agentlenpc (![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
agentlenpc) wrote in ![[community profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/community.png)
agentlelog2019-01-31 01:03 pm
agentlenpc) wrote in agentlelog2019-01-31 01:03 pm
walking in a field of fog
Who: You and Fayura
When: Today, a week after the Strangers' arrivals
Where: The Queen's Residence and the Old Town Bazaar
What: Q&A
Warnings: n/a
When: Today, a week after the Strangers' arrivals
Where: The Queen's Residence and the Old Town Bazaar
What: Q&A
Warnings: n/a
EARLY MORNING, THE QUEEN'S RESIDENCE
The morning is cold and dark. Inhaling the frigid air is so shocking that those who aren't expecting it cough and wheeze with their first breath. No one really wants to make their way to the training field. Even the Queen's court moves sluggishly, but move they do with muttered recriminations against Allairavar. Cold weather doesn't stop training.
A warming spell around the field keeps it warm enough to practice, and bobbling witchlights and steady e-line floodlights keep the darkness at bay. All along one side of the practice area are weapons with blades live and dulled. The court eases onto the field alongside the Strangers with sighs and grumbles aplenty. No one likes practice on chilly mornings, but they like Allairavar's retaliation against tardiness even less.
Everyone has paired off by the time Allairavar strides out of the manor home with his arm around a woman's shoulders. In the harsh e-line lights and softer witchlight, it's clear she hasn't been well and still isn't entirely healed. Sunken golden eyes scan the field, and her expression is vaguely nauseated. She trembles, either from weakness or discomfort, as Allairavar pulls away and calls in two bladed sticks—weapons caught somewhere between sword and ax.
"Let's go," he tells her, and she takes one stick from his hand as court and Strangers alike look on.
Another male follows them in, sleekly predatory in his slow prowl around the practice field. A dangerous look glazes his eyes, and he circles the whole field once before making a second, tighter pass around the marked off area where Allairavar and the woman square off.
Members of the court trade wary looks, sharing them with the Strangers. More than a few murmur things like, "Verim will go for his throat if he pushes her too hard," and, "Should she even be out of bed yet?"
It seems Allairavar's rule for training is absolute. Even the Queen takes part. Under his watchful eye and tutelage, they run through a warm up that clearly exhausts her, but when he asks if they should stop, she snarls at him and pushes on for another five minutes. Only then does she sit off to the side of the field and begin stretching.
As she lifts from a leg stretch, she catches your eye and offers a small, shy smile. "Would you like to stretch with me? Allairavar's workouts are always hardest the first day back," she says softly.
Allairavar's exercises may be hard, but she looks like she's seconds from collapsing from exhaustion. If she spent this last week resting and still looks so wan and thin and weak, her initial injuries must have been severe.
MID-AFTERNOON, THE BAZAAR PAVILION
Snow drifts lazily through frigid air. Though temperatures hover around freezing, the Old Town Bazaar bustles with activity. Slowly, people rebuild homes and shops burned by the Hunter Guild, and for perhaps the first time in the past fifty years, sentiment has turned against the Hunters.
Strangers out and about in the Bazaar hear:
There's some commotion toward the center of the Bazaar, where the Queen has settled at the pavilion with a group of landen and Blood children. Her only guard seems to be the elegant man seated across from her at the pavilion's wooden table, his eyes watchful as the people pass by.
The Queen herself looks unwell. Though she wears a bright smile and her golden eyes glitter with laughter, they are sunken and dark smudges circle them. Her arms are thin, little more than skin wrapped around bone. In spite of the freezing weather, she wears a tunic with wide sleeves that pool around her elbows as she holds up a small plank of wood and tugs at a ribbon embedded in it. Here, in the chilly winter morning, the woman who brought some twenty Strangers across the vast distances of many worlds looks very human, very mortal, and very fragile.
Her eyes meet yours as she looks up, and you feel a gentle brush against your mind. No matter how familiar or strange mental communication is, no matter how disconcerting or easy you find it, the touch strikes you as incredibly polite. *We can talk, if you'd like,* she tells you over a psychic thread.
Should you join her, you find respite from the cold. A warming spell makes the pavilion pleasantly toasty, explaining why no one wears a jacket and, maybe, the Queen's clothes. She's dressed plainly in a loose, knitted tunic and fitted breaches. She wears no coronet and no visible jewelry except for a golden chain that tucks beneath her tunic.
Fayura offers a quick smile in your direction as she guides the end of the ribbon in her hand through the thin strip of wood in a twisting loop. She offers a soft-spoken explanation to the children before inviting them to try—and inviting the Blood to explain the magic to the landens, too.
As the children turn to their task, Fayura turns to you. "I'm glad to see you made it through the Hunters' attack relatively unscathed." She sets her plank down and taps her mug. Steam beings to rise from it and she lifts it to her lips with a sigh. "And I apologize that I wasn't there to greet you." A wry smile tugs at her lips; her appearance is, in her mind, enough of an explanation for why. "How have you found Draega?"
The morning is cold and dark. Inhaling the frigid air is so shocking that those who aren't expecting it cough and wheeze with their first breath. No one really wants to make their way to the training field. Even the Queen's court moves sluggishly, but move they do with muttered recriminations against Allairavar. Cold weather doesn't stop training.
A warming spell around the field keeps it warm enough to practice, and bobbling witchlights and steady e-line floodlights keep the darkness at bay. All along one side of the practice area are weapons with blades live and dulled. The court eases onto the field alongside the Strangers with sighs and grumbles aplenty. No one likes practice on chilly mornings, but they like Allairavar's retaliation against tardiness even less.
Everyone has paired off by the time Allairavar strides out of the manor home with his arm around a woman's shoulders. In the harsh e-line lights and softer witchlight, it's clear she hasn't been well and still isn't entirely healed. Sunken golden eyes scan the field, and her expression is vaguely nauseated. She trembles, either from weakness or discomfort, as Allairavar pulls away and calls in two bladed sticks—weapons caught somewhere between sword and ax.
"Let's go," he tells her, and she takes one stick from his hand as court and Strangers alike look on.
Another male follows them in, sleekly predatory in his slow prowl around the practice field. A dangerous look glazes his eyes, and he circles the whole field once before making a second, tighter pass around the marked off area where Allairavar and the woman square off.
Members of the court trade wary looks, sharing them with the Strangers. More than a few murmur things like, "Verim will go for his throat if he pushes her too hard," and, "Should she even be out of bed yet?"
It seems Allairavar's rule for training is absolute. Even the Queen takes part. Under his watchful eye and tutelage, they run through a warm up that clearly exhausts her, but when he asks if they should stop, she snarls at him and pushes on for another five minutes. Only then does she sit off to the side of the field and begin stretching.
As she lifts from a leg stretch, she catches your eye and offers a small, shy smile. "Would you like to stretch with me? Allairavar's workouts are always hardest the first day back," she says softly.
Allairavar's exercises may be hard, but she looks like she's seconds from collapsing from exhaustion. If she spent this last week resting and still looks so wan and thin and weak, her initial injuries must have been severe.
MID-AFTERNOON, THE BAZAAR PAVILION
Snow drifts lazily through frigid air. Though temperatures hover around freezing, the Old Town Bazaar bustles with activity. Slowly, people rebuild homes and shops burned by the Hunter Guild, and for perhaps the first time in the past fifty years, sentiment has turned against the Hunters.
Strangers out and about in the Bazaar hear:
A landen woman, to her friend: It's not right what the Hunters did, burning down our homes, too.
A well-to-do Blood male, at a food stall: …believe what that pompous Grand Master has to say about a Queen of the Blood.
There's some commotion toward the center of the Bazaar, where the Queen has settled at the pavilion with a group of landen and Blood children. Her only guard seems to be the elegant man seated across from her at the pavilion's wooden table, his eyes watchful as the people pass by.
The Queen herself looks unwell. Though she wears a bright smile and her golden eyes glitter with laughter, they are sunken and dark smudges circle them. Her arms are thin, little more than skin wrapped around bone. In spite of the freezing weather, she wears a tunic with wide sleeves that pool around her elbows as she holds up a small plank of wood and tugs at a ribbon embedded in it. Here, in the chilly winter morning, the woman who brought some twenty Strangers across the vast distances of many worlds looks very human, very mortal, and very fragile.
Her eyes meet yours as she looks up, and you feel a gentle brush against your mind. No matter how familiar or strange mental communication is, no matter how disconcerting or easy you find it, the touch strikes you as incredibly polite. *We can talk, if you'd like,* she tells you over a psychic thread.
Should you join her, you find respite from the cold. A warming spell makes the pavilion pleasantly toasty, explaining why no one wears a jacket and, maybe, the Queen's clothes. She's dressed plainly in a loose, knitted tunic and fitted breaches. She wears no coronet and no visible jewelry except for a golden chain that tucks beneath her tunic.
Fayura offers a quick smile in your direction as she guides the end of the ribbon in her hand through the thin strip of wood in a twisting loop. She offers a soft-spoken explanation to the children before inviting them to try—and inviting the Blood to explain the magic to the landens, too.
As the children turn to their task, Fayura turns to you. "I'm glad to see you made it through the Hunters' attack relatively unscathed." She sets her plank down and taps her mug. Steam beings to rise from it and she lifts it to her lips with a sigh. "And I apologize that I wasn't there to greet you." A wry smile tugs at her lips; her appearance is, in her mind, enough of an explanation for why. "How have you found Draega?"
no subject
[ he says that wryly, instinctively touching the red hanging from his neck. but he smiles a little at her self-awareness. so it wasn't just him that found this figure of authority who mingled with her people and invited strangers into her castle a bit odd.
there's another quiet moment as parado seems to consider. if she didn't know much about them, but was willing rely on them, then... ]
Well, I'm Parado. [ he gives a little wave, even though she's right next to him. ] My home is really different from all this. Not much magic, a lot more technology. I want to help, if I can. But I want to go home, too.
[ he gestures to her, open-palmed. a prompt. ]
Now tell me some things about you.
no subject
[Even though the Guilds are ostensibly her enemy and she shouldn't want to strengthen them, she gives this information easily. In her mind, both sides need to be strengthened and their strength woven together.]
I will do my best to send all of you home. I wouldn't have summoned you if I didn't think I could return you. [The trick will be finding a way to send them back that doesn't nearly kill her again.
She takes a sip of her coffee, considering what she could tell him.]
About me... I'm 1400 years old. For the first 800 years of my life, I traveled Hayll with my mother, but I only came to Draega about ten or eleven years ago. That's when I set up my court. I like coffee— [She lifts her mug in a salute.] —and reading, and I'm a horrific gardener. I'm very boring.
no subject
her age, however, gets a startled 'oh!' and wide eyes. ]
Is it magic that keeps you young? [ there's no indication that he thinks this could be considered rude. ] I don't think that's boring at all. One of my- my friends, he loves coffee too, but only with a lot of sugar and milk. I've never tried, so can I...?
[ he half wants to actually try, and half wants to occupy his hands with a cup. it's multitasking, or something. plus, he's tired, and he knew that coffee was supposed to help. ]
no subject
No, no, I'm Hayllian. We're a long-lived race, like the Eyriens and Dhemlan. Our lifespans are about 5000 years. Craft can't be used to keep someone young.
[A curious turn of phrase: she doesn't say that Craft can't prolong life, just that it can't keep the age from someone's face. There are no remedies for old age, but she seems to imply there are ways around it.]
I should warn you, [she says as she uses Craft to lift the coffee pot and pour him a cup,] that coffee by itself is very bitter, and I like it darker and more bitter than most. [As the pot sets itself down, Fay calls in a spoon, a dish full of sugar, and a cup of cream.] A spoonful of sugar and a dollop of cream to start will cut the bitterness, and then you can decide if you like the underlying taste.
[Across the table, Verim plunks his chin on his hand and gives Fay a teasing smile. "You only like it for the caffeine," he says. She sniffs imperiously but doesn't deny it.]
no subject
[ the entire bugster species had only existed for nineteen years, and parado had been the first. even graphite, the longest-lived in his own game, was a few hundred years old at most.
he takes the cup with a vague murmur of thanks, cradling it in his hands and letting the warmth bleed through his sleeves. despite fayura's advice, parado takes a cursory sip of it black. like many things this week, he immediately regrets it. he sticks his tongue out between his lips and reaches for the sugar and cream. ]
Blegh. [ with two spoonfuls of sugar, a hefty pour of cream and a quick stir, he tries again, and seems surprised by the change, sipping thoughtfully. ] ...has Hayll been like this your whole life? With Craft, and Jewels, and... coffee?
no subject
[Her words aren't a recrimination, though; they're gentle and kind and spoken with a bit of a laugh. She's not mocking him, but it amuses her that he thought to try in spite of her warning.
His question steals the mirth from her face.]
If you mean have we always been Blood, then yes. What we are is... old. Ancient. Hundreds of thousands of years. The long-lived races seem to dictate how fast society moves, and we don't often like it to move quickly. And if there was ever a time coffee didn't exist, I don't want to know about it.
[From across the table, Verim says casually, You don't want to meet her first thing in the morning before she's had a cup of coffee.
Fay rolls her eyes at him.] Ignore my Prince. He likes to overstate how grumpy I am in the morning.
no subject
some things are similar no matter where you go, though, and parado laughs at verim's comment. ]
It's okay, I live with a doctor. He's the same way trying to wake up after a long shift, or... [ a long fight.
he thinks that, and it makes him pause, expression surprised. that's why fayura was strange to deal with. she reminded parado of emu, of sento, of the other people he'd met who put their lives on the line for what they stood for. it had taken time for him to understand them, as well. ]
There's people like you everywhere, huh? In every world.
no subject
People like me?
no subject
No, no! I meant it as a good thing! It's a good thing, you...
[ another ruffle of his hair, and parado huffs. people weren't his strong suit, especially without his partner or his friend to guide him. the next part, he speaks very quickly. ]
This... isn't the first other world I've visited, it's the second. You said you were reaching out for heroes, but- you're the one trying to make things better, right? For people around you, who are suffering. I didn't get it, really, until I was shown what that's like. By those I met in both worlds.
no subject
I'm trying, yes. [Fay smiles faintly, lifting her coffee to her lips and taking a sip.] I suppose there must be people trying to help, to right wrongs, in other worlds, too. Thank you. I think I needed to hear that.
no subject
quite abruptly he stands up, looking back to fayura and sparing a glance for verim across the table, too. ]
I'm not sure if I can trust everything you say, but you really do seem honest about wanting to help this place. [ he's met good deceivers before, and has been one himself. it's a little early to give them all his faith. ] Thanks for talking to me. I'm think I'm gonna go, but we can talk again sometime.
no subject
Enjoy the rest of your afternoon, Parado. I look forward to speak with you again. [Fay waves to him as he heads off before turning to a pair of children who are eager to show her their progress with their Craft.]
no subject
...only to return about two seconds later, muttering 'sorry, forgot' and leaving his now-empty coffee cup on the table before vanishing again. ]