The Games we Play

Re: The Games we Play

Postby Glenn » Tue Jan 02, 2018 2:18 am

He avoided intrigue. For the few who had known him before his move to Razasan, that had been the most curious part of it all. They expected him to meddle, to muck about, to dive into the Court with full abandon. They expected him to grab for power and prestige, to make a large footprint for the sake of ego and self-importance as much as anything else.

There had been none of that. Whatever its opposite was what he did. His professional position, garnered through skill as much as anything else, frustrated many but it was solely because he refused to use it to politic. Yes, he had to watch out for cutpurses and cutthroats but certainly less so than other people in the city. It meant that he was careful with whom he associated. It meant that his returned nods would be stilted. The perfumed lady would receive vague recognition from him but certainly no succor. The dwarf, who he might have been more inclined towards for friendship at least, received even less (maybe for that very reason).

Perfume. Tobacco. Oil. "You're just hellbent on bringing scents into my life aren't you? Not sense," he clarified because the two words sounded quite similar. "Scents. Smells. I don't even mean yours, which if I'm going to get closer to you, I'll be sure to encounter. I'm apt to lose a hand or tongue if I do, so maybe not quite yet." There. That was a suitable greeting for her. She said her hello. He said his. With those stakes placed down, he was comfortable to engage her words.

"Egris. Two syllables. You can make pet names more easily with two syllables. For my name you'd have to add something and it's easier to subtract than to add, less contrived. Eggie's more efficient than Glennie, for instance." She looked for steel. She held steel. She was, perhaps, steel, or cold iron at least. He was something else entirely and his weapon wasn't steel at all, but words of ink and inflection. Scents and sense aside, here he had held back. Had she expected him to press an advantage (and the fact he had been able to send the last letter had given him just that)? Was that what she would have done? Was this all a test to see? If so, what was the correct response? To attack or not? He chose not. "I'm sure you've flayed men for less."
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Re: The Games we Play

Postby Kestrel » Sat Jan 13, 2018 12:55 pm

Her eyes, previously caught upon the gleam of candlelight against her most trustworthy companion, darted up to catch upon his own with a certain weight that every single interaction with her seemed to carry. The corner of her mouth twitched slightly in her typical unflappable version of a genuine smile. "I am hellbent on a fair amount of tasks, all things considered, none of which includes bringing scents or sense into your dreary little life, Glenn," she retorted, with a certain barbed point to the end of each carefully crafted word.

Her smile was all daggers and conspiracy. Something he'd managed to actively avoid until now.

She listened quietly to his answer about her pet name, a single brow lofted elegantly on her forehead. Her eyes searched the planes of his face with a note of amusement under the slate gray of her eyes. Even her eyes were steel, like the dawn on a melancholy morning, clouds swollen with rain. The crimson of her tresses was like blood upon a blade. "You must promise to strike me down as soon as I deign to call you something as asinine as Glennie," she remarked with a sideways slant of her head.

That cupid's bow twitched again as she lowered her sword to her side. She bent at the waist and pulled her feet from the surface of his bed with a protesting creak from the wooden chair at the abrupt momentum. The Lady climbed to her feet with a grunt and a wince. There was a hidden injury there. Not overly surprising, given her career choice. A palm pressed against her ribs briefly before she was taking a few steps forward.

Her eyes glittered as she approached, eager for the complicated conflict he presented, but she merely extended a hand to shake in the end. If he relented and accepted her hand, her grip was firm and despite the personal touch to their relationship, it seemed like a habitual activity at best. "Glenn Burnie. How are you, then? Been a long time," she mused, with a flash of teeth, bowing just over his hand as if he were a very fine lady. She glanced up, her eyes flashing again over their joined hands with that typical sense of confrontation in her gaze. "I believe you promised me a dance, my dear," she mused.
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Re: The Games we Play

Postby Glenn » Mon Jan 15, 2018 5:03 am

Greetings were greetings. She made hers. He made his. As he watched and listened to her, the fact that she responded to his far more than he had responded to hers was dismissed not as some sort of affection or weak hand, but merely because she wished to say aloud the word hellbent. There were less opportunities to do so than one might think and it simply rolled off the tongue. Instead, the moved on.

As for her smile, he'd known his share of daggers and conspiracies. He had the wounds to show for it, both upon his skin and in his heart.

When he spoke again, his response was as much for her smile as for her words. "See, that opens a dangerous door," there the temptation to call her Eggie again was high. Three years ago, he would have done it. Now, though, he was warier of sending signals that might be construed or misconstrued; either would be bad. "I imagine you do asinine things all the time. I'm happy to be a positive force in your life, Egris," full name, "but I can't hardly follow you around ready to strike at your every misstep. Who has that sort of time? Not even a recluse exile."

Her dramatic flourish, misgendered, wounded, and stilted as it was, still could be appreciated. He was a man of letters, more often than not, letters and Gloria Wynsee's bad table manners. It meant that he didn't experience such things much these days, when they used to be a routine part of his life. He gave her his hand. He took her offer seriously. "Songs or swords, Egris. Your wound becomes an issue for either. If it's the former, I'll make your feet match your side. If it's the latter, you can't win; either I best you because of your injury or you win anyway and I let everyone know I was going easy on you because of it. You're better off having your feet trod upon, no?" His delivery was deadpan. In this moment, a moment which didn't matter at all, he'd be cold iron. How might she respond to that?
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Re: The Games we Play

Postby Kestrel » Sun Jan 28, 2018 8:24 am

His caution in the face of her daring was noted thoughtfully, showing on the expression on her face. How unlike the man she had once known. There had been a time when he revisited her boldness tenfold; perhaps one of his best qualities in her thinking. But the years had stretched on and consequences had been realized. He seemed to have gained the wisdom she continued to spurn. Indeed, that was a lesson that she would probably never learn.

"Dangerous door? What have you to fear from an old friend?" Now, the word friend was a strong one, given the convoluted nature of the relationship they shared. Theirs was a connection forged out of something far closer to antagonism, truth be told. Still, for two people who could claim an accord with a group of very limited people, they were probably as close to friends as one could get.

"In all honesty, I try to keep the asinine as far as possible from my general day to day. You must bring it out in everyone you meet."

When he posed that choice, she laughed aloud at his threat to her feet. "Mayhaps I should put my armor back on then. Both songs and swords might well require it, for all the lack of talent you have in both of those. Perhaps I'll make my choice over dinner," she mused. "We've been traveling all day and I'm famished." She withdrew from him a few steps, crossing the room towards the door to his home, drawing back the lock, and throwing it open. She took the two plates, secured from the tavern a few streets away, and passed answering coin to the man standing there in exchange. "Wine?" she half-asked as she set the plates upon the no doubt cluttered surface of his table. Failing that, the nearest semi-stable surface would do.

"How have things been?," she hazarded, glancing over her shoulder towards him, hoping very much that he was procuring wine for the two of them. "My days have been boring, I'm afraid." Though, her injury refuted that.
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Re: The Games we Play

Postby Glenn » Wed Jan 31, 2018 6:55 am

"What do I have to fear?" He seemed a bit taken aback by that, or at least feigned it. There was a long slow blink, a rubbing of his eyes as if trying to bring her into focus. "Oh, from you? Well, mainly a disruption to my schedule. I have some books to rearrange, and then I could sort my supply of inks, and there's always inventory. What should I file you under? Princess? Swordswoman? Malcontent? Thrill seeker?"

She asked a question though, another question, another question that wasn't a question at all, which seemed to be all she asked him, especially in answer to his far more probing questions, the sort of which he'd never ask her a few years before. Then, it was all about providing an answer, that answer being Myrken. None of the questions mattered, so long as the answer was Myrken. Now, things were very different indeed. Were he not so broad about it all, it'd likely be too late, her answers to him forever poisoned by his previous single-mindedness. Now, though? Well, now he dared ask what no one else did. He always had, of course, but back before he knew her, it was about practicalities. Now it was the abstract. Surely, that was a sign of getting older if not wiser.

"I do. Because they all possess it. Everyone does. The lies we tell ourselves. The truths we avoid. If I talk long enough, I end up hammering at the first and unveiling the second. There's nothing more asinine than someone who refuses to see what's so clearly in front of them." Was that about him? About her? About people in general?

She went to his door. He watched her skeptically. She returned with food. He seemed all the more skeptical. "How long have those been there? What if I decided I wanted nothing to do with you, or if I poked you repeatedly in your wound? You would have tried to make a dramatic exit and would have stumbled right into him." He shook his head at her, waggled a finger (the same one he would have poked with, theoretically) and added. "Always plan for an escape."
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Re: The Games we Play

Postby Kestrel » Fri Mar 09, 2018 2:12 pm

Her eyes, bright and shining, rolled in response to his comments about the amplitude of tasks he had assigned himself for the night. Tasks that she was clearly interrupting. "Ah, well. You're welcome for that," she remarked, in typical pointed fashion. His questions as to her nature made a single shoulder lift in reply. "Bit of all of those, I'd imagine. Though princess is a stretch," she admitted, a careless wave of her hand over her shoulder. The Lady in front of him was far too complicated to be filed away under any one thing.

When his remarks turned more thoughtful in nature, she paused and took a moment to really take him in. Her expression, her eyes gleamed with something close to startled affection. She crossed her arms over her chest and leaned back slightly to get a good look at him. "Aha, that is the sort of pointed, but mysterious comment I would expect of you. There are, of course, far too many subjects you could be surmising about - some more interesting than others - and yet, you'll keep that morsel of knowledge to yourself, won't you?"

When she procured their meal and he stared at her with that vague sort of mistrust, she grinned in response as the plates settled against the wooden surface of his table. With an indifference that befitted her station, she cast herself into one of the nearby chairs, only belatedly recalling her injury. A hand darted to the wound and she hissed air in between clenched teeth. Her casual air was left somewhat ruined in the wake of that brief agony, but she soon recovered enough to wink at the man who still stood halfway across the room frowning at her.

"I suppose this is just something I must keep to myself, in true Burnie fashion. I am to soon become one, you see." Though their supposed marriage, of course. "Perhaps I had a signal that meant the bearer of the plates was to vanish into a nearby alley and eat our meal himself. Or perhaps I know you enough to realize that you're both altruistic and inquisitive enough to just continue letting me blather on about mostly nothing while avoiding your pointed questions in search of the truth," she admitted. That cheeky smile was back on her features, her eyes glimmering at him in that manner she had once been told was quite bewitching.

Her hand rose to gesture generously to the seat across from her own. "One does not fold if one already can guess the cards of her opponent. Do sit, else it will get quite cold," she chided. Her own index finger rose to point back towards him. "But not without wine."

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Re: The Games we Play

Postby Glenn » Sat Mar 10, 2018 2:17 am

For two creatures so often at odds, so diametrically created, with different backgrounds and interests and even joys in life, they had their similarities as well. In this moment, for instance, both of them seemed to be taking the other one in, as if for the first time. She had such alacrity to her right now, more an electricity than an energy, as if she was possessed by some fell spirit. He was cooler, more resigned and reserved. If they danced, she led and he calmly reacted. If they fenced, she was on the offense and he seemed barely willing to mount more than a defense.

"Princess is a stretch," he agreed. See, they could agree about something.

He had veiled and mysterious comments but she was an onslaught, threatening to overwhelm him with pure stimulus. At one time, he received such things with some frequency. There was a bustle to his old life, a constant chaos (and excitement). That was gone now and it was a point as vulnerable as her wound was to her.

"I assume the wound was unfairly given?" this said with an unmissable threat of disappointment if her answer would be anything else.

Then, of course, she went into the realm of the absurd (once again). The look in her eyes did less than the smile, and the fact she was smiling in the first place, did, though part of that was the nature of how her face so often looked. Humans were so often moved by the dissonance between their expectations and an unexpected reality, after all.

He snorted. "Still on about the wedding." This is the point that yes, he started to move towards the win. "Even if you want to make an (increasingly) old maid's rebellion against your family's norms and traditions and political desires, there has to be a bare minimum. I've seen the paperwork. That's what I do. I see paperwork. The second I was no longer governor, the union was voided. It takes a certain level of social value to marry even the most stretched princess. Anyway, you wouldn't have been a Burnie. I probably would have had to take your name. Maybe we'll find out next time I rise to a position of power."

Yes, at that point, he did go for the wine. It was a few sentences overdue, actually. "Don't tell me you're here to motivate me to do just that?"
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Re: The Games we Play

Postby Kestrel » Tue Mar 13, 2018 4:02 am

Oh and how The Kestrel loved to lead; in combat, in dancing, in conversation and in life.

His acknowledgment of the wound to her ribs was noted, the promise of displeasure was observed. Her lips thinned for but a moment before the corners twisted upward, fingertips pressing against the abrasion in remembrance before withdrawing as if burned by the touch. "I suppose that would depend upon who one questioned about the injury," she commented dryly. "Given that I am the one standing here, my story is the only one you have, I suppose," she mused, her tone shifting into something a little more somber underneath the amusement. "Suffice to say that I took a tumble and came out the victor."

It seems the injury was something of a sensitive subject, given the way she was dancing around the topic. Four steps to his two. Parry and thrust. Secrets and omissions.

He wouldn't be Glenn Burnie if he didn't use his words to cut her to the core. Her rapier was dull in comparison to his oft-silver tongue. Her physical wound was nothing to the mortal laceration of his logic against the deceptive illusion she'd crafted for the two of them. And true to the fiber of her own making, the joviality vanished from her features as she went on the defensive. Something more practiced and hollow replaced that expression, her eyes abrupted chilled from their former smoldering state.

She shifted to glance down at her side, to her knuckles turned white from her grasp on the arms of her chair. Practical as ever, she released her grasp because it gave far too much away. It let him know that he had landed a blow. When next she met his eyes, he had the wine and her pupils were blown wide, chasms to fall into if he weren't wary, fly to her spider. Her smile was thin and unwelcoming in response to his question. "No, I'm afraid I am just here for a little conversation with an old acquaintance." The brittle words she offered sounded flat even to her own ears. A clumsy parry, perhaps.

And while the solid truth of his words might have revealed the farce she had painted and his unwillingness to play the part, there was something deeper. Glenn was a passing fancy, a distraction from her real purpose in Razasan, but he was as unlikely to learn the truth as she was here because she actually enjoyed his company.

"You've no use to me at all anymore, Glenn," she responded quietly, waving for him to pour the wine.

Harsh, perhaps, but honest.

Honesty cut the deepest, though.
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Re: The Games we Play

Postby Glenn » Tue Mar 13, 2018 11:51 pm

That was the problem in leading. You had control. You had drive. You created the waves that rippled through life itself. It also meant that you showed your hand first and left yourself vulnerable for a response. That could lead to all sorts of wounds, physical and otherwise. Was the spider the one who flew this way and that or was the spider the one who waited for the other to make the first move?

In truth, he wasn't much of a spider at all these days. Reactive as he may have been, it was without purpose, save for the self-consuming drive to restore himself to a place where he might have purpose once again. It was navel-gazing at best. Some motivation might not have been a bad thing, but she had denied it. More than that, however, she had denied him. Despite all that, he was not afraid of her gaze. He met it. There would be no falling from Glenn Burnie. There were other things however, slight concern, slight curiosity, resignment, maybe some of that shared affection as well, enough that it would be hard to pull it all apart and examine one piece from the next. It was an all too human gaze which meant it was all too complicated. There was no simplicity of the battlefield here.

"That's hardly true," for she had provided a sort of honesty and he had denied it outright. The wine did not travel to his lips. It stayed steady, the liquid not given the freedom to slosh or waver in the least. These were busy lips, with a thousand words behind them. It was a small mercy that when he spoke, so few actually came. "I'm like nothing else in your life. I look at you like no one else, with no desire to use you for your position or to bow to your power. My opinions are honest, guileless, as dangerous to myself as they would be helpful to you. That you see no need for me in your life shows the exact lack of imagination that I would help to counterbalance."

And here came the wine's purpose. Small mercies were only merciful if they were allowed to blossom into existence. The sip of the wine drowned out whatever the next four paragraphs of his speech might have been and allowed him to end it then and there.
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Re: The Games we Play

Postby Kestrel » Tue Mar 20, 2018 3:57 am

Like a child sleepily banishing the last of the wisps of their mind's illusion from its eyes, the stark reality of their interaction revealed itself. This conversation, this visit, and their letters were all her response to avoiding a certain responsibility that had yet to reveal itself to him.

In reply to his intrusive exposure of her cushioned vulnerabilities, he was treated to a glimpse of what she might have been like as a child; her background as a spoiled wealthy socialite used to getting her way. Her haughty, sullen expression was fairly dripping with childish indignation, leveled upon him when he spoke, surprisingly briefly, about what value he brought to her life.

Despite all of the muted political intrigue that was their time together in Myrken, they had something of an affinity towards one another. Then, she was struggling to find her place in the world and he saw an ally for the town he loved more than himself. The fact that they had used one another to great effect was softened by the growing bond between them. It had been what Egris considered a mutually beneficial friendship. Abruptly, that had been ended through circumstances beyond her control. Now, now they were circling one another in effort to piece together some semblance of their past interaction.

His implication that he was valuable to her because he saw her as a benign force made her narrow her eyes to squint at him. She watched as he swallowed down the ruby liquid from his glass before she lifted her own. A healthy sip as she cast her gaze towards the door as if weighing her options. Perhaps surprising, when she spoke it was in a far more gentle tone than her expression foretold. "I would argue that you overstate the importance of having one as you describe in my corner. Honesty is only useful if something comes of it. You, Glenn Burnie, pick apart every crumb of every interaction afforded to you. You find me wanting in each aspect and are not overly shy, nor polite, about sharing your opinions on the matter," she remarked, stretching out in her chair as if wholly comfortable in her own skin. Discomfort was inherent in her life and she was at home here. "You act as if I do not have every single member of my royal family lining up to do just that at length. I stomach their opinions because of what they can gain my cause." Namely time with her military company away from the trappings of wealth and position her birth afforded her.

"You once offered me companionship, an ally, and the illusion of a marriage my family could stomach. Now, you hold none of those cards and still preach your advantage." Her stare across the table was penetrating, but it soon fell to her plate. There was that attempt at being gentle again. Her hand lifted with her cutlery, seeking to spear a bite to pass between her lips. When she finished chewing, her gaze lifted again and, this time, he would find it far more comfortable as it settled.

"I've come to formally negate our contract, I'm sure you're relieved to hear."

As always, there was far more left unsaid.
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Re: The Games we Play

Postby Glenn » Wed Mar 21, 2018 12:00 am

She was never treated to what he might have been like. No one was. If you listened to him long enough, you'd hear that story, and he'd claim that he never was a child. That wasn't entirely true. There was a moment, far later than it ought to have been, a moment of freedom. It had cost him dearly. Even then, that had not led him here, not truly. It had only led him to Myrken and it was Myrken that led him here.

"I'm sure you would." Argue, that was. There were few ways to get to Glenn Burnie now, after the loss of everything, and she had chosen one. Or perhaps he had. It meant he sipped at the wine with slightly more vigor. She could take that however she wanted. She would anyway, after that. "You did. You just did. You're wrong." How often did she hear those words in a practical sense? Did anyone other than her own family dare say them? Did anyone other than her family dare say them twice? How many times had he so far?

Still, despite all that, there was a hint of a smile on his face. "And I know what you're thinking just now behind that tempestuous gaze," knowing how that sounded, how much of a leading phrase it was, "that me calling you wrong proves you right. It doesn't. You're wrong about what I think you're wrong about. I don't look to pick you apart. I look to pull you together. Sometimes you have to pick at the stubborn a bit first to do that. Work out the knots, the kinks." Was he looking to get punched? Would that be easier for both of them? If not that, then what?

"I'm not them. They all want something. Sometimes they want something tangible, a move on a chessboard. Sometimes they want something internal, to feel better about themselves for an act of kindness. Sometimes they want something external, for you to act in a way that doesn't embarrass them. To hell with them. I'm not them. What do I want?" Once upon a time, this speech would be assisted by the tapping of a cane. Here though? As if expecting that punch, he was still, steady, almost coiled. Even the wine didn't move in the glass in his hand. "Because I have to want something. If I don't want anything, I'm not any use to you either, because I'm all but dead. I'm not playing chess though, not now. I lost. Maybe I'll play another game someday but not yet. Helping you doesn't make me feel better. Not much does. There's a reason this is my first wine in a long time. You should be honored. You certainly don't embarrass me. I embarrass you more than you embarrass me."

It was about fifteen words too late, but he chose to sip at the wine again here. His brain had caught up with his mouth (thought they worked very closely as always) and he partially regretted the structure of his sentences. It meant the sip was slightly ill-timed. That just made it linger a moment longer. "I am fond of you. Circumstance has left you alone in this world. Forever surrounded by those who would use you, those who would serve you, those who would fear you. Always alone. There's a light to you, a glow. People bask in it without taking the time to try to understand it. The think its the simplest thing in the world when it's anything but." Steady again, for this was an intellectual appeal, not an emotional one. There was a danger in that, but she'd driven him to it. "It scares them, or embarrasses them, or horrifies them. Not me. Betrothed or not, I want to understand it. I want you to better understand it. I want to help it glow brighter and stronger. On bad days, because I have bad days I probably want it to consume the world, but I can constrain that impulse."

Then, and only then, he would look away. He took one last sip. "Them. To hell with them. I'm not them. I'm me and you need me, even from afar." For all of his bluster, for the daring of his words (and the distance, the separation, what he did NOT make this about when it would have been so easy and probably far more effective), he did not make eye contact now. "And I probably need you too, your distant stare, your regard, your expectations, your realism and reality. Just not on their terms. Not for them. Not against them." With some effort he managed to look back at her. If she hadn't thrown a punch at him (or a bottle) or left, if she was looking his way and had not recoiled, she'd find his gaze a steady thing once more. Whatever proposition he was making, it was not a creature of politics nor of flesh. It was neither base nor sublime. It simply was what it was.
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Re: The Games we Play

Postby Kestrel » Fri Mar 23, 2018 2:26 pm

Of course, she would take the exuberant sip of his wine as a small victory. How could she not? Still, it did not brighten her countenance.

In response to his assertive, and repeated, claim that she was wrong in her assumptions about him, she allowed that practiced steely calm that made her a truly excellent commander to center around her; a single brow arched upwards in silent commentary at what she clearly considered an outburst. What was it about the way she stared down her nose at a man that made one feel quite so young? He insisted that he attempted to craft her into something greater, something more beautiful and stronger than she was now. He demanded her to fathom what it was that he might want from her, coiled in his seat as if he knew the foolishness of prodding such a dangerous creature.

A fist rose, not to strike him as he might expect, but instead slammed down on the flat surface of the table as he spoke of honor. The plates shuddered and the wine glass threatened to spill over entirely as an eerily quiet Kestrel closed her eyes with a pinched expression and tilted her head as if listening to some inner monologue warning her against rash actions. Perhaps she was imagining in vivid detail how she might loft her sword and visit violence upon this genuinely infuriating man in front of her.

Whatever storm was brewing in her mind, it echoed in her astonishingly blue eyes as her gaze settled unnervingly upon him again. Any amusement at her expense in his own eyes would earn further ire. "What might you want from me? I cannot be certain, but I suspect I am nothing more than a distraction from the tedium of your own days." The formidable woman hefted herself out of her chair and paced across the room and back like a caged creature.

"I must thank you for the offer to craft me into something better, which you seem to feel is beyond my own means," her words were laced with a thick poison of sarcasm and something incredulous. "Out of the goodness of your heart, I imagine." Her palm pressed against her own heart and her digits trembled in anger. "I am not a project for you, Burnie. I do not want, nor need your magnanimous help." Her smile was strained, but at least she wasn't storming out. At least not yet.

Her own glass of wine was fetched suddenly and the entire contents drained in several gulps, the elegant column of her throat working as she did so. She replaced her glass nimbly on the table before pressing her knuckles against the table and lowering her head, her anger spent as suddenly as it had appeared. "Gods above, Glenn Burnie, how do you manage to stroke the flames of my fury when better men cannot?," she heaved a sigh, her glance towards him both annoyed and beguiled.

She eased down in that seat once more, her eyes on the roof above their heads. Her posture was casual, but he knew what lay beneath that practiced calm. Her head rolled towards him. "I still stand by my conviction that you've no use at all to me, though."

To say that she was surprised, and charmed, as he spoke of her more appealing characteristics, was a distinct understatement. Still, her eyes were narrowed, all the same, waiting for the other shoe to drop. "...And just what are you suggesting?," she finally asked warily as she bent at the waist and settled her elbows on her knees. She doubted that he was offering anything concrete; perhaps he just wanted the letters to continue. Glenn was prone to thinking in far too diminutive terms for her tastes. She narrowly avoided offering her own thoughts on the matter, given her penchant for leading.
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Re: The Games we Play

Postby Glenn » Thu Mar 29, 2018 3:24 am

They both drew unsatisfying satisfaction in their own way. For her, it was the sip of the wine. For him it was the fist upon the table. What else could either feel but satisfaction from such forced concessions? Concessions though they may be, they could not serve as reparations. They did not repair any broken part in one or the other. They did not fill any hole that either possessed. They were small, petty things that left one hungry for more, far more.

She paced away from him and back again. If she was trapped, then it was in a cage of his making, either through his words to her or simply the environment he had exiled himself to over the last few years. "Do I look for distraction?" It was an honest question and he treated it as such. "I turned my gaze inwards for a time, a year." Could she imagine that? An entire year of introspection. It seemed like a blur now, even if it had served its purpose. "Then I began to look outwards once again." Yet he did not look to her, did he? The letter came from her to him. "Do you know that you were the only one who came looking for me?" Glenn was not one to show his emotions either, yet this took him by surprise, as if he hadn't noticed the distinction before.

He laughed. It wasn't the daring sort that she'd seen back in Myrken, one meant to prod and provoke, one meant to draw a punch that pulled someone off balance. This was a warmer, surprised thing. "Look at what you're asking me, Egris. What might I want and what am I suggesting? Why might I do this? Why do I make you feel that?" He shook his head. He rose. He stared her down with a conviction that was both pointed and infuriatingly vague.

"What was I suggesting? Good question," a soft shake of his head, not at all a shoe dropping. "And unimportant in this moment, because you've driven this. You found me. You wrote me. You came here." She was leading. There was a power to that and a cost to it, and he, with opened eyes, was ready to cash in on that debt. "I am suggesting that you tell me what you want. If you wanted a petty game of betrothal, a distraction from your own existential tedium that you refuse to even admit you possess, well, then you're are truly disappointed. I'm many things but none of them are your toy." Then, with a slight pause as he though it through, "And, I'm only your playmate if we have someone else to play against, I think."

It seemed for the briefest moment as if he might say more, but instead he did the hardest thing possible for Glenn Burnie to ever do, he kept his mouth shut. Both of them had tried to turn it onto the other, even against their truest nature, but in the end, it was he who had the moral high ground.
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Re: The Games we Play

Postby Kestrel » Sun Apr 01, 2018 2:26 pm

They fought their fierce battle of wills, the paltry signs of their humanity, unscripted, were points scored upon the hide of the other. For two people who had almost entirely forgotten how to allow anyone close enough to glimpse their true selves, these were a testament to the other's weakness. Or perhaps their own strength.

She paced within the confines of the shackles he had crafted. When he suddenly realized that she had been the only one to come looking for him instead of the reverse, the Lady grew very still. The fury of the last few moments vanished and she grew very still and very quiet. The woman, most of her height in the strength of her character, stared back at the man incredulous with the realization of the misleading relationship she had built. Painstakingly, she had crafted a story and he had fallen into his given role without question. Now, he wondered how he could have been so foolish.

Always unflappable, the noblewoman lifted her gaze from the penetrating nature of his own to settle upon her almost-full wine glass. With a hand steady with practice, she reached out to claim a swallow. Perhaps it was an attempt to gather her thoughts or she just wanted to watch him crow righteously in his self-satisfaction. Pride goeth and all that. Or so she could hope.

With a soft clearing of her throat, she would lift her frame nimbly from the chair without so much as a noise of its limbs against the floor. There was, of course, that faint flicker of pain from her injury as she did so. One step forward and then another, the woman advancing in her attack until she was far too close, in his space. Her eyes, glacial pools of mirth, were hiding everything; and nothing. One corner of her mouth slanted upwards, twitching as if pulled by an unseen thread. "You are correct; you are not my plaything. Not any longer. You've lost your touch, I'm afraid." A gloved hand rose, seeking to lightly press at his cheek, far more gentle than he probably expected her capable.

If she managed to lay hands upon him, she would withdraw quickly almost as if burned. "I did come to formally withdraw my offer of marriage if it is any consolation," she admitted softly. "And I did honestly miss the combat of our former relationship. I feel like it was never quite fully realized. There was no closure." She turned, pulling away to collect a bite of her food from her plate with her fingertips again, chewing thoughtfully. "I could see something in our partnership. Something stronger than either of us. How disappointing it was never even close to being realized."

"How sad for me that I had to reach out to you instead of the opposite. How sad for you that no one else thought to."

She let that linger, watching his features. Her eyes were surprisingly gentle.
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Re: The Games we Play

Postby Glenn » Thu Apr 05, 2018 12:05 am

Did he wonder how he'd been so foolish? There was a time where he was so rarely foolish at all. He was a creature of the written word these days, though. He exiled himself, yes, but that was different than isolating himself. He did that as well. It put him at a disadvantage. She had her wound and it slowed down her motion. His own wounds of the heart hampered this sort of in-person interaction. Hers would almost certainly heal. Would his? What damage might be done before they did? He was only human, and a damaged one at that. The path of least resistance was a pleasant enough thing, one full of banter and a brushing up of personalities, an enjoyable friction that made the world feel less cold. He had gone along with it for as long as he could.

Then it was over and she had grown cold (colder for her warmth was balmy at best). "I never said plaything. I said toy or playmate. Words matter, Egris." And here he had his word on the matter, though it was a cost, for it came right as she touched his cheek. Sometimes, a fencer might allow a touch if it was to earn him two more in return. He was many things (or no things at all depending on how one judged) and that may have been one.

She spoke of their partnership. When she stared him dead on, he was not afraid to meet her gaze. Now his gaze continued to linger. Their partnership had ended unformed as if it had never truly begun. It was him desperately grasping even as the walls closed in upon him. It was her balancing amusement and opportunity with all the freedom in the world and absolutely none at all. If he had been stronger, more resolute, then perhaps they could have truly made something of it. If she had been more compassionate, more understanding, more aware of what had happened to him, perhaps she could have bridged the gap.

Instead, here they were now. "Life can be sad. We've yet to conquer death. One can argue that we've not conquered life either. I've always felt that at least one or the other would be necessary to make life less sad or more fair or something along those lines. Thus, I overreached. You saw the results of that."
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