The exercise:
Write about: honey.
This week's prompts are inspired by Miles, by the way.
The last two days? Well, he's decided that he's the only sweetie in our house. So when Kat calls me or Max sweetie he declares, quite seriously, "You not sweetie, I'm sweetie." And sometimes he adds, 'You not sweetie, you honey."
Yup.
2 comments:
Catching up... :) I think you're more up to date on the comments than I am on the post!
The UKGC interrogation was largely that: a list of things we'd done wrong to see how we were addressing them (or not) and some warnings. Despite all that it was a fairly friendly meeting, partly because I've been very fast on responding to them, and partly because a lot of the 'blame' lies with the previous CEO, which they understand. But... it was still being sat across a table from three people who all have the power to remove a licence and effectively kill the business, for two hours.
Honey
Thirty Peacekeepers, a force somewhere between the police and the army and used mostly as a kind of diffuse bodyguard for the King, moved out from the Palace of St. James heading north and east across London. They wore a pale-blue and slate-grey uniform that clung tightly, a magically compressive fabric that resisted tearing and impact and provided both warmth and support. It wasn't bullet- or stab-proof, but it would turn aside a casual attack or minimise the damage from a ricochet. The high-collared jacket had shiny silver buttons, each of which was enchanted to be trackable by a Magister, and they all wore thin face masks that cast an illusion of familiarity: anyone glancing at a Peacekeeper would walk on thinking that they'd seen someone they vaguely knew.
They moved in pairs, walking swiftly but considerately, moving through crowds like eels through water, slipping through the streets as though they'd lived there all their lives. They were actually pulled from all across the Empire; some had grown up in the Colonies, others had travelled from the mineral rich countries in the Southern Hemisphere, but all knew the ins-and-outs of London better than they knew their own mothers's faces.
Samual, still standing in Scotland Yard, was ashen-faced and debating how long he could wait before he reported back to the Lords Martial that Lord Derby had disappeared, probably kidnapped by a demon. Sweat was beading his forehead and the back of his neck was damp, but he refused to give in and wipe it away. Instead he focused on what the Magisters were saying.
"The sensible place would be Formosa," said a middle-aged woman with a scar that stretched from her her left eye to her right jaw. Her mouth was oddly puckered, probably because of the wound that had left the scar. "Dragged in like that, no protection, he'd be dead in minutes."
"Not enough residue," said a man who looked to be ten to fifteen years older than her. Silvery-stubble covered his chin and cheeks, and pale-grey eyes flickered constantly across the courtyard, looking at things Samual couldn't see. "There's enough for another plane, but not too far away. It might have been somewhere on this world."
"Volcano, maybe?"
"We're assuming that whoever did this wants him dead and not for another purpose."
"Dead?" Samual's voice was steady, which surprised himself.
"Possibly," said the woman. "Although... that's a good point. If you want him dead and you've summoned a demon, why not just have the demon kill him? It could have, right?"
"Easily," said the man, ignoring Samual's pained expression. "So... probably not a volcano then."
The hourglass exploded like a beaten pinata and Lord Derby stared at it. Then he looked at the beast-rider just as she turned to look at him. Their eyes met, and then the strange world, with its odd colours, puzzles and creatures, hazed into a greyish mist around him.
"Dignity?" said Lord Derby, and was gratified, just as everything vanished, to see the woman start as though slapped.
Greg - ah, being caught up. It comes and goes...
Glad it went well :)
Dignity! That was unexpected.
Also: enjoyed the debate among the Magisters.
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