@sea-and-storm / sea-and-storm.tumblr.com
The guards were now twice in number as when Brick and Shael had scouted the place. She wasn’t sure if either of them had been made or if it was Roen’s late visit that triggered the sudden need for increase in security, but no matter the reason, getting to Nabi had now become a much more difficult task.
Estrid had always loved the theater.
Even as a child, working as a cupbearer for a noble household, she loved the suns when the performers came to entertain the important guests. And the most glamorous of them all were those that hailed from Thavnair, with their sheer flowing fabrics and layers of golden jewelry that glimmered with each dancer’s spins and twirls. The production always captured the attention of the entire audience, drawing cheers and much applause. Accompanied by swift-flowing, sweet-tasting wine, the elated mood eased the negotiations that soon followed between the host and the guests.
Gashuul’dyn. It was said the ancient horn was carved from the bones of a titan now lost to history.
The warriors on the field oft spoke of its deep timbre when it bellowed over the plains, its hail resonating through the earth beneath their feet. Not only did it command the winds to spur them into battle, but the will of the land as well.
So how was it that the very thing that began the day of blood also called for its end?
It was impossible to forget the feeling within those tunnels. Dark, dim, humid, and often so cramped you could smell the breath of the person working beside you. The stench of sweat permeating the stale, thick air, accented only by the aroma of ozone and earth. With every strike of the pick, he knew one wrong move could be his last. He’d seen it so many times before–whether it was the wrong part of rock, or the wrong part of crystal–either leading to one getting crushed and battered, or a good and much needed piece of one’s self torn asunder by the corrupted energies being abruptly unleashed.
Anchor drew back the pickaxe in his hands, readying it for another swing. He could see his mark, the divot he’d already created to guide his aim. As the sweat dripped down between his shoulder blades, he brought the tool back down towards the stone surrounding one of those dimly lit crystals, the eerie amber glow enveloping his form in a swathe of radiating warmth.
“I became good at pretending. I became so good that after a while the lines blurred between my truth and fiction. And sometimes, when I did a really good job of pretending, I even fooled myself.”
— Ruta Sepetys
“Any new word?”
Salaifa did not look up as she poured a dollop of milk into her tea. Her movements, as ever, were gentle and precise, never hurried. Ahrahd watched for a moment longer before answering, his gaze following the stirring of her spoon three times, never more, never less, before she set it down and took up her cup.
“You’re ridiculous.” He had called her that so many times. Ridiculous. But the last time she heard it, it was a soft murmur full of affection. “I’ll be back soon.”
“I should have known better than to add all the peppers,” Chanai said ruefully, one hand going to her swollen belly as she leaned back against her elbow. “Although Nabi seemed to have enjoyed them. I think she is dancing in the womb.”
“I warned you,” Chagur chided with a soft smile, lightly pressing his lips over her navel. “Our child will relish all sorts of flavors.” He reclined next to her on the pelt he had laid down for both of them. They couldn’t bring too much with them for these secreted unions away from both of their respective tribes, but Chagur was determined to make the mother of his child as comfortable as possible. Especially since she was only a few moons away from bringing a new babe into the world.
handsome Colombian Trote y Galope colt FRANCISCO DEL JARDIN
“I assure you, I’m not put together at all. Nor am I broken. I am recovering - finding the beautiful in the ugly and stitching it into my life.”
— Rachel Wolchin
“Ile Du Nord”
“I can be changed by what happens to me. But I refuse to be reduced by it.”
— Maya Angelou, Letter To My Daughter
Chotronette ‘Green Armour’ Gown
