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Post by sojourn on Jul 2, 2019 19:00:59 GMT
Spring 1490 Home | Too Damn Early K ieran did not always make good decisions, even if he mostly attempted to have good intentions in his day to day misadventures. He was aware that there were occasions that he chose to be selfish more often than selfless, that in his deep-rooted need for validation in a world that often saw him for his appearances before attempting to see him as an individual, the half-drow often chose to do things that were for his benefit, especially if that benefit could also be said to include others' well-being in the process. Sometimes, those benefits were worth all the trouble, and he'd clearly hedged his bets before. Last night was no exception, in all honesty, and while Kieran had made his own token show of resistance because he knew the sun would rise and with it, clearer thoughts, he was certainly not one to refuse attractive, persistent company. Even if said company was wildly intoxicated and he knew—really knew—that indulging said attractions was certainly not the best of decisions when looking out for the safety of a friend, he'd decided that the rewards far outweighed the risks of regret. He'd made a point of making his home and the training hall he'd taken over into a safe place, and perhaps inadvertently in the eyes of some people (some people like Miri), made himself into a safe place as well. Mostly. Sort of. In his own way. Never a particularly deep sleeper, the half-drow woke with the sun, lingering comfortably entangled in the warmth of a now familiar body and listening to the sounds of the Dock Ward's day beginning drifting through the curtains of the open window in the small, rather aesthetically minimalist room he'd claimed as his own above the training hall he called home. It was a nice moment of illusory contentment, a brief confidence in the consensual nature of things not yet overshadowed by sober realizations, but Kieran didn't feel guilt or shame considering he wasn't a stranger to the young woman, anyway. He'd known what he was getting himself into, he just hadn't expected to be actually called upon, so to speak. Still, perhaps breakfast and tea would be better defenses against hungover accusations, and so it was with a reluctant sigh that the lithe half-drow slid from between the threadbare covers probably in need of replacing, violet gaze unable to keep from admiring the still-sleeping body he left in his wake. He didn't expect anyone to wake up as early as himself, and so he moved about as silently as possible to allow Miri more sleep should she want it. Carefully, he made a point to sort what clothing was his and what was not, tidily leaving a pile for his guest and tugging on what very minimal modesty he felt necessary, leaving his shirt behind and shutting the door behind him. His stairs creaked. They groaned in their age and he'd yet to take the time to repair them. The floorboards of the hall were hardly any better, but Kieran was quick and knew the spots that were the loudest, stepping past them nimbly. The open training hall was lovely and still, sunlight trickling through the windows that faced the street, and he stood for a moment to admire the work that was only his because he chose to keep it going, not because he deserved it. Behind the main hall that served as a classroom and sparring area, there was a smaller common room he'd opened to those who became his students. They slept there if they wanted. None of his pupils, usually young street kids in their teens, had found the blankets he kept stored last night and stayed over. From the looks of things, this morning belonged to himself and Miri, which wasn't at all a bad thought, but one he knew was best not to dwell on. The rest of the downstairs was just as simple as everything else: There was a room for bathing. A dining area. A kitchen. A bit of storage. A study with what few books Kieran cared to keep and read, mostly very basic stuff he offered to the wayward urchins he fed and taught in order to help them find work. And, really, that was that. The building used to be a tailor's shop, but with his help years ago, Kieran and his master had torn up the shelves and the storefront, laid down the wooden flooring and put up some walls, converting the place to a very Kara Tur-style training hall. Not that he knew whether that was true or not—he'd hardly left the Sword Coast at all in his short lifetime. He made his way to the kitchen, pausing to fill the sink with the pump and dunking himself in the chilled water with a gasp of breath, holding it in until his lungs burned and his body urged him to breathe again. He washed his face, tamed his wet, white hair into a top knot, and let the cold rivulets crawl over charcoal skin and inked lines beneath while he set about waking up the hearth and staring at the larders. Street kids ate anything. Everything. He knew. He'd been one. Sometimes, he still felt like one. There was no end to keeping it stocked, really. At least there was tea. |
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Post by moralhazard on Jul 2, 2019 19:28:35 GMT
Miri was no stranger to waking up in unfamiliar places – sometimes beds, sometimes not. There was, in fact, an odd sort of familiarity to regaining consciousness after a half-remembered night. It started, as it usually did, with vision blurred by some combination of sleepiness and hangover, her eyes opening and then promptly shutting again in defense against too-bright rays of sun.
Miri groaned, softly, and rolled over onto her back. She covered her eyes with her palms, and, blearily, attempted to open them again, fighting the heavy weight that seemed to be sitting on her face, rubbing at one slightly gummy eyelid with the heel of her hand before trying a second time. Yes; the darkness of her hand looked slightly different from the darkness of closed eyelids, and the faint light trickling between didn’t send immediate stabs of nausea through her, only faint ones.
By Selune’s moondust, what had she been up to the night before?
Slowly, Miri let her hands slide apart, wincing, and began the long process of sitting up. There was a dull, throbbing ache in her head, and she glanced around the room, somewhat surprised to find it was actually familiar. Miri rubbed her head this time, long fingers sliding between thick wiry curls.
“Mmph,” Miri sighed, closed her eyes, and tried to think back. She remembered, as a starting place, a fight with Esmeralda the night before; Miri had already been a drink or two into her evening when she’d showed up at the dwarf’s room for an evening they’d planned together. Something she had said – honestly, Miri couldn’t remember what – had clearly set off the dwarf’s fiery temper, and what had been a lovely place to stay every third night or so had come crashing down in utter flames, including Esmeralda chasing Miri down the hall of the inn while throwing whatever she could grab at her former lover.
After she had made her way out of the inn and snuck back into Esmeralda’s room through that nice little roofside window of hers for the clothing she’d left behind, Miri had gone on to get – drunk. Yes, that part she remembered. There had been drinking, and then some sort of odd blue powder that was apparently meant to be snorted but which Hagrak had suggested pouring into her drink instead. Oh, it had tasted awful; Miri remembered that with an abrupt immediacy that brought her to the edge of vomiting on Kieran’s sheets, although she managed to choke it down.
The rest of the night after that was fragmented, odd snatches of memory – music and faerie lights both flashing and throbbing – an argument with Hagrak too, wonderful – alone on the streets of the Dock Ward at night – taking Kieran’s hand in hers and pulling –
Oh, yes. Miri let the rest of the reminiscing go, confident that she had a sense of what had happened. She wiped her mouth on the back of her hand, and glanced around as if to check that the half-drow wasn’t somehow hiding in his own bedroom. Miri glanced back at the rumpled pillow and sheets, and gave serious thought to going back to sleep – but the sun was bright enough that she could see it through closed eyelids, and anyway there was a feeling in her stomach somewhere between nausea and hunger that she thought food might fix.
And, Miri remembered, Kieran made an excellent breakfast.
Miri swung her legs over the edge of the bed. It took a moment to remember how to make them work, but after a few wobbles she was on her feet, snatching the half-drow’s shirt off of one of the neat piles of clothing he’d made and pulling it on over her head as she walked down the hall. He was a bit shorter than she was, so the shirt couldn’t have exactly been said to be long or, well, modest, but Miri doubted Kieran would complain.
Miri followed her nose to the kitchen, fluffing her hair out where it had smushed against her head with her fingers, bare feet nearly silent against the floor. She paused in the doorway, leaning against it, and watched Kieran bent industriously over the stove, admiring the swirls of tattoos on his torso that disappeared (disappointingly) into his waistband.
“Morning,” Miri said, lazily, pulling away from the doorframe. She stretched her arms up over her head, fingers lacing together and twisting so her palms faced the ceiling, a series of soft cracks and pops echoing from her shoulders up, and lowered them, not bothering to cover her mouth when she yawned. “That smells good,” she grinned at him, no constraint or hesitation even remotely visible in tone or words. Her head throbbed, and she rubbed it with one hand, unabashedly wandering past him to fetch herself a bit of water. Her tongue felt like sandpaper. Whatever that blue stuff had been, Miri decided, she should definitely try to find it again.
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Post by sojourn on Jul 3, 2019 3:30:53 GMT
H e'd put the kettle on. He'd found butter and eggs. He'd found bread more than a few days old but still worth toasting. He'd even found a bit of cheese. There were vegetables (street urchins, in general, never really knew what to do with the fresh ones that weren't bruised or dirty, as if they were suspicious of the good stuff) that he could cut up and sprinkle in with the eggs. Kieran could move about the kitchen with some sense of confidence, having settled into cooking not only out of necessity but genuine interest. He gladly fed others but also wanted things to taste good, and there was some sort of satisfaction about providing something better than whatever was scrounged out of the refuse in some alley like he'd grown up expecting for a meal when the streets were all he had. He had better now, and he chose to share it as often as possible. The ceiling announced with faint hints of noise that Miri was awake, subtle squeaks that even a woman who'd trained to be light on her feet couldn't entirely avoid in a place this old and this under maintained on this side of the Dock Ward. If the half-drow smiled at the sound of someone making their way down the stairs, it was an expression of mixed emotion: anticipation and concern, sure, but also pleasure and kindness. He certainly didn't begrudge her company, needful and demanding as it had been, but not just because he didn't object to her bodily comforts (which were rather nice), Kieran happened to also hope she considered him a friend (did she?). Maybe. More than a convenience, anyway. Something. Not strangers, at least. Yeah. He would have liked to believe that she didn't just show up because he was a last resort, but even if he was, he was surprisingly alright with that thought. It wasn't like he'd not enjoyed being an unlikely option so much as he could only pretend to not be invested in her well-being forever. Because, he totally wasn't. No way. They'd helped each other into and out of danger a handful of times, felt comfortable with each others' sense of humor, and were, for the most part, now more than occasionally passing through each others' lives. Not that the half-drow expected anything else—he was far too jaded to think of there being any emotional components necessary, far to weighed down by his own baggage to expect her to want to share in the carrying of it. But he was, in all honesty, concerned for her well-being on more than just a primal level and at least could pretend for a few moments that she would return the concern should he ever ask for it. Which, most likely, he wouldn't. Not that she'd asked, anyway. It wasn't complicated, he reminded himself, staring into a bubbling pan. It didn't have to be complicated. He just didn't need to overthink it. Again. "That it is." He hummed at her morning salutation and her stretch, smiling though she couldn't see it so much as hear it in his tone, tilting his head so his violet gaze could follow her as she meandered, still not entirely awake by the looks of things, past him—barely in his shirt!—toward the large sink and the hand pump that would fill it with water. There was, thankfully, already a pitcher and a bucket he'd taken the time to fill because such things were always useful to have ready. He didn't stare so much as admire, chuckling at her compliment before he turned back to tending his cooking. "I s'pose I'm gonna share it, too." He taunted, tongue against the ring through his lower lip as his smile became a grin, the expression hiding a nervousness that at any moment there would really eventually be some kind of accusation. He might have even paused, waiting to reach for a couple of chipped plates near the stove, looking back at Miri not to linger on her lovely, totally underdressed self so much as to give her an opening to say something— Oh, but the kettle whistled instead—thank the gods and the moons and everything else for that matter!—and he huffed instead, dividing up toast and the eggs and the vegetables and small wedges of cheese while the kettle yelled at him instead. He took his time, finally setting it aside to quiet the thing, moving about the kitchen to find mugs and actual tea, making a point to brush against the young woman sharing all the space with him, "Y' gonna eat like that? I mean, it's fine 's long 's we don't get any guests since between th' two 'f us, we're dressed enough." Kieran laughed before handing her a plate and crooking a well-carved chin in the direction of the long, humble table clearly meant to allow more than just two people to eat together, "Tea works, yeah? Or do y' need more 'f th' hair 'f th' dog that bit you?" He all but purred his question, bolder in their familiarity with each other and using that gruff sort of bravado to cover the dull thrum of restless, seething unspoken anxiety over the rebuke or rejection he found he always anticipated around those he dared to consider friends, even friends with benefits. She didn't need his baggage, and, honestly, neither did he, but it was all there, whispering in the darkness of his mind. "I've got somethin' 'round 'f you'd rather, I'm sure, but I'll kindly suggest th' tea." He sidestepped back to the stove to pour tea into the teapot and fill it with steaming water, cursing in Undercommon under his breath at cracked mugs and missing handles while he sorted through the supposedly clean dishes on the shelf. The problem with offering space to the needy was that not everyone felt the actual need to be careful with what he gave them. Finally finding two usable mugs, he gathered everything and made his way with his typical nimble grace toward the table. |
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Post by moralhazard on Jul 3, 2019 17:09:17 GMT
Miri poured water from the pitcher to the cup, the soft sloshing mingling with the crackling sounds of the eggs Kieran was cooking on the stove and the heavy breathiness of the water that was approaching boiling inside the kettle. The smells seemed to feel good in her nose but mingled with something sour in her stomach, and Miri still couldn’t entirely decide if food would make her feel better or worse. She leaned back against the sink, taking a long drink of the water, then another, tilting her head back to drain the cup in a second swallow.
“Oh, well,” Miri grinned back at Kieran, admiring his muscular arms as he stretched lithe fingers towards chipped plates. Bits and pieces of the night before were coming back in pleasant waves, like fond flashes of memory: somewhere she’d been dancing, a moonlit garden, Kieran’s face with wide violet eyes, his mouth slightly open. Dragon’s head, had it been called? No, that wasn’t quite right. Dragon’s breath, Miri thought. Something like that. “You know – ”
The abrupt whistle of the kettle made her flinch, and Miri groaned, rubbing her temples with her fingers. She turned back to the sink, and worked the heavy pump until there was enough cool water to wash with, leaning forward over it and using cupped hands to scoop it up against her face and neck. She drizzled a little of the water from her fingertips against her scalp, the cool prickling but soothing against her head, then rubbed her wet fingers into her scalp, spreading the cold around like a balm. She washed her hands and arms as well, just with her fingertips and the water but it was enough, the cool spreading through the veins at her wrists and elbows and through the rest of her as well.
Kieran was bustling around the kitchen behind her; the continuing sharp whistles of the kettle were still sending faint stabbing lines of pain through Miri’s head. She didn’t think she would vomit up whatever remained of her indulgences the night before, but it wasn’t helping either, and Miri felt a faint prickle of annoyance that he hadn’t bothered to shut it off. She straightened up, cool water trickling down her neck and the length of her back beneath Kieran’s skirt. She rubbed her face again as Kieran brushed past her with all deliberateness, the motion somehow soothing. Miri laughed, tracing an idle hand over his torso and leaving glistening wetness in her wake.
“What, you want me to get all dressed up for breakfast?” Miri laughed again, taking the plate. “Next you’ll tell me clothes are a requirement around here,” she made her way to the table, sprawling comfortably and familiarly into one of Kieran’s chairs, legs drawn up on the seat, crossed beneath her. She rested on hand on the edge of the table, tilting her head back and arching her back, groaning faintly as something popped there as well.
“Mm, yeah, tea’s fine,” Miri sighed, rolling herself back forward, bare shoulders making the motion one echoed by her entire body, legs uncurling as her feet settled onto the floor. She raised an eyebrow at the tone in Kieran’s voice, something that seemed like it danced on the edge of judgment, weighing it for a moment. Miri was tired, her head hurt, and she didn’t have any patience for Kieran’s apparent condescension, unasked for and, in Miri’s opinion, utterly unjustified by the casual nature of whatever this – they – were.
Esmeralda first, and then Hagrak – it was half coming back, something about a job, in Athkatla maybe, because why the hells not – so why not Kieran too? The thought was almost bitter, and Miri decided not to wonder why.
“If you have something you want to say, just say it,” Miri said, casually, propping her elbows on the table and watching Kieran bring the food out. Her posture was as relaxed as ever, but there was something wary and tense in her eyes as they tracked his movements. “I’ve too much of a headache for dancing around.”
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Post by sojourn on Jul 7, 2019 13:36:29 GMT
"I don't really care if y'get dressed at all, t' be fair, but, y'know other folks come an' go like they live here. They might mind, but prob'ly not, given that you're easy 'n th' eyes an' all." It was a tongue and cheek riposte to her retort about her lack of clothing and while he grinned about it, his violet gaze wandered over the tawny-skinned landscape she comfortably left within view with very little shame as he handed off her plate. Like some feral cat you left the door open for, she was off again, pouring herself into a chair at the long table that probably could use a good waxing with a languid stretch. Kieran turned his attention to the kettle, finally, leaving whatever leftovers he'd made where they were because there would eventually be other mouths looking to be fed wandering through today, possibly even later this morning. He never really knew, the half-drow more or less aware he ran a halfway house for street kids that included a few lessons in self-defense. Some stayed—he had a handful of regular students, two of which he'd helped find jobs for and one of which had just joined an artisan's guild as a farrier. Others didn't—drawn to the easy pay of crime, drowned in their own methods of self-medicating, enticed by the promises of adventuring, murdered by petty rivals, or arrested by the City Watch.By and large, Kieran had lost more than he'd won but he wasn't willing to give up on those precious few wins.He set down steaming mugs and his plate, finally sitting with all the restless awkwardness of someone who didn't like to be still for long periods of time. Looking up once he was settled, he shook his head at her question as if to say he didn't have anything particularly important to say, poking at his still-hot food to cool it off as if to distract from potential conversation.The half-drow's jaw clenched, betraying the fact that he, indeed, had things to say lurking quietly behind the calm, charcoal-skinned exterior he wore so well. Miri watched him with subtle suspicion, and once he was satisfied with the temperature of his food, he chose to take a bite instead of answer right away, delaying the inevitable for a few purposefully slow chews. Finally, he waved his fork while he spoke, the measuredness in his tone of voice revealing that he was treading carefully with words he might have known would be unwelcome,"I'm not dancin'—I just—I don't know 'f anythin' needs t' be said, damn it. You're not 'n any kinda trouble, are you? Did somethin' happen? Y' weren't quite 'n th' best state 'f mind last night an'—I'm not complainin', mind, 'cause you're always welcome here, 'cause I want t' be a safe place, 'cause I'm clearly no good at sayin' no t' your, uh, well, y'know company—but y' seemed upset." There, just at the edges, sharp and present, was genuine concern. As much as Kieran would rather keep up appearances of aloof casualness around Miri, as much as he'd just rather keep everything as uninvolved as possible, as much as he was fine with her showing up for his bed and breakfast without a single string attached, it just wasn't his nature to not worry about those he risked calling his friends.Here he was, admitting he wanted to call her more than just an acquaintance in his own round-about way. Perhaps she wouldn't like it.There was a hint of guilt if one knew how to listen, if one knew how to really listen to Kieran at all ... if one dared to navigate the underdark-like maze of his scarred inner thoughts like Niall did (that damn tiefling never let him get away with anything!) or if one was capable of crawling under his dark skin like Mateo used to (not that Kieran could ever resist his gentle, persistent methods, either) but the guilt, the self-doubt, and the concern were much louder in the shifting shadows of his mind, rippling through his insides because he worried he'd taken advantage of all the young woman had to offer instead of really having any of her best interests in mind. One hand reached up to scratch at some sudden itch on his bare chest, calloused fingers straying to rub over old scars and finally trace along a few of the inked lines on his bicep,"I know—I know!—it's none 'f m' business 'course, an' I could 've sent y' back out again just th' same, but we're friends, right? 'R m'haps we could be. Sorta. Anyway, 'f there's somethin' I can help with—would y' ask me?" It wasn't everything the half-drow wanted to say, but it was the easiest path to travel. The other path was fraught with far more emotional risk, and he wasn't stupid. He was so intimately familiar with the sting of rejection, experienced enough with death and loss, self-aware enough to have long ago decided he wasn't relationship material, and observant enough to see that Miri was perhaps the type of person who would run away from such niceties almost as fast as he would. Or, truthfully, as he should. Even if he didn't always make that choice.Kieran might have been quick to shove food in his mouth after those revealing words, looking away from Miri's face he'd been searching toward his plate and making sure he had plenty of toast to keep him from talking again, the warmth of chagrin crawling warmly down from the base of his skull and tracing hot fingers down his spine. |
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Post by moralhazard on Jul 7, 2019 22:15:06 GMT
Miri just laughed in response to Kieran’s comments about appropriate clothing for guests; if she had been the sort to feel any sting in the words, the appreciative gaze lingering on her exposed skin would quickly have quenched it. She wasn’t remotely above shifting a little to let him admire her, grinning.
Miri drew her mug over, wrapping a long fingered hand around it and breathing in the steam, feeling it seep in. It was soothing, both for the headache and the feeling of tension. Despite a faint surge of nausea, Miri reached forward and scooped food onto her plate, eggs and toast both. She didn’t eat anything yet, leaving the tea behind and ripping a slice of toast in half, picking a few crumbs off the edge. She dropped it on her plate, picked the tea back up, and took a small sip.
She held onto the mug as Kieran spoke, raising one eyebrow, face otherwise a careful blank. There was a faint tensing at the word upset, Miri’s shoulders stiffening. She sat back, letting go of the mug, hands sliding off the table to cross over her chest, pulling Kieran’s shirt taut.
Upset. Miri wished she could remember more clearly; she didn’t remember being upset. Drunk as hell, sure. High out of her mind, yeah. A little manic, maybe. Was that all Kieran meant, or was there something else, something she didn’t remember? She ran her tongue over still slightly fuzzy teeth, but trying to remember only made her head hurt worse, and she
Kieran was talking again. Miri lifted her hands back up to the mug, curling her fingers around it, watching him silently.
Friends. Miri let go of the tea, fidgeting with the toast again, ripping off a corner and crumbling it to nothing, letting the crumbs tumble off her fingers onto the plate. Kieran was done, finally, his eyes and attention fixed on the plate as if his life depended on it.
If Miri had been in more of a mood to appreciate such things, perhaps she would have appreciated Kieran’s approach. It was mostly question-based, easy and cautious around the edges of things, dropping those words ‘upset’ and ‘friends’ delicately into the midst of longer swirls of language, as if he might be able to cover them up, and hedging besides. There was no judgment, no moralizing, just concern.
Fuck concern.
Where had concern ever gotten her before? Unbidden, the hangover throbbing behind her eyes and her head aching, Miri thought of dusty children on the streets of Athkatla, eyes ripped out, of an old man handing her a rapier and laughing, of a half-elf’s body pitched over the side of a ship. As if she had needed any more reminders, Miri thought, the taste sour on her tongue. There was nowhere good feelings could lead - not Esmeralda’s, not Hagrak’s, and not Kieran’s.
Miri brushed the last of the toast off her fingers, looking squarely at Kieran across the table.
“I handle my own business,” Miri said, not loudly, but unmistakably firmly. She weighed the taste of the other words that lingered on her tongue, swallowing some unspoken. In the end she left it at that, picking up the toast and taking a bite, leaving a round circular impression before dropping it back on the plate with a quiet thunk.
Anything else she said would let him argue; anything about why she’d come, how she’d been the night before would open her up to a response, a judgment, a reminder. Better not. Even denying anything was wrong never came out right. And besides, Miri didn’t owe Kieran anything - not least an explanation.
Miri finished the bite of dry toast and took another, putting on her very best impression of not caring what he thought in the slightest.
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Post by sojourn on Jul 8, 2019 3:41:55 GMT
K ieran was insightful enough, observant enough, to note the shift in Miri's demeanor across the table from himself without even entirely glancing up through pale lashes to actually look at her. She turned inward, fell quiet, choosing not to return to him a witty response where she normally would have had one that he'd probably deserve, busying her fingers instead with her toast in a way that didn't at all make it look like it would remain edible. These were very obvious tells in his opinion and the half-drow wasn't ignorant of how to read them:He'd said too much.Not that he was sorry for it. Fuck sorry.If being concerned for others was a weakness, if wanting to be a part of someone else's life was unhealthy, or if speaking to things another person didn't want to deal with was wrong, then Kieran was who he was and he had no interest in changing. They'd spent just enough time together—some intoxicating and infuriating mixture of both purposeful and accidental adventures—that he'd assumed it was a good time to ask ... well ... questions. Or at least broach the topic of whatever the boundaries were of their, uh, friendship. Because, they were friends, right? Miri didn't really answer that question. At all. He'd learned that the only way for him to have family was to make it himself, but at the same time, he'd also learned that the fastest way to get hurt wasn't to pick a fight but to find a friend. She'd just brushed him off like the crumbs on her lithe fingers and only a flicker of disappointment washed over the half-drow's dark features, furrowing his white-tufted eyebrows inward toward the well-carved bridge of his nose for the briefest of moments before he set his fork down with a clatter."Didn't say y'couldn't. Jus' said y' didn't have t' handle 't alone all th' time if y' didn't want to. It's th' sorta stuff friends do for each other—helpin' an' shit." He wasn't asking for some kind of commitment from the woman, let alone begging for some definition to the ambiguous but mostly enjoyable time they'd spent together thus far (yes, including the occasional violence). He didn't want to give out any labels. He didn't want anything specific, not really, except for perhaps recognition that he wasn't just a convenient body to be called on simply when other more ideal bodies weren't as available.That would have been alright to know.Instead, he sighed, standing and leaving his still-steaming tea and his toast and most of his fresh-made breakfast. It wasn't the most mature of actions, no, but there was something about her quick dismissal of his cautious offer that reminded him why, exactly, he kept to himself. He looked down at his food, looked down at Miri,"I didn't mean anythin' by it. I misread things. Thought m'haps y' were 'n trouble. Needed somethin'. But I was wrong. Nothin' new." He lied, restless and suddenly uncomfortable, exposed more by her cold reaction than by his actual efforts at trying to figure shit out in his life. It just served to remind him that he wasn't worth the effort—did she feel that way, too?—and that warm sensation of chagrin flared into fiery anger. He'd just keep making the same mistakes, it seemed, over and over, and just like everyone else who'd either ended up somewhere else far from the Sword Coast (Mateo) or bleeding in some gutter (Niall) or dead in the training hall—This was always how things went and now he'd fucked it up again.With the whisper of bare feet but without another word, Kieran stalked walked away from the table and away from the kitchen. He disappeared back into the large open room where windows faced the street, where he'd laid the wooden floor down himself, and where a few rather shoddy, sad-looking training dummies who'd clearly seen the worst of his wrath over the years and a rack of wooden practice weapons were all on display, fit for use. Calloused hands reached for one of the many polearms—just a glorified stick, really, only sturdier—but he hesitated, fingers brushing over the old weapon, frowning at it as if his expression could do damage to an inanimate object. It couldn't. Snatching it with a hiss, he bent and stretched with it in both hands as if it mattered, feeling the knot in the shoulder he'd slept on and feeling the tension in his neck from his immediate frustration. He growled a few words, foul grumbles, sounds in Undercommon in an attempt to release his disappointment in himself more than anything else.
So much weakness.He didn't need to eat breakfast and stumble over stupid words in front of someone who wasn't at all interested in anything more than convenience. He could be convenient. It was fine.Kieran could also just hit something! So, he did. Rushing the length of the training hall, the half-drow leapt toward the poor excuses for unmoving opponents, practice weapon in both hands as he swung at it, landing a few hard, graceful blows with a very audible whack. And then another. A kick didn't make as much noise. Neither did an elbow or an open palm or a knee. He moved through familiar motions, seeking a mindlessness that was comfortable and helpful, releasing burdens with the crack of wood or the sting of flesh against boiled leather.Miri could eat in peace. Miri could come and go as she pleased. Miri could rest easy he wouldn't bring anything up again. Miri could be safe—from his assumptions, anyway. It was the least he could do. |
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Post by moralhazard on Jul 8, 2019 14:30:12 GMT
Not caring in the slightest meant looking at Kieran, as casually as Miri could manage, not dropping her gaze down to the toast crumbs on her plate. She chewed and swallowed the second bite, taking a sip of tea to wash the sharp crumbs from her mouth. She shrugged and took a third bite at Kieran’s response, and if she stopped chewing for a moment at the word friends – there it was again – it was only just for a moment. Kieran stood, abruptly, tension radiating from his entire frame, small and compact and practically vibrating with it. Miri raised an eyebrow at him, but didn’t say another word, sitting still at the table as the half-drow turned and left. She stopped chewing then, listening for the whisper of bare feet on the ground as long as it lasted. There was silence for a long time, coming from down the hall and echoed at the long table. Finally, Miri heard a loud, distant whack, the sort of sound that meant someone training with something wooden. Miri swallowed, then, the bits of toast disgusting and soggy and dry in her mouth. She took another sip of tea, staring down at the eggs on her plate, the last bite of the toast, the rest of the meal Kieran had prepared and then discarded. She propped her elbows on the table and rested her face in her hands, silently, forefingers pressing firmly and stroking small circles against her temples. “Fuck,” Miri whispered, as if Kieran might somehow hear her from his training hall if she spoke too loudly. She sat back, hands dropping to the table, both curling into fists, the sides of them resting on the wood. One lifted up, just a few inches, and smacked hard against the table, a thunk much softer than Kieran’s had been. Miri left the rest of her breakfast as well, the few bites she’d eaten churning in her stomach. She left the table behind as well, and the thoughts of going after Kieran and smiling at him, saying something cheerful to tease him out of his mood. It wasn’t the words so much as the weight of the emotion behind them. Why the hell did he care? What gave him the right? Miri stripped off Kieran’s shirt at the bottom of the stairs and left it there in a heap. She preferred her own skin, not modest and not minding the draft of air; it was better than any reminder. She stalked up the stairs, doing her best to step quietly but hearing the old things creak and groan beneath her feet, and made her way back to Kieran’s room. Only now did Miri noticed that he’d separated their clothing into neat little piles. She stood there for a moment, staring down at hers, then reached down and grabbed her leather pants, yanking them on. She’d worn something loose and flowy the night before, a dark orange halter top with a little strap that went around her neck. The shirt went down to her hips in the back and just barely skimmed the top of her leather pants in the front, leaving both shoulders exposed (and a good deal of the skin beneath and behind as well). Miri pulled it back on now, running her fingers through her hair a few more times and pushing at it to give it back its shape. “Fuck,” Miri said again, quietly, staring down at Kieran’s bed. She sighed, standing there for a moment, rubbing the spot where her neck met her shoulder with one hand. Better, Miri decided, to go out the window; going back downstairs might make Kieran think she wanted to talk, or even say good bye. It was good bye; it’d have to be, now.
Miri grabbed the rest of her things, and climbed out the window, making her way along the roof of Kieran's building and hopping effortlessly to the next, navigating the dangerous spaces with much more ease than she had Kieran's attempt to be a friend. Her skin crawled; a bounty, Miri decided. She needed to do something, to move, to feel alive; she needed something that would keep her too busy to think. If she recognized that, at least she didn't dwell on it. For now, at least, jogging lightly along the roofs of Waterdeep with the morning sun on her face, dodging slippery tiles here and strange holes there, Miri didn't dwell at all.
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Post by sojourn on Jul 8, 2019 17:21:10 GMT
I t wasn't as though Kieran didn't hear the stairs, too familiar with his own home to not be aware of the sound of someone going back up them. He'd ruined breakfast, it seemed, but at the same time, had he really? Was it so wrong after the time they'd spent together thus far to voice his thoughts, to seek some clarity on the trajectory that Miri was traveling? No, that seemed reasonable enough. It was just obvious that it didn't matter to her in the way that it might have mattered to him. There was no point in following her. There wasn't really anything else to say, anyway. Not now. Maybe not even later. Surely, she'd be back down again and things would be fine. Or she wouldn't and that would be that. There was no point in attempting anything else. It would just be stupid. Wasn't that just how things usually went, anyway? He was far too used to rejection, far too aware of what he was, far too expectant that anyone, even Miri, would disappear at a moment's notice. It would always be his fault, whether because of his heritage, because of his life choices, or simply because of his personality. He was the problem, right? Those sorts of thoughts rippled through his concentration like throwing rocks into a still pond, forcing him to grit his teeth and shut out the sound of his own racing pulse and those whispers of anticipated rejection always present at the edges of his innermost thoughts in order to allow his body to move through the very specific, well-disciplined motions he attempted. Stillness was elusive. Silence impossible. He simply let the voices in his head have their way as he gracefully fought his way through a long, arduous series of practice attacks and practice defenses alone. Somewhere in the back of his seething mind, he might have expected Miri to join him eventually, and by the time the half-drow was finished, panting and sweating, thoughts far clearer than they had been in the beginning, he knew somewhere in that clarity that she'd probably gone. He took his time in setting back up the practice dummies he'd all but destroyed in his unspoken anger, in his meditative expression of violence. Kieran returned his weapon to the rack, wiped the floor, and cleaned the kitchen. He meandered downstairs for as long as possible as if avoiding the inevitable, picking up his crumpled shirt on the way up once he finally chose it, and standing in his empty room for a long time in wordlessness without any real sense of surprise, letting the breeze from the open window dance over charcoal skin. He'd been foolish to expect anything different. That didn't make it hurt any less. |
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