(no subject)
The fine weather has inspired me to sit inside on the computer. The fruits of my labor (read: laziness) are below. The first is the opening of the sequel to my villain story. The second is the start to my twisted fairy tale.
“Lavender, you think?”
“No, definitely go with the navy.”
“Are you sure that’s navy? It looks black to me.”
The older man raised his eyebrows. “It’s navy. I’m sure.”
“No it’s not! Trust me, I know black when I see it. It is the color of my soul, Father.”
“Oh, you’re one to be talking! If anything, your soul is navy. I’ve been in the business of evil for decades before you were even a glint in my flinty eye!”
Christophe threw up his hands in frustration. The executioner’s hood was, indeed, navy, but that was of little consequence. Difficulty coordinating outfits did not trouble him; it was the fact that his father neglected his duties in favor of such frivolous tasks as matching suit separates, rearranging furniture in the torture chamber, and selecting tropical fish to add to the moat. Melvin the Dark should be intimidating underlings, cutting dirty deals with fellow overlords, and murdering bastard sons intent on taking his place, not acting like an aging interior designer!
The stifling, humid summer air in the garden was stirred by a hot wind. Beads of perspiration slid from the young woman’s temple to her chin. Her golden hair, though truth be told, it was mostly extensions, hung heavily about her shoulders, having broken free of the intricate style it held some hours hence. Supremely irritated at her unflattering appearance, she swiped at the moist tendrils of sweat-drenched hair clinging to her forehead.
Another day was half gone, and with it, another royal suitor fleeing the kingdom due to her father’s over-zealous attempts at foisting his daughter off on a nobleman, any nobleman.
“Lavender, you think?”
“No, definitely go with the navy.”
“Are you sure that’s navy? It looks black to me.”
The older man raised his eyebrows. “It’s navy. I’m sure.”
“No it’s not! Trust me, I know black when I see it. It is the color of my soul, Father.”
“Oh, you’re one to be talking! If anything, your soul is navy. I’ve been in the business of evil for decades before you were even a glint in my flinty eye!”
Christophe threw up his hands in frustration. The executioner’s hood was, indeed, navy, but that was of little consequence. Difficulty coordinating outfits did not trouble him; it was the fact that his father neglected his duties in favor of such frivolous tasks as matching suit separates, rearranging furniture in the torture chamber, and selecting tropical fish to add to the moat. Melvin the Dark should be intimidating underlings, cutting dirty deals with fellow overlords, and murdering bastard sons intent on taking his place, not acting like an aging interior designer!
The stifling, humid summer air in the garden was stirred by a hot wind. Beads of perspiration slid from the young woman’s temple to her chin. Her golden hair, though truth be told, it was mostly extensions, hung heavily about her shoulders, having broken free of the intricate style it held some hours hence. Supremely irritated at her unflattering appearance, she swiped at the moist tendrils of sweat-drenched hair clinging to her forehead.
Another day was half gone, and with it, another royal suitor fleeing the kingdom due to her father’s over-zealous attempts at foisting his daughter off on a nobleman, any nobleman.