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Santa Claus has got a~ new truck~
I hope everyone had a good holiday! Mine was surprisingly fun. Got some fun scarves, a back massager, and my own PS2 holy crap. Also spent it with some very nice company in a very quiet little family party. Which are the best ones when done right. Also, recieved via ![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-community.gif)
yuletide: this pretty awesome gem of a fic. Raising Morgan. Which is pretty much the Howl's Moving Castle fic I've been dying to read for ages.
Also, in keeping with a general fluffy feel (if lacking a bit in snow) have some more FFXII ficlets. This time the cutetragic marrieds:
Her full name was Ashelia B’nargin Dalmasca, and its pronunciation was thoroughly butchered on the accents of the many nu mou advisors that ever flocked the counsel rooms in the Verdpale Palace. She did not know why they always had to say it in full. It wasn’t as though she was ever part of the discussion, and it wasn’t as though she was called that among her father’s wives, or by her eldest brother, or even the knights who had accompanied them on the diplomatic trip that had gone on for several months now. She was the Lady Ashe to all who knew her, to all who loved her, and to all whom had chased her through palace halls as a child. The name Ashelia belonged to a queen, and surely she was never to be that, ninth behind a well insured army of sons. Yet here she was in a land so green it hurt her eyes, weighing that name for all it would one day be worth. Queen Ashelia. Queen Ashelia of Nabradia. It didn’t sound all bad. It didn’t sound all like her either. She would miss the Lady Ashe. She would miss the other one, too. Amalia. Little Amalia, out of Amala; the woman whose Bhujerban practicality and previous marriage to a tradesman had launched her on a great series of unintended offenses against the other royal wives, each a larger outrage than the last, until she done the greatest service she could do, by giving them the little daughter they’d always wished to dote upon. The wives of Raminas called the girl Amalia: too often swimming in the fountains to be the graceful Lady Ashe, too often making faces to be yet as grand as Ashelia. It was part a gentling towards the youngest wife, part apology, and part memoriam, after the plague had claimed her, as it had so many others the year it came… then with that name, so many others. Little sandstorm, desert bud, little love, beloved...
There were many. Calling them all to mind made her head hurt.
“And what will you call me?” she asked, because she had to, and because her prince had come to keep company beside her on the balcony, overlooking the northern section of the lake and the horizon of this strange mossy country that was to one day be her own. He was good at that. Standing quietly, looking intent, though gazing out at nothing in particular. Nu mou scholars stumbled over Dalmascan pronunciation and spoke for a very long periods of time. They had been his tutors.
Rasler blinked. “My lady?”
“Yes,” said Ashe. “I believe that will do.” He looked so baffled that she covered her mouth and laughed, and though he pressed ever so earnestly, she could not be persuaded to tell him why.
He found her in her chambers. Asleep, and lovely for it. He leaned over her, intent upon kissing her awake. It seemed the playful, princely thing to do. She jolted out of her light doze when he drew near. Her forehead caught him in the nose. Half a bottle of potion and a ruined handkerchief later, they sat side by side. Her hand laid over the back of his shoulder, and his firmly clasping the cloth to his injured face.
"My lady seeks to end me," he breathed, in a nasally wonderment.
"You've not had practice with kissing unconscious maidens, have you?"
"Not so much," he scrunched his eyes closed, "Also, you have a startlingly hard head."
"Dalmascan steel," she said, not without some pride.
yuletide: this pretty awesome gem of a fic. Raising Morgan. Which is pretty much the Howl's Moving Castle fic I've been dying to read for ages. Also, in keeping with a general fluffy feel (if lacking a bit in snow) have some more FFXII ficlets. This time the cute
Her full name was Ashelia B’nargin Dalmasca, and its pronunciation was thoroughly butchered on the accents of the many nu mou advisors that ever flocked the counsel rooms in the Verdpale Palace. She did not know why they always had to say it in full. It wasn’t as though she was ever part of the discussion, and it wasn’t as though she was called that among her father’s wives, or by her eldest brother, or even the knights who had accompanied them on the diplomatic trip that had gone on for several months now. She was the Lady Ashe to all who knew her, to all who loved her, and to all whom had chased her through palace halls as a child. The name Ashelia belonged to a queen, and surely she was never to be that, ninth behind a well insured army of sons. Yet here she was in a land so green it hurt her eyes, weighing that name for all it would one day be worth. Queen Ashelia. Queen Ashelia of Nabradia. It didn’t sound all bad. It didn’t sound all like her either. She would miss the Lady Ashe. She would miss the other one, too. Amalia. Little Amalia, out of Amala; the woman whose Bhujerban practicality and previous marriage to a tradesman had launched her on a great series of unintended offenses against the other royal wives, each a larger outrage than the last, until she done the greatest service she could do, by giving them the little daughter they’d always wished to dote upon. The wives of Raminas called the girl Amalia: too often swimming in the fountains to be the graceful Lady Ashe, too often making faces to be yet as grand as Ashelia. It was part a gentling towards the youngest wife, part apology, and part memoriam, after the plague had claimed her, as it had so many others the year it came… then with that name, so many others. Little sandstorm, desert bud, little love, beloved...
There were many. Calling them all to mind made her head hurt.
“And what will you call me?” she asked, because she had to, and because her prince had come to keep company beside her on the balcony, overlooking the northern section of the lake and the horizon of this strange mossy country that was to one day be her own. He was good at that. Standing quietly, looking intent, though gazing out at nothing in particular. Nu mou scholars stumbled over Dalmascan pronunciation and spoke for a very long periods of time. They had been his tutors.
Rasler blinked. “My lady?”
“Yes,” said Ashe. “I believe that will do.” He looked so baffled that she covered her mouth and laughed, and though he pressed ever so earnestly, she could not be persuaded to tell him why.
He found her in her chambers. Asleep, and lovely for it. He leaned over her, intent upon kissing her awake. It seemed the playful, princely thing to do. She jolted out of her light doze when he drew near. Her forehead caught him in the nose. Half a bottle of potion and a ruined handkerchief later, they sat side by side. Her hand laid over the back of his shoulder, and his firmly clasping the cloth to his injured face.
"My lady seeks to end me," he breathed, in a nasally wonderment.
"You've not had practice with kissing unconscious maidens, have you?"
"Not so much," he scrunched his eyes closed, "Also, you have a startlingly hard head."
"Dalmascan steel," she said, not without some pride.
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Your fics are like extensions of what we're given in the game; they always seem to fit perfectly.