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Aug. 22nd, 2006 09:53 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
maderrSo do professional writers get told the secret of how to write what they *should* be writing and not guility working on someting else?
It's Sandstorm-verse (harem-verse, if you prefer ^_~). But! ZOMG it will be het!
You will have to tell me if I should continue or not. This is just a rough for the firs three pages. Want to skeleton before I fill in more details.
“Fine wine! The finest! Are you seeking wine, good gentleman?”
Ikram turned his head away before the wine merchant could see him rolling his eyes. It never paid to be rude to anyone with good to sell – even the lowliest rag merchant. When shopping in the ‘greatest market in the world’ it never paid to mistreat any of the merchants and shopkeeps.
Even the ones that deserved it.
He hated the market. It was noisy, chaotic, and eerily reminiscent of the battles he had left behind in the Desert seven years ago. Sometimes, however, there was nowhere else to go. Ikram slowed as he drew near the stall he wanted, stopping several down so as not to appear eager.
Anyone who didn’t believe merchants were the most evil things ever placed in the world had never shopped a day in his life. Lady give him a battle with Scorpions any day. He examined a table neatly arrayed with perfume bottles without interest, ignoring the look the stall merchant was giving him, then gradually moved on to the next booth, this one selling soaps – most of which were more cloying than the perfumes, or maybe the merchants were simply too close together.
“Little thief!” Someone behind him snarled. Ikram didn’t bother to turn around.
Until he heard the woman cry out in pain, obviously terrified.
“Theif!”
Dropping the soap he’d been sniffing, Ikram whirled around just in time to catch the woman thrown in his direction. Even as he glared at the man who’d assaulted her, he could feel how small she was. Slender, bony and delicate, like a bird. “Is that any way to treat a lady, good sir?”
“Tramp and thief!” The merchant, fat and red-faced, glaring mutinously at the woman trying hard to shake in Ikram’s arms.
“I didn’t,” she whispered, turning to look up at Ikram. “I dropped it, and bent to pick it up. He says I took it, but I didn’t, I swear.”
Ikram tried hard not to stare at the face staring up at him from the folds of an old, well-worn headcover. It was pale green, only bringing out the stunning green of her eyes. Her skin was pale, nearly white, and what he could see of her hair was a deep red, as rich as rubies. Finally tearing his eyes away, he looked again at the merchant. “The woman says she is no thief. What proof do you have to say otherwise?”
“She is always stopping by my stall,” the man said contemptuously, motioning to the jeweled hairpins and other ornaments carefully spread out on velvet. “Never does she buy. Of course she is too poor, and heathen, so naturally she finally decided to steal.”
“I didn’t,” the woman said, twitching, fighting to remain calm. “Someone bumped into me and I dropped it. It’s right here! Please!”
Ikram gently took it from her fingers – the object being a silver hairpin decorated with a flower made from opals with peridot for leaves. Reluctantly letting go of the small woman, half-afraid she would slip away, he held it out to the merchant.
Whose eyes went wide upon seeing the heavy gold signet on Ikram’s right hand. “My Lord. Thank you for interfering.”
“Apologize to the lady,” Ikram said, starring him in the eyes until the merchant dropped his gaze. “You have no proof she stole anything, and until you have such proof she does not deserve the way you’ve treated her.”
“I owe her nothing,” the merchant replied curtly. “If she cannot buy, she should not touch.” He turned away to beckon forward a waiting customer.
Ikram rolled his eyes, making sure the man saw him, and turned back to the woman. “I apologize on his behalf.”
The woman shook her head. “He’s always that way. Thank you, my lord, for your help. I am sorry to have caused such a stir.” Her eyes flicked briefly back to the stall, a brief moment of longing passing over her face, but it was gone in the next moment.”
“Might I beg the honor of your name, my lady?”
“I am hardly deserving of ‘my lady,’ my lord, but I thank you. My name is Valerie.”
Ikram nodded. “I am Ikram—“ he cut himself off before he could go further. Even after more than a decade in Tavamara, he still tried to use the Desert form of address, giving his father, Tribe, and the Lady along with his given name. “A servant in the royal palace,” he finished awkwardly.
“Again, I thank you,” Valerie said, smiling, the expression making her even more beautiful.
He hesitated, too long out of such games to be certain he should be trying to get back into them. “Are you busy, my lady? Would you have time for a cup of tea? A bit of wine?”
“Oh…” Valerie blinked at him, clearly surprised, then stumbled forward as she was jostled, the milling crowd caring not a bit for either of them not that the spectacle was over. She stopped just short of crashing into Ikram. “I…that would be nice…I can’t stay long…”
“Nor I,” Ikram said with a smile. Offering his arm, he made certain her fine-boned, so fragile-seeming hand was securely tucked into the crook of his arm and then began to fight his way through the crowds, releasing an aggravated sigh as he finally reached his favorite teashop. “What is your pleasure, my lady?”
“I—tea is fine.” Obviously nervous, Valerie slowly began to unwind the scarf around her head, setting it neatly around her shoulders.
Ikram tried not to stare.
Her hair really was the color of dark rubies, straight and long. Never, even in all his years in Tavamara, had he seen hair like that. Beautiful, especially set against that pale skin and combined with the green eyes…He finally regained his senses when the waiter appeared, and frowned as he considered. “Have you preference in wine, my lady?” Only then did he recall she’d said tea. Or had she?
Ikram fought a sigh and wondered where his wits had gone.
No doubt lying somewhere on the ground being trampled to death by the citizens of Tavamara. Or perhaps in the fine hands of the woman seated across from him. If she’d stolen anything today, it was his sense. Thirty-one years old and he was acting like he was eighteen again.
Valerie laughed lightly. “I fear, my lord, that I will never master the Tavamaran art of wine. I will take whatever you recommend.”
“As you wish,” Ikram said, returning the lovely smile. He turned to the waiter. “A half-carafe of Summer Roses, a tray of sweets to match.”
The waiter bowed and vanished.
It's Sandstorm-verse (harem-verse, if you prefer ^_~). But! ZOMG it will be het!
You will have to tell me if I should continue or not. This is just a rough for the firs three pages. Want to skeleton before I fill in more details.
Everything You Need
“Fine wine! The finest! Are you seeking wine, good gentleman?”
Ikram turned his head away before the wine merchant could see him rolling his eyes. It never paid to be rude to anyone with good to sell – even the lowliest rag merchant. When shopping in the ‘greatest market in the world’ it never paid to mistreat any of the merchants and shopkeeps.
Even the ones that deserved it.
He hated the market. It was noisy, chaotic, and eerily reminiscent of the battles he had left behind in the Desert seven years ago. Sometimes, however, there was nowhere else to go. Ikram slowed as he drew near the stall he wanted, stopping several down so as not to appear eager.
Anyone who didn’t believe merchants were the most evil things ever placed in the world had never shopped a day in his life. Lady give him a battle with Scorpions any day. He examined a table neatly arrayed with perfume bottles without interest, ignoring the look the stall merchant was giving him, then gradually moved on to the next booth, this one selling soaps – most of which were more cloying than the perfumes, or maybe the merchants were simply too close together.
“Little thief!” Someone behind him snarled. Ikram didn’t bother to turn around.
Until he heard the woman cry out in pain, obviously terrified.
“Theif!”
Dropping the soap he’d been sniffing, Ikram whirled around just in time to catch the woman thrown in his direction. Even as he glared at the man who’d assaulted her, he could feel how small she was. Slender, bony and delicate, like a bird. “Is that any way to treat a lady, good sir?”
“Tramp and thief!” The merchant, fat and red-faced, glaring mutinously at the woman trying hard to shake in Ikram’s arms.
“I didn’t,” she whispered, turning to look up at Ikram. “I dropped it, and bent to pick it up. He says I took it, but I didn’t, I swear.”
Ikram tried hard not to stare at the face staring up at him from the folds of an old, well-worn headcover. It was pale green, only bringing out the stunning green of her eyes. Her skin was pale, nearly white, and what he could see of her hair was a deep red, as rich as rubies. Finally tearing his eyes away, he looked again at the merchant. “The woman says she is no thief. What proof do you have to say otherwise?”
“She is always stopping by my stall,” the man said contemptuously, motioning to the jeweled hairpins and other ornaments carefully spread out on velvet. “Never does she buy. Of course she is too poor, and heathen, so naturally she finally decided to steal.”
“I didn’t,” the woman said, twitching, fighting to remain calm. “Someone bumped into me and I dropped it. It’s right here! Please!”
Ikram gently took it from her fingers – the object being a silver hairpin decorated with a flower made from opals with peridot for leaves. Reluctantly letting go of the small woman, half-afraid she would slip away, he held it out to the merchant.
Whose eyes went wide upon seeing the heavy gold signet on Ikram’s right hand. “My Lord. Thank you for interfering.”
“Apologize to the lady,” Ikram said, starring him in the eyes until the merchant dropped his gaze. “You have no proof she stole anything, and until you have such proof she does not deserve the way you’ve treated her.”
“I owe her nothing,” the merchant replied curtly. “If she cannot buy, she should not touch.” He turned away to beckon forward a waiting customer.
Ikram rolled his eyes, making sure the man saw him, and turned back to the woman. “I apologize on his behalf.”
The woman shook her head. “He’s always that way. Thank you, my lord, for your help. I am sorry to have caused such a stir.” Her eyes flicked briefly back to the stall, a brief moment of longing passing over her face, but it was gone in the next moment.”
“Might I beg the honor of your name, my lady?”
“I am hardly deserving of ‘my lady,’ my lord, but I thank you. My name is Valerie.”
Ikram nodded. “I am Ikram—“ he cut himself off before he could go further. Even after more than a decade in Tavamara, he still tried to use the Desert form of address, giving his father, Tribe, and the Lady along with his given name. “A servant in the royal palace,” he finished awkwardly.
“Again, I thank you,” Valerie said, smiling, the expression making her even more beautiful.
He hesitated, too long out of such games to be certain he should be trying to get back into them. “Are you busy, my lady? Would you have time for a cup of tea? A bit of wine?”
“Oh…” Valerie blinked at him, clearly surprised, then stumbled forward as she was jostled, the milling crowd caring not a bit for either of them not that the spectacle was over. She stopped just short of crashing into Ikram. “I…that would be nice…I can’t stay long…”
“Nor I,” Ikram said with a smile. Offering his arm, he made certain her fine-boned, so fragile-seeming hand was securely tucked into the crook of his arm and then began to fight his way through the crowds, releasing an aggravated sigh as he finally reached his favorite teashop. “What is your pleasure, my lady?”
“I—tea is fine.” Obviously nervous, Valerie slowly began to unwind the scarf around her head, setting it neatly around her shoulders.
Ikram tried not to stare.
Her hair really was the color of dark rubies, straight and long. Never, even in all his years in Tavamara, had he seen hair like that. Beautiful, especially set against that pale skin and combined with the green eyes…He finally regained his senses when the waiter appeared, and frowned as he considered. “Have you preference in wine, my lady?” Only then did he recall she’d said tea. Or had she?
Ikram fought a sigh and wondered where his wits had gone.
No doubt lying somewhere on the ground being trampled to death by the citizens of Tavamara. Or perhaps in the fine hands of the woman seated across from him. If she’d stolen anything today, it was his sense. Thirty-one years old and he was acting like he was eighteen again.
Valerie laughed lightly. “I fear, my lord, that I will never master the Tavamaran art of wine. I will take whatever you recommend.”
“As you wish,” Ikram said, returning the lovely smile. He turned to the waiter. “A half-carafe of Summer Roses, a tray of sweets to match.”
The waiter bowed and vanished.
