And it’s not even so much that he’s not looking at her as that he’s not trying not to look that she’s not sure she can live with.
“Rune?”
“Hmm?“ The man looks up, finds his eyes even with her barely covered breast, and beet red and blinking, claps a hand to the back of his neck. “I, er, what is it?” he says, forcing himself to look up to focus on her face.
“Nothing,” says Lyssa, turning away with a grin.
“Huh?” He’s frowning after her, still blinking and rubbing.
“I was just checking.”
“Patience,” says Rune.
If he says it one more time, she’ll light him on fire instead of the log. She bets he knows it too, because he’s shaking his head now.
“You let it control you, Lyss.”
The hand on her arm tightens its grip and she twists and pulls away.
“Getting mad at me isn’t going to help.”
Standing here being patronized isn’t helping either. She gives the log a sharp kick. It rolls a few feet across the grass before erupting into a mass of flame and dissolving into ash.
“You see? Now we have to start over.”
Rune is shivering. He’s curled up in this absurd jumble of stringy limbs and at least three layers of clothing, just a few feet from the fire, and he’s shivering. Lyssa leans in and plants a kiss on his cheek. One look at the gauzy summer dress dangling off her shoulders and he shudders as if she’d just dropped ice down his back.
“Got a better way to keep you warm,” she says.
It doesn’t take long to realize, as she’s peeling them off, that the three layers are something more like five, but he’s not shivering anymore.
There’s a baby in her arms. And the looks she gets when she’s lugging Mara around, well she’s used to those. This is a scandal they’ve probably been waiting for for years. It’s the tight-lipped smile, somewhere between guilt and gratitude, that Ski keeps shooting her that she can’t bear.
“Look,” she says, handing the sleeping bundle off to her sister, “I need to go.”
Ski looks worried as she clutches the baby to her chest. “Where would you go?”
Lyssa shrugs. “Somewhere. Not here. I’m sure there’s something I can do. We are still fighting a war, you know.”
Sitting on the stoop, half empty flask in her hand, Lyssa wonders why it’s so damned hard to open the door. The stars glint overhead in their sea of endless black, weaving and flickering as the alcohol clouds her view.
Mara’s asleep by now. There will be no cry of “Momma!” to greet her, just Ski, hoping for good news, offering pity. With a grimace, she lifts the flask to her lips and takes another swig. Warm, bitter spirits race down her throat, like flames traveling in reverse. She swallows hard and forces herself up off the step.
Kairn’s peering out of the crack to which he’s opened the door, still clutching at the handle, not daring to open it further. A bulging bag of groceries lodged between her boots, Lyssa offers her warmest smile.
He shakes his head at the flakes gathering on her skin, but he doesn’t bother to ask if she’s freezing. There’s the same pang there always is when she realizes she’s seen that look before, and it might be easier to walk away again, but she brushes it aside and gives the bag a nudge and proceeds with her offer of dinner instead.
Sham has long since gone to bed, leaving Lyssa alone with her bottle. He’s not so bad. At least he doesn’t call her “Momma”. No, he just gives her that look of quiet disbelief, like Kairn always did. Somehow it’s not so endearing when it comes from a twelve-year-old.
She picks up the bottle, swishes it around. The deep red liquid splashes against the sides. What would Kairn say if he could see her now? A half gallon of booze and his boy asleep in the next room. What would Rune say?
She takes a gulp straight from the bottle.
Story : knights & necromancers
Rating : PG
Timeframe : 1240's-70's
Word Count : 1043 - 11 part chain
cookie crumbs for First & Last
Continuing with the character sketches. I think they make good teasers and introductions to the cast if you haven't read me before. So far I have Kairn, Sethan, and Reida. Now I'm moving on to the knights.
There’s something about a match. Something - though the word’s not with her now, when she looks back later, it’s the one that fits - seductive. It’s just sitting there, dead piece of wood, just asking for that little flick that will bring it to life.
She pulls one from the box and swipes the tip along the leg of her pants. She can feel it when it snaps and sparks, somewhere deep in her gut.
The wispy little flame dances its way down the withering stalk. When it licks her fingers, she snuffs it out with her other hand.
Tiny white crystals cascade from the sky. She’s running, barefoot, over the withered grass, head thrust forward, tongue out, hoping to catch them as they fall.
Ski, racing after her, coat in her hands, yelling that she’ll catch her death, only makes her laugh and run faster.
Lyssa gives the dresser a shove. The jumbled mass of trinkets, books, and weaponry strewn across its top rattles and threatens to spill. She stops to peer around it. Half hidden now, under the legs, along the far side of the dresser, there is a great, gaping hole scorched into the rug.
Mother would have a fit if she saw it. Ski, well Ski would tell Mother. Wondering what either will have to say about her peculiar rearrangement of the furniture, she gives the dresser another push.
Next time she gets angry, she’ll have to remember to do so outside.
There’s a boy. Well, there’s always a boy; boys usually, hovering about like moths on a candle, looking for a good peek down her shirt. Alright, so she brings it on herself, Lyssa admits. The shirt, after all, dips so low one doesn’t need to look very hard to see more than enough.
But this boy is lucky. He’s caught her on a day when she feels like being more than gawked at. They’re sprawled in the grass, behind the wall. The hand making its way up her skirt feels as good as the flame it’s kindling in her spine.
He’s not looking at her. And it’s not even so much that he’s not looking at her as that he’s not trying not to look that she’s not sure she can live with.
“Rune?”
“Hmm?“ The man looks up, finds his eyes even with her barely covered breast, and beet red and blinking, claps a hand to the back of his neck. “I, er, what is it?” he says, forcing himself to look up to focus on her face.
“Nothing,” says Lyssa, turning away with a grin.
“Huh?” He’s frowning after her, still blinking and rubbing.
“I was just checking.”
“Patience,” says Rune.
If he says it one more time, she’ll light him on fire instead of the log. She bets he knows it too, because he’s shaking his head now.
“You let it control you, Lyss.”
The hand on her arm tightens its grip and she twists and pulls away.
“Getting mad at me isn’t going to help.”
Standing here being patronized isn’t helping either. She gives the log a sharp kick. It rolls a few feet across the grass before erupting into a mass of flame and dissolving into ash.
“You see? Now we have to start over.”
Rune is shivering. He’s curled up in this absurd jumble of stringy limbs and at least three layers of clothing, just a few feet from the fire, and he’s shivering. Lyssa leans in and plants a kiss on his cheek. One look at the gauzy summer dress dangling off her shoulders and he shudders as if she’d just dropped ice down his back.
“Got a better way to keep you warm,” she says.
It doesn’t take long to realize, as she’s peeling them off, that the three layers are something more like five, but he’s not shivering anymore.
There’s a baby in her arms. And the looks she gets when she’s lugging Mara around, well she’s used to those. This is a scandal they’ve probably been waiting for for years. It’s the tight-lipped smile, somewhere between guilt and gratitude, that Ski keeps shooting her that she can’t bear.
“Look,” she says, handing the sleeping bundle off to her sister, “I need to go.”
Ski looks worried as she clutches the baby to her chest. “Where would you go?”
Lyssa shrugs. “Somewhere. Not here. I’m sure there’s something I can do. We are still fighting a war, you know.”
Sitting on the stoop, half empty flask in her hand, Lyssa wonders why it’s so damned hard to open the door. The stars glint overhead in their sea of endless black, weaving and flickering as the alcohol clouds her view.
Mara’s asleep by now. There will be no cry of “Momma!” to greet her, just Ski, hoping for good news, offering pity. With a grimace, she lifts the flask to her lips and takes another swig. Warm, bitter spirits race down her throat, like flames traveling in reverse. She swallows hard and forces herself up off the step.
Kairn’s peering out of the crack to which he’s opened the door, still clutching at the handle, not daring to open it further. A bulging bag of groceries lodged between her boots, Lyssa offers her warmest smile.
He shakes his head at the flakes gathering on her skin, but he doesn’t bother to ask if she’s freezing. There’s the same pang there always is when she realizes she’s seen that look before, and it might be easier to walk away again, but she brushes it aside and gives the bag a nudge and proceeds with her offer of dinner instead.
Sham has long since gone to bed, leaving Lyssa alone with her bottle. He’s not so bad. At least he doesn’t call her “Momma”. No, he just gives her that look of quiet disbelief, like Kairn always did. Somehow it’s not so endearing when it comes from a twelve-year-old.
She picks up the bottle, swishes it around. The deep red liquid splashes against the sides. What would Kairn say if he could see her now? A half gallon of booze and his boy asleep in the next room. What would Rune say?
She takes a gulp straight from the bottle.