@swiftscion sent: It happened the moment Ayra decided to turn tail from her fight: Larcei had hopped off the fence she was spectating from, and stomped her way over to where she knew mother would wind up next. She wore no smile, bore no pride. Her glove-wrapped fingers twitched with pulses of indignation as she strode, and on a number of occasions she brusquely passed someone by without apologizing for colliding shoulders. She had a mission. She flew like an arrow. … “Can’t believe you actually held back on ‘em,” she snorts, greeting her old lady with a sardonic smirk by the med tents. Ayra doesn’t look particularly injured by Larcei’s inspection, so she assumes she’ll be helping the other casualties in their cots. Or, in other words, that she has time to kill. “We both saw the way those kids fought; if you went out at full strength, they wouldn’t have stood a chance. ‘No idea why you didn’t just knock ‘em all flat and give those guys something to train for..” She rights her posture and dares to stare straight into Ayra’s eyes — bearing witness to a perfect reflection of her own. It isn’t just the eyes, either. The blood, the stance, the breathing, the forms — Larcei emulates everything of her mother with the intention of succeeding it. She isn’t blind enough to draw her sword here & now, knowing well that she’d lose, but she tries to twist her gaze like she could gain an edge on her. “Don’t even think of trying that with me, alright? Even if we’re on the same side, you’re not allowed to pull punches.” The implication that they’d clash, even fighting together, need not be elaborated upon. But there is trust in her making the declaration: that they really could infight, and still be on the winning side of any real battle. Because together, they’re unstoppable.
Amidst the noise and clangor in Gronder Field it’s hard to pick up on any one set of footfalls, no matter how familiar or how ponderous. What gives her daughter’s presence away, then, is the glare boring into Ayra’s back. As such, when she turns in time to witness Larcei stomping over she feels no surprise whatsoever.
What she feels is a swell of utter fondness, though she knows that showing it would only gall her poor girl more. Her expression remains neutral, inscrutable in that way so often reserved for anyone but her loved ones, and she listens to her daughter complain without interrupting (a task made easier by the fact that sweet Larcei is just as straightforward as her mother).
Although, naturally, she knows where this is going. It was obvious from the first sentence, and that is the second reason why she feels such fondness. Though the memory of her own youth is vague, she herself might well have voiced similar frustrations to Isaach Castle’s master-at-arms; her dear uncle, may the gods rest his soul.
Be that as it may: however many their similarities, this unrestrained fire is wholly Larcei’s own. Her wilful gaze is met head-on, needless to say, with steady coolness. Oh, the mother has plenty fire in her own right; but hers has been tempered by birthright and by hardship, whereas the daughter’s continues to shine with reckless brightness. Precious though that brightness may be Ayra is unrelenting in her own hard way, and so the girl yields eventually; or, at least, comes close to that. Ah, the arrogance of youth.
With their private contest finished Ayra laughs at last, couldn’t not: That demand is incredibly endearing. Still smirking, she reaches to muss up Larcei’s hair.
“This is your punishment for speaking out of turn to a professor,” she teases. “Any other kid would face me in front of their classmates... but, of course, that would be a privilege for you.
And there’s my reason: You respond best to a challenge, darling, but others benefit from incentive. And as I told Sanaki, I fight not to win but to teach. So worry not, my star, I would never go easy on you. Having said that, Larcei...” She shakes her head, but her fond smile ruins even the attempt at chiding and so she gives up altogether, reaching to entwine their arms and setting off towards a healer.
“If we were on the same side I would be pulling all the punches, young lady. As your mother I’d gladly face you still, but as your teacher?” She laughs again. “I would never hear the end of it from the principal. Spare me, if you would.”
