Post by Cass on Mar 16, 2011 6:59:41 GMT 10
Title: Quiet Air
Rating: PG
Wordcount: 297
Pairing: Kalasin/Wyldon
Fight: 1C
Summary: Through Wyldon, Kalasin falls in love with Tortall.
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Once Kalasin becomes Wyldon’s squire she spends too much time with him, comparatively. When squiring to Uncle Gary it was papers and parchments and scrolls, ink on her hands despite her station and learning more about the minds of dead Tortallans than the ones living right in front of her.
When she changes knight-masters and becomes a squire of Cavall it turns to being her, Wyldon, and the horses and dear Mithros she respects this man more than she respects her own father and his knotted, tangled cords of negotiations and political ties.
He rarely talks, unless to point out something he feels instrumental to her training, but from his silences she learns almost as much as she does from his words.
Kalasin can’t even explain how she just- wants to be around him. His pensive quietness is soothing, when the lulls in her family are characterized by sharp ice and royal discord, decisions made that cause storming and stomping and the slamming of doors.
She doesn’t want this quiet pine-tree peace to end. The north, with its rocky soil and ever reaching forest, with air that always smells as fresh as if it just rained, with cold clear water and crystal sky, has become more home to her than cacophonous Corus. She dreads Carthak, with its sovereign sun and dry, dusty heat; she would much rather fight for her woodsmen and charcoal burners than be the empress of a desert realm.
They are in the mud of the realm, up past her ankles and elbows and she loves the people so much: the refugees from Scanran border raids, the soldiers, the good-humored squads of Own and Riders. They are candid around Wyldon and often ignore her. Kalasin doesn’t mind. It allows her the chance to observe.
QC by: jazzyjess
Rating: PG
Wordcount: 297
Pairing: Kalasin/Wyldon
Fight: 1C
Summary: Through Wyldon, Kalasin falls in love with Tortall.
-
Once Kalasin becomes Wyldon’s squire she spends too much time with him, comparatively. When squiring to Uncle Gary it was papers and parchments and scrolls, ink on her hands despite her station and learning more about the minds of dead Tortallans than the ones living right in front of her.
When she changes knight-masters and becomes a squire of Cavall it turns to being her, Wyldon, and the horses and dear Mithros she respects this man more than she respects her own father and his knotted, tangled cords of negotiations and political ties.
He rarely talks, unless to point out something he feels instrumental to her training, but from his silences she learns almost as much as she does from his words.
Kalasin can’t even explain how she just- wants to be around him. His pensive quietness is soothing, when the lulls in her family are characterized by sharp ice and royal discord, decisions made that cause storming and stomping and the slamming of doors.
She doesn’t want this quiet pine-tree peace to end. The north, with its rocky soil and ever reaching forest, with air that always smells as fresh as if it just rained, with cold clear water and crystal sky, has become more home to her than cacophonous Corus. She dreads Carthak, with its sovereign sun and dry, dusty heat; she would much rather fight for her woodsmen and charcoal burners than be the empress of a desert realm.
They are in the mud of the realm, up past her ankles and elbows and she loves the people so much: the refugees from Scanran border raids, the soldiers, the good-humored squads of Own and Riders. They are candid around Wyldon and often ignore her. Kalasin doesn’t mind. It allows her the chance to observe.
QC by: jazzyjess