[Thread] Forced Wait
Characters: Leon Kennedy (OU), Sylvanas Windrunner (OU)
When: Endgame phase 2, during the ash-fall, after this conversation.
Where: A modest two-person office in, well, the office building.
Summary: The human and undead elf, confined to a small space with no outside communication, make the best of the lull in action by resting in shifts. There is ample time for reflection.
Warnings: Uh, none.
She listened until Leon's breathing slowed to a steady, restful rhythm. The general tried several more times to bring her communicator to life for more than a handful of seconds, but the skill was beyond her. Dissatisfied, Sylvanas stood and paced slowly about the small room, double-checking their hasty seals of old curtains, tape, and crumpled paper. Every few minutes she took the smallest breath to scent the air.
The dark ranger caught herself glancing at Leon more than was strictly necessary. She watched his body for tension and the small twitches that could indicate nightmares. Finally, his eyes began to move under their lids in a way that could not be faked. It meant the selfless human actually slept. Good.
Sylvanas begrudgingly admitted to herself that she had grown fond of the man. His absence had taught her that. In her role as queen of the Forsaken, she had had no time for sentimental self-reflection. Unlike some, she did not find it rewarding, and there was always someone or something requiring her attention in the city her cunning, luck, and the loyalty of her followers had made. Yet the way she responded to him caused an irritating itch in her undead soul, when left alone to think -- like now. It wasn't entirely the gratitude of a general to a common soldier, nor that of a queen to her one-man elite guard.
The concept of loyalty snagged in her thoughts. Leon was faithful to her in a way that would astound so many of the free undead, especially knowing his past. On a certain level it still confused the queen, and sometimes, she wondered...did his reverence for her run as deep as it seemed? Did a tiny seed of repulsion still sleep in his soul, waiting to be fed from some unknown action on her part? When she had first met him she classified him as a righteous type. That was why she had asked him to guard her that day: she knew he would keep his word without coercion or bribery. Afterward, the same sense of honor kept him stuck to her like a burr. Sylvanas hadn't understood then, but she did now: Leon needed something to believe in as badly as she needed others to believe in her, to make her will manifest. Even if her authority was a joke here, even if his ceaseless protection was often unnecessary. They had kept each other sane in this desolate place....And he had Melaka too, for a time. An all too brief time.
Her mind wandered through memories of Econtra as one idly flips through a familiar book: catching fragments here and there, sometimes lingering over a favorite passage. The itch in her soul persisted. Tired of getting nowhere, the ranger finally re-settled in her chair. Her back to her bodyguard, she listened with her long ears for the faint hiss of lethal ash seeping under the door or through the window frame. An hour later she paced again. Let the human sleep as much as he could. After the ash, she imagined there would be no time to rest like this.
When: Endgame phase 2, during the ash-fall, after this conversation.
Where: A modest two-person office in, well, the office building.
Summary: The human and undead elf, confined to a small space with no outside communication, make the best of the lull in action by resting in shifts. There is ample time for reflection.
Warnings: Uh, none.
She listened until Leon's breathing slowed to a steady, restful rhythm. The general tried several more times to bring her communicator to life for more than a handful of seconds, but the skill was beyond her. Dissatisfied, Sylvanas stood and paced slowly about the small room, double-checking their hasty seals of old curtains, tape, and crumpled paper. Every few minutes she took the smallest breath to scent the air.
The dark ranger caught herself glancing at Leon more than was strictly necessary. She watched his body for tension and the small twitches that could indicate nightmares. Finally, his eyes began to move under their lids in a way that could not be faked. It meant the selfless human actually slept. Good.
Sylvanas begrudgingly admitted to herself that she had grown fond of the man. His absence had taught her that. In her role as queen of the Forsaken, she had had no time for sentimental self-reflection. Unlike some, she did not find it rewarding, and there was always someone or something requiring her attention in the city her cunning, luck, and the loyalty of her followers had made. Yet the way she responded to him caused an irritating itch in her undead soul, when left alone to think -- like now. It wasn't entirely the gratitude of a general to a common soldier, nor that of a queen to her one-man elite guard.
The concept of loyalty snagged in her thoughts. Leon was faithful to her in a way that would astound so many of the free undead, especially knowing his past. On a certain level it still confused the queen, and sometimes, she wondered...did his reverence for her run as deep as it seemed? Did a tiny seed of repulsion still sleep in his soul, waiting to be fed from some unknown action on her part? When she had first met him she classified him as a righteous type. That was why she had asked him to guard her that day: she knew he would keep his word without coercion or bribery. Afterward, the same sense of honor kept him stuck to her like a burr. Sylvanas hadn't understood then, but she did now: Leon needed something to believe in as badly as she needed others to believe in her, to make her will manifest. Even if her authority was a joke here, even if his ceaseless protection was often unnecessary. They had kept each other sane in this desolate place....And he had Melaka too, for a time. An all too brief time.
Her mind wandered through memories of Econtra as one idly flips through a familiar book: catching fragments here and there, sometimes lingering over a favorite passage. The itch in her soul persisted. Tired of getting nowhere, the ranger finally re-settled in her chair. Her back to her bodyguard, she listened with her long ears for the faint hiss of lethal ash seeping under the door or through the window frame. An hour later she paced again. Let the human sleep as much as he could. After the ash, she imagined there would be no time to rest like this.