qujin because reasons
It's always humid when the garden finds itself moored outside Fisherman's Horizon. The tepid, fuggy night air turns sparring fists into sluggish open palms, fierce blows become weary slaps, until finally an exasperated instructor calls time until there's a breeze to get the kids moving again.
The heat seems to hold closely in the training centre, distilling amid the thick, tangled vines and creepers until they wilt and waver like things underwater.
There is a Centran history class today - held outside on the first floor balcony for fear of giving the students heatstroke - on things unearthed from the Centran ruins.
Fujin goes despite herself, telling herself that she needs fresh air, but feeling a needy, gnawing curiosity about things long buried. Even though Trepe is teaching, and even though Trepe is on The List.
Her public self is disgusted, at first, when Trepe begins the class with faeries. Fujin was never read to, as a child, and has no fondness for fairytales. Yet there's something in Trepe's face, solemnly reading from a children's book as if it were the book of Hyne, that compels Fujin, finally, to pay attention. It drives her gaze unwillingly from tracing her finger through the grime on the sill she's leaning on, and from kicking the ankles of the two whispering cadets in front of her. She watches, and she listens.
Trepe's a cold one; face like a doll's. Fujin, whose childhood playthings were stones and broken glass, fancies that if she were to step forward and slap her, that pretty face wouldn't redden, but shatter and crack. But there's a fire to her when she turns to old stories. It's like she really believes.
Fujin has always been a sucker for believers. That's probably why she stops kicking ankles and writing down names: Trepe has laid down, but not closed, the fat, leather-bound book she's been reading from and sits primly, ankles crossed, with her palms steepled together. She's still talking about faeries: how the people of Centra called themselves Nymians, and were the first to commune with Guardian Forces before anyone knew much about what they were.
"Just a trace of para-magical ability ran through the Nymians' blood," she's saying, "and yet they did so much with it. These aren't just children's stories." She pauses, levels her gaze at the class. "This was everyday life."
Two students at the front chuckle nervously, and Trepe pierces them with a glare. "Is something funny?"
They tremble into silence, but Trepe isn't finished. Finally one of them stutters out: "I- um- well, it's interesting, but um." He pauses, which is brave, because suddenly Trepe looks predatory. Fujin unconsciously leans forward to see better. " Uh- surely no one except a sorceress can do magic without Guardian Forces?"
Trepe's sudden, catlike smile takes Fujin by surprise a little. She leans back in the battered cafeteria chair that's serving as her podium, raises one hand, and then one eyebrow. Seems to change her mind about something.
Tbc because 8am
The heat seems to hold closely in the training centre, distilling amid the thick, tangled vines and creepers until they wilt and waver like things underwater.
There is a Centran history class today - held outside on the first floor balcony for fear of giving the students heatstroke - on things unearthed from the Centran ruins.
Fujin goes despite herself, telling herself that she needs fresh air, but feeling a needy, gnawing curiosity about things long buried. Even though Trepe is teaching, and even though Trepe is on The List.
Her public self is disgusted, at first, when Trepe begins the class with faeries. Fujin was never read to, as a child, and has no fondness for fairytales. Yet there's something in Trepe's face, solemnly reading from a children's book as if it were the book of Hyne, that compels Fujin, finally, to pay attention. It drives her gaze unwillingly from tracing her finger through the grime on the sill she's leaning on, and from kicking the ankles of the two whispering cadets in front of her. She watches, and she listens.
Trepe's a cold one; face like a doll's. Fujin, whose childhood playthings were stones and broken glass, fancies that if she were to step forward and slap her, that pretty face wouldn't redden, but shatter and crack. But there's a fire to her when she turns to old stories. It's like she really believes.
Fujin has always been a sucker for believers. That's probably why she stops kicking ankles and writing down names: Trepe has laid down, but not closed, the fat, leather-bound book she's been reading from and sits primly, ankles crossed, with her palms steepled together. She's still talking about faeries: how the people of Centra called themselves Nymians, and were the first to commune with Guardian Forces before anyone knew much about what they were.
"Just a trace of para-magical ability ran through the Nymians' blood," she's saying, "and yet they did so much with it. These aren't just children's stories." She pauses, levels her gaze at the class. "This was everyday life."
Two students at the front chuckle nervously, and Trepe pierces them with a glare. "Is something funny?"
They tremble into silence, but Trepe isn't finished. Finally one of them stutters out: "I- um- well, it's interesting, but um." He pauses, which is brave, because suddenly Trepe looks predatory. Fujin unconsciously leans forward to see better. " Uh- surely no one except a sorceress can do magic without Guardian Forces?"
Trepe's sudden, catlike smile takes Fujin by surprise a little. She leans back in the battered cafeteria chair that's serving as her podium, raises one hand, and then one eyebrow. Seems to change her mind about something.
Tbc because 8am