Sophie quickly learned that there was something strange about the city that had been built up at the base of the mountain where the academy resided. People there considered the students of the dance school as popular as celebrities. She couldn't go a day without hearing how street teams would put up posters of their favorite dancers, rip down or vandalize the posters of others, or even pick fights with rivaling street teams.
So far, it seemed mostly to be the upperclassmen, who had been around long enough to attract the attention of the clubs. Though, the last time Sophie went into the city to get to work, she saw several posters of herself in her leotard and legwarmers in the middle of a pirouette turn. There photoshop job to set her on a background of stars had been very well done, but she had stopped her car and took them down anyway. It made her feel nauseated to think of people getting into brawls on the street or in bars about her.
It was flattering, but not in the way she could appreciate.
Tuesday, November 29, 2011
Sunday, November 20, 2011
Being Straight
Sophitia was a ballerina. She was built like a ballerina, tall, slender, with trim muscles on her legs and a strong, but soft look about her posture. What made her better than the average girl hoping to become a beautiful ballerina, was that she could heard music in her head. It wasn't the same as hearing a song and it was stuck in her mental ear for the next three days. Rarely was the music in Sophitia's head something she had heard on the radio or being sung badly by the Cinderella Club between classes, and she liked it that way. This gave her the peculiar talent of finding the enjoyment and seeing a dance in anything that had even the slightest musical quality, as long as it had that musical flare in the first place.
Speaking to a beat was not a musical quality, and so Sophitia was grateful that her brain symphony decided to never play her rap. She had been pretty amazed when it decided to translate her favorite video game music into the full works of an orchestral epic though. That was a year ago, senior year of high school, when Sophitia was taking her auditions to get into Pennington Dance Academy.
Now, Sophitia sat in the cafeteria of the academy's castle, based entirely on the layout of Neuschwanstein Castle in Germany. It was the great dining hall, made more modern with comfortable booth seating that could be removed to offer a Great Hall for the many dances that the academy held every week. She was eating something the cook, Daniel, came up with during a streak of inspiration - three lamb meatballs resting on a bed of pine-nut rice pilaf with a cherry-wine rosemary sauce. It sounded disgusting to Sophitia, but she had been the only one in the student body to be brave enough to give it a go.
It wasn't bad.
It wasn't Winter of Vivaldi's Four Seasons, but it was a rather pleasing combination of warm strings and a single high piccolo enjoying itself with a solo.
Speaking to a beat was not a musical quality, and so Sophitia was grateful that her brain symphony decided to never play her rap. She had been pretty amazed when it decided to translate her favorite video game music into the full works of an orchestral epic though. That was a year ago, senior year of high school, when Sophitia was taking her auditions to get into Pennington Dance Academy.
Now, Sophitia sat in the cafeteria of the academy's castle, based entirely on the layout of Neuschwanstein Castle in Germany. It was the great dining hall, made more modern with comfortable booth seating that could be removed to offer a Great Hall for the many dances that the academy held every week. She was eating something the cook, Daniel, came up with during a streak of inspiration - three lamb meatballs resting on a bed of pine-nut rice pilaf with a cherry-wine rosemary sauce. It sounded disgusting to Sophitia, but she had been the only one in the student body to be brave enough to give it a go.
It wasn't bad.
It wasn't Winter of Vivaldi's Four Seasons, but it was a rather pleasing combination of warm strings and a single high piccolo enjoying itself with a solo.
Wednesday, November 16, 2011
A lot of info in a short space.
Isabella stepped up to the edge of the tower, feeling a stiff breeze blow past her face. The air was full of the smells of the festival in the square below, a mixture of garlands of flowers, street cooked food, people's bodies, and alcohol. It was mostly alcohol. Isabella stepped up onto the parapet, pushing her finger-tip length cloak behind her with a single sweep of her arm. Silver trinkets, some decorative and other containing poisons, clinked from the movement. They were attached to a leather bandolier and a thick, hardened leather belt.
She crouched, resting her forearms on her thighs, and gaze over the jumbled mess of the crowd below her. Inhaling through her nose, Isabella let the air open up a space in her chest, which was full of the pulse from her heart. It was fast. Down there, in that tangle of color and smells and clamor, was a man she was going to kill.
She lifted a hand, pulling down her hood slightly lower, the fine, navy cloth edged with an expensive trim. She felt the hem slide against the quarter mask she wore over her left eye, hiding a scar that was a result of a poor choice in her past. Her focus slipped away to the memory, fuzzy from drink and pain, a glinting dagger hovering over her eye, blood dripping onto her pupil and sliding down her face, mingling with tear tracks.
A flash of gold and a sudden loud burst of laughter, pomp, and circumstance snapped Isabella out of her trance, and she tucked escaped strands of brunette hair back into her hood. In the corner of her eye, she could see her blades stored in the underside of her bracers, waiting for her to twitch her wrist in just the right way to bring them to bear. He was here. It had taken her a lot of patience, time, and effort to generate the illusion that he was safe, to make him feel untouchable. She had hired the guards that stood around him to put themselves in a position to be hired by him for the festival.
He was going to die, and Isabella would take great care to not dirty her clothing with his foul blood.
She crouched, resting her forearms on her thighs, and gaze over the jumbled mess of the crowd below her. Inhaling through her nose, Isabella let the air open up a space in her chest, which was full of the pulse from her heart. It was fast. Down there, in that tangle of color and smells and clamor, was a man she was going to kill.
She lifted a hand, pulling down her hood slightly lower, the fine, navy cloth edged with an expensive trim. She felt the hem slide against the quarter mask she wore over her left eye, hiding a scar that was a result of a poor choice in her past. Her focus slipped away to the memory, fuzzy from drink and pain, a glinting dagger hovering over her eye, blood dripping onto her pupil and sliding down her face, mingling with tear tracks.
A flash of gold and a sudden loud burst of laughter, pomp, and circumstance snapped Isabella out of her trance, and she tucked escaped strands of brunette hair back into her hood. In the corner of her eye, she could see her blades stored in the underside of her bracers, waiting for her to twitch her wrist in just the right way to bring them to bear. He was here. It had taken her a lot of patience, time, and effort to generate the illusion that he was safe, to make him feel untouchable. She had hired the guards that stood around him to put themselves in a position to be hired by him for the festival.
He was going to die, and Isabella would take great care to not dirty her clothing with his foul blood.
Tuesday, November 8, 2011
Something's coming.
Clement stood on the beach, close enough so the water could touch the toes of his knee-high boots if it really tried, but not so close so that he would soon find himself with wet boots. It was further up the beach than usual, even for high tide. His metallic, gold gaze was set out to the north-western horizon. There, ominous, was a solid sheet of slate colored clouds. From it dropped pillars of clouds that many would mistake for harmless upside-down towers, but Clement knew better.
They were pillars of the raging storm creating dangerous cages on the surface of the ocean. It was beautiful from this distance, but Clement felt the muscles in his back tighten in awe and fear. If one of those pillars touched land, the ground beneath it would immediately turn to molten rock, the air near it in a half-mile radius would come alive with energy, and any poor soul unfortunate enough to be near by would be knocked into disembodied state for at least a week. If it the person was a mere child, or an elder, it was more likely the disembodied state would be permanent.
Clement's face showed none of this, instead, it was straight, tinged with a grimness, and dashed with a mere sprinkle of ire. He lifted his gloved hand, and pushed his fingers through his bangs and back into scruffy, black locks of hair. The creature that generated that storm was chasing something, someone. It was likely to be a boat, but Clement could never be sure. He could tell it was hunting, or on a war path, because when he looked directly west, there was a stark line where the slate-clouds ended, and instead a rolling, softer blanket of vibrant satsuma and warm primrose stretched out toward the south.
They were pillars of the raging storm creating dangerous cages on the surface of the ocean. It was beautiful from this distance, but Clement felt the muscles in his back tighten in awe and fear. If one of those pillars touched land, the ground beneath it would immediately turn to molten rock, the air near it in a half-mile radius would come alive with energy, and any poor soul unfortunate enough to be near by would be knocked into disembodied state for at least a week. If it the person was a mere child, or an elder, it was more likely the disembodied state would be permanent.
Clement's face showed none of this, instead, it was straight, tinged with a grimness, and dashed with a mere sprinkle of ire. He lifted his gloved hand, and pushed his fingers through his bangs and back into scruffy, black locks of hair. The creature that generated that storm was chasing something, someone. It was likely to be a boat, but Clement could never be sure. He could tell it was hunting, or on a war path, because when he looked directly west, there was a stark line where the slate-clouds ended, and instead a rolling, softer blanket of vibrant satsuma and warm primrose stretched out toward the south.
Monday, November 7, 2011
Rozzy Rozzers and Bloody Oiks
Leylia picked through the tossed office, her eyebrows furrowed. Renard looked calm, but she could see the fury written on the tiny details of his face. She began to sift through loose papers, trying to figure out which ones belonged to which folders and files. Bahamut popped out of her wrist, spreading tiny wings he had developed over the past two weeks.
He squeaked, it was toned with a growl that his small body barely managed to rattle out.
"I don't know," Leylia replied, then looked to Renard.
"Bloody rozzers," he suddenly snarled.
"Huh?" she asked. It was the first time Leylia had heard him use a voice that wasn't pleasant, and the first time she heard him use words that she didn't understand.
"They toss the place, no warrant, no writ of any kind," he continued, pushing empty folders around, gathering books and smashing them on top of each other with more force than necessary. "They were looking for Bahamut, or something about him."
"How would they even know of him?"
"Someone's pulling their strings, some yup."
"You're acting really paranoid you know," Leylia said.
"You should be too." Renard lifted his arm, and a dragon with an elegant body type materialized there. He had blue scales, the edged looked seared.
"What? Are they going to come after me next?"
"Yes."
"Want me to call them rozzers?"
"Try oiks."
"Will they even understand what I'm calling them?"
"Only if they've been to the UK."
Leylia was relieved that Renard seemed to have calmed down now, speaking in his usual tone. Clyde, the blue dragon, ruffled his wings, snorting. Steam issued from his nostrils.
He squeaked, it was toned with a growl that his small body barely managed to rattle out.
"I don't know," Leylia replied, then looked to Renard.
"Bloody rozzers," he suddenly snarled.
"Huh?" she asked. It was the first time Leylia had heard him use a voice that wasn't pleasant, and the first time she heard him use words that she didn't understand.
"They toss the place, no warrant, no writ of any kind," he continued, pushing empty folders around, gathering books and smashing them on top of each other with more force than necessary. "They were looking for Bahamut, or something about him."
"How would they even know of him?"
"Someone's pulling their strings, some yup."
"You're acting really paranoid you know," Leylia said.
"You should be too." Renard lifted his arm, and a dragon with an elegant body type materialized there. He had blue scales, the edged looked seared.
"What? Are they going to come after me next?"
"Yes."
"Want me to call them rozzers?"
"Try oiks."
"Will they even understand what I'm calling them?"
"Only if they've been to the UK."
Leylia was relieved that Renard seemed to have calmed down now, speaking in his usual tone. Clyde, the blue dragon, ruffled his wings, snorting. Steam issued from his nostrils.
Sunday, November 6, 2011
The Doctor's
"Oh," said the doctor, "so you found the little guy, did you?"
Leylia had thought his tone would've been affected, perhaps even annoyed or put out, but instead he sounded pleasantly surprised. His voice carried the same quality that her mother's did when she answered the phone having already looked at the caller ID.
"So you did put him in me," Leylia accused, setting the tin down on the desk and planting her hands on her hips. The little worm sat up straight. "When the hell did you have time to do that?"
"When I shook your hand before you left," Renard replied, smiling. "You are such a rare body type, so perfect."
"What? For worms? For parasites? What are you trying to pull?"
"Well," Renard said, reaching out with a hand to pat the worm on the head with a single finger, "yes, dragons are rather parasitic at such a young age."
"DRAGON!?" Leylia stared openly at the insane doctor as he pet the worm. That wasn't a dragon. "First off, dragons aren't real, secondly, they hatch from eggs, damnit! Everyone knows that."
"And that is precisely why they do no hatch from eggs as they used to," Renard explained. "That would be too obvious, too easy to find. Oh no, dragons have evolved their magic, and must hide in a sympathetic mortal now."
Leylia sank into one of the overstuffed arm chairs in front of the heavy oak desk. She slumped, and watched as the worm swiveled around and wiggled his way toward her, as if alarmed. Was he worried about her? Fearful there was something wrong with her since she had collapsed so suddenly? Or just terrified his home and meals was ill. She reached out her hand, and rested it on the desk. The worm put his strange, jaw dominated head on her fingers, then made his way to wrap around her wrist. He pushed his jaw against the inside of her wrist, right over the major artery.
He was feeling for her pulse.
"My!" said the doctor, obviously pleased. "He has grown so fond of you so quickly. I am sorry for not asking you, but I had thought you would not discover him until he was in a form more readily recognizable as a dragon."
"So he will get bigger," Leylia said, lifting her arm to tuck it against her stomach, her fingers trailed down the worm's back. He felt somewhat furry. "How am I supposed to have him inside my body then?"
"That's where the magic dominates over the physical," the doctor said, turning his fingers into a steeple. "He will bind more with your essence, take sustenance from your energy, until you are in a safe place for him to be physical on his own. I'm glad you've decided to keep him."
"Damnit you gave me no fucking choice you ass hole!" Leylia snapped, feeling her irritation coming back. "He probably isn't even a dragon but fuck it. I'm not allowed to have a fucking puppy yet here you come waltzing in and gifting me a baby fucking dragon. How the hell am I supposed to explain this to my mother?"
"You aren't," the doctor said. "She won't believe you."
"Why the fuck do I believe you?"
"Because you've already been empowered by the dragon being in your system."
"---the fuck does that mean!"
The worm made an amusing squeak, squeezing his body around her wrist. Leylia breathed out hard, then pushed herself forcibly into the back of the arm chair.
"You wouldn't happen to be close to--" Renard began, but the livid glare silenced him.
"If you dare say that time of the month I'm going to rip your head off and make sure this little guy burninates this place once he is big enough," Leylia snarled.
The doctor smiled, and folded his fingers together to rest his chin on them. He looked to be a combination of amused and impressed. The way his lips were switched up just enough to portray a good humor but his eyes bored straight into hers as if to extinguish a fire that had come to life there.
"Would you like some tea?" he asked. "I'm certain I have the most delicious flavor of rose-hip and dragon-fruit."
"Oh fuck you," Leylia said, a sigh carrying her words rather than a breath. "Yes please."
Leylia had thought his tone would've been affected, perhaps even annoyed or put out, but instead he sounded pleasantly surprised. His voice carried the same quality that her mother's did when she answered the phone having already looked at the caller ID.
"So you did put him in me," Leylia accused, setting the tin down on the desk and planting her hands on her hips. The little worm sat up straight. "When the hell did you have time to do that?"
"When I shook your hand before you left," Renard replied, smiling. "You are such a rare body type, so perfect."
"What? For worms? For parasites? What are you trying to pull?"
"Well," Renard said, reaching out with a hand to pat the worm on the head with a single finger, "yes, dragons are rather parasitic at such a young age."
"DRAGON!?" Leylia stared openly at the insane doctor as he pet the worm. That wasn't a dragon. "First off, dragons aren't real, secondly, they hatch from eggs, damnit! Everyone knows that."
"And that is precisely why they do no hatch from eggs as they used to," Renard explained. "That would be too obvious, too easy to find. Oh no, dragons have evolved their magic, and must hide in a sympathetic mortal now."
Leylia sank into one of the overstuffed arm chairs in front of the heavy oak desk. She slumped, and watched as the worm swiveled around and wiggled his way toward her, as if alarmed. Was he worried about her? Fearful there was something wrong with her since she had collapsed so suddenly? Or just terrified his home and meals was ill. She reached out her hand, and rested it on the desk. The worm put his strange, jaw dominated head on her fingers, then made his way to wrap around her wrist. He pushed his jaw against the inside of her wrist, right over the major artery.
He was feeling for her pulse.
"My!" said the doctor, obviously pleased. "He has grown so fond of you so quickly. I am sorry for not asking you, but I had thought you would not discover him until he was in a form more readily recognizable as a dragon."
"So he will get bigger," Leylia said, lifting her arm to tuck it against her stomach, her fingers trailed down the worm's back. He felt somewhat furry. "How am I supposed to have him inside my body then?"
"That's where the magic dominates over the physical," the doctor said, turning his fingers into a steeple. "He will bind more with your essence, take sustenance from your energy, until you are in a safe place for him to be physical on his own. I'm glad you've decided to keep him."
"Damnit you gave me no fucking choice you ass hole!" Leylia snapped, feeling her irritation coming back. "He probably isn't even a dragon but fuck it. I'm not allowed to have a fucking puppy yet here you come waltzing in and gifting me a baby fucking dragon. How the hell am I supposed to explain this to my mother?"
"You aren't," the doctor said. "She won't believe you."
"Why the fuck do I believe you?"
"Because you've already been empowered by the dragon being in your system."
"---the fuck does that mean!"
The worm made an amusing squeak, squeezing his body around her wrist. Leylia breathed out hard, then pushed herself forcibly into the back of the arm chair.
"You wouldn't happen to be close to--" Renard began, but the livid glare silenced him.
"If you dare say that time of the month I'm going to rip your head off and make sure this little guy burninates this place once he is big enough," Leylia snarled.
The doctor smiled, and folded his fingers together to rest his chin on them. He looked to be a combination of amused and impressed. The way his lips were switched up just enough to portray a good humor but his eyes bored straight into hers as if to extinguish a fire that had come to life there.
"Would you like some tea?" he asked. "I'm certain I have the most delicious flavor of rose-hip and dragon-fruit."
"Oh fuck you," Leylia said, a sigh carrying her words rather than a breath. "Yes please."
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