The Pride of Tirnanog

more bebe!brenan. this one follows right after the last. oh, and that was the first.

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Delande found that old habits died hard; the child in her had the excuses ready, as she hurried into the hall in which Lugh was more sprawled, by her way of looking at it, than properly reclined--he'd given up sitting on the throne in favor of sitting on the steps at the foot of it and using the seat as a small table to hold a cup and wineskin; his cloak and shirts and sashes everywhere, his hair in disarray above the gold coronet, and a pipe to his mouth. She took a moment to simply look at him, and smile, before she spoke.

( Did I miss anything exciting? )

this one's...well, start of the pride, really. lugh meeting delande. i should up icons for them at some point that is not tonight because it took me forever just to get a posting window. >=\

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The one they'd sent was distractingly beautiful--and young. The first part made him suspicious of what Titania might be up to--( the second made him wonder what in the infernal waking dark was Oberon thinking. )

[n.b: reposted from here.]


In every land, hardness is in the north of it, softness in the south, industry in the east, and fire and inspiration in the west.


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She had barely escaped the desert in the east with her own skin; she knew she was headed in the right direction when the rain began. She didn't stop running. She knew better than that. She ran until the soles of her feet split upon the rough earth, she ran until her breath clawed at her raw throat and her heart faltered in her chest, her arms went numb, and she could scarcely hear over the sounds of her own exhaustion; she strained to hear anyway, even knowing that it was useless, for her sisters hunted in silence. She recklessly claimed the heart and soul of a lone boatman to get passage across the rocky, wind-tossed Short Sea, and left an empty, staring thing, still pleading feebly for her return, to mark the place when she stepped to solid ground. She dropped briefly to her hands and knees in shaky relief. That one act of violence, of unlawful possession, might serve to make her a great deal less welcome. It didn't matter. She could not think of her reception, could not think of anything beyond reaching her destination. She had nowhere else to go. Her options had narrowed to the space of a single door.

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Most faery tales start out with a once upon a time. ( But that would imply that these things had only happened once. )