Free writing exposes how weird my brain is

[breakinglight11]

Yesterday I tried a free writing exercise. In prose, no less. Write one page or so of something, whatever came to mind, and just go with it. It's designed to help me with motivation and to prevent compulsive editing during the drafting process.

Well, I did it, but it went somewhere weird. Or, rather, it exposed some of the stuff that happened to be in my head right now that kind of surprised me. Although perhaps it really shouldn't have...

Anyway, it went somewhere weird.

"Who is the blond Adonis?"

She spoke in a low voice, much more so than the mistress of the games, but he could still hear her.

"Oh, him," her companion trilled. "He caught my eye straightaway as well. Of course, whose wouldn't he?"

"I asked who he is." Her tone did not change.

"The champion of Chiron's corps, General. From Britannia, I believe, taken as a child in the conquest. They have a wealth of blonds in the north, I hear."

"Is he a typical specimen, then?"

The games mistress shrieked out a laugh. "I doubt it! Else I'd remand to the front tomorrow."

There was a brief pause. "Care for a closer look?"

They disappeared from view for a moment, but to his surprise he saw them reappear on the stairs descending into the arena. After a moment they emerged from the arch to step out onto the sand.

Pullo yanked the chain that bound them together. "Stand before the general!"

He stiffened, squared his shoulders, spread apart his legs. His gaze he kept straight ahead of him. It was what they were told to do, but in this case he was glad.

The games mistress led the way, striding to the row of them with an arch, self-satisfied smile. She spread her arms as if presenting them the way a hostess would welcome guests to a banquet, then regarded them as if they were the delicacies laid upon the table.

Before long she turned to him, and her gaze raked him in naked appreciation. He had never seen her so close before, but that one was unmistakeable. She was a painted, perfumed creature, hair a riot of color against dark skin and done over in a grand barbaric opulence. Glossed lips, shellacked nails, crusted with gems, and swirls of kohl and powder around those hungry, invading eyes.

"So, madam?" she purred. "What do you say? Have I not done well by you?"

The general walked down the line of them, regarding each man in turn. He could see her out of the corner of his eye. She was smaller than he would have expected. She walked with measured, unhurried steps, evaluating them one by one, until at last she came to him.

She stopped with great deliberateness, as if she'd been coming to it, and lifted her gaze with an aristocratic tilt of her head. Her face was bare, her attire unadorned. Through dark, narrowed eyes she stared up at him for moments that seemed to stretch on without end. He kept his own gaze straight ahead, but there was no ignoring her.

Her companion's voice cut in from nowhere. "He is even more remarkable up close, isn't he?"

His jaw tightened for a moment and then released. The general did not answer. She nodded, once, in bare acknowledgement, never wavering in the fixed intensity of her gaze.

At last, her lips parted and he tensed, prepared himself to answer if need be. But she said nothing, only set her teeth against themselves and made a small sound in the back of her throat.

At long last she turned away, her reverie broken. She shot a dismissive glance to Pullo, who signaled ease to the men, and started back to the arch that led out of the arena.

The games mistress, unacknowledged, dashed a few steps after her, a note of anxiety entering her voice. "Is my lady not pleased?"

The general did not pause. "Very pleased, Hama."

"Excellent!" the painted woman exalted. "Shall we proceed, then?"

The general disappeared into the archway. "Indeed. Let the games begin."