RP: OPEN POST

[archademode]

I: pick a character
II: write a prompt or pick some visuals

Comments

[poleaxed]

"You-" She bites her lower lip, face scrunched up in the shape of someone who knows they've been caught in their own stupid little trap. She can hardly argue, can she? Look at her. Look at them.

"Oh, a font of wisdom, you are." She reaches, fast sunfish, to tweak his ear. "Teasing me from the sickbed."

Yet, now smoothed like crumpled paper, soundless laughter hides in the curve of her mouth.

[archademode]

“Enough-” he grouses, the edges of his teeth showing when he yanks his head away from her grasp, though it’s all the useless grumbling of a hound being tugged from its bed: more noise than actual irritation, in any tangible or perceivable amount.

He does not mind it, not as much as sight would make it seem.

One hand rests across her shoulder once more, bidding her rest. “You are still injured, I would have you not discard all caution for the sake of your own childish amusement.”

[poleaxed]

He touches her, so she touches him. Her hand reaches out to find that same ear again, though her fingers land below it, a caress to his neck. Her thumb gently measures the texture of his finely kept beard, or whatever that is called in the lands of his home. A bad cut, they'd call it in the Fedlhelm slums.

Thank all the gods and demons of the land and sky, she is here and not there.

"You'll visit me?" She says, embracing the role of sickly patient if it will give him calm. "If I'm to be laid up for so long, I'll need entertainment."

[archademode]

“I have been at your side for days already.”

She is free to do as she pleases, that much is clear in how still he sits beneath her roaming fingertips— neither tensing nor balking at the attention, only patient. Attentive. He is unused to this, yes, but that does not mean he won’t endure it for her.

...or that it’s unwelcome in the slightest.

“I see no reason to alter that practice now.” And then, his jaw tilting just so against her palm, “how do you feel?”

[poleaxed]

So Jone indulges herself, reaching up to run light fingers through his bright, short hair. Ever since she was anointed by the Empire, she has lived without touch. She had been willing to give it up, but is equally willing to take back what small pieces she can, like a starveling at a banquet.

Though this is hardly a banquet. She wants to feel the callouses under his gloves, the pulse in his wrists, the shape of his teeth, the warmth of his mouth. She could bargain for that, if she were greedier. If she respected him less.

And then he moves to give her more, as close to an embrace as people like them can get, and the relaxation that sweeps over her is obvious. The smile is natural. She is content.

"Better," she says, voice hoarse with softness. "I was just screeching at a good lad for no reason at all, if you can believe it."

[archademode]

It is more than he has known in an eternity. A lifetime. Where she is starved, he is only learning again, and everything is taken in small, careful sips: the scuff of his stubble against her coarse skin, the warmth of it where it finds his throat, his cheek. He is not a patient man, but in dialed seconds like this, he might be mistaken for one.

“I can. Though I believe he is capable of forgiveness.”

[poleaxed]

"Oh? Really?" She grins, allowing herself to be easily rallied. It's not very hard. His presence, an imposition only days ago, now brings cheer and deep warmth, things she'd been prepared to go without until she died, again and again and over again.

Her fingers drift along the shell of one ear. This is lingering away from what platonic friendship can excuse, but she'll stop when he tells her to.

"What does he need? I can shine shoes and make dinner."

And kill people in thoughtless swaths, but that skill lives outside the tentative, make-believe world they are building.

[archademode]

He snorts faintly at that, yanking his head away once more. It seems— perhaps to the attentive observer— that Gabranth might not be able to handle the keen graze of her fingertips just there with anything remotely akin to dour dignity.

“Right now you are capable of neither, and are on strict orders to remain in bed. That is all I— ” a pause, his lips tightening as he reaches out to catch her searching hand within his own, “he would ask of you.”

His imagination lacks, it seems.

[poleaxed]

Stop there, then. Pet at him, but don't entice. He wants touch-- a desire Jone cannot blame him for, harboring deeper, darker wishes-- but little more. She can't hold the thought I can be chaste in her mind without laughing, though, so instead promises herself: I can endure.

That's the creed lately, isn't it?

"How terribly kind of him," she says. Her hand squeezes his, wishing she could feel the warm roughness of his ungloved fingers. "Especially if a certain someone ignores any obviously false reports about me being a terrible bloody patient."

She'll be kind with him. She's going to haggle with the healing mage once they return. Poor thing, having to wrangle her utter lack of care for her own recouperation.

[archademode]

He cannot sustain the game for long; even dry humor strains his own long-forged restrictions, and where his mouth flexes faintly it does eventually recede into something more controlled. More appropriate for a Judge, even in isolated spaces, with his fingers snared across her own and weighted with thick leather.

Perhaps in time these defenses too will fade, but for now they leave only fresh footprints in untouched snow. Every step is new. A risk, broached with care.

Or at the very least, that is how he sees it.

“I believe those reports to be unsubstantiated.” He would see her behave, is what he means, even if he knows she longs for coarser freedoms. “But I will continue to monitor your recovery regardless. Just in case.”

A pause, before:

“I shall also refrain from informing Emperor Gramis of your status until you are fully prepared to face him.” To avoid any shame of perceived weakness, to afford her time to seem infallible, even in the wake of her fall.

[poleaxed]

He will keep her in line, he seems to be promising, and there's a little thrill at that. Selfish, she knows, but none have ever cared this much for her health.

Yet at his second offer, she shakes her head. "Do not keep anything from him on my account. I will endure; as you've said, it is my duty."

And she would hate to see him sully his honor for something as little as this.

[archademode]

That is exactly what he promises— even if the results of that effort may vary, considering his sternness and her whims: he remains certain he can bar her from rising and donning armor, at the very least. To ensure she eats and shuts her eyes. The most basic of needs, but the most vital, also.

His palm rises from her hand, resting heavily across her brow. Not pressing, nor measuring, only— steadying. He leaves it there as he watches her, pale eyes summarizing the damage scattered across her features.

“As you say.” It is a concession made with decorum. “even so, it would be best to keep the matter of our own...familiarity between us, as a generality.”

It is not a deception, only a privacy, he would argue.

[poleaxed]

He touches her, and she sighs, whatever nerves she had evening out under his touch. Pliant as she is, there is no fear. She's not sure there ever was, but the conflict, certainly, is gone. If he will come here and hold her hand, touch her face, even with gloves on she will do whatever he asks.

"I'm not one for gossip," she says, "lacking conspirators, save you. I imagine my grand thoughts on Imperial fashion would bore you to tears."

It's a joke, of course; she has no thoughts on fashion at all, really. Still, the smile curves back under his hand.

[archademode]

“They would certainly offend Judge Ghis, no doubt.”

A man easily riled, and deeply petty regardless. And the thought of any conversation taking place in his presence only reaffirms his desire for subtlety on their own part: he has only just earned full faith in the eyes of the Empire, and the Consul does not favor him— he would rather tread with care in regards to his own humanity.

His own weakness.

“Yet I imagine your presence does that well enough.”

[poleaxed]

She sniffs, quiet laughter. She speaks in a careful whisper, intimate and impish. "A fair skill I have, to be a thorn in the paw of a proud and toothsome lion. Shining rows of teeth, he has, but to bite would be a poison. All thoughts remain on claws."

She brings her hands up, curling fingers into a clawing shape. Jone has no thoughts on fashion, but many on jokes and insults.

[archademode]

He chuckles in turn, though the gesture is done in by the rise of his own palms to press down atop her own, lowering them quickly. Make no jokes like that, Jone.

"Do you hunger?" The shift in conversation is purposeful; he will not grant her rope with which to hang herself in humor, not even in closed quarters where sharp ears might yet be listening, always.

It is a palace, after all.

[poleaxed]

His hand near hers is irresistible. Immediately, fingers curl around leather and metal, rubbing warmth into the skin underneath. She is hungry for him; she cannot have him; she will take what she can get.

It's just touch, after all. It's just what has been denied her, since her instatement. How many long and sleepless nights had she wondered what she was missing, only to realize come dawn: where are all the people in my life?

Dead or masked, they cannot help her. Neither, truthfully, can Gabranth, but she thinks she can have something small to hide her need behind. She promises herself she will not weigh Gabranth down with it. A stolen moment, in private, holding his gloved hand; that can't be the end of him.

"I could eat," she says, still canny, revivified by good company. "Will you join me?" Said as grandly as though he is invited to some gala, some fine soiree.

[archademode]

“If you would see it so, then yes.”

It is a simple thing, after all, ordering a fine meal fit for the Emperor’s own table (though smaller in portion; Gabranth takes care to request only lighter fare for the sake of her recovering stomach) whether or not Jone is willing to let herself realize it, she outranks even the highest rich blooded nobility in Archades, and there is little she could ask for that would not be granted immediately, without hesitation.

This time, he requests it for her, careful to watch her peripherally once servants bring in gilded trays filled with roasted cockatrice, wilted greens and clear, brothy soups. Even wine— though Gabranth curls his lip slightly at the sight of it, uncertain as to whether or not it will help her.

“Are you able to sit upright, or need I tend to your care directly?”

[poleaxed]

Refusing to break eye contact, Jone slowly makes herself sit up in bed. It doesn't bring her much joy, but there are limits to what she will allow to be done for her in full wit and consciousness. The food brought to her is too grand by half, but she is hardly about to argue with Gabranth about it. In his company, she for once does not feel silly for the indulgence.

"I confess," Jone says, somewhere between true hesitance and the mocking of such febrile emotion, "I was given training in many things, before coming here; proper table manners were not one of them."

[archademode]

It was too grand for him once as well. He understands the look she wears, and when he seats himself beside her, tries his best to make it all that much less daunting.

They share this as allies— and as friends, if ever he warranted such a title. Perhaps she would take no offense to his presumption. She did, after all, lay down her life in near-proximity for him.

“I shall not judge, only instruct.” Says as he sets one tray before her, waving away the staff and bidding them leave them both in silence once more. His own he takes on a small table beside him, untangling silverware with a practiced hand.

Were he not in armor, one might almost mistake him for one of the princes themselves.

“You will need knowledge of this soon enough, if you are to be commended in service to the throne.”

[poleaxed]

"How gracious of you," Jone says, to hide her real relief. She'll thank him later, and it will be real and true. That would be nice, anyway. She's never been good with kindness, not the receiving of it. Giving already took ages to learn. She feels too old, now, to weather anything new.

She tries anyway.

Cautiously, she asks, "who taught you?"

If their origins are as similar as he's said.

[archademode]

“My mother.” He does not look at her now, only focused on his meal, making a careful show of how each utensil is held without patronizingly demanding she mirror him.

She will either follow his lead, or ask for assistance. He’ll not force her.

“We had little choice, when Landis was undone. It was her name that I took in order to survive here— she was a daughter of Archades by heritage, not want, and in what little time remained before her death she did her best to impart what knowledge she could of her lineage and its culture. It...did not take.”

He opted to focus on his career first, all he could manage, and the only thing that would save them— though of course, it did not save her.

“It was only when I was first made judge that I realized I would need to remember— and improve— upon her instruction.”

Judges are common, after all. Judge Magister are not, and though he had nothing but hunger in him, it was not for status, only wrath.

[poleaxed]

Jone mirrors him like the moon in a still lake. She listens intently, hungrily. These are secrets, this past, these existences before service. Everyone has such things, but it's still indecent and vulnerable to make a point of it. She loves him more for it, and, ah, that is a word she could use for it. She'd prefer not to.

"Then I'll thank her through you," she says, quiet. How does one talk of mothers? She'd prefer not to speak of hers. Of anyone in her mongrel family.

"Needing such manner, it hadn't occurred to me until now. I think I..." While they are sharing vulnerabilities, she will give him something with nothing familial... "I think my promotion was more luck than worth. I would have been happier unnoticed, but cannot resist a challenge. Succeeding... I did not plan for that."

She sips broth in a parody of daintiness, for once not purposeful. It's just how it looks, in her long-fingered hands, her broad shoulders. "This is surely the part where you call me a fool."

[archademode]

"Nor did I."

He had fought tooth and nail like a man craving destruction in all its forms: his enemies, himself— all he could see was blood, and perhaps it was that ruthlessness that caught the Emperor's attentions when so little else in the world did.

"Perhaps he favors strays alone, at the stretching sunset of his rule." Little wonder there is so much friction for it. That he has had to shoulder more than just the difficulties of ceaseless duty and anchoring armor.

Her hands are doing better in her work, he can see it when he glances her way. Good. They will take more meals like this, then. Until she is ready to stretch her wings without him at her back.

[poleaxed]

Jone reaches for the wine, and pours herself a small portion, before watering it down like tea. She knows this is not the fashion in Archadia, but her few brushes with high tables of her youth (serving, scraping) involved watering down a vintage. It meant the water of your household was clean.

"Strays," she murmurs, distracted as she watches his motions, parroting them. She's always done best with physical instruction, learning by doing. Maybe this endeavor will keep her from restless boredom when she is abed.

One can dream.

"I've never been called that before. Heartening to find you can garner always new insults."