sir rictor cassul, korporal. (templars) wrote in emillion, |
Perhaps she’d grown too accustomed to the script of their previous interactions, of which they'd long began to deviate. Since Rictor's return, everything seemed to have went askew. Regardless, she had no intention on saying as much. Whatever he claimed and however much of it was genuine, she would measure her own responses as much as she able. Whether it was pride or a greater fear of things unknown was unclear, but Lex returned the sentiment only with a vague nod of understanding. There was little point in confessing anything in return on the matter--even if her presence at the tavern did a great deal of service to give her away. There was, after all, not a single advantage in allowing him to think she regarded his presence over any other person. "I suppose I've learned something useful of the beer menu," she said offhand. So it was then, back to safer habits, however ineffectual they were proving themselves to be. “And enthusiastically, too.” Dismay. After swallowing his discomfort and tiptoeing around it, they’d drifted right on back to discussing beer flavour. Following the formula, their every step a choreographed riposte that they’d done many a time before. And how many times could he trot out the stale and safe flattery, the standard host’s parroting of thanks for coming and glad to see you? He’d said much the same thing to Drake, for Faram’s sake. Rictor had never seen her drinking before. Perhaps this was an opportunity. A deep breath, and then: “Tell me something of yourself, Almalexia,” he said. “Knock down those walls of mystery a bit. How’d you end up at the Cathedral, anyway?” Slightly irritated by the, yet again, abrupt and unexpected line of questioning, Lex frowned and rested her cheek against the knuckles of one hand. Her look was scrutinizing then as she wondered just what he was attempting to do. How was any of this relevant or interesting? She considered denying him the knowledge on principle, but Lex took a moment to remind herself of the situation. They were in the midst of a celebration, after all. Attempting to skewer Rictor out of simple annoyance at being questioned (and not understanding why) was likely far from appropriate. Instead, she took a calming breath and wondered what useful information she might be able to provide on the matter. “As far as mystery is concerned,” she said, “there is only so much I can offer to alleviate it. A superfluity of nuns travelling in from the north were tasked with delivering me here as an infant, for whatever purpose. As you might already know, there are few methods to extract knowledge from such women if they don’t wish it.” Lex pursed her lips. “I’m certain there’s little to distinguish my situation from the other orphans.” Orphan. Some passing expression flickered across his face, and Rictor absorbed that particular tidbit with something halfway between surprise and its opposite (he couldn’t quite decide which). It was another line in the sand marking the differences between them, and the stark contrasts in their childhoods. Four years as a holy knight couldn’t compare to a lifetime within these walls. His imagination suddenly went rampant trying to picture Lex as a child: a blonde waif holing up in an out-of-the-way corner with a book, raised by strict matrons and fussy monks. While on another continent, Rictor Adelard Cassul climbed trees and broke his collarbone and wrestled the hounds when they came padding mud-soaked in from the hunt. The urge to ask about it was there – his now-usual hankering to question, to interrogate, to wrestle every last piece of detail out of her. To discover how she ticked and why, all her pieces laid bare on the table. “Maybe you’re the king’s illegitimate offspring. Destined to reclaim the throne someday.” It was a feeble joke, a kneejerk reaction to the sudden twist he felt in his gut, as if he’d swallowed a glass shard with his tankard of ale. Rictor didn’t examine the sensation too closely, instead keeping his chin high and his blue-grey eyes meeting hers. |