NaNoWriMo: Fade To Silver 05.11.07 [Kiraen, Ceallach] 5001/50,000
The corner suits Kiraen just fine, back only to the stone of the walls and eyes fixed resolutely on the fluttering façade presented in this glittering Hall. There’s a glass of brew cooling in his hand, long forgotten after the first initial sip had burnt its way down his throat to pool liquid fire in his gut. He’s alone, a solitary figure amongst the endless parade of decadence and supposed celebration. Celebration of what he’s not entirely certain but it makes for a good farce, a game of pretend while the kingdoms set their pieces on the board and strategies of war are set into motion. Let’s have a party and play at friendly relations while preparing the knife, reading the blade for it’s new home between shoulder blades. The falsity of it all is bile rotten in the back of Kiraen’s throat.
The Heir’s arrival brings with it more whispers, more paranoia and fear for his Queen and yet she busies herself with this endless parade of pretense, of smiles and song while late at night she wears down the stone in her chambers with her constant pacing. Perhaps the masquerade is her own clever ruse, her own set of pawns placed on the board to drawn attention until she can move her knights and rooks toward their goal. He supposes there’s something to be said in offering the poison hidden within the sweetest taste of wine but Kiraen will never be able to ignore the fowl taste despite the honey used to disguise it.
It doesn’t help that he’s forced to suffer through this ridiculous party to ‘welcome’ the two Heirs for their extended stay in Deardriu. That despite his frequent attempts to slip out into the mostly empty corridors and retreat to the sanctity of his chambers he finds himself holding up a wall with little else to do but watch the goings on with the barest flickers of the distaste he feels visible on his face.
A sip of brew…it tastes disgusting cold and lukewarm isn’t any better…and Kiraen might as well busy himself with studying the reasons behind his unfortunate imprisonment for the evening. It’s not like he has much else to keep him occupied and time spent on contemplation of Princelings is time not spent in the company of darker thoughts.
It’s the imposing figure of the Teimhnae Heir that first captures his gaze, something that shouldn’t be all that surprising considering he stood heads taller than most of the guests and was far more stationary than the twittering little sycophants fluttering around him like drunken butterflies. He’s so impassive, face devoid of any emotion and it’s only the folded arms, the briefest Touch that informs Kiraen that the blonde is as overjoyed to be in the room as he is. Reminded of the stone pillars that surround the room…silent and unmovable as the guest swirl about them like a vomit-inducing kaleidoscope of colour…Kiraen wonders if those lips have ever known the shape of a smile, those eyes the fall of tears.
There’s purity in that simplistic emotion, a state of being not controlled by the whims of fancy and passion. No fake smile plastered across those fine feature in order to disarm, to distract. Kiraen might find that refreshing if not for the ease in which Haruki Amae-Ratsura is manipulated by his Father…a puppet dancing every time The King of Teimhnae pulled his strings. The very reason he stands here, now, when it’s obvious he wishes to be somewhere else is only because Raidon wishes it so. His son, sent to sway the mind of the Deardriu Queen so that her Forces may join with Raidon’s to strike down the Scathian Army. And there stands his adversary, Kiraen snorts, spying the Heir of Scaith with all his casual charm seducing his own flock of fluttering birds with easy grins and glittering eyes.
If Haruki Amae-Ratsura was a statue hued from golden stone, cold and unmovable then Ceallach Braith D’Scaith was a brilliant, violet flame burning from within the dancing tendrils of shadow. Forever moving, hands speaking for him more than his lips the Princeling weaves his spell around his hapless admirers until they practically eat from the very palms of his hands, empty though they be. He promises everything with those eyes…glittering, mischievous, sensual…every word is a caress, every smile is a whisper against the shell of an ear. He’s a rogue, an imp and he plays his part to perfection. Everything about him is careless, from the chaotic mess of dark strands spiked in needless abandoned for any which style to the obvious lack of attention he has dressed himself in this evening.
Kiraen thought himself the only one not bothered with the primping and preening usually required of such an event as this, happy to wear his nicer coat over his uniform. But here stands the Prince of Scaith, dressed in the simple black he’d arrived in…his arms bare, his cloak forgotten at some point in the evening at some other place. He wears no decoration, no mark of his rank save for the fine embroidery almost hidden against the dark of the black cloth he wears and that clings tight to a frame so obviously belonging to a warrior that even from his position against the far wall Kiraen can trace the plains of a muscular chest…
…he’s dragging his eyes away, irritated with his almost rhapsodizing over the arrogant fool, probably nothing more than careless charm wrapped in a handsome package. He can’t help but prod forward, a slight Touch to see if that head is as empty as he expects.
Now, now, little Mage. It’s not nice to enter without knocking first.
Kiraen reels back, unable to hide his shock at not only the Heir’s ability to sense his presence but to answer him in kind, the slightest brush against…something within him. Not the kind of connection he is used to, not what his own people use but something else…like instrument strings pulled taught, plucked until the resulting vibration thrums along from one end to another.
The Scaith do not have the abilities the Deardriu have, masters of the elements though they be only his own people can harness the powers of Mind and Spirit, of Soul and Space. That this Princeling can is…a disturbing curiosity.
Still, the voice wrecked of arrogance not solely justified despite his unique skill and Kiraen offers those amused eyes, now glittering in his direction a decidedly frigid look. Another one else would turn away but not this Princeling, not this fool who instead turns away from his disappointed gaggle and saunters over with something too closely resembling a smirk for Kiraen’s liking.
“What?” he snaps, turning away from that far too amused look
“You were the one prying around. I just figured you might be starved for a little attention…all alone here in your little corner.”
“Go back to your twittering idiots.”
Ceallach’s smirk twitches.
“No”
There’s a headache forming between Kiraen’s eyes and it takes a great deal of willpower not to given and pinch the bridge of his nose.
“I was checking for signs of brain activity, not extending an invitation.”
The infuriating Heir just chuckles, moving to lean against the wall far too close for Kiraen’s liking only he won’t shift further away, will not given this bastard the satisfaction of having riled him enough. Prince though he may be, Kiraen would not be First General of the Deardriu if arrogant royalbloods with too much time on their hands succeeded in unsettling him enough to allow it to show.