a little peek at a wip ↓
The thunder rolls over the hills, each rumble a roar in his chest. Out the thick glass windows, the world is dark, lit only by the sky’s strikes as lightning hits. Each strike sends a spark down the prince’s spine. He winces as the trees crackle, the enchanted wood speared by that lively light. It spreads between the trees like faerie light, illuminating even the darkest parts of the forest.
A hand at his shoulder jolts the prince back into the room. The prince is shaking, his hands folding the brocade of his sash over and over as he casts his eyes out on the storm, his back turned to the party raging behind him.
A shake of the head, and the hand falls away. Some lord or lady will have asked for a dance; but with how his heart is hammering against his ribcage, he’s not sure how much longer he’ll be able to stand. The ballroom spins. The prince clenches his hands into his pockets, hiding the way they ball about the soft fabric.
All about him, there are dancers bringing in the new autumnal year. It is a celebration of the end of a scorching summer; the beginning of prosperity. Dancers don oranges and yellows, reds and browns, as they twirl their partners and cry out with the singers. Men bang drums and women scream, embracing the carnality of what will be coming this night.
There will be a sacrifice, followed by demonstrations honouring Oddny, goddess of blood and her lover Rjollo, god of bone. Disgust makes goosebumps prickle at his arms; he forces his spine straight as he stares out over the crowds. He dares a glance to the raised dais where his father sits, golden crown at his head and a swathe of fur about his shoulders. Dressed in all black, he is a fearsome sight; the kohl lining his eyes shines darker than his many tattoos. In the throne beside him rests a collection of autumn-red leaves, golden bones, and the antlers of a stag. They were once parts of the queen’s crown. They’re all that’s left of her.
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snowghoul
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