A low sound starts up behind him, the first beat of a hoof on stone and sand, and his ear flicks back to catch it. Finally, here at last is the guard dog, done chasing tails and come to confront the suspect edging ever closer to the heart of this little operation. What luck that they finally catch up here.
The walls are close to his shoulders, close enough that he could not turn even if he absolutely must, but behind is wide, and so is ahead. Clack clack clack clack comes from behind, and he continues until he can turn and face it, the chokepoint several feet long between them. What a clever thing to keep in your patrol, a way to ensure any army following will be forced to come single file. He’s almost proud.
The figure that turns around the bend is coated in cloudy dusk and streaked ever so carefully with white. She’s lean, and strong, and has built herself up for war. A startling, burgeoning respect curls against the base of his throat as Mama’s tutelage comes to the fore and he compares flashcards of descriptions with the being in front of him.
Well, hello Queeny, he thinks, but doesn’t say, doesn’t tease. It stays neatly tucked behind his lips even has they curve into a gentle smile. You’ve a royal baring to you, is similarly discarded. He wants her to know that he knows, but he also doesn’t want this to devolve into a, shall we say, disagreement. Killing the Queen would rather disrupt his entire venture, wouldn’t it? (There’s a sword at her side, probably something fiercer in her mind. He’d like to think he’d win, but she’s laughed in the face of death only recently, so who’s to say?)
Now wherever did she come from? It’s a bit of a mystery, and he’s curious despite himself, but one doesn’t simply ruin a hooded stranger’s mystique by asking questions like that in polite society. (There tends to be a lot more screaming and calling for guards, but he’s always found that to be in bad taste and terribly overdone besides.) Still, it’s something to keep in mind.
They eye each other across the distance, her playing a modest little game of misdirection, and he wonders how many misinformed fools she’s turned away with such a pretty act. It’s a clever ploy to be sure, and despite the coils of fabric, the shine of armour, and the sword she wears so well at her side, it somehow befits her. It would be charming to play along for a time…
But such a thing would be terrible for long term relations. “Not at all madame.” He keeps a touch of his courtly charm but gone is the accent he’s tailored for ballrooms; at last his voice is free to settle into the lilting patterns so similar to hers. “Wandering old haunts.” He shrugs and his smile ticks to the side, but he hides his mirth even as he asks, “Are you haunting the canyon as well?”
Haunting indeed. He looks forward to her reaction even as he continues without any expectation for a reply to that very hypothetical question, “Ah, but I’ve been out of country for some time. The climate’s taken a turn for the worse, wouldn’t you say? If it continues as it is, I don’t think I’ll be here long.” He tilts his head, leading, shrugs again. “But listen to me, nattering on, I’m Anatoly. What have you taken to calling yourself?”
Honestly, he couldn’t be more obviously unobvious if he tried. Hopefully she’ll give him something amusing to work with for his troubles.
The walls are close to his shoulders, close enough that he could not turn even if he absolutely must, but behind is wide, and so is ahead. Clack clack clack clack comes from behind, and he continues until he can turn and face it, the chokepoint several feet long between them. What a clever thing to keep in your patrol, a way to ensure any army following will be forced to come single file. He’s almost proud.
The figure that turns around the bend is coated in cloudy dusk and streaked ever so carefully with white. She’s lean, and strong, and has built herself up for war. A startling, burgeoning respect curls against the base of his throat as Mama’s tutelage comes to the fore and he compares flashcards of descriptions with the being in front of him.
Well, hello Queeny, he thinks, but doesn’t say, doesn’t tease. It stays neatly tucked behind his lips even has they curve into a gentle smile. You’ve a royal baring to you, is similarly discarded. He wants her to know that he knows, but he also doesn’t want this to devolve into a, shall we say, disagreement. Killing the Queen would rather disrupt his entire venture, wouldn’t it? (There’s a sword at her side, probably something fiercer in her mind. He’d like to think he’d win, but she’s laughed in the face of death only recently, so who’s to say?)
Now wherever did she come from? It’s a bit of a mystery, and he’s curious despite himself, but one doesn’t simply ruin a hooded stranger’s mystique by asking questions like that in polite society. (There tends to be a lot more screaming and calling for guards, but he’s always found that to be in bad taste and terribly overdone besides.) Still, it’s something to keep in mind.
They eye each other across the distance, her playing a modest little game of misdirection, and he wonders how many misinformed fools she’s turned away with such a pretty act. It’s a clever ploy to be sure, and despite the coils of fabric, the shine of armour, and the sword she wears so well at her side, it somehow befits her. It would be charming to play along for a time…
But such a thing would be terrible for long term relations. “Not at all madame.” He keeps a touch of his courtly charm but gone is the accent he’s tailored for ballrooms; at last his voice is free to settle into the lilting patterns so similar to hers. “Wandering old haunts.” He shrugs and his smile ticks to the side, but he hides his mirth even as he asks, “Are you haunting the canyon as well?”
Haunting indeed. He looks forward to her reaction even as he continues without any expectation for a reply to that very hypothetical question, “Ah, but I’ve been out of country for some time. The climate’s taken a turn for the worse, wouldn’t you say? If it continues as it is, I don’t think I’ll be here long.” He tilts his head, leading, shrugs again. “But listen to me, nattering on, I’m Anatoly. What have you taken to calling yourself?”
Honestly, he couldn’t be more obviously unobvious if he tried. Hopefully she’ll give him something amusing to work with for his troubles.
