Disclaimer: If you think I own all the shtuff that I just-so-happen not to
own, I firmly believe you need professional help. Either that or a
medication.
A/N: Here's more for my fans! Yay for fans!
Chapter 4 - Lessons, Twelve Years Later
"No, no, no. Devon, it's step, cross, step, curtsy, rise, and step. I don't know what you are doing but it isn't that. Again."
Devon wrinkled her nose in frustration, her forehead already dampening with sweat. Dancing lessons were hard these days, because instead of the things she learned when she was six, like easy steps and waltzes, she now had to learn fashionable court dances, and it seemed like a new one came out every day. The Great Mother Goddess, luckily, was a forgiving teacher, and waited patiently for perfection instead of drilling her for it.
After twelve years Devon was eighteen, grown much taller so that she dwarfed the beautiful muses, assistants to the Great Mother. Her hair fell to past her shoulder blades in the same mahogany bronze color streaked with a slightly different shade, and growing a little darker at the ends. From fiddling with them while reading, which she did much of these days, or anything else, she had parts in front that were several inches shorter than the rest.
The old manservant, Gregory, though she wondered often if skeletons ever got old, per say, suddenly grunted in discomfort.
"Oh, I'm sorry Greg!" Devon apologized as she backed off, taking her foot off of his. The Great Mother Goddess laughed softly and patted the manservant gratefully on the shoulder.
"You may go now Gregory, I'll take over now." He bowed lowly and left the room. Devon looked up, embarrassed.
"You're doing fine, lass, don't get your petticoats in a twist." The Goddess said kindly. "Now, try that again. Remember, head up, but eyes lowered, body light and free, footsteps barely audible. Glide, don't limp painfully like you do." Devon laughed under her breath and practiced with the Goddess for a while. She was a much more skilled dancer than Gregory, and Devon found that that helped quite a bit. The Goddess sensed her revelation and smiled.
"That's why you must be perfect in every way at these dances, because not all men are great dancers, and one disadvantage of being prettied at balls is that men want to dance with you at all times."
"It hurts to think about." Devon interrupted pertly, faking a grimace and limping for a few steps as if some heavy oaf had trod on her foot.
"Devon." The Goddess said warningly. Devon looked down and saw instead of a beautiful slipper, a leather boot. She tried hiding her boots with her skirts, but the damage was done.
"You can't go to a ball in your riding boots, Devon, you know that." The Goddess raised an eyebrow in a mother-scolding way.
"But they're so much more comfortable!" She protested. "The slippers feel so.strange!" It was bad argument, she knew, but the Crooked God had said any argument was a worthwhile one.
"Boots don't go well with dresses though, and when you have your two years in Tortall soon, people will think you an eccentric."
'I am eccentric, last I checked.' Devon thought wryly.
"Maybe that's a dress problem," Devon pointed out, "Maybe I should have a black dress with black leather trim to go with my boots."
"A leather dress is completely out of the question, lass, now, put on spare slippers and come down at once so we can finish learning this dance." There was a no arguing tone in her voice, so Devon ran to her room to get her slippers, changed into a simpler dress that was easier to move in, and went back to the dancing hall.
"Better, but why did you change your dress?" The Goddess asked.
"It's easier to move in!"
The Goddess shook her head and said resignedly, "Alright, let's try that again." Seeing the Goddess' obvious frustration, Devon, concentrated on every single step, and by the time the flute stopped playing, she had been perfect. Though she felt as if her muscles were screaming at her every step of the way.
"Perfect Devon, just like that." She praised. "Now, eating lessons."
Devon groaned underneath her breath.
Later that afternoon, she had lessons with her riding master, an old colonel in some army from ancient times. The zombie was almost as stiff about his job as Bobbin and Nobbin the library gnomes.
"Don't slouch so, milady, back straight. Seem elegant, refined, completely collected, not like a wild hurricane. Head up, reins light."
"But I." Devon began. The old colonel shook a discolored finger at her scathingly.
"No buts, just do."
After the lesson in the riding ring, they went on a long, leisurely trail ride, on which Devon was allowed to wear her favorite clothes, black leather breeches that were tight but allowed for more than enough movement, her black, knee high riding boots, and her white blouse and black vest. She secured her long hair in a leather hair band before swinging onto her stallion's back.
The stallion was a gift to her the year before, as her other stallion, Sarajevo, had died from old age. Devon still missed him, especially during times when they trotted, as her new mount, a liver chestnut destrier named Psyche, had a rough trot. His canter and walk luckily were smoother than the surface of a quiet lake.
As they walked across the fields of night down to the river, Psyche took the opportunity of Devon's relaxed state to break into his trot a buck playfully. Devon had ridden him too long to fall for that trick again, and she sat calmly in the saddle until he stopped his joyride. Psyche was full of mischief and extremely intelligent. He had already unlocked his stall doors several times and gone for romps in the villages.
Devon patted his neck affectionately, briefly running her fingers through the silky white mane that contrasted with his dark chocolate, almost black coat. He snorted and arched his neck, sidestepping a little, then walking a little faster to catch up with the colonel's refined and polite bay mare, Twilight.
"See, now you can ride well." The colonel said irritably. Devon stuck out her tongue playfully.
"I can always ride well, ancient one." She said, "I just get distracted by all your demands." He sniffed and looked hurt, but she saw a smile lingering around his mouth.
"The realm will miss you when you leave for Tortall and stay for two years. There mightn't be any more fun around here!" The colonel said.
"Are you saying you enjoy wild hurricanes?" Devon asked innocently. He looked thoroughly miffed, in every sense of the word.
"I understand why I have to go," Devon said thoughtfully, "But I don't want to really. All the gods say it isn't a place at all as nice as the realm, and I don't really remember anything special about it when I was there as a child. Trees, grass, sun, snow.all that we have here."
"Do you know who your father is going to choose to chaperone you there?" The riding master asked, letting his mare drink from the river. Devon shook her head.
"No idea. I suppose he won't let me take anyone from here, as I don't think people are used to seeing half-dead humans and skeletons around. Although he did say that Dobbin, the assistant library gnome is coming with me."
"Dobbin," the colonel snorted, "the one who always trips on his beard?"
"Yes, but he knows all the best books, and he's very knowledgeable about Tortall." She explained in Dobbin's defense. Dobbin had been assistant library gnome and map-keeper for the last twenty years, but had been off on a mapping expedition when Devon had arrived, and hadn't returned until she was ten. He was small, maybe two and half feet tall, with round green eyes, a wrinkled face with plenty of laugh lines, and the longest beard of all of the gnomes. Always he wore a red stocking cap over his head, and a blue tunic and breeches, though his breeches were barely visible under his beard.
"I suppose he'd be useful." The colonel admitted as they rode back and dismounted in the stable yard. It was a warm night, so Devon gave Psyche a wet down, and put oil on his hooves and rubbed him dry with a cloth. His four white stockings and white blaze shone like some kind of ethereal thing in the dim light. She kissed him on the muzzle and walked up to the house, dusting off her leather breeches as she went inside to change for her next lesson, her last with Mithros, the god of war and justice.
Bad ending, I know, but I had to have a set up for the next chapter. A cool one I promise.^_^
Questions? Comments? Review and I'll answer!
Flames? Call 1-800-I-Don't-Give-A-Rat's-Arse
Nazzy Nazzy Nazgirl
I think, therefore I deserve pizza. Hey, it makes sense to me!
A/N: Here's more for my fans! Yay for fans!
Chapter 4 - Lessons, Twelve Years Later
"No, no, no. Devon, it's step, cross, step, curtsy, rise, and step. I don't know what you are doing but it isn't that. Again."
Devon wrinkled her nose in frustration, her forehead already dampening with sweat. Dancing lessons were hard these days, because instead of the things she learned when she was six, like easy steps and waltzes, she now had to learn fashionable court dances, and it seemed like a new one came out every day. The Great Mother Goddess, luckily, was a forgiving teacher, and waited patiently for perfection instead of drilling her for it.
After twelve years Devon was eighteen, grown much taller so that she dwarfed the beautiful muses, assistants to the Great Mother. Her hair fell to past her shoulder blades in the same mahogany bronze color streaked with a slightly different shade, and growing a little darker at the ends. From fiddling with them while reading, which she did much of these days, or anything else, she had parts in front that were several inches shorter than the rest.
The old manservant, Gregory, though she wondered often if skeletons ever got old, per say, suddenly grunted in discomfort.
"Oh, I'm sorry Greg!" Devon apologized as she backed off, taking her foot off of his. The Great Mother Goddess laughed softly and patted the manservant gratefully on the shoulder.
"You may go now Gregory, I'll take over now." He bowed lowly and left the room. Devon looked up, embarrassed.
"You're doing fine, lass, don't get your petticoats in a twist." The Goddess said kindly. "Now, try that again. Remember, head up, but eyes lowered, body light and free, footsteps barely audible. Glide, don't limp painfully like you do." Devon laughed under her breath and practiced with the Goddess for a while. She was a much more skilled dancer than Gregory, and Devon found that that helped quite a bit. The Goddess sensed her revelation and smiled.
"That's why you must be perfect in every way at these dances, because not all men are great dancers, and one disadvantage of being prettied at balls is that men want to dance with you at all times."
"It hurts to think about." Devon interrupted pertly, faking a grimace and limping for a few steps as if some heavy oaf had trod on her foot.
"Devon." The Goddess said warningly. Devon looked down and saw instead of a beautiful slipper, a leather boot. She tried hiding her boots with her skirts, but the damage was done.
"You can't go to a ball in your riding boots, Devon, you know that." The Goddess raised an eyebrow in a mother-scolding way.
"But they're so much more comfortable!" She protested. "The slippers feel so.strange!" It was bad argument, she knew, but the Crooked God had said any argument was a worthwhile one.
"Boots don't go well with dresses though, and when you have your two years in Tortall soon, people will think you an eccentric."
'I am eccentric, last I checked.' Devon thought wryly.
"Maybe that's a dress problem," Devon pointed out, "Maybe I should have a black dress with black leather trim to go with my boots."
"A leather dress is completely out of the question, lass, now, put on spare slippers and come down at once so we can finish learning this dance." There was a no arguing tone in her voice, so Devon ran to her room to get her slippers, changed into a simpler dress that was easier to move in, and went back to the dancing hall.
"Better, but why did you change your dress?" The Goddess asked.
"It's easier to move in!"
The Goddess shook her head and said resignedly, "Alright, let's try that again." Seeing the Goddess' obvious frustration, Devon, concentrated on every single step, and by the time the flute stopped playing, she had been perfect. Though she felt as if her muscles were screaming at her every step of the way.
"Perfect Devon, just like that." She praised. "Now, eating lessons."
Devon groaned underneath her breath.
Later that afternoon, she had lessons with her riding master, an old colonel in some army from ancient times. The zombie was almost as stiff about his job as Bobbin and Nobbin the library gnomes.
"Don't slouch so, milady, back straight. Seem elegant, refined, completely collected, not like a wild hurricane. Head up, reins light."
"But I." Devon began. The old colonel shook a discolored finger at her scathingly.
"No buts, just do."
After the lesson in the riding ring, they went on a long, leisurely trail ride, on which Devon was allowed to wear her favorite clothes, black leather breeches that were tight but allowed for more than enough movement, her black, knee high riding boots, and her white blouse and black vest. She secured her long hair in a leather hair band before swinging onto her stallion's back.
The stallion was a gift to her the year before, as her other stallion, Sarajevo, had died from old age. Devon still missed him, especially during times when they trotted, as her new mount, a liver chestnut destrier named Psyche, had a rough trot. His canter and walk luckily were smoother than the surface of a quiet lake.
As they walked across the fields of night down to the river, Psyche took the opportunity of Devon's relaxed state to break into his trot a buck playfully. Devon had ridden him too long to fall for that trick again, and she sat calmly in the saddle until he stopped his joyride. Psyche was full of mischief and extremely intelligent. He had already unlocked his stall doors several times and gone for romps in the villages.
Devon patted his neck affectionately, briefly running her fingers through the silky white mane that contrasted with his dark chocolate, almost black coat. He snorted and arched his neck, sidestepping a little, then walking a little faster to catch up with the colonel's refined and polite bay mare, Twilight.
"See, now you can ride well." The colonel said irritably. Devon stuck out her tongue playfully.
"I can always ride well, ancient one." She said, "I just get distracted by all your demands." He sniffed and looked hurt, but she saw a smile lingering around his mouth.
"The realm will miss you when you leave for Tortall and stay for two years. There mightn't be any more fun around here!" The colonel said.
"Are you saying you enjoy wild hurricanes?" Devon asked innocently. He looked thoroughly miffed, in every sense of the word.
"I understand why I have to go," Devon said thoughtfully, "But I don't want to really. All the gods say it isn't a place at all as nice as the realm, and I don't really remember anything special about it when I was there as a child. Trees, grass, sun, snow.all that we have here."
"Do you know who your father is going to choose to chaperone you there?" The riding master asked, letting his mare drink from the river. Devon shook her head.
"No idea. I suppose he won't let me take anyone from here, as I don't think people are used to seeing half-dead humans and skeletons around. Although he did say that Dobbin, the assistant library gnome is coming with me."
"Dobbin," the colonel snorted, "the one who always trips on his beard?"
"Yes, but he knows all the best books, and he's very knowledgeable about Tortall." She explained in Dobbin's defense. Dobbin had been assistant library gnome and map-keeper for the last twenty years, but had been off on a mapping expedition when Devon had arrived, and hadn't returned until she was ten. He was small, maybe two and half feet tall, with round green eyes, a wrinkled face with plenty of laugh lines, and the longest beard of all of the gnomes. Always he wore a red stocking cap over his head, and a blue tunic and breeches, though his breeches were barely visible under his beard.
"I suppose he'd be useful." The colonel admitted as they rode back and dismounted in the stable yard. It was a warm night, so Devon gave Psyche a wet down, and put oil on his hooves and rubbed him dry with a cloth. His four white stockings and white blaze shone like some kind of ethereal thing in the dim light. She kissed him on the muzzle and walked up to the house, dusting off her leather breeches as she went inside to change for her next lesson, her last with Mithros, the god of war and justice.
Bad ending, I know, but I had to have a set up for the next chapter. A cool one I promise.^_^
Questions? Comments? Review and I'll answer!
Flames? Call 1-800-I-Don't-Give-A-Rat's-Arse
Nazzy Nazzy Nazgirl
I think, therefore I deserve pizza. Hey, it makes sense to me!
