thepersonalquotes:

purplebuddhaproject:

“I’m tired, can’t think of anything and want only to lay my face in your lap, feel your hand on my head and remain like that through all eternity.”

— Franz Kafka
(via purplebuddhaquotes)

zevet-xiv:

“People think that intimacy is about sex.
But intimacy is about truth.
When you realize you can tell someone your truth, when you can show yourself to them, when you stand in front of them and their response is “you’re safe with me” –that’s intimacy.”

— The Seven Husbands of Evelyn Hugo: A novel by Taylor Jenkins Reid (via jenshraders)

prompt 25: blood and ceruleum

A
proper woman of the Bayaqud can ride with or without a saddle. She
can hunt, kill, and cook her own game. She can shoot the wings off a
fly from thirty paces, and then do the same while she and her target
are moving at speed. If need or her own inclination drive her, she
can wrestle a man twice her size to the ground. It’s good if she
has some skill with music or embroidery, but it’s not necessary.
When she’s acclaimed as a warrior of her tribe, she paints around
her eyes with black kohl each morning; it shows her status and
protects her eyes from the glare of the sun. She takes as many
husbands as she can support, but never more than those afforded to
the khatun or the udgan. She tends her herds and tribe and protects
them from danger, even if it means her life.

Gantsetseg
is a proper woman of the Bayaqud. She can’t play the morin khurr
and her embroidery is a hopeless mess, but she can ride and hunt and
cook and wrestle. She can shoot anything with anything, and
she never misses. Eventually she’ll take a husband or three as it
suits her, and have children. For her tribe—for the Scions—she
would fight the gods themselves. And every morning, she paints kohl
around her eyes.

This
morning, alone in her yurt, she closes her eyes and sets her brush
down. Under her heavy rugs, the floor of her yurt is jointed metal
made to fold into wedges for easy transport. Machinery hums through
her horns, the steady chugging of the magitek modules that keep the
tent warm on this cold winter day. The walls are heavy felt,
festooned with banners and hanging rugs, but the lattice supporting
them is steel. Outside, where her tribe would fence in their horses
for the night, she has a refurbished magitek reaper. She spent last
night cleaning and oiling a rifle instead of polishing a bow.

She
remembers the day she rode back into Bayaqud Iloh on that reaper,
painted a blue so vivid there was no possible way to mistake her for
an imperial. She remembers her parents clinging to her and crying
with joy, remembers kneeling in front of her khatun.

“I
swear on my honor as a warrior of the Bayaqud—in the names of our
tribesmen—I will bring to you the Garlean emperor’s head.”

An
imperial officer’s helm. A shredded tassel from the emissary’s
robes. A broken gunblade. These trophies of Garlemald, she has
brought to the Bayaqud—and each time, the same questions. Your
Scions bring us no crowned heads, Tseko? No three-eyed skulls?
She winces to think of her uncle Tsagai, who would have separated
Alan’s three-eyed skull from his shoulders whether he wore a crown
or no.

The
Bayaqud have allies, or they have enemies. A proper woman of the
tribe knows which is which. On the Steppes, she does not say This
tribe is my deadly foe, but I shall offer my hand unreservedly to
this single member, lest she find it severed at the wrist. She
doesn’t think about their eyes, or their quick, shy smiles, or
their clever hands; doesn’t want to trace the breadth of their
shoulders or the scars carved into their scaleless skin. She doesn’t
fret over the wounds to their bodies or hearts, or open her yurt to
them. She certainly doesn’t wonder about kissing them.

She
thinks about Alan’s arms, the way the skin around his eyes crinkles
when he laughs. She thinks about that first, fierce hug after they’d
realized Omega hadn’t killed any of their friends; of the way he’d
grinned, exhausted but proud, when they’d finally figured out the
secret to getting the Allagan transmitters to function after long
bells of work that had seen her screaming and throwing things at her
walls at least once. She thinks, briefly, about Alanais pyr Venditor
and how a single arrow fired a few ilms to one side might have ended
it all before it began.

“Gan,
there’s coffee!”

She
can’t stop the grin that splits her face, baring fangs. “Coming,
Al! Leave some for me!”

She
drinks coffee in addition to kumiss and butter tea. She fights with
magitek now, and not a bow or her bare hands. She still rides a
horse, but it’s a former imperial-issue reaper that carries her
into battle most days. And when she sees Alan Vesper—once a decurion of the XIVth Legion, once her sworn enemy—in the crowd, she can
only think of long bells of laughing and planning together, of strong
arms around her, of a hard day’s ride and the cool water that
awaits her at the end.

Well.

Perhaps
Gantsetseg is not quite a proper woman of the Bayaqud after
all.

witterprompts:

“I don’t know a thing about love, but what I feel around you might be close to that, I think.”

prompt 9: dense

“You.
New bloke.”

Tiber,
who
had been leaning against the wall of the Seventh Heaven enjoying the
cool breeze,
nearly
choked on
his cigarette. While he was fairly sure by now that most of the
Scions weren’t going to kill him for existing in their
presence—though it had been a very tense few bells when he and
Vivian had been introduced to their healer Q’yala—he couldn’t
help the dread that coursed down his spine whenever any of them
actually spoke to him. Miss Soleil was bad enough, but he’d heard
from his former comrades in Ala Mhigo that Miss Gantsetseg had once
ripped out a man’s throat with her teeth.
Teeth that he now saw were bared in an attempt at a smile as she
sidled up to him. The effect brought him to mind of a shark trying to
be friendly. “Um.” Well, new
bloke
was a step up from you,
Garlean
at least. She stood a head and a half shorter than him, and he was
acutely aware that his thin shirt wouldn’t protect him at all.
“…Can
I help you, miss?”

She
folded her arms across her chest, meeting his eyes directly. Her
cheeks around the edges of her scales were flushed purple. “I need
a favor. It doesn’t leave this space, and you don’t tell a single
living soul. Understand?”

Oh,
false gods. Hastily,
he nodded.

“I…”
Her gaze seemed to be hovering somewhere around his shirt collar.
“…Alright. How the blazes
do you flirt in Garlean?”

What.
Slowly, Tiber blinked at her, letting her words filter through his
brain. Sorry,
but I’m not interested
was not a quip that would extend his lifespan, so he bit it back and
focused on the more pertinent information at hand. “This
is about Ven—Vesper, isn’t it.”

“Yes!”
It came out as an explosive hiss; as she gestured, her tail lashed
hard against the wall. “He’s just—I gave him food! I hunted for
him! I praise
his fighting skills—really, have you seen him fight, he’s amazing—and he just—looks at me! Like an idiot! I’m not sure he
actually even notices when
I dress nice!”
She huffed out a breath, tail drooping. “So. You’re both Garlean.
I was hoping you’d know.”

He
frowned, thinking through what he knew of Alan Vesper. It wasn’t
much; the man had been an officer, was quite good with magitek, and
had spent the past two years hiding his third eye and pretending to
be a mediocre bard. He rather doubted any bardic stereotypes had been
involved. And
I’m sure he’d notice when she dresses well. I
notice when she dresses well, it’s hard not to when she’s wearing
shorts like that.
Come to think of it, he had
seen Alan stare
when she walked by. “Hmm.”

“What?”

He
winced preemptively, unable to look in her direction. “…Have you
considered that he may just be an idiot?”

She
groaned, letting her head thud against the wall. “No. Nobody can be
that dense. I refuse to accept it.
There must be something.
What would you do to let a guy know you’re interested?”

It
was a chilly day, but he felt his face grow hot anyway. “I
don’t—” Even
if he could
take Vivian
dancing or something, it was entirely outside the realm of
possibility that he’d accept. Not from
Tiber formerly-pyr Gallius.
He
had to focus.
“I’ve no idea what anyone
does for fun in these lands, so I’m afraid I can’t be much
help…” He
squinted at her. “Have you tried telling him?”

The
noise that escaped her sounded like a teakettle; her
tail coiled around her legs as she stepped back in evident horror.
“No!
Gods,
you have any idea how bloody awkward that would get?”

He
could imagine it all too well, but… “I saw him drop a wrench on
his foot once when you rolled your sleeves up. I don’t think it
would be as bad as you fear.”

She
snorted, shaking her head. “Bullshite.”

His
eyes narrowed. “Truly, Miss, I have no idea why you thought I’d
be able to help. If I knew anything
about how to—how to date
in this bloody country, I’d—”

But
she was tilting her head, staring past him. “Hey, is that Vivian?
Maybe he’ll be of more use.”

Vivian?
He spun around, scanning the crowd. Bloody
hell, did I brush my hair—I’m not wearing a hat—I knew I should
have bought a newer shirt—

But
Vivian was nowhere to be seen; when he turned around, neither was
Gantsetseg.