SugarInTheRaw
The Queen in the North
- Joined
- May 22, 2012
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In a Hopeless Place (Vandesdelca x Diamonds)
- Thread starter SugarInTheRaw
- Start date
Vandesdelca
Super-Earth
- Joined
- Jun 1, 2014
Three days.
Three days was a long time to stare at steel bars and stone floors but rage yet smoldered within Nathaniel Howe's breast. Every single time that it was meant to be extinguished, by time or by slathering it with the slop they served him, a grey and cold reminder that he was a prisoner... he recalled that he, Nathaniel Howe, was a prisoner in HIS own home. Every stone, every steel bar, every hard brick of bread and every drop of cold slurry they shoved down his throat belonged to the Howes.
His birthright, and the one who currently occupied its halls was his father's murderer. The injustice of it gave him bitter, dreamless sleep. The irony of it curled his lip and kept the rage burning in his chest. And the cold, hard reality of what was happening in the city of Amaranthine kept him on the edge of his cell, his face gaunt and aimed toward the floor, one arm draped over a knee.
He could hear the rats scampering in a nearby cell, the somewhat reassuring scratch of claws on stone interrupted in a flurry as a figure stamped into the cells. Someone in armor from the sound of it. A Warden perhaps.
"Yes, it's quite hard to miss the the banners your men have hung over my family's. Was my father's life not enough for you? Or is the disgrace of the Howe name and all that it has ever held what you desire?" Nathaniel asked, not trusting himself to look up. His bones were weary, his flesh purpled and bruising under the once noble attire that stretched across his shoulders -- one of which had been forcibly dislocated and set in the past few nights.
But then there was that name on her lips and the touch of gauntlets on his face.
It was a reflex, perhaps, that saw his foot coming up to plant itself firmly in her stomach, every muscle in his lean body straining in a launching kick. Nathaniel dragged himself up from the ground, lank and wiry black hair draping itself in front of his wide and frenzied eyes.
"Don't you touch me, you--... you..." Nathaniel paused, his breathing coming heavy and labored. "... you?" Nathaniel breathed. He felt weightless for a moment as he fell back against the stone wall, calloused and dirty hands scrabbling at the stonework behind him. "Alethea-- Maker above, what are you... how could it be you?" Nathaniel demanded, finding strength in his legs that propelled him off of the wall, hard gray eyes staring down at a face that was far too familiar despite what time and a great war had done to it.
Alethea Cousland.
Couldn't it have been anything else? Anyone else?
Three days was a long time to stare at steel bars and stone floors but rage yet smoldered within Nathaniel Howe's breast. Every single time that it was meant to be extinguished, by time or by slathering it with the slop they served him, a grey and cold reminder that he was a prisoner... he recalled that he, Nathaniel Howe, was a prisoner in HIS own home. Every stone, every steel bar, every hard brick of bread and every drop of cold slurry they shoved down his throat belonged to the Howes.
His birthright, and the one who currently occupied its halls was his father's murderer. The injustice of it gave him bitter, dreamless sleep. The irony of it curled his lip and kept the rage burning in his chest. And the cold, hard reality of what was happening in the city of Amaranthine kept him on the edge of his cell, his face gaunt and aimed toward the floor, one arm draped over a knee.
He could hear the rats scampering in a nearby cell, the somewhat reassuring scratch of claws on stone interrupted in a flurry as a figure stamped into the cells. Someone in armor from the sound of it. A Warden perhaps.
"Yes, it's quite hard to miss the the banners your men have hung over my family's. Was my father's life not enough for you? Or is the disgrace of the Howe name and all that it has ever held what you desire?" Nathaniel asked, not trusting himself to look up. His bones were weary, his flesh purpled and bruising under the once noble attire that stretched across his shoulders -- one of which had been forcibly dislocated and set in the past few nights.
But then there was that name on her lips and the touch of gauntlets on his face.
It was a reflex, perhaps, that saw his foot coming up to plant itself firmly in her stomach, every muscle in his lean body straining in a launching kick. Nathaniel dragged himself up from the ground, lank and wiry black hair draping itself in front of his wide and frenzied eyes.
"Don't you touch me, you--... you..." Nathaniel paused, his breathing coming heavy and labored. "... you?" Nathaniel breathed. He felt weightless for a moment as he fell back against the stone wall, calloused and dirty hands scrabbling at the stonework behind him. "Alethea-- Maker above, what are you... how could it be you?" Nathaniel demanded, finding strength in his legs that propelled him off of the wall, hard gray eyes staring down at a face that was far too familiar despite what time and a great war had done to it.
Alethea Cousland.
Couldn't it have been anything else? Anyone else?
OP
OP
SugarInTheRaw
The Queen in the North
- Joined
- May 22, 2012
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