Hazel says huud! What? Is that pronounced like it rhymes with food, or is it like hood? Because if she's saying hood, that just makes me think of Thor, and I'm going to flip. Out. And. Yell. About. My. Crush. Which. I. Have. Done. So. Many. Times. Recently.

So which one is it, Hazel? XD 

Psst, please check out Otherworld if you ever have the time! :)

Some misc writing for the LtE. A belated happy fourth :P

❄ 

The lake was bathed in a golden light from the setting sun, illuminating each small ripple to every large wave. She inhaled, pulling a section of rope over her palm, and looping it around a nearby stump. There. Now the boat would stay, leaving her to...

She dove under the water, holding herself there before twisting her body experimentally. It began slowly--a few gentle strokes, a few sweeping motions as she swam. Time seemed to move slowly for her there, allowing her to twist and turn through water.

Then the need for air kicked in, shattering the feeling. She surfaced, breathing deeply. The air was cold on her wet skin, the sky darker than it had been. She took another breath and dove.

She twisted through the water, darting through it. She dove and moved and swam, swimming until a light shriek filled the air. She surfaced, finding the shape of her boat in the dark and pulling herself onto it. The shriek only had been seconds ago, meaning--

There was a loud pop as a gold firework exploded above the lake, twinkling over it in glory. A cherry-red one followed it, sending sparks across the sky. She shivered, pulling her towel close. The fireworks reflected in the waves, reflected in her eyes; she couldn't help but duck, feeling all-too close to them in some strange way. 

She pushed strands of wet hair out of her face, trying to get a better view of their glory. She had seen fireworks over land before, of course, but nothing seemed to compare to them when over the place she loved best. 

Some more random writing. Thoughts?

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Long had the
blood been flowing from Ork’s weary wound, and yet he did not die. All he had
to do was imagine his revenge: the seven lovely maidens, their pink polished
smiles shattered, their beauty darkened by the groping shadows of his home, their
prison, and he was sure he could live forever.

     But as time passed he finally came to the
conclusion that, as pleasant as it was to lie here dreaming, he must treat his
wound. It was a long, deep gash down his left side, the work of fairy swords.

     Fairies. Ugh.

     They had had this rivalry for a long
while, ever since Ork had woken up from his Deepest of Sleeps, which all
dragons have at the age of 72, lumbered out into the open, and saw their
colorful wings fluttering coyly among the leaves of the Rhododendron. Once, the
Rhododendron had been home to everyone in the land of Gsahl, a sort of park or
meeting place. No one would ever dream of taking it over, until the fairies.

     Ork had hated the fairies for this. And
they hated him, too, because he was ugly, and fairies despised ugly things.

     Ork raised himself from the hard dirt
floor, wincing, and stumbled across the room to his medicine stores. He had
accumulated an impressive store of things – dried flower petals, acorn tops,
pebbles, and such – over the years, and he kept it all in one large chamber.

Top! For um, Thor. 

*Snorts* Oh wow. Hazel says hahu. I just saw that and...that's funny. Wow.