Prompt: He was a half blood, the son of a siren and an
islander. He inherited his enchanted voice from his mother and his penchant for
lechery from his father. He used his voice--and his not-insubstantial good
looks--to become a famous bard on the mainland. (*cough* after being run off
the island by a mob of angry husbands and fathers *cough*).
But he just seduced the wrong woman...
#2: The Lady and The Bard
"Her eyes, like diamonds,
Her dancing feet;
Her flaxen hair,
and lips so sweet..."
The cloying tones thrummed through the room like a sound you
could feel, an electrifying sensation that commanded attention and held it.
The singer sat upon a rickety stool, strumming his
instrument with deft fingers as he sang. He used no amplification system, but
every ear in that crowded tavern heard his voice. All eyes upon him, till the
last note faded. He smiled and let his gaze travel; he would have his pick
tonight.
She sat at a table by herself, as if she repelled people as
much as he drew them in. He could feel the warmth radiating off her dusky skin,
and the sparkling eyes under the tousled mop of ashy-colored hair caused him to
pause. He had long thought that the songs he sang spoke of women too exquisite
to exist, an ideal no one could measure up to... yet here she was, a physical
embodiment of everything he described. She sat with an easy grace that would
have served as a warning to anyone with less fortitude than he had. If he did
not at least attempt to breach her strange, exotic aura, he would obsess over
her for the rest of his life.
He rarely thought of any one woman that long, and he didn’t
want to break that habit anytime soon.
She met his gaze as he stepped off the stage, but there was
no blush, no dip of the head. Meeting her eyes was like staring directly into
the point of an icicle: fascinating in its deadliness.
His heart catapulted into his throat, and his whole body
felt warm as his pulse tripled, then quadrupled.
A mere mortal, faced with such devastating beauty, would
have been rendered speechless.
He blessed his mother silently, as it was her abilities that
allowed him to say, with perfect clarity, “I hope you didn’t mind that I took
the liberty of describing you in my song just now.”
The merest tickle of a smile rippled over her face. “Not the
first time it’s happened, and certainly among the better descriptions I’ve
heard.” She leaned back, arms resting lightly on the table, hands relaxed.
He pulled up a chair and sat at the table, angled to look
directly at her, yet without being on the complete opposite side of the tiny
circle table.
He nodded to her casual, color-saturated outfit. “I see you
aren’t exactly what they would call a local; what brings you to the mainland?”
The icicle gaze impaled him again. “I like to travel,” she
said, her voice smooth and breezy. “It gets boring, living alone in my own
little corner of paradise. I came here because I had heard the food was good
and the entertainment enchanting.”
Music to his ears! He slid right into the next segue. “I am
only recently arrived myself. I hope I have done the recommendation justice.”
She laughed lightly, leaning forward onto her elbows. He saw
the way her contours caught the light and gleamed. Never before had he been so
drawn in and captivated by a potential conquest. They were all marks to him,
empty faces waiting to be filled by his whims, any amount of significance he
cared to give them—and one blink of her curling eyelashes, and none of them
mattered beside her.
“You have done well,” she answered. “It has been a long time
since I have heard anyone with your peculiar gift for music.”
He turned his gaze away as part of the game, but secretly,
he felt relief and a sense of autonomy to still be able to manage even that
much. “I inherited it from my mother,” he said, giving the honest line without
revealing who (or what) his mother actually was.
“She would be proud of you.”
Now her hand enveloped his, her fingers twining around his
wrist like a soft glove.
The last words were on his lips, when he heard them spoken
by her.
“Shall we go?”
“Go where?” He blurted, before he returned to his senses and
began to realize something was very wrong. The glove turned to smoldering coal
gripping his palm with dry strength exceeding his expectations.
Her eyes were still as mesmerizing and cold as her skin
blazed with controlled fire. “To show me what skill you inherited from your
father, of course,” she answered, standing and compelling him to do likewise.
None of the island women had ever dared compel him to do
anything. He had been in control the whole time, and had departed secure in his
victory. Yet this woman towered over him, leading him easily whithersoever she
willed.
At last, he had the presence of mind to be truly terrified.
“What is your name, clever minstrel?” She surveyed him with
an air of practiced appraisal.
“Devon,” he answered, still without hesitation or stutter.
His voice never once betrayed his true feelings; he could always depend on
steady speech.
“What is yours?”
“I have many names,” she replied, as they made their way
down the street, “but tonight, I will permit you to call me Aphrodite.”
>>>>>>>>>>>>>
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