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Date Posted: 15:40:20 03/16/10 Tue
Author: Esther
Subject: Debi, Debi, Debi. Don't ever assume that just because no one is posting no one is writing. Come inside if you want my take and to read my assignment(s) >>>
In reply to: Debi 's message, "So..." on 11:55:49 03/14/10 Sun

Okay, yeah, I can appreciate that not seeing the results could equate with thinking no one is doing the assignments. FYI, before I had the guts to post I did some of the homeworks, so just cause no one is sharing doesn't mean you're not inspiring the lurkers. *G* But to get back on track and speak for myself, well, I can say there is always something that twigs with me when I read the assignments. Something that resonates and makes me go search through my stuff because it's given me a glimpse of what's possible. No, not always do I write one. Yes, sometimes I do. Do I post them? Not always, just because sometimes I cheat. So don't you dare take the route of not posting any. Homeworks have a purpose on this board, don't you know? *G* And that purpose is to get us thinking as well as writing.

Now remember this is my take, but personally homeworks are meant to be fun. To challenge us in directions we haven't thought of yet. They're the practice we all need. They aren't meant to be critted, they are not necessarily meant to be part of the greater whole. And yet sometimes they inspire a greater whole. Darian, Fallon and the world of Mirrors wouldn't exist if it wasn't for a homework assignment.

So...do you remember the character study in regards to dreams? I'm still all over that. And yeah, words are always easy to come by, so who is to say I know what I'm talking about?

You want proof? Prolly not, but I'm going to give it to you anyway. Oh and yeah, here's your warning - This contains several bits and pieces, that amount to a bunch. Read at your own risk.

Okay. The dream homework still has me thinking, but in the meantime, I re-wrote this bit from my prologue...

Excerpt from working title ‘Sacrifice’
by E. M. Sawatzky © 2005-2010 All rights reserved.
Posted for review purposes only and does not constitute publication.


Rika jerked awake with an icy terror. Troubled often of late with dark dreams she had little sleep, and from experience knew no more would be forthcoming this night. Restless and needing a chance of solitude, she found herself on the familiar path to the waters edge where she sat on a rock and peered into the predawn darkness. Silent except for the lap of the tide against the rocks, she hoped the peacefulness would provide comfort.

By the will of the gods, the sun ascended, casting the sky in crimson and making the water sparkle. Rippling waves, Njord’s hands, lured the unwary with the glint of tempting jewels. Her eyes squinting against the glare, Rika searched the horizon.

Waiting for the axe to fall.

Her best friend Hakan, younger by three seasons, had herself exchanged swords and rings with her husband the day before. Today Hakan would wear the hustrulinet, a long, snow-white, finely pleated linen cloth in symbol of her status as wife, while Rika still wore her hair unbound and uncovered like a child.

Rika was no longer a child, indeed she had not been since the death of her parents. The images in her mind, the sound of battle, the very stench of blood remained, tarnishing the memory of her mother’s smile and vitality before the rape. A brutal act committed by the warmongering people to whom her father had later promised his only daughter to unite their clans. But her intended never came for her. His absence had left her a woman in a child’s role. Years after the truce between their clans because of the union they would make, and on his deathbed, her father urged Thord, not to give her to another, or else set the wrath of Var upon them.

Two cycles of season’s had passed since Thord had become her guardian and she was humiliated to rely on her brother’s hospitality. It was public knowledge he had turned down two offers. By law, she could marry the third man refused, but suspected Thord wouldn’t refuse the last as it would reflect on his honour to have a spinster sister. Her reasons for waiting were her own; she dare not break truth with the dark stranger. Her dreams told her to wait and she prayed none gave the bridal price before he came for her.

She hated this uncertainty she now faced. Her father, no doubt in the halls of Valhalla, feasting with Odin himself, while years later his word condemned his daughter to await an enemy named Steinarr Ó Dubhghaill.

“The rock hard fighting son of the dark and evil foreigner. ‘Tis a kind and gentle man I wait for.” She knew it; she had saw it.

She smiled as Hakan’s predictable response came readily to mind, then frowned. Fragments and flashes of her dream came back to haunt her.

‘At least ye have the dream of a handsome warrior,’ Hakan had said. ‘I have the reality of becoming wife to the first whelp who offered for my hand and met the bridal price.

‘Imagine Rika, a fleet of Drakkars, each bearing the square sail dyed blood red. Ornamented shields protecting the gunwales, a carving of a dragon on the bow. A striking Viking warrior come to take his bride.’ Square red sails appeared where shy met sea…


The young blond shook her head to dispel the images. Rika didn’t have to visualize. She had seen the longboats firsthand that fateful day, had felt the terror the image Hakan described invoked. She felt it again. Now. Today. Despite the trepidation, excitement made her pulse leap; her gaze focused on the point where turbulent sea caressed tranquil sky, she stood. The small spot on the horizon grew. Another appeared on its starboard side before the alarm sounded.

Pandemonium replaced the silence. Men positioned themselves to defend the harbour. Women and children sought refuge in designated locations. Despite the foreboding, Rika held her ground and watched her dream continue to unfold in brilliant splatters of blood; her mind’s eye streaked towards the outcome.

Men from the first Drakkar were in the shallows. One man in particular held her attention. Taller than the rest, with hair as dark as Odin’s ravens, Hugin and Munin, he jumped from the side into the thigh-high water. Droplets splashed onto his chest, bare in defiance of the cold, and clung for a moment before racing to his snug trousers. Three more warriors leapt overboard.

Archers, her fellow clansmen, pelted the arriving men with arrows. Unprotected, the men were defenceless and many arrows found their mark; the tall one grunted in surprise as an arrow impaled itself deep into his shoulder. Another man tumbled over the side of the Drakkar with a splash; his body floated on the current facedown, the once clear blue infused with red. Arrows continued to rain down; no reprieve was to be granted for the wicked. The tall one, the evil dark man whom was her promised, raised his sword in the air in a gesture of rebellion. “To death! May the Valkyries take you to Valhalla!” Many answered his battle cry; seasoned warriors, they quickly drew their own weapons.

Her own clansmen pressed onward, rushing into the water with swords cutting through the hasty defences. Many invaders without shields fell. The ones that fought on were outnumbered, caught between those that attacked and the Drakkar they arrived in. Screams rent the air, both those injured and those that would battle to the death. The press of water and dead bodies against their limbs hindered both sides.

Steinarr Ó Dubhghaill’s tanned skin glistened with sweat. Veins stood out in relief as his sword arm slashed repeatedly into her kinsmen. He was injured, unable to protect himself adequately without his shield. He parried a thrust, stepped back and lost his balance as a dying man grabbed his leg and pulled him down. Falling backwards, his head submerged under the water thick with spilled blood. His attacker’s sword rose, plunged down, striking at the moment his head and torso emerged.

Rika jerked to awareness with the splash; her dream was real. A frantic glance showed him in the water.

This was the dream that had woke her every night and sent her to the water’s edge. This dream in which she could not bear to witness his death. Now that it was reality it was inconceivable. “Nay! He’s my betrothed!” She plunged in the icy waters and struggled towards the Drakkars. “Stop!” Her long woollen tunic weighed her down, hindering her progress. “They’re not attacking!” Their shields were still strapped to the gunwales. A berserker maybe, but no marauder would deliberately go to battle without helmets and protective clothing.

“Stop!”

Steinarr Ó Dubhghaill watched her; the dark gaze held only awareness of her while treacherous danger lurked in waiting.

A second splash. A third. Her heart stopped; three men stood beside him as they had in her dream.

“Above you!” Rika gestured to the air above him. “Arrows!”

Dark brows drew together as he frowned. His movements furious, he yanked his axe from his belt, and with a great thwack, slashed the rope binding the shields to the gunwales and started toward her. Arrows pelted into the water, some striking the men her clansmen intended to kill, but not as many as in her dream. His sword cleared its scabbard. The arrow meant for his shoulder fell unheeded to the water, bobbing gently up and down with the waves.

With a last look at the murderous leer on his face, she spun around to retreat. Her dreams had allowed her to change the future. May Odin protect her. And her son Rurik. The son she didn’t have and who she just cursed.

***

And then, since Rurik is a dream weaver, here is a conversation he has with his uncle...


Excerpt from working title ‘Sacrifice’
by E. M. Sawatzky © 2005-2010 All rights reserved.
Posted for review purposes only and does not constitute publication.



Rurik gripped her shoulders as she struggled to get away. She knew. Perceptive, she had interpreted his emotions. Sensitive, she had intuitively shielded who she was. Different, she had come to him for understanding. From the first moment, she had known who he was and had shown no fear. Blood calls to blood and hers called to his. His eyes burned with a feral light.

He stood. This knowledge changed things. Oh, yes, how this changed things. A Draumkonur!

“What are you doing?”

“Come. Stand before me.”

Without hesitation she did, and when he urged her to turn her back toward him, she complied without fear. Ignoring the emotion her trust brought to the surface, he forced his will on her. “Be still. I will release you when it is safe.”

Rurik raised his arms, caught up in the senses and focused outward. Wind gusted around him, pushing at him, whispering to him. Particles of earth swirled around, driven into patterns from the force of air. Ashes to ashes, dust to dust, an ancestor long since buried formed into an identifiable entity before him.

Runes dictated I would meet you one day, son of evil.

Rurik acknowledged the sentiment with a slight nod. Dreams foretold your coming, brother of my mother.

The girl must die.

She is blood.

Our blood is tainted.


Rurik turned on his heel to follow the shifting dust. Our blood is strong. He listened to the laughter, allowing the image to circle. She possesses your gift.

The laughter stopped and the voice in his head possessed a threatening snarl of anger. She is the spawn of long ago seed ploughed into a conquered woman.

It was Rurik’s turn to laugh. You were known as seiðmaðr. You practiced women’s magic. The seed you planted was before you realized you possessed the woman’s gift of dream weaving. Seed sowed upon a woman true, but not your wife. Of that, you were incapable. You were known as a man who is argr, a man who is sannsorðinn. Your death proved it. Why should I listen to you?

Svá ergisk hverr sem eldisk. Everyone gets argr as he gets older.

Perhaps. But again, why should I believe your words? Rurik raised his hand, palm out and pushed the image back, holding it immobile.

What purpose would serve me if I lie?

What purpose indeed.
Rurik contemplated his uncle. Times have changed Thord. Your ideas are as useful as the relics buried beneath the earth. The old ways have no place in her life.

They do in yours.
The image smiled, a yawning black hole of darkness. You descend from a different era. No matter how much time passes, you are still as you were born to be. You possess the pulse that beats in the heart of the Norse. You understand the honour we possess that demands retribution and respect.

You dare speak to me of honour? You who destroyed your own settlement in an attempt to kill your sister?

A regrettable error of judgement.

An error my mother and father recognized before they died. You should have waited and killed me in the cradle.

Steinarr tried, your demon of a father slit your throat when you were asleep in your cradleboard. He failed as I knew he would. I warned them of the consequences, but they didn’t listen. Just like the man whom gave us life. I warned my father what was coming and he threatened banishment if I spoke of it to anyone. And then the fool tried to protect Rika by betrothing her to the man that would cast our own end.


Rurik smiled. She was but a child with nothing but her choices ahead of her when you poisoned her. Now he laughed. Do you even realize that all that has occurred is because of your actions? Without your interference and manipulation, I wouldn’t have been born. Steinarr wouldn’t have had to pledge himself to Rika and our clan. Rika wouldn’t have had to mate with a foreigner. If not for your stupidity, none of what you feared would have come to pass.

What I did was out of concern. To command respect befitting a warrior of status. Can you say the same?

Respect means nothing. Is nothing.

It means everything!

To garner respect is an indication of a conscience. A debilitating trait that causes hesitation. To hesitate is to die. Better to be guided by instinct and emotion as they don’t have any rational reason to be.

But you cannot die, Rurik. You can not feel. You are cursed.

Indeed.
He nodded acknowledgement. As are you.

Deny it if you must, but you live by the old ways. You have walked in the shadow of the past. You understand my reasons even if you cannot accept them.

Do I?

She will use you. Her, a female. Does that mean nothing?

You wish to use me as well.
Rurik smiled. I am not yet old enough to practice sannsorðinn.

You are of my sister’s blood, and what I did, I did to protect her from the end I foresaw. You are responsible for her death.

Indeed. It is written in the runes that I slaughtered Steinarr and Rika. I drank their blood when it was still warm. Have you nothing to offer that I don’t already know?

Perhaps a warning. Perhaps knowledge that would benefit you.

My oath of fealty isn’t given lightly.

Kill the girl. If her blood flows by your hand, the reward will be worth the sacrifice of your honour.

I have no honour to sacrifice. No reward I cannot take if I wish it.

If that is true, kill her. She is nothing. Kill her and I will reveal all that I know.

I am the son of Steinarr.
Rurik thrust outward with his hand, destroying the likeness. I am a Draumkonur like Rika. Her gifts surpassed your own. Because of her sacrifice, I have no need of your convoluted knowledge.

Heed my words, warrior, descendant of my blood. Your blood, our blood, is evil. The taint must be expunged.

Indeed. Your words of warning come too late.

She must die.

Oh, she shall, Thord. When it’s time, I will bury her myself.

A vow I will see to fruition.

If I will it. Begone.
Rurik dismissed him from his mind without a thought. He had more pressing matters.

***

Oh and what the heck. This was finished because I had a direction to go.


Excerpt from working title ‘Sacrifice’
by E. M. Sawatzky © 2005-2010 All rights reserved.
Posted for review purposes only and does not constitute publication.

Rurik prowled the graveyard, remembering.

He thought himself a fraud, and when all was said and done, he was. Dominik, despite a couple centuries of loyal service, had never been able to appease him. Rurik stood impassive as he buried his wife, and kept a watchful, if discrete, eye on him while Sacha was under his care. And then when Sacha married, Dominik ‘passed on’ and he, Rurik, inherited an old man for a house guest. An unwanted, unwelcome presence only to be endured until he too, died.

Decade after decade, Dominik had begged him to end it, but he refused. Rigid in his belief that Dominik had earned the penance he only watched him struggle with his physical infirmaries and mental anguish. Rurik did, however, take pity on him after the first one hundred years of watching his family from afar, aging and dying before his eyes, and left his ancestral home and never returned while Dominik lived.

Sacha’s grandfather had died in a strange land, living with a remorseless stranger. And while Rurik never experienced it while Dominik lived, the sorrow and regret he felt for what he had done to Dominik came back to haunt him every year around the date of the old man’s death. That was his reparation he supposed. And what had brought him to this necropolis in a strange city, on the night known as Christmas Eve.

Only this night he was not alone. And therein was the difficulty. Over the centuries that passed since Dominik’s death, he had mastered the ability of controlling emotions. He could feel things now; when he opened himself up to this vulnerability, he need not sacrifice his blood. Tonight, in Dominik’s honour, he had done both.

Relief reached him from the modern plots. An unusual sensation in a place filled with angst. He found himself watching her from a safe distance before he reconciled his thought with his actions.

Cold seeped into his bones; she sat with her legs curled under her with no protection from the ice and snow. He sniffed the air. Her mother was the deceased laid to rest in the earth. Odd. He breathed deeper. Ah. Cancer. The soil below the snow was disturbed this day; the daughter was thankful she no longer suffered. A comforting notion that disguised her grief, but would all too soon divulge itself for the lie it was.

She possessed the stillness of those for whom time matters not. That intrigued him. But when the light had faded, when the moon cast shadows of blue upon the snow, she rose and left. And he let her.

Blood called to blood. And the next Christmas Eve found him in the same cemetery. Waiting. She would come again this year. Of this he was certain. As a weaver of dreams, he would ensure it.

And she did. And the next. And the year after that. Each December 24th, for the next decade, he found her sitting in the cold embrace of snow, silent as the grave she came to visit. Each year found him searching for the changes taking place in her life. There was the man in her life now, a man Rurik recognized for what he was. A man who was argr, a man who was annsorðinn. Rurik would let him be for now. The woman needed him with a new baby to raise. And this year, she was pregnant. And ill.

Damn it. She was sick. He could scent the change in her immune system as she fought what ailed her. Why did her man allow her to come here and wallow in her past and chill herself deep into her bones? It started to snow, a tender dusting from the sky. Fluffy powder accumulated on her jacket, changing it from a deep black to ash, then to pure white. And still she sat unmoving.

“Mistress?” Rurik laid a gentle hand on her shoulder, noticing that she didn’t flinch at his touch. “Miss. Are you alright?”

As if in a trance, she turned her face upward toward him. Her gaze traced over his. She spoke in a soft, matter-of-fact manner. “I…I don’t know.”

Entranced, he took in the sight of her breath puffing up from her lungs in an icy vapour. Her pale skin, her posture itself, reminded him of Sacha. Exhaustion dulled her eyes. He held out his hand. “Come. You must be cold. I’ll see you home.”

Her lips moved in a glimpse of a smile. “I’m not cold.” She turned her face away, once again staring at the stone without really seeing it. “I think I have a fever.”

“Indeed.” All her statements thus far had been true. “Where is your husband?”

She ignored him.

“Miss. Why are you not at home?”

This question too, was disregarded.

He sat beside her, curious that she wasn’t alarmed with his presence. He was after all, a stranger looming over her. It was full dark. And they were alone in a place occupied by the dead. Her bones ached. It hurt her to breathe. She was weak. And vulnerable. Why did she not care?

“I lost my home.” Her hand rested on the bulge of her belly; her stillness apparent as she contemplated some inner scrutiny of her child. At last her chin moved in the direction of the marker. “It’s true you know.”

He spoke as soft as she. “What is?”

“That you can never go back.” She smiled. “She is what made the house we grew up in a home. And when she died, she took it with her.”

“It’s only natural to miss your mother.”

She turned her face toward him. “No.” She glanced away, indifferent. “I don’t miss my mother.”

“You’ve been coming here every Christmas Eve for a dozen years or so. Why, if not for her?”

Her gaze sharpened and lost the glaze of disinterest. “You’ve been watching over me for the same. Why?”

“I thought I had been discreet.”

“You do not deny it. Nor answer my question.”

“Indeed. Perhaps you already know my answer.”

She narrowed her eyes at him. “Fair enough.” There was a slight hesitation, a deep breath to steady her resolve. “At this time of year, I can’t help but remember how hard mom tried to make Christmas special. And yes, now that I am a mother myself, I understand her better and realize that most of it was an act put on for our benefit. That’s what you do after all. Every day and not just on Christmas. You put your children first. No matter how tired you are, or how ill, or how busy, a parent will find the reserve of strength they need to continue on. I recognize how my own mom did that now that she is gone. And despite my age, and whether or not I can physically be with her, she will always be a part of me, just as I will always be her child. She raised me the best she could. She let me make my own decisions and when there were consequences she stood by me. And despite both our shortcomings, she gave me what I needed to be independent and live my own life. So no, I don’t miss her just because she gave birth to me. I miss her because she loved me unconditionally just because I was. And now that she’s gone, I miss what that represents.” She snorted. “I guess that sounds pretty selfish.”

“Honesty is not selfish.”

“No? Then what is.”

“Living in denial. Refusing to see the truth because it is painful.”

“Hmph. Perhaps. But, Mr. I-Lurk-In-Shadows, it is past time for me to get to the four walls that make up my house and try and make it a home.” She shifted, awkward with child and stiff with cold.

Rurik stood and helped her gain her feet. “You need to rest.”

She smiled. “I need to tuck my daughter into bed. I need to wrap the last of the presents. I need t—”

He looked into her eyes. “You will go home and relax under a blanket with a warm drink to comfort yo—”

Her finger on his lips silenced him in more ways than one.

“I need to be a mother first. But then I promise, I will do as you say.” With that she turned and walked away.

Rurik watched her walk through the gates, listened for the soft footstep, and only when he heard her shut her door at her house did he take a breath and expel it. A breath, he noted with satisfaction, that didn’t have icy vapour clouding his vision because he had no warmth inside himself. He reached into his pocket and withdrew a handkerchief, dabbing away the blood oozing from his nose.

“Damn.” It was a soft muttered oath, lacking conviction.

They had touched each other. Now he would be capable of more than dreaming her existence and the path she would follow. He could manipulate her at will. She belonged to him.

Blood calls to blood. And his belonged to her.

***

And then, here it is, the homework that allowed me to seek out another side of Rurik. I didn't post it because it seems unfinished to me as of yet, but like I said, I'm working on it.


Excerpt from working title ‘Sacrifice’
by E. M. Sawatzky © 2005-2010 All rights reserved.
Posted for review purposes only and does not constitute publication.

Rurik sipped the drink Shelby had given him to help limber him up for the night’s activity. He stood in front of the fire, as per her instruction to warm up because no one appreciated cold hands on their private parts.

From this vantage point by the fireplace he could see into the kitchen; the woman had insisted on feeding them. Sounds of comforting home life drifted out; cupboards being closed, the opening of the fridge, the draw of a knife across a glass cutting board. The woman was warming up some appetizers up in the oven; smells of chicken wings, sausage rolls and scallops with bacon mingled and created a warm ambiance.

It was a welcoming home, decorated in warm tones, thick area rugs and with attention focused on entertaining. Close by the hearth where he stood, two love seats faced each other with a coffee table in between. At the opposite end, a comfortable arm chair, sumptuous for reading or watching the fire, and perfect for snuggling, especially with the blanket draped over the back. Damn him.

Did of his own choice count if he was dragged into the house?

His back to the fire, he dared a glance to the dining area on his right. The girl hummed carols along with the music playing as she wrestled the tree out of the box, jammed it into the stand and messed around with the branches.

Hell yes. It counted. “Fuck.”

Shelby glanced at him. “I expect you will later.” She turned her focus back to the tree. “Are the branches even?”

“Yes.”

She stepped back. “No they aren’t. There’s a big gap here.”

“Must have missed it.”

“Uh huh.” Her eyes narrowed at him. “You still cold?”

“I’m as warm as I’ll ever be.”

“Then why you shivering?”

Blood calls to blood. And his was in this room, determined to reach him. “Fighting my instincts.” Damn. He was sweating the cold sweat of the ill.

“I bet you are. There. That looks better.” Her head tilted to the side as if it would get her a different perspective. “Can you hand me the box by the ottoman?”

“No.”

Her eyes narrowed at him as she turned her head in his direction. “Why not?”

He attempted to smile. “Some tyrant gave me orders not to move until I finished.” He lifted his tumbler in illustration; he made a monumental effort to control the trembling in his hands so his full drink didn’t slosh over the side. And to get the box he’d have to go near Sacha’s blanket. Once had been enough. And then he had to tell it to stay like one would a misbehaving dog.

“Alcohol isn’t your addiction?”

“It would be simpler if it were.”

“You do drugs?”

“You know the answer.”

She narrowed her eyes at him. “Yeah. I guess I do. Doesn’t mean I’m not wondering what you’re up to. Or what you want.”

“I wanted to leave.”

“Yeah. I’m sure you did. That’s why a strong man such as yourself let a little bitty thing like me drag you miles down the street.” She nodded toward his glass, moving toward him with a luscious feminine glide. “You going to worry that drink to death?” She stirred the air with her passing; bending at her knees she lifted the box and carried it back to the tree in the corner of the room.

“Good vodka should be savoured.”

“Good vodka is like water to the thirsty.” She opened the lid and pulled out a string of lights, making quick work of untangling the cord. “It’s meant to be drunk.”

“Experienced a good hangover a time or two have you?”

She smiled, tucking a loose strand of blond hair behind her ear. “Nope.”

“Never?”

“Uh uh. You want to piss off a guy trying to score, stay sober.”

Now his eyes narrowed. “Most would stay sober by abstaining. I can’t imagine you’d skip the party.”

Shelby shrugged. “I like the party. Don’t like how they always end the same.”

“Maybe you choose the wrong men.”

“Nah. They all share the same chromosome to be an instant asshole. Just add alcohol, and voila!”

“If you believe that, why would you insist on giving me a drink?” Straight vodka. No water. No ice.

“Just being a good hostess. Besides, you might bear a striking resemblance to a Viking of old, but…” her eyes narrowed, giving him a scrutinizing once over, “if you were hell bent on raping any woman who comes across your path, I doubt you’d haunt the cemetery looking for action. Not in this day and age anyway.”

“Lady, you know nothing about me.”

“Lady is it? Yeah, a stud calling some weird chick a lady is sure to want to get down and dirty. Nah. You might be a lot of things, but not someone who would force a woman.”

“Now you would insult me?”

Shelby rolled her eyes. “Oh yeah baby. Look, if it makes you feel better, you’re just like all the other guys who drink too much, think they’re sexy, when all they are is some slobbering idiot. Happy now?”

“No.”

“Well at least that’s predictable.” She turned back to the tree, weaving the string of lights among the branches.

“And not very flattering. According to you, since I have a drink, I’m an asshole with excessive saliva.”

“Ewwww.” She laughed. “You have to admit the thought of some slobbering guy who thinks he’s sexy is just so wrong.”

“Indeed.”

“What? You like chicks that drool on you?”

“Depends on what part.”

“Was that a joke? The man of no expression has made a joke. Although not a very funny one.” Shelby turned away. “I meant when kissing. And you know it.”

“A healthy male isn’t thinking about kissing. It’s just something to endure to get to the goods.” Rurik smiled. Her actions indicated embarrassment, but that wasn’t it. “As enlightening as this conversation is, I’m still having a hard time believing you’ve never been drunk.”

“You’re not the first one.”

“Prove it.”

She turned back. “You want me to show you?”

“Indeed.”

“Indeed. What’s with the indeed shit? You sound like some old geezer.” She scrutinized him like one would a piece of meat in the market, like road kill covered in maggots. “I don’t drink alone. And you apparently, don’t drink at all.”

“You don’t want to see me drool so you could lord it over me?”

“Not especially.” She focused on the task of arranging the lights; almost at the top, she had to reach, stretching up on her tiptoes to give her added height. “When’s the last time you were falling down drunk?”

“Never experienced the pleasure.”

Shelby looked over her shoulder at him. “Now that I don’t believe either.”

“There’s an easy solution.”

“I’m listening.”

He didn’t hesitate. “Drink with me.”

“Drink with you? Like get out the booze and chug it to see who passes out first?”

“Sure.” He had her attention. “Think of it as a bet you can’t lose.”

“Why should I?”

“I possess what you need.”

“Oh really?” Her lips curled in a flirtatious smile. “What would that be darlin’?”

He returned the smile with one of his own, but otherwise didn’t respond.

“Okay. What are you offering?”

“Here’s the deal Shelby. You match me drink for drink.”

“You’d match me drink for drink you mean.”

Rurik raised his glass to her. “But if I can get you flat on your bac—”

“You won’t.” She retrieved the glass of water she had sitting on the table closest to the tree and poured it into a plant. She then poured herself an equal portion of vodka from the bottle sitting on the coffee table.

Rurik waited until she stood before him. “But if I get you flat on your back, and at my mercy, you have to—”

She smiled. “I’ll have to what? Slobber on your favourite man part?”

Rurik let the silence build. Her pulse throbbed; one beat. Two. He cupped her chin between his index finger and his thumb, holding her immobile while he concentrated on the depths of her eyes. His whispered words held a lover’s caress. “Tell me your dreams.”

She jerked. Just a slight movement but it contradicted her causal tone. “That’s it?”

Rurik nodded.

“And when you’re the one laying prone and horny at my feet, what do I get big man?”

“The same as I. Dreams of unimaginable terror, promise, and beguiling beauty.”

Shelby considered it for a moment, gesturing with her glass when she reached her decision. “Intriguing. But I wonder if a bad boy such as yourself can possibly dream about anything besides pussy.”

“Such language, my beguiling beauty, is beneath you.” Rurik caressed the line of her jaw with his index finger. “And it offends me.”

“Do you dream of me?”

“I am still standing.”

“And I’m questioning what you have to offer when I win. Can you deliver on your promise?”

“Always. Accept Shelby and I’ll expose you to a world of sexy, erotic sensation, where lust for what we covet destroys all human inhibitions.” He gauged her reaction to his words, and knew he was correct.

The visions in her eyes were wise beyond her years, her manner serious. “You don’t want, or dream, of sex any more than I do. Don’t play me. I expect your honesty. No falling dreams where you wake up before you die. No being naked in school. Or failing a test. Driving a car too fast or any of that shit. I expect the real deal.”

“Agreed. Beat me Shelby and I’ll take you to a place where the dreamscape is what we make it, and where what we envision comes to life.”

“Then, I’m in.” She lifted her tumbler to his and clinked glasses, the crystal ringing in anticipation. “Let’s get the party started.”

“Ladies first?”

“Uh uh.”

Together they both raised their glass and slammed the contents back, neither flinching under the other’s scrutiny.

It seemed as if no time at all had passed, but the empty bottles attested that some had. The clock also indicated as much. For the last two some odd hours, they had sat across from each other, not saying much.

Shelby poured the last bit of liquid from the last bottle into Rurik’s glass. “That’s it.”

Rurik raised the crystal to his lips and drank. “Indeed.”

She smiled. “Now what?”

He rose to his feet, waited for her to follow his lead before walking around the table and taking her hand in his.

Rurik led her to a clear area between the love seat and the dining room table. "The foreplay is over." One quick movement and she was flat on her back. His hands held hers over her head, his hips pressed hers to the floor.

She fought him, struggling against his hold.

His lips caressed the column of her throat. His breath stirred the wisps of her hair. "Now, darlin'," he whispered, "you're going to show me your dreams."

***

There. You see? One homework suggestion caused all that. So get busy thinking about what you're going to assign this time, cause I ain't letting you off the hook.

Hugs

Esther

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[> [> Wow, cool, so it is working...;-) -- Debi, 19:24:59 03/17/10 Wed

Point taken. I'll be posting new homework this weekend. Now to think of something good.

And by the way, I want to *read* as well as write!

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[> [> [> We just love it when you get all stern with us and stuff. ;0 -- Page, 12:27:36 03/18/10 Thu

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[> [> [> [> *snerk* Stop it... you're embarrassing me ;-) -- Debi, 12:54:43 03/18/10 Thu

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[> [> [> [> [> Shhhh! Some of us are trying to read. :-P And btw, I'm on page 161 of 662, and I want to take notes. But I can't cause not only is it too good, but he's going to play! Play! Oh and *mwha* -- Esther, 13:12:14 03/18/10 Thu

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[> [> [> [> [> [> *mwah* back! 662 pages???? Are you kidding? I never looked at the total page count. Let's all sing: "I like big books, and I cannot lie..." -- Page, 16:16:57 03/18/10 Thu

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[> [> [> [> LOL! Seriously, I need a butt kicking. I've been sooo uninspired to write lately- I think it's spring fever. And Lent- dang, I need a drink. -- susiej, 18:22:06 03/19/10 Fri

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