CAKE AND DARKNESS (regains) wrote in emillion, @ 2014-04-15 14:52:00 |
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Eating cake at the Fighter's Guild exhibition was generally frowned upon. It was a messy business, crumbs everywhere, gawkers stuffing their faces while the fighters sweat and bled in the temporary ring. Lutheria didn't really care. She stood with a slice of white cake the size of her head on a small plate with other loitering members of the guild, near enough to the display that she could watch each fight with discerning interest, monitor their moves, catalogue different fighting styles from monk to monk—but not so close she ran the risk of getting someone's tooth knocked out and into her dessert. Thank Ajora. Her fork had fallen somewhere and she picked up chunks of cake with her bare hands, black nails digging into soft white layers and stuffing them in her mouth, hastily, as if she were some kind of prisoner, as if someone would knock the cake from her hands at any moment. Beside her, Ramza the Dog, in his own dog-sized leather armor and spiked collar, yipped happily at passers by and licked up crumbs dropped from Lutheria's plate. Every so often he leaped up on his tiny legs to bark at her until she scratched under his neck. One match ended. The monks came out from under the ropes, slapping hands with other guild members, wiping sweat from their brows, heading towards the mages for healing. A line in Lutheria's shoulders loosened, now that she wasn't focusing on the match at hand, and her eyes refocused. Not three feet away from her was a girl watching the monks' matches with interests, small and petite, pretty, in the way girls with money usually were. She'd seen her around at the guild before. Lutheria looked her over briefly. A squire, in monk's training, Lutheria guessed, from the way she carried herself. She could do something normal like ask the girl what she thought, or talk about the weather, or what her favorite part of the last match was. Instead she stuffed another handful of cake in her mouth and stared, unblinking, at the back of Juliette's head. It was not an understatement to say Juliette was fully engrossed in the events transpiring in the exhibition ring. Even though this particular event continuously reminded her of the results that had not yet come, she could not look away. She recognized most of the movements, could probably duplicate two thirds of them, if not with the easy grace that came with years of study (Faram, please let the opportunity for those years come), but it was fascinating to see how different fighters wove the forms together. It was, therefore, not until the end of the match that she noticed the prickling feeling between her shoulderblades, as though someone was watching her. Turning, she cast a surreptitious glance about -- not very successfully, as her gaze locked with that of the woman who very obviously had been staring at her. And… eating cake? Quickly, Juliette dropped her gaze, beholding… Wasn’t this one of Zelda and Boris’ litter? Surely yes, as the puppy left its place at the woman’s side and came to sniff at her, tail wagging. She’d know that face anywhere -- Mercutio’s was just like it. She reached down, patted the ecstatic dog’s head. From under her lashes, she saw the woman was still watching her. “May I… help you?” she managed at last. Lutheria watched Ramza trot over, his tongue lolling out the side of his mouth. Faram, she was going to have to teach him to be more discerning. He couldn't just wander over to any cute girl in the bazaar looking for belly rubs. She wiped her hand on her jeans and nodded at the dog, her face still as smooth as porcelain, a white sheet of disinterested rage that seemed permanent, unyielding, whether she was staring down some beast in the field or eating cake in the town square. "That's my dog," she said flatly, as if Juliette had been the one to approach, and not had the back of her head bored into by some weird Ordalian's icy stare. Juliette had no idea what to say to that. Obviously, this woman must have adopted the puppy from Lord Amell (she had to remind herself that appearances could be deceiving; the dog did not seem poorly cared-for), but Juliette certainly was not making any claims of ownership upon him. “He is… a very nice dog?” she said, for tone on the final word tilting up despite her best efforts, as though it was a question and not a statement. Lutheria chewed slowly. Did she ever blink? Was this some kind of degenerative disease, or was she really just this unsettling? (The latter, of course.) "Obviously," she said, shoving another fingerful of cake into her mouth. She stared for a moment longer and then, finally, broke her gaze, looking down to Ramza and patting her leg. The dog scuffled back over to her, his claws clicking happily along the cobblestones. "Do you just grab onto any random dogs you meet?" she asked, with all the enthusiasm of a dead rat. Because the answer was, in fact, sometimes, Juliette shifted (exactly as uncomfortable as she looked) and said, “I… have encountered this particular dog before.” Then, after a pause, though really she had not called the dog over nor indeed had she done anything worthy of apology, she offered one anyway: “My apologies.” "Have you," Lutheria said sharply, suddenly interested (though it was admittedly difficult to tell, being that her stare of interest and stare of pointedly trying to make someone uncomfortable were all but the same thing). "I found him," she added, which was both a statement and an accusation at once. He's mine now and oh, so you didn't want him? The look of bewilderment on Juliette’s face was plain to see; Lord Amell had never mentioned anything about losing one of the puppies. Or had he given him to someone who had misplaced him? Fortunately he seemed no worse for wear (if anything, quite cheerful despite his odd outfit). “He must have gotten lost,” she offered. “I am… glad he was found.” Even if by someone so lacking in warmth that the temperature seemed to drop in her immediate vicinity. Lutheria, for a moment, watched her carefully. Her face was unreadable. "You know the original owner, then," she said, the longest sentence she'd uttered yet, though still as icy and accusatory as any before it. Her reasons, as always, were her own, and as inscrutable as where in Faram's green earth she had managed to acquire dog-sized armor. “Yes?” Again with the statements turning into questions; the longer this woman looked at her, the more uncomfortable Juliette became. “Rather, I… know the owner of the mother? I believed the entire litter had been adopted out.” That her own dog was the father someone seemed the wrong thing to say, lest the accusation in the woman’s gaze become even more pointed. “They are -- were -- Lord Lavitz fon Amell’s puppies. He is guild.” For the woman surely was, with her build and her manner of dress and her carriage. “A dragoon,” she added, because clearly, babbling was helpful when one was disconcerted. "Ah," Lutheria said, as if given some key piece of information. "So that's what L-A-F-A stands for," she added, filing it away, with a thousand other details, behind that white-faced mask. She looked back at Juliette and her gaze raked over the squire-in-transition, head to feet. Not the lascivious glance of someone about to leer, fortunately, but cool, almost disinterested. Almost. "You're not a monk yet," she said, and plopped the rest of the cake in her mouth, talking around sponge and icing with little regard for propriety. "Too young. Yet you're here watching. Rapt." I am not too young, Juliette might have said, had she poorer self-restraint. Most likely most other squires in her position (the results would come soon, surely, surely) would have done so. Instead, she said, simply, “I aspire to the class. I… found the display very… educational.” Formal. Stilted. There was a part of Lutheria that wanted to needle the girl, get a reaction beyond this quiet propriety, pry her open until that front fell, like so many did, when you applied the right sort of pressure. You didn't join the guild without some bite in you. But she didn't have the time, or the inclination. This wasn't the place—even she could see that. She tossed her plate to the ground with little concern for potential littering laws and wiped her hands on her jacket sleeves. "It's a good class," she said, perhaps the first genuine thing she'd said all day. She had, after all, spent five years in it. She gave Juliette another lazy look before whistling through her teeth for Ramza and walking past her. "Don't fuck it up." “I --” but the woman was already gone while Juliette still struggled to get past the casual use of language she would never allow past her lips (one would think after years in the guild she would be accustomed to it, but one would be wrong; people were gentler with squires). The continuation of the sentence, the polite and proper, will attempt not to came and went; instead, to the space the woman had left, Juliette said, firmly, “won’t.” A promise to keep -- to herself. |