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
It's hard to say where the drive comes from, but Blood males will always seek out a Queen to serve. They're drawn to it. It's why Warlord Princes are so dangerous: they'll do anything to defend their Queen, their lover, their family. [Fay's fingers brush back and forth over Verim's hand, and he laces their fingers together a moment later, looking content and pleased.] I suppose that's how Blood society grew. Strong males sought out Queens because they were intrigued by the Craft she wielded, and they allied themselves with her. Circles of protection grew around her, spiraling out into society.
For some of my court, I'm the Queen they need to serve, and I'm enough for them. For others, I offer them the direction they need and a comfortable leash for their tempers. They get along with me, but they'll leave one day. There are a few who... don't fit with me. We're like two two puzzle pieces you think should fit, but there's too much space between the tab on my piece and the cut on theirs. They want what I offer, but I can't give them what they need. Oil and water.
[A momentary pause. She glances at Verim, suspecting what she says next will pique his temper.]
That's... part of why I waited to say anything.
[He gives her a disgruntled look but that's the extent of his reaction.]
no subject
still, though. ]
That's...weird. [ a beat, then, ] No offense, I guess.
[ having to say that three times in one conversation is probably pushing it...but it doesn't click for him immediately that this isn't so hard for him to relate to, was why he'd found allairavar so understandable the first time they spoke one-on-one. percy jackson would do anything to protect his loved ones, no matter the cost -- for himself, or for anyone else.
he makes a face, gearing up for another no offense, but, because he can't help saying -- ]
So why not get rid of them? They're obviously not trustworthy. They almost got a lot of people killed, and we probably won't be so lucky next time.
no subject
[She waves a dismissive hand before lifting her coffee and taking a long sip. Cultures are different. It surprises her just how different the Strangers' many worlds seem to be from her own, but she knows she must take this in stride. Ignorance festers in silence.]
In this instance, I think it's best to keep their poison in my own home. I'm sure by now you've realized how much of Blood society balances on the edge of a knife and how easy it is to throw us into chaos when trust is broken. Because so much hinges on trust, when trust is broken, our action is swift and decisive. The males in my court who aren't mine haven't done anything to confirm they've broken trust with me.
[Her lips press together and she bobbles her head to a thought she's just had.]
Oh, I could weave a tangled web to pull their secrets from the walls or shatter the shields around their minds to learn the truth, but then I would be breaking trust with every person who lives in Draega. They must be able to rely on the fact that I won't invade their minds without good reason.
But if someone were to discover proof of this betrayal, then I could take action.
no subject
[ and he moves to take another sip of coffee himself -- right as fayura casually talks about shattering mind shields and invading minds and he has to go down coughing so he doesn't, like, spew coffee on the queen or anything.
YOU CAN'T JUST SAY THINGS LIKE THAT?? holy hera. ]
Uh yeah, [ he says, coming up for air, ] we wouldn't want that.
[ we really wouldn't. but after a beat, the last thing she says connects. ]
So -- oh. You can't really look for proof yourself, but if someone happened to find something out for you....
no subject
We wouldn't, [she agrees softly.
Worry not, Percy! There are lines that will not be crossed, and this is one of them.
Inclining her head, Fay takes a sip from her cup. A pleased expression curls her lips, leaving her looking like a cat quite pleased it got the cream.]
Precisely right. No one has outright done anything wrong, by which I mean they haven't run through the city center shouting that they've betrayed me. That knife-edge of trust extends not just to how I use my Craft but to how I use my political and social power. [She rolls her eyes, suddenly looking much more like a beleaguered young woman than Queen.] Frankly, it's exhausting.