cries during titanic. (squeamishly) wrote in emillion, @ 2014-03-10 00:42:00 |
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Entry tags: | !complete, !log, conan helmm-deirgard, juliette coulombe |
when the winter calls to war, when the spring sets in once more.
Who: Conan & Juliette
What: An ambush intercepted
Where: Bahamut Hall
When: Monday afternoon!
Rating: Tame!
Status: Complete!
Conan tiptoed alongside the exterior wall of Bahamut, keeping close to the stone and out of sight. His feet crunched against a thinning layer snow that revealed wet grass. A smile had already cemented itself onto his face at the mere thought of his plans. Mittened hands compacted a snowball projectile as he scurried over to a better hiding place--a tree. He leaned against it, exhaled a warm cloud. One, two, three, he counted as he waited for the right opportunity. There it was: two passing fighters and (un)luckily not a councilmember. An arm swung backwards to ready his throw. Release. His aim had improved since training with Zach. The snowball flew across the air and hit one of them square between the shoulders. In their confusion, their wide-eyed search for the culprit, their blame of another passerby, Conan turned his back on them. Laughing to himself, he clutched his abdomen before looking for more snow… ...and finding Juliette instead. “Uh, hey!” She stood between him and the side of the building, where shade ensured snow still lingered. Arms crossed in front of her, she regarded his snowy mittens with barely suppressed suspicion. Whatever he was up to, it did not (perhaps predictably) appear to be training. Granted, she herself had engaged in a snowball fight not so long ago, but that had been against a similarly ‘armed’ opponent; somehow, she thought this was not what was happening here at all. Well, if he could throw snowballs, she supposed he hadn’t fallen into the pit in the park, anyway. That was something. “Hello, Conan,” she she said. Then, as if curious, she inquired, “What are you doing?” “Oh, just. Y’know. Playing in the snow.” He shrugged innocently, hoping that would be enough to throw her off his tail, but his guilty, nervous chuckle gave him away. “I see,” she said. By her expression, it was clear she did. She thought of mentioning the fact that they had all surely been taught that attacking an unarmed opponent from behind was an act of cowardice; she was serious enough about her studies, but in the end, they were only snowballs. Instead, she commented, “I have seen the crew working to restore the park near my home.” She doubted it would be quick or easy, but of course they couldn’t simply leave that giant hole there, either… “It seems as though no dragons or… lava were forthcoming.” She wondered if he was disappointed. He was. That was enough to pull his attention away from the helpless victims of his prank, wandering fighters not expecting snow in the face and down their coats. “Wha--really, huh?” he asked as though it was a surprise not to find lava in the park, as though surely right underneath their feet was bubbling magma and it was miracle to find otherwise. Conan’s mouth gaped open, slack, before closing and as his arms folded in front of his chest. “Do you think there could have been, y’know, dragons though?” “The most commonly occurring dragon species tend to prefer access to the open air.” She said it as if reciting a fact from a textbook (she was). Then, with a bit more softness, showing she was still a young girl not entirely unaffected by imagination: “If I had wings, I think I would like the opportunity to spread them and fly.” Why hide underground, even if it wasn’t full of sewage from a ruptured tunnel? Perhaps she simply had a particular taste for freedom. “I think it was a hole,” she said, a bit wearily, as if she had repeated this many times now. “There was an earthquake. It broke all of our dishes and scared the dogs. It took half an hour to coax the Countess’ cats down from the tree they had scaled in their fear. But we have had enough giant monsters that… I prefer a hole to simply be a hole.” “Hey, I think you’re right. I’d want to be a dragon that flies around too. I mean, if I was a dragon,” the younger squire agreed, without noting her weary disposition. Then he offered: “But, come on, all the giant monsters have been pretty cool. Like, if this one was a nice one maybe. Maybe it’s not so monsterish--monsterous.” “A nice monster?” The incredulity in her tone was plain. She attempted to imagine a benevolent beast -- rainbow wings and soft footfalls -- but in the end, all she could see was the four-armed woman who had healed Alys, with her golden crown and flowing vestments. And even she had attempted to kill those who had gone to entreaty with her -- she had overheard her sister’s friends talking about the mission, which two of them had attempted -- so Juliette thought the idea was far-fetched at best. “If ever such a thing comes to this city,” she said, “I will purchase you the pastry of your choice from Bakers’ Dozen.” Such optimism ought to be rewarded. “Deal!” Conan stretched out his hand to shake on the promise, all too eager to accept the bet and imagine a flying rainbow chocobo (that dealt hugs instead of injuries) if it meant delicious sweets. For free. He grinned, purposefully ignorant to her disbelief of such a creature. He reasoned -- hoped in some childish way -- that there were such beings that existed. The chance of this erased all plans of his snowball ambush from his mind. She shook, noting that his mittens were still wet with snow (the thought occurred that she really ought to have worn gloves -- old habits ingrained by Lady Demiel died hard -- but at the same time, it was not so cold and she did not intend to throw snowballs). She wondered, if she left now, whether she would get a snowball to the back -- or whether such would be saved for another unsuspecting target. She did not want to ask (it was, after all, none of her business, technically), and so, in the way she had learned in years of small, quiet subversions, she asked instead: “Are you busy now? Perhaps you would like to accompany me to the weight room?” And out of trouble. “Yeah, let’s,” Conan agreed. The suggestion not alerting any mental bells that she might have motives such as drawing him away from attacking the unarmed. Their feet sank into the snow as the squires left their place by the tree to the guildhall, chatting away about dragons and class and guildwork, converting mischief to productivity. Crisis averted. |