literature

Exercise 94 - Night's Embrace

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Literature Text

She rose from bed in an unadorned fashion at the sound of the cathedral bells tolling twice. Her bare feet touched the cold wood floor and a shiver threatened to assault her spine. She suppressed it well enough, her shoulders trembling just the slightest as she reached for the torn cloak she had laid at the edge of the straw-stuffed mattress.

Blue eyes cautiously admired the fabric. Rough fibers brushed under her fingers, frayed edges and budding holes snagging over her hand. It was certainly nothing glorious to behold, but it was her salvation nonetheless; a private sanctuary allowing her to travel without scrutiny, if only for a short while.

She slipped the cloak over her shoulders and stood, tying it by its thin leather cording just below her collarbone. The fabric fell to her calves, protecting her from the winter-clutched night. The large, undecorated hood masked her weary features in a forgiving shadow.

Sliding her feet into a pair of soft-soled boots, she started toward the door of the small room. Though her eyes had adjusted to the darkness - after several hours of lying awake, she could discern every object in the area - she found her sword without looking for it, her hand falling over the blade in its scabbard. She tied it tightly to her belt, tested the weight, and pulled the latch on the door.

The light in the hall had long since burned out, but a soft glow feathered up from the stairs. She approached slowly, descending as carefully as possible, cringing as the loose wooden planks gave a creak. She stopped and observed the ground floor. A few tables with chairs pushed in neatly, a small, closed-off area for less than reputable transactions, and a slim wooden counter in the far west counter. A young man was seated behind it, his sandy blonde hair the only part of his head that was visible, his cheek pressed against the polished wood in slumber. Content that her nightly escape would not be spoiled, the tip of her boots touched the floor and she made her way to the entrance, stepping out into the brisk night.

Violet hues touched fresh snowfall as the moon bathed all manner of stone and wooden structures in a welcoming light. The small stable was near, and a soft nickering from within told her the horses were just as restless as she. Ascending the small ladder to the loft, her hand searched for something plush. She grasped soft fleece and pulled down the bundle, holding it under one arm as she jumped from the second rung. Hooves stamped at the sudden sound and she moved slowly and deliberately to avoid arousing attention.

Her fingers deftly slid the latch from one stall and the dark eyes of a towering white stallion surveyed her actions. He tossed his head, his mane flicking back, and she placed a hand on his snout, throwing a slanted gaze toward him.

She led him with no reins, only a firm touch upon his shoulder. Signaling for him to stop, she unrolled the fleece blanket and spread it atop him, sliding off the wool bedding. A leather strap secured the piece and she used it as a grip to heft herself up, swinging her leg around with the makeshift grace warranted of any knight.

With just enough of a nudge to make her intentions known, the horse started forward, finding its footing on the cobblestone streets, galloping under arches and amid statues, over stone bridges and through dusky alleyways. The massive city gates loomed near, and through it they passed in a flurry of pounding hooves and hearts. As the world seemed to open up, the rough breeze beat against her, tearing at her cloak, ripping her hood back to expose her skin to the biting cold.
Well, I joined a LJ community that has weekly writing prompts for character driven stories, in hopes of spurring my creativity and mainly my motivation on this project. The prompt for this week was:

In the middle of the night

This piece involves Neila.
© 2005 - 2024 sinnedaria
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PaintSlinger's avatar
very well written, with attention to detail, and more importantly to the senses.