[ The party had been one more Vor gathering. One more wine soaked fanciful enthrallement of someone's house. Left over decadence that dripped on the fingers, the dressings of honour that buttoned up high and choked the throat. Writhing, messy, words that were a knife edge's fall between insult and compliment, a shifting dance of trading partner's that in the natural respect that had to be given, she lost track of Byerly in it. He had to do his rounds, his show, and she hers. Say hello to this Count or that Lady. The sword she'd worn openly for years sitting decoratively still embedded with blood between filgree at her hip as a steady reminder of the respect that she was given in turn. Pleasant, as far as evenings went.
Up until she'd ended up in conversation with someone who pushed that blade's balance. Somewhere between trying to woo her and searching through words like grasping fingertips to sink into still tender parts. As if there were parts that could still be reached. One word darts into another, and he digs and digs and digs like he means to turn up graves and when she strikes the proverbial casket - she snaps. A hand that goes straight for the sharp dig, not a woman's slap of genteel disgust, but a glass she swings and on his shoulder, a splash of red wine ( of course it's red, of course in the morning it will not be wine, they will gossip about her making him bleed right then and there ) as she juts the snapped clean stem into his chin. A reminder, then, just how what her title was built on now.
Then she drops it, drops him like he's ash and turns on her heel and without looking to see, or looking to know, she finds him because she will always find him. Her mouth set, flat, pained, but half way through a step forward to him. ]
[ She finds him, too, because he's searching for her. He's developed a sixth sense, he fancies, for when she's about to do something mad and reckless - not that he's ever able to stop her, of course; heavens no. He couldn't and he wouldn't when they were small, and he can't and he won't now. Still, he always tries to be there - to clean up, to comfort, just to witness. He does love her madness even now.
He sees the mess she's leaving behind now. His eyes flicker over the scene for consequences that will last, and (thank God) he finds none. Just some social consequences. And so he doesn't linger with the scandal and the twittering and the shock; instead he bows low in response to Lakshmi's request and turns to follow her. ]
My lady.
[ At the door he moves ahead of her, hailing them a groundcar, letting her stand impassive and impartial. When the car comes, he gets the door for her. ]
[ There is one singular joy to being what she is, after everything that caused it - it is that each and every time after these moments where they forget and she reminds them. They step out of her way. Like somehow she'd slice them if they so much brushed her. Good, let them think that. Let them part out of her way like she could cut tides. She's sure that whoever was hosting would have a thrilling time telling everyone that they had held the part where she had nearly slit a man's throat. What a highlight of the proverbial season.
Her only consolation is him, him who she's heard muttered more than once, that he always did like them a little raw to the touch. A little more inclined to hurt him.
She wraps her shawl around her a little tighter, drawing it up about herself. Her face composed flatly with the pressure of society at her back. Easily shut out and ignored when she slips into the car he's hailed down. Arranging herself and her skirts neatly around herself in habit. Before she looks down at her fingers, stained pink with the wine and holds them up for him to see when he sits beside her. ]
What a waste.
[ she presses her thumb to forefinger and drags across where the wine makes it sticky ever so slightly. ]
[ The man had her by the arm, wretchedly tight, as she was dragged up from the cargo deck. Despite her shouted words, her best effort to get free, it was solid, as she was pulled and tugged up the stairs to the Captain's quarters. Garnering enough attention on the way. Not that, since she'd been found, she had much of anywhere to go - it did not matter. She would do her best to put up a fight simply out of second nature. She didn't know how to do anything much else but fight.
Marched to his door, and when it opens, flung unceremoniously down in front of him. Scrambling immediately to get her knees underneath her. Hands hovering up to the knife in her belt that had been yet to be pulled off her as she goes to rise up, to attack the first person that comes near her.
Feels the hand close around her wrist that holds the knife before she can get anywhere and above her, the explanation goes on. Captain, we found her in the cargo, skulking below decks. She says nothing to it, breathing fast and hard in the need to push as hard as she can until something gives. Looking up only at the person that's holding her. The one the men are looking too, Captain, apparently of this mostly clean, but still stops in the pirate ports ship. ]
[ He's busy looking over the map their navigator has plotted out their most recent course on. A hand on his chin thoughtfully as he inspects it. This isn't his first voyage out on sea, but he knows his skills are lacking in some areas and seeks to correct it when possible. Now had seemed like a good time -- only a few days journey from their most recent port and the course had yet to need corrections due to new circumstances cropping up.
The door opening catches his attention and his brows furrow as a woman is thrown in. What in the devil? He'd been about to comment on the manhandling of her until the woman had a knife ready, prepared to fight despite being outnumbered. The crew had been hired by his father. There were several changes David would make if he had full control of the vessel, but he was acting captain, not in charge of the arrangements made before they left their home port. Disagreements in attitude, but not in accomplishing their tasks, and thus David had no basis for replacing any of them.
Which meant whatever damage this man had done in obtaining useful information from their stowaway was something David would have to deal with. ]
I can see that, [ he says dryly and sighs lightly. ] You could make this easier on us both by telling me your name and reason for coming on board.
[ She looks about them - not scared, but ready, always ready, might throw herself overboard, if she had to, might kill him just the same if it came to it. Clear, she thinks, in how she says nothing at all to start with. Her fingers lacing themselves about the hilt of the blade, tightly bound, unforgivingly so. A test there slightly as she attempts to pull just to know the strength of this Captain.
Silent, for an age, as she feels the eyes in the room watching them both. ]
I - I -
[ The words fumble in her mouth, trying to work out what these men would believe, right now. About a woman that's done something so foolish, so ridiculous, as all this. ]
[ In terms of foolish things her pride has gotten into her of late - if ever - this has to rank up there. Sitting across from him on the long slide of a bar - not too busy, a few people passing through. She wondered why he picked this one? Or she had, but that was, quite a few drinks ago, after she firmly said that she would and could keep up with him. She would match him drink for drink since he said this was the utter definition of what made life so good to him, then she would know it. ( Educational she would insist, not pride, that was far more excusable. )
Which was good, six, seven of these ago, sipping the - whatever it was now. Before, it tasted rough but this glass, in the warm hazy that settled through her limb, her lips, her laughter as she tilts her head back - it was all sweet, and if she had even a lick of real experience, she'd know what this was, but as she is ? She's open and content and full with to whatever he's said, scathing no doubt, and shame to her ladylike sensibilities that she enjoys it, that he never seems to find mistake in her for that sharpness in return. ]
No - you see - Vormoncrief is wrong. I could stomach his boorishness if he had any idea about crop rotations at all. Just because his ancestor understood how to till a field doesn't mean he does.
[ He's a little buzzed, and that's...well. Lakshmi is a little thing, and she's clearly not used to this, but oughtn't she be able to keep up with him a little? She's Vor. Her family comes from a long, long line of drunkards. It's the Betan in her, it must be, that makes her so chatty and bubbly and full of laughter and wine-flushed.
Not that he objects. He'd never tell her - not unless it made her angry - but she's cute like this. ]
So you're telling me - [ He snorts skeptically. ] That you'd endure an entire conversation about agriculture? No, no, please don't answer that. I believe it completely. I believe completely that you have a dozen incredibly strong opinions about the dirt.
[ Her nose scrunches in determined thought, and yes, she does, but not like that. Oblivious to his thoughts of her, to much of her self in that moment as she gestures far too animatedly for - well, as he said, a topic about dirt. The glass in one hand that she takes another far too generous mouthful - all honeyed on the way down, as she keeps going. ]
I do not have strong opinions about the dirt. [ A pause, hovering, with the bite in her tongue. ] I have opinions about how things grow in the dirt, that is completely different.
Or, late, to her. Far too early for him. Asleep as he still was, normally since - their honeymoon had ended, and there they were back here. His families house. Her families house, now. Since the first, she knew it wouldn't be easy. He had made that clear - just what was waiting for her when she became Lady Vorrutyer. A battle that she had started fighting since the first day she had stood in this house for the first time. Hers, now, she thinks viciously, and it had become truly apparent why Byerly recoiled from even half a real scrap of affection after she had honestly met his father the first time.
He might as well have asked to see her hooves, the way he'd inspected her. Check her teeth. Ask when and if she was going to get having children. Like he expected her to foal one a year until he decided she'd bred enough. It had set her teeth and she must have left scars on Byerly's hand for how hard she'd gripped in her need to quiet the vitriol on her mouth - not yet, not yet. She wouldn't have anything to argue over, when she was so new to the house and had no one on her side. ( Not that it stopped how Byerly spoke to the man, that had been the sight to see. )
But it was a mild unpleasantness to this: to lying there next to him of a morning. Turning to fit against his side, her leg draping over his, her arm reaching up to brush her fingers against his hair. She'd found more favourable ways to wake up him that he didn't resent being roused earlier for, in the last few months together. Ways that he had shown her. Not shy with her inexperience, not anymore. Not now he'd given her something she was happy to have, what it was to treat her body as so utterly pleasant. How to treat his the same - which was a perfectly sweet way of putting it and he would outwardly chide her for, if he heard her think of him like that.
Maybe that's why she still keeps the early hours. Where he can't guard himself away behind quick comments, where he's asleep and he looks nothing other than himself and he's completely hers. Selfishly, happily, hers. ( and she is very completely his )
But nothing she can lounge in, right now. ]
Byerly - [ her fingers brush, up against his hair, soft where it tangles, and works around the side of his face. Over the plain of his cheek, over his lip. ] - Husband. Wake up. [ Squirms that little more, to prop herself up on her elbow, rake her fingers through her hair to get it out of her face where it was half fallen out from sleeping. ] I need to talk with you.
[ He's quite sure of that. Not by the light - by the light it could be morning or evening, and with his schedule he's more likely to wake at the latter than at the former. But it can't be evening, because she's still with him. Every morning, when she goes, he feels her leave the bed to go riding or whatever other abominable activity that calls her, and he rolls over sleepily to press his face into the warmth she left behind. But she hadn't gone yet. Morning still.
He cracks open a bleary eye to look at her. Hooks an arm around her waist and rolls so he can pull her on top of him, so he can lay flat on his back with a blessed armful of warm Lakshmi atop him. And he closes his eyes again, sighing contentedly. ]
[ Dear god, he had a way of breathing that word like it was a plague all to itself. One that he would ward off as desperately as he could in how he clutches her to him. His own personal shield from the time of day that she rather needs to face him this particular day.
Not that she minds, huffing with soft laughter into his neck as he tucks her in close. Gives him the one minute to enjoy it for what it was before she gives a determined wriggle to loosen his arm. Pushing herself up again - not today, the great and terrible affectionate leech of heat he always was. He would protest that he wasn't that strong, but when he was wrapped around her determinedly, he could certainly be heavy in his contentment. ]
Byerly - wake up.
[ Words that are punctured by how she pokes him in the side. ] It is important, ishq. Before the rest of the house is up to listen.
[ Because all the staff seemed to be used to the whole house rising late, and if she could beat them to it all the better. She didn't want anyone passing on information she wasn't ready to share until she was good and ready. ]
It's in the early hours before dawn, that she feels the prickle that wakes her. A sharpness in her spine, a flicker on the inside of her throat that is cold where her breath is hot.
It is not the first.
She wakes often, half awake in a battle-like state. It is to be expected, Duv tells her often, with his fingers gentle in her hair, and a tiredness in his expression that says he wakes like this more than he will admit too in day break. But this, this is too sharp, her senses ticking loud in her ears, the stillness of Blackwater in her body. Her hand sliding against the blankets along his side where her head rests tucked in next to him, resting where she sleeps deeply, normally. Doesn't lift her hand as she - hears, thinks she hears, knows she hears - the footfalls of someone who is not her husband, is not their children, or their staff that she has become familiar with since he became the Imperial Counselor. Knows every sound and creak of this house, her paranoia never allowed for anything less. Not when it came to her or the children.
"Duv." Said without even the slightest thought he wouldn't be awake too. He is all ways, her other half, this whole other part of herself that moves in an extension of her as she does of him. "Get ready to move to the door."
No matter how settled he had become in his new life, he knew this was an inevitability. That one day they would be left to defend themselves and their family. It was an eventuality he had prepared for.
The sound of something not right hits him, nagging at the back of his mind. It's a sensation that causes him to wake and instead of the half-drowsy state he might find himself in the mornings, he's brought to full alertness within seconds. Part of him wonders if it is a lingering feeling from youth, a dream of the past that he can't quite grasp beyond the feelings of it now that he is awake.
It's her voice that tells him he's not the only one who recognizes it. Someone is in their home that does not belong there, someone who slipped past their security net. There's no hesitation as he steps out of bed, feet light and quiet, and reaches for a stunner he keeps within easy reach. The wristcom that is almost always glued to him is there too and he presses a button on the side of it that sends an alert to Imperial Security that something is wrong. Very wrong.
There's no need for him to reply vocally, his wife knows him well and knows he is up and ready. Whatever was coming for them, they would be facing it together.
Sat in a room nothing like the halls of Jhansi Fortress, her spine straight - cold where the stretch of skin was exposed of her back. She refused to sit back in the chair, she refused to relinquish the sword at her hip, she refused, she refused, she refused so much that they put in front of her. Even if for the position she was, for the wars she had won to hold her title - she is Queen, and the belts that hold her husband's shamsher sword in place, are nothing short of beautiful rather than practical. Matched to the gold she wears, to the heavily embroidered silks that sit stitched with pearls to the embedded ones at the hilt. She is a Queen as grand as England's and every purpose of her whole body, was to never let them forget it:
That she had won her wars, she had laid down the British troops under her horse, her sword, not in spite of herself, but because of all that she was. To her own people's measure, not theirs. That was unapologetically what she was - a woman and a warrior and a queen and the whole body of an independent state.
A body, that as she sits across from Lord Thomas Hamilton, a woman that was better suited to battlefields, than ensuring that England withheld its hold. A queen looking for allies, and a woman that quite frankly, didn't know how to make sense of the society she was trying to drive treaties from. Oh, her being here was the first step in the right direction, so her advisors and the English said - to establishing peace. A chance to smile and play nice with King George.
But that would be to ignore it, not deal with it. She needs to deal with it, and a lifetime of war would prosper no one. It never did. There needed to be peace. A time to rebuild. Her fingers settle in her lap. A little-pained breath - the shot in her shoulder ached in this British weather. A plainly worn scar that is just seen behind the heavy veil that drapes over her body in an attempt to give what the British called modesty ( a thing she had consistently shocked their sense of, with her bare back, her bare feet, if she is Jhansi, as they would say, then she will never wear this skin with shame ). What lies covered now, is the veil that falls sheer but covering down to mid chest.
But behind it, her eyes never, never drop from his. If there is an expectation of rank, that he should lower his gaze, she will not let him. She will watch him until she can pry apart intentions by that gaze alone.
There is no grand procession or fanfare to introduce this woman, they are not in any of the palaces or apartments that King George is ignoring in favor of pining for Hanover and the convenient disappearance of the dozens of Catholics with more legitimate claims to the empire. There's a steward who introduces them and then moves away to wait in the wings, leaving Lord Hamilton standing (hopefully awkwardly yearns the collective Whitehall) across from the chair she is sitting in.
In the absence of anyone else in England willing to take this seriously, there is Thomas. His gaze is steady - what she can glimpse of it before he inclines his head and everything else in a proper, formal greeting. "Your Majesty," he says, and wonders what his etiquette tutor would have said about this. They'd spent a week on the finer points of meeting royalty, and he'd daydreamed absently through most of it, though of course the details have made it with him regardless.
"The pleasure - and honor - are of course all mine, Rani Lakshmibai." His is not a mouth made for languages too far past the dreary boundaries of Europe, but it's significantly less grating than it could be.
Parliament and the crown both are trying to choke her and her people before a word is spoken, putting her in here like this, with the son of a minor earl, shuffled away in a meeting room in a third-string government palace. It is insulting; the kind of affront that would be grounds for significant diplomatic strain between another, less routinely subjugated, royal house. Thomas knows this, hates this, but his alternative to showing up is letting someone else handle it, which he hates even more.
A light but near constant stream of tapping echoes through the vast halls as Gildor cautiously explores. The sound comes from the end of a thin wooden cane, held in one hand while his other trails along the walls. Walls that are high and ornately carved in places, and he moves slowly take in the shapes. So unlike the smooth papered walls he's used to - wonderful, though he's not sure if he likes this place yet. It is half of where he comes from, yet he's been away from it for so long he has no memory of it.
The wall gives way to a room, and he enters - aimless and shameless in any possible intrusion he's making. It's nice to just walk after being cooped up on a ship for so long, even if it's a cautious walk. Gildor doesn't yet know the layout of their host's home, and this is the best way to learn, despite his master's wishes and watchful eye. He managed to slip away even before the proper greetings were to be made, just to get a head start on mapping the rooms out, but it's turning out to be more than what he bargained for. He's horribly lost, horribly late, and horribly warm.
His fingers find another doorway and he enters this one too, certain he's wandering in circles now. Though this one seems occupied - there was a sound that went silent when he came around the door.
"Hello?" he asks, unsure in tone to mask that he knows someone else is there.
It's in seconds, and then it's over. Moving before she had thought it through, before she asked her hands what they were doing, before her ears heard Kashi pleading with her to stop. A momentum that was a spell all to itself, coming loose and firing. A fire that wove itself around her fingers. A closed fist that hits, and hits and hits again. Consuming. Destructive. It's over before she wondered if she could be sorry for any of it.
It is not until later that she follows along with what she'd done when she's brought forward to a court's full view. She, Lakshmi, had been walking through the market. Arm in arm with someone so dear to her, - she remembers that bit well enough. Kashi, laughing. Teasing. Kashi was always so beautiful, it had to get her in trouble one day. That, being the Lord's hand that as they stopped in their duties for the day, to roam across like he had a right. Like he deserved to touch something that beautiful.
At which point, the voices of her trial said, Lakshmi had a knife in her hand. That Lakshmi had kicked him, down and hard. That he had struck back but - she was not a great beauty, she was lean, sharp and quick. Better for the work she had been forced to for year after year, as her parents before. That she struck him down to his knees and caught the offending hand. That she could remember. The intimacy of lacing her fingers with his to wrenched it back, that she sliced is hand from his arm in a heavy blow that left him with a severed stump.
He had screamed and screamed and screamed. Kashi was screaming at her, stop, stop, stop. The knife dropped out of hand. Another hand that gripped hers, cooled her until someone else turned up to take her away.
Didn't remember him much, either. Just that he had sure hands and a sure gaze that told that stopped her from going further. Felt him clean the blood from her brow where it had splattered against her cheek, streaked her hair. Resetting her back to something like calm, away from what she'd just done until someone decidedly more important turned up.
After that, the trial was easy. Straight forward. No execution. No one needed a martyr. Instead, she had proved herself grown, proved herself ready, proved her own strength. Or at least, that was what the representative of Elgar'nan had said. Elgar'nan himself of course, said nothing, far too above events like this even if he was present at them to snatch her away. Pretty words that were given out about taking someone so raw and putting them in their proper place. The politics of it the same as always: that dangerous things were best kept where they could be kept an eye on, best used as a tool. She would be a wonderful display of an uncontrollable temper. One day, it was even promised to her, she might be his champion for her fierceness if she devoted herself to the task.
It was the sort of half consolation given to anyone, before they were shoved down, hands either side of her shoulders, and the Vassallin was etched onto her face, around her cheekbones, her jaw, and to the affectionate pet, she didn't make a sound when they started on the sensitive skin of her eye sockets. Lines that marked her out, she belonged to Elgar'nan now.
It was merciful at least that things were routine. Simple. She couldn't open her eyes very far as the tattoos healed. The swelling and the itching she had to physically stop herself from attacking madly. They were going to visit Mythal, she'd been told - not like it mattered where she went, right now. Just did her best to stay in line and not fall over. Not move too much when they crowed over having someone as vicious as she was. Her hands curling up tightly as she stayed put, thankful when the examination was over and she was allowed to rejoin other servants. Finding a spot against the wall as she close her eyes. Given up for the time being keeping them open. A few hours respite where she wasn't expected to do much to try and process... any of it, really.
After all, the last thing that had felt real was the blood on her hands, and she missed - Kashi, her mother, her father and her brother, terribly.
It was a scene he had seen time and time again. One he often played a part in. The noble that had 'suffered' at the hands of another was fortunate they had not been cut down as repayment for what they forced on others. Too many abused their positions. The small bits of power they were given, while chained like the rest of them, caused a madness to overtake them. The trial would have gone far worse for the woman if the man had died, but Solas would have seen it as an act of justice.
He took no joy in appearing when her fate was decided for her. The day rang clearly in his mind as he watched her stand proudly. So that fierceness she displayed had not been a breaking point reached. He stands at Mythal's side and barely holds back a snarl when Elgar'nan's own speaks up. This could be the last he sees of her. She would not be the first bright flame the Evanuris has snuffed out long before its time. He steals one last, curious look at her as she is taken away and steels himself for what is to come next. Her fate was merely one of many to be decided today.
Elgar'nan's visits were far too frequent for Solas' liking, but that concern was one easily ignored by Mythal. It was a disruption they would bear for however long the pair saw it necessary and he stood near to dispel any tensions that arose between the Elgar'nan's company and their hosts.
It's the light catching in her hair that he sees first. The second, is the vallaslin she now bore. She had survived so far then and the Evanuris had seen fit to force her to accompany him here. He lets out a small sigh of annoyance and steps towards her. The unique pain that came with the branding of Elgar'nan's slaves was one he was unfortunately familiar with. No doubt the Evanuris had seen fit for her to manage it herself without the aid of someone who could see.
"I can ease the pain if it is unbearable," he offers once he is near, speaking plainly.
He was said to be the best, this Captain Naismith.
That was probably why it took her so long to find him - as it turned out. He was quick and clever. A hard man to track down. But she doesn't have a choice, she must find him. She must. Though whether her doing so was purely down to her ability tracking him, or him following the word that someone was looking for him - didn't matter. Because to a certain degree, discreet.
After all, if word got out the Queen of Jhansi was trawling through mercenary rings looking for help - would be disastrous, to say the least. Her enemies would pounce when she was too far away to call for help. Had to be done, and had to be done fast. She doesn't have time, her people don't have the time. She must find him, ensure his services to her, and not turn back until she wins.
So when she gets word that she's found him - it's a palatable relief. Every day has been too long. She prepares as best as she can - it's been a long time since her meetings were anything but barked orders in back rooms, though this one isn't going to be much more. In fact, sneaking in through his rooms, in the dead of night on Earth of all places is... well, it isn't ideal. But it would have to do, moving through shadows the years of war had taught her to do, at least meant she wasn't likely to get shot. Her blaster at her side, though she hoped she wouldn't have to use it, as she hauled herself up through back windows to get into the build where he was staying. She didn't want to alert his men - or anyone else for that matter. So much of this depended entirely on that secrecy.
It makes her quiet as she slides the window open where he's sleeping - but she doesn't want to startle him into shooting her, so she lets her feet fall louder, heavier. As she goes from that bathroom it looked like - in the bedroom. A woman armoured, wearing the blaster for sensibility, and the sword for honour's sake, at the other. Hard-eyed, and sharp. Waits, as she creeps into his room - her reports said he would be here at this time, so there was nothing else but to wait and see.
Admiral Naismith, please. Although Captain Vorkosigan has a hell of a ring to it.
The little Admiral is, indeed, where the intel said he would be. Asleep in the bed of his hotel room, with an androgynous mercenary patrolling the halls at a leisurely pace. They don't expect trouble before this meeting, given how much of a backwater Earth is under normal circumstances; hell, it keeps Miles far away from the Cetagandans, who would love to have his head about now. Dagoola is still a bright memory for both parties ...
It's that memory that haunts him now, makes him toss and turn in his sleep. The gray hellscape - his daring escape - the shuttles lifting, with Miles just a fraction of a second too late to keep her from plummeting out the open bay -
Miles shudders into wakefulness with a gasp. Not even realizing he has a visitor in his room, though it may very well look like Lakshmi is the one who woke him. He reaches for a gorgeous jeweled dagger that he keeps under his pillow, gripping it in trembling hands. And then - only then does he realize there's a woman in the room with him. He jolts bodily as he takes her in; it takes another moment to connect her face with the intel his team had gathered. Even more beautiful in person, he thinks, but he can't think about that right now...
"Good morning," he says with a little bow. Despite how hard his heart is pounding, he attempts to look smooth and aristocratic. The gesture comes naturally to him, at least, and it may even be convincing. "Couldn't wait for our meeting, eh?"
There had never been a doubt in anyone's mind, she supposed, that once they arrived, once the fighting started - that would be it. There would be nothing else. So perhaps it should not surprise her, that she does not seem him over much once it truly does start.
Not that there was much for her to do - she had never experience ship to ship combat. It was strange, and marvelling, as she stood back to watch the Admiral and his mercenaries work. How seamless they knew each other like she knew her own forces. Even if it felt like swallowing fire to know that this was the war for her home, and she could nothing from here and she must leave it into his hands. Doing her best not to snap for it, like a captured predator prowling at cage doors. She fills in the time with her training. With their exchanges when they have them. A slow process of getting to know each other. It does enough, in the intermediate, soothe her. But it doesn't take it away, that pent-up aggression, that awful sense of fate in her hands that was as strong as silk, fine as a single thread that could take a weight and snap when pulled too hard. Feeling it between her hands as she withdrew quieter as they came closer. Her mind clearly taken up even in their conversations. This would not be like the wars she had fought before, it must not be. She has risked too much. She laughed loudly, hit harder, and fell silent as mountains in preparation.
Not until they began boarding, taking over the ship according to his plan. She didn't hesitate. She would be the first to go, and no one else besides. For he had done his behalf, the surprise attack - getting everything into place. Now it was time for her to do her own part. Do what she had been born for, fated too. She doesn't see him before the battle, dressed by her own guards, protected to the last by them as they flanked her. The star and crescent moon painted onto her brow, that in turn with a red vermillion, she painted a dot to each of her guard's brow. Each of their fingers stained darkly. The sieging of a ship was something none of them had done before either, but at least the steps were familiar. Readied themselves to the ritualistic formula for it.
Even if maybe that once the fighting spills out, from that fight to the next - they aren't the best at anything at range. Neither she nor they, quite seem to grasp the concept of using cover outside of their own shields, archaic things that at least do the simple task of blocking nerve disruptor fire. But they get in close, with weapons the UC's armour considered itself superior too, so there wasn't much to stop her men when they got knives into throats. When they jammed plasma rifle into a stomach and blasted them apart. She wonders briefly, in the carnage of it all, if her people can see it, far below on the surface. Battle's that shone like Gods' light as she felt the shake of the ground - the ship - below her feet in a battle she understood far less of, but knew the importance - it would be as unforgiving as her sword through a man's chest.
She kills, and nearly is killed, and then kills again. Every quiet moment of their journey, every still moment, coming out harsh and all at once. It turns to a blur under her hands as it goes, for however long. Like this, there is no sense of time. It could be minutes or it could be days until it's over to her mind's eye.
Then it was, then there was no one left alive that was still fighting, there was only those that gave in, to the surprise of it all. The UC was fat as a spoiled pig, lumbering at its own weight. The commander of the ship that falls to his knees in front of her in surrender. That she sees his face - and she realises, she knows this man. She knows him. Knows him from when he made widows clear up the bodies of their own husbands. What little of them there was left when they had only dared to fight for food.
She doesn't even realise she's moving until the sword is in her hand again. Until she hears one of his soldier's cry to tell her to stop as she advances on him. It's too late, she wants to tell them, she won't be stopped. The commander had already made his choices. He would pay for them.
His head comes off in one clear-cut. Hitting the ground with a splatter of blood and a wet thump. Rolling with widely spinning eyes as brain caught up with death, until the stare turned glassy, and the mouth was open in an agonising scream. Breathing hard, fast, righteous in the action she turned back to - see him, to look only for him, nodding to him. "The spoils are yours." As promised by their agreement, she had no further business on the ship.
With that - she left. Retreated there firmly, for the next cycle of day and night, even if she's learned that means nothing when there is no sky when there is nothing but black and flickers of light. Takes food and drink - takes a lot of drink, more than she had ever imbibed for most of her life - and sends even her own away, her son kept far from the battle does not need to see his mother like this. Kashi had known her too long to know that it was anything she would like anyone to see.
Drunk, on blood and misery and whatever it was that they had been procured.
Miles' own contact with the enemy is somewhat limited, thanks to the careful persuasion of his lieutenants. But once the tide has turned and its clear he can do no more from the command room, he too hauls on one of the suits and follows the Dendarii out into the field. Cleverness is his goal as always; he's responsible for making sure communications are cut off, that the rest of the fleet have no idea what's going on. Right up until the moment when he's behind Lakshmi and she takes the commander's head off. That's - um. That's unfortunate, actually. He'd much rather have had the man surrender, thus giving them a bargaining chip against the rest. Now he'll have to figure out an alternate plan.
But for now, the day is won. His mercenaries gladly help themselves to the spoils - and given they've seized quite a bit of the company's pay, it's a hell of a prize - but Miles himself takes little. No, he's after information, the next step, how to break the rest of the blockade and make this last ... The gap they have now is good, and Lakshmi's planet will get some needed supplies. But it won't last forever. At any moment they're sure to end up on the other end of a counter attack.
None has come yet. It's enough to make Miles deeply antsy. And enough to make him head for her quarters, knock on her door. He's brought a bottle of his own wine in turn. Vorkosigan wine, a very good vintage. "Rani?" he calls through the door. "Are you there?"
It's the sort of evening meant for trickery. The way the Eluvanis preferred, the air thick with wine and power. So heady it makes the dancers stumble in laughter.
The sort of night, where no one looks too hard from out behind their masks, their costumes. That was the point, don't remember, but take care of every detail. Don't ask, but know intimately. Where for once - for once, Elgar'nan doesn't care where his prizefighter goes, does. He has eyes for Mythal, or the women close enough to her. That after the cursory moments of the announcement, he wouldn't be able to tell when she slips away. Feet soft as he trained her to be. There is a satisfaction to using what he taught to deceive and slip away from him. It'd have its price. It usually did. The decades of service have left their marks deeply on her back. She didn't know who loathed it more. Her for not being able to leave, or him that he had never been able to find someone better, someone faster, someone who could turn their body to a weapon half as well as she could.
But he was the furthermost thing from her mind. He was a reality, not a want, and this night was for wants. What she wants - will be here soon. She knows. Mythal never went anywhere without him at her side. Standing amongst dancers, weaving in and out, waiting for him. Though as they became drunker, it was not so refined as it usually is. The music loud, the dancers laughing louder. She turns amongst them, her skirts brushing around her ankles, blue and gold and decadent to her position, waiting, waiting, waiting -
She spots him, impossible not to. She thinks she'd know that form even if it were made out of nothing but stars. Not that she is the only one. He has his fair share of admirers, he always did. Pretty men and women, with full lips and warm voices. He could have his pick. She hangs there, watching him a moment until she sees him searching, looking, ( well for him, it was nothing so obvious, but to one that knows those turns of his head just so, she knows what it is ), and when he glances her way. It's a second as she steps, shoulders rolling, and her hand goes to the bright blue cat laced mask. Hooking her thumb underneath the edge to push it up, to let him see it was her. Her eyes brightly dark, all gold, smiling as she winks at him the once before she lets it fall back into place.
Then she turns her back, and falls back into the crowd, a second there as she is swirled back into the dance, gone again for only someone quick and clever to follow her as she makes her way towards the back of the room.
[ There was something about the parties of the Evanuris. The coming together of those of all classes, from those power-hungry for more to the servants and slaves that maneuvered through it all, biding their time. Anything could happen and he was intent to know everything that did.
Temporarily free of his duties, his gaze shifted about the room. There were those that flocked around him, eager to have the attention of one who had Mythal's favor. Not that he paid them much mind. Their words and offers to dance were brushed off. He knew who was looking for and the way she carried herself would make her easy to find even in this crowd. Everything she was, is, would be was wasted on Elgar'nan.
When their eyes meet, he smirks faintly. So she wanted him to follow. His glass of wine is set aside and he starts in on the chase, weaving his way through the crowd and never losing sight of her for one moment. There was only so far they could go while remaining out on the main floor. Already he had a few places in mind they could sneak away to while everyone was preoccupied with drinks and dance.
His own masquerade mask, one of a simple wolf with green accents, remains on even as he approaches her. ] I had wondered if I would be fortunate enough to see you here.
![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
no subject
Heaven and hell were words to me [ ♫ ]
no subject
He sees the mess she's leaving behind now. His eyes flicker over the scene for consequences that will last, and (thank God) he finds none. Just some social consequences. And so he doesn't linger with the scandal and the twittering and the shock; instead he bows low in response to Lakshmi's request and turns to follow her. ]
My lady.
[ At the door he moves ahead of her, hailing them a groundcar, letting her stand impassive and impartial. When the car comes, he gets the door for her. ]
no subject
Her only consolation is him, him who she's heard muttered more than once, that he always did like them a little raw to the touch. A little more inclined to hurt him.
She wraps her shawl around her a little tighter, drawing it up about herself. Her face composed flatly with the pressure of society at her back. Easily shut out and ignored when she slips into the car he's hailed down. Arranging herself and her skirts neatly around herself in habit. Before she looks down at her fingers, stained pink with the wine and holds them up for him to see when he sits beside her. ]
What a waste.
[ she presses her thumb to forefinger and drags across where the wine makes it sticky ever so slightly. ]
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
no subject
no subject
The door opening catches his attention and his brows furrow as a woman is thrown in. What in the devil? He'd been about to comment on the manhandling of her until the woman had a knife ready, prepared to fight despite being outnumbered. The crew had been hired by his father. There were several changes David would make if he had full control of the vessel, but he was acting captain, not in charge of the arrangements made before they left their home port. Disagreements in attitude, but not in accomplishing their tasks, and thus David had no basis for replacing any of them.
Which meant whatever damage this man had done in obtaining useful information from their stowaway was something David would have to deal with. ]
I can see that, [ he says dryly and sighs lightly. ] You could make this easier on us both by telling me your name and reason for coming on board.
no subject
Silent, for an age, as she feels the eyes in the room watching them both. ]
I - I -
[ The words fumble in her mouth, trying to work out what these men would believe, right now. About a woman that's done something so foolish, so ridiculous, as all this. ]
- I have to be with my beloved.
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
closed to byerly } we'll kill our way to heaven
no subject
Not that he objects. He'd never tell her - not unless it made her angry - but she's cute like this. ]
So you're telling me - [ He snorts skeptically. ] That you'd endure an entire conversation about agriculture? No, no, please don't answer that. I believe it completely. I believe completely that you have a dozen incredibly strong opinions about the dirt.
no subject
I do not have strong opinions about the dirt. [ A pause, hovering, with the bite in her tongue. ] I have opinions about how things grow in the dirt, that is completely different.
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
} i can tell you mean it 'cause you're shaking
no subject
[ He's quite sure of that. Not by the light - by the light it could be morning or evening, and with his schedule he's more likely to wake at the latter than at the former. But it can't be evening, because she's still with him. Every morning, when she goes, he feels her leave the bed to go riding or whatever other abominable activity that calls her, and he rolls over sleepily to press his face into the warmth she left behind. But she hadn't gone yet. Morning still.
He cracks open a bleary eye to look at her. Hooks an arm around her waist and rolls so he can pull her on top of him, so he can lay flat on his back with a blessed armful of warm Lakshmi atop him. And he closes his eyes again, sighing contentedly. ]
no subject
Not that she minds, huffing with soft laughter into his neck as he tucks her in close. Gives him the one minute to enjoy it for what it was before she gives a determined wriggle to loosen his arm. Pushing herself up again - not today, the great and terrible affectionate leech of heat he always was. He would protest that he wasn't that strong, but when he was wrapped around her determinedly, he could certainly be heavy in his contentment. ]
Byerly - wake up.
[ Words that are punctured by how she pokes him in the side. ] It is important, ishq. Before the rest of the house is up to listen.
[ Because all the staff seemed to be used to the whole house rising late, and if she could beat them to it all the better. She didn't want anyone passing on information she wasn't ready to share until she was good and ready. ]
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
no subject
no subject
The sound of something not right hits him, nagging at the back of his mind. It's a sensation that causes him to wake and instead of the half-drowsy state he might find himself in the mornings, he's brought to full alertness within seconds. Part of him wonders if it is a lingering feeling from youth, a dream of the past that he can't quite grasp beyond the feelings of it now that he is awake.
It's her voice that tells him he's not the only one who recognizes it. Someone is in their home that does not belong there, someone who slipped past their security net. There's no hesitation as he steps out of bed, feet light and quiet, and reaches for a stunner he keeps within easy reach. The wristcom that is almost always glued to him is there too and he presses a button on the side of it that sends an alert to Imperial Security that something is wrong. Very wrong.
There's no need for him to reply vocally, his wife knows him well and knows he is up and ready. Whatever was coming for them, they would be facing it together.
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
...
...
no subject
a thousand years later
In the absence of anyone else in England willing to take this seriously, there is Thomas. His gaze is steady - what she can glimpse of it before he inclines his head and everything else in a proper, formal greeting. "Your Majesty," he says, and wonders what his etiquette tutor would have said about this. They'd spent a week on the finer points of meeting royalty, and he'd daydreamed absently through most of it, though of course the details have made it with him regardless.
"The pleasure - and honor - are of course all mine, Rani Lakshmibai." His is not a mouth made for languages too far past the dreary boundaries of Europe, but it's significantly less grating than it could be.
Parliament and the crown both are trying to choke her and her people before a word is spoken, putting her in here like this, with the son of a minor earl, shuffled away in a meeting room in a third-string government palace. It is insulting; the kind of affront that would be grounds for significant diplomatic strain between another, less routinely subjugated, royal house. Thomas knows this, hates this, but his alternative to showing up is letting someone else handle it, which he hates even more.
"May I sit down?"
(no subject)
insert pretty picture of a palace interior here
A light but near constant stream of tapping echoes through the vast halls as Gildor cautiously explores. The sound comes from the end of a thin wooden cane, held in one hand while his other trails along the walls. Walls that are high and ornately carved in places, and he moves slowly take in the shapes. So unlike the smooth papered walls he's used to - wonderful, though he's not sure if he likes this place yet. It is half of where he comes from, yet he's been away from it for so long he has no memory of it.
The wall gives way to a room, and he enters - aimless and shameless in any possible intrusion he's making. It's nice to just walk after being cooped up on a ship for so long, even if it's a cautious walk. Gildor doesn't yet know the layout of their host's home, and this is the best way to learn, despite his master's wishes and watchful eye. He managed to slip away even before the proper greetings were to be made, just to get a head start on mapping the rooms out, but it's turning out to be more than what he bargained for. He's horribly lost, horribly late, and horribly warm.
His fingers find another doorway and he enters this one too, certain he's wandering in circles now. Though this one seems occupied - there was a sound that went silent when he came around the door.
"Hello?" he asks, unsure in tone to mask that he knows someone else is there.
no subject
no subject
He took no joy in appearing when her fate was decided for her. The day rang clearly in his mind as he watched her stand proudly. So that fierceness she displayed had not been a breaking point reached. He stands at Mythal's side and barely holds back a snarl when Elgar'nan's own speaks up. This could be the last he sees of her. She would not be the first bright flame the Evanuris has snuffed out long before its time. He steals one last, curious look at her as she is taken away and steels himself for what is to come next. Her fate was merely one of many to be decided today.
Elgar'nan's visits were far too frequent for Solas' liking, but that concern was one easily ignored by Mythal. It was a disruption they would bear for however long the pair saw it necessary and he stood near to dispel any tensions that arose between the Elgar'nan's company and their hosts.
It's the light catching in her hair that he sees first. The second, is the vallaslin she now bore. She had survived so far then and the Evanuris had seen fit to force her to accompany him here. He lets out a small sigh of annoyance and steps towards her. The unique pain that came with the branding of Elgar'nan's slaves was one he was unfortunately familiar with. No doubt the Evanuris had seen fit for her to manage it herself without the aid of someone who could see.
"I can ease the pain if it is unbearable," he offers once he is near, speaking plainly.
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
no subject
no subject
The little Admiral is, indeed, where the intel said he would be. Asleep in the bed of his hotel room, with an androgynous mercenary patrolling the halls at a leisurely pace. They don't expect trouble before this meeting, given how much of a backwater Earth is under normal circumstances; hell, it keeps Miles far away from the Cetagandans, who would love to have his head about now. Dagoola is still a bright memory for both parties ...
It's that memory that haunts him now, makes him toss and turn in his sleep. The gray hellscape - his daring escape - the shuttles lifting, with Miles just a fraction of a second too late to keep her from plummeting out the open bay -
Miles shudders into wakefulness with a gasp. Not even realizing he has a visitor in his room, though it may very well look like Lakshmi is the one who woke him. He reaches for a gorgeous jeweled dagger that he keeps under his pillow, gripping it in trembling hands. And then - only then does he realize there's a woman in the room with him. He jolts bodily as he takes her in; it takes another moment to connect her face with the intel his team had gathered. Even more beautiful in person, he thinks, but he can't think about that right now...
"Good morning," he says with a little bow. Despite how hard his heart is pounding, he attempts to look smooth and aristocratic. The gesture comes naturally to him, at least, and it may even be convincing. "Couldn't wait for our meeting, eh?"
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
no subject
Not that there was much for her to do - she had never experience ship to ship combat. It was strange, and marvelling, as she stood back to watch the Admiral and his mercenaries work. How seamless they knew each other like she knew her own forces. Even if it felt like swallowing fire to know that this was the war for her home, and she could nothing from here and she must leave it into his hands. Doing her best not to snap for it, like a captured predator prowling at cage doors. She fills in the time with her training. With their exchanges when they have them. A slow process of getting to know each other. It does enough, in the intermediate, soothe her. But it doesn't take it away, that pent-up aggression, that awful sense of fate in her hands that was as strong as silk, fine as a single thread that could take a weight and snap when pulled too hard. Feeling it between her hands as she withdrew quieter as they came closer. Her mind clearly taken up even in their conversations. This would not be like the wars she had fought before, it must not be. She has risked too much. She laughed loudly, hit harder, and fell silent as mountains in preparation.
Not until they began boarding, taking over the ship according to his plan. She didn't hesitate. She would be the first to go, and no one else besides. For he had done his behalf, the surprise attack - getting everything into place. Now it was time for her to do her own part. Do what she had been born for, fated too. She doesn't see him before the battle, dressed by her own guards, protected to the last by them as they flanked her. The star and crescent moon painted onto her brow, that in turn with a red vermillion, she painted a dot to each of her guard's brow. Each of their fingers stained darkly. The sieging of a ship was something none of them had done before either, but at least the steps were familiar. Readied themselves to the ritualistic formula for it.
Even if maybe that once the fighting spills out, from that fight to the next - they aren't the best at anything at range. Neither she nor they, quite seem to grasp the concept of using cover outside of their own shields, archaic things that at least do the simple task of blocking nerve disruptor fire. But they get in close, with weapons the UC's armour considered itself superior too, so there wasn't much to stop her men when they got knives into throats. When they jammed plasma rifle into a stomach and blasted them apart. She wonders briefly, in the carnage of it all, if her people can see it, far below on the surface. Battle's that shone like Gods' light as she felt the shake of the ground - the ship - below her feet in a battle she understood far less of, but knew the importance - it would be as unforgiving as her sword through a man's chest.
She kills, and nearly is killed, and then kills again. Every quiet moment of their journey, every still moment, coming out harsh and all at once. It turns to a blur under her hands as it goes, for however long. Like this, there is no sense of time. It could be minutes or it could be days until it's over to her mind's eye.
Then it was, then there was no one left alive that was still fighting, there was only those that gave in, to the surprise of it all. The UC was fat as a spoiled pig, lumbering at its own weight. The commander of the ship that falls to his knees in front of her in surrender. That she sees his face - and she realises, she knows this man. She knows him. Knows him from when he made widows clear up the bodies of their own husbands. What little of them there was left when they had only dared to fight for food.
She doesn't even realise she's moving until the sword is in her hand again. Until she hears one of his soldier's cry to tell her to stop as she advances on him. It's too late, she wants to tell them, she won't be stopped. The commander had already made his choices. He would pay for them.
His head comes off in one clear-cut. Hitting the ground with a splatter of blood and a wet thump. Rolling with widely spinning eyes as brain caught up with death, until the stare turned glassy, and the mouth was open in an agonising scream. Breathing hard, fast, righteous in the action she turned back to - see him, to look only for him, nodding to him. "The spoils are yours." As promised by their agreement, she had no further business on the ship.
With that - she left. Retreated there firmly, for the next cycle of day and night, even if she's learned that means nothing when there is no sky when there is nothing but black and flickers of light. Takes food and drink - takes a lot of drink, more than she had ever imbibed for most of her life - and sends even her own away, her son kept far from the battle does not need to see his mother like this. Kashi had known her too long to know that it was anything she would like anyone to see.
Drunk, on blood and misery and whatever it was that they had been procured.
no subject
But for now, the day is won. His mercenaries gladly help themselves to the spoils - and given they've seized quite a bit of the company's pay, it's a hell of a prize - but Miles himself takes little. No, he's after information, the next step, how to break the rest of the blockade and make this last ... The gap they have now is good, and Lakshmi's planet will get some needed supplies. But it won't last forever. At any moment they're sure to end up on the other end of a counter attack.
None has come yet. It's enough to make Miles deeply antsy. And enough to make him head for her quarters, knock on her door. He's brought a bottle of his own wine in turn. Vorkosigan wine, a very good vintage. "Rani?" he calls through the door. "Are you there?"
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
SOLAS - YOU'D HAVE THOUGHT I LEARNED MY LESSON
no subject
Temporarily free of his duties, his gaze shifted about the room. There were those that flocked around him, eager to have the attention of one who had Mythal's favor. Not that he paid them much mind. Their words and offers to dance were brushed off. He knew who was looking for and the way she carried herself would make her easy to find even in this crowd. Everything she was, is, would be was wasted on Elgar'nan.
When their eyes meet, he smirks faintly. So she wanted him to follow. His glass of wine is set aside and he starts in on the chase, weaving his way through the crowd and never losing sight of her for one moment. There was only so far they could go while remaining out on the main floor. Already he had a few places in mind they could sneak away to while everyone was preoccupied with drinks and dance.
His own masquerade mask, one of a simple wolf with green accents, remains on even as he approaches her. ] I had wondered if I would be fortunate enough to see you here.
(no subject)