Day 4:Nostalgia

Valeriya’s take on this prompt was so sarcastic, you guys.

Lyon asks why she wanted to talk to him, like seeking out a gentleman’s company isn’t the clearest way a lady has of expressing interest in him.

[snip]

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I literally laughed out loud at least three times. I know no greater endorsement.

7KPP Week 2018: Day 1, Heart

For this year’s challenge… well, my Revaire MC recieved a letter - as if she had no ominous messages to worry about, as it is. Feeling somewhat creative, I decided to actually write it, fold it, and then seal it. Below, after a short prologue to the mystery, are the results of this idea.

The dressing table in the room occupied by Eloise of Namaire was a chaotic affair. Ashwood, bright and polished, carved into intricate patterns depicting nymphs surrounded by garlands of flowers, was barely visible from beneath what seemed to be at least half of the baroness’ earthly possessions. Jars of Corvali attar adorned with crystals and gold leaf; flacons of Arlish perfume, tinted glass blown into pleasing shapes. A variety of powder and rouge brushes that had found a temporary home in a wooden cup. Powder and rouge itself, pressed into the six compartments of a cunningly designed pomander. Three kohl pencils set atop a jar of carmine unguent for the lips. A pair of lacy gloves, stained and abandoned. A tangle of long earrings, gems glittering in shades of red, emerald, and violet. Ribbons, frayed and new alike, ivory, gold, and black.

And now, Eloise thought, surveying the effects of her pursuit of beauty, a letter as well. A letter sealed with black wax, bearing the impression of a symbol she had never seen before. A heart, with a Wellish style imperial crown resting upon it.

Slowly, carefully, mindful not to break it, she found her way to the words it was meant to protect. A poem. No word of explanation, no signature. Merely that, irregular blank verse written in a hasty hand, the quality of both leaving much to be desired.

Another one, she thought, letting the note fall from her hand. Why would anyone insist upon writing such awful poetry? It lacked even the bland virtues of a parlour accomplishment; no meter there, no rhymes to speak of. Was it supposed to be a jest? Some imitation of the bard she invited to entertain her guests in the past week?

More still, to be found here. I trust in your eyes.

Oh yes, my mysterious admirer. I shall most certainly roll them on your account.

Though less than impressed, much less than amused, and never the most patient of women, the baroness of Namaire was a creature of habit. She traced the lines of the paper, seeking messages under messages. Nothing, not even with the aid of a candle’s flame, no invisible ink, no anagrams, no secrets revealed by seemingly innocent phrasing.

And then, she saw it. The verses. That whimsical division of the lines that matched no poetic pattern she knew of.

Blue eyes squinted in an expression of bemusement, Eloise had read the letters that started each line.

The acrostic! I'm alive!