SaDiablo Hall, Dhemlan, Kaeleer
Jaenelle was back from Little Terreille. It was like the first time all over again. The fear, the vulnerability, the flashes of the deep rage stemming from the rape that Jaenelle intellectually understood had happened but couldn't remember...They spilled from Jaenelle like a torrent, a psychic witchstorm that Karla couldn't counter and refused to tell Jaenelle she was projecting. If she couldn't help Jaenelle through the pain, the least she could do was share it. They'd clung to each other's hands, hard enough to bruise, and Karla blinked back burning tears while Jaenelle enumerated the dozens of little slights, insults, and humiliations she was forced to endure in Little Terreille, all aimed to bruise a young girl's ego and make her susceptible to a more intimate brutality when she was a little older or less protected.
Darkness, Karla wished she didn't understand that behavior so completely; wished that she hadn't seen it enacted every day in Glacia when she lived with Hobart and his so-called Ruling Council.
Though, from Jaenelle's descriptions, the Blood in Little Terreille used their weapons with a subtle finesse that Hobart couldn't hope to match. Karla didn't want to think how long they'd been playing their games or about the young witches who had paid the price for it.
Finally, after several hours, Jaenelle sank into an exhausted sleep. Karla watched, skin tight and drawn around her eyes, but the nightmares didn't return. She wasn’t sure whether it was the heart-to-heart that they'd shared or her earlier siphoning of Jaenelle's memories that helped, but the trauma stayed deep below the surface. Her rest wasn't peaceful by any means, but she neither spoke nor writhed nor sobbed in her sleep. Karla, however, nearly cried in relief. She hadn't been certain she could bring herself to take away those memories again.
Karla wished she could also take a nap, but the emotions that Jaenelle had woken within her were riding her much too hard. She needed something to do, something hard and strenuous that wouldn't let her think too much. Something that could work her body into such a state of exhaustion that she wouldn't feel like crying or screaming or rending.
Such a volatile combination of emotions needed only the slightest spark to set it all ablaze.
That spark came in the form of Lucivar, stepping in front of her as she descended the stairs. He didn't say a word--didn't need to. His posture and expression said it all: he wasn't going to let her pass.
“Move,” she commanded.
Unsurprisingly, Lucivar did no such thing, simply crossed his arms and looked at her.
“I told you to move!” The same non-result.
She tried to move around him, but was confronted by a Ebon-Gray shield she couldn't hope to pass. She attempted to shove him, but it was about as effective as shoving on his shield; they were both hard, strong, and completely unyielding. All of her frustration and anger began boiling up, focusing on this stupid, wretched male who seemed determined to keep her on the stairs against her will.
“Damn your wings, you idiot, Eyrien bastard! Let me go!” Karla yelled.
“Prick,” Lucivar corrected.
“What?”
“Never mind,” he said, shaking his head. “Instead, why don't you tell me where you're going?” His voice was deceptively mild; it wasn't really a suggestion.
“To the stables,” Karla snapped, glaring. “I want to go riding.”
“You're going to hurt yourself, or worse, you're going to hurt a horse,” Lucivar said, still refusing to shift an inch. “You're going to run the poor beast into the ground, the bitchy mood you're in.”
“Bitchy? Bitchy? I'll show you bitchy,” Karla scathed. How dare he dismiss what she was feeling as simple bitchiness, like she was some petulant child denied a treat. It was like talking to Arthur, if Arthur was a Warlord Prince with 1700 more years of experience in being snotty. “Listen to me you bloody son of a gutter whore, and don't you ever condescend to me like that. Just because you've got a cock swinging between those legs of yours doesn't mean that you can just use me as you please! You don't own me, you can't control me, and even if bullying--and breaking--females is the only way you can try.” Her voice grew thick and tears pricked at her eyes, but she dashed them away with an impatient hand. Not entirely relevant accusations for the argument at hand, but she was too full of Glacia and Little Terreille to stop.
Lucivar seemed about to say something, but when he caught sight of those tears, he paused. Then his face turned bored and sort of loftily superior, as he sneered, “Really? Tell me what you really think.”
One day, Karla would learn that Eyriens had a love of marching, balls out, onto any kind of battlefield--and an equal love of dragging all and sundry with them. For today, however, she simply took the bait and launched into a harangue about males, all of her fear and resentment and hatred welling up from a dark place inside her and spewing out in the form of barbed words and vicious accusations.
Lucivar listened raptly, face sliding back into its neutral expression again, while Karla ranted. She lasted about a good eight, perhaps nine minutes before she ran out of profanity or nasty things to say. Once she began repeating herself, Lucivar picked her up, tossed her over his shoulder, and hauled her outside onto the great expanse of the manicured lawn. Perhaps her shrieking into his ear and banging at him with her fists were the reason behind his less-than-ceremonious dumping Karla down on the soft ground outside. “Here,” he said, calling in a pair of unbladed Eyren sticks and handing one to her. “Hit me.”
“What?” Karla asked, too confused to say anything else.
“Get up off your skinny ass and hit me,” Lucivar said slowly, like he was speaking to a small and rather simple child.
The ‘skinny ass’ comment had Karla leaping to her feet to do just that. Lucivar had that kind of charm. She swung at him, aiming for his thigh and hoping to leave an ugly bruise behind. Just as she was about to connect, Lucivar brought his own stick up. The motion looked easy, almost relaxed, but the resulting impact jarred her arms enough to make her drop her weapon.
“Pick it up,” he ordered. “Rule number one-you never drop your weapon. Especially if you haven't cleaned it off. Never forget that.”
Karla, far too pissed off to really listen, was already snatching up her stick and swinging again. This time, Lucivar caught it in one hand and, with a quick yank, pulled it out of her hands. Karla tried to yank back, but only landed on her ass again. “Told you,” he taunted. “You need to build up more muscle.”
“Prick,” Karla muttered.
“That's what they call me,” Lucivar said, looking almost genial. He tossed the stick back at her. “Again.”
For three quarters of an hour, Lucivar laughed at her and insulted her and let her try to whack him one. He kept pushing and pushing while she raged and cried and bitched; pushed until finally her muscles and emotions gave out and she just stood there, limbs trembling, unable to lift the stick again, but holding onto it so tightly that her knuckles were white.
“Karla,” he said, and for the first time that afternoon, his voice was gentle. “You can drop the stick now.”
Karla brought her head up and bared her teeth at him.
“I apologize,” he said, holding his hand out. “You're right, that would be inappropriate after I told you not to. I meant, you can give the stick to me now.”
Karla handed the stick over, carefully prying her fingers off. Lucivar vanished them and stepped forward, offering his arm carefully in accordance to Protocol. She wouldn't have been able to get back to the house without it, but would have snarled if he'd simply tried to help her in. But offering his arm in formality wasn't completely different from implying she needed his help. Really.
At the door, Lucivar handed her over to Beale (whose usual stoicism couldn't hide the concern in his eyes), and gave her a slight bow. “Lady,” he said, his voice holding more respect than he'd ever shown before. Then turned to leave--but not before glancing back over his shoulder and adding, “You really are too skinny.”
Karla was too tired to reply with anything other than a rude gesture before gratefully being led away by Beale. He assured her that Helene had already drawn her a hot bath and there was plenty of time to soak before dinner would be served.
Later, as she was letting the water sooth away her aches and pains, she wondered about the change in Lucivar's behavior. He seemed so…well, beating her up with sticks wasn't exactly nice…but almost…friendly towards her, when before they had existed in a state of cordial annoyance and dislike. More importantly, however, she wondered about the hot fury that had entered his eyes and his psychic scent from the moment Jaenelle had come home with the message, “Tell Lucivar I used my knee.”
[NFI, NFB, OOC always welcome.]
Darkness, Karla wished she didn't understand that behavior so completely; wished that she hadn't seen it enacted every day in Glacia when she lived with Hobart and his so-called Ruling Council.
Though, from Jaenelle's descriptions, the Blood in Little Terreille used their weapons with a subtle finesse that Hobart couldn't hope to match. Karla didn't want to think how long they'd been playing their games or about the young witches who had paid the price for it.
Finally, after several hours, Jaenelle sank into an exhausted sleep. Karla watched, skin tight and drawn around her eyes, but the nightmares didn't return. She wasn’t sure whether it was the heart-to-heart that they'd shared or her earlier siphoning of Jaenelle's memories that helped, but the trauma stayed deep below the surface. Her rest wasn't peaceful by any means, but she neither spoke nor writhed nor sobbed in her sleep. Karla, however, nearly cried in relief. She hadn't been certain she could bring herself to take away those memories again.
Karla wished she could also take a nap, but the emotions that Jaenelle had woken within her were riding her much too hard. She needed something to do, something hard and strenuous that wouldn't let her think too much. Something that could work her body into such a state of exhaustion that she wouldn't feel like crying or screaming or rending.
Such a volatile combination of emotions needed only the slightest spark to set it all ablaze.
That spark came in the form of Lucivar, stepping in front of her as she descended the stairs. He didn't say a word--didn't need to. His posture and expression said it all: he wasn't going to let her pass.
“Move,” she commanded.
Unsurprisingly, Lucivar did no such thing, simply crossed his arms and looked at her.
“I told you to move!” The same non-result.
She tried to move around him, but was confronted by a Ebon-Gray shield she couldn't hope to pass. She attempted to shove him, but it was about as effective as shoving on his shield; they were both hard, strong, and completely unyielding. All of her frustration and anger began boiling up, focusing on this stupid, wretched male who seemed determined to keep her on the stairs against her will.
“Damn your wings, you idiot, Eyrien bastard! Let me go!” Karla yelled.
“Prick,” Lucivar corrected.
“What?”
“Never mind,” he said, shaking his head. “Instead, why don't you tell me where you're going?” His voice was deceptively mild; it wasn't really a suggestion.
“To the stables,” Karla snapped, glaring. “I want to go riding.”
“You're going to hurt yourself, or worse, you're going to hurt a horse,” Lucivar said, still refusing to shift an inch. “You're going to run the poor beast into the ground, the bitchy mood you're in.”
“Bitchy? Bitchy? I'll show you bitchy,” Karla scathed. How dare he dismiss what she was feeling as simple bitchiness, like she was some petulant child denied a treat. It was like talking to Arthur, if Arthur was a Warlord Prince with 1700 more years of experience in being snotty. “Listen to me you bloody son of a gutter whore, and don't you ever condescend to me like that. Just because you've got a cock swinging between those legs of yours doesn't mean that you can just use me as you please! You don't own me, you can't control me, and even if bullying--and breaking--females is the only way you can try.” Her voice grew thick and tears pricked at her eyes, but she dashed them away with an impatient hand. Not entirely relevant accusations for the argument at hand, but she was too full of Glacia and Little Terreille to stop.
Lucivar seemed about to say something, but when he caught sight of those tears, he paused. Then his face turned bored and sort of loftily superior, as he sneered, “Really? Tell me what you really think.”
One day, Karla would learn that Eyriens had a love of marching, balls out, onto any kind of battlefield--and an equal love of dragging all and sundry with them. For today, however, she simply took the bait and launched into a harangue about males, all of her fear and resentment and hatred welling up from a dark place inside her and spewing out in the form of barbed words and vicious accusations.
Lucivar listened raptly, face sliding back into its neutral expression again, while Karla ranted. She lasted about a good eight, perhaps nine minutes before she ran out of profanity or nasty things to say. Once she began repeating herself, Lucivar picked her up, tossed her over his shoulder, and hauled her outside onto the great expanse of the manicured lawn. Perhaps her shrieking into his ear and banging at him with her fists were the reason behind his less-than-ceremonious dumping Karla down on the soft ground outside. “Here,” he said, calling in a pair of unbladed Eyren sticks and handing one to her. “Hit me.”
“What?” Karla asked, too confused to say anything else.
“Get up off your skinny ass and hit me,” Lucivar said slowly, like he was speaking to a small and rather simple child.
The ‘skinny ass’ comment had Karla leaping to her feet to do just that. Lucivar had that kind of charm. She swung at him, aiming for his thigh and hoping to leave an ugly bruise behind. Just as she was about to connect, Lucivar brought his own stick up. The motion looked easy, almost relaxed, but the resulting impact jarred her arms enough to make her drop her weapon.
“Pick it up,” he ordered. “Rule number one-you never drop your weapon. Especially if you haven't cleaned it off. Never forget that.”
Karla, far too pissed off to really listen, was already snatching up her stick and swinging again. This time, Lucivar caught it in one hand and, with a quick yank, pulled it out of her hands. Karla tried to yank back, but only landed on her ass again. “Told you,” he taunted. “You need to build up more muscle.”
“Prick,” Karla muttered.
“That's what they call me,” Lucivar said, looking almost genial. He tossed the stick back at her. “Again.”
For three quarters of an hour, Lucivar laughed at her and insulted her and let her try to whack him one. He kept pushing and pushing while she raged and cried and bitched; pushed until finally her muscles and emotions gave out and she just stood there, limbs trembling, unable to lift the stick again, but holding onto it so tightly that her knuckles were white.
“Karla,” he said, and for the first time that afternoon, his voice was gentle. “You can drop the stick now.”
Karla brought her head up and bared her teeth at him.
“I apologize,” he said, holding his hand out. “You're right, that would be inappropriate after I told you not to. I meant, you can give the stick to me now.”
Karla handed the stick over, carefully prying her fingers off. Lucivar vanished them and stepped forward, offering his arm carefully in accordance to Protocol. She wouldn't have been able to get back to the house without it, but would have snarled if he'd simply tried to help her in. But offering his arm in formality wasn't completely different from implying she needed his help. Really.
At the door, Lucivar handed her over to Beale (whose usual stoicism couldn't hide the concern in his eyes), and gave her a slight bow. “Lady,” he said, his voice holding more respect than he'd ever shown before. Then turned to leave--but not before glancing back over his shoulder and adding, “You really are too skinny.”
Karla was too tired to reply with anything other than a rude gesture before gratefully being led away by Beale. He assured her that Helene had already drawn her a hot bath and there was plenty of time to soak before dinner would be served.
Later, as she was letting the water sooth away her aches and pains, she wondered about the change in Lucivar's behavior. He seemed so…well, beating her up with sticks wasn't exactly nice…but almost…friendly towards her, when before they had existed in a state of cordial annoyance and dislike. More importantly, however, she wondered about the hot fury that had entered his eyes and his psychic scent from the moment Jaenelle had come home with the message, “Tell Lucivar I used my knee.”
[NFI, NFB, OOC always welcome.]