I will not rise.
I will not beat the greatest warrior and take their place as mightiest.
I will not challenge the skald to a battle of rhyme and wit, or, if I by some hubris do so, I will not win.
I will not bake the finest bread in all the county, and men and women will not speak gladly of my prowess in the bakery.
I will not rise. Such is not my fate, to be known far and wide for the skill of my hands or my arms or of my voice and my mind.
I am not to be the mightiest, I am not to be the ruler. I have my small hill and my small lands, and over those, I will be ruler enough.
The poets will not speak of me for my skill or for my beauty.
But I will write my name on these flags, and I will weave my name in these threads, and I will press my name in this cloth.
And the wind will blow my name across all this land.
written to clare_dragonfly‘s prompt, because I needed to fight a couple more Frizi (on #4thewords)
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//platform.twitter.com/widgets.jsNilien patted at her hair uselessly. “Please, let them in. I don’t know when I’ll get to see them again.” The last was almost as much to the fox as it was to Nurse Abercom.
You do not have to explain to me. The fox turned around a couple times before settling back down, looking over its tail at the doorway. I would like to meet your friends. Friends can tell one quite a bit about someone, you know.
Want to know more about the setting? The first informational post is up on the Marked Patreon, for $3+ patrons!
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The Expectant Wood is Back!
Nimbus tried to scramble further up the wall, but there was still no purchase, and even the window-slit sheared of prickers offered her no easy place to put her hands. “I don’t want to come with you! My parents are right up there,” she gestured. “I want to go with my parents.”
(considering the subject matter, this is December’s Trunk Story)
“Really, Quizzico? Seriously?”
Quizzico had no answer, so the Tigress looped a few vine-like ropes around the villain – not that Quizzico really counted as a villain, more like a nuisance prankster – and left him, thus trussed, in front of the Ninth Precinct station with a short note pinned to his costume.
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