The Lyorn's Den

Six Eight sentences from a Regency AU thing I'm working on (because the first time I counted the sentences they added up to six and then the second time I counted them they somehow added up to eight). And just for the record, this is all Samirant's fault.


Count Ilya Rozanov leaned against the ship's gunwale and stared out across the water. In the near distance, the white chalk cliffs gleamed in the afternoon sunlight, a stark contrast with the brilliant blue of La Manche - the English Channel. It was a pretty sight, no doubt beloved of landscape painters, and perhaps also by English sailors coming home after long hours at sea. But Ilya was neither painter, nor sailor, nor, especially, English. He spared the scenery no more than the barest glance, his eyes on the ship of the line at full sail just a little ahead of them. Impregnable she was called. Ilya sincerely hoped that the name did not lie. She was the flagship of the Admiral the Duke of Clarence, brother to the English Prince Regent, and she carried a host of European dignitaries, not least of whom was his Imperial Majesty, Tsar Alexander himself.

He drew an enamel snuff box from his pocket and, shielding it from the wind with one hand, opened it with a practised flick of his thumb.