Post by Seek on Apr 17, 2015 2:13:26 GMT 10
Series: Where the Wind Blows
Title: Old Friend
Rating: G
Event: Just In Jousting
Competition: Decathlon
Words: 580 words
Summary: Lindhall speaks with an old friend who's visiting.
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They don’t eat in silence; it’s punctuated by what passes for small talk between them. They discuss how friends and old colleagues are faring—“Kievren’s found a post at Udaypur now. They aren’t as reputable, but they pay him a lot more than what he was getting as a yellow robe,”—and speak about the topics of their current research interests, “I’ve been studying the scrotal tufts of the Regal Copper,” he tells her, in all seriousness. “Right now, I’m working on a theory about their fluffiness,” and watches as she breaks down into laughter.
“Oh dear,” Valeria mutters as she accidentally knocks over the wine glass. “Shall I, or will you?”
“I’m the host,” Lindhall murmurs. Erik would’ve needed a whistle; instead, he reaches out with hand and Gift and exhales the bitter winter wind in Harvikstead. The wine crusts over in ice, and they carefully scrape it off and set it aside to melt where it can’t damage the upholstery.
“Truth?”
He knows what she’s referring to. After the course of a long friendship, stitching together dropped threads of conversation is a task they perform with ease. “Yes,” he says. “I must introduce you to Daine; she’s got a remarkable insight into these animals. It seems the female Regal Copper prefers the male with, ah, the fluffiest tuft.”
Valeria smirks. “I really wonder if you would’ve seen this for yourself, back then,” she says—with a touch of soberness—as they carefully fork up apple pie; the buttery crust flaky and crisp, courtesy of the palace kitchens. “You took yourself so seriously back then.”
“I did,” he acknowledges, dipping his head in a nod.
“Any regrets?”
He considers the question—and her—very carefully. “Perhaps,” he says. There are gems in Tortall: young minds waiting to be sharpened, but for all of that, he misses the resources of the university sometimes, debate with fellow red-robes, the level of argument and discussion…For all the king is generous, Tortall isn’t as friendly to scholarship as they would claim to be. An instructor of pages cannot request a research trip to the Copper Isles to study the Regal Copper. In the next breath, though, he thinks of the brightness and laughter he sees in the Tortallan pages; working side-by-side with Numair—and King Jonathan, for all his faults, is no Ozorne. He lacks the latter’s capricity, even if he has the same sense of ambition and ruthlessness. But perhaps most importantly: there is no gilding; no colour, but with this comes a strange sense of stability and contentment. “Do you?”
She smiles, ruefully, smooths out her skirts. “I think,” Valeria says, “We all do.”
His mind wanders further back; to Scanra, to the ship whose name he can no longer quite remember. “Yes,” Lindhall replies, at last. “We do, don’t we?” And then, gently, “You’re trying to poach me, aren’t you?”
The new dean of the university in Carthak offers him what he recognises as the smile she offers when she doesn’t quite want to admit something. “We could use your expertise,” Valeria says. “There’s no one who has quite a hand with the students. Anise is more a researcher than a teacher; too sharp-tongued and impatient to properly guide a class.”
Lindhall winces. “I can imagine.” He remembers her—one of the foremost scholars in Carthak on barnacles, but with a caustic tongue and impatient with students slow to grasp the fundamentals. “No, Valeria. I’m happy here. But thank you.”
Title: Old Friend
Rating: G
Event: Just In Jousting
Competition: Decathlon
Words: 580 words
Summary: Lindhall speaks with an old friend who's visiting.
-
They don’t eat in silence; it’s punctuated by what passes for small talk between them. They discuss how friends and old colleagues are faring—“Kievren’s found a post at Udaypur now. They aren’t as reputable, but they pay him a lot more than what he was getting as a yellow robe,”—and speak about the topics of their current research interests, “I’ve been studying the scrotal tufts of the Regal Copper,” he tells her, in all seriousness. “Right now, I’m working on a theory about their fluffiness,” and watches as she breaks down into laughter.
“Oh dear,” Valeria mutters as she accidentally knocks over the wine glass. “Shall I, or will you?”
“I’m the host,” Lindhall murmurs. Erik would’ve needed a whistle; instead, he reaches out with hand and Gift and exhales the bitter winter wind in Harvikstead. The wine crusts over in ice, and they carefully scrape it off and set it aside to melt where it can’t damage the upholstery.
“Truth?”
He knows what she’s referring to. After the course of a long friendship, stitching together dropped threads of conversation is a task they perform with ease. “Yes,” he says. “I must introduce you to Daine; she’s got a remarkable insight into these animals. It seems the female Regal Copper prefers the male with, ah, the fluffiest tuft.”
Valeria smirks. “I really wonder if you would’ve seen this for yourself, back then,” she says—with a touch of soberness—as they carefully fork up apple pie; the buttery crust flaky and crisp, courtesy of the palace kitchens. “You took yourself so seriously back then.”
“I did,” he acknowledges, dipping his head in a nod.
“Any regrets?”
He considers the question—and her—very carefully. “Perhaps,” he says. There are gems in Tortall: young minds waiting to be sharpened, but for all of that, he misses the resources of the university sometimes, debate with fellow red-robes, the level of argument and discussion…For all the king is generous, Tortall isn’t as friendly to scholarship as they would claim to be. An instructor of pages cannot request a research trip to the Copper Isles to study the Regal Copper. In the next breath, though, he thinks of the brightness and laughter he sees in the Tortallan pages; working side-by-side with Numair—and King Jonathan, for all his faults, is no Ozorne. He lacks the latter’s capricity, even if he has the same sense of ambition and ruthlessness. But perhaps most importantly: there is no gilding; no colour, but with this comes a strange sense of stability and contentment. “Do you?”
She smiles, ruefully, smooths out her skirts. “I think,” Valeria says, “We all do.”
His mind wanders further back; to Scanra, to the ship whose name he can no longer quite remember. “Yes,” Lindhall replies, at last. “We do, don’t we?” And then, gently, “You’re trying to poach me, aren’t you?”
The new dean of the university in Carthak offers him what he recognises as the smile she offers when she doesn’t quite want to admit something. “We could use your expertise,” Valeria says. “There’s no one who has quite a hand with the students. Anise is more a researcher than a teacher; too sharp-tongued and impatient to properly guide a class.”
Lindhall winces. “I can imagine.” He remembers her—one of the foremost scholars in Carthak on barnacles, but with a caustic tongue and impatient with students slow to grasp the fundamentals. “No, Valeria. I’m happy here. But thank you.”