From Whence We Came

Re: From Whence We Came

Postby Rance » Sun Aug 04, 2019 12:45 am

Then that was it. Agreement. Assent. To do it the way it must be done. To do it the way it should be. Would she have been amenable, stood she in his shoes, to such an expectation as the one she demanded? Best not to think on such things. Comfort in the shadow of her own hypocrisy had become a necessary tool for survivability, after all. "I want you to consider the role I proposed — not now, of course, but in the future. I want you to spend this time finding yourself, and if you discover something in the ruins of Snowstill that leads you in such a way, to not hesitate.

"Myrken Wood wants for good souls in positions of necessity. And those good souls," she said, jabbing a thumb against her own collarbone, "are in desperate want of honesty, fairness, and virtue."

He drank, and justified it all on the whisper of Ser Malaroth. The hint of sarcasm in Gahald's voice turned her ever-present frown into a flat smile. Memories emerged from the rubble of him, and whether or not they were false mattered nothing; she listened, shining-eyed, and accepted them as his truth. The wine was not good; the wine did not need to be good.

Perfect wine for Gloria Wynsee.

She took the bottle back, took another swig, sucked air through her teeth. "And stop," the woman insisted, "calling me Miss Wynsee. I am Gloria. I like it far better, and I am neither above you in station nor below you in status. And there is only one way to affirm such a thing—"

She tucked the bottle under her elbow. Then she brushed her hand off on her skirt and spit unceremoniously into her palm. She remembered, and it hurt. She extended the hand out to him.

"Friends?" Gloria said. "As long as you will have me."
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Re: From Whence We Came

Postby Glenn » Tue Aug 06, 2019 12:44 am

She hurt, but did she remember? How much did anyone remember a dream when morning came? When a week had past? A month? Longer? Was this eerily reminiscent? Did she look for signs of recognition in him, as if he might be familiar with this gesture as well.

There were none.

He did not spit.

He did hesitate.

At least, however, it was with a slightly wry smile, an expression that somehow did not fit the rest of his face, one that made him look neither like himself nor the ghost of who he once was. For Elliot Brown, wry was a sort of bread. For Elliot Gahald, it was an unfortunate eventuality, yet another path that had been chosen for him. "I would like for us to be friends, but I am," and here was that typical struggle for the right word in a sea of them in which he'd only been half taught to swim, "so inclined to call most of my friends as such. I could make an exception for you, but exceptions are frightening currently. When nothing is on steady ground, then there's nothing to except from, right?"

His eyes seemed to draw closer to one another, brow furrowing as he recognized his own contradiction. He was no great debater and when he took her hand, it was with no little frustration with himself. "Gloria, then." His body exhaled into the handshake, a sigh, which was probably more pleasant than the slimy residue of every other handshake she'd had with this particular body before. "I will consider. I'll consider whatever you'd have me consider, but that's all I'll do for now. Consider in return that you've grown into a worthy woman, Miss," was there such a thing as a wry bite, for that might be the expression as his own teeth quickly (though painlessly) sunk down. "Gloria. Gloria." This, for all of its awkwardness and slight irritation at one's self, suited him just a bit more.
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Re: From Whence We Came

Postby Rance » Tue Aug 06, 2019 1:36 am

"Ser," she said. "Stop thinking so much." After the handshake, she withdrew, and playfully clapped her knuckles down onto his — hardly a painful gesture, but rather, one of ease, as if even this handshake smacked of too much formality. "Exceptions and consideration and friendship, they ought to move like waves and less like walls.

"I think in time, you'll learn to do quite the same."

This was not the place to ask after the scar. She wanted to know. Where he had gotten it, and in what capacity. How it had come to be. But those were questions for other times and other conversations, when congeniality did not come so closely on the heels of reparation. She had spit at him once before, years ago — Nameless, had it been so long? — in a courtroom, when she was still a girl and he was still a boy.

She took up the rusted relic of a practice sword and cut it aimlessly in the air a few times away from him, as if it were merely a scythe trying to bite down legions of wheat. He called her a worthy woman and she smiled, in full and clear reception of the compliment. "I have always been a worthy woman. It's just taken the world a much longer time to realize it."

She shouldered the bent, time-battered sword, then jutted her chin toward the horizon.

"Snowstill's there. And me, I am here, and plan to remain. Myrken Wood is the only home I have got. It's quite worthy, too." A pause. "You know where to find me should you need anything at all. I hope you do. I would like that very much."

A parting smile. All lips. No shameful teeth.

Then she turned, cut down more armies of grass, and started toward town.
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