#aelberyn

As she lay in bed, Kharris ran her fingers over the smooth glass vial. It was familiar. It was habit. She rolled her lips before her tongue wet them. The medication in the little bottle was her own concoction, and she trusted it completely. It would do its job. It tasted of raspberry--just how she liked it. She put the empty vial back into the case, where several more waited, and just as many rested empty and ready for refilling. Reprisal never solved anything, but it did have a momentary satisfaction to it. Sometimes, for some, that was good enough. For someone who thrived in chaos, chasing those moments felt like a stone skipping across the water. Ripples met ripples and disrupted tranquility, even as the stone slipped into the deep. The meeting with Aelberyn had gone well. And she’d been right, Aelberyn was her ally in this. They were friendly enough these days. They had an understanding. The discussion had been amicable if not relaxed. Kharris had been touched by the stalwart response of the younger woman. Aelberyn was certain it would go about the way Kharris worried most about: violence. She loved Iloam’s passion, his depth of feeling. However, Asarel would not be meek, and Kharris feared Aelberyn was right about him, too: Asarel might take the opportunity to finish it all, if it came to that. And it was Kharris most caught in the middle. Her life rolling out in those ripples of reprisal constantly crashing into each other. She had time. It wasn’t as if things were in motion. And again Aelberyn and Kharris had agreed, now was not the time. She’d tell him later. Autumn was hard enough for both of them. @daily-writing-challenge Day 25 Reprisal/Immortal

(For the Daily Writing Challenge Day 4: Broken)

Go to the party, it will be fine, you have friends there who would be very happy if you attended. And it’s very likely they went to the efforts they did specifically to accommodate you. That’s what they’d said, that’s what he’d allowed himself to think for a brief moment of simple delight at being so cared for. Selfish.

The estate was brimful of elves, a sea of high-pointed ears and glimmering jewelry and perfect faces, or perfectly imperfect ones. It wasn’t fair that almost every elf he met--sin, quel, kal, shal, it made no difference--was so damned pretty. Aelberyn was gorgeous and commanded the attentive eye of everyone in the room, despite dozens of others striving to do the same. Iloam was smugly handsome as ever, dressing up nicely in spite of himself. Lecher.

Occasionally he’d catch a glimpse of someone who stood out, but none quite as aggressively sore-thumblike as he had. A black worgen in a suit he couldn’t be convinced did actually fit his topheavy frame, lost in a forest of mostly-red hair and soft-hued skin wrapped in fine cloth that hugged every curve and accentuated fine features. He’d found his way to a quiet hallway almost immediately. Coward.

If only he’d been able to change back, just be human, be normal for the night. He still would’ve felt out of place--he always did--but at least he wouldn’t be so blatantly obviously wrong as a simple human. Once one got past the messed-up eye, the stubble, the dark hair, the mild limp... He was easily missed. Naive.

But the wolf refused. He could never quite get a grasp on it, not when he felt so lost, so shattered. It had been an embarrassing way to be found, asleep in the hollow of a tree, reeking of booze and with a spider building a web on his head. Glowing. Dreaming, they said. And still, all the booze and running and dashing himself against obstacles hadn’t helped; still he remained trapped in the fur coat and the long snout and the glowing eyes. Monster.

And Valarin had been there, too. And that made everything ...complicated. As though it hadn’t already been. As though it wasn’t going to be, even if the wee doctor hadn’t appeared. Liar.

The conversation had been stilted. Fearful. Quickly ended and escaped. Once he was alone again, he wanted nothing more than to avoid being alone again, but he couldn’t bear the thought of inflicting himself on more people. So Aelberyn agreed to spar with him. Exhilarating, a rush he almost never allowed himself to feel anymore, the thrill of the hunt, of battle. And he was so sure he’d almost had her at the end, there, too. A good fight as expected of a Lady, where he’d given a good account of himself in turn. Arrogant.

The second conversation was worse. Pleading. Misunderstood. Bungled. Terrified. Angry. Defensive. Stupid.

At the end, what they’d had lay broken in the grass by a single tree among a thousand others, where nobody would find it.

The way it was always going to be.

Okay.

Aelberyn’s Outfit for the Wonderland Rave

The White Queen | April 24, 2020

“Aelberyn. She’s fascinating, and she’s so much more experienced as a healer than I am! Sometimes I think magic works a different way than she does and whether that’s inexperience or subjective experience, I don’t think it means we can’t learn from one another. Hell, I think ‘subjective experience’ would be the kind of thing Aelberyn says without considering how fancy the wording is.”

I made a thing! Mood Board for OCF! @ourcollectivefantasy

At long last, the ugliest of the ugly has arrived! DID Aelberyn win an ugly contest?  Why yes, yes she did!

This was part of the grand prize for the Succulent Tart Fashion Show’s ugly transmog contest. Thank you for being patient with my hectic schedule (and misplaced tablet pen scare)! ^-^

Kharris wrote very carefully, frowning enough to hint at her dimples. Once her hand writing would have been elegant. She would have easily written the scant few words on her paper. But now, even after years relearning, her writing was crisp but lacking any grace. It was sticks stomping on a page instead of ribbons dancing to unheard music. Her writing looked angry to her. It made her words sound cold. How would they seem if reading and writing had never been scraped away from her mind when her soul had been injured all those years ago? When her spirit had become friable and tore like tissue paper? Deliberately, she set the dip pen down before. Any who knew her would know it was to push away the temptation to throw it. An ink droplet hung at the tip, threatening to add its own emotion to the page. She used to periodically keep a journal. And now, periodically, she attempted again. To order her thoughts and sort through her emotions. She had wanted to write something worthwhile. Something that would mean something. There were changes coming, even if just shifts in thinking. She needed to talk to Aelberyn. Then she would need to talk to Iloam. She had already spoken to Asarel. Her dark eyes narrowed down at the letters. She pushed up from the chair and walked away.

My love is savage.

@daily-writing-challenge