Plourr Estillo (
fighting_mad) wrote2006-06-17 09:39 pm
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[OOM] Devotion
It was the middle of the night when Plourr woke suddenly. This was not her bunk it was too big where was her blas--
Oh.
She sat up in the darkness, leaning her head back against the wall. She had been on Eiattu a week now; you'd think she could kriffing remember that. She opened her eyes and methodically untangled herself from the sheets and rolled out of the huge bed. She crossed the stone cold floor, but paused in the doorway and then ducked into the wardrobe, emerging with a short robe. It was hot pink and shimmery, unfortunately, but it would do for getting her down to the palace kitchens and back without causing any coronaries along the way. She pulled it on and belted it at the waist, immediately discovering that, just like most of her title-appropriate clothing, it was too small. Apparently, whoever had stocked the closets had assumed that the heir to the throne was of the same stock that her mothers and sisters had been – namely, delicate.
The reality of a six foot tall princess who could take out a zoneball team had left more than a few courtiers and servants in the palace scrambling.
Rolling the robe’s too-short sleeves up to her elbows, she went out into the dark corridor, fingers curled around the hold-out blaster in her pocket.
Dialogue in italics from Dark Horse Comics' Star Wars: Rogue Squadron: The Warrior Princess.
Oh.
She sat up in the darkness, leaning her head back against the wall. She had been on Eiattu a week now; you'd think she could kriffing remember that. She opened her eyes and methodically untangled herself from the sheets and rolled out of the huge bed. She crossed the stone cold floor, but paused in the doorway and then ducked into the wardrobe, emerging with a short robe. It was hot pink and shimmery, unfortunately, but it would do for getting her down to the palace kitchens and back without causing any coronaries along the way. She pulled it on and belted it at the waist, immediately discovering that, just like most of her title-appropriate clothing, it was too small. Apparently, whoever had stocked the closets had assumed that the heir to the throne was of the same stock that her mothers and sisters had been – namely, delicate.
The reality of a six foot tall princess who could take out a zoneball team had left more than a few courtiers and servants in the palace scrambling.
Rolling the robe’s too-short sleeves up to her elbows, she went out into the dark corridor, fingers curled around the hold-out blaster in her pocket.
Dialogue in italics from Dark Horse Comics' Star Wars: Rogue Squadron: The Warrior Princess.
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It's deserted now; they tell her that the kitchens don't have any human help anymore. Still, she can see signs of the place that she had loved. The tuber bins that she would hide breathlessly in, the impression in the wall where Dysander had pounded his fist after poor little Brigon had dropped the second course, the billions of knife-marks marring the tabletop in the center of the room.
Her bare feet and blaster are currently resting on those white knife-marks. The princess herself is leaning back in a chair, hand steadying a half-drank mug of caf on her hip and robe thrown carelessly over the back of her seat. A small, genuine smile plays across her lips.
Days spent listening to coarse voices and loud laughter and the sounds of chopping; tasting everything offered to her and basking in the warmth.
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The freezing is for several reasons.
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She'd whirled at the footsteps, aiming the weapon even before she'd even finished turning. Her heart sinks as she sees just who the newcomer is, and she slowly lets the hold-out fall to her lap. "Count Pernon."
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Also, it's the princess, which he hadn't been expecting, and she'd looked happy, and-- She is wearing very little in the way of clothing; just tight, small jogging shorts and a similarly sized top.
"You're awake late, Princess," he greets, graciously averting his eyes from the sinfully long stretch of leg up on the table.
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He is pleasantly surprised when she makes a place for him at the table, and he laughs, taking the offered seat. "Noted." He tips the mug to her with a deferential nod of the head. "Thank you, Princess." He takes a sip.
His face is carefully blank.
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He might regret it a little.
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Not that she would mind that.
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He sobers again, holds her gaze as long as she'll let him. "It was a show of strength that this palace hasn't seen the likes of in many years, Princess. You have my gratitude and admiration for it."
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"Noblemen of Eiattu, I see the future of Eiattu as cold, dark and hateful. A future where the good people are poisoned by the hypocrisy of the noble class."
Low murmurs beginning among her audience.
"A poison that has a sweet scent, but is deadly to the taste."
Grand Duke Pernon; Rial's father: "Isplourrdacartha ... please ..."
"Gentlemen, Eiattu will not drink this poison!"
Count Laabann leaping to his feet to argue; her attention is on him, but out of the corner of her eye, she sees Rial rise, glaring fiercely across the table at Laabann, his hand moving to the blaster at his side.
Later, she delivers her ultimatum: stand with the throne or fall. "The choice is yours." She sweeps out of the hall.
Behind her, she hears Rial's voice, "Stand ... or fall," and then there are footsteps following hers.
Plourr's gaze returns to him. "It really wasn't all that. I outrage people on a daily basis." A pause, and she would be highly surprised to realize that her speech patterns are changing to match his. "But you stood with me, my count. It cannot have been easy to speak against your father and his allies. I thank you. "
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Her parents' voices; her sisters', too. Even her brother's. Isplourr this, Isplourr that--
"No," she snaps. She takes a moment to lower her voice. "No, not that. Just Plourr."
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"Maybe you had best choose the topic of conversation, then."
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That's a lie. She's angry that he's sticking to the old traditions, assuming that they're going to be married. She's angry that she is promised to him and no one seems to think she has any choice in the matter. She's angry that he won't stop following her, won't stop believing in her, won't just leave her alone.
She's angry that he's such a good man.
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Uh. It goes without saying that this is not going to be spoken.
She realizes belatedly that she only left Rial's company after dinner an hour or two ago.
"Earlier in the day, I mean," she adds hurriedly. "Naps-- I'm fine, Rial. Talk."
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Rial makes the second pot of caf an hour later, and the third as the sun is beginning to rise.