Don't Panic (Ulric)

[Naama]

"What is?" She lifted her hand, where Ulric's touch once lingered, reminiscent of a time long past, when sorrow was not so forefront in her life. The mark on his skin could not have ignited any more relief than it did now, the knowledge that he was hers, and hers alone, even under the eyes of Cheva, herself. And she would have it no other way. "You're not much husband material," Naama teased, his grin mirrored with her own. And then she pushed him down, where the soft sand cratered his weight, and hers on top of him. "You're mine, northerner," She crushed her lips to his, tasting salt. "Every. Last. Inch." The myrian punctuated each word with a kiss, her hand trailing along his chest, down his stomach, lower and lower.... "HEY!" Mother of-- "Are you two just going to leave me with a crazy ghost monkey?!" Even in the gloom, the puff of Squirt's cheeks was unmistakable. "He almost tossed me in the pit again." "Remind me why I keep you around," She growled, heaving herself up with a look of a disgruntled child. "Because I'm cute?" "That's just pushing it, get back inside." "Not until Ulric gets rid of that stupid thing, it's annoying. And I think it bites me when I sleep, look!" He held up his arm, but Naama had already bent to pick up her blouse, disregarding the boy's concern. The look he gave her was scathing.

[Ulric]

Ulric’s face was yet clouded by disbelief, a fool’s veil of irony, when Naama’s insistent fingers caught him in the unwary throes of a dream, nearly flung him to the sands. They were soft, subtly flecked by tiny pebbles. The sand, not her fingers. Those were speckled by vaguely lifted pores, and they swept over him, as though trying to engrave him into memory. Though shaken, he complied without thinking, fingers tracing over the contours of her thighs, his thumbs teasing the crease of her belly. The grit was everywhere, caking his arms, his back. “Don’t say anything,” he grunted, trying to get in a murmur between the jarring press of her lips. There was a bunching of shoulders, slabs of muscle shifting as his body rose, arms crushing around her. “Don’t-”

The squeaky voice, yet unbroken by the quandary of eroding youth, put flight to their brief interlude. Petch.

“Why,” he began to say, but by then she’d jerked away. And of course, with that lodestone fled, he endured the ignominy of toppling over, his face digging into the sands. “Actually, never mind,” he grunted.

Ulric rolled over, levering himself up as he cuffed a fine crust of grit from the ridge of his cheek. The chastening was, from his grasp of precedent, rather mild. The blessing of their union had, most certainly, spared the boy a wider range of ugliness in her rejoinder. “You’re afflicted by fleas, aren’t you? That’s why you’re always waking up?” Forcing a snort, he feigned distaste as he glanced over grubby skin, the stiff hanks of hair. “Squirt, we’re going to wash you with vinegar,” he stifled a chuckle, envisioning the consequent revulsion. “Get you squeaky clean, eh lad? Why, you’ll be all ivory and perfume. The envy of all the girls. Think how they’ll swarm you.”

The purpose of having a son was, as he understood it, was just to have somebody around whose mind you could screw with for your amusement. That, and having them scurry down crevices and such.

Ulric twined his fingers through hers, and as the day broke, their marks shone molten bronze.

[Bedlam]

Thread Completed!

Player Naama

Experience:
3 Seduction
3 Storytelling
1 Persuasion

Lores:
Ulric, my Mate
What Gods Fear

Ulric

Experience:
4 Seduction
2 Storytelling
2 Philosophy

Lores:
Naama, my Hope
What Gods Fear

Notes:

Sorry, this took a bit longer than I had planned.

When Ulric speaks, I scratch my hand and go ‘what?’ He’s very . . . I think philosophical might be the word? Maybe? You have a very round-about way of talking about things. I’ve always wondered where Ulric the hardened killer learned to speak like that. I’ll have a lot of time to get used to it though, it seems. One thread down. Many to go. Naama on the other hand was a lot easier for me to understand, but again I feel that that's a difference in character rather than a deficiency of writing style.

Honestly, I don’t think I’m really qualified to give the feedback I usually like to give in my notes for this thread, just because I feel like I’m not looking at a story. I’m looking at the climax of something, as part of its own thread. Does that make sense?