The near perpetual wheeze the bard had been fitted with returned to its natural cadence. A hoarseness to the nonsense that left her lips that others called a voice. Crooning complaints were smothered as a tiny man popped into existence and the lot was taken up into bubbles. Ought she laugh? Cry? Kick and scream until the bubble burst and she was sent crashing down? Oh, but she need not do so. While her mind played out the fanciful imaginings of dropping down into the waves, time shifted around them and the — what had the small man called it? A lapse? That thought alone had taken her off the course of her original thought further until the bubbles popped and she was on the ground. Landed shakily on her feet, hands outstretched to catch herself potentially. Any indignation her addled mind might have brought forth was met with empty air as the small man was gone once more.
The prince — playing leader once more.
But he was he really concerned with anyone in this group outside his sweet puppy?
And the puppy himself wanted to get drunk. Wanted to drown like they almost did with that tidal wave. Her eyes found the statue, as if finding it for the first time. A nightmarish discovery to see her own likeness put on display for all to see. Peaceful; did she look peaceful now? “Oh, aye, sailors love talk. They love the drink, too, but lips won’t be loosed until they’re wet.” She pushed herself to stand upright, no longer bracing her hands on her knees. An ache in her limbs and the residual sizzle of heat on her skin; how fortunate it was that she had survived, yes? A sharper mind would have known that, but it came with the dismal fact:
“We, oh mighty demigod prince, are penniless fucks on the street.” Maybe perhaps possibly that could have been put more politely. But she knew a thing or two about being broke on the street; a thing being that you had to make due and two that there were other means to compel a sailor to talk. Fear, for one. The glint of an axe in the night like a one-eyed witch’s wink was a good bet. But the sun shone high and not a single axe to be seen. How sad, how unfortunate.
But not without hope. “You would think, maybe just maybe you feather duster winged baby, that would be a thought. Or that they would think us imposters, harlots.” The worst — the worst — crowd was one that had notions of what they were in for. Expectations of who stood before them and the act that preceded them. Themselves in this case, some many many years passed.
“But a sailor will not mind if there are — alternatives. A want to wet other things, which, I have heard you can do quite well so maybe we can get them to talk.” Perhaps the most explosive moment she had ever done in a long time: hands thrown up into the air with glee. A grin wide and sharp as a well-maintained blade. Perhaps possibly maybe there was hope for them yet.
The prince — playing leader once more.
But he was he really concerned with anyone in this group outside his sweet puppy?
And the puppy himself wanted to get drunk. Wanted to drown like they almost did with that tidal wave. Her eyes found the statue, as if finding it for the first time. A nightmarish discovery to see her own likeness put on display for all to see. Peaceful; did she look peaceful now? “Oh, aye, sailors love talk. They love the drink, too, but lips won’t be loosed until they’re wet.” She pushed herself to stand upright, no longer bracing her hands on her knees. An ache in her limbs and the residual sizzle of heat on her skin; how fortunate it was that she had survived, yes? A sharper mind would have known that, but it came with the dismal fact:
“We, oh mighty demigod prince, are penniless fucks on the street.” Maybe perhaps possibly that could have been put more politely. But she knew a thing or two about being broke on the street; a thing being that you had to make due and two that there were other means to compel a sailor to talk. Fear, for one. The glint of an axe in the night like a one-eyed witch’s wink was a good bet. But the sun shone high and not a single axe to be seen. How sad, how unfortunate.
But not without hope. “You would think, maybe just maybe you feather duster winged baby, that would be a thought. Or that they would think us imposters, harlots.” The worst — the worst — crowd was one that had notions of what they were in for. Expectations of who stood before them and the act that preceded them. Themselves in this case, some many many years passed.
“But a sailor will not mind if there are — alternatives. A want to wet other things, which, I have heard you can do quite well so maybe we can get them to talk.” Perhaps the most explosive moment she had ever done in a long time: hands thrown up into the air with glee. A grin wide and sharp as a well-maintained blade. Perhaps possibly maybe there was hope for them yet.
Contact me if you engage in Rickter’s Mark of Returning.