Post by pastels on Apr 2, 2019 13:16:18 GMT
Silverymoon, circa 1,073 DR
Western Garrison Barracks
“I’m sorry. Is the sound of me winning too loud?”
A shadow fell over the pages, blotting out the sunlight.
Astariel cast her eyes at the source of the interruption, the no-nonsense expression on her face a sign of how thoroughly unimpressed she was. She met the bright, taunting gaze of another sun elf—one of her fellow nobles—and she let her gaze drop and linger at his collar. “Not loud enough to drown those clothes.”
What was it with these interruptions? Even out here in the gardens, the sounds of laughter and companionable chatter rankled like shards of glass against the marble tiles. And if his words to be judged, this one came from the loudest groups gambling and playing on the opposite side of where she was seated.
It was the first week for recruits—most had arrived yesterday and many were from high stock, like her, raised with the best their station could afford. What differed was that they were escorted to the barracks with a great deal of fanfare, manservants tugging their baggage along and morose parents watching from the carriage they left behind, and they acted as though this were a phase, not the start of everything they could ever be. Astariel had no time for such shallow pursuits. Unlike the rest, she refused to be lax in the knowledge that the position of her kin allowed her to receive opportunities otherwise so rare. Let the fools chitchat the day away. Tomorrow the real training would start, and she would be ready.
“Ha! Not one for small talk, then?” His voice was light, having taken the jab in stride. She noted with some degree of irritation that the shadow wavered closer; she heard him move to the side and sit at the edge of the closest bench, his clothes now snatching at the edges of her vision.
“And yet you persist,” Astariel dryly replied and flicked to the next page. Corellon grant her clarity, but she had been stuck on the same sentence ever since the disturbance made itself known. She closed her eyes and counted to ten. Focus, Aiesi. There are worse obstacles that this.
Of course, the damnable man couldn’t let her get ten seconds of peace. She was barely past five when he made a strange noise, and her eyes snapped open in frustration.
“Arduous Arcana: Bowgentle’s Primer to Combat Spells. Hmm. ‘Tis not an abysmal choice for complete neophytes,” he said with a quick laugh, again with that odd, cutting lilt to his words. It was unfamiliar at first—and then she realized with a flare of anger that it was mockery. He was mocking her, to her face! The fury in her expression must have been obvious enough when she whirled at him, because he reared back, cut-sapphire eyes wide with what was obviously mock surprise.
After a suspenseful breath, tension thick in the air, he said, “What, you’re only reading that now?”
Oh, the absolute blithering prig!
“Yes, I am only reading it now, obviously, as your most indomitable senses could no doubt perceive from the vaulted heights of your self-professed superiority—if you call the act by which one’s eyes parse the words on a page by any other name than reading, let this humble peon know,” Astariel snapped, and to her great pleasure she found that her voice was sharp and powerful, cutting and cold like a river of ice. She slammed the book shut—too much, that—and glared at the other elf, her golden eyes hot with a fire that fought the gem-like radiance of his own. As she did so, she picked out the faint outline of an emblem on the pendant beneath his shirt.
Twisting vines and then a lunar flower…
House Amanodel? She remembered meeting the children, so long ago; her father brought her along on the quaint tea parties their kind held every now and then, against her protests. They brought their own children as well, and they would be corralled into some too-fancy room or a sectioned part of a garden and left to their own devices, under the calm scrutiny of a family butler. Their eldest boy was her age.
“Speechless, now? I suppose your mind can only create a few sentences at a time before it needs its rest,” Astariel snidely added when he failed to reply. She found she had little interest in whatever this Amanodel sapling had to say, so she stood up—he hastily mimicked her movement, and it irritated her even more—and marched away, the memory of sapphire eyes tracing her movement fading into the ocean of her anger.
(Many, many decades later, she would bring their first meeting up while he is braiding her hair, and she would look at their shared reflection on the boudoir mirror and watch the mixture of emotions play on his face. Nostalgia, amusement, horror, shame, wonder. Mithras would laugh in disbelief and she would too. He would insist that he was not trying to make fun of her, never—and by now she knows him well enough to believe in what he says.
“You thought I was teasing you for reading Arduous Arcana,” he will repeat, his voice breaking at the last bit, “when I barely got past three chapters?”
Bowgentle was an excellent mage, but too technical a writer—the tome was difficult to understand, much less read for fun in the shade of a garden while one’s fellows were mingling and enjoying themselves. He was trying to ease humor into the conversation, and she chomped down at the slightest threat to her pride. That exchange sparked their rivalry—he was offended by her insinuation at that last bit. Prideful fools they were.
She would cough, her ears will turn pink at the tips, and she will hide from her reflection behind her hands. Above her, he will laugh and put down the brush, the sound warming her chest like a fireplace in winter, and kiss the top of her head.
And they will be happy, and whole, for a time.)
Western Garrison Barracks
“I’m sorry. Is the sound of me winning too loud?”
A shadow fell over the pages, blotting out the sunlight.
Astariel cast her eyes at the source of the interruption, the no-nonsense expression on her face a sign of how thoroughly unimpressed she was. She met the bright, taunting gaze of another sun elf—one of her fellow nobles—and she let her gaze drop and linger at his collar. “Not loud enough to drown those clothes.”
What was it with these interruptions? Even out here in the gardens, the sounds of laughter and companionable chatter rankled like shards of glass against the marble tiles. And if his words to be judged, this one came from the loudest groups gambling and playing on the opposite side of where she was seated.
It was the first week for recruits—most had arrived yesterday and many were from high stock, like her, raised with the best their station could afford. What differed was that they were escorted to the barracks with a great deal of fanfare, manservants tugging their baggage along and morose parents watching from the carriage they left behind, and they acted as though this were a phase, not the start of everything they could ever be. Astariel had no time for such shallow pursuits. Unlike the rest, she refused to be lax in the knowledge that the position of her kin allowed her to receive opportunities otherwise so rare. Let the fools chitchat the day away. Tomorrow the real training would start, and she would be ready.
“Ha! Not one for small talk, then?” His voice was light, having taken the jab in stride. She noted with some degree of irritation that the shadow wavered closer; she heard him move to the side and sit at the edge of the closest bench, his clothes now snatching at the edges of her vision.
“And yet you persist,” Astariel dryly replied and flicked to the next page. Corellon grant her clarity, but she had been stuck on the same sentence ever since the disturbance made itself known. She closed her eyes and counted to ten. Focus, Aiesi. There are worse obstacles that this.
Of course, the damnable man couldn’t let her get ten seconds of peace. She was barely past five when he made a strange noise, and her eyes snapped open in frustration.
“Arduous Arcana: Bowgentle’s Primer to Combat Spells. Hmm. ‘Tis not an abysmal choice for complete neophytes,” he said with a quick laugh, again with that odd, cutting lilt to his words. It was unfamiliar at first—and then she realized with a flare of anger that it was mockery. He was mocking her, to her face! The fury in her expression must have been obvious enough when she whirled at him, because he reared back, cut-sapphire eyes wide with what was obviously mock surprise.
After a suspenseful breath, tension thick in the air, he said, “What, you’re only reading that now?”
Oh, the absolute blithering prig!
“Yes, I am only reading it now, obviously, as your most indomitable senses could no doubt perceive from the vaulted heights of your self-professed superiority—if you call the act by which one’s eyes parse the words on a page by any other name than reading, let this humble peon know,” Astariel snapped, and to her great pleasure she found that her voice was sharp and powerful, cutting and cold like a river of ice. She slammed the book shut—too much, that—and glared at the other elf, her golden eyes hot with a fire that fought the gem-like radiance of his own. As she did so, she picked out the faint outline of an emblem on the pendant beneath his shirt.
Twisting vines and then a lunar flower…
House Amanodel? She remembered meeting the children, so long ago; her father brought her along on the quaint tea parties their kind held every now and then, against her protests. They brought their own children as well, and they would be corralled into some too-fancy room or a sectioned part of a garden and left to their own devices, under the calm scrutiny of a family butler. Their eldest boy was her age.
“Speechless, now? I suppose your mind can only create a few sentences at a time before it needs its rest,” Astariel snidely added when he failed to reply. She found she had little interest in whatever this Amanodel sapling had to say, so she stood up—he hastily mimicked her movement, and it irritated her even more—and marched away, the memory of sapphire eyes tracing her movement fading into the ocean of her anger.
(Many, many decades later, she would bring their first meeting up while he is braiding her hair, and she would look at their shared reflection on the boudoir mirror and watch the mixture of emotions play on his face. Nostalgia, amusement, horror, shame, wonder. Mithras would laugh in disbelief and she would too. He would insist that he was not trying to make fun of her, never—and by now she knows him well enough to believe in what he says.
“You thought I was teasing you for reading Arduous Arcana,” he will repeat, his voice breaking at the last bit, “when I barely got past three chapters?”
Bowgentle was an excellent mage, but too technical a writer—the tome was difficult to understand, much less read for fun in the shade of a garden while one’s fellows were mingling and enjoying themselves. He was trying to ease humor into the conversation, and she chomped down at the slightest threat to her pride. That exchange sparked their rivalry—he was offended by her insinuation at that last bit. Prideful fools they were.
She would cough, her ears will turn pink at the tips, and she will hide from her reflection behind her hands. Above her, he will laugh and put down the brush, the sound warming her chest like a fireplace in winter, and kiss the top of her head.
And they will be happy, and whole, for a time.)
