you're metophorical gin and juice
so come on give me a taste
of what its like to be next to you
so come on give me a taste
of what its like to be next to you
It is hot but the palace staff has thrown the windows open in hopes of coaxing the gentle, if nonexistent breeze from the grounds. Kirin sits, silver-hazel eyes staring through the palace historian as he drones on and on about one of Illea’s allies, Thurick. Select pieces of the allied realms history lesson grab his attention, particularly points on the territories legion and a few about their agriculture as well. For the most part the monotone speech is a bore and it is apparent on the faces of others gathered in the day room that they feel much the same. Well, that is save for one or two that eagerly hang on each word that falls from the stiff man’s lips, his thin mustache twitching as he speaks.
Lately, palace life has been a blur, a welcome blur but a blur nonetheless. Every day is filled with a mile long task list and every day Kirin dutifully performs all that is asked of him. Not only does he do as asked, he finds himself wanting to do as asked. All these chores and lessons are the only things keeping him tethered to the competition at hand. If one thing is for sure Kirin wants the throne, he wants the glory and the riches- and believe it or not, he also wants the girl. With the girl comes the power and Kirin could do wonders with that kind of magic, now couldn’t he?
All the time they have been spending together lately only cements this fact, each date they have seems to provide more assurance to the lavender haired man- more confidence. Before long Kirin himself is looking the part, he is acting the part, speaking and carrying himself as one of noble blood would do. This he does with a charming smile and a glint of fire in his eye, each time he steals a kiss from the Heir his blood is left on fire, boiling for all things to come. Countless are the times he has imagined deflowering the woman because he can only speculate that the Heir to the throne would be nothing more than a virgin. This prospect only adds to the allure of gaining the Kingdom, ruling the people and having the beautiful caramel skinned beauty at his side.
For all this gain he must endure and endure he would, make no mistake that he was in this for the long haul. What more could he want in life?
A resounding crash shakes the walls, the seat beneath him trembling and pulling him from his reverie back into the present. Gasps and screams from others (particularly the women) echo about the large room, shocked by the noise and violence of the occasion, several fragile items fall from tables landing with a shatter against the floor. Grabbing the arms of his chair Kirin steadies himself, looking around the chaos with eyes wide but curious all the same. To be true this was the most excitement they had had in days and his first thoughts conclude that this is the beginning of some sort of extravagant task. Moments later sirens sound, splitting the air with their wailing calls and assuring Kirin that this was no drill.
They were under siege, the palace, this palace, now. He could not help the giddy feeling that bubbled in his stomach as he came to terms with what exactly was happening. This was marvelous, this was well overdue and Kirin had pent up aggression to spare. Guards flood the halls, and from the windows he can see that regiments are pressing into the yard as well, armor glistening in the heat of the day. As the tall man stares down out into the manicured grounds another group of soldiers usher themselves into the day room, calling for arms or hovering over frightened contestants and servants alike. Another crash sends Kirin sprawling, tumbling over an ottoman and spinning out over the carpets as he comes to a stop. Glass tinkles to the floor from the shattered windows, and makes crawling under a table for shelter from debris a precarious endeavor.
As he scuttles along the floor his clothing snags on sharp, uneven shards and once or twice he winces as the material gives and his flesh parts. A few superficial cuts to his thighs and his elbows and forearm, nothing to write home about but it pulled a frown to his lips all the same as he then sucked in air. “Damn it,’” he breathes, taking cover beneath an oak table and gaining his bearings once more. Around him both contestants and soldiers and servants scramble, some are seeking cover, some are rallying others to the fight and still others just want the hell out of this room. Regardless of the hysteria, Kirin has to decide what he is doing next, to help the castle of course, he can’t lose everything now. Step one is probably to get out of this room, he was doing no good under his table-sheild and there certainly were not any weapons with which to fight.
Deciding that he too must break free of the day room, Kirin pulls himself up from under his bunker, darting for the door and pushing aside a wide eyed blonde contestant in the process. Soldiers are already doing what they can to assist others to a safe room below, those that can not or will not fight. One such soldier seizes him by the arm, pulling him towards the frantic group and Kirin recoils with a firey glare to his gaze. “No, I want to fight, I have to make sure Frances is safe.” Without considering he wrenches his arm free, pulling away from the war-hardened hand and running into the hall heedless of the soldiers directions. They wanted to round him up like cattle with the others, tuck him away like some sally-girl that couldn’t hold her own, too bad.
Particles of brick and mortar fill the air and to shield his eyes Kirin raises his forearm to his brow, the cuts from earlier are already leaving bright blotches of red against his clothing. With his free hand he brings a fist to his pouty lips, hacking into the tight ball as the dust irritates his passageways. Around him the battle is in full force, rebels grapple with armed soldiers and with their sheer numbers they are overtaking a few without incident. Along the ground there are bodies, some long gone from this world and others choking for their last breath between dark blood that bubbles from their twisted mouths. With luck there are several swords, knives, shields, maces, and axes lying around- arms lost or fallen during the fight along with their masters. A suitable dagger catches his eye and as he is trying to jostle it free from a dead man’s grip, another rebel is charging him, a war cry on his chapped lips.
Kirin is barely able to wrench the long-dagger from the dead man’s hand in time, thrusting it with a snarl into the raging rebel’s gut. With a twist he smiles, sinking the blade in deep until his thumb is touching hot flesh and wet blood, growing damp and slick as the raised sword clangs to the ground from the limp grip of his enemy. “The element of surprise is not your strong suit I see,” the lavender-haired man drawls, ripping the blade free and pushing the stiffening body to the floor with the other fallen. From the departed Kirin takes what he can and quickly. In addition the the long-dagger (or is it a short -sword?) he finds a pair of iron bracers, and a leather corslet, both of which he puts on in haste.
Another corner brings a new hall, one with a wirey rebel hacking at one of the castle staff who is also scarcely at arms. Armed with an axe the freedom fighter swings in great arcs as he brings his weapon down over and over again against a wide shield that the castle dweller barely managed to raise. The crash of metal on wood is sickening and the resulting splinter of wood brings about the hired helps untimely death as Kirin rushes to take up where the other left off. Using his bracers he deflects the axe, dodging the heavy swings that grow noticeably heavier as the man half-heartedly continues. Muscles aching as the pretty, lavender-haired man dances away, this is why Kirin had chosen his weapons carefully. For one he had little experience with weapon wielding, heavy long swords and axes and halberds were not meant for the inexperienced. He had left the great shields alone as well, along with the majority of iron armor, he didn’t want to be weighted down, choosing instead to rely on free and easy movements.
Using the others momentum, Kirin strategically steps to the side, leaving the rebel’s forward motion to bring him unfortunately close to the sharp blade of his dagger. Thrusting upwards as he side-steps, the iron blade makes contact with the other man’s tricep, digging a red trench into the muscle and sending the heavy axe tumbling from his grip. This however, does not seem to be enough to stop him, rage filling his eyes as he spits curses at Kirin’s pale face. Bulling forward, the rebel knocks aside Kirin’s one weapon, dragging the soft-faced boy to the ground to pummel him deftly on the jaw, before turning his strikes to the ribs and stomach.
Each blow is only fuel to the fire of Kirin’s mad mind, dragging the devil from the pits of his soul to exchange blows as he topples end over end with the man. When once again he finds himself straddling the enemy, he reaches his hands to his throat, clenching down against the windpipe and digging his fingers in to keep grip. Of course there is struggle, the others fingers digging desperately into Kirin’s iron bracers with his nails, trying to gain leverage and flailing his legs as if it will somehow return the oxygen to his lungs. In the end he submits, glassy eyed and mouth wide as he tried to gasp for air. His lips had turned a bruised shade of blue and for a moment Kirin just stared at the lifeless face, admiring the frightened twist that was now forever cemented into its features.
With heaving chest the lavender-haired man rises, dusting his pants and looking around once again that the escalating disturbance that wracked the castle. Deciding that he should continue making his way downstairs and into the yard into the heart of the fight, Kirin continues his trek down the hallway, checking doors as he goes. Mostly there is nothing save for the empty quiet that somehow sustains through the shouts and crashes of the siege at hand, reaching the stairs those too are deserted and the noise only increases as he goes. Before Kirin can make it to the yard he must first pass through the formal dinning hall, a room that he finds occupied upon entry. Two men ransack the room, tossing tapestries and paintings to the floor where they are then pulled to shreds. When they are not destroying the place they are pilfering cutlery, the gold and silver and one even snatches a crystal goblet to stuff into a knapsack at his side. Upon seeing Kirin the tension builds, like a two rabid dogs corned in an alleyway.
The first man even snarls as he progresses forward to slash at Kirin with a steak knife that he has obviously picked up within the room. The other circles, walks a crescent shaped line that he will surely pounce from if his buddy is in need. Our contestant must simply do the best he can, bracing himself for the widening slashes of silver that shine against the fluorescent lights. Each motion is a frenzy and quickly Kirin snatches an embroidered tapestry throwing it over the advancing rebel, and shoving him away momentarily blindfolded as he is. Contestant number two springs from the sidelines, and Kirin knows that face, it is Arthur the tailor brandishing a long-sword that causes Kirin to hop like a jackrabbit out of the way. One such leap catches his foot on the rug, sending him sprawling towards the table, his dagger one way, his body another, and shattering a serving tray into awkward jagged pieces. Thankfully he is not the only one that is subject to the unintentional booby-trap, and Arthur falls forward as Kirin rolls snatching a broken piece of tray and shoving it into the man’s ear.
Screams fill the room, growling, injured bear screams as Arthur clutches the side of his head forgoing catching his landing with his arms and smacking his forehead on the polished oak table. By now fighter number one has untangled himself from the tattered tapestry, shouting a battle cry and several things like, turncloak, coward, traitor, as he grabs for Kirin and stabs him in the exposed, upper forearm with his knife. Of course Kirin is just a man and still subject to things like pain, snarling in anguish as his eyes find the blade still lodged within his flesh. A murderous glare takes hold of his eyes, a ripple of fire present in their depths as he clenches his jaw and yanks the blade from its sheath of flesh. The man’s hands around his throat have barely registered against the adrenaline that takes him, though he now takes note that he has been gasping against the attempted strangulation. He locks his eyes on the rebel’s own, their deep green hungry for blood but outright shocked when Kirin shoves the blade upwards under his chin and into throat and mouth.
He sputters blood now, the war hunger gone from his features, his hands relax and his fingers uncurl from Kirin’s pale throat. Heaving, our castle contestant grabs at his chest, wondering just how much longer it would have taken to lose consciousness and end up another limp body on the floor.
A groan pulls him from that thought of what if, and Arthur is returning to the waking world, rubbing his head and gasping as he finds the glass still protruding from his ear. Before he can do much to rise Kirin kicks him to the floor to his belly, then finds the heavy long-sword that has been haphazardly tossed against the blood and mess of glass. Now he faces the tailor, glaring down at him as a child equipped with a magnifying glass might an ant. “Please,” Arthur calls, voice like gravel against his tongue, “Kirin, I’ve known you since you were a boy. How could you turn on us like this, we’re the same.” The older man’s hands shake now, trembling like leaves from the way Kirin’s features have so drastically changed.
“Oh no Arthur, you have not known me much at all I am afraid. We are so very different you and I.” The clomp, clomp, clomp of his boots echo as he rounds the rebel, the man Arthur, coiling around him until he is facing his backside. “You coward,” he stumbles over the words, attempting to crawl, though the loss of blood has got to be quite overwhelming by now. “As you say Arthur,” Kirin drawls, stooping down as he thrusts the long blade into a new sheath at Arthur’s hind. There is one piercing wail before the towne tailor ceases jerking around and finally lies still amidst the trash of a bed he has made.
Kirin wipes his brow, retrieving the dagger that has served him, and tearing his shirt to wrap as a bandage around his bleeding arm. It is now that he is feeling quite faint himself, head aching and ears ringing but not enough to tune out the joyous shouts that ring from the yard. Battered, bloody and bruised he finds his own way to the celebration, clinging to the walls and then to the doors to steady himself. The rebels had lost, killed or run off by the soldiers and guards and volunteers. A few familiar faces of staff take notice at Krin’s bloody state, faces falling into those of concern and hands grasping at his shoulders and his back.
He remembers bits of floating, or being carried up the stairs by strong arms, armor and red tailed coats. Might have been that he asked where Frances was, if she was safe, but if his broken speech was ever answered he does not recall. His bed is the same plush softness when he is returned to it, sinking deep into the duvet and pillows and finally he is left alone to sleep...
Lately, palace life has been a blur, a welcome blur but a blur nonetheless. Every day is filled with a mile long task list and every day Kirin dutifully performs all that is asked of him. Not only does he do as asked, he finds himself wanting to do as asked. All these chores and lessons are the only things keeping him tethered to the competition at hand. If one thing is for sure Kirin wants the throne, he wants the glory and the riches- and believe it or not, he also wants the girl. With the girl comes the power and Kirin could do wonders with that kind of magic, now couldn’t he?
All the time they have been spending together lately only cements this fact, each date they have seems to provide more assurance to the lavender haired man- more confidence. Before long Kirin himself is looking the part, he is acting the part, speaking and carrying himself as one of noble blood would do. This he does with a charming smile and a glint of fire in his eye, each time he steals a kiss from the Heir his blood is left on fire, boiling for all things to come. Countless are the times he has imagined deflowering the woman because he can only speculate that the Heir to the throne would be nothing more than a virgin. This prospect only adds to the allure of gaining the Kingdom, ruling the people and having the beautiful caramel skinned beauty at his side.
For all this gain he must endure and endure he would, make no mistake that he was in this for the long haul. What more could he want in life?
A resounding crash shakes the walls, the seat beneath him trembling and pulling him from his reverie back into the present. Gasps and screams from others (particularly the women) echo about the large room, shocked by the noise and violence of the occasion, several fragile items fall from tables landing with a shatter against the floor. Grabbing the arms of his chair Kirin steadies himself, looking around the chaos with eyes wide but curious all the same. To be true this was the most excitement they had had in days and his first thoughts conclude that this is the beginning of some sort of extravagant task. Moments later sirens sound, splitting the air with their wailing calls and assuring Kirin that this was no drill.
They were under siege, the palace, this palace, now. He could not help the giddy feeling that bubbled in his stomach as he came to terms with what exactly was happening. This was marvelous, this was well overdue and Kirin had pent up aggression to spare. Guards flood the halls, and from the windows he can see that regiments are pressing into the yard as well, armor glistening in the heat of the day. As the tall man stares down out into the manicured grounds another group of soldiers usher themselves into the day room, calling for arms or hovering over frightened contestants and servants alike. Another crash sends Kirin sprawling, tumbling over an ottoman and spinning out over the carpets as he comes to a stop. Glass tinkles to the floor from the shattered windows, and makes crawling under a table for shelter from debris a precarious endeavor.
As he scuttles along the floor his clothing snags on sharp, uneven shards and once or twice he winces as the material gives and his flesh parts. A few superficial cuts to his thighs and his elbows and forearm, nothing to write home about but it pulled a frown to his lips all the same as he then sucked in air. “Damn it,’” he breathes, taking cover beneath an oak table and gaining his bearings once more. Around him both contestants and soldiers and servants scramble, some are seeking cover, some are rallying others to the fight and still others just want the hell out of this room. Regardless of the hysteria, Kirin has to decide what he is doing next, to help the castle of course, he can’t lose everything now. Step one is probably to get out of this room, he was doing no good under his table-sheild and there certainly were not any weapons with which to fight.
Deciding that he too must break free of the day room, Kirin pulls himself up from under his bunker, darting for the door and pushing aside a wide eyed blonde contestant in the process. Soldiers are already doing what they can to assist others to a safe room below, those that can not or will not fight. One such soldier seizes him by the arm, pulling him towards the frantic group and Kirin recoils with a firey glare to his gaze. “No, I want to fight, I have to make sure Frances is safe.” Without considering he wrenches his arm free, pulling away from the war-hardened hand and running into the hall heedless of the soldiers directions. They wanted to round him up like cattle with the others, tuck him away like some sally-girl that couldn’t hold her own, too bad.
Particles of brick and mortar fill the air and to shield his eyes Kirin raises his forearm to his brow, the cuts from earlier are already leaving bright blotches of red against his clothing. With his free hand he brings a fist to his pouty lips, hacking into the tight ball as the dust irritates his passageways. Around him the battle is in full force, rebels grapple with armed soldiers and with their sheer numbers they are overtaking a few without incident. Along the ground there are bodies, some long gone from this world and others choking for their last breath between dark blood that bubbles from their twisted mouths. With luck there are several swords, knives, shields, maces, and axes lying around- arms lost or fallen during the fight along with their masters. A suitable dagger catches his eye and as he is trying to jostle it free from a dead man’s grip, another rebel is charging him, a war cry on his chapped lips.
Kirin is barely able to wrench the long-dagger from the dead man’s hand in time, thrusting it with a snarl into the raging rebel’s gut. With a twist he smiles, sinking the blade in deep until his thumb is touching hot flesh and wet blood, growing damp and slick as the raised sword clangs to the ground from the limp grip of his enemy. “The element of surprise is not your strong suit I see,” the lavender-haired man drawls, ripping the blade free and pushing the stiffening body to the floor with the other fallen. From the departed Kirin takes what he can and quickly. In addition the the long-dagger (or is it a short -sword?) he finds a pair of iron bracers, and a leather corslet, both of which he puts on in haste.
Another corner brings a new hall, one with a wirey rebel hacking at one of the castle staff who is also scarcely at arms. Armed with an axe the freedom fighter swings in great arcs as he brings his weapon down over and over again against a wide shield that the castle dweller barely managed to raise. The crash of metal on wood is sickening and the resulting splinter of wood brings about the hired helps untimely death as Kirin rushes to take up where the other left off. Using his bracers he deflects the axe, dodging the heavy swings that grow noticeably heavier as the man half-heartedly continues. Muscles aching as the pretty, lavender-haired man dances away, this is why Kirin had chosen his weapons carefully. For one he had little experience with weapon wielding, heavy long swords and axes and halberds were not meant for the inexperienced. He had left the great shields alone as well, along with the majority of iron armor, he didn’t want to be weighted down, choosing instead to rely on free and easy movements.
Using the others momentum, Kirin strategically steps to the side, leaving the rebel’s forward motion to bring him unfortunately close to the sharp blade of his dagger. Thrusting upwards as he side-steps, the iron blade makes contact with the other man’s tricep, digging a red trench into the muscle and sending the heavy axe tumbling from his grip. This however, does not seem to be enough to stop him, rage filling his eyes as he spits curses at Kirin’s pale face. Bulling forward, the rebel knocks aside Kirin’s one weapon, dragging the soft-faced boy to the ground to pummel him deftly on the jaw, before turning his strikes to the ribs and stomach.
Each blow is only fuel to the fire of Kirin’s mad mind, dragging the devil from the pits of his soul to exchange blows as he topples end over end with the man. When once again he finds himself straddling the enemy, he reaches his hands to his throat, clenching down against the windpipe and digging his fingers in to keep grip. Of course there is struggle, the others fingers digging desperately into Kirin’s iron bracers with his nails, trying to gain leverage and flailing his legs as if it will somehow return the oxygen to his lungs. In the end he submits, glassy eyed and mouth wide as he tried to gasp for air. His lips had turned a bruised shade of blue and for a moment Kirin just stared at the lifeless face, admiring the frightened twist that was now forever cemented into its features.
With heaving chest the lavender-haired man rises, dusting his pants and looking around once again that the escalating disturbance that wracked the castle. Deciding that he should continue making his way downstairs and into the yard into the heart of the fight, Kirin continues his trek down the hallway, checking doors as he goes. Mostly there is nothing save for the empty quiet that somehow sustains through the shouts and crashes of the siege at hand, reaching the stairs those too are deserted and the noise only increases as he goes. Before Kirin can make it to the yard he must first pass through the formal dinning hall, a room that he finds occupied upon entry. Two men ransack the room, tossing tapestries and paintings to the floor where they are then pulled to shreds. When they are not destroying the place they are pilfering cutlery, the gold and silver and one even snatches a crystal goblet to stuff into a knapsack at his side. Upon seeing Kirin the tension builds, like a two rabid dogs corned in an alleyway.
The first man even snarls as he progresses forward to slash at Kirin with a steak knife that he has obviously picked up within the room. The other circles, walks a crescent shaped line that he will surely pounce from if his buddy is in need. Our contestant must simply do the best he can, bracing himself for the widening slashes of silver that shine against the fluorescent lights. Each motion is a frenzy and quickly Kirin snatches an embroidered tapestry throwing it over the advancing rebel, and shoving him away momentarily blindfolded as he is. Contestant number two springs from the sidelines, and Kirin knows that face, it is Arthur the tailor brandishing a long-sword that causes Kirin to hop like a jackrabbit out of the way. One such leap catches his foot on the rug, sending him sprawling towards the table, his dagger one way, his body another, and shattering a serving tray into awkward jagged pieces. Thankfully he is not the only one that is subject to the unintentional booby-trap, and Arthur falls forward as Kirin rolls snatching a broken piece of tray and shoving it into the man’s ear.
Screams fill the room, growling, injured bear screams as Arthur clutches the side of his head forgoing catching his landing with his arms and smacking his forehead on the polished oak table. By now fighter number one has untangled himself from the tattered tapestry, shouting a battle cry and several things like, turncloak, coward, traitor, as he grabs for Kirin and stabs him in the exposed, upper forearm with his knife. Of course Kirin is just a man and still subject to things like pain, snarling in anguish as his eyes find the blade still lodged within his flesh. A murderous glare takes hold of his eyes, a ripple of fire present in their depths as he clenches his jaw and yanks the blade from its sheath of flesh. The man’s hands around his throat have barely registered against the adrenaline that takes him, though he now takes note that he has been gasping against the attempted strangulation. He locks his eyes on the rebel’s own, their deep green hungry for blood but outright shocked when Kirin shoves the blade upwards under his chin and into throat and mouth.
He sputters blood now, the war hunger gone from his features, his hands relax and his fingers uncurl from Kirin’s pale throat. Heaving, our castle contestant grabs at his chest, wondering just how much longer it would have taken to lose consciousness and end up another limp body on the floor.
A groan pulls him from that thought of what if, and Arthur is returning to the waking world, rubbing his head and gasping as he finds the glass still protruding from his ear. Before he can do much to rise Kirin kicks him to the floor to his belly, then finds the heavy long-sword that has been haphazardly tossed against the blood and mess of glass. Now he faces the tailor, glaring down at him as a child equipped with a magnifying glass might an ant. “Please,” Arthur calls, voice like gravel against his tongue, “Kirin, I’ve known you since you were a boy. How could you turn on us like this, we’re the same.” The older man’s hands shake now, trembling like leaves from the way Kirin’s features have so drastically changed.
“Oh no Arthur, you have not known me much at all I am afraid. We are so very different you and I.” The clomp, clomp, clomp of his boots echo as he rounds the rebel, the man Arthur, coiling around him until he is facing his backside. “You coward,” he stumbles over the words, attempting to crawl, though the loss of blood has got to be quite overwhelming by now. “As you say Arthur,” Kirin drawls, stooping down as he thrusts the long blade into a new sheath at Arthur’s hind. There is one piercing wail before the towne tailor ceases jerking around and finally lies still amidst the trash of a bed he has made.
Kirin wipes his brow, retrieving the dagger that has served him, and tearing his shirt to wrap as a bandage around his bleeding arm. It is now that he is feeling quite faint himself, head aching and ears ringing but not enough to tune out the joyous shouts that ring from the yard. Battered, bloody and bruised he finds his own way to the celebration, clinging to the walls and then to the doors to steady himself. The rebels had lost, killed or run off by the soldiers and guards and volunteers. A few familiar faces of staff take notice at Krin’s bloody state, faces falling into those of concern and hands grasping at his shoulders and his back.
He remembers bits of floating, or being carried up the stairs by strong arms, armor and red tailed coats. Might have been that he asked where Frances was, if she was safe, but if his broken speech was ever answered he does not recall. His bed is the same plush softness when he is returned to it, sinking deep into the duvet and pillows and finally he is left alone to sleep...
Kirin
son of Khaos
edits for spelling/word typos