Author Topic: A Special Snowflake  (Read 1026 times)

qwertyuioppp

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A Special Snowflake
« on: June 04, 2016, 04:56:54 AM »


"Shhh-shhh. Shhh. No more tears. Listen to me. Do you know why the cold has not taken you, despite how thin you are? It has been twelve years, and you are almost as st-strong as all our lovely goats put together!"

The girl shook her head, as best she could on the ground, silent sobs racking her form. His voice was soothing, so close to her ear, the only thing audible in the mountain gale that tore apart her world. "It is your full-blood. You are overflowing with my blood, and your mother's blood." He laughed, so hard he could almost have choked. It was a sad noise. "Th-though not how I am overflowing now."

A father's humour, even in death. The girl lay there, shielded under her father, as the snow pitter-pattered down, to cover them both. She seemed to be drinking in his warmth, he grew colder and colder so quickly. That terrible bite in his side had soaked them both through with his life's water, and it was harder to tell what hurt more: knowing how grave a wound it was for him, or feeling how the wind chilled that blood on their clothes and threatened to forever chill the vulnerable flesh underneath. Would it be his blood that froze them both to death?

"You will always be warm, somewhere inside, because of that gift of good blood, and just so long as you feel warm, we will be with you." He drew a breath that seemed to last an eternity, and his words came all the more tired. "The wind and I will d-die, soon, and you must run. The wolves will come back when our scent is stronger. Do you understand?"

The girl could only nod into his neck, and his arms squeezed her into a tighter hug. He would've hissed as his movement pulled in torment at his gashes, if he only had the strength. They had struggled so far from the tall treeline, though it was a mixed blessing to be away from the creatures, as they now fought against the full force of the elements. "I thought I had grown too numb to feel any more c-cold..." His words had become barely a breath; almost inaudible through the wind, though his lips must have drooped to be on the bare skin of her head by now. "Goodnight, my Nyshka."

The landscape was a pristine, untouched white; the fields of snow unblemished by footsteps. How hellish it looked to her. It must be the Greater White of the realm of the dead, and she now a ghost, so cold she was. She closed her eyes. The snow fell straighter and straighter. The wind grew lighter and lighter.
« Last Edit: June 04, 2016, 05:16:09 AM by qwerty »

qwertyuioppp

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« Reply #1 on: June 05, 2016, 10:53:09 AM »
[A selection of costume tags, sketches, and scribblings, tucked away in a sack filled with spare cloth, for some later moment of inspiration.]

Quote


THE BOYAR
The Taxman, The Prince, The Count

Who is the Boyar?

When the kingship, or higher law, is so far gone, the Boyar presses his suit. The Boyar is a character of ambition. He is ruthless in his pursuit. His hands are not stained with blood, though his soul bears the guilt of much shed. He is loathe to drench himself, preferring instead to coerce others to violent task. The Boyar hollers; self-assured and knowing every word that he will speak. His legs and arms are held wide, and his pelvis thrust forward, unable to stop himself asserting even his form on others. His rule is unkind; it is not for the people, but for himself. He could be gilded as he owns so much wealth.

* One pair of puffy pants
* One pair of rounded shoes
* One lovely squirrel-fur cloak
* One beautiful shirt, with attached collar-flare
* One colourful purse
* Three chillpiece

The Boyar is someone who will give fine words that say one thing, only to turn his head and whisper the opposite. Might they be a shrewd mind from the Port-city, a person of noble blood? Might they be a proper woman of no apparent birthright, but a cunning for making the right friends? Are they so far from the Wolf, with the death that seems to follow them? Questions to ponder, for a successful Boyar. It would seem they are someone that could not know the purpose of art but is happy to pay to have it for themselves.

Nobody should like the Boyar.

qwertyuioppp

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« Reply #2 on: June 10, 2016, 02:11:38 AM »
Quote


THE SMITH
The Innkeeper, The Commoner, The Worker

Who is the Smith?

The Boyar's counterpart. Where the Boyar has ambition, the Smith has content. The Smith is a character of simple means and measures. He is slow to stir, being of little desire. His heart's whim is to enjoy his life for the pleasures it has, not to grasp at ones he sees himself wanting. The Smith has a quiet, but firm voice; his passions evolve slowly, rolling and boiling out slowly, if at all. He is at the service of others, though his duty is not just to bigger men, but to greater life; as such, he owns little wealth, with his riches held in meaning stuck to things.

* One dashing, leather apron
* One light ringlet shirt
* One pair of tough pants
* Two handsome shoes
* One bonky, shoddy hammer

The Smith is one to hold himself to his worldview, what he lacks in material he makes up in will. The Smith could be an aspect of many; a gendarme with a mind for intrinsic values, or a warrior with no mind for intrinsics but a heart that calls to them all the same. Are they so far from the Wolf, with the death that must inevitably take them? Points to ponder, for a successful Smith. The Smith is someone who can understand an artwork, who knows its purpose.

Everyone should like the Smith.

qwertyuioppp

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A Special Snowflake
« Reply #3 on: June 17, 2016, 08:03:24 AM »


The last hearth at the end of the world.

The wood of the roof creaked as the snows piled down on it. The stone walls of Sanguinia's homes arguably did nothing against the cold. Just beyond were the mountains of ice; true ice, not just glaciers and frozen lakes and sheets of snow. For all the strength of common life, these peaks might as well be made of the abstraction of despair: jagged crags and treacherous steeps and hollows all painted of that single deceptive whitewash. Wherever there was a cold air, even at the furthest ends of the Lands, this must be where it originated. The only break in the white, the white that was the sky and the land, were those struck dead by winter--- whether it was a long-dead, long-frozen claw reaching up motionless from the layers of frost as a marker, or a long-dead, long-frozen revenant, come to claim your soul and your children and all manner of terrible things. What a terror it had been to get here, and how terrible it was to almost always have those mountains in eyesight. It was a relief the room had no windows. The twenty hearts in that room huddled about the firepit, grumbling to and fro, rumbling out their grievances to each other. A lirnyk spun his song, the lyre-wheel hissing a warning.

To the falling darkness,
Against the sharp night, "no!"
Here he steps, his cloak messed,
His chin held high, behold, lo!-
The man of Kosova.

A song upon the wind-
Wishing to call him home,
But that man had sinned-
His voice the thunder, "be gone!"
The man of Kosova.

There he steps, song singing,
A sad danse in his stride.
His funeral bells still ringing,
And the dirge for his bride,
The dead of Kosova.

I saw him, I am blessed,
To leave me alone, to go,
So he still steps, messed,
His chin held high, behold, lo!-
The ghost from Kosova.


The young woman shivered. Was there ever a world beyond this land of ice?

At the very least there was still song.






qwertyuioppp

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« Reply #4 on: January 15, 2020, 11:07:25 PM »
Quote


THE KNIGHT
The Mercenary, The Dragon-slayer, The Knyaz

Who is the Knight?

The Knight is the honourable person, the good person. She is the counterpart to the Assassin, the exactness of righteousness and purity. This is her totality, so what remains of her may be conflicting or confusing. These details matter little, for every action she makes becomes a noble one within the tale, whether or not she wishes it to be. Their path brings justice; they may be a stumbler or a scholar, but regardless bring prosperity wherever they tread. Likewise, in her hand may be blade or button, but her innerness will be the sharpest edge.

* One firm, greywood helmet
* One set greywood armour
* One tight belt with ox-hide scabbard
* One matching longblade
* One set of flatpipes

While many sorrows might fall upon their path, dimming the light they share, perhaps extinguishing it, the Knight's life will always be traded for a greater good. Shall they be the child or parent, the foreign or familiar, the new or old? Might they be so different from the other characters? Is their purity so terribly estranged from that of the Assassin?

Ponderings for a successful Knight, though they are always paling before the honour of the role. Ask thyself, tender dancer, how can the actress reveal the beautiful Knight that is within in each member of the wide audience?

Everyone should respect the Knight.
« Last Edit: January 15, 2020, 11:11:30 PM by Deceit »