- Posting Speed
- 1-3 posts per day
- One post per day
- 1-3 posts per week
- Writing Levels
- Adept
- Advanced
- Preferred Character Gender
- Male
- Primarily Prefer Female
- Genres
- Fantasy (high, low and anything in between), modern, medieval, anything that'll keep me at the edge of my seat. Romance is absolutely necessary. And fluff. Just a lil bit.
June held the pestle with delicate but steady hands, her gaze concentrated on the mortar positioned in the center of the table. If she had done the process correctly, and she was sure she had, the whitish mixture was supposed to turn a ruby color, but the mixture stared right back at her, unchanging, as she stared at it.
Her apartment looked as though a dust storm had blown through, papers and scrolls and odd trinkets scattered around the tables and floors. If one were to tidy up, organize all her scattered materials by purpose, they'd find that the apartment was, in fact, quite charming. The floors were hardwood, of a Manchurian Walnut variety, and the apartment in whole consisted of a bedroom, bathroom, kitchen, living room and study. She separated the living room and study with a rice screen; the study was where she presently stood, attempting to reload one of her vials with a pain killing drug.
Before she could scrap it and try again, the front door sounded with a harsh knock, staccato and urgent. June put her tools down and wiped her hands on her apron as she rushed to the door, finding a middle aged woman standing behind it.
"Healer, please, it's my daughter. You must come quickly!" She had a shawl wrapped around her head and shoulders, beckoning June to come and follow her. She complied, snatching a satchel that hung by the door as she left, running alongside her visitor. This was commonplace for June; an urgent civilian would come knocking at her door at any hour of day or night, and she would have to go tend to someone's injury or disease or something of the sort. She hated it, particularly, when it was a child.
"How old is your daughter, ma'am? Does she have a history of illness?" June asked.
"She's thirteen years of age, she- she has the falling sickness. It started few years ago. Please, you have to help her," The woman begged. June nodded. They weaved their way around rickshaws and other townsfolk before arriving at the sight of the incident. A little girl, pale, brown haired, with a man clutching her hand, presumably her father. She was no longer shaking, and her head hung limp. A crowd had gathered around them, shopkeepers and women with babies on their backs gasping, little boys and girls who'd momentarily paused their play to gawk at the sight. A few feet away stood another man, or creature, rather, with murky black robes and a ghastly air about him. June furrowed her eyebrows.
"No, you get away from her! You will not take this child today, Grim Reaper!" June shouted, shoving past the mass of people. The father passed the girl to her. He shook his head solemnly. "No, hold on," She said, frantically checking for breathing and a pulse. She found nothing.
Goddamnit.
It was always the children that wound her tight, making her the most frantic. June clicked her tongue and went about setting the girl on the ground, cradling her head in one hand and placing another on her chest. Normally, she wouldn't use such extraordinary measures on someone that was dead upon arrival, but June felt an irritating need to. She shut her eyes, and a warmth escaped her fingertips, glowing onto the child's chest. "Come on, come on..." She said, her voice an urgent whisper. She sat there for maybe five minutes with concentration pouring from her features, until she opened her eyes.
"I'm sorry for your loss. I'm really, very sorry." That was all June could say before she pushed off the ground. There was nothing else she could tell them that would make them feel better. Losing a child was almost commonplace. It was best to leave quickly and quietly, and allow the family to grieve alone. "Show's over, folks." June dispersed the crowd, before narrowing her eyes at one particular individual.
"You pediculous asshole." She hissed, storming off to grab the Reaper by the collar of his cloak. Her eyes were scornful and her gaze was blistering. Although he towered a good foot or two above her, fear was the one thing that was absent among her features. "You couldn't have waited another second, huh? Just had to whisk that little girl off to the afterlife. She was thirteen. Thirteen. Stay the hell out of my way next time, got it, Reaper?" June withdrew her hand sharply, storming off.
Her apartment looked as though a dust storm had blown through, papers and scrolls and odd trinkets scattered around the tables and floors. If one were to tidy up, organize all her scattered materials by purpose, they'd find that the apartment was, in fact, quite charming. The floors were hardwood, of a Manchurian Walnut variety, and the apartment in whole consisted of a bedroom, bathroom, kitchen, living room and study. She separated the living room and study with a rice screen; the study was where she presently stood, attempting to reload one of her vials with a pain killing drug.
Before she could scrap it and try again, the front door sounded with a harsh knock, staccato and urgent. June put her tools down and wiped her hands on her apron as she rushed to the door, finding a middle aged woman standing behind it.
"Healer, please, it's my daughter. You must come quickly!" She had a shawl wrapped around her head and shoulders, beckoning June to come and follow her. She complied, snatching a satchel that hung by the door as she left, running alongside her visitor. This was commonplace for June; an urgent civilian would come knocking at her door at any hour of day or night, and she would have to go tend to someone's injury or disease or something of the sort. She hated it, particularly, when it was a child.
"How old is your daughter, ma'am? Does she have a history of illness?" June asked.
"She's thirteen years of age, she- she has the falling sickness. It started few years ago. Please, you have to help her," The woman begged. June nodded. They weaved their way around rickshaws and other townsfolk before arriving at the sight of the incident. A little girl, pale, brown haired, with a man clutching her hand, presumably her father. She was no longer shaking, and her head hung limp. A crowd had gathered around them, shopkeepers and women with babies on their backs gasping, little boys and girls who'd momentarily paused their play to gawk at the sight. A few feet away stood another man, or creature, rather, with murky black robes and a ghastly air about him. June furrowed her eyebrows.
"No, you get away from her! You will not take this child today, Grim Reaper!" June shouted, shoving past the mass of people. The father passed the girl to her. He shook his head solemnly. "No, hold on," She said, frantically checking for breathing and a pulse. She found nothing.
Goddamnit.
It was always the children that wound her tight, making her the most frantic. June clicked her tongue and went about setting the girl on the ground, cradling her head in one hand and placing another on her chest. Normally, she wouldn't use such extraordinary measures on someone that was dead upon arrival, but June felt an irritating need to. She shut her eyes, and a warmth escaped her fingertips, glowing onto the child's chest. "Come on, come on..." She said, her voice an urgent whisper. She sat there for maybe five minutes with concentration pouring from her features, until she opened her eyes.
"I'm sorry for your loss. I'm really, very sorry." That was all June could say before she pushed off the ground. There was nothing else she could tell them that would make them feel better. Losing a child was almost commonplace. It was best to leave quickly and quietly, and allow the family to grieve alone. "Show's over, folks." June dispersed the crowd, before narrowing her eyes at one particular individual.
"You pediculous asshole." She hissed, storming off to grab the Reaper by the collar of his cloak. Her eyes were scornful and her gaze was blistering. Although he towered a good foot or two above her, fear was the one thing that was absent among her features. "You couldn't have waited another second, huh? Just had to whisk that little girl off to the afterlife. She was thirteen. Thirteen. Stay the hell out of my way next time, got it, Reaper?" June withdrew her hand sharply, storming off.