Post by Kit on Mar 17, 2011 23:50:03 GMT 10
Title: Foregn Travel [4]
Rating: PG
Word Count: 555
Pairing: Kalasin/Wyldon
Round/Fight: 1/C
Summary: Kalasin surprises him.
The lecture hall was swallowing him.
His voice, amplified by some contrivance magicked into the roof, stayed level—Hurroks were more a concern than his own feelings of slow strangulation—but these words were still meant for a war table, a barracks room. Someone, Wyldon knew, had stood in one of these halls and speculated on the existence of Immortals, rather than tactics toward defeating them. Perhaps Ozorne himself had stood here, speaking of a gate that might be opened, with words as carefully projected as his own.
But their imperial majesties—Kalasin had been particular over the plural—wanted the university. Anyone attend. Anyone might see scars. They were more evocative than the words of an old man who regretted dinner.
The Empress sat in the front row, a little to the side, and the red robes she wore had nearly seen him stuttering.
The university has different rules, she’d said. Not that she’d explicitly Mastered them. His neck, his face, and his shoulder all pricked in remembrance. Red suited her hair, her skin. And he could see she was trying not to grin.
QC: by Cassandra
Rating: PG
Word Count: 555
Pairing: Kalasin/Wyldon
Round/Fight: 1/C
Summary: Kalasin surprises him.
The lecture hall was swallowing him.
His voice, amplified by some contrivance magicked into the roof, stayed level—Hurroks were more a concern than his own feelings of slow strangulation—but these words were still meant for a war table, a barracks room. Someone, Wyldon knew, had stood in one of these halls and speculated on the existence of Immortals, rather than tactics toward defeating them. Perhaps Ozorne himself had stood here, speaking of a gate that might be opened, with words as carefully projected as his own.
But their imperial majesties—Kalasin had been particular over the plural—wanted the university. Anyone attend. Anyone might see scars. They were more evocative than the words of an old man who regretted dinner.
The Empress sat in the front row, a little to the side, and the red robes she wore had nearly seen him stuttering.
(“I’ll be there, my lord. But don’t think it’ll mean a new shock of ceremony. The university has different rules.”
“That’s the usual complaint, yes.”
Kalasin’s laughter had been twined all through her elliptical speech.
“Papa never tells anyone about one—uh—particular condition of my marriage,” she said. “I think he expected it to shame me. He was wrong—Kaddar backed me and was glad to do it. And he’s decent about it, too, now that the results are settled—only jealous enough for things to stay interesting. “
“My lady?”
She had walked to him, then. Dropped one hand to his shoulder, and there was heat before he could move. A magic shaped in the climate, seeping and spiralling through muscle and nerve, condensing on his bones like water on leaves, and his flesh and bone, as his flesh, blasted dry and insensitive to most healings, shuddered and acquiesced. He had gasped. She kissed his cheek.
“You’ll see.”)
The university has different rules, she’d said. Not that she’d explicitly Mastered them. His neck, his face, and his shoulder all pricked in remembrance. Red suited her hair, her skin. And he could see she was trying not to grin.
QC: by Cassandra