THE ARCHIATER.
Perhaps she had been wrong, to assume him so coarse so immediately. The longer they talk, the closer Mari listens to the subtle, intricate tilts of his voice, the more she thinks they might have something in common, beyond the blades and the dark eyes and and the militarism - a subdued wildness, maybe, might be sub-surface in both of them.
It’s enjoyable to see something of herself in someone else. Or vice-versa. It’s been a while, hasn’t it, since her reflection showed anything but a stone-hearted soldier? Strange to see something else in the man that stands across from her, like fish glimmering true-deep in the lowest parts of a pool. Her silver gaze flickers, and with some effort she manages to tear it away, watching the world unfold at her sides, all mania and light fire. Again the faint silver harp drifting overhead. Again her hummingbird heartbeat, picking up speed and wings.
Raymond’s compliment reaches her ears through the haze, and Mari smiles ever so slightly. Something like warmth washes over her. Even when that sharp blade swings between them, moving in a curled, serpentine arc, she successfully fights the urge to step away; holding back a forcible flinch, she gazes down at the blade with not only practiced coolness, but a genuine interest.
Fascinating how a body can be made to be a weapon. Again, they are similar in more ways than one. Mari inclines her head.
Perhaps we should, she answers. Praise be. Don’t get too drunk, Raymond - and with that the Commander turns away and disappears, leaving nothing but hoof steps and the scent of smoke behind her.
@Raymond
