#ismwriting

Thanks for the tag @avas-poltergeist!

Completely unedited draft 0 Radzig Kobyla content!

It was too late to be of any use, as was most of the past for all its savor, but the thought persisted and seeped through like rain: Sir Radzig never had cause to measure his stride against any man. Save one. The young knight Kobyla had received an invitation that even the red roses of Cesky Krumlov could only choke on in jealousy. So, pulse hammering in every vein except anything feeding his brain, he spent a fistful of the gold meant to prop up the sagging manor of Dvorce on a clever hound instead. Among the other guests and their curs, it loped lightly and heeled well. Its master left rather more to be desired. The boar ran, his spear jabbed empty air; the roe deer sprang, his hunting sword shaved off a trophy of a few brindle hairs. But then in the dappled shade of the beeches, a red shadow flashed between the horses’ hooves - the hound cut off its escape - and drove its golden vermin eye onto the steel point of an arrow shot from horseback. This was how Radzig Kobyla of Dvorce proved himself no noble hunter, but a pest-slayer. An executioner, a wicked hand with the wickeder fox. And finally Wenceslas, grinning cheekily the last morning of their hunt in Beroun’s woods, stretched out his royal leg and bested him by a heel. That was how a king walked. And thus, a knight. How fared then more ordinary men?

Tagged by @littleraeofsunshineda last week, lol - apologies for the slow response!

Zizka and Katherine early days snippet

Thanks for tagging me, @squidpro-quo!

“So Izana sends two commoners to clean up his own mess, to do the work that generations of Wisteria would not. And there lies the reward waiting for Lady Shirayuki - to live forever as his ready and willing cheques piece, happily at his paragon of a brother’s side.” He snorts. “And what will Sir Obi have? A place at the table, how nice. That endless longing of his as his companion to follow him into the grave, too cowed and starry-eyed by his table scraps to reach out and -” “That,” Mitsuhide whispers, “is enough.” There’s a regretful, merciful silence. “I bear no ill will for Lady Shirayuki or Sir Obi, and I do not laugh at their expense.”

1,819/50,000

Best work:

“They’re all the rage in Tanbarun,” Obi laughs. “Don’t you want to be fancy?”

“No!”

As with most tasks of a tactile nature, Obi’s hands require only one attempt to fix the umbrella’s position on Ryuu’s shoulder. “You’ve got reach on me now. You’ll stop us dripping all over the Miss’ shiny new diagrams.”

“I don’t think arm length and height are as correlated as that,” Ryuu says by way of complaint. “This is heavy.”

“You’ll have to do most of the real heavy lifting eventually anyway, kid.”

“Why?”

“Because.” Ryuu has spent enough years in the shade of Obi’s wing to inventory his smiles, but… “I’m getting old.”

Subcategory one: grins, and subcategory two: smirks, both land well within the scope of Ryuu’s literacy. Here is something entirely new.

Ryuu has no idea how many seconds pass him by in silent freefall. He should be grasping for words that keep slipping out of reach until Obi, as ever, swoops in for the rescue. Instead, the umbrella is the only discomfort in the rainy world. There’s pain, nothing atypical. But the look on Obi’s face makes it a kinder pain than any Ryuu has felt in a long time.

It can’t end. It’s such a desperate thought.

Veiled in oily Emberflit Alley fog, the door hangs ajar, not a single trap engaged. His hind brain, ever four-legged, whispers, RUN.

Familiar chittering noises waft faintly through the opening. Thugs, topside or bottom, wouldn’t have suffered a monster’s company.

Viktor walks calmly inside.

“You’ve got a freaky taste in pets, mister,” says the girl belly-down on his workshop floor, with deep approval. Across the shop, her bulk squashed belly-down in the tiny kitchen, is Rio.

“Traitor,” Viktor tells her. Rio purrs, her enormous eyes never leaving the girl’s.

She’s carefree, boots kicking in the air. “Rio isn’t a pet,” he informs her. “She’s… a stray. I take care of her.”

“Sure. Go ahead and die on that hill, pal.” Then she’s twisted to scowl up at him. With huge, violently pink eyes.

“Here’s some advice. Shit I needed to hear when I was your age.”

Kids’ve got no gratitude these days. The Toghrul chit just stares into the pounding storm, her drenched hair plastered across her stony face.

“Wanna do business with them?” She spits west into the churning waves and prays the curse chokes Wisteria in his sleep. “You won’t. In a few years, you’ll fold up your sails for the last time. Climb into bed with one prince or another, west or east. Maybe both.”

Tough crowd tonight. Toghrul simply watches her little wooden fleet, emptying by one chest of wax-wrapped goods and one Claw sailor at a time.

“You’ll be rich, foreign- not too foreign- and your boats’ll fly a castle’s colors. Your orchards and fisheries doled out as party favors. Your island full of yellowhaired men and their homesick wives and hunting dogs. You think I’m in the skin trade? You haven’t seen shit, kid. You don’t know how fast villages can disappear.”

Something hits home. “I’m guessing this is where you tell me what you really want?” Oh, Toghrul’s a princess in her own right, that’s for sure. She’s got the glower. “Now that you’ve finished robbing me.”

“Take their gold, girlie, I don’t give a damn. But giving them the sea? The sea’s gonna come for you one day.”

Toghrul snorts. “Unless I give you your cut.”