brighter and whiter than snow
Winter has dug her ice-tipped claws well and truly into the land. The clouds refuse to snow, and as such, the frost refuses to break. The young enchantress tugs her black velvet cloak tighter around her shoulders, arranges her flaxen hair prettily about her neck, and deepens her frown.
If only she could call down the snow, like her mother and her grandmother and even her great-grandmother. If only her mother had not married her brute of a father, whose wicked mortality dulled and sapped at the witch blood coursing like ichor through her veins. There are more ‘“if only”s (there are always more) but she knows if she lists them all she will only frown deeper. Frowning draws wrinkles. Her lips curl back into a flat, even line.
Manon. She mutters the name (prettier than her own) to herself with undue bitterness. She does not know the owner of the name. In fact, the enchantress has not a clue what this Manon looks like, only that her magic will stir when her presence is near. The Book had said that the girl would come today. The Book is never wrong — on the day, that is.
It never predicts the time. The sun is about ready to set, and the enchantress has tended the booth since high noon. Manon has not shown, and the girl’s mood blackens by the hour. If the nobleman had not paid her so handsomely —
A tingle like crawling ants sparks up her spine. The enchantress’ eyes, a translucent sea-foam green, break from the clutches of her scowl to scan the milling crowd eagerly. /She has come! But where is she?/
A girl, with a tumbling silver braid and a crown of twisting thorns, steps out of the shadows of the alley. The tingle grows to a steady hum. The enchantress gasps before drawing her nose out from her furred cloak and whispering shrilly into the frosty air: “Manon!” As an afterthought, she adds: “Miss,” with a sniff.
A slip of paper flits like a butterfly into the air. It flutters across the narrow street to buzz insistent circles above Manon’s head, and without warning, dives into her braid.
When unfurled, three lines are inscribed upon it in neat, swirling calligraphy.
The crown of thorns you wear upon your brow — hand it to the enchantress, and she will enchant it with a spell I believe you will find most agreeable.
A gift to commemorate your return.
At the bottom of the note is a tangle of what look to be glyphs. Only to Manon’s eyes will the glyphs be recognized as code.
Code she used with a certain nobleman. The glyphs rearrange themselves into a name.
Senna.
“A white falcon delivered it to me last evening, along with a purse of gold. An admirer of yours?” the enchantress asks, her voice like sweet honey. Her smile does not reach her eyes. She wonders: and just who are you, Manon?
If only she could call down the snow, like her mother and her grandmother and even her great-grandmother. If only her mother had not married her brute of a father, whose wicked mortality dulled and sapped at the witch blood coursing like ichor through her veins. There are more ‘“if only”s (there are always more) but she knows if she lists them all she will only frown deeper. Frowning draws wrinkles. Her lips curl back into a flat, even line.
Manon. She mutters the name (prettier than her own) to herself with undue bitterness. She does not know the owner of the name. In fact, the enchantress has not a clue what this Manon looks like, only that her magic will stir when her presence is near. The Book had said that the girl would come today. The Book is never wrong — on the day, that is.
It never predicts the time. The sun is about ready to set, and the enchantress has tended the booth since high noon. Manon has not shown, and the girl’s mood blackens by the hour. If the nobleman had not paid her so handsomely —
A tingle like crawling ants sparks up her spine. The enchantress’ eyes, a translucent sea-foam green, break from the clutches of her scowl to scan the milling crowd eagerly. /She has come! But where is she?/
A girl, with a tumbling silver braid and a crown of twisting thorns, steps out of the shadows of the alley. The tingle grows to a steady hum. The enchantress gasps before drawing her nose out from her furred cloak and whispering shrilly into the frosty air: “Manon!” As an afterthought, she adds: “Miss,” with a sniff.
A slip of paper flits like a butterfly into the air. It flutters across the narrow street to buzz insistent circles above Manon’s head, and without warning, dives into her braid.
When unfurled, three lines are inscribed upon it in neat, swirling calligraphy.
The crown of thorns you wear upon your brow — hand it to the enchantress, and she will enchant it with a spell I believe you will find most agreeable.
A gift to commemorate your return.
At the bottom of the note is a tangle of what look to be glyphs. Only to Manon’s eyes will the glyphs be recognized as code.
Code she used with a certain nobleman. The glyphs rearrange themselves into a name.
Senna.
“A white falcon delivered it to me last evening, along with a purse of gold. An admirer of yours?” the enchantress asks, her voice like sweet honey. Her smile does not reach her eyes. She wonders: and just who are you, Manon?
Fate it would seem has brought @Manon to the markets, or simply someone who knows her well enough to predict her movements. She’ll be wandering the streets when someone she doesn’t know calls her name - an enchantress, managing an empty booth. She calls Manon over, offering a free enchantment for her crown. Only - she doesn’t specify what kind of enchantment she offers. Still, the note is signed by Senna (or at least Senna’s name).
Does she trust it?
Thread requirements: 1 reply, 500 words. Please tag the RE account in your reply.
How to tag this account: @*'Random Events' without the asterisk!
Once you respond, you may post to claim the quest EXP
This quest was written by the lovely @rallidae.
Enjoy!
Does she trust it?
How to tag this account: @*'Random Events' without the asterisk!
Once you respond, you may post to claim the quest EXP
This quest was written by the lovely @
Enjoy!
Please be advised, tagging the Random Event account does not guarantee a response!
