First love: The sun scorches the sky clean and I see you as if for the first time.
Forty years ago....
Oh he's poetry in motion. He moves like water flows - tall even for his race, sapling-slender, just as lithe. The robes that drape his form in the colours of spring (more shades of green than one could count) are surely rough compared to his skin, so pale the fine blue veins beneath show through. Vellum-blond hair hangs free to his waist and frames the sharp angles of his face. The glacial perfection of his expression (or rather, lack thereof) is the envy of all who play the intricate political games of Silvermoon, and his eyes, like topaz trapped in ice, are just as guarded. Seldom heard, his voice is a low murmur none ignore, a sound like velvet on the skin.
So easy to imagine those long-fingered hands trailing down bare sides and coming to rest on the hard curve of hips-
"...Would assume with how many times she's said- hey. HEY." Scynilla Lastdawn smacks her older brother in the arm. "Ori are you even listening to me?!"
"Agh, hey!" Oriseus flinches as his attention snapped to another blond - a few years his junior (in her early sixties, still a debutante for all intents and purposes), honey-gold hair teased into curls, and blathering some gossip about the latest scandal-to-come. The young man scowls at her and balls up a fist at his side. "Sinny do you mind. W-what does it ev-even begin t-to matter to me whom Miss Ivoryblade sees?"
Sinny rolls her eyes. "I wasn't talking about Velizara, Ori, if you'd been listening you'd know that."
The older Lastdawn mutters into his drink. He still could care less. The glint of green robes draws his eyes away already, and a foolish little smirk curls his lips. His sister follows his gaze and suddenly it makes sense. Painted lips curl into a similar expression though there's far more mischief in hers; Scynilla's tone becomes breezy. "Don't you see enough of him at the estate? It isn't often that you deign leave the gardens and join these little affairs, dear brother; the least you could do is pay attention to someone other than your Master Summerlight."
"I shall attend whom I please," Oriseus mutters flatly.
"Let him be, Sinny," chirps a new voice. As always Lamethil's timing is impeccable, and as always, the mageling's presence sets the hairs on the back of Oriseus' neck on end. Poncy little shit. It seems there isn't a Silvacce alive that lacks that particular air of smirking superiority that makes them sound as though the very existence of anyone not from their House is little more than a quaint amusement. "It's obvious he only has eyes for Thaldarian. Look at him, the poor creature is positively smitten. Your time would be better engaged by someone who only has eyes for you tonight."
The fact that Scynilla bats her eyes and puts on her very best gold-digging smile for him only makes Ori want to deck him harder.
Lamethil is right, though. He only has eyes for Thaldarian. The Sun King himself could be in attendance of this ridiculous soirée and all Ori would be able to think about would be him. A man he saw almost every day, yes, the man to whom he'd apprenticed the last twenty years; a man whose very presence still made his breath catch in his throat, whose closeness made him tremble.
It's in this moment, as his sister and that stupid mage swish off to dance or gossip or bloody whatever, as he stares at the master botanist three social huddles away, that the realisation becomes blindingly, perfectly clear: he's in love.
He's in love with Thaldarian Summerlight.
With almost eerie timing and precision, the tall man glances away from conversation to lock those beautiful, ice-blue eyes with his apprentice's lavender. The faintest nod to one side beckons him over.
Oh Light. Oh Light. Oh crap.
Oriseus drains the remaining quarter of his wine glass in one pull, takes a deep breath, and crosses the floor to stand at his master's side.
(( cross-posted ))
Oh he's poetry in motion. He moves like water flows - tall even for his race, sapling-slender, just as lithe. The robes that drape his form in the colours of spring (more shades of green than one could count) are surely rough compared to his skin, so pale the fine blue veins beneath show through. Vellum-blond hair hangs free to his waist and frames the sharp angles of his face. The glacial perfection of his expression (or rather, lack thereof) is the envy of all who play the intricate political games of Silvermoon, and his eyes, like topaz trapped in ice, are just as guarded. Seldom heard, his voice is a low murmur none ignore, a sound like velvet on the skin.
So easy to imagine those long-fingered hands trailing down bare sides and coming to rest on the hard curve of hips-
"...Would assume with how many times she's said- hey. HEY." Scynilla Lastdawn smacks her older brother in the arm. "Ori are you even listening to me?!"
"Agh, hey!" Oriseus flinches as his attention snapped to another blond - a few years his junior (in her early sixties, still a debutante for all intents and purposes), honey-gold hair teased into curls, and blathering some gossip about the latest scandal-to-come. The young man scowls at her and balls up a fist at his side. "Sinny do you mind. W-what does it ev-even begin t-to matter to me whom Miss Ivoryblade sees?"
Sinny rolls her eyes. "I wasn't talking about Velizara, Ori, if you'd been listening you'd know that."
The older Lastdawn mutters into his drink. He still could care less. The glint of green robes draws his eyes away already, and a foolish little smirk curls his lips. His sister follows his gaze and suddenly it makes sense. Painted lips curl into a similar expression though there's far more mischief in hers; Scynilla's tone becomes breezy. "Don't you see enough of him at the estate? It isn't often that you deign leave the gardens and join these little affairs, dear brother; the least you could do is pay attention to someone other than your Master Summerlight."
"I shall attend whom I please," Oriseus mutters flatly.
"Let him be, Sinny," chirps a new voice. As always Lamethil's timing is impeccable, and as always, the mageling's presence sets the hairs on the back of Oriseus' neck on end. Poncy little shit. It seems there isn't a Silvacce alive that lacks that particular air of smirking superiority that makes them sound as though the very existence of anyone not from their House is little more than a quaint amusement. "It's obvious he only has eyes for Thaldarian. Look at him, the poor creature is positively smitten. Your time would be better engaged by someone who only has eyes for you tonight."
The fact that Scynilla bats her eyes and puts on her very best gold-digging smile for him only makes Ori want to deck him harder.
Lamethil is right, though. He only has eyes for Thaldarian. The Sun King himself could be in attendance of this ridiculous soirée and all Ori would be able to think about would be him. A man he saw almost every day, yes, the man to whom he'd apprenticed the last twenty years; a man whose very presence still made his breath catch in his throat, whose closeness made him tremble.
It's in this moment, as his sister and that stupid mage swish off to dance or gossip or bloody whatever, as he stares at the master botanist three social huddles away, that the realisation becomes blindingly, perfectly clear: he's in love.
He's in love with Thaldarian Summerlight.
With almost eerie timing and precision, the tall man glances away from conversation to lock those beautiful, ice-blue eyes with his apprentice's lavender. The faintest nod to one side beckons him over.
Oh Light. Oh Light. Oh crap.
Oriseus drains the remaining quarter of his wine glass in one pull, takes a deep breath, and crosses the floor to stand at his master's side.
(( cross-posted ))