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Post by Admin on Nov 9, 2014 11:46:59 GMT
« Thread started on: Jun 24th, 2008, 3:47pm »
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Avarill
June 18, 2008
Marcus and Dairinn
Lady Dairinn Branagain. The name was etched out in the most exquisite handwriting, the black ink stark in contrast to the crisp, white parchment. Hands, carefully and lovingly encased in soft white fabric lift the letter from it’s place upon the smooth wood of the table. A glance from vibrant green eyes is moved, from letter, to it’s deliverer and back. One gloved hand moves, gently rearranging the soft locks of ebony, pushing it back from the plain Venetian mask which hides the features of the woman beneath. Fingers pry the wax seal apart, eyes scan the handwriting, which unravels as beautifully as the letterhead. “He does not appreciate my manner, I see?” Eyes, which are draining of colour by the moment, leaving them almost gray, look to the messenger. “He believes the affairs of his lands are his own?” She moves, and as the figure moves around the desk there can be no dispute of the gender, despite the mask over her face. This day her slender form is encased in a gown of soft, red velvet, the vines that have almost become a trademark of her house are picked out in gold leaf along the hem, and around the bodice, though the sleeves end at her elbows, where a flash of ebony skin shows before her gloves begin. Her eyes flick to the large, looming figure behind him. “Remove him. And send an appropriate response to his master.” The messenger begins to gibber, but the Lady turns and moves back to her desk. Idiocy, she thinks. It was a plague, alas.
Derringer strode in as the soldiers led a whimpering, babbling man from the room. As he stepped in, he closed the door once the others had left. His autumn hair was pulled back from his sun kissed tan features by the black and dark midnight blue died leather thong he always wore; Black, the color of his own standard, and the deepest sapphire for the color of the Lady he served. He watched his Lady pace in rage and moved to the side table to pour himself some wine, moving to her desk to refill her own drink as well.
Lifting the goblet he brought it within her striding path and spoke easily as he often did when she was agitated. “Something troubles you.” It was an obvious statement, but one that was also a hint to her that he was there to listen should she desire. He would take no sip till she did, and also knew if she took the sip, she could be consoled. If he rang for a servant to clean the mess of the carelessly tossed drink, then it would take more than soothing words to placate her when she was like this. Marcus was prepared for both.
Dairinn was not taken to bouts of temper usually. So many eyes watching her every move, evaluating her every gesture in an attempt to make up for the lack of expression, she could not afford to let her control slip for an instant. And yet… And yet the annoyance seeped through every pore of her, every movement was one of irritation, of aggravation. How dare they? She offered them protection, lobbied for her lands against Adamire’s hoards, and she knows well what they can inflict upon the populous of a resistive lord or lady. But no, she was not… and they dared… She looks up, irritated, at the entrance of Marcus, but on recognizing his face relaxes once more. Her spy master, while not entrusted with her deepest secrets, was a comfort in difficult times. As he extended a glass in her direction she stopped to glare at him, before extending a hand- shaking with indignant rage- to accept it. “The blatant idiocy of the minor nobility. Well,” she turns on her heel. “They call themselves nobility. Little more than peasants. Barely educated…” She snatches the letter from her desk. “This is the hand of his lady, not himself, though he expects me to think differently. Fool underestimates me, which I can put to use, and yet OVERESTIMATES himself.” She stops, and with a careful, practiced motion lifts her drink to the mask and drinks. It is a maneuver which has taken many years of practice, but now it appears almost natural. Her eyes are upon Marcus, however.
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Post by Admin on Nov 9, 2014 11:47:42 GMT
« Reply #1 on: Jun 24th, 2008, 3:47pm »
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Marcus looked to his Lady. Once she had finished speaking and taken a sip, he did the same, then set the goblet on the side table. “Mlady, you do so much for them. It is a wonder you tolerate them at all with the insolence and audacity that oozes from them at every corner and opportunity.” He lifted the parchment and made a mental note of its writer. He would be sure they would send no such missives again. He would not harm them, dead people pay no taxes, nor see to tending lands. He would merely send word to them to make them realize, in a polite way of course, the folly of their deed. He had done it often enough that he knew it would be affective yet not brutal. And it would ease the burden on the Lady before him.
He held his hand towards her. His own black on black attire would be a stark contrast with his skin, tanned though it was. “Come, sit and relax. I will see that dinner is brought here so you have no need to deal with more fools this night.” He motioned to the pair of chairs flanking the unlit fireplace. It was cozy enough to be inviting despite the dark bricks facing the dual seats and the table between them. “I will even have some of your favorite drink brought to ease your weariness, if you desire.” He nodded to himself as he smiled to her. There had to be a way to make her life easier. He only hoped whatever 'errand' she sent him on next was one such assignment. He despised being gone for as long as he had been this time, and returning to find her in such a state.
It had been more than a month since he had laid eyes on her last and it pained him to not see a smile on her face. He had never truly seen her smile, for the mask hid her features well. But he could imagine such a thing. He had heard her cheerful enough on more than one occasion to know she was radiant when she was happy and content. He wished that glow to return in place of the din of her anger now.
“Food?” she speaks the word as though the concept is alien to her, her anger clouding all but a desire for wrathful revenge. She appears to catch herself, however, and takes a breath, which echoes behind the mask itself. “I am in no mood for sustenance, Marcus. The fools have robbed me of my appetite.” She finally looked to her spy master, and while the cold, flawless expression of her mask did not change, some colour returned to her gray-green eyes. “Forgive me, my dear Derringer. It has been so long since our parting, and I meet you only with anger.” She closes the distance between them in a series of small, yet graceful steps, the golden shoes she wore only appearing briefly beneath her crimson skirt with each step. When she arrives, she extends a hand to him. “You have traveled in the most awful conditions, to arrive today. You’re loyalty is much appreciated.” The last statement is said with something as close to warmth as is ever heard from the Lady Branagain and she looks out, to the rain which beats the cobblestones outside. She would call for a fire to be made, she decides. Such a valuable asset to her, she could not allow to die of cold, after all. And if nothing else, Marcus was that. An asset, even when the friendship they had was pushed aside, he was still that.
Marcus took her hands in his and squeezed affectionately before leaning over to draw the gloved pair to his lips and kiss them. It mattered not that she kept herself bound like a concubine, he cared only that she smiled... and that she cared for him, even in just her own small capacity. “The weather is of no consequence.” He smiled looking back at her eyes as he stood up. “Come, sit with me and unburden your anger on me. Is that not why I am here? How I always know to be here for you?” He smiled and moved towards the chairs hoping she would not resist, but follow and sit and be comfortable. His empathy had always come in handy and even now it allowed him to know she was rankled inside like a cat fur-stroked backwards.
He released her hands as he paused by her chair, fixed the pillow so it would nestle her back as she liked, then moved to lower to one knee before the fire and move the logs and tinder around to make lighting easier. “You should have had someone light this for you earlier. Or someone should have come and done it soon as the rains began.”
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Post by Admin on Nov 9, 2014 11:48:58 GMT
« Reply #2 on: Jun 24th, 2008, 3:47pm »
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He was rankled now. Servants were to know their place. And right now, he knew at SOME point, their place had been on their knees lighting his Lady's fire place... and they hadn't been there. He would speak to the head housekeeper soon as the opportunity presented itself. Things in this house ran on two things; the desires of the Mistress, and the glares and whispers of her Shadow. He was home now, he would see to it things returned to how they should have been all along. His being lax before departing and then his absence had obviously been taken as a cue to let things slide. He would see to it that it didn't happen again.
“Hush now, and do not lie to me. You feel cold, as every other soul” She admonishes, though she can feel her black mood improving with his presence. Ever has Marcus been a steady rock for her, always loyal and unquestioning when the need presented itself, and yet able to challenge her as most others feared to. She seats herself as he moves to the fire, and leans forward only slightly to rearrange his hair with one hand suitably for her satisfaction. “They have other, more important duties, Derringer, and you know this. Their duties are to my guests first, as is only proper.” She suspects that he would not agree, as she always had. Still, she has made no move to attempt to assess how much effect the presence of her Spy master had on her servants, yet she has noted in the past improved efficiency. He was everywhere, she’d heard them say, saw everything… and that, of course was one of the reasons he was so valuable to her.
Settling herself back into the chair she waves a hand, indicating a bell pull. “Summon some mulled wine, Marcus. The warmth of it would please me.” She waits, suitably, before continuing as he had suggested before. “I am not overly vexed over this single fool, but he is but an example of a growing landslide of idiocy and complaints, mixed with complacency, which seems to have overtaken my underlings.” She sighs, her fingers drumming on the arm of her chair as her eyes stare into the fire Marcus has just brought to life. “Bring me good news, my Dear Shadow, tell me what you found for me, after so long away.”
He smiles as he hears her settle into the velvet wing backed chair and raises his head as he closes her eyes when she adjusts his hair. Such small tendernesses endeared her even more to him. He opened his eyes as she mentioned the wine. “Yes, Mlady.” Rising, he goes and pulls the cord, already striding towards the door as a servant opens it a moment later. “Mulled wine, some bread and meat and some fresh fruit. Check the fruit to be sure the dampness has not spoiled it.” His look was sufficient enough that there was no need to alter the timber of his voice as he spoke. He would check the fruit, meat, bread and wine himself. The servant nodded more vigorously than was perhaps necessary, but then left the room in silence.
Striding back towards her, he slid up the stool near her feet and sat on it. “May I release my hair to dry it?” He asked not to gain permission, so much as to see if she was paying attention. And if she had just adjusted it on his back, perhaps she desired more to see it pulled back at this time. She had often asked him to bind it or release it in her presence as mood struck her. If she wished it to remain, he would do so gladly.
At his question, Dairinn smiles. She knows well of her Shadow's talents, for it was one of the reasons she had strove so hard to save him. Adamire's hatred of psychics of any color were well known... but Marcus was an empath only, and a relatively weak one at that. And useful to her, and therefore to Adamire to boot. She'd had to do some quick maneuvering, which she had never directly revealed to the man before her. Dairinn had no idea if he knew or not, and it mattered little, except at moments like these when she appreciated his attitude and attendance as much as she valued his incredible ability as a spy. "Of course you may, Marcus. I am not a cruel mistress" She says the last with a smile, though it shows only in her voice, the mask, as ever, expressionless.
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Post by Admin on Nov 9, 2014 11:49:55 GMT
« Reply #3 on: Jun 24th, 2008, 3:48pm »
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“If you were, Mlady, would make no never mind to me.” He laughed softly at the exchange of phrase, often done between them. Once it was done, he fanned it out and began to run his fingers thru it. He would have to remember to leave a brush in here sometime. He seemed to always need it when he didn't have one.
“There is good news indeed, Mlady. The problem has been seen too and no one is the wiser. The river was high enough this spring that no one questioned the body coming up downstream.” He smiled then and used ever muscle in his neck not to look at her. He wanted to see her smile, to see her lean back, close her eyes and relax, but he knew it wasn't a level of trust she dared in anyone's presence. As he continued, he reminded himself of the promises made in the silent darkness of traveling at night. One day he would see beneath her mask and make her smile. She covered her face to hide something that even she had never revealed to him. Many nights they had had heated words over it. She needed to uncover herself on occasion to realize he cared not what was under the silken and velvet wraps.
He went on to tell her that the Lord who had been a particular thorn in her side would be much more cooperative in the future. “I believe he blames the gods. He told me himself he could lay no blame on you for your kindness would not allow you such petty revenges. You would have just had him slain outright.” He laughed then and did manage to bring himself to look up. He would not be able to see her smile, but the shine in her eyes and the wrinkling of the small patch of skin he could glimpse around them, would be sufficient for his dreams this night.
She watches as Marcus moves to the door, and allows herself to relax into the chair somewhat, her faint smile hidden safely behind the mask that forever separated her expression from the outside world. When he sits himself before her, running his fingers through his hair to detangle it, teasing out the small sections that the wind and rain have sought to tangle together she sits forward. There is but a whisper as the gloves are removed, revealing skin as white as that of her neck, and unmarred by a days hard labor. She begins the delicate task of unknotting his hair, brushing his hands aside as she does so, allowing him to report upon the task she had set him just over a moon ago. “And that belief is revenge enough, I think.” She says carefully, though her eyes focus on a particularly troublesome patch, before he tilts his head back, his eyes meeting her own. “You did well, my Shadow. Though that is no new thing, always you do your duty to the highest quality.” She draws the majority of his hair, previously bound, into one hand as a slight knock on the door announces the arrival of the servant with the wine and fruit they’d ordered. Her head comes up, eyes watching the servant’s every movement as a predator watches prey. The woman, just out of childhood, it seemed, put down the tray she bowed low, backing away before turning to exit at a speed she could think dignified. Dairinn smiles, slightly, at the fear of the timid creature, and releases Marcus’ hair from hr gentle grip. “You will insist on your checks, Marcus? As always?” His caution, as unneeded as it might be, was an endearing trait to her. Caution and Intelligence- exactly the qualities she demanded in her service, and exactly the qualities her spy master demonstrated.
His hand remained in place only long enough to earn himself the slap then he smiled and settled them on his lap. Marcus closed his eyes and reveled in the touch of her. It wasn't often that she removed her gloves and for all the misery such weather made for doing his work, it was coming in with damp hair and her ministries that made it worth it. He said a silent prayer to whatever god listened to liars, cheats and thieves and thanked them for the foul evening weather. As she praised his work, he nodded slightly and earned himself a tug to his hair like a wayward child. He chuckled slightly then responded in his even tone. “All for you, Mlady.”
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Post by Admin on Nov 9, 2014 11:50:47 GMT
« Reply #4 on: Jun 24th, 2008, 3:48pm »
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Just then the door opened and the serving girl wandered in with the tray. Between he look he was sure the poor child was receiving from his Mistress, he added his own usual dark look to it and the creature fair ran from the room as if she had already been beaten. He laughed once more and inwardly sighed as the hands in his hair retreated. When he reached into his pocket to retrieve the poison dust, she inquired about his 'check'. He smiled and rose, going to the table where the food had been left. “I would be remiss to shirk such a grave duty. And I would be stupid to think it was no longer necessary.” He took a pinch of the herbs, neither dust nor poisonous, and sprinkled it over the layer of food. He then did the same to the wine, sprinkling a touch of it inside the bottle, and goblets, careful to catch the rims. A few chosen words and it was done. No smoke rose from the food or drink. He then took a single taste of each item, sliced the apple and did the same, and took a sip of the wine. Nothing tasted untoward.
Deciding it was safe, he served both of them wine into the fresh goblets then made a plate of various food items including the meat and bread as well as some apple slices, melon pieces, then brought it all back to where they sat. He set the wine on the table first, then the plate. Handing the remaining goblet to her, he retook up the other and smiled holding it towards her. “To Mlady, Branagain. May your beauty someday grace my vision.” He winked to her at the toast he always gave in private between them, then continued as he sobered a bit. “And may the war soon end so that your face may never again frown, and your fists never again clench in rage.”
“Careless and Irresponsible, two things I shall never expect from you, Marcus.” She watches him go about a duty that had fast become familiar to her with a sense of relief. It had been her own doing, in the early days of her title, so soon after the marking of her face, that she had allowed the Cattle to come to think of her as god-touched. Her face, they claimed, was so beautiful it would drive those mad who looked upon it, and the mask was for their protection. As such, her servants remained respectful to the utmost, even her Steward, who traditionally would be one she could confide in, believed her almost holy. It was useful, and a tool she wielded carefully, but it did make for dull conversation with most beneath her. For whatever reason, Marcus provided entertainment, and a mind against which to pit her own. At his toast she raised her glass, and tilted it slightly in mocking toast. “And Mine.” She adds, for from it is it no secret. They have argued, and heatedly, about the need for the mask, to the point she had once had him thrown in the dungeons for a day. She had soon repented, of course, but his power to both calm and infuriate was almost legendary. She tilts her head, however, at his second toast. “It never frowns, Marcus.” She says, gesturing at the impassive face with which she greets the world. She turns, then to the goblet and drinks with the same care as before. Eating is a more cumbersome task, though the years of practice would not have him believe it so. Slender fingers loose the ribbons which thread through her hair without undoing them, allowing some give in the metal facade, enough to allow the knife, and its small mouthful of fruit, behind it to her lips. All this she doe watching Marcus, almost a challenge, as always. Such challenges had gotten them into trouble in the past, but it was merely part of the dynamic now, so long later.
“Nor does it smile...” He left the final words drift almost like a whisper as he took a sip from his goblet. He watched her take a bite and could not hide the hopeful look from his face that perhaps this time, for the first time, the jibe would be heeded and the vision of her would be revealed. But as the knife tip slid beneath the metal facade, he smiled and nodded then set to placing a piece of meat on a small chunk of bread and began to eat. After a few bites he reached up to stroke a piece of her hair down that had caught on the edge of the mask. His fingers brushed the metal and for a moment he rested his index finger and thumb on it. If she released her hold, he may have the nerve to pull it off, but the slightest tug from her would make his digits release their hold. An eyebrow rose in response to the challenge he returned to her and in that instant, there was a tension to the air that rivaled the storm outside and the fire at his back.
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Post by Admin on Nov 9, 2014 11:51:48 GMT
« Reply #5 on: Jun 24th, 2008, 3:49pm »
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“It is part of the magic, is it not?” She asks, and her tone is that of the dry humor she uses with every other soul. She watches his eyes, and notes, as ever, the hopeful look in them. She has never been able to determine the reason for it, whether it is his curiosity, or the wish to see what no other has. Indeed, those dark shapes which shepherd her constantly when she is outside her own Keep are of her creation. They alone see what remains of her face, her once beautiful face, and they cannot tell, even if they register it. As he takes the mask with finger and thumb, her eyebrows raise behind it’s facade, and she watches him for a heartbeat, before her own hold is renewed. “You have been away too long, Marcus, you forget, perhaps? Never in the sight of others, that is my Rule. As my Spy master, My Spy master, Marcus, you are bound by it.” Even now, however, she sounds more tired than she does angry, though the irritation that threads through her words is not new, but then, neither is the argument. She does not move to comfort him, for it is not her way, but neither does she move to chastise him further, and that in itself is a comfort in a way.
He knew her words, while more breathed from habit than from anger, had the force behind them that was true. He smoothed the hair and settled back on his stool at her feet. His head bowed and he pulled his hair around to the side of his neck away from her. In baring his neck, he was offering his life to her wrath, perceived or real. She would understand the gesture, even as he took a bite of his meat and bread, as the equivalent of going to his knees at her feet. “Of course, Mlady. Always with your whim in mind.” The words were spoken often, though he hoped someday to not need them in this situation. Once he had finished his morsel, he took a sip of his wine and set it back on the table. “Please, Lady, tell me how I may serve you next.” He looked back up to her eyes as his hand absently went to his hair once more, this time his own fingers raking thru the long, loose tresses to see if it was dry yet.
The look she levels him is one of chastisement. “Not a whim, Derringer. It is Ironclad, as you of all people should know.” Indeed, it had taken some very, very fast maneuvering on her part to make sure he did not, quite, know as much as he might. That one, dark night had bought him some leniency in the matter, despite his lack of memory of it. That was her doing, in a moment of fury and one that she did not regret. Still, it made his argument all the more infuriating. Her hand moves quickly, faster than one might believe a mere Lady to be capable of, and her fore and middle fingers rest, gently but firmly, against the pulse at the side of his bared throat. No more needs to said on the matter and after a moment she sits back, resuming her consumption of her food. “Stay, for a while yet Marcus. I wish you to gather all the reports from those you have settled in the field. I was not expecting your return, so the details of your next task are not as clear as I would wish them to be, as yet.” She smiles, then, behind the mask. “I trust you do not take issue with staying within doors for a week or so?”
As her fingers dug into his neck with enough pressure to be sure he got the message, he hung his head and nodded. The silent gesture from him was sufficient because she removed her hand and relaxed back into the chair. “You know I would not mind a night in a warm bed.” He laughed and didn't look up though something told him she would catch the dual meaning. “And if you wish, I can scry tonight and get the messages, or come back in the morning with them. The choice is yours. I do not wish to keep you from your bed.” As he took another sip of wine, he took a chance. “How is Lord Adamire? I hear the skirmish against the Rebels recently did not go so well.” He had heard from villagers about the loss at the foot of the rebel keep. They had been so close. But something had happened that turned the tide and made the rebels gain an upper hand long enough to drive off his Lady's Master's wave of attacks. He was hoping to hear what the true reason was, and not the ramblings of old men in taverns with too much time on their hands.
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Post by Admin on Nov 9, 2014 11:53:37 GMT
« Reply #6 on: Jun 24th, 2008, 3:49pm »
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Dairinn is unable to stop herself rolling her eyes at his statement, though she adds a twist of her own. “I’m sure one of the girls will oblige you if you but ask, Marcus. They hold you in some high regard.” The lips behind the mask twist in humor though it is perhaps crueler than he deserves, it is entirely expected. At the mention of her Master she snorts, slightly. “He finds the Rebel Life mage somewhat of a challenge, I hear. Though it is not a subject those with an eye to retaining their place are likely to ask. I know that those intolerable forest squirrels, those animals, joined the fight on the rebel side…. But then surely you will have picked up that much.” She stops and smiles, for indeed it is his job to tell her news, not the other way around “There were some losses, but nothing overly detrimental to the cause. I’d be interested to know the wider effect of that battle, Marcus, next time your wanderings take you appropriately.” She yawns, and catches herself, blinking almost in surprise for she has lost track of time. That might explain, she thinks, Derringer’s irritation with the servants. She stands, and extends both hands to her spy master. “I must to bed, Marcus, for I have guests whom I must smile and bow to, come the morning.” The tone is light, yet beneath it is a hint of her irritation at the situation. Her mouth opens, hidden, to utter a simple welcome back to the House that is his home, a hand extending to smooth the hair to one side of his face, before she closes it, with simply a satisfied “Hmm.” And turning to head towards the door. Marcus' return improved her mood drastically, that could not be denied, but the urge to remain awake and talk was outweighed by her responsibilities come the dawn. “I will speak with you tomorrow, my dear Shadow. Sleep well.” And with that she turns, and with the swish of her skirts, is gone.
He tilted to her caress and smiled. "I shall tell you on the morrow, of course." As she rose, so did he and when she departed, he smiled. He ignored the comment about the serving girls. He had taken a tussle once or twice, but the mooning in the eyes afterwards was enough for him to seek the experienced women in town when he was away, more often than not. He had been about to ask what she wished of him in the morning when she mentioned the bowing and smiling to guests. That was his silent order to be ready to be at her side as her 'guard' and 'vizier', for lack of other terms that would make others cringe. Once she was gone, he rang for a servant, made sure the food and wine and goblets were seen too, then proceeded to leave her room and close the door.
A single traced emblem and a simple incant sealed her room off from prying eyes and wandering fingers. He had always locked up when he left last. She had taught him how to lock and unlock the room almost a year ago. It was the last great thing he had been given by her. He counted on her as much as she did on him, though something told him HE would be the one to fair worse were he 'out of a job', so to speak. With a soft smile and a whispered 'goodnight' in the direction of her chambers, he went to his room to sleep as well.
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Post by Admin on Nov 9, 2014 11:54:45 GMT
« Reply #7 on: Jun 26th, 2008, 6:59pm »
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June 23, 2008
Marcus n Branagain
“We are most pleased, Lady Branagain, that you understand our desire. It is only for harmony, you understand, but they do unnerve the staff so…” “Perhaps, but they are my guards, nonetheless. They will accompany me, even if you restrict them to my chambers. Derringer, of course, will be at my side at all times.” Dairinn does not need to look behind her to hear the slight splutter at that suggestion. The older gentleman kept pace with her easily (for it is not done to outstrip ones guests, especially when they are male.) “Ah, Lady, you see, we do have some private…” Her hand on the door to her study, the lady pauses, and looks back towards her visitor. Just for an instant, gone is the submissive hostess, willing to give in to the whims of her guest. Indeed, gone is even the malleable Lady, and in her place are the cold green eyes of the Mage. “My Lord, Do not mistake this for a request. It is fact, if my presence is requested, then Derringer’s is accepted also. Especially if you are to deprive me my Guards.” The spell is broken almost instantly, and she steps forward, ungloved hands pressing against the wooden doors as they swung inward. She notes Marcus’ presence immediately, and makes a small hand gesture, which would appear to be nothing but an extravagant flutter to the Lord behind her, to signal him to her side. “Lord Warton, meet Master Marcus Derringer.” She favors Marcus with a smile, safely hidden behind the mask she wears yet, she suspects he has learned to pick out her expression behind it. Turning her gaze back to the lord before her. “As you can see, dear Bryon, he is the pinnacle of civilized protection.” Though the tone of her voice does not change, there is a steel behind it which suggests that whatever humor has allowed her to stand his manner has failed her. “And he is non-negotiable.” Turning Dairinn moves towards her desk, gesturing to the bell pull as she does so. “Marcus, ring to have the Lord returned to his chambers. I am sure he has much preparation before his carriage departs.”
Marcus smiled and turned at his Lady's voice. Seeing and hearing the voice behind her made his smile swiftly fade.
“Lord Warton, meet Master Marcus Derringer. As you can see, dear Bryon, he is the pinnacle of civilized protection.” She spoke the words with a smile. But something told him, under that smile, there was very little mirth in her words.
Straightening up, Marcus nodded towards the man and moved up protectively behind Dairinn. “Lord Warton... a pleasure.” His words were kind, courteous and protocol dictated as long as he remained polite, the Lord could take no offense. But his right hand, safely hidden behind his Lady, clenched and unclenched with the desire to slip a dagger between the ribs of the irritating twit before him.
Dairinn remains apparently oblivious as the Lord before her gives his platitudes and departs. It is only when the door is firmly shut that she seats herself pulling a quill towards her, ink at the ready. “You will accompany me to his estate, whether he wills it or not, Marcus. For –I- will it. And despite his apparent impression, he is still beneath me.” She pens her missive quickly and neatly, in handwriting that is flowing despite her irritation. When she is done she stands and, in a moment of pure irritation, her hand swipes one of the many ornaments that litters her desk to the floor, where it splinters into nothingness. “Imbeciles!” This appears to be the only flaring of her temper, for she stands in utter stillness, glaring into the fire that has already been lit in the grate.
Marcus nodded at her order. “Of course I will, Mlady. Something tells me even if you didn't 'request' it, I would be there all the same. I don't like him.” He sidestepped the flying piece of artwork and moved to stand just behind her once more. Hands remained at his side, for he knew better that to touch the taunt bowstring that was her rage. As he stood there, he let calm flow out of him and over her. It was barely morning and she was irritated already. This would not bode well for a day she said would be filled with seeing her 'guests'. If they all turned out this ornery and cantankerous, perhaps he would dress in his hunting clothes and walk around with his dagger in his fingers. That had a tendency to quell anyone's desires to be an upstart. “
As the calm flowed over her, he hoped it was begun working when he softly spoke. “Who, Mlady?”
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Post by Admin on Nov 9, 2014 11:55:38 GMT
« Reply #8 on: Jun 26th, 2008, 6:59pm »
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“Them all. I swear, there shall be no peace for me. They shall see to it I am hounded to my very…” The rising level of her voice is suddenly silenced by a knock on her door. The enchantments which keeps her study enshrouded in silence are important to her, and as the door opens she knows that her ranting would carry. “Mlady. The Mistress Hayle, of the Borderlands Estate.” The slender woman bows out, and allows entry to a woman who had clearly tried to out-noble Dairinn herself. The visitor is dressed in a slender gown of the deepest emerald green, her hair done in a fashion that Dairinn herself finds overly fussy and in her current mood, something to fuel her irritation. Lady Hayle dips into a low curtsy, bowing her head as is only proper for a lady when greeting one of Lady Branagain’s station and favor. Dairinn herself, by contrast, sweeps around the desk with no sign of her previous anger, her skirts wide and manifold, the gown for this day a mixture of the midnight blue that is her standard, and a lighter, kinder shade. Where the lady curtsies, Dairinn bows low, her dark hair sliding over her shoulders, unbound. Thus begins another section of niceties for which she has no patience. This one, at least, she thinks, seems to have a proper idea of her station. Lots of “My Lady”s, and long reverent pauses. Even this does not placate her, and she dismisses her briskly once their conversation is complete. “Marcus…” She begins, before turning to check the door is closed completely. “How long would it take for a man of your skill to slay every nobleman that is still to come before me? I have no patience, and they are to a man utterly replaceable.”
Marcus laughed then and touched her shoulder as he walked up behind her. His hand smoothed the hair back in its proper place and he moved to replace his tea cup with two fresh filled wine goblets from the side table. “I could kill them all to a lot before they touched your door, Lady. But is that a wise thing to do? To slay so many at once would surely raise questions. And if you desire obedience, training replacements would take time. Perhaps I shall just endeavor to look more stern if you prefer.” He moved to hand her one of the goblets and nodded that it was safe to drink as he paused and smiled with a grin no one would want to see on him... or would, and live. “But if you give the word, your wish will be my greatest pleasure.” He allowed his goblet to touch hers in a twisted kind of toast before he took a long draw of the drink and licked his lips eagerly. Perhaps a bit too eagerly.
Even in her fit of temper- which, at that moment is truly extreme- she is forced to smile at his apparent acceptance of her wish. “No.” She admits, carefully, taking the wine from him. “Too much time. It is not wise but…” she lets out a breath which echoes behind the mask. “Oooh, how I wish it were viable” Another drink is taken and she allows her eyes to flutter shut, concentrating on her breathing with all of the willpower that her mage’s training has instilled in her. It takes that much just to calm her fury, indeed, even with Marcus’ help she remains somewhat irate. “I wish them all dead, Derringer. Each one, for they have flourished under Adamire’s reign, and my control, and cannot understand the blessed times in which they live.” She turns from her spy master to stalk away, and return, her energy being worn off through this simple stride. “If the Rebellion were ever to make it to our door, I would gladly feed them to them. Make an example, to rile the people and rid me of my nuisances in one fell swoop.” She growls, slightly, in irritation. “Would that the traitors were that obliging.”
He watched her pace and leaned lazily on her desk to let her pace it out. He sipped his wine and smiled to himself. If the rebels ever made it here, especially a day like this, something told him she would let loose with such fury that there would be no one left to feed the insolent fools too. As she paced, her gown whispered around her legs and the blues shimmered like the ocean against a clear sky. One moment you knew exactly where one color ended and another began, but the next moment they blurred into a vision of blues that had you memorized.
When she sighed and stopped moving, he tilted his chin down and glared at her over the tip of his cup. “If you wish to be 'busy' for a while, I am sure you have not kept up on the lessons while I was gone. Your wrist sheath is conspicuously absent.” Setting his goblet down, he stalked till he was within a hair's breath of touching her and whispered. “And with me not around you need that protection all the more.” There was a strongly bridled anger under the words though it was also tinged with worry. He wasn't really mad she was unarmed, he was mad she had been so vulnerable while he was away and unable to protect her.
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Post by Admin on Nov 9, 2014 11:56:19 GMT
« Reply #9 on: Jun 26th, 2008, 6:59pm »
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Dairinn’s eyes narrow in a response to Marcus’s anger, however superficial it may be. “My apologies if the affairs of my Lands took precedence over your toys.” She takes the tiny step forward that brings them, if possible, closer together without touching. “But you forget, Derringer.” Her hand comes to rest upon his abdomen and in a heartbeat she channels her power through that connection. The muscles, under her command, cramp and spasm uncontrollably throughout his abdomen and she steps back. This is her domain, the very blood in his veins answers his call. “I am not defenseless, Marcus.” She finishes and waits a moment longer before ending her intervention in his muscles. It is cruel, perhaps and unnecessary certainly, but he is no stranger to her turns of thought and mood. She leans back against her desk, and though nothing in her posture or her eyes shows it, she feels a tinge of regret. He is the closest thing she can call a friend, and a trusted asset, treating him badly was foolish in the extreme, and yet she did so without thought.
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Post by Admin on Nov 9, 2014 11:57:04 GMT
« Reply #10 on: Jun 26th, 2008, 7:00pm »
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June 25, 2008
2000
Marcus was about to step back and suddenly he was frozen in place. The palm on his stomach made him twitch but when the power ebbed thru that palm, he groaned. Unable to move, his fists clenched. Were she anyone else, he may double his effort and try and knock her back. But she was his Mistress, his Lady... and to all purposes, he was no more than a slave on a long leash. When she released him, he fell to the floor and coughed. His arm cradled his stomach as he looked down, like he had numerous times before, half expecting to see his insides spilling over his shirt sleeve. Seeing they were not there, he managed a cough to get his lungs working again and spoke clear and concise. “Of course, Mistress. Forgive me.” He closed his eyes a moment to steady his heart and concentrate on breathing easier. This was going to be a long day. He felt it already.
Marcus remained on his knees once he had managed to gather himself back together. Head down, hands resting on thighs, he awaiting his Mistress' desire. Should she will his life forfeit, he would go gladly. She had spared him more than once, and even saved him to begin with. He could ask no more from her than that.
Despite expectations Dairinn does not move to help Marcus rise. She is irritated, and while she is aware to take it out on her spy master is both wrong and unhelpful, she cannot help herself. So many insolent fools, none of whom she could exact revenge upon. Still, despite the pain Derringer appears to remain stable in his loyalty, in his desire to serve his mistress. She strides to the window and looks out, her lips pulled tight in displeasure as she considers what is to come of the rest of the days events. “I must attend to the newest of the Breed, before my next ‘guest’ imposes himself upon my presence. You may stay, or accompany me as you see fit, Marcus.” She glances his way, aware of the pain she can cause in an individual, indeed, she has done so, and worse, to those of blood ties to herself. A hand comes up absently to rub against the porcelain which hides her features utterly. Shaking her head she moves to the doorway, and only glancing back once more moves along the many corridors, before she reaches the stairs downwards. Here, she pauses long enough to slide off the delicate slippers which match her dress for this day, and slide into tougher, more worn boots. Similarly, gentle white hands are clad easily in the brown leather of her working gloves. Indeed, it would not do to have herself soiled by the creatures below.
Marcus rose on slightly unsteady legs and followed with a mere whisper of, "Where my Mistress goes, I will tend." He paused to hold the boots for her to slip into and then accompanied her downstairs. He knew she was not defenseless, had never been. But he also know the Breed could always be counted on for one thing... unpredictability. He would rather have her wrath on him for moving her from harm rashly, than hear he was not here and something happened he could have... no, he corrected himself, SHOULD have been there for. He fingered his daggers and followed her down the steps like an obedient hound.
The dungeons beneath the Halls are filled with various sorts. There is the man in cell five, who was caught sneaking through her halls, a thief or worse. The couple in three who deemed the laws of marriage worth flouting, and so on. It was as they got deeper, further from sunlight and warmth, that the crimes became more severe. There, too, that the sounds of growls and snarls became clearer. It is not until she steps through a heavy door, pausing only to check it is closed appropriately, that the sounds become more distinct. “Since your departure, Marcus, Lord Chorster has expressed an interest in new breeds.” Leading her way through the chambers, they suddenly enter a large, semi-circular room. The walls are lined with cages, just large enough to lie in. The creatures within range from human, to utterly inhuman, though most can be recognized as what the rebels have come to call ‘twisted’. Through the chamber they move, and into another door. Two servants almost break their spines attempting to bow appropriately, and she sweeps past with barely a word. Once within, they are faced with her new creation. The creature is too mixed with human to be discernible, but the hands are large, and tipped with claws that look more attuned to digging than fighting. Hulking muscles over the shoulders and legs announce it’s strength, without seeming to add any bulk to the center torso. When she enters it screams, and thrashes forwards to the extent of its chains, gibbering and shrieking in turns. Dairinn, however, moves to the servant at her side, and takes the written charts from him.
Marcus shivered inside. Never show fear here. He knew those words better than any other. Unless you were punished and sent to serve here, no one in the service of the Nobles dared come down here willingly. As they stepped thru the final door, her words of 'new breeds' came to life in the vision before him. IT was once a man, he believed, though his eyes couldn't help but bulge at the sheer size of what was before him. He dismissed the servant and watched his Lady with the chart. He would assist her with anything necessary. He didn't trust anyone else in the Keep with the duty, and never would, he imagined. No one could care as he did. To them she was a force to be reckoned with. For him... He focused once more on the Breed before him and awaited her desires. He had been aide to her down here enough times to know where the things were she would ask for.
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Post by Admin on Nov 9, 2014 11:57:55 GMT
« Reply #11 on: Jun 26th, 2008, 7:00pm »
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Though Dairinn’s eyes did not leave the chart before her, taking note of its feeding, its screaming, the prompts that drove it to madness and such, she speaks to Marcus. “Do you find it terrible, Derringer? Evil and Twisted? It is but the base of our humanity, the dregs of society who might other wise be…” she paused, looking up over the parchment to the creature which once more flailed towards her. “Raping or stealing, perhaps. The Prisoners, the Dispossessed. Debtors and sinners to a man, Marcus. Should they not serve their lands, and the families they were a danger too?” This seems to send the beast all the more insane with rage, and the metal in the wall squeals with the tension. Dairinn glares, and one, gloved hand, extends and a moment later the creature is writhing on the floor. “To save the way of life, the very base, the very scum of the society we so labor to create will serve. There is an irony.” She turns, and rolls the parchment, putting it back on it’s shelf. “This one, however, refuses to bend to the Greater Good.” Now she does look to Marcus, and her eyes are hard. “Dispose of it.” The creature lies, and twists in agony on the floor, feeling the same pain he had not so long before, on a massive scale.
"Of course they should serve. We should all serve." His words were maniacal. He knew that service in this capacity would be hard and ruthless on anyone. And while most Breed he had seen seemed to have lost their humanity and become the war mongers the Mistress and Master desired, this one seemed to cling to the humanity within it and struggle beyond the hope that had passed long ago. As she told him to finish the creature off, he nodded and bowed, holding the door open for her. "As the Lady desires." Once she was gone, he closed the door and drew his daggers. Coming closer to the beast he whispered. "This will far better for you. Better to die and be in no pain, than live in pain for eternity." His daggers spun in his hands as he positioned then to not only slice the beasts' throat but to stab upwards into its heart as he did so. A clean kill but one that will leave plenty for the servants to clean. A reminder, once they see it, that his skills are still as they always had been. That word will be spread and they will know her Midnight Death had returned.
She watches him with interest, and as he moves to allow her exit she nods, and glances back at the creature. Pathetic. A failure somewhere, clearly. Yet more failed stock, another waste of power and time that could be better used. She waits for the door to close behind her before she walks to one of the cages that still contains a human soul, and sits on her heels before it. She listens to it beg, for it is nothing more than the base need to survive, she thinks. With a glance to the room, where she can hear the snarls as the beast thrashes and attempts to defend itself, even through the spasms, fingers dip beneath the mask. “My wife, my children, Lady… Lady… I beg you, I beg….” The words, however, ©
Phoenix: dissolve into screams, though by the time any other soul may enter the chamber Dairinn is stood, surveying her work, Mask and hair immaculate as always even as she strips her hands of the gloves she wears when she enters the Breed’s compound. She will touch no more this day, she thinks, even as she looks over towards the door and awaits the exit of her Spy master. He will do his job, she can feel the pain even here, the death… it is marvelous. And it only feeds her reserve, the energy of a failure to help create an attempt which will be suitable to the cause. That, she knows, has a certain poetry to it.
As Marcus knelt beside the creature, it looked up at him thru the pain and haze of what the Lady had sent thru his body. He knew the pain well, though not this extent. He thought that perhaps the energy from this Beast would pleasure his Mistress, so he sheathed one dagger back in his boot and drew from his back a short dagger, though large enough some may call it a dwarves sized sword, and used it to plunge into the Breed's heart as the other dagger took the arterial slice across its throat. As the life drained from the creature before him, some of the magic, life essence and force used to make him, would drain from his very heart into the special bone carved knife in his hand. She had given it to him to let him hold the essences of those he slew for her pleasure and comfort and safety. Bringing back the essences in the Soul Blade was proof of his loyalty and had won him the status and trust he had with her. He knew it was still a leash on him. He was a servant, always would be. But given the bit of freedoms he did occasional receive, he had always come back. Always would. Rising from the kill, he cleaned the blade on the small bit of modesty cloth the beast had been wearing and resheathed it. He would make the gift to her back in her study. To do so here would unleash things no one else deserved to see. This was his gift to her. He would see to it that it remained thusly. Stepping from the room he nodded to the servant shivering in the hallway. "Dispose of it like the rest. Then send me word it is done. Defy me, or skip one step in the process and I will that it is YOU that the thing stalks for vengeance." The words were spoken to the servants enough to make them leery of not disposing of the Breed the proper way. He had no power to raise the dead, nor to send shades to places other than they chose... but they didn't know that. Smiling to the Lady as he watched the servant scamper off, he offered his arm noticing she had shed the gloves. "Please, allow me to get you a drink." He offered as he escorted her back up the steps, once more holding the dainty slippers to replace the cumbersome boots.
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Post by Admin on Nov 9, 2014 11:59:17 GMT
« Reply #12 on: Jun 26th, 2008, 7:01pm »
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Lady Branagain can feel the death of the creature in the other room even as she stands, servants coming in quickly to beat the creature in the cage she’d just attended into silence. It was not done to act so rudely before the Mistress, it showed they were not attending their duty. As Marcus steps out she turns to survey the man before her. Memory intact or not, he is an anomaly. One night, so many moons ago, he had seen in the semi darkness the same as the gibbering mess before her. And yet, it had not destroyed his mind, indeed, the erasure of his recollection had been done in a moment of rage, and for her own satisfaction, not his own. As always, she is tempted to allow a repeat of the situation, ever a student of the sciences, mystical or otherwise, she had a great desire to see if it was an anomaly in his behavior, or if he was simply the exception that proved the rule. “A drink sounds most pleasant, Marcus.” She accepts, and allows him to lead her back through the cells, up the stairs and (after their brief pause to allow her to redress appropriately) onwards to her study. On their entrance, the fire is roaring healthily and two glasses sit empty, a decanter between them.
He lead her to the seat by the fireplace and moves to pour the glass of wine. He glances over his shoulder to see that she is relaxing. Placing the decanter on the table, he places her goblet and the Soul Knife on the tray and moves to one knee before her. "I brought you a gift. I know the power you place in your creations. I am hoping this will help to replace some of what you spent in it." He bows his head, the loose hair falling like a dark cascade around his features.
For once the Lady allows herself to be lead. Once seated, she sits back, the tightly-laced corset does not allow for much of a slump in her posture, for it is not fitting in a Lady, but she does relax. It is when he turns back to her on one knee that he draws her attention back to himself. Eyes flicker from his face to the tray, spying the knife instantly. Reaching out, pale white hands which look like she should have no concept of how to wield a blade grip it firmly. “My dearest Derringer, always looking out for me.” She smiles behind the mask, a massive shift from the temper she had displayed before. Green eyes flutter closed as she turns the blade to a patch of unmarked skin upon her wrist. It is necessary, the transfer, while not pleasant, was effective. The blade, kept razor sharp by her Spy master, cuts the skin easily and sits there. The Lady, for her part, is utterly still, ridged, though her lips move in a rapid series of incantations. Even as the first streak of blood leaks from her damaged flesh, she withdraws the knife, and watches with disinterest as the flesh closes. When she speaks, the small gap in the mask which allows clear speech shows a flash of bloodstained teeth “As always, Marcus. Your work is most effective.” She reaches out, swapping knife for wine and drinking carefully before she smiles once more. The barest flash of again-white teeth behind an expressionless mask.
He smiles as he watches the proceeding. She has done this before and he knows, now, that the skin will heal unscarred and the teeth will whiten eventually. The first time it had happened, he had been rewarded with the painful touch when he tried to stem the blood flow and cost her the energy of the knife when it grounded to him as he touched her blood. He never flinched after that first time. He nodded and smiled as she mentioned his effectiveness. Setting the blade back in its sheath as she hands it back, he moves to the stool to await her pleasure. Staring into the fire, his right shoulder near her left hand, he ponders the reports, missives and accounts he has to share. Most she asks of him, she wishes no further mention than that it was handled. Some things she wishes more details on.He had learned over his time with her which things bared repeating and which merely needed a nod.
Once the process is complete, Dairinn sits back to enjoy the short-lived buzz she got out of obtaining such power in return for her labors. When she opens her eyes once more, she finds Marcus sat, apparently lost in thought, and she reaches out absently to run ivory fingers once more through his hair. “You must never believe me defenseless, Marcus. It has been the downfall of so many, it is not a failing I expect of you.” She falls silent for a time yet, fingers teasing out the tugs and knots she found formed in his hair as she found them. “Tell me of the good news you have gathered for me my dearest Darkness. Your agents have sent you reports of missions completed, or at least, running to a satisfactory level.” She pauses, and her fingers curl into his hair at the base of his skull, not pulling, nor inflicting pain, but a reminder. “And do not attempt to deceive me, Derringer. One disagreement of that kind is enough for this day.”
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Post by Admin on Nov 9, 2014 12:00:06 GMT
« Reply #13 on: Jun 26th, 2008, 7:01pm »
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The slight gasp as she takes his hair is not one of pain, and she is aware of the difference. She does it on purpose, he thinks to himself. Knowing he cares for her, yet reminding him of things that will never be. "I meant no disrespect Lady. Merely that on occasion, to get close is to place yourself in jeopardy." He doesn't add that it would anger him into a killing frenzy if she were hurt because she needed to touch her enemy to kill him. She had other ways, he knew. But throwing a dagger would greaten that span immensely. "I merely meant that to stop practice would be to let the memory of those motions be wiped from your arms and muscles." He closed his eyes as her hands roamed thru his hair. "They have reported, Mistress. The Rebels have remained on the plateau and show no signs of movement. And the forests are still being searched for the Elves last seen there. A group was followed back past the border but my Eyes say that it was not the sum total of those left after a small group entered the Rebel Keep." His 'Eyes' were those he had hired and kept on tighter leashes than he was. He had shown them each the mark the dungeon had left on him and vowed to do worse than that long white scar down his back if they dared to cross him. They were all loyal to Adamire and thus to him and the Lady, so he had no fear of the lies that some spies were known to tell. "There is one other thing, Mistress... something... different. I cannot say, yet, what it is. It is still being looked into. But it was as if the entire forest 'came alive' a few days ago. And no one can explain the dead growth now covered in life, or the burnt battlefields now covered in many years worth of spring grass." He dared to glance her way wondering how she would take the news.
“I will not say you worry overly, Marcus.” She admits, gently. “For in our world, there is little that is ‘too’ careful.” She falls silent, her hand continuing to move through his hair even as he delivers his most serious reports to her. The fact the Rebels remain does not surprise her, for they have not moved unprovoked in significant number for years. The elves, however. “To have such squirrels join with them is troublesome. The High Lord must hear of it.” At his talk of life, however, her face turns grave beneath the mask, and it reflects in the color of her eyes, as they gray. “It sounds, I suspect, as though the Life Mage they keep, Tamed, is stretching his will again. It may tire him, or indicate another influx of power… That is for his Lordship to decide. We are but carriers of the news.” She does not smile, despite the tone, for she knows well that more than once Adamire has broken the old adage of not harming the messenger. Still, to have such information gave her power, and power gave her leverage. Got her all the closer to the High Lord and that was a position she would, and had, killed for. “It is.” She continues, almost to herself. “A lot of power, however. Keep your Eyes on it, darling Derringer.” She leans forward, the tip of the nose of the mask brushing the top of his head. Always was she taken to such fits of apology after her temper had effected him. It was as close to an apology as he would receive.
His hand reached back as she caressed the top of his head in her type of 'kiss' and ran his fingers lightly thru her hair. "I shall keep watch, Mistress. And I will report any change. I should know by this evening how many elves have remained and how many returned. We spotted over 3 times 100 on the battlefield when the hit was made, but we are still unable to account for near 100 of them." He released her hair and sighed. Something told him there was more to her desire to know than merely telling the High Lord. He had only met the man once, and it had been enough to tell him that the High Lord would not take kindly to hearing such things from the Lady. He would have to think on how to spare her his wrath at not hearing it first from his own minions. He may not strike at her because she found out first, merely because he found out last. She had come back from such reports with rage and marks to tell him that the High Lord cared not to be made a fool of. He would think and come up with something soon. "If the Lady has time, we could practice a bit with the blade in here this morning. There are some more... personal moves I can teach you for when magic would taint and leave a trail." He kept his face forward as her tangled fingers remained in his hair. His body sending the calm and reassurance it always did when he was in her presence.
“I wish to hear as soon as you receive the reports, Marcus. Such news cannot be hidden from the High Lord. Or even be seen to be.” Her tone is grim, for as much as she cares for the power that being so close to the Lord can grant her, it carries with it its own set of pitfalls and risks. A closer surveillance is one such obstacle. She allows his caress of her hair, for Marcus is the only being from whom she can gleam such contact, and it serves to keep her Balanced, she thinks. It does not do to become too remote, or others might believe you a monster. She listens further, and smiles as he finds another, safer way to suggest that he test her skills and expand them with the knives he trusted so. He did not know the extent of her powers, and that was best. Best that all underestimated them, even Marcus, even Adamire, if she could manage it. “Caution… once more, Marcus, I applaud it.” She sits back, her fingers detangling, and serving only to calm the hair she has rumpled with her grip. “In a moment, we may do so. I have a wish to sit relaxed for a moment or two longer. After our lesson I daresay I must address yet more ‘nobility’.” She snorts, though her mood fails to dip as it had before.
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Post by Admin on Nov 9, 2014 12:00:43 GMT
« Reply #14 on: Jun 26th, 2008, 7:01pm »
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June 26, 2008
2000
"As you wish." Marcus whispered as he closed his eyes and let her play with his hair. Whether she pulled it in rage, or caressed it while moody, he cared not. It was physical contact. He let his calming empathy soothe over her and help relax her. He knew she was aware of his ability to read emotions as well as give emotional support. On more than one occasion he had even let his rage flow over her when she was punishing someone so that she could continue despite fatigue. It had earned her the reputation of being unrelenting. No matter how long the punishments lasted, she never faltered. No one ever knew that there had been at least a time or three when he had bolstered her near the end, only to near carry her to her chambers after days of unrelenting rage once out of sight of anyone who mattered. He cared not to see her in that condition, enraged to the point of near breaking, but the small amulet he wore in place of a collar still made him a servant. That would never change. And he would never wish it too. After watching the fire for near a candle mark, he whispered softly. "Does the Lady desire to play a bit or do we need to see to other business?" He could easily fetch the daggers from his room down the hall or she would somehow have them in her possession already.
In the candle mark that silence has reigned, Dairinn had closed her eyes and truly allowed herself just a small amount of relaxation. Of course, despite its design the Mark sat heavily upon her features, but that was something she would not move to change. As interesting an experiment as it was, it would have no meaning if she acted otherwise than she had before. Once he begins to speak she blinks, realigning all her senses once more, reminding herself that she much move, and that laziness is not a vice for which she is known. “We shall play, Marcus, since it weighs on your mind so, and so often you are right about such things.” She offers another smile, another compliment, bridging the gap between them as well as she knows how. She runs her fingers through his unbound hair once more ©
Phoenix innocence: before releasing him to allow him to stand. “My set are in the desk drawer, Marcus. Or your own, either idea I will entertain, for are you not my guide in such matters?” She smiles behind the mask and allows her eyes to drift to the grate, before glancing out of the windows which provide so much light to her study. Not today, however, for it rains heavily much as it had before. “Not for too long, though, Marcus. You know as well as I such matters cannot be ignored forever”
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