☼ RUTH OF HOUSE IESHAN ☼רות
"MADE WITH BLOOD, WITH COLORED / DIRT, WITH SMOKE, NOT MEANT / to be seen but to remain / there hidden, potent / in the dark, the link between / the buried will and the upper / world of sun and green feeding, / chase and the hungry kill / drawn by a hand hard / even to imagine."
"MADE WITH BLOOD, WITH COLORED / DIRT, WITH SMOKE, NOT MEANT / to be seen but to remain / there hidden, potent / in the dark, the link between / the buried will and the upper / world of sun and green feeding, / chase and the hungry kill / drawn by a hand hard / even to imagine."
How tiresome.
Pilate would make one of his pretty drinks poisonous, wouldn’t he? Since the first case I stumbled upon, a girl bent-double and vomiting, insisting that she had barely drunk a sip, I have been working all evening. It’s nothing deadly. When I finally plucked one of the drinks from the tray of a passing waiter (and wholly disregarded the way his lips turned up into a smirk; amusement, I’m sure, at the thought of the middle Ieshan daughter shouldering sickness) and attempted to discern what, exactly, was causing the symptoms, I discerned that it must be something very mild. My brother can be as cruel as, the Solterrans would say, a snake. Ishak would say that they are wrong; he would surely remark on Pilate’s malevolence, the way that he laughs so easily at the misfortune of others.
I would say: none of you know the mind of a snake. How would you know the reason why it bites?
At any rate, I cannot help but wonder at Pilate’s rationale. I’m sure that this will do nothing for the rumors about Adonai’s condition; but that is beside the point, and no concern of mine. I am barely Ieshan, and, if the misfortune that has overtaken my house ever brings it to its knees entire, I were ever anything else, I could certainly survive it. I have been working long hours since I was barely anything more than a child, spent countless hours poring over textbook after textbook with a focus that my mentors deemed “unnatural.”
Most nights, now, when I walk the gilded hallways of my family’s manor, I can’t help but feel faintly disgusted by the extravagant paintings and marble statues. I try not to look at them.
I only follow the man out onto the balcony. I had escaped the party of my own initiative after dealing with another sickly young woman, who shouldn’t have been drinking anything at all. It was only when I saw the dark glint of his horns in the moonlight when I decided to approach him.
Ishak might be nearby. He might be somewhere else, deeper in the manor, almost certainly sticking his nose into something I wouldn’t care for; it doesn’t matter. I have seen this man earlier, talking to Adonai. (If I have been paying more attention to my gilded brother than usual tonight – that is no one’s business but my own.) I can’t help but wonder why he is here. I can’t even say that I’m sure this area is open to guests, but I also can’t say that I care. This is only a matter of obligation.
He notices me before I can speak. May I help you?
I emerge slowly, step out onto the balcony alongside him. He is taller than I am by measures; threateningly tall, even, and built like a warrior. If I am at all concerned by being isolated with him on the balcony, I give no sign of it. “No,” I say, flatly. “Rather – I think that I should be asking you that. May I help you with anything, guest?”
Why are you so deep in the manor? goes entirely unspoken.
@Vercingtorix || <3 || atwood, "for archaeologists"
Pilate would make one of his pretty drinks poisonous, wouldn’t he? Since the first case I stumbled upon, a girl bent-double and vomiting, insisting that she had barely drunk a sip, I have been working all evening. It’s nothing deadly. When I finally plucked one of the drinks from the tray of a passing waiter (and wholly disregarded the way his lips turned up into a smirk; amusement, I’m sure, at the thought of the middle Ieshan daughter shouldering sickness) and attempted to discern what, exactly, was causing the symptoms, I discerned that it must be something very mild. My brother can be as cruel as, the Solterrans would say, a snake. Ishak would say that they are wrong; he would surely remark on Pilate’s malevolence, the way that he laughs so easily at the misfortune of others.
I would say: none of you know the mind of a snake. How would you know the reason why it bites?
At any rate, I cannot help but wonder at Pilate’s rationale. I’m sure that this will do nothing for the rumors about Adonai’s condition; but that is beside the point, and no concern of mine. I am barely Ieshan, and, if the misfortune that has overtaken my house ever brings it to its knees entire, I were ever anything else, I could certainly survive it. I have been working long hours since I was barely anything more than a child, spent countless hours poring over textbook after textbook with a focus that my mentors deemed “unnatural.”
Most nights, now, when I walk the gilded hallways of my family’s manor, I can’t help but feel faintly disgusted by the extravagant paintings and marble statues. I try not to look at them.
I only follow the man out onto the balcony. I had escaped the party of my own initiative after dealing with another sickly young woman, who shouldn’t have been drinking anything at all. It was only when I saw the dark glint of his horns in the moonlight when I decided to approach him.
Ishak might be nearby. He might be somewhere else, deeper in the manor, almost certainly sticking his nose into something I wouldn’t care for; it doesn’t matter. I have seen this man earlier, talking to Adonai. (If I have been paying more attention to my gilded brother than usual tonight – that is no one’s business but my own.) I can’t help but wonder why he is here. I can’t even say that I’m sure this area is open to guests, but I also can’t say that I care. This is only a matter of obligation.
He notices me before I can speak. May I help you?
I emerge slowly, step out onto the balcony alongside him. He is taller than I am by measures; threateningly tall, even, and built like a warrior. If I am at all concerned by being isolated with him on the balcony, I give no sign of it. “No,” I say, flatly. “Rather – I think that I should be asking you that. May I help you with anything, guest?”
Why are you so deep in the manor? goes entirely unspoken.
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HE FEEDS ME RED MEAT / HE WATCHES THE BLOOD POOL IN MY MOUTHlaughs at my red teeth❂please tag Ruth! contact is encouraged, short of violence
