#veiledowager

[mxlusine]

❰❰ SHOULDER ❱❱ sender touches receiver on the shoulder

Almedha never gets used to breaching the monastery's gate, knowing that He is certainly near. She can feel Him getting closer with every step she takes, but she must not see Him, not like this...

Ah, there is another presence that stirs Almedha's blood. There is a woman standing near the pond with her back turned; even without her fearsome horns that any foolish beorc might write off as a headpiece, Almedha knows the scent and aura of a dragon. Even one far from her own homeland.

She doesn't touch many people these days. She fluctuates wildly from a desperation to reach out for anyone nearby, to visceral disgust at the thought of anyone being close to her. But this woman...

All of these beorc are so fragile. So careless and meek. To be so bold with a stranger is a great risk, but if anyone in this place may understand me -- !

Almedha's hand reaches for the woman's bare shoulder, just shy of her silky silver hair. "Pardon me," she calls softly; her veil is her only protection. "Do you...have a moment?"

ask meme: no longer accepting!

She ought to cut the offending hand right off.

She thinks about it, of course. Thinks about whether she ought to use magic or steel. Thinks, too, what the repercussions might be if she pled self-defense, or surprise, or a tragic and terrible habit. Thinks it might be alright if she simply stopped at the bone. Thinks, and thinks, and thinks...

...How annoying, to have to even wonder about such things.

"No," Zephia answers, and though not necessarily unkindly, she brushes the woman's hand off her shoulder. "But I suppose that doesn't matter, at this point. What is it that you want? If you've come to complain about students dropping out of my class, you ought to speak with them, not me. It can't be helped if there are so many talentless children here at the academy."

Granted, it isn't as if she's been a very good teacher, either. She was born with magic already burning through her veins; it is different for the humans, who must rely on formulae and memory to achieve even her poorest results. So aside from the very few promising individuals who've caught her eye, the rest... well. Considering what she's used to doing with individuals who are of neither use nor worth to her, sending them running out of her classroom in tears is a mercy.

Truly.

[far-from-common]

❰❰ CRY ❱❱ sender cries in front of receiver

There's no reason for the prickling behind her eyes. Such a thing has never befallen her during an evening walk through town, but something has changed in the air. The way the wind rustles through the trees has stirred up something deep; the smell of petrichor on the breeze brings an unwelcome wave of nostalgia.

So beneath her veil, Almedha cries. She does not fight her tears; there is no one to fight them for. There is no shame, she reasons, in weeping. No one is around to justify it to.

Except...oh no.

Self-Indulgent Meme (Still accepting!)

A walk through the town is such a delightful activity, L’Arachel finds! Taking in the streets that are thinning out as people go about with their lives, having the chance to observe the various buildings, or the nature that interweaves them, taking in those earthly scents.

Getting to listen to all the marvelous sounds of a city; the barely audible chatter while passing near some houses, some outdoor animals running around, wind blowing through the trees, a maiden weeping, such lovely sounds.

Wait just one moment, a maiden weeping?

L’Arachel finds herself snapped back to awareness, realizing that right in front of her is a weeping lady. And it would not do, no it just would not do at all if she were to just keep on going about her way without trying to assist at all.

She walks over to the lady, holding out a fancy, personalized handkerchief (one of many, of course).

“Allow me to give you this. It may not stop the flow of emotions, but perhaps it can assist to some extent. And, similarly, if you require someone to spill your woe towards, I most humbly and graciously shall help, if you so desire.” She gives the woman a soft smile.

“Would you perhaps like to walk as we converse? Or, if you desire privacy, I know of quite the acceptable food establishment nearby that has some private seating.”

[pastbelow]

There is a small, warm voice, ringing out from an alley.

Almedha does not normally stroll through town during the day. She finds that every face she passes that ignores her only adds to her growing dread. More people mill about in the daylight hours, focused only on their menial tasks, but Almedha cannot visit shops in the dead of night.

So, it is a necessary discomfort. She wears her veil, lest the too-bright sun tip her annoyance over into unflattering territory. The day is calm; peaceful, she might even say. And that small, warm voice reaches her ears like a church bell.

Her feet follow, not needing direction. The voice gets louder, more resonant. It's a sweet, mumbling thing; not a performance meant for others' ears. Self-soothing.

There is a young man, perched on a crate, working at a stretched canvas. Wild blue bangs cascade over half of his face, but in that one visible eye...there is serenity, delight for his craft, and yet. Something else.

Almedha steps closer, beneath his notice. She simply must learn what is in this alley that the boy finds so enchanting that he must stop to paint it.

She follows his flitting gaze: a bird's nest, in a rafter. Three little eggs inside.

Her heart aches, and she cannot place why. She longs to ask if this boy is in need of anything - why is she always doing that, when she would rather be left alone? (If only someone would reach out, pay her any scrap of attention, her brokenness may heal.)

"Pardon," she says, so softly, hating to hear his song stop. "May I see?"

It's not until the alley goes silent in the wake of her question that it becomes clear to him he was singing. An old habit from the days of the war, that anyone who desired to seek him could find him, fetch him from his easel beside this uphill waterfall or that floating island—for dinner, or a spar, or stories by the campfire.

Of course, there are no such fantastical sights in Fodlan, and neither is there anyone who would search for him. But he should have known that doesn't mean no one would hear.

"Oh, sorry! Did I disturb you?" A step back towards the wall in surprise has his brush falling out of his hands, but leaves the half-finished painting in plain view. The watercolors are vibrant, but far more sheer than the actual scene in front of them, eggshell blue only a mere tint on the whites of the page. It looks as if the image was already fading, or if the artist himself hadn't been sure of the subject in the first place.

The veil hides much of her eyes, so a curious glance at her face reveals very little. Was she studying the drawing, or staring directly at him? Perhaps she's merely passing through to leave the garment back at home—the heavy blacks seemed somewhat out of place for the bright, sunny weather.

It's not really his place to speculate, anyway. "I only need the sketch, so I can move out of your way in a moment," he offers with a blank smile, picking up the brush carefully. "Though I can't say I'm satisfied with it as it is… It feels like something's missing."