Fall 90th, 511 AV
Her eyes narrowed as water splashed onto her dress from over the rim of the Ravosala. She would have cursed the mother of the driver of the low boat, but there was none. In fact, there was no one else in the beautiful city but she, apparently, and she felt angry with that. She needed someone to curse at, someone to belittle and mock, someone to stab? talk to even. She didn’t like Ravok without the drunken laughter, the excited shouts, the pained screeching of some unseen torment.
Goshawk liked the screaming most in particular. There was no fun in the screams of sexual delights, nor in the screams of birthing new life. There was something to be had, some small treasure, in the shrieking on the damned, though, that really made her skin tingle and her eyes glitter and your heart race.
Narrowing her black eyes, Goshawk ordered the Ravosala to stop in her coldest voice to date. It did, in the middle of a canal in front of the Vitrax, and necessitated that she rise and jump out or risk being stranded until the boat decided it wanted to move again. She was impatient, and had no desire to wait, and so she stood, lifting the hem of her skirt high on her legs, and prepared to jump. That was when the thrice accursed boat decided it would like to capsize and began an alarmingly quick rate of sinking. It was in fear of drowing that Goshawk jumped for the wooden planking, slipping and half submerging in the water, crushing the air out of her chest when it struck the wood and leaving her gasping.
The boat sunk with a gurgle and Goshawk growled to herself, wrathful at the stupidity of all this, before beginning to sluggishly try to pull herself up out of the water. For some reason, her dress had grown unerringly heavy you’re just fat and caused her to start a steady sinking. It was growing difficult to fight the tug of a water-laden dress, but Goshawk didn’t know what to do. The city was quiet, no one was there to help her or laugh at her. There wasn’t even a driver to a Ravosala to save her again like one had once before.
Now, she was going to drown alone in Rhysol’s Ravok and, if she could, haunt every poor mongrel soul that passed the Vitrax as menacingly as she knew how.
Her eyes narrowed as water splashed onto her dress from over the rim of the Ravosala. She would have cursed the mother of the driver of the low boat, but there was none. In fact, there was no one else in the beautiful city but she, apparently, and she felt angry with that. She needed someone to curse at, someone to belittle and mock, someone to stab? talk to even. She didn’t like Ravok without the drunken laughter, the excited shouts, the pained screeching of some unseen torment.
Goshawk liked the screaming most in particular. There was no fun in the screams of sexual delights, nor in the screams of birthing new life. There was something to be had, some small treasure, in the shrieking on the damned, though, that really made her skin tingle and her eyes glitter and your heart race.
Narrowing her black eyes, Goshawk ordered the Ravosala to stop in her coldest voice to date. It did, in the middle of a canal in front of the Vitrax, and necessitated that she rise and jump out or risk being stranded until the boat decided it wanted to move again. She was impatient, and had no desire to wait, and so she stood, lifting the hem of her skirt high on her legs, and prepared to jump. That was when the thrice accursed boat decided it would like to capsize and began an alarmingly quick rate of sinking. It was in fear of drowing that Goshawk jumped for the wooden planking, slipping and half submerging in the water, crushing the air out of her chest when it struck the wood and leaving her gasping.
The boat sunk with a gurgle and Goshawk growled to herself, wrathful at the stupidity of all this, before beginning to sluggishly try to pull herself up out of the water. For some reason, her dress had grown unerringly heavy you’re just fat and caused her to start a steady sinking. It was growing difficult to fight the tug of a water-laden dress, but Goshawk didn’t know what to do. The city was quiet, no one was there to help her or laugh at her. There wasn’t even a driver to a Ravosala to save her again like one had once before.
Now, she was going to drown alone in Rhysol’s Ravok and, if she could, haunt every poor mongrel soul that passed the Vitrax as menacingly as she knew how.
