saronai
The bourbon sloshed in its bottle as she stumbled toward the handsome man in the corner, finally enough courage to ask an important question.
"Did you do it?"
The explosive force knocked me forward onto my face. It heated my backside to the point I thought I caught on fire. I trusted a real fire would hurt more and took to cover my head from raining debris and gritted my teeth. A large chunk of building clanged right by my head and sent me scrambling for the nearest tree. Hopefully it would provide better cover.
A voice like silk. That's your first warning. The tone and enforced charisma are hard to miss. I didn't miss it. Her voice said trust me, I like you. Unless you know about the silk. The silk says, trust me, so I can manipulate you again. I refused to fall for it.
Movement from the corner of my eye grabbed my attention, but I tried not to stare directly. Her elegant hand poised sure and steady over his goblet as the table visited merrily with one another. Only I saw her tap the poison from her amber ring, a fine powder snowing into his brew. Either that, or everyone else wanted him dead as well.
The pots and pans lay scattered around the dingy kitchen. He handed her a sopping towel, the water cold as it clung to her outstretched hand. She took in the sight as he walked wordlessly away. When she offered to help, her mind was definitely on something less...domestic.
The globe of light wobbled between her palms, losing shape. With a puffing sigh she released the magic and watched it explode in a tiny waterfall of radiant sparkles. Her frustration pinched for a more satisfying explosion, but she shook her head and pushed off the floor.
She watched the water drip, slowly down the tree branches outside her window. A simple thing, the rain. Simple, yet important. Such tiny things cumulating to give life...someday she'll figure it out.
She ripped the heels off and flung them across the room just before sinking onto the couch in a messy heap. Her tight curls reached in many directions and shoving a shaky hand through them only made it worse. So many levels of wrong, where to begin?
The wand rested comfortably in her hand. Perfect. Subtle, but powerful vibrations hummed with overlapping whispers of promise. The promise of power. The promise of precision. She only hoped it wasn't male.
The spot on her dress nagged, demanding attention. She picked at it. Frowning, she rubbed at it. Finally she frayed the threads in her focus to tear it off. The more she worked at it, the more frustration sunk in. Finally, she found herself clutching the skirt in both hands and sobbing hysterically at its persistence, it's finality, listening to the threads break in satisfying but horrifying succession.
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