Words Run Like Greyhounds

"I will speak daggers to her, but use none."
Hamlet

I have had a very busy, rainy day with very little scribbling and gobs of reading. Honestly, between Chesterton and The Golden Warrior and a years-belated reread of The Golden Goblet (which was unexpected but not unpleasant) I don't think I did much else today besides a walk and three cups of tea. Three cups is highly unusual. Don't judge me.

But to keep wayward scribblers like myself in line Katie has graciously taken it into her head to host a monthly snippets bout. "Snippets" sound to me a lot like "whippets," which in turn remind me of greyhounds, so the following is a pack of words which I have written and wouldn't they just love to break lead and get away from me and hunt down your imaginations!

February Snip-Whippets

With an upward rush of his arms, a ring somewhere among his fingers glinting like starfire, his voice suddenly became like thunder, like power, and it stung Margaret horribly. "Welcome the Hollow Moons, my friends! Welcome the Hollow Moons!"

And the room gave back the cry, "God rest the Hollow Moons! God rest the year!"
Plenilune

"For being flagrantly unsociable," mused Rupert, "he can deliver a stirring speech when the occasion requires it."
Plenilune

...before she could resist against her better judgment, or do anything rash, she was pulled in by Rupert and they were striding out into the middle of the room while the crowd and music whirled like compass-needles around them.
Plenilune

[Mark Roy]turned his head away and looked after the baron, his own face clouded by thoughts, the muffled sound of thunder in the lift of his shoulders and the gold-traced dragons that were depicted there.
Plenilune

In the dark wings of the north end of the ballroom the players sat, tiered on their benches, like a jury of angels. They were all in warm, dark colours and seemed to melt into the shadows, illumined only by their single candles. It was a strange, eerie thing to sit just below them, looking up into their shadows, while it seemed the candles, not their fingers, played the light upon the strings. It was a strange, eerie note they played, a minor key which seemed to conjure the formless, painful longing in her soul and give it a kind of voice. Margaret sat in her seat, her hands gripping the arms of it until her knuckles turned white, and suffered the mournful song to wash out of the high dark down over her.
Plenilune

"Rhea," he purred at last, a panther-smile curling on his face. "Mine own familiar Rhea, who starved me and took all the light out of my world, what does she here? She knows her cunning and beauty. What need has she of a lookinglass?"
Plenilune

It was not like a reaper's sickle, it was like the sickle-curve of ocean sweeping at her, for her, to overwhelm her and her alone—as if no other soul but hers was meant to soil that inexorable blade. Her eyes fell shut against the impact.

God, take my soul. I dare not die without thee.
Plenilune
"Really?" Centurion raised a brow. "The game moves on apace."
Plenilune