sir rictor cassul, korporal. (templars) wrote in emillion, |
There was little point in acting coy at this stage; they were both there to get information out of the other and they knew it. Mag preferred it this way, and it didn't seem like Rictor minded very much either, as he began to rattle off trivia about himself. When he mentioned his sign, Mag chuckled; well, asking what weapon he used was a bit like the Fighters' Guild equivalent of asking what his sign was. "I use a spear and a shotgun. Spears are weak up-close, so a shotgun's perfect to compensate for that." She thought about suggesting a friendly match at the shooting range, to see whose aim was better, but she thought better about it. She did want to get to know him better, but she would do better to wait. "My favourite memory of Aspel... hmm, that's tricky, and very smooth by the way." She hadn't missed how casually he'd thrown that question into their conversation, as if it was as trivial as the others. "I have a few. Okay, funny story. Way back when The Armory was still in its early days, I walked in while Aspel was busy smithing. Her concentration is really amazing when she's working at the forge. I walked over to the counter and said something to her, and she was so startled, she dropped the sword she'd been pounding on and it landed on the couch. And set the couch on fire." Mag grinned; she remembered it perfectly. "I rushed to get water to put out the fire, but your sister got ahead of me. She cast Watera on the couch." She shook her head, laughing now. "Of course the fire went out, but there was water everywhere, and the couch was soaked through. Couldn't sit on it for days. We even had to drag it outside to dry in the sun." * He snorted involuntarily, trying to rein in his amusement only to have it emerge as a splutter. Of course Aspel would have been prepared. Of course she would have dealt with a flaming sofa with cool calm and a Watera rather than panicking. It was the same sort of steely determination they’d both picked up from their father (and more than a bit of their mother as well—it ran in the Cassul blood), and which Ric tried to model himself after. Completely typical. But there was a grin lurking in the corner of his mouth. “That’s fucking great.” * As they both laughed at the story, Mag caught sight of the liquor bottle. It was almost empty now; there was barely enough left for a last round. Between shots, she had finished the glass of cider she'd ordered when they'd first sat down, and she was starting to feel the effects of the alcohol. Faram, how long had they sat there talking? "Don't mean to tell you to shoo, but shouldn't you go talk to the other guests?" She was having a pleasant time, but this was Rictor's birthday party and he should go mingle with his friends. Maybe join the Blades' little party; they seemed to be having a blast playing darts in the back. "I have a bunch of silly stories about your sister I could tell you, and questions I could ask, but I think I've kept you long enough." Mag gave Rictor a friendly smile and divided what was left of the liquor between their two shot glasses. "So here's our last round, and thank Faram for that. Happy birthday, Rictor." * “Oh. Right. You’ve a point.” He’d intended for this to be a brief stopover, but somehow the minutes had combined and stretched out into more and more, as he ended up enjoying himself. “Thanks, Magn... Mag.” Both of them raised the glasses in unison, a solemn toast to each other, faces twisting into a pre-emptive grimace as they anticipated the foul, throat-clearing burn of the last shot. (Just one more, just one last.) That done, Rictor slammed the shot glass on the table. They both gave a hiss of indrawn breath, an exchange of shaky smiles, and then he rose (slightly unsteadily) from the table. The knight was a solid man, but this was enough to knock him askew, his movements more loose, his mindset more rattled. Perhaps that’s what led to what happened next – looking across the bar, he caught a glimpse of someone he very much wanted to see. “See you around,” he said with a smile, before melding back into the crowd. |