Roy G. Biv tag game

Tagged by @somethingclevermahogony , I adore this concept!

Jamos Dalion had travelled a good deal in his youth, and the evidence was abundant in his private room. Books on the shelves were written in no language Jerod recognized, scrolls of parchment he had never seen the insides of piled along the tops of them. A small chest in the corner painted bright red with delicate gilt inlays came from Dalsa in the Latavni Empire, and a Baleric wood carving stood on another shelf high above. There were little copper lanterns and jewelled cases, clay pots and shards of a sharp black stone, a fish made of red glass...Jerod wondered if it was a kind of collection, akin to the one hidden in his own drawers. And of course, there was the map.

As it had been Nysel’s father – or what remained of his wealth – that gave shape to much of the celebration, things from her country, and from the Imperial lands her mother hailed from, were brought to Durrigan when the time was near. Much of it being food. Pomegranates and oranges and southern red quail, black plums and soft cheese and flat, spiced bread, barrels of a drink made from honeyed wine and the juice of lemons. Other things came from them too. A canopy of orange silk. The bride’s clothes.

He shook himself. Here he was, at home, under green and yellow silks in springtime. His brother was getting married. The air carried a scent of heather honey, and blue moths flickered at the lit torches. Right now, there was nothing to fear.

Time passed in great swaths. One of the old men began a hacking cough and Jerod felt the dust surrounding his own throat, the cracks in his lips, the blood drying on his face. Old memories swam to the surface of his mind; a piece of twisted old metal cool between his fingers, a black orb so dark he could see no light within it. A stub of wax candle and a bowl of blood cradled in rust-coloured leaves. A woman with a face like old parchment, cloaked in emerald green, a lantern in her hand.             And older ones. Green veins creeping up the length of a dead boy’s arm. How old had he been? The sleeve of his tunic had been slashed and jostled so that his wrist was visible, the old mark caked in blood and dirt. Were his veins green too, now?

Laedir was of a different sort, and did not look much like his father. Were he not who he was, he would not be half as intimidating. But his younger siblings found him so, because he was the eldest in the family and the heir to Durrigan, because at twenty four he already had a wife and young child of his own. He was not very tall. A dark blue travelling hood covered his hair, darker and curly like his mother, but his eyes were like Jamos’. They too gave little away. He had square hands and a square face of quiet, closed features. Often he did not smile.

Despite everything, he could not help noticing the warm touch of her arm, of the way the lantern light played across her cheeks. Violet night-shadows mingled with the gold radiance, shade and light together sharpening the lines of her nose, her jaw. Jerod had a brief but vivid image of himself sitting across from her and sketching the lines of her face with his charcoals, bringing those shapes to life on parchment.

Tagging: @kaatiba @writingmoth @on-noon