#mirkprose

[Mirrored on AO3]

██████ “Taz”  ██████ 2 sweeps // 5ish Earth years Llunegloirs docks 

You jump into the water before one of the older kids can push you in. They’ve no patience with pupas, particularly with pupas what are scared of water -- like, you just watched a tall olive punt Hester Amayye off the dock because he was sick of Hester’s snivelling. 

And, like, you could totally have told her snivelling wouldn’t help. It doesn’t matter that your whole cohort’s never been in water over your heads before, never been out of the baby hives and their shallow pools, ‘cause in a few weeks? The fishery hives are gonna pick apprentices, and nobody wants to bid on a new ‘prentice who can’t swim.

If you don’t get ‘prenticed, you’re on your own for finding a way to make money beyond whatever stipend you get, and most kids in the baby hives don’t have that big of a stipend.You certainly don’t. But it’s fine, because, like, you’ve been practicing your swimming, and how hard can it be?

You smash through the surface hard enough to hurt your stomach, but -- it’s a hot night, and the water’s deliciously cool.

Cautiously, you open your eyes -- the big kids said it would sting, but it doesn’t really. All around you, everything is blue-green and shimmery and kinda blurry? Anything more than a few feet away fades into darker blue and then into black, but you can still see okay up close. You’re already bobbing back up towards the surface, but you push yourself back down because --

You have the weirdest feeling?

Somewhere out in the deep, beyond where you can see... something is listening. You know it is. It heard you get into the water, and now all its attention is on you, which should be creepy? It’s not, though. It just feels -- focused. 

It takes a lot more effort than you’d think to keep yourself from floating up, but you curl your toes into the sandy floor of the bay. The sand slides away under your feet and over on top of them until they’re buried, and then you just huddle there, hugging yourself, cheeks puffed out with air and eyes bugged out with trying to see... what? Something. Something big and old and watchful. 

Besides that feeling of being noticed, you don’t see or hear anything before your lungs finally start burning and you have to claw your way to the surface again. But just for a second, just before your ears come out of the water, you think you hear a deep, old, far-off voice say Ah.

Then you pop back into the air with a splash, and Hester’s clinging to the edge of the dock and crying and the big olive is teasing her and the other pupas are trying to drag themselves out and someone says, “Hey, how long were you under?”

[ @obstructedantiquity ]

You want to be very clear: you’re not snooping. 

Anyone can walk down a street to market, wrapped up warm with a basket in the crook of their elbow. Anyone can glance at their hate-friend’s shop. And anyone would be interested if their hate-friend, who is rust and makes bad decisions, had a great big indigo leaving their hive! It’s just practical: what if Pheres got murdered by one of his highblood dates?

Plus, something about this tall, lean figure tugs at your attention.When you look closer, they’re in full paint, all swathed in indigo veils and beads, and for a second you think to bow.

Between one blink and another, though, your vision refocuses: sure you’ve never seen but one troll who gangles like that, with those little hooks of horns and ears big as hopbeasts’. Sure you’ve never seen but one pair of eyes corner-to-corner blue as the dawning sky. 

There’s -- there’s kind of a little lurch in your heart when you see them! But that’s no excuse, not for you as have grown a relationship in rocky soil a hundred times before. You shake yourself some, straighten your spine like an iron rod, and call out to them, voice high and clear as a bell:

[CODENAME: FIREWALL] 7.5 sweeps//14ish Earth years PDPO Headquarters, Malseka cw: attempted murder of a child

Above you, a humming white light. Brighter than any candle: you cannot remember any light so bright and clear since before the cult took you. They let you wash the blood off your hands before they put you in here, but you can still see it caked under your nails. In your nailbeds. The light makes it look black.

❥ - a childhood memory██████ “Taz” ██████ 5 sweeps || 10.83 yearsLlunegloirs

“So, kid,” says Sernya, long legs crossed in front of them. “Not partying?”

You look up from the nets and shake your head. “No, cap’n.”

“Hmm.” A pause. “Why not?”

>The Twelfth Perigee’s Ball

“Lady Arneus!”

You bound up to the petite violinist, skidding to a halt mere inches from her side, catch her about the waist, and whirl her off her feet into a spin that culminates in a French dip and a sound smooch to the lips. 

Prior to your precipitous arrival, you had not had the time to take in much of her appearance beyond that you recognized her, but now ‘t doth occur to you – she has an actual gown on. Draped in gray and green silk, face made up, arms and ears and horns adorned with jewelry, she is a far cry from the wild thing of the woods you previously encountered, and you are momentarily taken aback – as is she.

Momentarily. “Orpheo, WHAT–” her voice climbs several octaves in the space between words– “do you THINK you’re DOING?”

“A thousand pardons, Lady Arneus,” you say smoothly, and bow your most flourishing bow to her. “I am not normally so intimate in my greetings, but –” you dodge a smack– “if thou wilt but listen– LISTEN! Thou standest beneath a mistletoe, ‘tis thy own fault.” 

“Oh, yeah?” Her eyes narrow, and she makes as if to grab you by the arms, though you cannot discern whether she means to kiss you in return or strike you. 

Regardless, you sidestep her advances and grin ear-to-ear. “Alas, I have left mine own partner unattended for too long – but hast thou brought thy violin? I suggest a duet later, but for now – au revoir!”

[ @ladytrollfishes ]

The alley ends in a blank wall, ‘cause of course it does! The nearest possible spot to grip onto is high above your head, and jumping for it doesn’t work, and scrabbling up the wall below it doesn’t work, and you spin around to go back the way you came, but -- the cobalt caught up sooner than you hoped, because she’s two steps behind you and next thing, her cutlass is pressed up against your neck and you’re pressed up against the wall.

You should have expected this! Getting overconfident, going out and about on your own much more lately ‘cause you’re puffed up on the knowledge that you’ve added one more member to your clade who could smack anyone that meddled with you. Or: being too free with your caegars, maybe, that people see you’ve more money than a girl like you should. Or maybe it’s just that you’ve got your head in the clouds, walking along and paying no nevermind to your surroundings, to looking for the kind of person who sees a small jadeblood with grab-able hair and no weapon and thinks easy mark.

Whyever, here’s you: back against that wall you couldn’t climb, clutching your satchel to your chest. The cobalt staring you down, little bit winded now and definitely mad -- you don’t know if that’s on account of chasing you, or on account of the deep scratches on her arm.

“Now then,” she says. “Give me the bag, then empty your sylladex. Nice and slow this time. No funny business.” She presses forward a little, and you feel a sting. Something thicker than sweat drips down the front of your neck. 

You try not to swallow too hard; you remind yourself that this is your fault. She didn’t plan on cutting you at first, probably! Oh, she waved her sword around some, she’d grabbed you, but everyone does that. She didn’t touch you with it until you raked your nails down her arm and sprinted for the alley! Which you’re not exactly sorry for! You only wish you’d picked a better alley, because now she’s caught you, and now she’s mad, and you can probably expect at least a beating and maybe worse. Unless--

[ @plaguetrolls ]

You stop in front of the wooden wagon-hive-thing and scratch your head. If you’re honest, you’re a little bewildered -- you don’t think you need anything forged or welded or whatever, but here you are at a blacksmith’s shop, looking blank.  A donkey lusus nearby raises its head from the grass and gives you a curious look; you shrug helplessly at it.

All you really did was get into a conversation with this little midblood at the farmer’s market. You’re used to a little bit of adjustment when you talk to people who don’t live out in the middle of nowhere like you do, but this girl... talked a lot. And she talked fast. And before you knew it, you’d gone from discussing herbal remedies for orf to agreeing that yes, you do need to meet her friend who runs a travelling smithy and no, you’re not busy right now, and of course she can write down this friend’s name and coordinates for you.

You squint at the paper she gave you and knock on the door to the wagon. This should be the place, though who knows what you’ll say when the door opens. What had the midblood said? Something about both of you being from mountain regions, and being into animal husbandry, and so on. Maybe you can at least buy some fencing?

Comtesse Goldhand16 sweeps || ~34 Earth yearsThe City of Falling Stars, southwestern Imperial Spaceport and cultural hub

You know the moment that she enters your ballroom – though your servants do not announce her, though she makes no sound as she passes the great doors. She is a flash of vibrant red in this sea of blues and violets, and around her, your guests turn to stare. Silence spreads across the room in ripples until all conversation has ceased; even the music falters to a stop.

“Ah, Mademoiselle Botanist!” You straighten up from your customary sprawl; your voice rings out clearly in the sudden still. “Pray enter and be welcome.”

Her blood is near the lowest the spectrum has to offer, but she carries herself as proudly as an Heiress as she crosses the floor to where you sit. Whispers spring up behind her – tight knots of trolls hide their mouths behind fans or hands or glasses, their eyes flicking from you to your latest guest and back. She reaches you: she stands across the banquet table from you, looking down into your eyes, and she does not curtsy. 

The whispers grow louder.

Your lips twitch involuntarily and you rise, skirts flaring, before anyone takes exception to her discourtesy. “I am la Comtesse Goldenhand,” you announce in the rich, exotic accent you yourself have popularized. “As you must, of course, know. I confess, your attendance was a pleasure that I had hoped for, but had not dared to expect.”

The Botanist Vinescar smiles at you, eyes glittering above her dimpled cheeks, and your bloodpusher does a complicated leap. She is beautiful, as you have heard: short curls and soft curves, a few inches shorter than you.  Moreover, she is a lowblood living in this city of highblood glamour, and you are not the only one who burns to know why – merely the only one who dares invite her into your hive. 

Even you, with your spies and bribed officials, know nothing of her earlier life beyond what rumor relates, and rumor is very dark indeed. Your watching guests are sure to be whispering tales of witchcraft and necromancy, of razed cities and slain nobility – Revenant, they name her, though never where she can hear. And just lately, your informants tell you, she has been asking questions… about you.

“How could I refuse?” she says now. “Such an exclusive invitation from such a fascinating hostess… I could not fail to be intrigued.” She turns to survey the block – her eyes pass through the audience as if they are of less merit than even the wallpaper, and land back upon you with an intensity that is almost palpable. “And your hive… it is quite lovely.”

“It is made so by your presence.” You give a predatory smile. “I have heard much about you, mademoiselle.”

“And I about you.” Her own smile is just wide enough to show fang. “But please, call me Vinescar.”

“Vinescar, then. Perhaps you ought not to believe all you hear; gossip can be such a dangerous thing.” Everyone is watching, far too closely for any freedom of inquiry. A turn upon the floor might offer you some scant privacy, and the added notoriety of having stood so close to the Revenant. Smoothly, despite the racing of your pulse, you step around the table and extend your hand – the flesh one, not the gold. “Would you honor me with a dance?”

Her smile grows almost mischievous; her long ears flick forward. “A dance without music sounds an awkward one, Comtesse.”

Your eyes do not leave her face as you raise your hands and clap briskly. You are rewarded by another sparkle of her deep orange eyes when the musicians scramble into position and begin once again to play. This time, you say nothing – merely reach out to Vinescar again.