Plourr Estillo (![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
fighting_mad) wrote2006-06-07 08:00 pm
fighting_mad) wrote2006-06-07 08:00 pm
[OOM] Trepidation
Plourr stood in the shadows, looking out over the Great Hall below. The crown of the building soared high above her head—you could fit at least two squadrons of X-wings in here, maybe two and a half, she noted—with more walkways and balconies winding nearly to the ceiling. There were no sharp lines to be found in all of the Hall; just rounded edges and graceful curves and she would feel so much better if only one or two things were delineated. The royal seal of Eiattu took up half the floor, coiling and twisting into the familiar red pattern that caused a sour pang in the back of her throat.
Two staircases curved to the floor from this level; fairly innocuous, as far as Eiattu architecture went. The royal steps began on a walkway three above her; those stairs were ceremonial and pure white and beautiful— and Plourr couldn’t stand them.
She breathed quietly in the darkness, listening to her jewelry softly tink.
Pillars and columns stood tall and graceful, grand arched doorways dotted the Hall, and the windows at the ceiling showed a lovely view of the orange Eiattu sky, and none of that was what was bothering her.
There were people everywhere. Young, old, somewhere in between, ageless; the ground floor was a veritable sea of feathers and headdresses and gowns in every color of the spectrum; dress robes and long hair and turbans and impractical shoes walking all over her family’s coat of arms. They were human, for the most part, and they were rich. These were the crème de la crème of the palace elite. They were the nobles; the Priamsta and their wives and their mistresses. They were the few royal-related families who were allowed to escape the genocide.
And they were all waiting for her. For the princess.
Plourr took a deep breath, set her shoulders, raised her chin, and stepped out of the shadows.
Two staircases curved to the floor from this level; fairly innocuous, as far as Eiattu architecture went. The royal steps began on a walkway three above her; those stairs were ceremonial and pure white and beautiful— and Plourr couldn’t stand them.
She breathed quietly in the darkness, listening to her jewelry softly tink.
Pillars and columns stood tall and graceful, grand arched doorways dotted the Hall, and the windows at the ceiling showed a lovely view of the orange Eiattu sky, and none of that was what was bothering her.
There were people everywhere. Young, old, somewhere in between, ageless; the ground floor was a veritable sea of feathers and headdresses and gowns in every color of the spectrum; dress robes and long hair and turbans and impractical shoes walking all over her family’s coat of arms. They were human, for the most part, and they were rich. These were the crème de la crème of the palace elite. They were the nobles; the Priamsta and their wives and their mistresses. They were the few royal-related families who were allowed to escape the genocide.
And they were all waiting for her. For the princess.
Plourr took a deep breath, set her shoulders, raised her chin, and stepped out of the shadows.