[ What good was magic if it could not be applied practically? For what purpose might he demonstrate his mastery of glittering lights? The stars in the night sky achieved the same spectacle, never struggling to ignite. She looks now upon her eager servant as if he could not be trusted to build a fire in a ready hearth, and her eyes trail in great reluctance after his hands as they demonstrate where this object of light is meant to exist.
Under her neck, to follow the shape of her head, as if he or his hands were familiar with either. What support could light offer? These are the inane ramblings of pious men, or madmen, neither of which will be of any use to her now. She needs warriors, spies, sellswords, kings. What is she to do with a man offering to venture forth and find her woven grass when she most needs a jagged blade?
She wants to jeer, to flaunt so inept a gift, but the truth is that the taut, narrow muscles of her neck and shoulders are indeed interested. She would like nothing more than to slay the final hours of this day by laying her body, which is woefully unaccustomed to such rigorous travel, upon an intact bedroll, with a cushion of light filling the curve of her neck. It is immensely aggravating, actually, how much she wants this. ]
I don't want branches. Give me the light. [ How discourteous of him to elaborate upon such a gift and then refuse to provide it. How cruel to supply only grass where he might have produced a luxury deserving of a queen.
She cannot help regarding him again, incisive and distrustful, but not without a burgeoning interest, too. He lacks completely the build of a worthy knight, or of even a suitably rabid beast to do her bidding, but there is something in the resilience of his spirit that draws the eye back again and again. She turns to bear better witness to what he will or will not achieve, eyes scaling from his hands back up to his eyes.
Her tone she keeps level, icy, though she cannot banish entirely the glint of hunger that shines through. The hunger to taste what he has spoken of, though it cannot possibly be true. It is more, even so, than anyone else has offered her. ]
I would wear a crown of woven grass tonight. It might remind these peasants what royalty looks like, and they would not dare treat me so unjustly come morning.
no subject
Under her neck, to follow the shape of her head, as if he or his hands were familiar with either. What support could light offer? These are the inane ramblings of pious men, or madmen, neither of which will be of any use to her now. She needs warriors, spies, sellswords, kings. What is she to do with a man offering to venture forth and find her woven grass when she most needs a jagged blade?
She wants to jeer, to flaunt so inept a gift, but the truth is that the taut, narrow muscles of her neck and shoulders are indeed interested. She would like nothing more than to slay the final hours of this day by laying her body, which is woefully unaccustomed to such rigorous travel, upon an intact bedroll, with a cushion of light filling the curve of her neck. It is immensely aggravating, actually, how much she wants this. ]
I don't want branches. Give me the light. [ How discourteous of him to elaborate upon such a gift and then refuse to provide it. How cruel to supply only grass where he might have produced a luxury deserving of a queen.
She cannot help regarding him again, incisive and distrustful, but not without a burgeoning interest, too. He lacks completely the build of a worthy knight, or of even a suitably rabid beast to do her bidding, but there is something in the resilience of his spirit that draws the eye back again and again. She turns to bear better witness to what he will or will not achieve, eyes scaling from his hands back up to his eyes.
Her tone she keeps level, icy, though she cannot banish entirely the glint of hunger that shines through. The hunger to taste what he has spoken of, though it cannot possibly be true. It is more, even so, than anyone else has offered her. ]
I would wear a crown of woven grass tonight. It might remind these peasants what royalty looks like, and they would not dare treat me so unjustly come morning.