by Altias_Bromn » Sat Dec 08, 2012 3:13 am
For now he would ignore the talk of the gift, for there were more pressing matters. The gift was there. In her home,far from here, and they had so many things that they would speak of, of much more importance than a fancy sword with gleamed with gems of fire. Fire and broken glass. The two of them would be thought mad if others were to watch their conversation, each half finished thought, each unspoken word, dismissed with a wave of the hand. Hers would nearly mime his, as she also dismissed her thoughts on his half finished sentence.
As he crouched she spoke of death, and deserving. Oh that was a subject they could speak on for hours now wasn't it? Who deserved to die. How they deserved to die. How many times might they point fingers at one another? Quickly, she said, though not the how, or the why, and that smacked of too little information. A woman who should be reveling in his death, and she has no detail, no story, to go with the news that should be sung from the rooftops.
'Of all the things that might have betrayed me, it has never been my flesh'
Oh and that stung, just a little. Were the words for him? Who could say, but being the man that he was, he felt them. He knew what he had done, and there was so much she could hate him for, so much that would make her not trust him.
And she is moving then for the stairs, and the soft glow of oil lamps at the top, the stairwell still a narrow and nearly pitch black thing. And then she pauses, turning to place a hand on the wall as she hovered there above him, and she asks such a thing. Of all the things he had said, or tried not to say, she chooses this? Very well then.
There is a dramatic cant of his head to one side here in the shadows as he seeks the glitter of her gaze with his own. A soft, almost bitter, laugh.
"That I loved you, of course"
And he is ducking beneath her hand, her outstretched arm, and proceeding up the stairwell to the room above.
His room is much like she might have remembered the room at the meeting house. Silks and velvets, hues of royalty, violet, red, emeralds and silvers. A curtained bed, a large writing desk. On a small table near the desk are two chairs, a bottle of Xanth brandy and two beautiful glasses. Xanth aritsans no doubt, he did have a love for pretty things.
He would sit, and offer the other chair to her, as he pours two glasses of the rich dark brandy.
"You wanted to talk about souls. Let us first talk about how Thadius Dhrin died. Who killed him, and why?"
He would bully right past the short conversation on the stairs, knowing full well she would rather not discuss it now that she had the answer she sought, and it was an answer she would have little care to dwell on.