sabrance.

          ❛ like i already said —— i don’t need your help.
               stop being so damn nosy. ❜

She canst nary deter the self-originating stare which bores into this woman’s visage, her gaze an amalgamation of curiosity and awe both; for beheld is one dressed in garb much alike that of erstwhile home. ❜Tis dissident in nature from the image conjured by tarnished memories, a welling within steel-clad breast that stifles and suffocates her thoughts, starves the being from which she is crafted of meaning. Nay, that which is donned by stranger opposite is nary the same —— there was naught to which the ineffable pulchritude of Akkad could be held pareil —— but whilom teachings bend her knee, and to respect and that remembrance of home does she kneel. Eyne are lacking in dulled glaze and muted sheen, devoid of the emotional forbearance which birthed the chill steel of a gaze for which the Warrior is wont. Warmth floods steel irises and that stare rusts, metamorphosing from insipid iron (a gaze that held as much purpose as the sword belted to her hip, as mutable as the rocks to which its hue was prone, as impassive as the blade that performed as it was intended and sheared flesh and bone), to pools of foggy recollection (within them swirls abysmal regret and jubilation in immeasurable quantities), finally to recognition and hazel warmth.

Finally averting pin-prick gaze to the ground alow, the Itinerant displays respect and therein begets the means for her unerring gape, for there was a kindling of kinship (however misplaced) smoldering ❜neath Warrior breastplate.

(adam.)

     quiet. she comes with a much different presence, a much different silence that he finds troubling in it’s wake, meticulous in the way he watches her movements, how she’s not nearly as keen and quick with her reflexes, slow to even notice his figure just before her own. her eyes are clouded, just the same as the ash that hovers, dressed in dirt and things of the like — she’s taxed and sluggish, tired.

        ❝ take it easy for a while, caelan. ❞

Such a request is not one with which she can comply. A wretched soul such as she deserves nary to rest, and neither so was she built for the idyll that repose could offer; her very existence was birthed by necessity, a fate predetermined by quondam progenitors and masters who divulged naught but mantras and accepted naught but solemn oaths. They made her honour immutable, and she prostrated before her betters, forsaking her own mind, her want and emotion for theirs. (A Warrior who became and did all they wished with no regard for herself; after all, one trained not to value tools cannot also value themselves if their purpose as a tool is reinforced by their very existence.)

What a folly they had instilled upon the earth. She was their beautiful monstrosity, their pious pawn with a heart of gold and skin wrought of steel, her honour carved from ivory and her purpose clothed in sanguine raiment: a Blade is she, and from bone is flesh rent in her wake.

There can be no rest for someone who was born to kill.

The burden of countless lives rests upon her shoulders, and she alone is responsible for having wrenched them from their corporeal forms —— eyne swim with the haunted visions of fields scourged by war and watered with blood, fertilized by corpses; the spectres of butchered men and murdered innocents are suspended within the steely confines of those very eyne (she has witnessed it all), and a throat is choked by ash and gore, unable to sound screams and wails of agony for those who no longer could.

So afore him she stands, a mighty bulwark fashioned by strife and teeming tragedy, and nary a susurrus is thusly imparted unto the other in salutation or uttered weariness. Shoulders stoop once more, and the Itinerant lowers to the ground, finding seat upon the rubble and gazes at him once more, apologetic. The battlefield is horrific and to all that she has lain witness those very atrocities have been committed by her own hand, and never can she rescind her role as a Slayer. Never can her soul be cleansed of the sin of which she is guilty.

Hands rise and clasp at soot-crusted poleyns, chin downturned and stare quickly diverted to the ground alow; she durst not burden one such as he with the filthy gaze she has come to bear.

This time, she comes not bearing any gifts, nothing which she may proffer unto the other in amicable reticence. Simply stands before him, impeccable posture now stooped so that her stature lies more squat than regal. Gleaming armour is now for a lack of sheen —— grime covers her alike a fine veil, a choking ash that coats her and she can hardly separate herself from its bearing. A slow blink, in which ❜tis plain to see the lack of recognition there: she does not see him, not truly, nor does she seem aware of her surroundings. (Noble blade is suspended at a dilapidated angle, sad in its hanging.)

A flicker of life sparks ❜cross steel eyne, and quickly is posture corrected, rejuvenated, though every movement lacks energy. She is weary.

(behnen.)

                                          ❝  …MY THANKS.  ❞
           GRUDGING tone does not come from ingratitude
                   rather, Thorin is WARY.

Itinerant gait, guided here by unending vagrancy of notion and body, has brought her within the presence of another of wandering ilk; and ❜tis by such kinship that she extends her hand in meagre assistance, what little provisions that lay within the confines of leathern pouches proffered forth in an extension of good will.

Brusque statement is made of gratitude all the same, and therein she finds no insult to be taken at the forced tone the appreciation imbibed by acknowledgement alone. Satisfied with her wayfaring role, shoulders falter in their might and she becomes a warrior at ease; to her collar does she incline her head, grateful to have been graced with a ❛thanks.❜

(rualeth.)

“—…Aaaaaand we’re back to square one. Goody gumdrops.” Dutiful exasperation had been cleverly shrouded with mildly forced exuberance, gentle sigh heaved forth against the folds of constricting guise. Even so, he found himself pleased that she was at least smiling. Perchance that this was an uncharacteristic spell for him to enjoy one’s simper, but he was simply overjoyed to find that she was at least emotive in regards to something. “Watcha’ smiling bout’? I mean, I guess it doesn’t take much to smile, but I don’t see someone like you smiling for nothing. You don’t seem that way.”

Not like him, he meant.

She’s no inkling of from where the sudden exasperation tinting his voice mayst have originated from, as surely she’s done naught to be the cause for such disparaging lilt. Rare is it for voice to breach the column of her throat and find substance (even as the merest susurrus) as words or any some such thing. A Warrior has little use for speech when all that truly mattered was the bite of their steel.

Eyne focus on the masked companion with veilled interest, canted head causing for the erasure of any smile curling her lips upwards, confusion palpable in regards to the inquiry so spoken. In truth, had she the mind to answer, such response would have been perhaps the most disappointing part of their exchange —— he has been kind to her; what else can she do but repay him with the barest quirk of a smile?

(rualeth.)

“Hey! You spoke! …I dunno’ if that was even a proper language, but m’gonna’ trust your overlord on this one and assume it was.” There was hint of merriment in his tone, genuine & pure at the glimpse of her faint amusement. “Nice to know that. Hi.”

Following thereafter is a pause the belikes of several minutes, the return of her silent demeanor swift, all else poised ❜pon the tip of her tongue breathed into naught; a gentle incline of her head, mien yet tinctured by that warmth previously held. Light, she seems, for all the armour weighing her down. Perhaps, even, the barest smile curls her lips as she regards him in equal measure, blinking slowly as she does so. There is geniality in her silent composure.

(iochre.)

His  countenance  naught  but  humble  & ever charismatic;
Yet  interwoven  is  the  sense of regality,  though presence
of his title should serve unnecessary in this meeting- given
the likeness of the female warrior to his own self would not
deem it significant; their  shared  language  being that of the
bite of a blade, and all things akin- — nary a word should be
given, ( serving unneeded )  &  in  this  he  would  be content
enough in shared silence, though his brow bows in curiosity.

Sown betwixt them is a silence which speaks volumes more than any one thing that mayst have been uttered in lieu of the understanding suspended by they of warrior ilk. Bones are brittle and her tanned hide marred by scar upon scar, testaments that which they both excelled in; War is trite, and predictable, but this makes it no less disconcerting.

Hollow breath fills lungs and is expelled in a burst of tongueless inquiry, the perked brow all that she deems necessary to respond in kind.

(lethalan.)

        ❛ miss — i, uh, i hate to bother you
          but — can you reach the top shelf?

          there’s a book about alchemy,
          next to the maps, and — ❜ 

A shallow breath, a fluttering blink precedes the shallow bend taken at the waist as she stoops (only in slight) to attempt to discern what the child meant. She pauses, afore straightening in stature once more so that she can lend aid. Extending her arm and hovering it near the top shelf, steel eyne gaze back towards him and silently implore direction —— she’s still relatively illiterate, and knows not which book in particular he desires.

(hiizashi.)

Unknowingly allows awkward silence to fester. 

            ❝ … ‘Sup? ❞

Unwittingly perpetuates the awkward silence by means of her wordless nature and silent, looming presence. There’s no response to be had from her.

Her weight is borne not in the cumbersome profile of steel armaments and furred cape, nor in hefty frame laden by such trappings; that which curbs each footfall and quenches sonance, engulfs it in silence and thusly bears the Warrior forward is none other than the weight of solemnity. She is cloaked in it, much alike the armour clinging to ev❜ry stringent limb, though it is not seen —— rondels may gleam and pauldrons are heavy, but Silence has a weight of its own —— and pauldrons are mere decoration for the weight borne upon her shoulders.

Just as always, she passes by with nary a wisp of breath to attest her having ever existed heretofore, but she has already passed out of sight as silently as she came.

It is alike the baleful winds of a thunderstorm, this churning within her breast. Fingers trace idly o❜er where her heart should lay, and she sighs, a solemn soliloquy rendered into naught.

(enkidu.)

⊰❦⊱ “Now, what do we have here? A most impressive specimen! I do adore women of great power… with one exception, of course. Come. Come closer, let me have a better look at you.” Enkidu eyes the armour, just a glance at it and she feels the sheer weight of all gear, the belts, the plates, even the cape. Her own flesh transforms to steel from the excitement, flashing a metallic sheen from fingertips to wrist, when she reaches for her unexpected visitor.

Dissonance fashions itself from a pause thereafter composed of an amalgamation of fascination and sheer bewilderment upon espying the transformation from flesh to steel. She stares, utterly confounded, a breath dwindling into naught, bereft of exclamation which mayst have punctured the air with astonishment in light of such a wonder. Metallic allure compels itinerant feet (iron-clad, as is the rest of her) to observe a few paces’ advance, and some wayfaring vein of curiosity wonders if the same can be said of this stranger; afterall, did not warriors don armour? —— a blink thrice occurs, afore the stooping of her shoulders as she leans to better observe this strange phenomenon.

(therín.)

          “ You ain’t the type to make a fuss.          Quiet one 
           then, yeah? I like that. More surprise, less prediction.
           Life is always fun with your types around. Save for the
           sneaking. Seem far too good at that. “

Of humble origin, with a predilection for naught but silence, the chattiness is a stark contrast to that of the norm. Brows are interwoven in confusion nigh palpable; she can hardly ascertain any reason that would garner attention, as the one speaking thusly seems to be a warrior much like herself —— though the company of one of a like mind is nary so often refuted as it is accepted. Natheless, head is set askew in a cant of curious articulation (she’s rather interested in hearing if they’ve anything more to say).

(gwdaí.)

                                    Let not blood call her.

               Sapphire were the color of her eyes as they narrowed; precisely
               applying a level of restrained incision upon the rider. Watching,
               waiting, for a reaction that seemed so thoroughly absent.
               If such a confrontation could be avoided, there was one
               simple way of doing so; for all creatures had a price.

       Two feet in front of the Nightingale a pouch drops.
       Heavy is the resounding chink, the pouch
       containing an appealing amount of gold. In truth?
       It contained near double what the horse was worth.

                ‶ Take it. ″

Frigid air purloins wispy tendrils of breath from which they curl and wane into the night, expelled by a sigh of vexed origin, reinforced by steely gaze cast towards the chink of gold with no more enthusiasm or interest than one would gift unto a fly. No love or deference for coin is borne upon the sequestered heart buried ❜neath the knolls of flesh and sinew shielded by plates of Paladin heraldry, quite the contrary to the occupation she claims. Test her not the tides of ebbing forbearance, routed shoulders therein conveying contempt for the principles so displayed and assumed to be held common.

Destrier’s blood churns thick with proud heritage, and nostrils flare their indignant vexation at interloper’s hindrance whilst hooves paw and agitate dirt trod compact, the mercenary sat bestride, nary displaying indolence (for carpus has made naught but thitherward ascension to stroke silken mane, and beg of her companion patience) so much as pseudo-astonishment (of a mocking variety), cleft from countenance by oration thence bequeathed unto her in a most coercing fashion.

Curling incredulity puckers lips for the blatant ignorance strewn in the pouch tossed before her and the faulty assumption therein made —— creatures were not to be traded as common goods for a means of monetary gain (ire smoulders aflame within her breast at such a heinous notion), nay. Creatures were more entitled to respect than any mere human could e❜er hope to be, for they did not lust after that which they could not obtain, nor rob one another, or declare war: they existed within Nature and were content. Fingers slip ❜twixt atrous filaments of divine filigree, a soothing motion, cool and reassuring her steed that he was safe, whereafter anxious nickers end and prancing hooves fall silent.

Midnight-coated stallion had chosen to be her companion, and she’d nary deign to pawn him off as if he were naught but a pretty trinket. Steel oculars focus once more upon opposite visage, declination of their proposal clearly writ ❜pon the resolute frown etched on stony mien. She makes no move to retrieve the pouch, and umber brow piques, as if sanctioning a protest that she’d no intention of hearkening to.

(???)

      “Mhm”

   And with that he would step forth and make
   his presence to her known, a cheerful smile
   placed upon his features as he peered over
   her shoulder only to pull back moments later
   opting to stand next to, rather than over. He
   would much rather bask in the glory of that
   before him, and it would seem as though 
   someone else has had the same idea.

      “Beautiful, isn’t it?”

Feather-light vocalization wisps airily ❜pon the breeze, drawing shielded gaze to bear o❜er a paladin shoulder to stare at he who coalesced from naught, weariness hampering any sort of alarm which may have been fostered by sudden appearance. Thrice she blinks, afore facing the dawn once more, a rapport thus instilled by Sun’s caresses and gentle tread upon yon horizon; forsooth, the Warrior pays no heed (overt or otherwise) to the one now beside her.

Heretofore, she lay in reverence of the beauty of Nature, one apart as she never could earn a place alongside (nay, as she is clad in metal harvested from Mother’s flesh and adorned in the finery of Her children’s silken fur; nary a creature of Peace is she) gazing onward in pristine wilderness receiving its morning wash in the sun … Iwis, if there were ever a time in which she could truly achieve some semblance of equanimity, ❜twould be now, curled upon the grass, embraced by the serenity of Morning and her unexpected company.