ruth be told, I don’t really care for guns.
Oh, to be sure, I’ve had my fair share of firearms. I had a double barrelled flintlock that I won in a fair wager in Tortuga that I still have to this day. But nowadays, they have semi-automatic weapons that fire rounds so quickly that it takes all the art out of anything that might have been when I was far younger. Now what passes for skill is a complete lack of finesse. Laser sights and computer aided night vision has removed all of what would have been considered ‘sport’.
I much prefer the art and dignity of the blade. Perhaps it was because I was raised with various types of weapons in my hands, most of them a blade of one kind or another or a staff or pike, or a combination of thereof. Then there are the other arts that go with all of these things. A warrior must also be a good diplomat, they must be a good listener and a careful observer. He or she must be in touch not only with the arts of war, but also of intuition, of peace and of intellect and judiciousness. Just because you have a weapon that can render your enemy to nothingness in a single blow does not necessarily mean you should use it. Sometimes it is a greater punishment to let them live, to draw out the torture of the blade or even a slow poison, which for me is another favoured weapon of choice.
And when one has a knife or sword that is envenomed, it can more than insure the demise of one’s enemies. You don’t even have to cut very deeply, just a scratch can sometimes be enough.
OOC: My thanks to Alexandre Dumas for the inspiration.
The dance at Schieffelin Hall was a glittering affair. Never in my life, outside of London or even Glasgow had I seen so much evening finery. The entire town seemed to be illuminated in a riot of light and colour. It was a fair change from the dusty heat of daily desert life.
As Wyatt and I stepped into the room, a number of eyes went to us.
hen I was in gaol in Port Royal for pyracy and Wytchcraft, I was kept in a dank cell. On occasion the bright light of midmorning would be just so from the rooves of the other building and the light would shine in illuminating my otherwise dark world. About a head taller than myself was a window, barred and slicked with black mildew and grime from years of moisture that ran down the walls making them slimy.
But there was a way, that if I were to reach from the stone slab that served as my bed, and precariously stretched just so, hanging by my fingertips, from this vantage point I could catch sight of a tunnel. This tunnel led from the courtyard of the prison directly through to a craggy shoreline and from beyond that you could see the ocean. On days that I was very fortunate, I could actually see ships sailing by. It was the vision of these great graceful crafts that I was reminded that there was still freedom outside of the walls of my cell. Through that window I could glimpse and remember what it was like to live in a world that was clean, not slimy and dark or filled with the rats that both stole my food and terrorized me.
It was by that very tunnel that I left with Captain Christopher Mengs who had pressed me into service aboard his own ship as a cook. My garments, save for the cloak that he had threwn over my shoulders to cover my dress that was made far more of rips than it was of cloth were soon to be replaced. With the smell of brine in my nostrils I walked through that tunnel, a mere two steps behind Captain Mengs, toward freedom.
Muse: Fanny Fae / Faelyn © Ma’at Publishing
Fandom: Original Character / Folklore / Mythology
Word Count: 299
From Midnight People on Pan Historia.
hen you deal with the occult, you open yourself up to dealing with every crackpot and crazy person out there. Whether they want to dabble to try and cast a spell over a recalcitrant lover or try and wheedle the winning lottery numbers out there or they want that does of “magical power” that can give them an edge. More money, more beauty, more wealth and fame. All of these things attract interest in the realm of the mysterious, the occult; magic itself. That had not been the draw for me. It was more the human element of wanting to find out why others craved power so much, and to see what they would or could do for it or with it that held the most fascination.
Queen Aisling, the wife of Nuada was dead. Killed by Prince Itet, the eldest and perhaps the least deserving of all of the children of the Queen of Air and Darkness.
The war loomed closer than any of us ever wanted to believe….
I never had a doll, even as a child. *ponder*
This year I’ve been busy!
Last Tuesday I helped allfor_one hide a body (-173 points). In August I gave civ_barbarian a kidney (1000 points). Last Saturday I donated bone marrow to captainbarbossa in a life-saving procedure (300 points). In January I bought porn for lick_of_flame (10 points). Last Friday I saved a busload of nuns in Angola (326 points).
Overall, I’ve been nice (1463 points). For Christmas I deserve a new dolly!
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Behind the cut to save those upon my friendslist. my tarot card – La force du lionness