#c:feivel

[ladyhierophant]

TIME: roughly three weeks prior to the tourney LOCATION: castle tyrholm; in a corridor nearby the receiving hall   STATUS: closed to @honor-among-th1eves​

With the laughter of the King and his court at her back, Kithri burned with humiliation as she spurned the lingering bard and walked with fast, heavy steps away from the receiving hall. The mage was all too aware of the feeling of the air on her scarcely-exposed skin, and her vision seemed blurred at the edges as she hurried in the direction of her room. She halted her path only when she took note of a trio of guardsmen who had caught her tail along the way -- no doubt the dogs of Captain Andros, who had taken to sending his soldiers to linger in her shadow as of late. 

Filled already with rage and robbed of any semblance of privacy after being subjected to degradation for the King’s pleasure, Kithri said nothing as her dark gaze settled on the three: she merely glowered for a silent moment before unleashing a torrent of flames from her gaping mouth in their direction. It was as close to a scream as she would allow herself, and she took some small pleasure in the way the sudden burst of flames forced the soldiers to back away several feet in an effort to avoid burning. Still, she had hoped that they would simply run -- and their decision to remain, albeit at a distance, rankled her. Kithri did not like the way that they stared -- she thought she could see them eyeing the scars which twisted painfully around her neck and arms.

“Run back to your master!” She yelled at them, “or there’ll be nothing left of you!”

[naenias]

☓ location: feivel’s office status: CLOSED ; @honor-among-th1eves​

Haunting has become habit. (Though she would argue that it wasn’t so much haunting as it was others being bothered by her quiet presence.) Waiting for Feivel to return to his office, there is no doubt in her mind that he will be bothered by finding her here. She leans into the discomfort she causes in others, often takes an odd comfort in the predictability of gaining such response; though she wonders if she were anyone else---felt anything more than indifference---if her heart would break by the notion of being feared. 

She doesn’t think too long about it. Instead, she focuses on the old leather spines that her fingers graze as they move along the bookshelf that now belonged to Feivel. She remembers the names of those who came before him, and which books they recommended to her during times that seem more like dreams these days. Just as she goes to pluck a book from the shelf, her attention is pulled by nails against stone. 

The hound finds her before the target of her interest does, and she watches with great enthusiasm as it goes from a placid creature to a snarling beast at the mere sight of her standing there in the office. The animal’s loyalty exists to its man, who may as well be its god--- it knows nothing of politics or magic; a noble trait, indeed.

“Hello Feivel,” she coos once the other has followed Gunport’s lead into the room. “Your beast has quite the nose.”