It was a precious liability to bring it along their flight North. Too near a sign of what they are. Abandoned back in camp, it might have slowed pursuit — at least a little. Can imagine: She'd never leave without it,
And she didn't, did she? Only that it was all a lot of work for what's been sitting wrapped in the rags from the haycart for going on weeks. There's been no reason to remove them. No one really needs a staff in peace.
The summer sun pools into lines of earth and hedge, swallowed up save for the sudden gleam of something sharper. Planted criss-cross in a row of the garden, Alais carefully strips the stave of its wrapping, reveals the hard geometry of onyx-polished lines.
Unmistakably expensive work, and all the more unmistakably Tevene.
Edited (too many adjectives) 2020-07-11 06:28 (UTC)
She'll feel eyes on her before she hears anything, because Benedict goes stock-still when he sees it. He's behind Alais, wheelbarrow full of mulch in front of him, it's squeaking wheel falling silent when he connects the dots.
The question in his mind: what is a Tevene staff-- and mage?-- doing in the garden where he works, and should he run before she notices him.
For a moment it’s a stupid little test of wills — or whatever you call the opposite. Alais sits stock in place, aware of his presence, and just as clearly hesitating to turn.
The pads of her fingers dig in sharp, pricked not to blood (what an awful idea that would be), but the imprint of shape. She turns,
Feels a bit stupid for it: Flushed cheeks, and the ragged shape of a gardener; and who else did she expect to find in a garden, anyway?
“Did you need the path …?”
As though she can’t think of any better reason to stare.
The path is clear, and that is clearly not the case. And Benedict is a shit liar.
He shakes his head, and, with the girl now turned towards him, he at least can see that she isn't angry or about to slit her wrist and hex him to death.
"...where'd you get that?" He nods toward the staff.
Not the question, but the tongue behind it. What the Minrathousian upper crust is doing with a wheelbarrow in Kirkwall seems, you know, more relevant. Alais doesn't have a face composed for careful diplomacy; at the moment, she best resembles an owl presented with a particularly confusing rat. Head tipped one way, then the other,
"I brought it," Is stalling, really. "Are you...?"
He doesn't trust her owlish curiosity for an instant-- not with the way things have been, not how he left things with his home country.
"A gardener," he answers evasively, catching the lilt of her dialect as well. Not an Altus, at least, or at least not one he knows. There are always cousins and bastards that don't fit the mold but have their uses.
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It was a precious liability to bring it along their flight North. Too near a sign of what they are. Abandoned back in camp, it might have slowed pursuit — at least a little. Can imagine: She'd never leave without it,
And she didn't, did she? Only that it was all a lot of work for what's been sitting wrapped in the rags from the haycart for going on weeks. There's been no reason to remove them. No one really needs a staff in peace.
The summer sun pools into lines of earth and hedge, swallowed up save for the sudden gleam of something sharper. Planted criss-cross in a row of the garden, Alais carefully strips the stave of its wrapping, reveals the hard geometry of onyx-polished lines.
Unmistakably expensive work, and all the more unmistakably Tevene.
no subject
The question in his mind: what is a Tevene staff-- and mage?-- doing in the garden where he works, and should he run before she notices him.
no subject
The pads of her fingers dig in sharp, pricked not to blood (what an awful idea that would be), but the imprint of shape. She turns,
Feels a bit stupid for it: Flushed cheeks, and the ragged shape of a gardener; and who else did she expect to find in a garden, anyway?
“Did you need the path …?”
As though she can’t think of any better reason to stare.
no subject
And Benedict is a shit liar.
He shakes his head, and, with the girl now turned towards him, he at least can see that she isn't angry or about to slit her wrist and hex him to death.
"...where'd you get that?" He nods toward the staff.
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Not the question, but the tongue behind it. What the Minrathousian upper crust is doing with a wheelbarrow in Kirkwall seems, you know, more relevant. Alais doesn't have a face composed for careful diplomacy; at the moment, she best resembles an owl presented with a particularly confusing rat. Head tipped one way, then the other,
"I brought it," Is stalling, really. "Are you...?"
What exactly.
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"A gardener," he answers evasively, catching the lilt of her dialect as well. Not an Altus, at least, or at least not one he knows. There are always cousins and bastards that don't fit the mold but have their uses.
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As if this were some game of poor disguises. She waggles the staff — just a little, just the tip —
"Behold my crook."
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"Minrathous," is all he says.