Patricia Wilson
Stories
10
Chapters
3,347
Words
163.4 K
Comments
0
Reading
13 h, 37 m
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Yep. You are right. I was scheduling my chapters for the week and posted one by accident. In my defense, I have only done this a few hundred times over the course of almost two years. Eventually I will get the hang of it. Fingers crossed. Which might explain my typing speed and accuracy. Not... easy to do, with your fingers crossed. Anyhow, sorry for the confusion and I hope you all have a wonderful New Year's Eve, and an even better year to come. Warby And now, to fufuil my mandatory word count,…-
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“About that…” “Yes?” Merkovah asked. “I found Vig.” There was a long pause on the line. “Tell me everything.” Truth did so, including how frustrating he found not making contact. Merkovah sounded relieved at the end of it. “You handled that exactly right. Exactly right. In theory, it might have been better not following him, but this adds another layer of plausibility to the illusion of a vast nationalist uprising.” “Great, super.” Merkovah sighed. “Sorry. That was…
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Truth watched Vig working from a distance. The lady was just barely the wrong side of pretty, and just barely the wrong side of too old, at least next to Vigor. Vig had dressed down, drab clothes cut not too flatteringly. There was no hiding those eyes, though. The smokey darkness of them, like dried opium, promised an inescapable dream and terrible consequences. Without a doubt, Vigor had seduced the older woman, and the older woman was convinced she was a bad person for preying on him. The question was,…
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Truth woke to fiendish luxury, stretched indulgently, and sighed contentedly. He took a moment to contemplate what to do with the day. He examined his hand. Long, strong fingers. Well shaped. No scars, which should be impossible but he chalked it up to the Meditations and the odd skincare benefits from the Ghul baptisms. In a word- aristocratic. The hands of a warrior prince. Incisive was getting, for lack of a better term, sticky. He had noticed it for a while now. As long as he wasn’t pushing hard on…
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Truth quickly considered Mary’s request. He was The Prince, and the core of the Prince was power- the power to rule over others. This meant securing the willing cooperation of his lessers. His personal dignity, his glory, therefore mattered a great deal. Without it, they would not be obedient. The other thing was fortune, but that was a matter for another time. So what to do about Mary’s grandson? Delegate. Make his people problem someone else’s problem. Because nothing says personal power like…
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Truth woke up. Or not. There was a long moment, impossible to say how long, where he lay in bed paralyzed by the sensation of unreality. The keening scream of the System faded into a high-pitched whine as every object he could perceive, every sensation he experienced, became illusory. As real as it ever was, which, for a time, was no more real than a toddler’s sketch of their bedroom. Truth drew a convulsive, deep breath through his nose and cast Incisive as hard as he could. He didn’t adopt the…
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The boat sailed down the wide, twilight street, cheered on by the entire polis. The sail was nothing less than the Leading the procession to the temple were the basket bearers. They were girls just old enough to marry, possessed of impeccable virtue, and coming from the very finest families of the Behind the basket bearers, the priests, the celebrants, the marching soldiers, the beautiful boat, the musicians, came the victims. This was the Panathenaia. Nothing less than a hecatomb would do. Fully one…
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The Prince appeared without warning. The supposedly locked door to Mary’s Garden opened, the recording talismans unable to capture his radiance. Tall, hair the color of a moonless night, eyes like black wells with drifting golden stars in the depths. Dressed in exquisite yet casual clothing that clung to his tall, perfectly proportioned frame. Muscular without being grotesque, he was violence and sensuality made flesh. The Prince was entirely failing to keep with the softer, more androgynous standards…
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Truth picked the first recliner and got comfortable. Then convulsively shivered and got even more comfortable. This might well be the single most comfortable chair he had ever sat in. Supportive, yet soft. Ergonomically designed to make you feel almost weightless, as the body weight is distributed and diffused through the dense cushions. He didn’t know what material it was upholstered with. It felt soft, softer than velvet, and even more smooth. He even liked the sage green color. “Are the chairs for…
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Conjin felt off. Not in the sense of it being a trap. In the sense that Truth couldn’t feel the logic of the place. The geography threw him. It was another instance of Truth's education not giving him the language to describe something he intuitively experienced. All he could say was that the lack of a ring road felt weird. The sharply tapered triangle of the city narrowed as it ran inland, with the bulk stretching along the concave curve of the coast. It felt alien. Off. A city built for some inhuman…
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