Libelle
11-22-2008, 03:29 PM
Sunlight filtered in through the curtains, spilling over and under where they didn’t quite cover the windows, and spread out on the huge four-poster where Libelle was trying to wake up. She was lying pin-straight in the bed’s exact center, arms curled under her chest and one foot angled over the other. Her face was buried in the cleft between the pillows.
Her mind was groggily weaving in and out of the advantages of staying in bed versus acknowledging the day, touching periodically on the dim recognition that she had spent the night alone. She was feeling murky enough for the thought not to evoke her ever-returning fears, but she did remark glumly to herself that it is nearly impossible to awaken without help.
With heroic effort she threw the quilt over her head and tunneled her way through the sheets to the bed’s edge, poking out a leg experimentally. It was not cold. The Dalaran air never was, not even in the morning, but too many freezing nights in Forsaken inns had given her a phobia of frigid floorboards and unbearable baths.
She sat up and let the covers fall away. Blinking at the enormous rug, she watched its colors swirl together and tried to remember what came first in the morning.
What came first was standing up. She did. She smoothed her ivory nightgown down over her hips and teetered. She fell toward a post at the foot of the bed and clung there while she waited for her vision to focus.
Her eyes came into alignment and she remembered that the next step was choosing a dress. She also remembered that the only dress she had brought was the plain green one folded neatly over the back of the chair in the corner; her only other clothes were the leathers and tabard piled in a heap on the ground. They would soon need cleaning.
Now that she had found a semi-permanent place to stay in Dalaran, perhaps she should return to Silvermoon and retrieve some more dresses. Not that she had much occasion to wear them. Today would be another leather-and-tabard day. There were no foreseeable dress days.
With her clothing chosen she let go of the bedpost and stumped toward the mirror and washbasin in the corner to freshen herself, and fix her hair and face.
---
Libelle’s head was still heavy by the time she made it downstairs to the Lounge’s common room. She liked her breakfasts light; fruit and milk (sans vodka), and she never drank coffee. There were fruits of all varieties here, things that couldn’t possibly grow in Northrend, but magical cities had their advantages. Today she was crunching at a sweet golden-skinned apple, ignorant of the night elf two seats over who was already taking an early lunch.
Hibiscus was on the ground next to her, tied to her seat to restrain her untrained puppy vigor. Fluttersnuff was still the first choice, of course, but the morning demanded something less sleepy than a moth. Hibiscus leaned out eagerly, nearly choking herself on the leash, but panting with enthusiasm. She watched the other patrons with happy eyes. Libelle didn’t notice. She just rubbed at a trickle of juice at the corner of her mouth, and reminded herself silently that today was not a dress day. It would still be some time yet before she should take a day off.
Her mind was groggily weaving in and out of the advantages of staying in bed versus acknowledging the day, touching periodically on the dim recognition that she had spent the night alone. She was feeling murky enough for the thought not to evoke her ever-returning fears, but she did remark glumly to herself that it is nearly impossible to awaken without help.
With heroic effort she threw the quilt over her head and tunneled her way through the sheets to the bed’s edge, poking out a leg experimentally. It was not cold. The Dalaran air never was, not even in the morning, but too many freezing nights in Forsaken inns had given her a phobia of frigid floorboards and unbearable baths.
She sat up and let the covers fall away. Blinking at the enormous rug, she watched its colors swirl together and tried to remember what came first in the morning.
What came first was standing up. She did. She smoothed her ivory nightgown down over her hips and teetered. She fell toward a post at the foot of the bed and clung there while she waited for her vision to focus.
Her eyes came into alignment and she remembered that the next step was choosing a dress. She also remembered that the only dress she had brought was the plain green one folded neatly over the back of the chair in the corner; her only other clothes were the leathers and tabard piled in a heap on the ground. They would soon need cleaning.
Now that she had found a semi-permanent place to stay in Dalaran, perhaps she should return to Silvermoon and retrieve some more dresses. Not that she had much occasion to wear them. Today would be another leather-and-tabard day. There were no foreseeable dress days.
With her clothing chosen she let go of the bedpost and stumped toward the mirror and washbasin in the corner to freshen herself, and fix her hair and face.
---
Libelle’s head was still heavy by the time she made it downstairs to the Lounge’s common room. She liked her breakfasts light; fruit and milk (sans vodka), and she never drank coffee. There were fruits of all varieties here, things that couldn’t possibly grow in Northrend, but magical cities had their advantages. Today she was crunching at a sweet golden-skinned apple, ignorant of the night elf two seats over who was already taking an early lunch.
Hibiscus was on the ground next to her, tied to her seat to restrain her untrained puppy vigor. Fluttersnuff was still the first choice, of course, but the morning demanded something less sleepy than a moth. Hibiscus leaned out eagerly, nearly choking herself on the leash, but panting with enthusiasm. She watched the other patrons with happy eyes. Libelle didn’t notice. She just rubbed at a trickle of juice at the corner of her mouth, and reminded herself silently that today was not a dress day. It would still be some time yet before she should take a day off.