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Prompts/Impression Requests: Espelho Barossa di Regario
tophat
salavant wrote in empirefiction
So I got back on the Empire wagon and had a really excellent time.

As such, I want to do a bit of fic writing if people want, to sustain my Empire keen until I can let ODC keen take over.


Prompts:
"Smoke and Mirrors"
The room seems to dance and sway, as the ritual progresses. He hears his father's voice intone the words, but the words turn into sound and colour, impression and feeling. Around him the surroundings dissolve into an ecstasy of madness. Outside the corner of his vision he can see things, watching him, waiting. But in front of him stands the mirror, a still pool in the sea of anarchy. He sees himself, reflected, and sees his reflected self seem him. It winks, and reaches to take off the mask across its face.
What lies beneath leaves him on the floor. He sees the vision within, a strange world within worlds. Somewhere, a bell tolls, and he hears a sound of metal falling to the floor.
When he wakes, he is lying on the canvas of the tent. It is hard to move, comfortable as he is, wrapped in a still-dreaming daze. Even as he wakes, he cannot escape the feeling that he left something behind in the world beyond the mirror. An appointment has been made with someone - or something - out there in the land of whispers.

"The Colour Purple"
Purple is blackcurrant juice, intensely sweet, a deep dark taste, drunk on a summer's day by the banks of the Vassa.
Purple is a scent which cannot be placed and is familiar but has never been smelled before. It smells almost, but not quite, like lilacs.
Purple is the feel of good cloth, smooth against the skin. It is wealth and prosperity and a expensive dye that leaves the fabric with a feeling that can't quite be captured.
Purple is the sound of the sad guitar, on that same summer day, sitting now alone by the Vassa's banks sipping a sloe gin. That feeling that something has been lost that you cannot place.
Purple is the sight of self in mirror, identity solidified by self-defined sartorial selections somnambulently chosen. Identity is not who we were or what we have done: it is who we are. We wear our selves like the clothes on our back.



Impressions:
Igraine
First seen inside a sorry tale of woe,
A figure met upon another's way.
I knew her as the noble wife of Bo,
The brother to the man I'd met that day.

Then first we met and I saw clear her face.
It glow'd bright with a madness clear and true.
A pois'ner's eyes, and yet a sort of grace,
You saw her and she stared back into you.

Yet also there a wisdom lay within,
Not just a foolish noble was this one.
And when we spoke, in dusking light, of kin.
I found I'd want to meet again anon.

Her pallid face gave me a pleasant chill.
Dawnish are strange, but she was stranger still.


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Impression: Igraine
First seen inside a sorry tale of woe,
A figure met upon another's way.
I knew her as the noble wife of Bo,
The brother to the man I'd met that day.

Then first we met and I saw clear her face.
It glow'd bright with a madness clear and true.
A pois'ner's eyes, and yet a sort of grace,
You saw her and she stared back into you.

Yet also there a wisdom lay within,
Not just a foolish noble was this one.
And when we spoke, in dusking light, of kin.
I found I'd want to meet again anon.

Her pallid face gave me a pleasant chill.
Dawnish are strange, but she was stranger still.

  • 1