09-24-2016, 02:01 AM
Nythadri ignored Nisele’s comment entirely, as she did most of the snide remarks that left the woman’s lips; she did not need the gentle grip of Liridia’s fingers to measure the control for that, even if the accusation only cast more shadow on a reputation she would do well to take better care of. Presumably the Brown knew how she had earned six months toil on the Farm, even if her blank face suggested she didn’t know Nythadri from any other Accepted. Better to consider your secrets bare, even if you never speak the truth of them yourself. Shame was a diseased inflicted by others, and Nythadri built herself solid walls of apathy.
Truthfully, she did not need the warning of the Aes Sedai’s touch even for Imaad, despite the apparent recklessness of smacking the smugness from his face. This isn’t my fight. But the man crawled under her skin and loosened the fire within, until it burned malice in her throat and forced either confrontation or control. She could have held back, and done so easily; she could have watched events unfold rather than step into the fire, and never felt guilt for her failure to keep Jai grounded. But she had chosen to speak, to spit acid in his eye. And the cruel tilt to her lips did not suggest she regretted it.
Jai was bellowing in the dirt, but Liridia’s touch did not falter nor tense, only slipped away when Nythadri retreated as bid. If the woman looked back at her accuser Nythadri could not say; her own gaze bore a straight path to Daryen, magnificent on a beast white as snow, light playing his pale hair like a gold crown. Mirth danced in his eyes, as though he were an amused father come to scold errant children. In return she looked insolent, demanding, and the intense darkness of her expression only deepened when he laughed. Her opinion of him was still forming in the brief moments of their contact, and his golden aura meant little when he had waited so long to step in, and with such an entertained and casual air besides.
The venom beneath his charm did not entirely placate her, though she realised quickly that Imaad had tangled his strings and the dance had begun to a new tune. The weight of Daryen’s charm crushed the stirrings of Imaad’s rebellion like a man crushed a bug under his thumb. Knees bent or they were broken. Imaad moved too soon. To those gathered, the merchant’s many whispers must feel like limp, weightless things beneath the encumbrance of their Lord’s tragedy; acquiescence rippled quickly, but beneath it all lay a seed of fear. Caught between two Asha’man and reminded of what the pins truly meant, there was little else for the common man to feel but small.
As well they should. No channeler walked unscathed from the power gifted upon them, man or woman, and Asha’man were raised for blood and battle, for scars and pain and loss. Though there were murmurs of shock and sympathy, she did not share them. The tale did not surprise her, nor the brutality, but somewhere during the king’s words she forgot to check for the reactions around her. A child. It knotted a response somewhere deep, like an ache never fully realised. Cold fingers clutched her heart, but the only betrayal was perhaps the sheer stillness of her expression, and that all too easy to misconstrue as the mark of one on the path to Aes Sedai.
It was impossible not to see the scar as Jai was hauled up, the brief flutter of his shirt as though engineered to crystallise Daryen’s meaning, and to seal them brothers more tightly than blood or airy words. Unity, loyalty, brotherhood. He painted a scene of valour and honour and tragedy worthy of looks chiselled in song and legend, plucking Jai from the ground as though he were a comrade felled by a common enemy. Nythadri had never been to the Borderlands, had never seen war or the grim, hungry face of death, but the Tower shirked little in the thorough education of its daughters. His words painted a fiction underpinned by the hardness in his eyes, and the suddenly severe cast of his handsome face dared opposition, those blue eyes encompassing every single person who dared meet them.
Imaad capitulated.
She did not trust the merchant’s apparent humility, or his supposedly gracious understanding. There was no meekness, no snivelling, no desperate clutching at the ruin of his plans. It was the demeanour of a man who had not played his final hand, else one whose intentions ran so tangled and deep that she could not see to the heart of them. Unease prickled her skin, despite the resolution that washed out the bad atmosphere and went some way to reigniting a fresh sense of camaraderie. Like a great lion, when Daryen shook the tension from his mane, the lambs breathed a sigh of relief. His return to beaming smiles caught a cold gleam, sharp like the edge of diamond; but it was an edge of which others were either ignorant, or eager to ignore. The friction evaporated or was forcibly driven away, and Daryen winked as he passed her, with the charm of a smile that made sunshine from rain.
She recaptured her red; the horse, to his credit, had not strayed far from where she had abandoned him. An impatient toss of his head perhaps signified impatience with this delay, but he did not make it difficult for her to wrap her fingers in the reins and navigate her way back up, without the aid of a stable-hand this time. Her legs protested already, and they could not have been riding more than an hour. “Soft as butter, huh?”
She watched as Keren returned Jai’s sword, and heard what was said. But he would never hear her pass comment on it unless he asked it of her. She cared little and less where Jai cast back his ancestry, or why it appeared to grieve him so to be questioned about the blade he carried. The exchange was secondary to her interests anyway; she watched him, searching for a hint of the darkness that lurked within, for any trace of such innocuously ignited killer instinct. But she only ended up admiring the lines of his form, the severity of the black, the dishevelment of his close-cropped hair. He would have killed you if you’d interfered. Or tried to. Accusation had blazed like madness the last time she had met his gaze. When he caught her eye now, she was surprised not to relive that flash of fear.
Liridia offered Healing, but he shunned it for more familiar remedies; her gaze followed him in his stalk, faintly amused despite a twinge of uncertainty. Imaad did not balk from Jai, nor flinch despite how close this harbinger of death had come to snuffing the life of his brother mere moments ago. It took an obstinate courage to meet the unsettled Asha’man eye to eye, and an iron pride to accept the emasculating theft, she imagined. But Imaad did it without blinking, and without comment. Behind, she could feel the flows of saidar, and turned her head to see them too as they ghosted about Keren’s head. When she turned back, the Asha’man was mounting on his injured leg. She watched the swell of blood with sickened fascination, but if he was so stubborn as to refuse aid on account of making a statement she could understand the defiance that weathered the pain. And she wasn’t about to attempt convincing him otherwise.
The red took his pace without prompting, resigned to the hopelessness of his current mistress else taking umbrage with the razor’s presence. She ran her fingers through the silk of his mane, amused by his bold character and enduring petulance.
"I look forward to meeting your ghost, Nythadri."
Jai’s comment was rewarded with a hum of dark laughter. Her ghost lay in a cold grave, detached from the feeling that made it potent. He would have to dig deep to find it, for it was doubtful to pass her own lips, and he would have to search even deeper to uncover the truth of her reaction behind her presented mask of indifference. She would sooner share her bed than the depths of her soul, and with the circling bands of colour at her hem she supposed he was unlikely to discover either.
“I doubt the introduction will be quite so… dramatic.”
Despite the red’s reluctance, she nudged him close enough to bridge a tolerable distance, and reached to brush at some of the dirt marring the pristine black of Jai’s uniform. “I never did like the outdoors. Dirt, grass. Splatters of dead bird. And we’re not even at these supposed hunting grounds yet.”
She arched a cynical brow, the wryness of her humour utterly black. He should have guessed from the way she had mockingly dubbed his hands the property of a soldier that she would not skirt the issue, just twist it to the shape of her own warped humour.
Her smirk devolved to laughter as the red jerked himself away, snorting frustrated air through his nostrils. Bloody horse. “You know, if I ever even make it to the hunting grounds."
She might’ve mentioned her ire at how easily he had been dragged into Imaad’s games; she might have warned him of her conviction that this was only a beginning, not an end. Men like Imaad did not recoil from failure; they only came back more ruthlessly the next time. She doubted he needed the portentousness of such foreboding wisdom. Better that Jai enjoy the respite while it lasted; Nythadri certainly would.
Truthfully, she did not need the warning of the Aes Sedai’s touch even for Imaad, despite the apparent recklessness of smacking the smugness from his face. This isn’t my fight. But the man crawled under her skin and loosened the fire within, until it burned malice in her throat and forced either confrontation or control. She could have held back, and done so easily; she could have watched events unfold rather than step into the fire, and never felt guilt for her failure to keep Jai grounded. But she had chosen to speak, to spit acid in his eye. And the cruel tilt to her lips did not suggest she regretted it.
Jai was bellowing in the dirt, but Liridia’s touch did not falter nor tense, only slipped away when Nythadri retreated as bid. If the woman looked back at her accuser Nythadri could not say; her own gaze bore a straight path to Daryen, magnificent on a beast white as snow, light playing his pale hair like a gold crown. Mirth danced in his eyes, as though he were an amused father come to scold errant children. In return she looked insolent, demanding, and the intense darkness of her expression only deepened when he laughed. Her opinion of him was still forming in the brief moments of their contact, and his golden aura meant little when he had waited so long to step in, and with such an entertained and casual air besides.
The venom beneath his charm did not entirely placate her, though she realised quickly that Imaad had tangled his strings and the dance had begun to a new tune. The weight of Daryen’s charm crushed the stirrings of Imaad’s rebellion like a man crushed a bug under his thumb. Knees bent or they were broken. Imaad moved too soon. To those gathered, the merchant’s many whispers must feel like limp, weightless things beneath the encumbrance of their Lord’s tragedy; acquiescence rippled quickly, but beneath it all lay a seed of fear. Caught between two Asha’man and reminded of what the pins truly meant, there was little else for the common man to feel but small.
As well they should. No channeler walked unscathed from the power gifted upon them, man or woman, and Asha’man were raised for blood and battle, for scars and pain and loss. Though there were murmurs of shock and sympathy, she did not share them. The tale did not surprise her, nor the brutality, but somewhere during the king’s words she forgot to check for the reactions around her. A child. It knotted a response somewhere deep, like an ache never fully realised. Cold fingers clutched her heart, but the only betrayal was perhaps the sheer stillness of her expression, and that all too easy to misconstrue as the mark of one on the path to Aes Sedai.
It was impossible not to see the scar as Jai was hauled up, the brief flutter of his shirt as though engineered to crystallise Daryen’s meaning, and to seal them brothers more tightly than blood or airy words. Unity, loyalty, brotherhood. He painted a scene of valour and honour and tragedy worthy of looks chiselled in song and legend, plucking Jai from the ground as though he were a comrade felled by a common enemy. Nythadri had never been to the Borderlands, had never seen war or the grim, hungry face of death, but the Tower shirked little in the thorough education of its daughters. His words painted a fiction underpinned by the hardness in his eyes, and the suddenly severe cast of his handsome face dared opposition, those blue eyes encompassing every single person who dared meet them.
Imaad capitulated.
She did not trust the merchant’s apparent humility, or his supposedly gracious understanding. There was no meekness, no snivelling, no desperate clutching at the ruin of his plans. It was the demeanour of a man who had not played his final hand, else one whose intentions ran so tangled and deep that she could not see to the heart of them. Unease prickled her skin, despite the resolution that washed out the bad atmosphere and went some way to reigniting a fresh sense of camaraderie. Like a great lion, when Daryen shook the tension from his mane, the lambs breathed a sigh of relief. His return to beaming smiles caught a cold gleam, sharp like the edge of diamond; but it was an edge of which others were either ignorant, or eager to ignore. The friction evaporated or was forcibly driven away, and Daryen winked as he passed her, with the charm of a smile that made sunshine from rain.
She recaptured her red; the horse, to his credit, had not strayed far from where she had abandoned him. An impatient toss of his head perhaps signified impatience with this delay, but he did not make it difficult for her to wrap her fingers in the reins and navigate her way back up, without the aid of a stable-hand this time. Her legs protested already, and they could not have been riding more than an hour. “Soft as butter, huh?”
She watched as Keren returned Jai’s sword, and heard what was said. But he would never hear her pass comment on it unless he asked it of her. She cared little and less where Jai cast back his ancestry, or why it appeared to grieve him so to be questioned about the blade he carried. The exchange was secondary to her interests anyway; she watched him, searching for a hint of the darkness that lurked within, for any trace of such innocuously ignited killer instinct. But she only ended up admiring the lines of his form, the severity of the black, the dishevelment of his close-cropped hair. He would have killed you if you’d interfered. Or tried to. Accusation had blazed like madness the last time she had met his gaze. When he caught her eye now, she was surprised not to relive that flash of fear.
Liridia offered Healing, but he shunned it for more familiar remedies; her gaze followed him in his stalk, faintly amused despite a twinge of uncertainty. Imaad did not balk from Jai, nor flinch despite how close this harbinger of death had come to snuffing the life of his brother mere moments ago. It took an obstinate courage to meet the unsettled Asha’man eye to eye, and an iron pride to accept the emasculating theft, she imagined. But Imaad did it without blinking, and without comment. Behind, she could feel the flows of saidar, and turned her head to see them too as they ghosted about Keren’s head. When she turned back, the Asha’man was mounting on his injured leg. She watched the swell of blood with sickened fascination, but if he was so stubborn as to refuse aid on account of making a statement she could understand the defiance that weathered the pain. And she wasn’t about to attempt convincing him otherwise.
The red took his pace without prompting, resigned to the hopelessness of his current mistress else taking umbrage with the razor’s presence. She ran her fingers through the silk of his mane, amused by his bold character and enduring petulance.
"I look forward to meeting your ghost, Nythadri."
Jai’s comment was rewarded with a hum of dark laughter. Her ghost lay in a cold grave, detached from the feeling that made it potent. He would have to dig deep to find it, for it was doubtful to pass her own lips, and he would have to search even deeper to uncover the truth of her reaction behind her presented mask of indifference. She would sooner share her bed than the depths of her soul, and with the circling bands of colour at her hem she supposed he was unlikely to discover either.
“I doubt the introduction will be quite so… dramatic.”
Despite the red’s reluctance, she nudged him close enough to bridge a tolerable distance, and reached to brush at some of the dirt marring the pristine black of Jai’s uniform. “I never did like the outdoors. Dirt, grass. Splatters of dead bird. And we’re not even at these supposed hunting grounds yet.”
She arched a cynical brow, the wryness of her humour utterly black. He should have guessed from the way she had mockingly dubbed his hands the property of a soldier that she would not skirt the issue, just twist it to the shape of her own warped humour.
Her smirk devolved to laughter as the red jerked himself away, snorting frustrated air through his nostrils. Bloody horse. “You know, if I ever even make it to the hunting grounds."
She might’ve mentioned her ire at how easily he had been dragged into Imaad’s games; she might have warned him of her conviction that this was only a beginning, not an end. Men like Imaad did not recoil from failure; they only came back more ruthlessly the next time. She doubted he needed the portentousness of such foreboding wisdom. Better that Jai enjoy the respite while it lasted; Nythadri certainly would.