Old Sand and Bootblack

Old Sand and Bootblack

Postby Rance » Fri Jul 10, 2015 11:08 am

With the chin-strings of her bonnet newly waxed and most of the knots scraped out of her hair, Gloria Wynsee fancies herself quite presentable. Of course, in her estimation, there are kinder women, smarter women, more graceful women; there are women with more teeth than her, with fewer pockmarks on their faces and certainly ones with more hands than her. There are women with finer manners than her, women bearing less regrets and more lofty ambitions; they've cleaner dresses, finer homes, more books! And why Dejicere — a young man with shining boots and angled ears, a Jerno — extends his courtesies to her leaves her wondering—

—but as she lingers in front of the portal to his apartment in the Broken Dagger, with her lone fist nervously winding itself in and out of her soot-stained apron, she doesn't think it too fruitful to linger on the whys.

Nervous sweat beads on her palm. She obliviously wipes the black droplets on the kirtle of her skirts, then knocks the backs of her knuckles against the frame of his door.

It's night. It's late. Perhaps he's sleeping; perhaps he's dancing through fields of thought and philosophy and anatomy-study and doesn't want to be disturbed. Perhaps—

"Dejicere," Gloria murmurs into the door, crushing her cheek and nose against the wood. "Are you still awake? I certainly don't want to disturb you, but — but I confess: I've had a dash of wine. Derry Red. Have you had it? It was Glenn Burnie's favorite, too, but to the Veldt with that disingenuous man; I've claimed the taste as mine, and..." Find a point, Glour'eya. Smart boys don't waste their time with babbling girls! "And as I said," she recounts, "I've had a pinch of wine, and — and I thought you might like to sing again, if the mood strikes you. Or perhaps read. Or simply talk.

"So may I come in?"
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Re: Old Sand and Bootblack

Postby Dejicide » Sat Jul 11, 2015 1:42 am

It was night. It was late. Dejicere needed no excuses to hide himself away in his room during these hours and was often up enjoying the solitude and quiet while his nose was buried in a book. This night was no different as he sat at his desk and flipped through pages with thin, dark fingers. There were no candles to light the room but a dim glow that hung over his shoulder to aid in his reading: a simple cantrip that he had begun taking for granted. The room itself was in mild disarray, what wardrobe he owned was casually strewn about an unmade bed aside from the silk tunic he wore that day to work which was hung over the back of his chair. There was little organization to be had outside of a stack of two tomes that sat at the edge of his desk and a small stack of papers atop it weighed down with a sagging, nearly empty pouch. It was kept reasonably clean; however, there was a significant difference in clutter and dirt that he recognized.

The quiet was interrupted not by knocking and words but by quiet footsteps outside his door that lingered. He immediately assumed who was there and certainly would have been caught off guard if wrong: his deductions were absolute in his mind and very little would make him think otherwise: even errors. Gray eyes fell on the crack between the door and floor as he considered not the possibilities that brought her at this hour but more-so why she trusted him enough to do so. That was a short enough train of thought. He was like her, a welcome outcast from a hellish land of sun and sand. That and he hadn't been completely honest about why he was exiled, she did not know the burden he carried with him or the anger he wielded towards those responsible including himself. There was more guilt about how he had initially treated her than what he had done to others simply because of how she treated him. Immediate acceptance and with more grace than anyone had ever shown him.

Gloria would not be turned away. Not without reason, not without a grand reason that would make him ill.

Before she touched the door the dark-skinned half-breed had already pulled his silken tunic over his head and was taking quiet steps to the door. What he did not expect were the words that came through the door, she had been drinking and was looking for an excuse for company. A few of the things that they had in common were mentioned but they were all unnecessary. Dejicere did not seek out the company of others but he was more that happy to share his with her regardless the reason. A smirk came across his lips at the entirety of her words and he couldn't help but wonder just how much she had to drink and was flattered if the alcohol was premeditated for the courage to come for a visit. And so he would turn the handle of his door, slowly creaking it open so that he might offer her that smile she complimented him on.

"Gloria: yer welcome any time for any reason as ye offered me the same," he offered quietly in respect for the hour. He would step aside and gesture with an arm for her to come inside. "Please, come in." He had indeed forgot about that little light over his shoulder, taking things for granted would do that. The room smelled of ozone, a strange clean scent that didn't seem to belong.
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Re: Old Sand and Bootblack

Postby Rance » Sat Jul 11, 2015 3:04 am

He opens the door. She squints through the cloying light, her brown complexion suddenly bright as the pale radiance falls across her. She lifts her left arm, the handless stump and its knotted sleeve guarding her eyes from the wisp hovering over his shoulder.

"The difference is," Gloria ventures, "I wouldn't blind you at the opening of the door!"

At first, she mistakes the speck of light for a candle across the way. But realization soon dawns on her: no, it's a well-tamed lightning-bug, an unlikely compatriot enchanted to give off a greater spray of luminescence. Even that theory dissolves quickly; it neither flits nor dances nor pulses like an impatient insect, but stays stationary. The air doesn't reek of mildewy bookdust or the sharp, delectable sulfur of Jernoan sweat; rather, the air is so crisp and easy to breathe, like whole pockets of stagnant summer — those that so easily locked themselves away in unopen rooms — had been pushed away to allow for a something to be plucked out from the nothingness in between—

Unafraid, curious, and bolstered with a wine-borne boldness, Gloria reaches out to try to touch the mote of light. "Magic?" she asks, and cannot help but feel like a child at the inquiry: she's mundane enough that magic is an entity reserved for children's tales, for H'zlz ar G'leuse.

You've seen what talents such as these can do in the wrong hands.

She withdraws her hand. Skirts flare and swirl as she bounds into his room, a storm of patchwork around her boots. Thankfully, she doesn't reek of wine; the girl's not so much drunk as she is warmly numb. A corked decanter bulges in her satchel. Sloshing. Half-full of Derry Red.

"I dreamed about you," the girl tells him. "An — an awful place, but you weren't awful. You called fire out of nothing and destroyed a thing which ought to have been destroyed."

She swallows.

"Did you dream it too?"
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Re: Old Sand and Bootblack

Postby Dejicide » Sun Jul 12, 2015 1:16 am

Instinct was to force the light out of existence. Not because he had been caught using the magic but because it was thoughtless of him to have greeted her with a thorough blinding. There were a multitude of quiet, awkward apologies instead of the words that would dispel the light just before she reached out to be curious. The soft glow gave slightly at the touch, the indention of her finger remaining in the globe that left a streak of shadow towards the doorway that she came from and that he would close behind her. Dejicere watched with grey eyes as she did this, as curious of her reaction as she was of the little mote of light: he could have down played it if she was fearful or abhorrent of the energized mana there but much to his relief the wonder was not replaced by either of those things. He did not have to feel like lying was necessary or that irrational thoughts were needed. A thin smile and a subtle bow of his head was the response to the question she felt was childish; however, he didn't see it as so: sometimes things were so obvious they needed to be rhetorically questioned.

Gloria could have inquired further and he would most likely have been honest with her but instead she would let it go and eased away any worried he had by entering in such a carefree manner. He watched appreciatively while fingers moved to carry the curtain of his black hair away from his face to behind his features of most self-conscienceness. He was comfortable in her company and thankful for the demeanor she carried with her so there was no reason to hide. In fact that attitude seemed infectious enough that the usually reserved and withdrawn young man stepped forward to take her hand, ever-aware and unbothered by the fact there was only one option there to take, as she turned to face him and speak of the dream. It was far more than a dream to him: a nightmare that left him waking in that black sweat he took some effort in avoiding.

He had burned but that wasn't that what had troubled him so: he had lost control of the situation and relied upon the chaos of the situation to find a resolution. He was excited by the chaos he was able to produce, he enjoyed the crumbling and flames around him. Others were nonplussed and effected greatly by his actions and he enjoyed that kind of power and impact on others. He knew it was awful while she told him that he wasn't and the contradiction worried him that he might be misrepresenting himself to she who treated him far better than he deserved. He considered if she would still do so if she knew and for once, perhaps a step in the right direction or a step back to where he came from he would move closer to Gloria, eyes cast down at the hemming of her skirts as moved to admit, "I dream't it, I did, and I remember it well. I dinnae think my motives were as ye describe, though. They were of defiance, rebellion, and destruction. I didn't do it to save."

He had spoke quietly and after a long moment his eyes would lift to her features, concerned with the reaction she might have after them. "I'm afraid ye may think too highly of me, Gloria, and it both worries and empowers." By now she would understand that he cared little about her askew features, missing digits, aversion to cleanliness. Much of that was not unusual to him and what she had offered was the possibility of trust and a human connection that was alien to him and would have scoffed at the notion of wanting such just a week or two ago. He would give her the honesty he vowed himself to give her and if she wouldn't hear it then a lesson would be learned. Naive as she was to blindly open herself up to him it made such an impact that he felt she deserved to know.
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Re: Old Sand and Bootblack

Postby Rance » Sun Jul 12, 2015 2:09 am

He takes her hand, his five agile fingers cradling her four pudgy ones. The stub of her ringfinger never makes contact with his skin, but its phantom does: the artifice of her nerves casts a convincing mimicry.

I dream't it, I did, and I remember it well. I dinnae think my motives were as ye describe, though. They were of defiance, rebellion, and destruction. I didn't do it to save.

He draws closer, enough that she feels tiny and insignificant; his eyes fall to the mud-browned hem of her skirts, and hers travel likewise to his face. The Sun-tanned skin — like mine, she thinks — and the Sun-bleached iron of his eyes — like mine — and the coastline where his forehead gives way to sprigs of too-black hair — like mine — all quietly enchant and confuse her. Shouldn't she hate him, hate him, because he's a Jerno? Shouldn't she spit upon him, pummel him, bloody him, dislodge his teeth? But the thought never crosses her mind. All she wants is to polish his boots until her spine aches. She wants to turn the pages in his books. Grow new fingers so she could work a bounty of beautiful embroidery into his cuffs. Scrape the sand out of his hair.

"Defiance, rebellion, and destruction," she repeats. "Our dreaming-selves aren't the same as our waking ones. Regardless of why you summoned that fire, you did, and — and you sought to destroy a vile beast with it. You cared; I saw you, and you cared.

"But don't question how highly I think of you here in this place. I see the Dejicere I believe in, not the one you presume I should see. On my part, it's just as much defiance and rebellion: I see your skin and I want nothing more than to please you, to do as you instruct. A Jerno woman does for any male like her what best suits him. She is nothing," she mutters, a kneejerk recitation of Odos laws, things she'd been forced by sand and rubberwood to memorize, "and he's everything: whether husband, brother, father, or mere associate. Man is woman's commander; she lives by his kindness alone."

But anymore, the words have the texture of broken glass. Saliva pools in her mouth. She turns her head and spits onto the floor. A bootheel grinds it into the wood, ridding herself of the taste. Of old ways.

"I think highly of you because you've done nothing but think highly of me. Few care to extend even that much courtesy."

Her hand separates from his. The digits tremble. She lifts it to pat it carefully against his cheek, trying to lift his focus to her.

"Tell me truthfully: should I think less of you, Dejicere?"
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Re: Old Sand and Bootblack

Postby Dejicide » Sun Jul 12, 2015 4:52 am

Perhaps she saw something in him he didn't see or he was being as hyper critical of himself as usual. He strove to be absolute and when he questioned his values and motives he felt wrong, weak, and struggled to overcome it. This was one of those moments and then it was not: someone else was with him telling him he was mistaken, showing their point of view and he wanted to listen and respect the words for once. It would be a point of view he would welcome if along the way it was true or at least could be so.

She released his hand after speaking the words he had always dreaded to hear and understood early in his life how askew that kind of thinking was. For just a moment his dark brow furrowed and he began to speak and interrupt her. He would reject such company if it was based upon those ways: a decrepit tradition based on the insecure controlling the insecure in a harsh place. This was not this place and he was glad, very glad to find that she had only spoke them so that she might let him know what she felt of them. Growing disappointment at the concept of her respecting them faded away and was replaced by her hand and more reasonable words.

The exact reason he had come this far out of his shell and gave this a chance, being true. Gloria touched his cheek and naturally enough he would comply with the gentle gesture, lifting both his lightening expression and eyes to meet hers. There was a bit of a smile, more sincere than his grins and the earlier ones that she had complimented. If that was what she truly saw in him and little else mattered then, "No." He would speak bluntly without twisting words or considering their consequences, they were quiet ones that both respected the closeness and lingered with perhaps with the gladness of being defeated in his stubborn self-judgement. "I feel exactly the same, so no. Ye shouldn't think any less of me than I do you."

Perhaps awkwardly but intent on punctuating those words so that she could not object or question in the way that he had the frail Jerno teen would ease forward onto the front of his feet to rest a pair of thin, parched lips against the corner of her mouth.
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Re: Old Sand and Bootblack

Postby Rance » Mon Jul 13, 2015 11:31 am

He kisses her.

The sentiment is unexpected. The edge of her mouth tastes like stale pipesmoke. Her cheek smells of heady wine. A startled breath escapes her in a burst of surprise. The girl's steely eyes snap wide, surveying him as if she's a thousand leagues away. Her hand, unsure of how to respond, flexes open and closed against her skirts, then crawls up to tug at the collar of her dress. A hundred possible reactions flicker across her face. Incredulity. Fear. Excitement. Hesitation. The fingers spring to life, trying to cover the poor state of her teeth. A wild surge of heat streaks across the bridge of her nose and her cheeks. Back a step. Two steps. The stalks of her legs strike the frame of his bed. She sits, because in that moment, she can do nothing but sit.

Her index finger traces the stitches of her patchwork skirts. A comforting distraction.

"That's — that's not so smart of you," she whispers. "That's not so smart of you, Dejicere. I'm—"

(He tastes like a books with a thousand pages and hot, hot sand and wonderful, charming old dust burnt on the wick of a long-unused candle—)

"You oughtn't kiss maggots." The sharpness in her voice is almost accusatory. She stares at a spot on the floor. Her kneading hand's grip on her skirts is so ferocious that some of the stitching along the waistline of her dress — hidden cleverly by the flap of her apron — pulls itself eagerly free. "It's fine, it's just fine to — to hold their hands, or to lean on their shoulders and sing songs with them. That's fine, you know. Tennant knows that; Edmund knew it, too. They were smart, and you're smart, and you ought to stay smart."

The heel of her palm strikes gently against her forehead. She grimaces. Under her breath, a small string of words plays itself out in coarse whispers across her tongue. Meant for her, but faintly audible nonetheless. I'm full of stupid things; I'm so full of stupid things, contagious impulse...

"I have a baby," Gloria says aloud. "A little girl named—"

What's her name?

"Don't invite shame upon yourself, Dejicere. Everyone will laugh at you."
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Re: Old Sand and Bootblack

Postby Dejicide » Tue Jul 14, 2015 12:58 am

Seems she would object anyway, profoundly object, to what was actually a catalyst into a downward spiral of self-depreciation. Dejicere watched and listened to this all with a stubbornly dismal expression and stoic pose where his arms crossed over his thin chest as he stood erect. He did not enjoy her words in the least: he hated them and those who would make her think in that way. He despised one who would place that mentality upon anyone. It also bothered him that she didn't seem to listen to much of what he said; then again, he was also reluctant to hear for some time. Yet she still seemed to cling to the words he was she sure had left onto the floor to grind into a deliberate lack of worth.The thoughts brought a great, helpless sigh forth and he turns to sit upon discarded clothes left upon his bed next to her, hunched slightly over with elbows on knees and fingers intertwined in a way that might have been interesting enough to stare at by the gaze he rested upon them.

"Yer no maggot and aye, I'm smart enough to know that. I won't have ye call yerself that again or I'll prove myself an idiot the same to quiet yer protests about it. I won't have anyone call ye that and ye won't be an exception, aye?" Eyes shifted to watch her features to see if she had understood the threat that was spoken awkwardly in spite of the conviction behind them. No, he hadn't regretted kissing her for any reason. He was far from repulsed by her like she assumed he should be, perhaps how others were. Gloria reminded him of the few things he might reminisce about home, tasted and smelled of curious eccentricities, and she accepted him: even placed him on a pedestal. It was a feeling alien to the young outcast and he wanted to share it with her but had seemed to fail miserably at doing so. "I try not to hear what they say or care when I do, Gloria. Since I've come to Myrkenwood yer opinion is all I've cared to hear."

Those words were not entirely true. Someone had found his ways exotic and she was a pretty reminder of the past. It was a brief glimmer of hope before it was snuffed out like before but this time Dejicere did not feel helpless. He had felt angry and now the fish had company to prove his resolve.

His frail frame leaned against her larger one shoulder to shoulder and he would brave her grimacing features again. "I dinnae know who ye speak of and I rightly dinnae care what they thought. Ye tell me what Gloria thinks and I'll care." The mention of a daughter was something that would linger for a long while as he considered if it should matter to him. "Tell me about her, yer daughter. Tell me about yerself. Tell me something I should care about here with ye, not this rubbish that others have forced ye to say."
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Re: Old Sand and Bootblack

Postby Rance » Tue Jul 14, 2015 2:34 pm

"They're not things other people have said about me, though, or forced me to say."

He sits with grace, with an ease about him that makes him so normal yet so wholly intangible. The girl watches him as he dissolves onto the bedding, nested in the clothes discarded thereupon. He even lounges like a scholar, deeply invested in some invisible knowledge scrawled onto the backs of his knuckles. Does he think her stubborn, she wonders. Does he think her stupid, gelded of good sense? The press of his shoulder against hers warms her. Almost scalds. He's a Glass Sun, and Gloria dares to turn her cheek enough to look upon him between waxy tangles of black hair fallen haphazardly over her face.

She reaches across her lap, dislodging her remaining hand from her skirts. She softly rests her fingers across his wrist. Along his knuckles. A touch. The girl's fingertips tremble with an undefined palsy, like the nerve in her missing finger seeks to punish her remaining digits by shattering their peace and dexterity. When he speaks, she listens. Her dull eyes say as much: they watch him unflinchingly.

I dinnae know who ye speak of and I rightly dinnae care what they thought. Ye tell me what Gloria thinks and I'll care.

"I think that — that the things I've done, the bad deeds I've done, the people I've destroyed. That I've killed," she instantly corrects, trusting him with the quiet admission. "I think they've curdled my brain. I despise being alone; if I'm alone, all those lies I tell myself out of cowardice — that I'm a fair and just person, that I'm confident, that I'm proud — all worm their way back into the quieter parts of my brain and keep me awake, make me sick. Make me avoid looking at mirrorglass or reflections, for fear the face I'd see would be mine."

Her palm squeezes his hand. She holds onto him. She must.

"My daughter," the girl says, her smile a too-distant artifice, "has the smoothest cheeks and — and the most wiry hair. I put ribbons in her hair; she tugs them right out. Right out! And like a fool, I'll just put them right back in." A pause. She breathes a few times through her nose. "I like that you kissed me; I like that you aren't afraid to do it. I like that maybe you shouldn't, but that even if you shouldn't, you do.

'I — I would like to kiss you," Gloria says, tracing her thumb along the bones on the back of his hand.

Then, unassuming and a little drunk, looking into him and through him, the seamstress asks—

"Have you ever done something so heinous, Dejicere, that — that the deed doesn't become just a skeleton in the closet, but the skeleton you wear under your skin?"
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Re: Old Sand and Bootblack

Postby Dejicide » Wed Jul 15, 2015 5:11 am

Dejicere's dark brows furrowed thoughtfully as she explained that she had killed and destroyed. He did not think deeply on what had happened, why she had done so, but the scars left upon her by doing so. He wanted to comfort her but at the same time he would wish her passed such thoughts so that she wouldn't feel that way anymore: like a maggot, like she was undeserving. They were two roads to the same place to him, one where he would tell of what he had done to show he could relate and perhaps hold her while reassuring that terrible things happen and that blame should not be lingered upon for so long. The other path he felt could be more volatile as truth and introspection could often be. "Why do ye tell yourself those things if they bother ye? Why pretend to yerself? Is it honest regret or more of what might happen if others learn," he asked after a long moment. "It happened and there were reasons behind it, perhaps motives."

He tilted his head at her just barely, his own straight black hair coming loose from his ears while he searched for her eyes with his own. His other hand would rest upon hers as it embraced his unsurely to offer warmth and comfort to the trembling and to tell her she was welcome. Quiet, almost a whisper now he would admit that, "Aye, I suppose I have but not everyone is fair and just or proud. I am not, I murdered a man for simply turning me away for what I was: it mattered not if it was the ears or the desert he saw. I am not proud of this and dinnae think it was fair or just in any sense of the word but I will live with it and it wan't haunt me. I suppose I dinnae understand why ye would strive for a moral high ground if yer actions dinnae belong there. I do understand why it haunts ye in that case, though." There was a deliberate pause then as if to let what he said sink in, his eyes wandering elsewhere again. He was ready to be judged by her not for what he had done but his attitude regarding the action. He certainly did not look down on her for what she admitted to, that was obvious.

There was another sigh there, an exhale before he lifted his eyes a final time to her. "And now that ye know what kind of person I am? If that's what ye want to do, I'm not about to stop ye."
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Re: Old Sand and Bootblack

Postby Rance » Wed Jul 15, 2015 4:09 pm

I murdered a man for simply turning me away for what I was: it mattered not if it was the ears or the desert he saw.

In one world, the seamstress' reaction would have been to recoil, widen her eyes, look upon him aghast and horrified. She would have peeled herself away from him, pressed her palms into the hay-stuffed bedding to shove away, retreat for the door and seek out solace in the company of cleaner beings.

But this isn't that world.

Her question draws a truth from him she never expects, but the only perceptible change in the young woman's composure comes from the increased pressure of her hand inside his. Her fingers wind around his, squeezing with a ferocity and strength that could, if his hand was a throat, effortlessly asphyxiate. Gloria finds something in his eye that draws her nearer, so close that her collarbone grazes his shoulder and her gaze seeks to capture his so that he's all she can see. Now, with a focus on something that isn't the vile foul, encroaching grayness of her own regrets and doubts, the young woman whispers so softly that the crackle of candleflame on a wick seems a scream in comparison.

"Perhaps not fair," Gloria says, "and perhaps not just, but allow no one — no one — to use your flesh or your birthright against you. Allow it once, and the next thing you know, their boots are on your neck, or they're shaming you in the square for all to see, or — or exiling you because they've fit your face like a mask onto their fears and insecurities.

"And had you not killed him? He would have eventually sought to do the same for you. There's no shame in — in surviving, Dejicere."

The half-story composes itself effortlessly in Gloria's mind. She fantasizes; she constructs, for she must—

Dejicere, frail and unassuming, drives a knife into the pudgy gut of a brutish man. His hand shakes, but his elbow has a Jerno's sureness behind it: he's right to wield the knife, to lance it into the exposed gut, to release a fountain of red, red wax and push the man away from him. If he hadn't, those hamhock fists would have pummeled him, split him in two with main force. Dejicere doesn't stab with vigor or desire, but rather out of necessity. His dark face twists incredulously as he looks down to the mess upon his hands, and his lips shape no, no, no with frantic repetition.

And Gloria does not ask about the killing any further. It is better that way. For both of them.

"You ask me why — why I say to myself these horrible things. Is it regret? Yes. Yes," Gloria says. "But if I live in a world where — where I'm the worst monster I know, it means I'm surrounded by nothing but people who are smarter, stronger, and more keen than I could ever be.

"And that means the world, no matter its flaws, is an inherently good place."

Clumsy, girlish, she leans forward to press a kiss against the edge of his mouth.

"There," she whispers.
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Re: Old Sand and Bootblack

Postby Dejicide » Thu Jul 16, 2015 4:52 pm

He could tell from her words that she was rationalising. There was little more he could say or do to convince her that she was wrong about him, that there would have been no consequence for not acting the way he had. Part of him, if not most, wanted her to be right. Dejicere would not have minded being wrong in this case and perhaps with enough convincing she would be right? He would let it go, though. Not only were there more pleasant things to speak of or do, he simply didn't want to drive her away.

Gloria's answers to his query seemed like a sort of self-destructive optimism that when paired with the little kiss caused a thin smile to draw itself upon his features. She was helpless to her own designs and ideals and he found that charming. Exploitable if she were anyone else. Dejicere didn't have to remind himself that he would be true at this point and moved the hand upon her cheek, a light brushing of finger tips.

"I dinnae know how ye stay above the sand like that," he spoke in the nearest of whispers. Dejicere did not and was hesitant on letting her ease away after she had kissed him. "But if ye let me I'd like to help. Yer doin' the same for me. Before I met ye and your acceptance, I'd have doubted I could." It was true. Just some weeks ago there was nothing but anger and vengeance in him, cold and calculatitive.

Now there was a comfort in something that wasn't a manual in how to project how be had felt upon others and he was desperate not to lose it, lose her.

"I dinnae know if the world is as ye say but if ye'd like we can sing about it bein' so." And perhaps bold, so much so that his eyes drifted down to her hand still clasping his. It wasn't shyness that made him act so but the assumption that he was maybe crossing a line. "And maybe offer proof it is if ye'd stay?"
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Re: Old Sand and Bootblack

Postby Rance » Fri Jul 17, 2015 2:31 am

I dinnae know how ye stay above the sand like that.

"Because there's no other option."

But if ye let me I'd like to help.

"I need it. I need help," Gloria says. "And so do you. We all do. People can't exist alone, or — or it will surely drive us mad."

His touch was hesitant in its willingness to be free of her. For as frail and meager as Dejicere was, a wiry speck of a boy that in the Jernoan sand would have been lost amid the broad-bodied specimens of his peers in all their blown-glass armor and bravado, his grip on her was tenacious. And not simply the contact of his hand. It was the spell of that smooth, lilting accent, his refusal to regret, his eagerness to touch and be touched.

He didn't spurn her.

He trusted her with secrets and skeletons.

Ailova's words spring to life in the recesses of her mind. Whoa the feck up. Are ye fallin' in loove with this sod?

(Am I? So quickly? Is that even what it is?)

Confusion mixes with the wine in her head. Gloria keeps hold of his hand and dissolves silently against him, soothed by the prospect of singing, of other proof. Tonight, the brittle world outside barely exists. She draws her legs up beneath her skirts and trusts him quite enough to lay her head in his lap. The girl grips his hand ferociously against her breast, holding it close — for if she let go? She feared she might stumble and fall right through the cracks in the floor, into a reality where all of this was just some fancied fabrication pulsing like a tumor inside her imagination. Perhaps he wants more; perhaps he expects, like any Jerno would, services of satisfaction and pleasure.

With her sprawl of black hair framing her face, the seamstress looks up at him from below and says—

"Sing. Or — or tell me anything. About you, about — about your exile, about your mother. Or about your favorite book, or your greatest fear. Anything."

She rests his knuckles against her lips.

"I feel normal with you."
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Re: Old Sand and Bootblack

Postby Dejicide » Sat Jul 18, 2015 7:40 am

Was that what he felt, madness? If that was his ailment was it this easy to cure?

He was only a little anxious as she moved about after his words as any young man might be after his words, remaining quiet and noticeably tense while she did so. He did not know what to expect and much of the introspection and overthinking was swept aside while he watched, stared her as she made herself a pillow upon his lap. It wasn't until she had settled did he breathe again and relax, growing comfortable easily enough. Comfortable enough to return his gray eyes to the features of her face and show a thin, thoughtful smile while removing a lock of stray dark fair from them.

"If this is normal," he mused aloud, "then I'm afraid of just how eccentric I am."

But he liked this normal as she described, a building familiarity with someone with mutual trust. An integrity he was accepting more naturally every moment and word he shared with his company. The thought gave her hand a faint squeeze as she still held it and her request would illicit a nod that bounced his hair free back into the curtain about his head. He was glad to sing with her, was honestly impressed that she could, and was hopeful that they might sing together in the future. That was an intimacy he would keep to himself for now, something he hadn't shared with anyone other than the very woman who taught him his songs and who Gloria now spoke of.

"I'll sing, I'll sing."

And so he did. Quietly and a bit more raspy than before some weeks ago, perhaps from the long hours he often with without food or drink while he absorbed the words on his books, in a tenor-bass, the song of his choosing one he had only mentioned once of to her. It was elven in language or at least may have been long before he made it his. He did not understand the language of his mother who taught him how to vocalize the song but he remembered the meaning, the notes, most of the words. Those he didn't had long been replaced by pseudo-facsimiles that that blended into the lolling rhythm of the elven tune. He sang of pride and loss, of how their people lost towering ivory cities in lieu of the the rough swamps below centuries ago. He was emotive, more-so than one should be without fully understanding the lyrics for there were touches of memory of learning the song so long ago. The loss he sang of was real enough to him even if the subject was entirely different.
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Re: Old Sand and Bootblack

Postby Rance » Tue Jul 21, 2015 4:11 pm

So he sings. And she listenes

His lows resonate, a deep and rhythmic hum in his chest that she feels underneath her ear; his trebles soar, each note smoothly transitioning with an ebb like smoothed glass. She doesn't understand the language, but it isn't hers to understand: it was his mother's, a sacred contract shared between a birthing heart and a birthed one. Not hers to claim as her own. Only to borrow, only to share—

Eventually, she began to sing softer, improvisational harmonies. A blush shoots warmly across her cheeks, but it doesn't matter: he's singing, so she'll sing, calling forth all the dead talents frozen in her voice. Once a jerethedral's choirgirl, always a jerethedral's choirgirl. Hoarse and gravely though her speaking voice is, the seamstress' notes are the product of tireless practice, born of old praise-songs and uproarious, melodic litanies. There's wine. They have wine; they laugh with one another, too. At some points, the floorboards rattle and clap under their bare feet as they even dare a jig, and when they're huffing for breath and laughing and their hands can barely decide whose is whose, they dissolve, Dejicere onto the edge of the bed and Gloria into a sprawl of skirts and underpinnings on the floor.

They don't talk about murder. Jernoah never crosses their lips. They forget they're so dark of skin and so strange of race; it's a fine night, one that ends with the rising of the Glass Sun while their words get more sluggish...

She demands he take the bed. Gloria reserves the floor for herself. They cannot share a ticking. It would be improper.

Come the full, warm morning, the girl is gone from his room.
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