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tanarillWe took her out for delicious dinner at this place that does good Lebanese food. And I kind wish I didn't keep Kosher so much because I've had Lebanese-style lamb and I know it is good but sadly I could not have it there. I has stuffed grape leaves instead. Also, has anyone watching me ever eaten quail? It too was on the menu, but it is not something I have ever had because I don't know of anyone who butchers quail to be Kosher.
Also, another bit of this PoP thing. These two will not shut up.
Title:
Fandom: Price of Persia: Sands of Time
Rating: G
Warnings: Look, it's G rated, okay?
The other thing is that nothing much scared him anymore.
He thinks, sometimes, that people are born with a limited capacity to fear, and once it is used up, it is gone. Most of the time, he knows this is stupid, as stupid as he was to release the Sands of Time. But he had, and what little fright he held for ordinary, mortal things was subsequently burned off among the horrors of a world made of sand. Like his ability to fight, his understanding of true, gut-wrenching terror was born of sand, and nothing less will ever be enough to give him pause.
His father, who doesn't understand this because he can't know, praises him for his bravery.
He sighs, and open his eyes. He's not getting to sleep any time soon, not with these thoughts chasing each other through his head, and it isn't like he has anything to do tomorrow morning anyway. They saw the messengers off yesterday, and it will be at least six weeks before the response or the corpses come back. And, while he is trying to be a good crown prince, so he'll one day be the kind of king they looked back on for centuries . . . he's really very exhausted, and being tired only helps him a little.
He gets up, and starts pulling on his clothing. This . . . compulsion, and he's sure it is a compulsion now, is still very weak, but he knows in his bones that it will continue to grow stronger until he has to follow it. For now, walking in the city will do.
He's not supposed to go out into the city without guards, but he knows that in real trouble he'd be the one protecting them, not the other way around. Accordingly, he goes and unlatches the outside door. His guards prevent him from leaving unnoticed on the inside, but no one pays much attention to the balcony. It's a forty-foot drop to the ground, after all, and there are no convenient palms here.
What there is, however, is a delicate-looking bit of stone filigree acting as a railing, and if someone were to vault over it, then they could kick back and grab onto that flagpole, and, a little while and another few flags later, land soft-footed on the wall of the nearest courtyard. This courtyard does have trees, because it's a garden, and a little climbing gets him onto the roof, which is also a garden, and from there it's just a matter of climbing over the edge and dropping from rafter to rafter until he reaches the ground.
This time of night, the city is mostly quiet. Most people are asleep, the bar fights were over hours ago, and the only ones still out have no business being where they are. He's just walking, listening to the symphony of a million lives around him. Letting it drown out the call.
He's really profoundly grateful that he's scared of this, because it means that he's still human.
So, Farah walks all over her father. All over. And has had him wrapped around her finger since she was two. Minutes old. She's also Determined, and that probably not a good thing.
Also, another bit of this PoP thing. These two will not shut up.
Title:
Fandom: Price of Persia: Sands of Time
Rating: G
Warnings: Look, it's G rated, okay?
The other thing is that nothing much scared him anymore.
He thinks, sometimes, that people are born with a limited capacity to fear, and once it is used up, it is gone. Most of the time, he knows this is stupid, as stupid as he was to release the Sands of Time. But he had, and what little fright he held for ordinary, mortal things was subsequently burned off among the horrors of a world made of sand. Like his ability to fight, his understanding of true, gut-wrenching terror was born of sand, and nothing less will ever be enough to give him pause.
His father, who doesn't understand this because he can't know, praises him for his bravery.
He sighs, and open his eyes. He's not getting to sleep any time soon, not with these thoughts chasing each other through his head, and it isn't like he has anything to do tomorrow morning anyway. They saw the messengers off yesterday, and it will be at least six weeks before the response or the corpses come back. And, while he is trying to be a good crown prince, so he'll one day be the kind of king they looked back on for centuries . . . he's really very exhausted, and being tired only helps him a little.
He gets up, and starts pulling on his clothing. This . . . compulsion, and he's sure it is a compulsion now, is still very weak, but he knows in his bones that it will continue to grow stronger until he has to follow it. For now, walking in the city will do.
He's not supposed to go out into the city without guards, but he knows that in real trouble he'd be the one protecting them, not the other way around. Accordingly, he goes and unlatches the outside door. His guards prevent him from leaving unnoticed on the inside, but no one pays much attention to the balcony. It's a forty-foot drop to the ground, after all, and there are no convenient palms here.
What there is, however, is a delicate-looking bit of stone filigree acting as a railing, and if someone were to vault over it, then they could kick back and grab onto that flagpole, and, a little while and another few flags later, land soft-footed on the wall of the nearest courtyard. This courtyard does have trees, because it's a garden, and a little climbing gets him onto the roof, which is also a garden, and from there it's just a matter of climbing over the edge and dropping from rafter to rafter until he reaches the ground.
This time of night, the city is mostly quiet. Most people are asleep, the bar fights were over hours ago, and the only ones still out have no business being where they are. He's just walking, listening to the symphony of a million lives around him. Letting it drown out the call.
He's really profoundly grateful that he's scared of this, because it means that he's still human.
So, Farah walks all over her father. All over. And has had him wrapped around her finger since she was two. Minutes old. She's also Determined, and that probably not a good thing.
