<h2><center>consecrated</center></h2><center><i>Sophia de Augustine</i></center><center><hr>
<b>— 1 John 4:19 — </b>
We love because he first [[loved us.->1]]</center>
<center>[[Credits]]</center>
https://catn.decontextualize.com/twine/
For brunch, I ate <<cycle "$brunch" autoselect>>
<<option "huevos rancheros" "eggs">>
<<option "waffles" "waffles">>
<<option "Cobb salad" "salad">>
<</cycle>>
There's no place like <<linkreplace "home">>my <<linkreplace
"brother">>brother-in-law's college roommate<</linkreplace>>'s apartment<</linkreplace>>.A warm thank you to manonamora ([[Tumblr|https://manonamora-if.tumblr.com/]]/[[Itch|https://manonamora.itch.io/]]) for the [[base code template.|https://manonamora.itch.io/twine-sugarcube-templates]]
<i>consecrated</i> is a tiny scene adaptation from the world's best TTRPG group's shenanigans, written in a 500 word restriction for neotwinyjam.
<center>Much love to the Goncharov Girlies.</center>
<center>[[RETURN->START]]</center>Aurora’s birth was heralded by the rising rosy dawn. The soft pinks alighted on her blanket, wrapped snugly until only dark curls and button-black eyes peeped curiously out as the sun rose in all its glory.
“Sacred to Goodman Solis,” he rasps, voice low and rough with hard living. “Lucky girl.” There’s a mirthless humor in his voice. Travel on the roads wears a man down. Nikolai’s calluses rasp against the fabric, as he adjusts how the blanket is tucked, Aurora cooing curiously at the bright tangle of icons around his [[neck.->2]]
“Those aren’t for you, little love,” he says gently, prying oxidized silver out of her hands: sacred to Goodman Lethe, death astride a bone-pale horse, riding through the blackest night. “Almost- before the turn of the hour, and you might’ve been, too. Consigned to the company of thieves and those best forgotten under the cover of dark- no good things come out of that, dear. Wear your name bright- Aurora is a good one.”
Andrey laughs, the sound a far cry from the insubstantial airiness the Imperial court will shape it to be in years to come. It's as crooked as his smile, loud like a raucous crow: bursting unexpectedly through the air in an explosive [[cartwheel.->3]]
“He loves us, as he loves her- we’re all sacred to our beloved,” he says, thumbing the stag’s amulet: the Horned King glowering from leather cords tangled up in a makeshift garrotte. “Even if some among us are hedging our bets when death comes knocking,” Andrey teases. He strokes one fingertip against the bitten, wooden heretical Farfallan charm- inverted from its stately counterpart, all polished silver and beveled angles. “I suppose they double as a weapon in a pinch.”
Nikolai rolls his eyes- green as the emerald on Andrey’s future wedding ring from another man. “Prefer a balisong for close quarters. What can I say? I’m a gambling man.” A smuggler: not usually of such soft bundles, but of clinking bottles and stolen sips of rum, bolts of silk and salt packed [[barrels.->4]]But that would change with a favor asked from old friends: running with the revolution. The backwater, far flung corners of the empire: where a child might be slipped away and forgotten, ferried along the meandering body of the St. Marie river, dawdling to its slow headwaters. Where time crawled to a standstill, and the most industrious element was the miller’s wheel, mineralized [[white.->5]]“I know one good thing that came from Goodman Lethe’s blessings,” Andrey smiles. He leans in- hand cradling Nikolai’s face, thumb rasping over dark stubble. In the reflection of his silver eyes, Nikolai can see his expression: something caught between restraint and desperate want. “Our love for each other,” Andrey says, voice tender, soft- like their kiss.
Years from now, Nikolai will be deep in conversation with his flask, mouth burning with rum. His fingers will twitch: an impulse to touch, to hold on- to the ghost of a man always hellbent on [[leaving.->START]]
consecrated
Sophia de Augustine
— 1 John 4:19 —
We love because he first loved us.Credits