Synopsis: A botched assassination attempt leaves young Saorsie on the floor, her world crumbling in the midst of a panic attack. What happens next changes the course of her life forever.
She stumbled blindly through the hallways of the palace, a blade far too unwieldy in her hands clutched tight. She stumbled into doorways, frantically pulling at every doorknob as the shouts and clamor of armor behind her grew louder and louder. She ran faster and faster, legs burning and breath rattling in her lungs, until finally she crashed into an unlocked door, blundering through and slamming the door shut behind her. Hands shaking, she quickly locked the door behind her and grabbed a nearby table. Stupid, stupid, she thought, shoving the edge of the table against the door. Didn't see the guard, didn't check the room for the target, didn't stop the alarm from being raised. Useless, stupid girl. She grabbed blindly at something else, anything else, to use to barricade the door, but her hands shook too badly. Fear gripping her lungs and stealing her breath, she staggered back from the door towards the middle of the room before her legs gave out and she was left curled up in the middle of the floor clutching at her chest and tears staining the carpet below her.
Rohan was not having a good night. At all. He spilled his milk on himself before bed that night, so he had to go wash up again and change into another set of clothes as the bed sheets got changed out. And because of his poor performance today on his test, he wasn't even allowed to have another cup. So he had to go to sleep grumpy, hungry, and smelling faintly of cheese. He had tossed and turned angrily in his bed. Who needed math anyways? How was he going to use the quadratic formula in his daily life? Why would he need to know how centrifugal force worked? The worst part was, he had nightmares plaguing him all night about that stupid math test. He awoke with sweat pouring down his face, sticky and hot. His brow furled up as he plunged his face into his hands, steadying his erratic heartbeat. It finally soothed into a steady rhythm, soft and less painful than the pounding that threatened to rip his chest in two. It was at that moment, when his temper eased and his heartbeat evened, that his stomach growled.
He huffed an angry breath and ripped the sheets off of himself. Damn his maids. He would go to the kitchens himself if he needed to. Hell, he'd even go to the barn to milk the damn cows himself if he had to. He paused a moment, considering that, a smirk spreading slowly across his face. The third prince awake before dawn to perform menial tasks. The scandal. He swung his legs over the side of his bed, immersed in the fantasy. His thoughts were then interrupted by a large clamor outside of his room. He paused, waiting for them to pass by, but before they did, a blur of purple bashed its way into the room. Clumsily, a nearby stand was grabbed and dragged in front of the door as a makeshift barricade. Rohan froze, hand over the bell that would summon the guards. It was a girl, about his age. She wore a mask over her face, or perhaps maybe wrapped bandages over it. An assassin? he wondered. No, it couldn't be. She hadn't even noticed him. But then, just as he began to take a closer look at her, she collapsed on the floor, clutching at her chest and her breath becoming heavy and labored.
His feet moved before his mind, and in the next second he was on the floor next to her, lifting her up into his arms. He held her close, assessing her as she clutched at him, weeping into his shoulder. He didn't know why he did what he did. It could've been a ploy to get him closer, to stab him in his vitals. But he knew what it was like to be alone and left crumpled on the ground. He knew what it was like to reach out for even the slightest flicker of warmth and still return empty-handed. So perhaps that's why he held her close and wiped her tears. Perhaps that was why he whispered "You're going to be okay," and, "I've got you, don't worry."
Saorsie hadn’t been held in a long time. She couldn’t remember the last time she had a shoulder to cry on. She should’ve been repulsed, should’ve jolted away, unsheathed her blade, something. But Saorsie was so, so bone-achingly tired. She allowed herself to relax into the arms encircling her, leaning into the hands that smoothed down her hair. After a while, after her sobs quieted and her shoulders stopped shaking, she chanced a look up at the man. As her mouth opened to thank him, she stopped. Her blood ran cold as she recognized the man. The boy. The target. They stared at one another, unable to say a word. Sweat trickled down her brow as she tried and failed to calculate her next move.
"I, uh," he began. But just then came the thump of the guards. They called for him, for "his Highness". Adrenaline spiked in her throat, and she prepared to jump back. Before she could, though, the boy grabbed her and lifted her up. The very next moment, she was deposited in a large wardrobe. It smelled faintly of must, but compared to the night air it was warm. She pushed at his arms, twisting and struggling away from him.
"Hey, he-wait a moment, wait," he said, his grip on her tightening. She looked up at him, confusion and fear etched across her face. But then he smiled, his nervous grin lighting up his face. "Just...I know we just met. I know you have no reason to believe me. But please, just...trust me." She stared, slack-jawed once more and she nodded faintly in response. She wasn't sure what exactly what he'd said, but when she did his eyes brightened, and his grin grew wider. But then the pounding interrupted the moment, and those beautiful eyes were replaced with the shut of the door and anxious silence.
'WHY DID I DO THAT?!' his mind screamed. His hands shook as he fumbled his robe on, scrambling to find an excuse for the guards. He sprinted over to the door, and as he opened barely dodged the poised fist of his bodyguard, Sir Twain. Sir Twain was a large man, older than many on the force. Rohan wished he would have retired an age ago, if only to stop the constant over reactions to things not even consider a security threat. Not only that, but Sir Twain was loud, especially after drinking, which he did often. Even now Rohan could see the slight ruddiness in his cheeks and the crease marks that seemed to be from his pillow. Ugly, he thought.
"Oh, uh, apologies you Highness-" Sir Twain blustered. Rohan simply raised an eyebrow at him.
"Now why, good Sir, do I find you banging down my door at an unholy hour such as this?" The guard spluttered, turning redder by the moment. "I was merely informed of the threat to your person, sire! As you know, it is simply my duty to keep you from harm, I promised your mother-" He continued on, and Rohan leaned against the doorframe, humming along noncommittally and allowing himself to think again of the girl in his closet. She was pretty. He'd never seen eyes of such a brilliant purple, not in this region at least. He was startled out of his thoughts by a large hand waving in front of his face. Rohan smacked it out of the way with a sigh.
"Thank you...sir, for remaining true to your duties. However, as you may see," Rohan twirled in example, "I am unharmed. So please, I beg of you... let me sleep." Sir Twain grumbled, but in due time lumbered away. Rohan shut the door then immediately collapsed against it. He sighed, running a hand through his hair. But as he looked up, he noticed his window opened and his closet opened. He raced to the ledge, and as he came up to it, he noticed a folded piece of paper placed on the inside of the ledge. He rushed to unfold it, and as he smoothed it out, the light of the full moon illuminated two words: "Thank you." He clutched the paper to his chest, searching the courtyard for any sign of the girl. But all he could see was his shadow and the moon.
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As Iz walked, he studied his hands. There were scars of all sorts stretching across fingers and crawling up his arms. Some looked like he'd nicked himself with his arrows, some with his blade. But those weren't the ones he was staring at. He was staring at the burn scars on his wrists, spread broadly across the sides of his thumbs and scrawled across his knuckles. He rubbed at them lightly, remembering the blood that stung them that night. Why did it happen in the first place? What wrong could his family have done for them to deserve such a fate? And why was he left to bury them in the dirt?
Good evening, gentle reader. My name is Raven, and I like to write about the silly little guys that pop into my head sometimes. I also shitpost a lot :P
I like dragons, Assassins Creed, Dungeons and Dragons, Twisted Wonderland, and Love and Deepspace 😊
All of my works are listed under #bardwrites if you wanna see them
Also, if you want me to write a little blurb about your OC, feel free to ask!
I’ll be doing a bunch of these but I kinda wanted to rank my OC’s on who’s least likely to curse to most likely to curse
Danaeir Elora Atara: She would not curse. Ever. It’s not that she can’t, she was raised around soldiers her whole life, she just doesn’t think it’s becoming. She’s not averse to using backhanded insults though. However, when she was three, her old nanny told her that if she ever cursed, she would get a curse placed on herself, and the only way to dissolve it is to wash her mouth out with soap. She believed it until she was nine, when her mother found out and flew into a fury. It was part of the reason why that nanny got fired
Xavier: He can. He has no qualms against it. He’s been cussed at enough that he knows the worst insults to throw to absolutely decimate someone. He just doesn’t think that it’s worth the energy. He just kinda stands there, takes it, then walks away.
Nalia al Tawil: Again, she’s been trained to be the next ruler of her country as well, but she’s also had to raise herself. She habitually snuck out of the palace a lot, so she became well-versed in the art of dragging someone. She won’t curse in her daily language, but she will when pushed too far.
Ben Appylton: Drops the f-bomb liberally. Does not care, curses like a sailor. The type to say “Yeah dude, watch your fucking language!” Genuinely doesn’t notice that he does it, the word “fuck” just becomes a filler word. Was raised by mercenaries and has had literally no other contact with humans in general, so he just kinda emulated them for years, and they never cared enough to correct him.
Just a little writing thing with my OC's, I hope y'all like it!
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They all sat in the tavern, chattering animatedly with each other, the hearth casting a warm glow over the room. The wooden walls were covered with news clippings, paintings, and various hunting trophies, and the air was filled with the low chattering of other patrons. The smell of meat and mead floated through the air, and Ben took it all in as he listened to the conversation at hand. Or perhaps argument, as it seemed to be becoming.
"Nalia, the one time that I give you the coin bag, you go and overspend and almost get everyone robbed!" Xavier whisper-yelled, glaring daggers at Nalia, who was absentmindedly picking at the edges of her sleeves.
"What's the problem with you anyways?" She grinned, showing absolutely no shame. "We got out of it in the end, and we still have our coin."
"Keep you voice down!" Xavier hissed. "Are you actually brain dead? Did you get dropped on your head as a kid or something or is it genetic?" Dana glanced at him, wounded. He looked back at her, catching her expression. Sighing, he said, "I'm sorry Dana. You seem to be the CLEAR EXCEPTION between the two of you." He swung back to Nalia, glaring at her once more.
"Oh, would you shut up?" Nalia shot back, her grin sharper now. "I swear, your barking will summon every army from the next three countries around us."
Xavier bared his teeth. "Better than squeaking like a mosquito."
"Coming from someone who looks like a medically malfunctioning sheep? Oh no, please sir, spare me."
"Baboon-faced bastard."
"Cream-colored coward."
"You-you absolute... wart!"
"Since you look a lot like a moldy, half-eaten sandwich yourself, I don't think you should be talking."
"HOW DARE-"
"Your food, my friends." The waiter interjected, put a plate down at the table. Ben choked back a laugh as Xavier visibly deflated, settling back down in his seat with a murderous glare aimed at Nalia. He tore a chicken wing off and began to rip into it furiously as Nalia laughed and chattered with the waiter. Dana leaned over to Ben, hiding a smile behind her glass of water.
"As terribly entertaining as this is," she murmured, "Should I have a word with them after this? I feel like we should all get along together to some degree, seeing as we're all traveling together." Her brow bunched together worriedly, gazing back at Nalia as she began poking at Xavier. Again.
"Nah," Ben whispered back. "Let them figure it out. It's for enrichment. You can't grow without a little bit of challenge." She bit at her lip worriedly, looking back up at him dolefully. He grinned back, hoping that his smile didn't look wonky. Finally, she sat back, slumping against the back of her chair.
"If you say so," She sighed, taking a sip. They both jumped as they heard Xavier let out a strangled scream.
"OUTSIDE. NOW. WE'RE FIGHTING." Xavier lunged at Nalia, who sat there examining her nails and smirking. Ben grabbed at Xavier, wrestling him down into his seat. Nalia began to laugh before Dana smacked her across the head, sending her a baleful glare before turning to the server nearby and apologizing profusely.
Fifteen minutes later, they all sat in silence. Xavier picked at his food, Nalia sliced into hers, and Dana and Ben slumped over their plates with their faces planted into their hands.
"So..." Nalia started, but Dana put up one hand before she could continue.
"No. Just- eat. Please."
"Okay." Nalia ducked her head back down. And once again, Ben hid his smile.
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This was written around December 2014-January 2015 for a final poem to go through workshop in Advanced Poetry Class.
Here is the written poem in case you can’t hear my voice clearly from that craptastic audio piece:
Out of Time
By Vic
__________________
I glance at the clock: 9:05pm
(give or take a minute)
I wonder if this piece of my life
like the other pieces written thus far
would be what the world would witness
as a voice in the making.
I cannot stop
creeping ever closer
the fear-brushing force
of not the inevitable cold
but what comes after:
the purge from the sand.
I wonder if someone would read this
a hundred years after my thread has been cut
and carry me with them to
new life, new stories, new ideas
new ripple in someone’s world
Today, I am nothing but a voice
I feel nothing for my health
yet I fear for my time
I only have so much
before the inevitable cold
becomes silence.
Working hard at the warehouse for the past few weeks. Last weekend, I got a moped to get around better, which makes me happy!
I’m think about putting up some of my stories in the format I usually have them (script form) as long as I’m clear about the action happening. I got too much writing and little time to write them in regular novel/narrative/complete sentence format.
I got a job! A 10-hour, M-TH warehouse job but a job close to home none the less. I’ll be able to worry less about survival things like being able to pay for food and student loans and worry about getting health insurance, a working car, and some updates on certain fanfictions. I have a bunch of details made and ironed out, it’s always the actual piecing it together into a written story. Figuring out the sentence structure of what you want to convey. I’ll see about getting a page/halfpage of writing daily after work and see if that helps.
In other news, I think I have a new motto. Or at least one I lived my whole life without knowing. “Spite is a valid motive.” Thoughts?
