Ser Ordhan (ordhan) wrote in thebattleage, @ 2011-03-30 01:07:00 |
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Entry tags: | ! complete, (backscene), azabeth kordura |
Backscene: Duplicity
Who: Ordhan Wyland, Azabeth Kordura
When: Evening, 7 Ferventis, 9:45
Where: The envoy’s camp on the road to Amaranthine
Summary: After weeks of avoiding each other, captor and captive finally speak.
Rating: PG
Status: In progress
A hundred things could be called strange about this arrangement. For one, that Ordhan did not turn back the moment he found the woman half of Denerim was up in arms to find; he ought to have known that things would only slide from there. That she would remain unbound. That she would keep use of her arms, that she would have the support of their leaders. And—perhaps strangest of all—that she had not taken the chance to flee before today. Flee, or cut his throat. One moment the knight would wonder if this was a sign of her innocence, the next, if that was exactly what she wanted him to think. Why must this be so complicated? Often he wished that he had not come upon her on the road that day, but would promptly be ashamed of the thought. Whether pleasant or not, this was his duty. Whether that duty was the same as he had sworn to the new arlessa remained to be seen.
According to their first arrangement, Ordhan would be free to take her straight to the arlessa. He was not sure if this was an act of mercy or a show of the most laughable naïvety that he was not certain if he would do so. Certainly Lillian would not deceive him purposefully, but her word was not her own—it was this other man’s, this one she would scarcely speak of. One who seemed to know the accused well. Ordhan would soon be learning the truth, or at least the man’s version of it. There was only one way he could think of that may allow him to weigh it.
Azabeth was sitting by the campfire, shuffling cards in her hands as she often did. At a distance, Ordhan had seen others approach her, perhaps to ask about the cards, a game or a fortune—but there were none tonight. As little as he wanted to draw nearer than was usual for him, it was as good of a chance as would present itself. With reluctant resolve he began to approach.
“Azabeth,” he greeted solemnly as he drew near. A brief dip of the head was the only sign of greeting; any more and it would betray his hesitation. This manifested nonetheless in the briefest of pauses, before he added, “We will be drawing near Denerim soon.”