Elchanan GOOD SENSE COMES THE HARD WAY
Elchanan has bowed often: the motion is as familiar to him as anything can be. In his homeland, it was the standard greeting, regardless of bloodlines or title, and the easy sweep of his bent knee and wing brings him back (against his will) to the days when that was all that was expected of him—a bow, a nod, a smile. How different things are now! The people here are unmannered and uncouth, their greetings barbaric, their accents knife-sharp. More than once he’s found himself taken aback at the way Novus’ citizens herald each other.
So it does not surprise him that she is surprised to see him bow. He does not say anything, only lets his lips quirk in a little smile, as if he knows exactly what she’s thinking. (He might. Who’s to say?) In the sweet blue light, they almost match—two sides of the same pale coin with their long white hair and bright, grinning, colorful eyes. The slender builds, their neat ankles and hooves. Elchanan tilts his head. Perhaps they have met before, or share some golden drop of blood. Not that it matters. (Not that it matters.)
“I’m not surprised,” he answers with a wry smile, and a dimple flickers in the corner of his cheek, matched by a sly bat of those thick, pale lashes. “Even in my homeland it was—is—uncommon.” If Elchanan is made at all uncomfortable by the mention of his country, he does not show it. The lines of his face are still smooth, the slope of his shoulder still relaxed. He debates telling her that her name isn’t all that ordinary, either. But it seems trite. And there’s no need for repetition. Not when there’s so much else to discuss.
The jungle behind them howls and moans in the wind, like a thing with a mind of its own, and out of the corner of his eye he sees the various darknesses shifting colors and shades against the moving leaves. “The same, I suppose. I’ve always liked to to figure things out. The magic here…” His smile deepens. “I am hoping it is something more special than the rest of this country.” Those bright-blue eyes watch the eldritch jungle for a moment longer, as if seeking something he cannot (will not ever) truly see. Then they turn back to meet Maerys’ gaze, and with catlike grace he takes a short, swaying step forward.
The sand shifts under his neat hooves, disturbed by the movement. It moves as easily liquid as quicksilver. Something chirp-chirp-chirp-howls from the trees; Elchanan’s gaze moves to it but does not stay. The smile that crosses his face now is bright and mischievous as Dionysus’.
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