@weavinglight, thread converted from legacy here:

             Veil was quite enjoying the cooling effect of wet floor on skin. Climbing up the wall had been hard work after all. It was helping her think too, she wanted more of it. Veil sat off and shrugged off her jacket, throwing it somewhere—she wasn’t paying attention—this was followed by a peeling off of the shirt, which she also threw. She only kept on the undershirt because Shallan was insisting she stop. Something about making Adolin uncomfortable.

            She picked up the fallen pitcher and shoved it into Adolin’s hands before laying back down in the puddle. “Fill that up for me please, sugar cube. Cold water only.” Veil took a few moments more to gather her thoughts about all she, Shallan, and Radiant had seen that night. Between the three of them, there was a lot to sift through.

         “It happened out in the open, though there were apparently no witnesses, just a barmaid who happened upon him. She only saw the killer as they were running off. Weird that murderer would feel secure doing it in such an open space. Weirder still that the killer only took the least valuable objects off the thief.”

             Here, Veil raised her right hand and wiggled her fingers, where a golden signet ring gleamed from her thumb. It bore the glyphs of Aladar’s princedom. He’d reported it missing days ago, and in an effort to curb the chances of fraudulent authorizations being made, had halted the usual chain of command. He had to approve everything in person now. It was very annoying. Now here it was.

            “We handed over the body to Aladar’s men, but Shallan insisted we keep this until she can make sure this isn’t some kind of elaborate conspiracy on his part. Doesn’t trust him, something about a guy called Abrobadr…She’s an idiot, I’m sure he’s clear.”

—  || ♜♛

Adolin’s head is still high enough that Veil doesn’t bonk him in the nose or chin when she sits up with the abrupt speed of the sloshed, but her coat sleeve smacks him in the face as she flings it away. He reels momentarily, blinking, and the shirt that follows the coat sails off past his ear, landing on the bed with a near-noiseless rustle.

He can’t quite tell if ‘sugar cube’ is said in mockery, an attempt at endearment, or a mix of both, given that it’s coming from Veil. He’s inclined to believe she means well right now, though, and even if she doesn’t, she — and Shallan — could use some water after all of the alcohol.

He takes the pitcher and listens to her answer as he pads off to fill it up — thank engineers and the Almighty for the thorough plumbing network of the tower. “Stabbed, I assume. What did the wound look like? Clean? Or were there signs of a scuffle, of the thief retaliating or trying to flee?”

Metal creaks softly and the pitcher starts to fill. ‘Only the least valuable objects’? Huh. Did the killer take anything at all, I wonder, or simply dispatch the thief and run?

“Perhaps the killer ran off with something they considered more valuable than a pouchful of spheres and a highprince’s signet ring, bolting as soon as they found it.” A wild guess, to be sure, but Veil and Shallan had run into wilder schemes before while investigating. “Did the barmaid see the killer lingering above the body at all, or were they already running away when she saw them?”

He kneels down next to Veil this time, lest she overbalance and tip into him, and holds out the pitcher. “Drink at least some of this before you dump the rest over your head. And Shallan is right not to trust Abrobadar. He’s an acquaintance of mine simply from being a somewhat close age and a former Shardbearer. He’s… hmm… not a sycophant so much as a man that likes to make sure his loyalties lie where power is — or where he thinks power is rising.”

—  || ♜♛

Anger flares beneath her voice when she answers, the coals of heat buried deep, but audible, and while part of him hates that he is at fault for pulling it forth, another part of him exults that she is showing him her anger, that she is letting him see it.

“That’s somewhere, Shallan.” His grip on the pencil tightens, leveraging a little more pressure against her chin than he intends. “Because you ‘enjoy it’? That’s as good a place for your love of the natural world to spring as anywhere else. Why should a passion need a place or person or incident to spark it to life? You enjoy it. That’s what matters. That is enough.”

He slips out from their lounging couch — down, rather — turning onto his knee before Shallan with one hand settling on her knee and the other curling around and below her sleeved safehand, a physical tether to recall to her the trust she’s placed in him, as the pencil he’d held before rolls to rest against her thigh. 

He decides to push rather than pull back. She is hurting, yes, but she’s already snapped back at him rather than retreating into herself, and hells, but Adolin would rather she bite out this anger at him than smother something that she feels this deeply.

“It’s enough for me. Is it enough for you?” He holds her gaze, and a muscle in his jaw twitches, his hand squeezing around hers. “To love something simply because you do? Because it brought something warm and safe to a little girl? Because you, now, find joy in a thing dear to your heart, whether it has a reason for being there or not?” Blue eyes burn, not in the charcoal-pit way of those slain by a Shardblade, but as in a crucible — anger, yes, but also love, passion, a challenge issued not in opposition but as a goad, his chin raising just enough for emphasis.

“I want to know because that little girl later grew into the woman that I love, and I would know the hurts that plague them both.” His hand on her knee rises to cup her cheek instead, making sure that she faces him even if she glances aside. “And what brings both that little girl back then and you now happiness, even though you insist that the younger you didn't know what it feels like. I want to know because it’s a subject that matters to you, Shallan.”

@luck-crowned continued from legacy editor--start of thread here

— || ♜♛

He watches a pinch cross Shallan’s face as her hand stops in place, not so much a squish as a tightening at the corners of her mouth, a barely noticeable widening of her eyes, her expression turning taut and immobile. He knows by that face and the still silence that cuts the atmosphere between them that he’s poked something tender even before she suddenly jerks her whole torso to look up at him with too much white visible in the corners of her eyes. He stays mostly still as a reply rises to her lips, but he also cups his hand behind her head, curved at the base of her skull, fingers still wrapped up in the curls of hair he’d been playing with.

The cracked and brittle stone of her childhood memories — her whole past, really — is ground that requires a careful tread at times, but it’s not a path that can ever be truly avoided. Sometimes she needs a push, sometimes she has to be pulled back from a crumbling edge. He does his best to figure out which one she needs, every time.

Adolin waits for a snap or continued silence, waits to see if she’ll draw back into her armor like one of the rockbuds in the gardens outside, but… her expression changes. Wondering? Angry? Whatever words she was about to say died before their release, and the quiet stretches on, a thinking silence, before she finds what she wants to tell him.

The cage of house and family, even beyond the association with her mother — the pain of those extends through her Calling as well. Even her escape still shackled her back there.

He watches Shallan turn back to her sketchbook, her eyes darting quick and furtive over her drawing of the gardens as if trying to find an answer or a fault within her work. Whatever she looks for she cannot find, and the dark pencil-strike she cuts across the page feels like a thrown punch.

“Not at first,” he echoes as the right side of the paper crumples in her freehand grasp. Adolin strokes his thumb against her head before reaching over to pluck the offending page from her hand, smoothing the creases out against his thigh. “Though I can tell you that escape is not a failure when it’s the only option you have. Tactical retreat, let’s call it.”

He leans over, across her shoulders, to pluck a common charcoal pencil from the case that held her drawing utensils, and as he sits back he holds it up between them. “Do you mind?”

Before she answers, he’s turning the pencil between and around his fingers in an enjoyably fidgety motion. “But you came to like it— love the biological sciences, even — at some point? I’ll bet you could write an entire book on the Veden mountain highland ecosystem and civilization’s impacts on it.” He lifts the pencil to rest its end beneath her chin, seeing if he can direct her gaze over to him. “For as long as I’ve known you, you’ve loved your Calling. That love can’t come from nowhere.”

One might think she’d run a great distance, the way her heart was pounding. But it’s fear that takes hold of her and squeezes. Rage that wants to spill out. How dare he ask her these questions? How dare he do so without warning? But she pushes that down and closes her eyes against the trembling of her hands.

    Veil, please. Take over. No. Please, Veil. No. Radiant? I don’t think so. This is good for you.

Shallan wants to curl into herself, to hide. She wants to curl against him even. But he’s the one who is hurting her now.

          She wants to whimper. How can she even begin to make him understand? He who was loved, safe, and free to be himself. How could he understand how afraid these questions make her? What if she doesn’t actually love drawings and nature? What is she then without them? But those fears do not explain the panic, the possessiveness she feels when Adolin takes one of her carefully sharpened pencils. Do you mind? Yes, she does. She very much does. But she doesn’t fight. No resistance. She doesn’t even pull away from his touch, despite her sudden fear of being so close to him.

So there is little resistance (though there is some) as he attempts to bring her head around to look at him. Ultimately, she succumbs to her teachings, and obeys.

         “Why would you ask me this?” There is real anger in her voice, real fear, real hurt, but it is soft and trembling. One small push in the right spot might be enough to make her lose what control she has over it. “Why isn’t it enough that I enjoy it? Am I--am I not enough?” For you. It goes unsaid, but she knows he’ll hear it anyway. And she knows it hurts for him to hear this deep rooted fear, so she plows on.

            “I told you once, I don’t have good memories." She had been a miserable, sad ghost of a girl, holding her family together with charcoal and sketch paper. Sure, it allowed her to dream, to imagine herself in other places, able to explore. But that girl had known those dreams were false. She was a creature of little substance, with only her art to keep her sane.

“Why would you want to know anything about that girl? She had no idea what happiness even felt like."

—  || ♜♛

A distance descends between them. Shallan’s face doesn’t twitch, there is no noticeable tensing in her frame even where she sits on top of his lap, the only change is that she stops petting his hair and re-sleeves her safehand.

She could just be finished with her caresses. Trying to impart more gravity to the conversation. Reaching for something inside her safepouch.

But there’s something off, and he can’t tell quite what.

The distance remains even as she takes and kisses his hand — in appreciation or reassurance, probably. He raises the other to settle at her hip, a soft touch and the slow, absentminded stroke of his thumb, as she considers both the ledger and whatever it is she intends to suggest.

‘I think you need to invest more in a decent spy network.’

“Ah. I see.” Adolin winces and tilts his head in acknowledgement. She’s right; his father shouldn’t know about this. Of all the things he learned from his father about ruling a princedom, espionage counted amongst the least, and even then, it was all battlefield espionage — scouting the enemy, gaining knowledge of numbers and terrain, placing soldiers in advantageous positions, and the like. A network the likes of which Shallan suggests is one that the famously direct Dalinar Kholin always disdained.

“You’re… not wrong.” So much might have been solved if we had more ideas of what was happening around us. So much might even have been stopped. “Father never ran a group for off-field intelligence gathering. Back before he died, Uncle Gavilar definitely had one, but I don’t know if he ran it himself, simply received reports, or had Sadeas — both of them — handle any spies of his. Too few assassination attempts and no few removals of socially belligerent lighteyes and some old main branch family members means he had to have a spy network; young as I was back then, I could still understand that much.

“But it’s not something I was ever trained to handle, and while there might be informants still with us, I don’t think Father is leaving me any proper spies as he steps down.” There’s red coloring her cheeks, but he cannot tell what brought it there. Fear? Embarrassment? Storms. Both felt wrong. All she’d done was tell him about her idea — a good one, though he himself was woefully unsuited for the job — and that’s the kind of thing she’s supposed to do as a highprincess, isn’t it?

His brow furrows as his thumb traces an arc over her havah. “That means no one experienced and trustworthy to help you build this network, even if we have the extra funds to create one.”

@luck-crowned converted from legacy, original thread here:

—  || ♜♛

Shallan’s hand jarred to a pause in the middle of a stroke — only momentary, a stop-and-start before she continued the motion — and he may have thought nothing of it but for the length of silence that accompanied the stillness. His eyes blinked open, brow furrowing, though her nails once again raked tingling scratches through his hair in a smooth rhythm. Had something he’d said unsettled her? 

Adolin started to ask, but was immediately shifted into a different line of thought by the sudden weight of her across his thighs and storming damnation we’re not married quite yet, keep yourself together, Kholin. Though Shallan was making that difficult with the tender touch to his face, her hand light, yet sure and intimate, and his eyelashes fluttered as he leaned into that wonderful, welcome contact. Either Shallan had known what he was thinking and wanted to head off any questions, or had some other, unknown, possibly nefarious reason for distracting him so thoroughly.

Not that he was complaining.

Her follow-up did pull him out of those lovely sensations, at least enough for a clearer mind and a minute tensing of his expression; it wasn’t as if he himself hadn’t been critical of his father in the past — painfully openly even, as he remembered their argument in the Hall of Maps — but at this point an immediate anger upon any insult from outside of his family was an instinctive reaction. 

He quashed those first embers of wariness, taking a moment to breathe and flex his hands before meeting Shallan with a little nod and a small smile to reassure her. “All right, I’m listening — not that you’re making it easy, {Love}.” His smile grew softer as he echoed the endearment back at her, but in Veden, and he reached up to push a lock of hair back behind her ear, lingering on her cheek. “Is the criticism more aimed at him personally, or at our house in general for how we’ve handled our finances? And—” He held up a finger. “—complaints just between you and me is one thing, but more importantly, is this proposal poised to be publicly critical of him?”

A lifetime of harm has conditioned her to notice even the smallest change of expression. It’s a skill Shallan would consider valuable, instead of the tragedy it is. So she notices the slight change in expression, his breathing, and her heart starts to pound.

           His first words feel like chastisement, so she withdraws her hand from his hair, shaking her safehand sleeve back over the aforementioned hand, not fully processing that she was doing it. Shallan’s expression doesn’t change, doesn’t betray any of her apprehension, except that she’s perfectly still, there is no usual lean into Adolin’s touch, no returning of a smile. Her eyes though, fall to the finger raised, where they linger. To her, he is saying ‘There is a right answer, Shallan. Do not disappoint.’ She is toeing a thin line. She’s not one of them yet. Maybe she never really will be. Maybe she will always just be Adolin’s wife, or Jasnah’s ward.

           Shallan takes that raised finger in hand, and kisses the knuckles of Adolin’s hand in what she hopes comes off as pleasure at being endeared in her own mother tongue. “I rather think making a public criticism would defeat the purpose of my plans.” She places her freehand on top of the ledger she just closed as though considering, when really, she’s trying to find the right way to navigate.

          “I don’t think you should even mention this to your father. Or your cousin. Of your family, only Renarin should be read in, since he is your heir.” Heirs. Another thing they would need to talk about before the wedding. “It’s just...Well, I think you need to invest more in a decent spy network. Your father had some informants, but none that seem to have been placed well for reliable intel. Or they're stuck in Kholinar. We should assume that every other Highprince has spies in every princedom. I did Sebarial’s books, I know he has them, we know Ialai controls a network. You need one too. And to do that, you need to be willing to spend more.”

          Shallan remembers how Dalinar’s awe at her lightweaving quickly changed to suspicion when she had pointed out that she would need to be able to deceive and her cheeks colored. Would Adolin be the same? Seeing her work in Kholinar was different than seeing her work of lies on a much more permanent and daily basis. Would he grow to mistrust her? “I just--I want you to be able to work with as much information as possible.”

@weavinglight, transferred from legacy thread here:

          She chooses not to comment on the looming sword lesson. That was Radiant’s problem. She could suffer through the drills. Well, ‘suffer’ was probably the wrong word. Radiant actually liked all that, the storming idiot. Adolin is right though, she has been at this a while. Perhaps too long.

           But mapping out Urithiru is an obnoxious puzzle. It is so unlike her work on the Shattered Plains, where each sketch of a plateau revealed more of the complete picture. With the tower, it was something different. As she drew, Shallan knew there were things she was missing. Some rooms were too small, hallways too narrow. There was so much about the tower that was unknown, mysteries upon mysteries that she couldn’t unravel.

           “I have been drawing longer than you’ve been dueling, love,” she winces as a particularly tender muscle is passed over, but otherwise makes no comment. “With instructors who demanded perfection. Keeping the lines straight is child’s play at this point. Now, put a 10-string zither in front of me, and my tired hands might reveal themselves properly. I never could master my mother’s technique, much to her dismay.”

          There was perhaps truth in that. Shallan’s memories are hazy, out of reach, and her fingers seem to ache as she says this. She has found that her lack of any substantial memories from before she was eleven is odd to many, so she slips in idle comments now, hoping to appear more normal. She does know though, that her mother taught her music as well as drawing, even if she can’t truly remember their lessons. Occasionally, her brothers will make comment of something, and Shallan can fill in the blanks.

          “But really, I want to get this done. The sooner I finish this absolutely boring task Jasnah volunteered me for, the sooner I can more on to more engaging projects.” This was a partial lie, they both knew it, and Pattern buzzed at the complexity of it. Shallan had re-discovered this ancient city, finishing Jasnah’s  years of research. But Shallan wasn’t much involved with the exploration or the running of this extraordinary place.

          Loathe as she was to admit it, she resented the fact that she’d barely gotten a pat on the head for her part in bringing them all here. This mapping was her first real contribution to the tower as a whole, and she knew any observations she had would be drowned out by older, real scholars. She wanted to get back to her real studies, so she could more quickly earn her place among them.

         “The Tower is not half so interesting a subject as you, my love.”

—  || ♜♛

As she describes her tutelage, demanding instructors and long hours of practice with nothing less than perfection as the objective set before her, he tilted his head and his lips draw thin in empathy. He kept at the massage of her hand, long strokes now mirrored on the pinky side as well in order to ensure that they wouldn’t pull tight and undo all the relaxation work on her thumb. As he kneaded, slow and firm, the rest of her fingers gradually slackened as well.

“‘Once you have motions drilled so deep into your head that you can do them in your sleep, you’re maybe halfway to making yourself a decent apprentice, boy,’” he growled in an approximation of Zahel’s gruff, sand-scraped tone as he dragged both thumbs down the tendons of her inner wrist, his fingertips keeping the other side steady and from shying away from the pressure. “I know the feeling, at least. So precise, clean lines were something your instructors considered ‘basic’, then, I take it?”

The offhanded reference to her mother’s musical skill… she never did mention her mother much, for storming good reason as far as he was concerned, but still, the fact that she mentioned her mother at all was unusual. Maybe it was a good sign, maybe bad, but that was a track that should be followed—

…and Shallan moved on, brushing past the comment on her work with Jasnah, her work with the tower, and whether it was the mention of her mother or something about her current endeavours, there was a tension in her that had nothing to do with simple physicality.

The softness in her eyes and the corners of her mouth was no lie as she looked up at him, laying on her compliment, but it felt not only unwarranted but a distraction — she knew that he liked a genuine compliment — and he’d already focused on her avoidance like he would an opponent parrying to protect a weak piece of armor.

“You say that, love, but you have to admit that the Tower presents genuine mysteries that it’s taking people like you and Jasnah to figure out.” Still, he said it with a smile and a cocked eyebrow and he kissed her temple before continuing on. “Mysteries which only a few have been solved, and a good part of them by you finding and chasing down the Midnight Mother’s spren, amongst other tribulations.

“But you’ve never mentioned much about music before — difficulty in mastery, learning, or otherwise. Was your mother that hard a taskmaster?”

@weavinglight - transferred from legacy thread here:

          Years of experience having guards breathing down her neck means she feels it the second Leyten steps back. Shallan lets out a breath she didn’t know she was holding in, but doesn’t look up from her sketch to see what made him step back. Perhaps the mere presence of someone much more experienced at stabbing people meant they didn’t have to be so protective. She tried not to be too resentful, after all, Adolin didn’t seem too keen in having his own guard either.

          “Good,” she said, tucking her hair behind her ear now that her face had cooled. “I wish all my subjects would ignore me when I sketch. It makes for a more authentic picture.” Shallan pauses, spinning her pencil between her fingers a moment while she mulled over the next words.

          There’s several other horses here that I can direct you towards. She felt crestfallen at the words. What did that even mean? It wasn’t an offer to spend time with her just…a nudge in some other direction? Something to keep her out of the way perhaps? Storms! She was not doing a very good job at all at enticing him. She didn’t know the first thing about courting and being courted, but it certainly felt like whatever she was doing wasn’t working. Not for the first time, she wondered what in Damnation she was still doing here. Shallan felt obsolete without Jasnah, and she knew there were several others (Navani chief among them) who felt the same.

           “And I do know how to ride,” she added, looking over her shoulder at him, she tilted her head, pretending to consider. “I’ve ridden ponies.” Leyten and one of Adolin’s own guards snorted at that, but Shallan didn’t particularly mind. She was not going to ask for Adolin’s help; if he wanted to spend any time with her, he was going to just have to come to her himself. But she could help him along, maybe, in making such a lapse in her education obvious for him. Perhaps he might find it odd that a country Veden girl had never learned how to properly ride a horse. He might consider it his Vorin duty to help fill the gap in her education. 

          She turned back around to continue sketching Dreamstorm, unsure of what else she could say or do to appear interesting. She didn’t think there was much she could do. When all this was first being set up, she’d asked Jenet about it, but Jenet wasn’t interested in discussing anything to do with Adolin. Just as well, she supposed, looking to his past dalliances probably wasn’t going to be helpful.

          With an air of finality, she finished her sketch and snapped her book shut on her charcoal pencil. Tucking it under her left arm, she reached into a bucket hanging off a post and scooped up a handful of oats. “Well, I don’t care what anyone says, Dreamstorm,” the horse took the oats from her hand without hesitation as she held them out. “You have been a wonderful subject.”

—  || ♜♛

“You do?” Adolin was genuinely surprised. Perhaps because she was so often inside, working or studying or — before that terrible night — learning from Jasnah, he hadn’t thought Shallan interested in the more physical outdoor pursuits.

Perhaps she wasn’t. He didn’t know much about what the rural Veden houses expected of their daughters other than a good education and a valuable marriage, and for those of certain wealth or dahn, part of that might very well include riding. It wasn’t as if he’d asked — storms, they’d hardly conversed much at all. She seemed comfortable enough around horses, though, even knowing to keep her hand flat as Dreamstorm snuffled at her palm and munched up the offered treat.

More of a genuine emotion touched his smile and he gestured at her sketchbook, though the angle and her hair blocked his view of the contents. “She does have a fine form, doesn’t she? You should drop by when she’s out to run or for training. She may not be ready for riding, but she lives up to her name when you see her in motion.”

The stable’s grooms were already making quick work of Sureblood’s tack, the great horse shaking himself with a snort and a stomp as they lifted off the sweaty saddle pad. A younger girl, likely one of Jenet’s prospective apprentices, hurried over with a large bucket of water for Sureblood as the grooms set the pad and girth to dry and hauled the saddle off for its post-ride wear-and-tear check. Ever since Elhokar’s incident during the chasmfiend hunt and the subsequent investigation, the stable staff had grown insistently meticulous regarding the quality and care of tack, and Adolin couldn’t fault them for it.

He himself removed the halter, handing it off, and murmured his thanks to Sureblood while giving him a good skritch at the base of his mane and a gentle rub on his ears. Reaching for the sweat slicker to begin with, he glanced back over at Shallan as he set to work. “We don’t have much in the way of ponies, but there are a few horses here with steady temperaments that would serve you well for a ride around the warcamps if all you want is a leisurely afternoon break from your work.

“If you wanted to go as far out as the Frostlands, the docile ones won’t suffice, but you’d have to make sure they aren’t on a rest day or scheduled for a scouting party.” Sureblood’s back twitched and his tail flicked at the motions of the gently curved, rounded-edged shell ‘blade’ and the tickle of sweat forced down and off his back. Adolin patted the Ryshadium’s shoulder and Sureblood shook his head, water dripping from his nose. “I know, I know, you’ve had far too many rest days recently. I promise the next time we can stay out longer, when there’s not a storm rolling in, all right?”

As he went to round Sureblood’s front to take care of his other side, he slowed, looking over at Shallan again to see if she was watching him — or if she looked bored at the conversation.

“Do you… enjoy riding?”

|| ooc || — Finally. This fight has consumed my evenings for way too long at this point.

Remember kids: it is, and has always been, time for Snake 1.

@weavinglight, transferred from legacy thread here:

           Some women might take insult at their husband telling them what to wear. And under different circumstances, Shallan might’ve been, having had so much of her early wardrobe dictated by her father. But Adolin knew her style, what she liked, and he knew what looked good on her. When he made suggestions, he was thinking of her. And frankly, she didn’t feel like having to think on what to wear just now.

          And so she stood, taking a moment to steady herself after so many hours sitting, pouring over text Jasnah had insisted she memorise and thoroughly understand. Shallan padded to the bedroom and to her wardrobe, slowly shedding the layers of the comfortable havah she’d donned, something that was appropriate enough to take visitors, should some call on her, but not so formal that she felt constricted while she worked. Something she’d never seen Jasnah or Navani wear while they studied.

           Once down to her corset and shift, Shallan draped her clothes over the rarely used chancing screen and opened her wardrobe. She was still getting used to how large it was, and such was its size, that it took her a minute to locate the aforementioned havah. It had detached sleeves, as so many of her new clothes did now (she could imagine her father calling her a slut for her predilection to such a style—that only made her more inclined toward it), and it did go nicely with her hair. “Don’t worry,” she called out, adjusting her chemise slightly so that it did not show with the detached sleeves. “My parents would not have accepted me being unable to eat like a proper lady even with the biggest, most inconvenient sleeves. They would’ve kicked me out.”

          A jest. Being kicked out would’ve been a blessing, her punishment for failure would have been worse. Perhaps it was, but Shallan couldn’t remember. She slipped the dress on and did up the buttons before slipping into shoes that matched, and then caught her reflection. She sighed at her hair. Red, a little lank. Boring. She pulled some of her long strands back and wrapped them around a few hairspikes, giving her hair some life, while allowing for most of it to stay down. It would have to do. She slung her satchel with her sketchpad inside over her shoulder and left the room, somewhat subconsciously smoothing her skirts.

          “I’m surprised you’re not more exposed to our fine cuisine,” she attempts to make her voice light, an attempt to disguise her exhaustion. “Didn’t you spend a significant number of years on our borders? All that time in close proximity to superior dining and nobody cared enough to expose you to it?”

—  || ♜♛

For all that their changing screen seldom sees use, it still stays in their quarters. Aside from providing privacy when necessary or desired, Adolin, for his part, likes to show off and oftentimes the screen lends him the opportunity to indulge in creating anticipation. The dress that Shallan had been wearing flops over the top, and his shoulders relax just a little at the sign that she decided to take his suggestion — the change of clothes, though that green havah does looks spectacular on her.

“That must have been a trial far beyond the usual etiquette lessons. How are you able to keep the sleeves of a dress from getting even a single spot of curry on them, especially with how big some of the more showy styles can get? Are there secret pins? A movement or gesture that catches the trailing edge of your sleeve on the table just so?”

Lighthearted but genuine questions aside, he believes there’s a good argument in favor of changing clothes after a long, hard day of work — it provides a mental and physical refreshment both, and the sensation of being clean, even before a bath, is not one to be underestimated. Perhaps this change alone can help to lighten her mood. And if not, I bet the food will.

“I did indeed spend time there — on the Alethi side of the border, inside of a warcamp. It wasn't a place the size or relative sophistication of one of the warcamps on the Shattered Plains, either. Sure, there was some measure of entrenchment if we knew we were going to stay there more than a storm or two, but usually the army was either on the move or readying to take one of your outposts.” He pitches his voice deep into sarcasm with a lifted brow as she comes around the privacy screen. “Only the finest of military rations on those campaigns, as I believe you can imagine.”

He lifts his chin and smiles as Shallan rounds the edge of the privacy screen — far more subdued in her bearing than usual, yes, but that is part of what he hopes to alleviate with this evening’s outing. Adolin leans down to kiss her, gentle and soft rather than hot and demanding, and, squaring himself up, he offers her his arm for their walk to the establishment, either to take as per propriety’s standard or to slide her hand up until they clasped to walk hand in hand.

“Maybe if the fighting were in a more populated area we’d have more exchange of food culture, but aside from a few large, well-traveled fortifications, many of those places on the border weren’t all that populated until King Hanavanar started sending more troops to reinforce the garrisons — they were, and are, key points to defend against incursion from either side, but the remote and elevated location means that on both sides they’re often more a demotion posting than anything, at least until someone decides it’s time for war.

“Though I’ll say one thing for the border skirmishes — even those were closer to population centers than the Shattered Plains, so there was far less soulcast grain and meat involved than the actual thing. But actual, proper Veden food? I'm afraid I'm still woefully under-educated.”

—  || ♜♛

There’s a spark of intrigued curiosity in those deep, dark eyes that echoes in the scrunch of Kaladin’s brows and the way his fingertips skate across the surface of the playing area, and Adolin knows then that he’s won. Kaladin will stay.

Adolin nods at the statement Kaladin makes when he grabs the tile, not even eyeing it before he pulls out the chair on his side with an economy of motion that had to come from training and time in the ranks of enlisted soldiers. The brusque movement isn’t from impatience, though, at least from what Adolin can tell. He’s getting better at that, little by little — reading the man’s mannerisms, which take conventional courtesy and simply toss it out for the storm, and, once he sat down in a jail cell and thought on it for a while, are more in line with the direct route that Adolin often wishes people would talk in, despite him seething at Kaladin’s conduct towards lighteyes as insolence for a long while.

Well. Such behaviour is still insolent, technically, but would hardly be seen as unusual between peers or friends.

Adolin isn’t sure what to call Kaladin, in terms of social standing and relationship. The Radiants’ return has thrown a baffle against the regular winds, but then, after all that’s happened in the past few months, he’s not sure that he’s ever actually known what a true friend is supposed to be either.

“In brief?” He raises an eyebrow and does not entirely try to hide the amused smirk at that comment, swiveling around the chair he’s leaning on and sliding into the seat. “The tiles determine the terrain. We take turns placing the tiles facedown so that neither of us knows beforehand what the battlefield looks like. Each of us have the same allotted amount and type of troops to use; once a figure is lost, it’s removed from the board.”

As he tells this, Adolin lines up one of each type of figure from his side and points at each in turn. “A foot soldier represents the average — they’re not overly proficient in any one area, but you can field the most of them at a time. Scouts move more quickly across terrain and have an easier time retreating if caught in battle. Archers can attack from any elevation, coupled with a bonus when they’re higher than the unit they’re engaging in combat. Cavalry have better movement and bonuses to attack, but you can only field so many and they have difficulty moving over rough terrain. Heavy infantry are slow, but take more effort to bring down than a foot soldier.

“That’s the basics, once you scrape off the crem.” Adolin leans over to the box of tiles and deliberately shoves all of the carefully-stacked pieces into a pile of utter disarray, stirring them to further muddle whatever order their stacking might have given them. He plucks one from the mess — a tile shaped for the size of three squares on the grid with one perpendicular extending from one end — holding it between himself and Kaladin to show the simple decoration of the back only, and lays it down on the board. The clack of lacquer-on-wood sounds, and he gestures across the table to Kaladin. “Your turn for a tile.”

yes, a game. the words are said plain, simple— though not condescending— as though it was the most obvious observation in the entire world. and in a way, kaladin supposes it is, after entering the room proper, really stopping to take a good look. it's just that... though he's uncertain what exactly he'd been expecting to find at the end of their little hallway tour, it hadn't been this. and for him, it's... unsettling to be caught off-guard in any circumstance.

and yet, the feeling it isn't necessarily unwelcome, he finds. no. and in fact, more than anything, he remains pointedly curious.

it's only once adolin continues that he approaches the table proper, even reaching out to run his fingers cautiously over the edges of the board and then the closest piece. though he isn't looking, he's most certainly listening... and carefully, evident in the type of frown he's wearing on his face. he isn't irritable; he's thinking. and he's seriously considering taking him up on... this.

he even manages to huff a quiet laugh at the subtle dig at the church. leave it to adolin to quietly enjoy a little bit of blasphemy behind closed doors. that makes him smile— if only just a touch— the expression muted, subtle. " makes sense. " he comments. and it does, looking at what's laid out in front of him.

the game itself is quite fine, he notes, expensive though it could be crafted out of cheaper materials, he's sure. and despite not being listed among the reasons, kaladin is certain it's yet another factor as to why it's hardly the most popular game in his familiar circles. and he finds himself wondering if the other man realizes it... or if he's neglected to mention it on purpose so as not to intimidate him further.

alright, fine. he'll play. he knows where this is going—

upon the brief explanation— and the waving of a rather beautifully painted tile— kaladin's eyes are drawn up from the board at last, back to adolin. and without any sort of fuss, he follows the cue, reaching out to pluck the tile. " so, it's a test of strategy. that's why it's random. " now, that is most certainly something he understands very clearly.

glancing back up again, he notes adolin half-leaning against the chair in front of him. and before the official invitation can even be properly extended, kaladin is already pulling out the opposite one and, unceremoniously, dropping himself into it.

as soon as he's seated, he looks up at him, eyes fixed, eager in his seriousness. " alright, then. how does it work? in brief. " suddenly, he's itching to do something. and he'll likely learn best by just doing it.

@weavinglight, converted from legacy thread here

           Veil was surprisingly quiet today, and for the first time in weeks, Shallan was able to fully enjoy her current company. Or rather, almost fully enjoy. The face Adolin currently wore was not unattractive (she could never do that to him) but it lacked his radiance. The face paled in comparison. Shallan hoped that, should they get a true moment alone, she could let the illusion drop, if only for a brief moment.

           But she felt like herself–whatever that meant–today, and she kept forgetting that this was a city on the brink of occupation. It was nice, getting swept up in the city as Adolin took her though it, listening as he pointed out one thing or another. She tried to retain all of it, taking Memories along the way of interesting people or shops. This could very well be her home one day, a place she would be partially responsible for. And maybe this was a way for Adolin to say that he was serious about her. That thought sent a tiny thrill through her.

          She almost makes a whine of protest though, when he lets go of her hand, but it is quickly stifled by the arm around her shoulders, pulling her in close. Shallan hardly even notices the disapproving looks as she responds in kind by slipping her arm around his waist. Briefly, she considers trailing her hand lower to squeeze his backside, but a blush flaring on her cheeks put that to and end. That was far, far too daring, and they were in public. Plus, there was a good chance he might consider it too forward. She would have to be content with how things were currently.

         “They sound incredible,” she looked up at him, taking in the excited expression on the false face and tried to picture how it really looked under the lie she’d woven. “I doubt any sketch of mine could truly capture it.”

—  || ♜♛

Adolin squeezes her shoulder, smiling, as Shallan reciprocates by slipping her arm around his waist. She seems different today, more… present, somehow, than many if not most of the days since they’d arrived in the city, and that has, in turn, set him more at ease as well.

“Even if you can’t make it so real that water starts flowing off the pages, I’d still like to see what you create when you try.” Shallan has shown him several of her landscape sketches and they’re fantastic, a lot more ‘alive’ than he would call the works of many others that he’s seen, though they hold no broam to her studies of people, plants, and animals. Those almost rise off the page — or do, when she chooses to lightweave them.

He wonders what she can do with water. It’s one of the few things he hasn’t seen much of in her sketchbook, and his face brightens at the thought of seeing her flex her skills in a new way.

Adolin gestures before himself, attempting to conjure up the right combination of words to convey the feeling, the sight, the everything of standing by the Falls, while well aware that his trying to do so will be unsuccessful. “And they are incredible. The Impossible Falls is one of those experiences with all your senses tied up in it — the sound of constantly crashing water, the fine, cool spray in the air, that smell and not-quite taste of stone and moss—”

He breathes out into a light chuckle at his futile, inadequate description, looking down at her and lifting his relaxed hand to brush against the knuckles of the one she has tucked around him. He's glad that, unlike him, Shallan doesn't have to wear an illusion. He'd have missed the way her freckles look when she smiles.

“Well, my words don't do them justice either. You'll see for yourself when we get there."

Not to be feral on main but biting is great I love it

—  || ♜♛

There was always the chance that Kaladin would pause at the door, turn, and walk away, even though he’d willingly followed Adolin this far already, so Adolin’s easy smile widens just a little when Kaladin walks inside, apparently more interested in the game board laid out on the table than reverting back to prickly standoffishness or leaving altogether.

“Yes, a game.” There’s a laugh in his words, partially at watching Kaladin evaluate the grid-marked board like he’s uncertain if it’s some kind of trick, and partly from the triumph of getting the man to show interest in an unnecessary activity.

Between his own observations and what he’s heard from his two bridgemen bodyguards when they’ve gone out for drinks together, even when Kaladin is off duty it never feels like he’s off duty — oh, he might relax a bit, sing around the fire, and maybe even smile every now and then, according to Skar and Drehy, but even his personal time is spent wholly around either the running of Bridge Four and the other crews, at the training grounds (not that Adolin could fault him for that one), or watching his men with the wary attentiveness of a merchant convinced that their spheres were about to tear free and blow away into the storm.

“I’m not too surprised that you haven’t. It’s not unpopular, so far as I’ve seen and heard, but unlike cards or a smaller board game like Pawns, all these pieces mean that it’s not one that people generally bring to a café or out on a leisurely evening. And—” Adolin picks up one of the small tiles stacked up in a box near the board, flips it over, and shows Kaladin the painted opposite side. “There’s enough of a randomization element that the church isn’t terribly fond of the game.

“Still, it seems like they haven’t yet come up with a good enough argument against those who insist that it hones strategy and flexibility.” He waggles the tile at Kaladin, tempting him to take it and look it over. “The game itself is a condensed version of a battle — scouting the terrain, troop placement and direction, weighing sacrifice against gain, and, admittedly, throwing in a little bit of luck as well, because between the Almighty and your own inherently incomplete estimation of the enemy, there will always be something that could break the cliff beneath your feet.”

He cocks an eyebrow and pulls out the chair on his own side a little before leaning his weight against the back, not yet sitting down, and gesturing for Kaladin to take the other seat. “Sound like something you’d be interested in learning?”

“I’d bet full marks that even if you might have a general idea, you don’t really know how to put anything considered leisurely into practice.” He slows just enough to let Kaladin catch up easily, their steps falling into rhythm with one another as he does, and Adolin cocks a grin back and up at him — damn that separating inch or so, he’s still not used to being the shorter man of a pair — brightly cheeky. Kaladin didn’t need to feel so uneasy about this; that was the opposite of what Adolin was trying for. “Except that your men know you too well to accept that bet, and I think Shallan would refuse to take your side just on principle.” Kaladin’s brows are knit, his face not quite stormy but more bewildered, an off-balance curiosity in that dark, direct gaze and the pull of his mouth. Hah! A small taste of those weeks after the duel when I couldn’t figure out what was still so off about you, Bridgeboy. “Kaladin, if I wanted to spar with you, I’d just ask you outright and you know it.” He levels an assessing glance at Kaladin. “And I will. But another time — that overlaps too much with what I already named and hardly counts as leisure even if it’s fun. While what I’ve got in mind has a bit of overlap with ‘soldiering’, admittedly, it’s in an entirely different manner.” The directional glyphs sketched on the walls are ones he knows, given that they fall into the category of ‘useful’, and he leads Kaladin off down a corridor where the pattern of colourful strata is becoming more familiar by the day. When he gets to his door, he opens it and gestures Kaladin inside after him. “Come on in. I managed to commandeer a table and extra pair of chairs while you were back in Alethkar.”

unfortunate as it may be, adolin isn't necessarily wrong. and though kaladin pointedly doesn't argue, he does frown, huffing quietly. the things in his life that he's truly enjoyed have been... well, few and far between. and most of them have been tied entirely to the presence of someone else and their joy, not his... at least not truly. it's a strange thought to be faced with, doubly so given it's come so suddenly. but, there it is. and now, he can't unthink it. and so, he simply shakes his head, forcing the thought aside, and keeps focus on his walking.

it occurs to him, then— in the silence that follows— that adolin may actually be trying to do something kind. and for no reason than simply to do it or because the idea happened to cross his mind. it feels... odd. but, it's getting better. he's learning not to fight against such acts as being either undeserved or somehow attached to some hidden price the other will inevitably cash in. and so, he relaxes, the other man's grin putting him strangely at ease this time, no challenge in it, only amusement. and kaladin manages to snort a laugh even, particularly at the mention of shallan.

" i have no doubt. " he fires back. but, he's grinning barely; yes, despite himself, it's there. and when adolin confirms his suspicions, he finds himself relaxing even more, again huffing at being right, though it's very clearly meant to be a laugh this time. " for once, you make a good point, princeling. " and he does; it's hardly leisure even if it is most certainly fun.

the statement leaves him with questions, though they are ones that are somewhat answered the second they find themselves at adolin's door and he lets them both in. a table and chairs are set up, the chairs facing opposite each other with what appears to be a board set on the surface between them. " you commandeered... ? " he repeats, letting the words die once he's properly in the room, eyes on the setup before them. he frowns slightly, head titled. then, turns to adolin with a brow raised, curious. " a game? " he finishes, the question remarkably genuine. a moment later, he's already shifted his attention back toward the setup, closed the space between the table and him.

he doesn't object. in fact, he does quite the opposite, still eying the pieces, thoughtful as he, at last, speaks again. " i don't recognize it. " he admits, though that's likely not at all surprising. and it isn't meant to be; it's an invitation to explain. he'll accept. let's begin.

@weavinglight — transferred from legacy (and getting n.s.fw) thread here

          She got a reaction out of him much sooner than she’d anticipated. Shallan had to bite the inside of her lip to stop a smug expression from taking shape. Instead, she continued to look down at her book, feigning interest in the words on the page. In truth, she’d chosen the book at random. All day he’d had her in a state, somehow completely unaware. Well, she’d decided to finally do something about it, and in the process, get back at him.

           But oh Storms–that voice of his. She hopes she never gets used to how he sounds when he’s like this, how he says her name. Already there is a warmth building in the pit of her stomach. She does not look up from her book as he crossed the room to her. Partly because she will not be able to restrain herself if she sees the way he’s looking at her. Partly due to the slight embarrassment she still felt to be an object of desire.

            Chicken pimples erupt on her skin where he touches. He is warm, but his touch sends a thrill though her. And when he speaks–Heralds above–Shallan cannot stop the pleasant shiver that runs down her spine. She closes her eyes, and in the same moment, lets her book slide off her lap where it closes with a dull thud. She reaches out her safehand to snake around his neck, fingernails lightly scratching the skin.

           When she speaks, her voice is just as low as his. “You know very well that I desire more than just your attention.”

—  || ♜♛

Heralds, but Adolin has a bone-deep weakness for the way that Shallan’s voice dips down with such an assured, eager passion, especially when it lines up with the flare of his own need, and she sparks an imperative lust in him with the way that her legs and her dress fall apart in sweet complement. He has never claimed to be a restrained man, especially when there’s a shapely pair of legs and a handful of ass on display. But her—

Shallan’s book thumps together with a muted thud as it falls from her lap and Adolin’s lips find the shell of her ear as he noses into her loose hair, breathing in the sweet, clean, lightly floral scent of her preferred bathing soap and of Shallan herself beneath it as he mouths around that curve. As he does, lines of sharp-bright-here sensation follow her fingertips, crackling light and fleeting down his spine, his shoulders rolling to give him some small release of the energy that touch of hers struck in him.

“Yes,” he answers her, flexing his hands wide and taking a generous handful of silk-draped thigh in each, squeezing. “I do. Coming out into our rooms in a new and alluring nightrobe, one with quite the deliberate cut? You planned this so that the moment I caught sight of you, I wouldn’t be able to look away — or stop touching.”

Adolin sits back so that he can once again take in the sight of Shallan in this single layer of black silk. The dark garment is a stark contrast against her skin and the flame-fall of her hair, offering a blatant, beautiful view of her collarbone along with that tantalizing pale sliver of thigh through the slit from the hip on down, and the fineness of the fabric means that the nightshift drapes over her form in a way that leaves nothing to the imagination, yet invites it all the same. 

He meets her eyes, brushes her hair behind her ear even though it’s a trial to drag even one of his hands away from the enticing give of her legs. “So. How does it feel when I touch you like this?” And he slips the hand that remained on her leg higher, his thumb and the heel of his palm overtop and kneading into the silk fabric as his fingers find skin-to-skin where her bum meets her thigh, pulling enough to make her hip tilt up towards him as he leans down to kiss her.

To all of these spambots that decided to follow me, and any that do in the future: you know I report y'all on top of blocking you, right? Every single one. It doesn't even take any effort on my part. The only thing you're doing by coming here is endangering yourselves.

So I give you this one piece of advice: don't.

The Unseen Queen by Connor Chamberlain

@weavinglight — converted from legacy thread here

           A laugh, low in her throat slips out and Shallan brings the hand she’s holding to her mouth for a kiss. She then angled herself just enough so that she could look at Adolin, but not disrupt his stroking of her hair. “My love,” she reached up to push hair off his face. “I can promise you that you did exercise some influence over your brother. That is just the way of families, you needn’t worry. Besides, with Helaran it was different. He’s so much older than me—older than Elhokar,” her brow furrowed and she felt her stomach drop. “Or he was…He just seemed so much more wise than me, I couldn’t help wanting to imitate him.”

            Helaran and Elhokar, both gone now. Shallan didn’t even know when her own brother died though. It occurs to her now she doesn’t know how old he was when it happened, maybe Elhokar surpassed her brother in age before his own death. Her shoulders slumped and Shallan ducked back down to press her face into Adolin’s chest again.

           She forced herself to listen as he spoke, putting Helaran out of her mind, nodding a confirmation about Desolation. There were many versions of the song, lyrics changed or moved depending on the country. Shallan preferred the original Azish version, though it was gruesome in its telling. But she perked up just a little thinking about Keep, some of her previous dark mood dissipating. “I’ll have to find someone to play you Solitary Keep sometime. It’s about the last major battle, but it’s not sung in polite company. The most scathing verse isn’t about your family, actually. That’s reserved for King Hanavanar. A lot of mothers lost their sons because he picked a fight he had to know he couldn’t win. I wouldn’t be surprised if most of eastern Jah Keved quietly celebrated his assassination until they realized it meant civil war.”

         Damnation. She kept bringing her thoughts to upsetting topics. The war…the war that probably killed her three remaining brothers. Her remaining family, gone. Shallan breathed deep, counting each run of her hair Adolin passed. Don’t stop don’t stop don’t stop. He was so steady, solid. If she just kept focused on him, surely she’d be able to banish the thoughts trying to invade.

          She listened as he hummed, and the words flowed across her mind. They were comforting in their simplicity, a song that could bring together both lighteyes and dark, if only for the duration of the song. Shallan found herself hoping that maybe somewhere there were people in a tavern singing it together. “I didn’t know you could carry a tune,” in perhaps a transparent effort to bring him closer, she wrapped her arms around his middle. The way they were sitting was awfully inconvenient; she wanted to press against him more fully. maybe run her hands through his hair too. But any comfortable change in position would cause scandal should someone walk in. And well, the Alethi would already find fault with her in his rooms, alone, and half laying against him. She would have to settle for this.

           “What other secrets are you keeping from me, hmm?”

—  || ♜♛

Her kiss to his hand brought a soft, lopsided smile to Adolin’s face, and he curled his fingers to brush along her cheek, as soft a touch as her lips on his skin, to accompany her following endearment.

That expression faltered when she continued on though, as her voice tightened when she spoke of her eldest brother and she curled back down against him, making herself small. His other arm remained around her shoulders, still dragging his fingers in methodical strokes through her hair, but letting it rest there heavier than before, in the hope that the weight and warmth might comfort her.

She was still just a child when he left, still just a child even when he was killed on a far-off battlefield.

Elhokar was a loss only recent, the hole left behind in their family still bloody, but it hadn’t been that much more recent than Shallan finding out for certain that her brother was dead, and Shallan seemed far more close to Helaran than he’d ever been with his cousin.

The pain that plagued her wasn’t a kind that he could do much about, other than giving her comfort or a brighter topic to draw her away from dwelling on it, so he stuck to the momentum of their conversation, though his touch traveled from her hair over to the side of her neck, where he stroked his knuckles up and down, up and down from her nape to her stiff havah collar.

“Mmm, I do know that one well, though I wasn’t on the field. Opinion on this — well, on the Alethi side of it — was a mix of acknowledging the pride of Hanavanar’s army taking a stand to the very last and contempt for doing so when he was clearly already beaten.” Damned if he did and damned if he didn’t, but from what Shallan said, the Veden king’s choice was the wrong one in the eyes of his countrymen.

“‘Not sung in polite company’?” Adolin latched onto that part of her description, noting the way her breathing had gone very deliberately even and her head pressed a little more firmly into his chest. “Even if I wasn’t already interested in hearing Solitary Keep, that piques my interest. Does it take an equally impolite person to sing it in others’ company, or is this one of those things where the coarse nature is overlooked for the sake of scholarly record keeping?”

At the mention of his humming, he grinned, raking his fingers nail-down over her scalp as he felt her slip her arms around him. Storms but it was nice to be held and to touch her like this and to simply enjoy it all. He was lucky indeed.

“I can, and I’d wager I’m even relatively good at it for an amateur. A related secret is that if I sing and try to go too high, I squeak. Sounds like I’m fourteen all over again.” He tapped his chest across from her face and hummed those opening bars again. “It feels more natural for me to sing from down here, whenever I do, so middle-to-low notes are easier.”

@inkbloodcd — Renarin — transfer from legacy thread here

          all right—  at his brother’s words, that familiar voice the clap that follows  he’s pulled out of his mind and back to the reality standing in front of him.  and he blinks, then, simply breathing as he lets the weight of his shardplate and the moment itself sink in.

          it’s happening;  it’s real.  he is actually going to face his brother...  and not as some awkward, untrained amateur with no training, no skill.  no.  though there is still much left for him to learn, left to master—  for the very first time—  it feels like he’s made real, tangible progress.  for the first time, it feels that they’re a little closer to being equals.

          there is a nervousness that settles in him at that realization, not anxiousness but adrenaline.  he knows well the difference.  and it is quickly replaced by excitement, his brother’s tone laced with it, contagious.  he does not look at him, not right away at least.  but, he’s smiling as he listens, particularly noticeable at the mention of master zahel.  and when he does look up, meets his gaze for a moment, he nods. he’s ready.  he’s confirmed it.

          he may never match adolin’s skill.  and that’s fine.

          at least now he’s starting to understand it, understand this part of him—

          it’s different now that he has his own blade, one that feels natural to him.  and if in comparison to adolin’s, it looks too thin, too delicate, they both know that it isn’t.  it’s just as deadly, just as sharp.  and that thought, too, make him almost break into a full-on grin.

          focus, he tells himself.  this isn’t necessarily a lesson, but that doesn’t mean he doesn’t want to learn from it as much as he wants to enjoy this.  and master zahel is watching, he reminds himself.  but before he can process that thought, adolin is slamming down faceplate and practically skipping off.  and a moment later, renarin breaks into a much less-graceful run, following right after him.

          “ all right! ”  he announces, the exclamation an intentional mirror of adolin’s earlier words.  and at them, he begins settling himself, summoning his blade and getting into his chosen stance.  wind, he decides.  it’s his brother’s favorite, after all.  and while that might make it predictable, in his mind, it just makes sense.

          after all, who better to critique it?

          again then, he breathes and notes adolin’s stance.  stone.  ah.  so, he’ll need to be on the attack, then, if his brother is determined to play defense.  in the back of his mind, he begins planning, thinking.  perhaps he’ll need to be flexible, end up switching to another stance.  well, there’s one way to find out.  it’s simple, really.  yes, adolin’s love for dueling finally makes sense.  don’t think;  just feel it.  and so, he dives right in.

—  || ♜♛

He sees the telltale mist for that bare second before Renarin’s Blade snaps into reality in his hands, and as soon as his mind registers its appearance, he begins summoning his own Blade, ten heartbeats passing as Renarin looks him over, analyzes, and settles into a chosen stance of his own with an audible scrunch of the Plate’s heavy weight against the arena sand. Windstance against Adolin’s Stone — that Blade of his, long and thin without much guard at the hilt, suits Windstance well. He’ll be relying on mobility over strength no matter what anyway, against an opponent in Plate, even though he needs to learn Plate’s added strength well.

His brother had taken his obvious hint, though, and in turn taken an offensive stance. Defense he can learn later. Plate takes care of that for the most part against any common foes. Right now, Renarin needs to unleash, so he can experience what that feels like. And unleash he does, the weight of Plate adding to his momentum as he comes charging in and chambers his sword back for a diagonal chop down at the joint of Adolin’s shoulder.

Adolin meets that opening blow with a parry, his sword coming up at an angle to deflect Renarin's, which ricochets back from all the force he’s put behind it. It doesn’t slow him though, and the second shot is aimed slightly lower, more around the upper arm. This one Adolin blocks again, Renarin's thin blade connecting with a metallic clanggg that rings high and pure across the arena, but this time Adolin steps in toward his brother, planting his forearm on Renarin's with a shove that sends his brother a step off-balance.

Renarin stumbles back and pauses, affected by the shove, but throws himself back in with vigor; he swings again at the same side, at a slightly different angle, but this one, as with all of his strikes thus far, has a wide wind-up that makes it blindingly obvious.

Instead of parrying or blocking, Adolin simply steps up and to his right, Renarin too unpracticed yet to redirect his momentum quickly, and his brother goes past him, the swing hitting air. Adolin turns behind Renarin and strikes an open-handed blow to the back of Renarin’s steel grey helm with the heel of his palm.

"Good energy! But watch out that you don't lose control of it!" On the sidelines, Zahel says nothing, which Adolin takes as implicit approval from their swordmaster.

Renarin stumbles from both the palm-strike and the missed swing, following his momentum for several feet before crunching to a stop. He shakes his head as he turns, probably to clear any ringing in his ears, and then does a whole-body shiver. Adolin recognises the mannerism; it's something he does himself every now and then. When Renarin settles back into stance this time, it's more deliberate. Steadier. Adolin grins behind his helm, pride flaring like a star in his heart. Renarin picks up on things so quickly, even when they're unfamiliar, and the sparring ring is no different.

This time, when Renarin charges in, Adolin can tell there's less of his full weight behind it, less reckless abandon, and he deliberately re-treads the same step-away dodge as he did before. This time, Renarin's sabatons scrunch in the sand, slowing his forward motion, and he changes his grip on his shardblade, the left hand further up as he lets go with his right in order to not bind up his arms, and this time, Adolin swings his Plated left forearm down to bash the sword aside. The swing had lost strength in the redirect, but Renarin hit this time, and isn't nearly so open to counterattack.

He recovers the blow well, too, getting his other hand back on the hilt for renewed power as he takes the rebound and swings it into an overhead strike — still obvious, but that would be fixed with time and practice — and chops it down at Adolin's opposite shoulder as if he's swinging a warhammer. Adolin, sweeps his own sword up into a block, stone-solid, and catches Renarin's blade on his, letting his block sink just a bit so that it absorbed the blow rather than bouncing it away.

"Good!" His grin has teeth, his eyes bright as he locks his gaze with his brother's behind the slits in each helm. "Better, Rin. Now!" A solid heft shoves Renarin's blade back and Adolin himself takes a step back to reset in Stonestance. "Come at me again!"

He’s surprised to hear the Viera man speak with an almost-familiar accent — one not exactly like a Doman’s, but with a similar sound in the rhythm of his words and the shape of his vowels. “Well, that’s good. I can never be sure, what with there being a bar out front and malboros off to the west, and one is just as likely as the other to set a head spinning.”

Adolin hovers a hand behind the stranger’s back as he sits up just in case, rocking back on his heels a little himself to make sure that neither those snow-white ears nor that red-flushed face accidentally catch on a horn — still possible even when his are backswept — which wouldn’t be pleasant for anyone involved. Those long ears had to be sensitive. The stranger’s flush had already been present before he rolled him over, though embarrassment had obviously deepened it, and Adolin doesn’t miss his mention of the weather.

The Viera steadied, Adolin stands back up out of his crouch and offers his hand to help the other to his feet. “I don’t think I’ve seen you in the Rising Stones before, have I? I’m Adolin. If you’re done recollecting those wits, come on over here. F’lhaminn isn’t here right now to work the counter and all the seats are empty. With any luck, I didn’t spill all the coffee when you yourself spilled in the door.”

In going to look it over, there was indeed quite a bit of coffee left in the pot; what he’d spilled had mostly been from missing the mug rather than an extra cup’s-worth sloshing out. He looked over his shoulder at the Viera, tailtip flicking as he paused midway through reaching for another mug. “...Do you drink coffee?”

tall stranger?

What he’s going to do was startle at such a sudden and unexpected intrusion, spilling the coffee he was pouring and cursing as flesh and less-sensitive scale burned underneath the heat. “Storming— fuck—” He shook his left arm madly in an effort to rid himself of the scalding feeling as he set down the coffeepot and tossed a handrag over the spill, then went over to the pale-haired viera on the floor.

“Hey, are you all right?” Drunk? Injured? Or perhaps, contrary to all viera stereotypes he’d heard, the man had simply tripped. He reached out and rolled the unexpected intruder over, noting no blood on either the body or the soft-featured face. “Hey. What’s your name? Do you remember your name?”

          despite having grown up in the foothills of the skatay, there is one thing this particular veena seems to never grow accustomed to…  and mor dhona—  he’s suddenly remembered upon his abrupt arrival—  is determined to mock him in this, his dislike of cold.  perhaps, one day, he’ll learn how to more properly dress, he’ll remember to actually stop and prepare.  today, however, is most certainly not that day.

          and so, he hits the door to the rising stones at full-tilt, struck by the sudden chill, horrendously underdressed.  the warmth hits him with as much force as the door itself.  and just as the relief hits, so too does the realization that there are other people just beyond that now-flung-open door.  he stumbles, trying to slow and catch himself.  and the sound of cursing meets him, then…  along with the floor.

          he winces, still face-down, and feels the embarrassment sending heat into his cheeks.  a moment later, he’s being flipped over.  and confused, his brows knit and he blinks.  “ i— ”  yes, of course he does.  the cursing he’d heard a few moments before comes back to him, then.  and he glances away.  well… shit.  “ yes, sorry!  i’m so… sorry. ”  he replies somewhat sheepishly.  “ i’m alright.  promise.  i just… ”  in truth, he isn’t prepared for any of this.

          he dips his head in another apology, smiling slightly as he sits up the rest of the way, breathing in and then out to steady himself.  then, he laughs.  so accomplished in so many ways…  and yet, he’s still so ridiculous.  “ my apologies, truly.  i…  found myself unprepared for the weather and i seem to have lost my wits. ”