Kin But Not Of Blood

Kin, But Not of Blood
Summary: Destrian and Elenore meet for the first time.
Date: 17/October/2013
Related: None
Destrian Elenore 

Laketown is a series of dichotomies laid out in the open. Grand cobbled stone boulevards feed into winding and cramped dusty alleyways and muddy side roads. The shimmering gleaming halls of polished stone that the merchants, guildmasters, local gentry, and nobles have built hide the dilapidated and grimy hovels and dirt and mud that seems to pervasively linger in a town always under construction. Even at night, the beating heart of the Laketown market square is filled with spectacles and merchants and the constant flow of money, although not always between buyers and sellers. All roads lead to the gold and marble pillars and bright cobalt tile roofing of the Blue Duck Inn, the unofficial hub of the business in Laketown set just across the way from the large, glittering temple.

The town tapers towards the Deep Woods and Wolveshire to the south, the fertile Open Field to the west, Brivey Keep to the Northwest, and the expansive Docks to the east. Laketown never sleeps, the constant clang of blacksmiths, shouting merchants, and the thunder of heavy carts constantly moving about town.

17 October, 1329

It had been an evening of contesting, or for the Southern artist, one of catching up with her dearest Northern friend of fuzzy colours, Sir Cerberus. It had been awhile since she had been to Laketown, the day the dragon had come to be precise. So quickly had she been skirted away that day, the damage wrought was something she had only heard whispers about later.

It had been disturbing to see, but there had not been time to give it a proper look before. But in these early morning hours as the sun just barely started to rise, the city thinking to stir, Elenore had slipped from her room at the inn to come and take a closer look at what remained of the ruined Temple. Standing there in slippered feet and a simple velvet gown, a hand lightly traces at the air as she murmurs to herself, "To much black and grey, so sad and not right…forced….but there…flickers of green. A changing already to reclaim what is of right."

"It sleeps," says a voice from around the corner of what was once the common hall of the Temple. The voice is low, masculine — almost gravelly — and speaks in a tone that is both contemplative and correcting. It is directed at the woman moving outside the ruin — Elenore.

The owner of said voice emerges from the shadows cast by the early morning light, carrying a satchel over his left shoulder, while he idly itches the back of his scalp with his right hand. Accompanying the man is a tall, shaggy stallion — clip-clopping faithfully along behind him, without a saddle or bridle, or even a lead-rope.

The horse's ear swivel forward in Elenore's general direction, and it gives a low whinny. The man — also tall, with long blond hair and deep brown eyes — barely glances at the woman, at first, then he offers a polite bow.

"It is all wrong — my lady," he remarks in an offhand manner. Then he stops mid-stride. "Oh. Destrian," he says by way of introduction. "Chosen." Then he adds: "It will wake up again. This…" and he waves his hand at the ruin.

The voice sounding bring a slight frown, a squinting of the eyes as Elenore looks more deeply to the ruins before her rather than to the direction of the voice, as if it were completely normal for voices to just…come. Her fingers turning and giving a light pluck at….something. Murmuring, "It seems something more…deeper….than of being a sleeping. As the rose bush trimmed wrong and struggling to grow again before the chill of winter would come. Yet it has, and it is of struggling to grow and yet must become dormant and wait. Must be of accepting the ill had that sought death but yet did not manage it. Deeper than sleep it is of seeming."

Long do her dark eyes keep to her study, even as the man emerges from the shadows, the noble not seeming bothered that something, someone slips out near her. But then it seems she brought no guard out with her either. A small nod eventually give, "Aye, it is of wrong. Though it is the green, the tints of more…it will be as of the rose bush and bloom anew when the season is of changing again. Time, patience. It is of these, always."

Eventually does Elenore's dark gaze pull from the ruins, perhaps it was his giving of a name that reminds her for soon she is offering her name, "Lady Elenore Tani…" The last hanging in the hair when her eyes land upon him. Simply looking upon him, judged a stare by some but more a study in truth, her fingers soon turning again. Gliding steps soon drawing her closer and taking her one a path to circle him, a study being done as those finger move following some unseen flow and pattern. Faintly murmuring, "You are of like…me. Different, but of the same yet. The pattern…it is there, turned…though. Aye, but there. "

Destrian pauses briefly by one of the charred walls of the Temple — as yet still awaiting repairs — and pulls away a piece of stone, handling it for a moments, pensively. "It is not dead," he murmurs with a frown at the little chunk of rock before depositing it upon the ground. "So it sleeps. It dreams of fire — and it will dream until it is remade." He frowns again at the ruin, then shifts his attention back to Elenore as she continues speaking.

"It should not have happened here…" he murmurs again, more to himself than Elenore or anyone else. "Trust the Four. Hmph. I cannot sleep in broken walls." As if distracted, he peers at the lady, in the same moment as his horse tosses its head in the air, nickering again at the woman, ears perked forward. Destrian glances between them, looking thoroughly surprised, and then all he does… is shrug. "He… likes you," he remarks with a blink of his eyes. "He does not l—"

The horse nudges Destrian in the ribs with its shaggy-brown head, all but pushing the man out of the way. "Altheara's Mane!" the man exclaims.

Softly do the words come, barely a whisper at times, yet still clear, "It should not have, the patterns are wrong…as if is of odd to see. But already do the seek to be right, to restore themselves." A brief turn as Elenore's dark gaze yet seems to be taking in the man himself with a curious and delighted turn to her expression. About to say something but then the horse is tossing his head about and Elenore's eyes drift to him, a smile forming.

"Aye, you to. I see it of you, the turn of your fuzzy and pleasant pattern. " A hand reaching to lightly stroke the muzzle of the horse as she steps to greet the animal. "Shall you like an ear scritch as well, dear one? Or is it of the light touches you have been of missing most? " Eventually giving a glance towards Destrian whom the animal had decided was in the way. "He is of delightful, I see why you keep him around." Though to whom she is actually telling that to, man or beast, it is hard to tell.

Destrian lifts his head and chuckles heartily; his eyebrows remain raised in surprise that is reluctant to entirely give way to humour. As the horse steps past him toward the noblewoman, Destrian gives the animal a playful slap on its hind-quarters — a gesture that earns him a flick of the rugged beast's tail.

"I think he keeps me around," He snorts.

Then he pauses.

Within the space of a few seconds, the mirth in the tall man's face changes into a frown — a puzzled and slightly suspicious frown. He wets his lips with his tongue and peers at Elenore as he sidesteps around her, and his horse. "Elenore… Tani, nay, Taniford? You are a Taniford?" He blinks again, looking somewhat disturbed as realisation dawns upon his features. He points the stump of his left forearm at her.

"You do not sound like a Taniford," he ventures — posing the sentence as a statement, and not as a question. "You are different!"

A hand slips gently along the horses a few more times before reaching and giving a scritch behind the forelock and ears," Better there, aye? It is of impossible to reach of yourself, I am of knowing. " Softly does a laugh come from Elenore, "Aye, I see that is so. But you are of not minding this, aye?"

Though the change that seems to come over Destrian does have Elenore's eyes giving a slight blink, her hand giving another little scritch to the shaggy horse before falling to stroke along its face and muzzle once more."I am of Taniford, aye. I was born of such, Brother." There is a flicker of a frown that briefly threatens at her lips to hear words that she knows to well to be true. There is a knowing of her difference in her eyes, a slow nod comes, "Aye, I am of different. I am of seeing things many cannot, the shades of colours that are missed by so many. But so to are you of being different, aye? It is there to your pattern, the difference in the flow. But…it is not the colours quite you see, not like me. Not so exactly, but something…of what I am not of sure."

"Not… minding this, no…" Destrian replies slowly, carefully to the lady's question. "I… hear you." As the two people converse outside the Temple, the sun slowly climbs into the sky and the streets grow steadily busier. The Chosen pauses after listening to the Taniford lady, taking a moment to watch people as they come and go and move around them. He picks a merchant at random, and points toward them while looking at Elenore.

"I understand these sounds," he says with a frown — as though trying hard to describe something, but is unsure of his words. "There is work, and there is reward — as the Four intended. But, in the halls of kings and queens… there are too many voices: bards all of them, singing at once. False sounds. False colours. It hurts my ears, and my eyes.

He stops talking, wincing in pain or discomfort, and shakes his head. "I would rather face a dragon, than a royal court." The man lets out a breath, and eyes Elenore with a wry look. "I will pray for you, Elenore Taniford-Born," he promises quietly.

Ah, the pampering the horse gets this day, those continued tender attentions from Elenore as she and the Chosen talk, as the city awakens around them. Her head turning to look at the merchant who gets pointed towards.

There is a small nod, They are of the simpler, truer patterns. Of those that are not sought to be changed." A smile going to the shaggy horse," Much like of yours, dear one. Beautiful and of honest, of the Guardians touches." Another small stroke going to the animals muzzle. "Aye, there are of too many voices that vie to be heard, seeking power which is not of theirs to have. But…ah, colours they are perhaps of trying to change. But ever is there truth in them, never can the true colours and patterns of them be hidden away. And the sounds of some, so much like honey do they try of their words to be and such as many come to hear of them, yet they are nothing but that of vinegar."

A ghost of a smile comes as she concedes, "The patterns of a dragon are simpler." Elenore bows her head to the Chosen, "I would be of liking that, Brother Destrian." A glance goes towards the inn, before she gives a final petting to the horse, "I am of most glad to have been of meeting you this morn' but go I must before," a slightly impish turn touching to her dark eyes," my guards discover how poorly their eyes are at of watching me. May you day be of well." Another bow of the head is given before the ethereal woman ghosts back to the inn and disappears within.

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