Monday, February 6, 2012
This evening's tie is a dusky plum with nightsky stripes. She approached his battlefield tent with trepidation, but dutifully, bearing a late-supper tray. His valet nodded and waved her in to its smoky den. "My lord," she began, but he was nowhere to be seen. She faltered, confused. "Here!" he commanded, his voice tired and petulant like a sulking child. She stepped timidly to the absurdly curtained bedchamber, so opulent for wartime accommodation, even for a noble. His pale hand drew aside the fabric and took the wine. In a moment, the goblet reappeared. "Your father dares to send me such swill? Even in war, I won't drink vinegar." The goblet is tipped and the purpled stream is wasted on the ground, drunk by the contested soil beneath. "At least he has sent it in a lovely vessel. Come here, closer to me. Draw open the bedcurtains and let me look more closely at her."
Brought to Life by Nance at 11:24 PM