Assignment #2
The broad passageways outside Lord Mitali’s apartments are lit by the sunshine that streams in through unshuttered windows, dust motes dancing in the light. The small tables that hold decorative artefacts have been pushed safely to one side, leaving the long, wide corridor empty. At each end, a pair of priceless chairs have been set up an armspan apart -- they provide goals for the game in progress. At High Reaches, debate rages of renegade wings and Igenite ‘leaders. At Southern Boll, the world has narrowed to eight laughing men, a ball, and a pair of goals.
They are related; nothing else could explain their similarities. Gleaming white smiles against olive skin, shocks of black, curling hair, handsome features that play slightly differently on each face. Similar, too, their manner; easy confidence, laughter. They are entitled, and they are cocksure.
If there are rules, they are not readily apparent. Sefton is racing up the hallway in pursuit of another man. Taller and thinner than he, his cousin Yannel is all sharp edges, and he has paused, arrogant, to kick their ball up into the air. It bounces off his head towards his youngest brother. Rali is uncontainable; his too-long curls fall into his eyes as he wrestles with a man who might be his twin, but is in fact his cousin, ready to contest the ball when it lands. Mittan is shouting, his words lost in laughter as he tries to elbow Rali aside. He’s still protesting a goal given up ten minutes ago, although his shouts are drowned out by Kelar.
Kelar is just a little shorter than Sefton, a little slighter, but disarmingly similar to his older brother. He stands before the goals, laughing, cat-calling, taunting the man who stands at the other end in the same position -- Tayan does not want to be in goals, this much is clear, for he’s dancing from foot to foot, unable to contain the agony of being kept from play, nearly lured from his place by his opposite number’s shouts.
Sefton catches up with Yannel, both arms wrapping around the other man’s waist as the Headmaster throws himself to the ground, bringing his thin cousin with him. They slide along the floor, smacking into the legs of the stockiest of the eight. Freyan yelps, caught unawares, but he’s quick to turn and throw himself down onto the pile, drawing howls from the other two.
Merrik is both the oldest and the largest, although his turn of speed belies his size. His bare feet provide good traction as he jogs up from where he was standing by Tayan’s goals. There’s nothing more than a bellow of warning before he adds his body to the pile, the four men rolling over and over as they grapple laughingly for a position on top of the stack. Kelar manages only a step toward them before Tayan takes his cue, and it’s only moments before both goalkeepers have added their weight to the equation.
Rali and Mittan are still wrestling for the ball, and it’s nearly half a minute before their two curly heads come up and the two register the fact that they are now the only ones still engaged in the game. They stop, exchange glances, and only seconds later all eight are engaged in an all-out wrestling match that soon becomes a scramble for the ball as the game resumes again.
By the window, a lad of no more than ten is perched on one of the wide ledges, his nose pressed dutifully to the pane, the occasional wistful glance stolen at the scuffle behind him. "They're coming!" the boy cries as the reason for his post slips into view, "Lordship and the Master Smith!" His shrill alert brings silence in its wake followed by a wholly undignified scramble as the eight men come to their feet, climbing over each other as they right themselves. "Shards, my shirt," Sefton mutters, one hand raking his curls into some sort of order as he surveys the damage -- two buttons missing, and a tear where one arm joins the body. What happens next might almost be rehearsed: a quick, eight-way survey is conducted, and Kelar's shirt is wordlessly elected the best fit and the most intact. He begins to peel it off while the other six break into a jog. Just half a minute later, ornamental tables are returned to their proper homes, chairs are back in place, and order is restored. It's almost as though they've done this before.
As Lord Mitali and Master Derien round the corner toward the Lord’s apartments, Sefton is walking to meet them, wearing one of his easy, composed grins. Seven men are disappearing around the far corner, trailed by a boy holding a ball.
With thanks to Roa for proofing it, and helping out my tired brain.