15min fic #42
Sep. 23rd, 2004 04:54 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~ Peasant Prince
Author~ Annarti
Disclaimer~ Nol is mine~ so there >3
Notes~ 15 minute fic, word 42. Takes place just before You Won't be Mine. And~ stuff.
~ ~ ~
Nolryn stared critically at his reflection in the mirror, fingering at his dagger hilt in contemplation. His disguise was riding on the fact that he never went south of the Main Road, so hopefully nobody would recognise him.
It had taken much sifting through wardrobes and clothes boxes, but he had managed to find the only shirt and pants combination he owned that didn’t somehow mark him as royalty. Everything else had the blue swirls and red dots, however small, that would immediately alert even the least observant peasant as to who he was.
He had even parted his hair to the opposite side, and mussed it with a handful of sand, much to his distaste.
He raked his fingers through dusty hair, grimacing as they came away stained the rusty red of Raykinian sand, then frowned again at his reflection. It was too artificial. Something still made him look more like royalty in disguise than the average peasant. For all the dust, he still looked—and smelt—too clean.
“This is ridiculous,” he mumbled, unsheathing his dagger and examining its shimmering blade. If he left it behind, then doubtless he’d need it. If he took it, then the steel’s gleam would contrast sharply with the dull, tarnished iron of the peasants’ blades. His fingers ran along the leather-bound hilt. Even that was considerably better-made than the average dagger carried by the common folk.
The prince sighed and shoved the dagger back into its sheath. “If I’m recognised because of the dagger, they should damned well think the better of crossing it.”
Author~ Annarti
Disclaimer~ Nol is mine~ so there >3
Notes~ 15 minute fic, word 42. Takes place just before You Won't be Mine. And~ stuff.
Nolryn stared critically at his reflection in the mirror, fingering at his dagger hilt in contemplation. His disguise was riding on the fact that he never went south of the Main Road, so hopefully nobody would recognise him.
It had taken much sifting through wardrobes and clothes boxes, but he had managed to find the only shirt and pants combination he owned that didn’t somehow mark him as royalty. Everything else had the blue swirls and red dots, however small, that would immediately alert even the least observant peasant as to who he was.
He had even parted his hair to the opposite side, and mussed it with a handful of sand, much to his distaste.
He raked his fingers through dusty hair, grimacing as they came away stained the rusty red of Raykinian sand, then frowned again at his reflection. It was too artificial. Something still made him look more like royalty in disguise than the average peasant. For all the dust, he still looked—and smelt—too clean.
“This is ridiculous,” he mumbled, unsheathing his dagger and examining its shimmering blade. If he left it behind, then doubtless he’d need it. If he took it, then the steel’s gleam would contrast sharply with the dull, tarnished iron of the peasants’ blades. His fingers ran along the leather-bound hilt. Even that was considerably better-made than the average dagger carried by the common folk.
The prince sighed and shoved the dagger back into its sheath. “If I’m recognised because of the dagger, they should damned well think the better of crossing it.”