Disclaimer: If I owned LOD that would mean I owned Lloyd. And if I owned
Lloyd, there would be no way in HELL I'd write fanfiction. I'd be......
busy.
What can I say, I love sentence fragments. *Bows head in shame* ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~ Meru: Cat's Cradle.
Strike! And bound away like a liveried bird caught in the updraft, a whirling dervish of blue fabric and pale skin, a laughing thing of snow and glass, giggling madly as iron connects with bone, a cracking jolt of breaking limbs.
With the fluid grace of a tumbling mountain stream, gurgling down the rocks in a mad rush to the ocean, and the deliberate pace of a placid lake, staring back at the sky like a limpid eye that sees all that tells no one, and the screaming fury of an ice storm in the northern reach, she strikes and retreats, laughing, teasing, swinging her hammer of death with all the care of a child.
Merriment in her scarlet eyes, she hooks it behind her back in an impudent gesture meant purely for her own amusement.
But the laughing child has a taste for blood, and she delights in the smooth feel of her hammer, the twirling grace of her weapon, and in the wet thud of crushed bone. "Cat's Cradle!" she cries, and the intricate, centuries-old steps of the hammer dance take her, and she is caught in the rushing sound of spinning iron, and the crack of connected blows, and finally, the end move, her feet perfectly in line, her head cocked upright like a proud rooster, her hammer caught delicately in a slim-fingered grip behind her back, her pale hair in its foolish decoration caressing the back of her neck, and an elated laugh burbling out of her throat.
She turns and skips away, her battered sandals slapping the ground and raising dust, the ridiculous bows and frills of her attire bouncing with her, an outfit that has earned her more than one disapproving, and scathing remark from the Dark Dragoon.
Honestly, that woman doesn't know how to have fun at all.
What can I say, I love sentence fragments. *Bows head in shame* ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~ Meru: Cat's Cradle.
Strike! And bound away like a liveried bird caught in the updraft, a whirling dervish of blue fabric and pale skin, a laughing thing of snow and glass, giggling madly as iron connects with bone, a cracking jolt of breaking limbs.
With the fluid grace of a tumbling mountain stream, gurgling down the rocks in a mad rush to the ocean, and the deliberate pace of a placid lake, staring back at the sky like a limpid eye that sees all that tells no one, and the screaming fury of an ice storm in the northern reach, she strikes and retreats, laughing, teasing, swinging her hammer of death with all the care of a child.
Merriment in her scarlet eyes, she hooks it behind her back in an impudent gesture meant purely for her own amusement.
But the laughing child has a taste for blood, and she delights in the smooth feel of her hammer, the twirling grace of her weapon, and in the wet thud of crushed bone. "Cat's Cradle!" she cries, and the intricate, centuries-old steps of the hammer dance take her, and she is caught in the rushing sound of spinning iron, and the crack of connected blows, and finally, the end move, her feet perfectly in line, her head cocked upright like a proud rooster, her hammer caught delicately in a slim-fingered grip behind her back, her pale hair in its foolish decoration caressing the back of her neck, and an elated laugh burbling out of her throat.
She turns and skips away, her battered sandals slapping the ground and raising dust, the ridiculous bows and frills of her attire bouncing with her, an outfit that has earned her more than one disapproving, and scathing remark from the Dark Dragoon.
Honestly, that woman doesn't know how to have fun at all.
