The Quest To Deberia
A girl, a princess, is very arrogant and mean. She kills everyone when she doesn't get her way. By the way I'm only a kid but very morbid.
No. Thought Skye. I can't bring myself to do it. I can't bring myself to kill this little boy.
Skye dropped the knife in her raised hand. It hit the hard concrete with a dull thud, and the little boy cowering against the black and darkened shadows slowly crawled out of them, his black hair mussed, his green eyes scared and cowardly.
"Madame Skye." The little boy's voice was no more than a whisper. "I didn't mean to drop your petticoats in the fire. I was drying them and it just--it just happened."
Skye shot a cruel glance at her little nephew, eight and quite some trouble. He had, the day before, dropped all of Skye's fine silk petticoats into the fire, claiming to do it by accident, and now Skye was furious. Her father, the king of all the land, had paid 20,000 dollars for the petticoats, made in England.
"I'm sorry, I'm so sorry, Madame Skye." The boy, Rupert, apologized again and again, tears streaming down his cheeks, never ceasing. Skye picked up the dagger and Rupert cowered back into the shadows, obviously thinking Skye was about to kill him, but she just stuck it in her belt.
"Your punishment." She said in a high and cruel voice that showed taste of dislike on every word. "Is that you, yes you, m'dear, tragically, somehow get all of your clothes burned except the ones you are wearing, BY ACCIDENT, and you will have to go around in these clothes for a year, or, m'dear, until your poor mother can afford you new ones."
Rupert cringed but said no more.
"NOW!" Bellowed Skye. "On your way, servant!" And Rupert was gone quicker than you could say "petticoats".
Skye sighed. She couldn't stay this cruel any longer. It was hurting her.
Skye dropped the knife in her raised hand. It hit the hard concrete with a dull thud, and the little boy cowering against the black and darkened shadows slowly crawled out of them, his black hair mussed, his green eyes scared and cowardly.
"Madame Skye." The little boy's voice was no more than a whisper. "I didn't mean to drop your petticoats in the fire. I was drying them and it just--it just happened."
Skye shot a cruel glance at her little nephew, eight and quite some trouble. He had, the day before, dropped all of Skye's fine silk petticoats into the fire, claiming to do it by accident, and now Skye was furious. Her father, the king of all the land, had paid 20,000 dollars for the petticoats, made in England.
"I'm sorry, I'm so sorry, Madame Skye." The boy, Rupert, apologized again and again, tears streaming down his cheeks, never ceasing. Skye picked up the dagger and Rupert cowered back into the shadows, obviously thinking Skye was about to kill him, but she just stuck it in her belt.
"Your punishment." She said in a high and cruel voice that showed taste of dislike on every word. "Is that you, yes you, m'dear, tragically, somehow get all of your clothes burned except the ones you are wearing, BY ACCIDENT, and you will have to go around in these clothes for a year, or, m'dear, until your poor mother can afford you new ones."
Rupert cringed but said no more.
"NOW!" Bellowed Skye. "On your way, servant!" And Rupert was gone quicker than you could say "petticoats".
Skye sighed. She couldn't stay this cruel any longer. It was hurting her.
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