Quote:
Originally posted by Larry_OHF:
He had grabbed a magical elven bracelet that the elven lady would adore.....
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ooc: Posting in Salinye’s place and assuming a bit of interaction between Larry and Senora.
Senora
The bracelet was stunning, composed of woven wires of what must be platinum – wires that themselves are individually no thicker than a strand of hair. Indeed, while its style has something of the elvish about it, never had she seen such a subtle delicacy of craftsmanship among the handiworks of her people. The dance of the shifting colors of the wall is reflected by the platinum strands in manner that is almost hypnotic and she finds herself simply staring with widened eyes at the masterwork that has been so swiftly thrust into her hands. Surely a piece such as this must have a storied history. Surely something of such beauty, of such artistry, should only be passed from one hand to another with the precincts of a temple amid the burning of candles and the burning of incense and the chanting of ancient hymns. Surely.....
But, unthinkably wondrous, in this place of unremitting shadow and unrelenting danger it has found its way into her possession!
Reflexively she places it around her right wrist and the bracelet closes itself of its own accord as if asserting ownership, or a claim at the very least, over the one that wears it. There is a surprising firmness about the clasp of the delicate strands about her wrist, a firmness at once reassuring and comfortable. Reflexively, she runs the fingers of her left hand over the bracelet, savoring its feel even as her eyes delight in the dance of shifting light reflected upon its surface.
So great a hold does the bracelet and the wonder of it having so suddenly, so curiously, fallen into her possession command over her attention that she is taken unprepared by the sudden rushing of violent sound that thunders into the chamber from the drumming of the dwarves. Crash after crash after rhythmic crash assails both hearing and thinking, allowing no space for either silence or reflection. So much sound. Such a weight of sound. Crushing. Thunderous. Oppressive. The visceral directness of dwarven anger beating without pause against the delicacy of elven ears. Rude and violent, without pause or beauty, it fills the very air of this place. Inescapable. She presses her hands against her ears. It will not be shut out. Her eyes press closed.
Within the sound, a touch. Something tainted. Something horrible. The stuff of nightmare. Not yet recovered from the assault on her mind of just a short time ago she is not ready for something like this. Surrender or shut down – the choice is clear.
Once more she collapses. Once more her head strikes the floor, the thud of its collision swallowed up by the thunder of the drums.
Once more an observer comments:
“Damn! That just had to hurt! Does that dame do anything that don't involve bashing her head against solid objects?”
[ 05-14-2006, 07:51 PM: Message edited by: Cyril Darkcloud ]