novembersmith (![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
novembersmith) wrote2009-03-20 09:06 pm
novembersmith) wrote2009-03-20 09:06 pm
WHY
18,000 words and I have achieved only platonic snuggling. /o\
So have a snippet from an entirely unrelated story which I may or may not continue. Tharkay's introduction in Black Powder War from his POV.
The dining room went queerly silent after Tharkay entered, as though someone had dropped a china plate or set a crystal glass ringing. Tharkay did not quite let himself smile as he watched mouths fall inelegantly open, but he let the silence ripen a moment longer before making his drawling request into the room.
When William Laurence stood, Tharkay for a moment had the wholly unexpected sensation of being taken aback. He had not expected another man to steal his thunder, so to speak, but here was Captain Laurence, from the neck up the very image of good breeding—neat golden hair, aristocratic nose, polite expression—and from the neck down a study in contradiction. He was decked in a brilliantly green quilted coat, cut in the local style and lavishly embroidered with gold and scarlet thread, and it looked strangely well on him. Tharkay could see the men and women at the table looking askance at it even as he strode towards Tharkay and—another surprise—easily met his eyes.
“I thank you, sir,” Laurence said, a touch of humor in his voice—he was looking at Jigme interestedly, to which she responded by disapprovingly clacking her beak and digging her talons again into the thickly padded gauntlet on Tharkay’s wrist. There was a strange smell charred smell about the man and he realized, suddenly, what it signified. There was a lingering black cloud of smoke above the harbor even still, and he had heard the women talking eagerly in the market of the burning dragon ship as he threaded his way through the city to his destination. That, he supposed, explained the outlandish garment.
“I am glad to be of service,” he replied drolly. The seated diners rustled, but he did not look at them; Laurence regarded him with raised eyebrows, but he nodded at Tharkay politely enough before bending his attention back to the missive. Tharkay glanced one last time at the tall figure standing amidst the drab forms of his fellow gentlemen before following the maid to the kitchen; he supposed that the end of it.
The rest of Staunton’s household responded typically enough to his presence that he absented himself with all possible speed, but once outside on the well-lit street found himself frozen in place. He had been moving so quickly, these last weeks, in unthinking haste to leave the city behind him, and now he had nowhere to go. He would not return to Istanbul again. And he could not stand here forever on the commissioner’s stoop, where the patrols of soldiers were looking at him in askance and passing British foreigners stared openly. Well, it would wait. Jigme was hungry, and they had both been traveling for many, weary weeks. He should find an inn, and food, and that would be enough for now.
“I suppose a few more minutes does not matter,” he told the eagle, and gently stroked her breast feathers. She looked at him with angry golden eyes and called out piercingly, but he took the winding back roads along the harbor anyway, that they might have a chance to look at, even briefly, the dragon they had left Istanbul to find.
Laurence’s dragon has the same incongruous elegance as the captain, curled on the shore and every now and then raising his head to look down the coastline at the brightly lit houses of the town. Small boys ran to and fro with paper lanterns, and the dragon spoke to them in low rumbles, nudging one with his nose. Tharkay left before Jigme could give them away with one of her hungry cries, and felt strangely unsettled.
LITTLE DID HE KNOW. Anyway. BACK TO TRYING TO GET THE BOYS TO KISS.
So have a snippet from an entirely unrelated story which I may or may not continue. Tharkay's introduction in Black Powder War from his POV.
The dining room went queerly silent after Tharkay entered, as though someone had dropped a china plate or set a crystal glass ringing. Tharkay did not quite let himself smile as he watched mouths fall inelegantly open, but he let the silence ripen a moment longer before making his drawling request into the room.
When William Laurence stood, Tharkay for a moment had the wholly unexpected sensation of being taken aback. He had not expected another man to steal his thunder, so to speak, but here was Captain Laurence, from the neck up the very image of good breeding—neat golden hair, aristocratic nose, polite expression—and from the neck down a study in contradiction. He was decked in a brilliantly green quilted coat, cut in the local style and lavishly embroidered with gold and scarlet thread, and it looked strangely well on him. Tharkay could see the men and women at the table looking askance at it even as he strode towards Tharkay and—another surprise—easily met his eyes.
“I thank you, sir,” Laurence said, a touch of humor in his voice—he was looking at Jigme interestedly, to which she responded by disapprovingly clacking her beak and digging her talons again into the thickly padded gauntlet on Tharkay’s wrist. There was a strange smell charred smell about the man and he realized, suddenly, what it signified. There was a lingering black cloud of smoke above the harbor even still, and he had heard the women talking eagerly in the market of the burning dragon ship as he threaded his way through the city to his destination. That, he supposed, explained the outlandish garment.
“I am glad to be of service,” he replied drolly. The seated diners rustled, but he did not look at them; Laurence regarded him with raised eyebrows, but he nodded at Tharkay politely enough before bending his attention back to the missive. Tharkay glanced one last time at the tall figure standing amidst the drab forms of his fellow gentlemen before following the maid to the kitchen; he supposed that the end of it.
The rest of Staunton’s household responded typically enough to his presence that he absented himself with all possible speed, but once outside on the well-lit street found himself frozen in place. He had been moving so quickly, these last weeks, in unthinking haste to leave the city behind him, and now he had nowhere to go. He would not return to Istanbul again. And he could not stand here forever on the commissioner’s stoop, where the patrols of soldiers were looking at him in askance and passing British foreigners stared openly. Well, it would wait. Jigme was hungry, and they had both been traveling for many, weary weeks. He should find an inn, and food, and that would be enough for now.
“I suppose a few more minutes does not matter,” he told the eagle, and gently stroked her breast feathers. She looked at him with angry golden eyes and called out piercingly, but he took the winding back roads along the harbor anyway, that they might have a chance to look at, even briefly, the dragon they had left Istanbul to find.
Laurence’s dragon has the same incongruous elegance as the captain, curled on the shore and every now and then raising his head to look down the coastline at the brightly lit houses of the town. Small boys ran to and fro with paper lanterns, and the dragon spoke to them in low rumbles, nudging one with his nose. Tharkay left before Jigme could give them away with one of her hungry cries, and felt strangely unsettled.
LITTLE DID HE KNOW. Anyway. BACK TO TRYING TO GET THE BOYS TO KISS.