As expected, the Queen had been less than pleased at her isolation. During one of Luke’s visits, she procured a handful of dried bark and attempted to stuff it down her own throat, blue eyes spitting fire, as her maids tackled her and forcibly cleared her mouth. Once they helped her back to her feet, she smiled coldly, eyes still hard on his, and made a regal gesture at the chessboard in one corner, unconcerned about the bits of wood on her chin or the wild tangle of her honey-gold hair.
“Care to play, dog,” she said.
(Written for The Prediction. Challenge words: bark, chess, dry)