scarlet beau (lightfell) wrote in emillion, @ 2014-04-21 22:42:00 |
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Entry tags: | !complete, !log, !plot: founders festival, rictor cassul, scarlet beau |
WHO: Rictor Cassul & Scarlet Beau
WHAT: Awkward Reunion, Part II
WHEN: SUPER BACKDATED TO Moments before their Exhibition fight; Aries 23th, Annual Founders Festival, Day 1
WHERE: Locker Room
RATING: Language, mostly
STATUS: Complete
Rictor had healed up just in time to sign himself up for the exhibition match. He’d considered bowing out and refraining from heaving himself back into battle, as his body was still twinging and healing and he wasn’t fully back to his usual standards yet—but pride sent the Korporal towards that signup sheet regardless, a needling competitive drive to pit himself against other knights and see how he fared. When he saw the eventual brackets posted, however, he immediately regretted his decision. Ric’s gaze slid around the rest of the preparation ground, the backstage area where the knights were checking on their weapons and putting on the last-minute touches before their matches. “Looks like it’s you and me,” he said, once he found Scarlet in the jostling groups. Where he’d been all welcoming warmth a couple weeks previous (remembering the enjoyable time they’d spent together), the holy knight’s demeanour was completely altered now, frigid and distant. The cocksure grin had skimmed away, as had his jokes. Scarlet didn’t think she would be able to avoid Rictor forever, but she didn’t think the fates would be so bored to pair them up so soon. No!, he had said, once he had felt the inevitable chill of Dark when they had been fighting the Dreadguard. She hadn’t been able to see his expression then, but later decided she was glad she hadn’t. The tone of his voice, the way he looked at her before he lost consciousness, had been enough. After seeing the bracket today, she was contemplating simply walking away (it would be easy to justify and she doubted anyone would notice if she bowed out) when Ric approached her. Mirroring the Holy Knight (that’s what he had been reduced to), a cool -- no, cold -- attitude radiated from Scarlet as she replied with a fleeting smirk. “Yes, once again.” She glanced over at his arms; both were intact. A good sign, considering how he had almost lost one some two weeks ago. There was a sense of relief. Murky green eyes remained steadily on his clear, pale ones. She waited for his cue on how to proceed. The man seemed at a loss, however, unsure of what approach to take in this conversation—the etiquette books had never precisely primed him for this sort of thing. Even had Seloria been here, the consummate queen of composure and decorum and tact, he wasn’t sure how she might have reacted in his place. “Looking forward to seeing what you’ve got,” he finally said, and that was the truth, at least. That nagging curiosity to compare his own skills against the Dark and see how they would measured up, plus that stubborn drive to win. To prove that holy magic was superior, and would always be superior— But there was a debt owed between them. The slate was not clear yet, and he was painfully aware of how the accounting currently tipped in Scarlet’s favour. Though it rankled him to do so, Rictor cleared his throat and tried to wring out what had to be said, forcing it out through grudging lips. “Thanks. By the way.” As short and vague as that. She watched him struggle, and Scarlet already knew what he would say before he managed to spit it out. He doesn’t mean it, was a defensive thought to his thanks, burned by his initial reaction. But what did you expect? Don’t let your guard down. That kind of response to her abilities were not new, it was just that she didn’t think Rictor would react in that way. He’s a Holy Knight, idiot. Yes, but he didn’t fuck like one, it was easy to forget. Scarlet nodded in response. A look of hurt betrayed her for a moment, and the Fell Knight shifted her eyes away, a look of apathy and boredom taking its place. If he had not been injured, he would’ve left her. And perhaps he wouldn’t have bothered to talk to her now. She imagined that if her arm was half falling off, he would have left her then, too. Once she realized that the Rictor she remembered from three years ago was nowhere to be found, she finally responded, curt and reserved: “Likewise.” And so, duty accomplished, Rictor’s obligation to speak to the woman was now fulfilled. Their clipped words were barely sentences, and a mere shade of the camaraderie they’d once wielded (two travelers on the road, each leaving their home and stumbling into each others’ path instead). With anyone else, he might have shaken their hand before the match—the welcome of one eager competitor to another, the respect given between two fighters. But here, Korporal Cassul was stiff and intractable, as surely as if he were standing at attention in front of the Oberst himself: impassive, impersonal, inhuman. It was worse, somehow, not even dignifying it with an exchange of insults. Even Caspar would’ve been the recipient of playful heckling, insults laden with a good measure of laughter even through their gritted teeth. Turning away from her, Ric donned his greaves and gloves, all business, picked up his sword, and strode out of the locker room. Ready to face down the demons, or so he wagered, even if he’d shared a bed with them once. Her eyes steadily followed the Holy Knight as he stepped out, her gaze on the exit for a moment longer than it probably should have been lingering. No, the Fell would not go easy when dueling, but only because she was assured that, after this conversation (if you could call it that), Rictor would not. She gripped her sword and, to a stranger, it may have looked as if she was testing its weight -- as if she didn’t have every ounce, curve, and edge memorized -- but to Scarlet, she was fidgeting. A rare gesture. A squire popped his head in, informing Scarlet about the exhibition about the start. An icy glare had him scurrying back out. There was something that continued to gnaw at the back of her mind ever since their happy reunion, though she couldn’t quite place what it was (or, perhaps, she did not wish to). But one thing she did know was that even if she channeled this uncertain feeling into anger or violence, something would still hold her back. And that thought was enough to have Scarlet put her sword on her back, and walk away. |