Post by Oriel nó Cereus (D) on Mar 31, 2007 1:50:52 GMT -5
Oriel threw back the hood of her heavy scarlet mantle, emerging into the strange dark crispness of the book keeper's world. The scents of leather and dust reminded her distantly of her childhood, though she had only recently learned to read. It was her father who had moved through the artist's elusive circles and learned their secret words - he had deployed them to Oriel on dreamy nights when he could think of nothing to paint.
It was a staple of her Cereus blood that she had simply listened and not thought of ever picking up a book herself until her training demanded it. Pretty or not, illiterate was not a quality the elite liked to mingle with.
Indeed, pretty or not, Oriel hadn't been the most devout of Naamah's patrons. Thus, her venture onto Night's Doorstep. The city was turning into a volatlie companion, and she felt it was time to get reacquainted.
And how charming to begin among books! Her soft white hands were meant to hold the gentle and lovely of Elua's creations -- flitting over the gilt threaded trim and fragile parchment, she fancied herself like any anonymously beautiful scion of Elua, neither whore nor peer but a simple woman. She was enjoying words written to all mortals, whether they chose to read them upright or lying on their backs!
But how to choose? Oriel walked the muffled corridors of books, her hands climbed their spines like old patrons (she had never had a lover, only patrons). The heavy air was drowsy and thick. It made her want to sit and read them all, instead of having to choose a single one to drag back into the contemporary world.
And she could have bought more, she scolded, if she had been a more compliant servant! She permitted herself a sigh, and finally managed to choose a volume - a slender, tightly bound thing about a a man who falls in love with a gifted music composer (hilarity undoubtedly would ensue as the two men tried to tease out eachother's real idenities; they were both unwitting patrons of Naamah!).
The man at the till (Armande? she wondered idly) peeked an eyebrow at her choice. Oriel simply smiled her docile, Cereus smile and left - did he think whores composed sonnets or great philosphies in their heads whilst fucking? Certainly not! She had enough to think about already without adding something profound to her load.
(Pun intended? She thought not.)
Contented, Oriel drew her mantle about her once more and went slowly down the lane. Once she had thoroughly scowered a chapter - or two - then it would be time to reacquaint herself with Naamah!
It was a staple of her Cereus blood that she had simply listened and not thought of ever picking up a book herself until her training demanded it. Pretty or not, illiterate was not a quality the elite liked to mingle with.
Indeed, pretty or not, Oriel hadn't been the most devout of Naamah's patrons. Thus, her venture onto Night's Doorstep. The city was turning into a volatlie companion, and she felt it was time to get reacquainted.
And how charming to begin among books! Her soft white hands were meant to hold the gentle and lovely of Elua's creations -- flitting over the gilt threaded trim and fragile parchment, she fancied herself like any anonymously beautiful scion of Elua, neither whore nor peer but a simple woman. She was enjoying words written to all mortals, whether they chose to read them upright or lying on their backs!
But how to choose? Oriel walked the muffled corridors of books, her hands climbed their spines like old patrons (she had never had a lover, only patrons). The heavy air was drowsy and thick. It made her want to sit and read them all, instead of having to choose a single one to drag back into the contemporary world.
And she could have bought more, she scolded, if she had been a more compliant servant! She permitted herself a sigh, and finally managed to choose a volume - a slender, tightly bound thing about a a man who falls in love with a gifted music composer (hilarity undoubtedly would ensue as the two men tried to tease out eachother's real idenities; they were both unwitting patrons of Naamah!).
The man at the till (Armande? she wondered idly) peeked an eyebrow at her choice. Oriel simply smiled her docile, Cereus smile and left - did he think whores composed sonnets or great philosphies in their heads whilst fucking? Certainly not! She had enough to think about already without adding something profound to her load.
(Pun intended? She thought not.)
Contented, Oriel drew her mantle about her once more and went slowly down the lane. Once she had thoroughly scowered a chapter - or two - then it would be time to reacquaint herself with Naamah!