Her

Nov. 26th, 2010 01:04 am
zodiacal_light: Crack: Because Numair's Gift is a shameless slut. (crack)
"I swear to Mithros, Numair," Lindhall said, reeling on his stool. Only a quick grab by the other mage, whose reflexes, paradoxically, sharpened when tipsy, saved him from falling clear off his seat. "She's the most beautiful thing in the world."

Numair nodded, plastering his most sincere look of sincerity on his face. He didn't think he succeeded too well, judging by the look Lindhall was giving him, and he suspected he was also being redundant. For good measure, he tried on a smile.

"Mithros, Numair, how is it you manage to win over the ladies with a grimace like that?" Lindhall asked, taking another long swig from his tankard.

Numair was starting to regret going drinking with Lindhall. His smile faded as he registered a faint pounding in his temples; he glared into the depths of his ale. He wasn't supposed to get a headache until after he'd finished drinking.

"Much better!" Lindhall said, grinning at Numair's sullen expression, and damn him, but he actually sounded genuinely cheerful. "The brooding look fits your whole mysterious-mageyness better anyway, Arram. Goes with the whole pretentious name and swoopy black robe and dramatic nose and all." He nearly clocked Numair upside the head with the tankard when demonstrating the robe's supposed swoopiness.

Numair grabbed Lindhall's arm and repositioned it in a safer place, and incidentally dragged the older man's attention back to his unfinished ale. Lindhall sipped it meditatively while Numair ran a finger down his own nose and squinted at his watery - ale-y? - reflection. What, by Shakith, was wrong with his nose?

"Anyway," said Lindhall, thankfully dropping the matter of Numair's dramatic nose and not-so-thankfully going back to his previous topic of conversation. "She's just… She's gorgeous, Numair, just gorgeous. Curves in all the right places," he said, drunkenly motioning in the air in front of him. Judging by the arcs he described, this girl was very well-endowed indeed.

Numair nodded and hummed agreement when Lindhall eyed him suspiciously. Mollified, Lindhall went back to rhapsodizing about his new love.

"She's just … perfect, you know?" Lindhall had the absolute soppiest grin on his face. "Not too big, not too small, sharp as a razor, and, most importantly," he stopped to take another pull of his ale, "she's been with me through thick and thin, all the way from…" Here Lindhall paused, looking around the nearly-empty pub warily. He caught Numair's eye, looking more suspicious than ever, and shrugged meaningfully.

Numair snorted. Had there been anyone still in the room, they would all now know Lindhall was hiding something. "I know," Numair said at Lindhall's meaningful stare. Then Numair's brain caught up with him, and he turned to stare at his old mentor. "Wait. Lindhall?"

The other mage turned to regard him suspiciously, nose buried in his tankard. "What?"

"I thought you came down alone."

Lindhall choked on his ale, sputtered, and dissolved into a fit of laughter that nearly knocked him backwards off the stool. "Mithros, Numair, you didn't think I was talking about a person, did you?" At Numair's utterly confused expression, Lindhall doubled over, pounding the table, and gasped out, "I was talking about my axe!"

That settled it, Numair thought. He was never, ever going drinking with Lindhall again.

Problems

Nov. 26th, 2010 12:41 am
zodiacal_light: Humour: Because angst is not jolly. (Default)
Eirik Ludviksra's first encounter with serious magic came during an unfortunate raid on Tortall, when his idiot chief decided the City of the Gods was a ripe plum for the taking. Only some fast action, and a half-remembered charm his grandma'd taught him, saved his life. And his axe.

Eirik's second encounter with Tortallan magic came during the very next raid, when he had the misfortune of facing down a mage-knight, who also had the high ground, damn him. A blow of his axe had disarmed him, shattering his blade and taking one finger clean off, but the knight had snatched up his broken sword and used it to channel a bolt of pure, rose-red magic; a quick whistle of the old protective charm took care of that. But Eirik, beyond pissed at the unfairness of knights who were magic, too, whistled another tune, an old childhood lullaby made eerie by his pitch, and nearly fainted in shock when a thick gray fog streamed off of him and surrounded the enemy, knocking him out cold.

(Ok, so Eirik wasn't the manliest Scanran ever. So what?)

It was his father, later, who told him he needed to study magic, if he had enough to whistle up a sleep. Eirik sort of wanted to (come on, magic was cool!), but on the other hand, he'd never hear the end of it from Lars or the others. And he'd just been getting somewhere with that overhand throw, too.

But his father was his father, and so Eirik found himself on the road through Galla, approaching the Tortallan border, Grandma's battle axe strapped securely to his back and his clothes in his mother's old battered satchel, which she'd spent the whole past week fussing over, stitching a new embroidery on it for luck.

He stopped just shy of the border as another problem presented itself. He had to go through Tortall to get to Carthak. He was tall, pale, and obviously Scanran, with the most Scanran name his parents had been able to think up, and he was carrying a battle axe. Scanran name and no axe, and he'd probably be fine. Axe and a non-Scanran name, likewise. Eirik dropped his head into his hands. What to do?

He looked at the edge of the axe over his shoulder. It was his Grandma's, like it had been her grandfather's before her. She'd entrusted it to him, so no matter how awkward it was, he couldn't just ditch it in some godforsaken Gallan marsh.

The name, then, Eirik thought. It'll be hard to remember to answer to a new one. Eirik sighed. There was nothing for it. Looking about him, he used the reedy Gallan landscape and his patchy Common to come up with a somewhat appropriate name.

Hm. He might have one. Yes, it'd work.

Pushing off the rickety sign for some godforsaken town called Lindhall, the mage formerly known as Eirik proceeded south.

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zodiacal_light: Humour: Because angst is not jolly. (Default)
Alix

October 2013

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