Of an early morning.

Of an early morning.

Postby SuperRy » Mon Aug 31, 2009 2:55 pm

The faintest of pressures against a cheek would not cause a stirring; the courtesan had been conscious of the former channeler’s intentions in the very instant that the down-filled mattress had shifted a quarter of an hour before, relieved of the man’s weight in the early hours of the morning. But blue-violet eyes remained closed despite that knowledge, breaths even, body perfectly still, feigning sleep in order to avoid awkward farewells; in order to avoid any further promises that would continue to go unaccepted.

The latch caught, the apartment door closed securely; booted footfalls upon the stair amidst their descent drifted into quiet again, the beginning of the silence to follow punctuated by the tinkling of brass door bells, chiming for a teahouse empty otherwise, save for the working girls upstairs, all fast asleep, safe in their beds after providing certain forms of entertainment to all hours of the night.

The solitude was welcomed initially; the empty bed celebrated with a roll from her side to her back, from the left side of the mattress to the very middle, sprawling, stretching…staring up at the canopy overhead, a thing barely made out in the darkness—the morning light shut out by drawn draperies in heavy cotton velvet.

Such celebration was fleeting: abruptly the courtesan rose, stocking feet padding along wooden floors covered by thick, imported carpets, marking a path from bed to the windows lining the majority of that one wall. Tentative fingers pressed between curtains, tugging back velvets by a fraction; dilated pupils took a moment to adjust to the change, to focus on the street below, to follow the path of a man turning towards the stables. That no one else turned down the same path relieved a woman of two minds.

A face reflected in the window across the street did likewise, cold eyes marking the departure of the same figure, but made no move to follow the man who would be taking the North Passage Down out of the city. Instead, attention turned to the pretty thing framed in wood and glass panes mismatched by repair; stares fixed upon disheveled curls, appreciative of the fact that chemise’s silk was fine, thin as gauze, and yet disgusted by the same.
a drowner, sinking in the dry sea
an insomniac, searching the dust for dreams
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Postby Kylerryth » Tue Sep 01, 2009 1:46 pm

His lips brushed the soft curve of her cheek; his fingers touched the silky curls of her hair; his eyes watched her sleep, or pretend to. Then, after the sun had had enough time to peek over the horizon, one glowing elbow lifting to rest on its rounded edge, he left.

There were no whispered farewells; there were no breathless goodbyes. Although she had refused his promise to return -- and would likely have refused any sort of promise at all -- he nonetheless intended to keep it. What else needed to be said?

Out of her apartments with the sharp click of the latch, shutting the door behind him. Down the stairs, booted feet quiet but still audible in the otherwise empty teahouse. Exiting the building altogether to the tiny music of brass bells. On the path to the stables where a horse waited to be saddled and rode to Darkenhold.

Though she went to the window to look on, he did not look back. If nothing else, she had taught him that: to learn from what lay behind you, to understand and accept it for what it was, but to live in the present and look forward to the future, as well. For while the past shaped you, you shaped the here and now, the what-could-be and what-will-be.

So he would, and he did -- because in his future, there was a promise to be kept.
I'll either find a way or make one.
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