illusion
Identity Theft
Stomping boots in the hall heralded the arrival of a breathless servant. Artressa looked up from her papers, eyebrows knitted in irritation.
"What is it?" she asked flatly. The servant bowed multiple times. Obviously the news he bore was not good, judging by his nervousness.
"We lost Saviero."
May the bloodied crown stay lost and forgotten.
Trust is your weakness...
It's too damn cold up here.
Truth or Betrayal
Do I betray my heart when I let you into it?
Knowing as I do that you aren't the one I long for?
When those phantom hands dance across my skin and make it weep
Do I dishonor those memories of the great love that I once knew?
When our lips touch and our bodies merge and the passion flares
Are these feelings truly for you, or do I ache for one long past?
How can I not betray his memory, when you stand before me
and wear his face like a ghostly shroud, grinning in victory?
Inverview
She look into the mirror, carefully scrutinizing herself. The black hat and simple black dress looked decent. Not amazing, but not horrible.
She snapped her fingers, and the dress changed.
The hat was gone, exposing the wires laced through the bottom of her left horn, keeping the crack that ran down its length from getting any worse. There was also the scar, the jagged line that ran across the same side of her head. She had found a haircut that hid it quite nicely, and anyone who didn't know any better never seemed to notice it. But she knew it was there, and so it stood out to her like a broken tail.
And the dress, a red thing that had v-shaped slits on the side down to the knees and gave up any chance to use your imagination with anything above the waist, seemed entirely too inappropriate.
Caught in the Act
Flamefist the Red, fel orc of the Dragonmaw, climbed up out of the mines. With a leer at the bosom of the mines' demonic mistress and a growl at a nearby lazy peon, he stomped towards the main encampment. All this was normal; calculatedly so. A dance Amara "Flamefist" Niall had grown accustomed to these past months as one of the Netherwing flight's infiltrators in the Dragonmaw camp. He and the gate guard bared their tusks at each other - half challenge, half respect - and he made a beeline for the goblins standing around their firepit.
Welcome Home
(( Continued from... ))
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Putting On Her Face...
((Just a snippet of Fanshen getting ready for the Gala.))
**
Fanshen picked up one of the small casks from her vanity. She flipped the latch and brought out one of the small brushes she used for her paint. Had she been attending as an escort this evening, she would have had dressers attend her to wrap her in jewels and finery so that she would look the part. The ordeal would have begun earlier and continued until right up until she stepped into the carriage to go to the gala. She dipped the brush into the colored powder and began to expertly stroke over her eyelids, tinting her pale skin warm with rose and violets about her eyes. She examined herself critically, turning her head this way and that. Some rouge followed, adding just a hint of warmth to her cheeks. Then she selected a stain and dabbed it to her lips. She pursed them, spreading the burgundy color around.
In Dreams
(( Originally posted September 5, 2006 @ RealmPortal ))
My form is a lie. My face is another’s. I’d like to say that I’ve gotten used to it, but I don’t think I ever really will. How can I?
Illusion, creating the image of something that is not. Firecracker flash, and hey Presto! A whole new you.
Only… it’s almost the old me.
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