kawa~ inspiration #130
Jul. 30th, 2006 06:18 pm![[identity profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/openid.png){kind=small}
annarti.livejournal.com posting in ![[community profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/community.png){kind=small}
yrae
Title~ Unique
Author~ Annarti
Disclaimer~ Still mine
Notes~ kawa~ 130. Randomly started thinking about Yan the other night, as you do, and~ this came to mind. Because the guy needs more characterisation. He's not scary enough in SH, so I'm going to have to work this kind of thing in there *nods*
~ ~ ~
Nyan rana yn Yamin.
My name is Yamin. I have met King Yan.
I still do not know how he came to our time myself, but I do know he was dead when he spoke to me. His skin was still as dark as any desert person, his hair still black, though tinged with a few lighter strands, and of course he moved and spoke.
Through all physical appearances, he was alive, but the air around him was cold and dry, dryer even than the desert in which we live. There was something stale about the air around him, something dead. Were it not for the chill at the back of my neck, I should imagine standing beside him would be like standing next to Aeia. Aeia at least has the warmth of the desert glowing from her skin, giving us some comfort in death. King Yan, on the other hand, is just cold, dry, and dead.
When he knelt down to speak to me, I could see the scar that King Qewir had given him. A pale ridge running from the left side of his brow, down almost to the corner of his mouth. Even his eyelid had the scar, but his left eye was as clear and intelligent as his right. The scar twisted frightfully when he smiled or spoke.
Even his voice was dry, scorched by I can’t say how many decades of harsh desert wind. Centuries, even. Somehow, such a thing would not surprise me. When he spoke, it was as though his throat was like sandpaper. After so long in the desert, the sand had stuck to the inside of his throat, making his voice dry and sandy, but still just as commanding and powerful as it must have been when he ruled.
He wore plain clothes, not at all befitting of a king, fallen or no. A simple, sandy-coloured shirt covered his bony torso. Over his impossibly long legs, a pair of darker brown trousers, held up with a brown leather belt with a plain brass buckle, polished smooth and glinting in the sunlight with that faint, sickly greenish tinge brass seems to have.
At his waist was the only sign of any past wealth—a sword sheathed in a leather scabbard, with a highly polished yrae on the pommel, moulded from silver. He only drew the sword once—to slit the throats of my parents, calmly wipe it clean on a white cloth in his pocket with the nonchalance of a man who does this kind of thing often, then slide it back home again. He seemed to pay it no mind after that, but I could barely take my eyes off of it.
Being as short as I was at the time, I remember his heavy black boots quite distinctly. They were dusty around the toes, very strong, well-made boots. Of course I had no idea back then, but now I can recognise them easily as the boots worn by the Raykinian army. Black, Raykinian army boots. I think even those unfamiliar with the army uniforms know that only two men wear boots like those—the First General, and the General of the King’s Own.
Now, I have checked, and I know that none of the First Generals nor Own Generals have died in office over the past century, save for one. Thirty years ago, the First General died in the palace healing house of an unidentified disease. He was a desert man, and had a scar over his left eye.
My name is Yamin. I have met King Yan, but somehow, I don’t think I’m the only one in the last four thousand years who has.
Author~ Annarti
Disclaimer~ Still mine
Notes~ kawa~ 130. Randomly started thinking about Yan the other night, as you do, and~ this came to mind. Because the guy needs more characterisation. He's not scary enough in SH, so I'm going to have to work this kind of thing in there *nods*
Nyan rana yn Yamin.
My name is Yamin. I have met King Yan.
I still do not know how he came to our time myself, but I do know he was dead when he spoke to me. His skin was still as dark as any desert person, his hair still black, though tinged with a few lighter strands, and of course he moved and spoke.
Through all physical appearances, he was alive, but the air around him was cold and dry, dryer even than the desert in which we live. There was something stale about the air around him, something dead. Were it not for the chill at the back of my neck, I should imagine standing beside him would be like standing next to Aeia. Aeia at least has the warmth of the desert glowing from her skin, giving us some comfort in death. King Yan, on the other hand, is just cold, dry, and dead.
When he knelt down to speak to me, I could see the scar that King Qewir had given him. A pale ridge running from the left side of his brow, down almost to the corner of his mouth. Even his eyelid had the scar, but his left eye was as clear and intelligent as his right. The scar twisted frightfully when he smiled or spoke.
Even his voice was dry, scorched by I can’t say how many decades of harsh desert wind. Centuries, even. Somehow, such a thing would not surprise me. When he spoke, it was as though his throat was like sandpaper. After so long in the desert, the sand had stuck to the inside of his throat, making his voice dry and sandy, but still just as commanding and powerful as it must have been when he ruled.
He wore plain clothes, not at all befitting of a king, fallen or no. A simple, sandy-coloured shirt covered his bony torso. Over his impossibly long legs, a pair of darker brown trousers, held up with a brown leather belt with a plain brass buckle, polished smooth and glinting in the sunlight with that faint, sickly greenish tinge brass seems to have.
At his waist was the only sign of any past wealth—a sword sheathed in a leather scabbard, with a highly polished yrae on the pommel, moulded from silver. He only drew the sword once—to slit the throats of my parents, calmly wipe it clean on a white cloth in his pocket with the nonchalance of a man who does this kind of thing often, then slide it back home again. He seemed to pay it no mind after that, but I could barely take my eyes off of it.
Being as short as I was at the time, I remember his heavy black boots quite distinctly. They were dusty around the toes, very strong, well-made boots. Of course I had no idea back then, but now I can recognise them easily as the boots worn by the Raykinian army. Black, Raykinian army boots. I think even those unfamiliar with the army uniforms know that only two men wear boots like those—the First General, and the General of the King’s Own.
Now, I have checked, and I know that none of the First Generals nor Own Generals have died in office over the past century, save for one. Thirty years ago, the First General died in the palace healing house of an unidentified disease. He was a desert man, and had a scar over his left eye.
My name is Yamin. I have met King Yan, but somehow, I don’t think I’m the only one in the last four thousand years who has.
no subject
Date: 2006-07-30 11:03 am (UTC)Poor girls, having seen the Yanner.
no subject
Date: 2006-07-31 04:45 am (UTC)