07-16-2015, 08:51 PM
so you wanna play with magic?
Almost from the moment she walks up to him, she starts to see something she'd hoped never to see. Well, that's not strictly true; she loves to be adored, and she enjoys it when stallions fall over themselves in front of her. But she doesn't want him to feel that way about her, because such feelings lead to an unwanted closeness. She wishes she could use her powers, wishes she could reach out and brush the thought from his mind.
He offers his pleasantries, and she nods politely in return. But then he does something she isn't expecting. He leans in close, too close, studying her eyes. She wants to pull away, but she forces herself to stand, to take his examination with grace. After all, if he's busy looking at her eyes, he isn't thinking about the magic that sits like a coiled snake in her belly. Sleeping, but ready to strike at any moment.
She blinks at him as he watches, prattling on about windows to the soul, and crypts and furrows and charter traits. She doesn't know if she believes him. After all, she's never needed a window to the soul. She makes her own windows, her own doors – she goes in and takes what she needs, deconstructing and reconstructing, learning whatever she needs to learn and doing whatever she finds necessary with that knowledge.
He pulls back, and she refuses to show her relief.
"Yes, we are pleased." she answers, her voice rich like honey. "It's a pleasure to have Beqanna's finest gathered here in our humble little kingdom." she says the last part with a wry smile and gentle humor, although she (and, she thinks, the kingdom) are anything but humble. "It's taking us time to start the mocks proper. Logistics are a nightmare with this big of a crowd." Humor colors her words again.
She debates turning around and leaving then. She debates turning tail and running away, asking her little band of Merry Men (and Women, to be fair) to dispose of Weir. She considers it, and not for the first time. But she rules it out, as she has so many times before. Her little band does an excellent job with so much of the work that she needs done, but she isn't quite sure they're ready for a task of this delicacy. Not only would an incursion into the Dale be too much of a risk, but even attacking him here is impossible; she won't allow any bloodshed during the mocks, it's simply too important that the Deserts make the event a rousing success. And generally speaking, deaths tend to put a damper on the entire thing.
Deaths, and being impolite. Which, unfortunately for her, she knows means talking to Weir. And being friendly. And potentially even being charming. "And how do you find the Deserts so far? The warmth grows on you, I promise." She can't help it – she is flirtatious by nature, and even when she's out of her element, even when she's hiding her magic, even when she's trying desperately to get away from him, she can't help but be who she is. She can't help how smooth her voice is. She can't help her wry humor. She can't help it, and it's going to get her in such a beautiful pickle.
He offers his pleasantries, and she nods politely in return. But then he does something she isn't expecting. He leans in close, too close, studying her eyes. She wants to pull away, but she forces herself to stand, to take his examination with grace. After all, if he's busy looking at her eyes, he isn't thinking about the magic that sits like a coiled snake in her belly. Sleeping, but ready to strike at any moment.
She blinks at him as he watches, prattling on about windows to the soul, and crypts and furrows and charter traits. She doesn't know if she believes him. After all, she's never needed a window to the soul. She makes her own windows, her own doors – she goes in and takes what she needs, deconstructing and reconstructing, learning whatever she needs to learn and doing whatever she finds necessary with that knowledge.
He pulls back, and she refuses to show her relief.
"Yes, we are pleased." she answers, her voice rich like honey. "It's a pleasure to have Beqanna's finest gathered here in our humble little kingdom." she says the last part with a wry smile and gentle humor, although she (and, she thinks, the kingdom) are anything but humble. "It's taking us time to start the mocks proper. Logistics are a nightmare with this big of a crowd." Humor colors her words again.
She debates turning around and leaving then. She debates turning tail and running away, asking her little band of Merry Men (and Women, to be fair) to dispose of Weir. She considers it, and not for the first time. But she rules it out, as she has so many times before. Her little band does an excellent job with so much of the work that she needs done, but she isn't quite sure they're ready for a task of this delicacy. Not only would an incursion into the Dale be too much of a risk, but even attacking him here is impossible; she won't allow any bloodshed during the mocks, it's simply too important that the Deserts make the event a rousing success. And generally speaking, deaths tend to put a damper on the entire thing.
Deaths, and being impolite. Which, unfortunately for her, she knows means talking to Weir. And being friendly. And potentially even being charming. "And how do you find the Deserts so far? The warmth grows on you, I promise." She can't help it – she is flirtatious by nature, and even when she's out of her element, even when she's hiding her magic, even when she's trying desperately to get away from him, she can't help but be who she is. She can't help how smooth her voice is. She can't help her wry humor. She can't help it, and it's going to get her in such a beautiful pickle.
CAMRYNN
co-queen of the deserts, magical, mother of badassery