Post by Deleted on Feb 28, 2017 0:12:39 GMT -6
aginor
Like the morning sun your eyes will follow me
There seemed to be no shortage of galas in Eithne, Aginor was finding.
Since arriving in the city, he had been practically inundated with invitations to every corner of the capital. Though previously introduced to the blatant artifice of New Valore, Aginor still found himself stunned by the parade of nobility put on for him, and the constant exhibitons of unfathomable wealth. Magnates made him offers of obscene gifts --jewelry, antiquities, people-- in shameless, aggressive displays of corruption, just to see his reaction. Anything needed to satisfy one's darkest appetites was available to the Aodhian elite, and nobles of every stature were going out of their way to put it within Aginor's reach.
Aginor understood what was happening. The members of the fire nation's court were trying to get a read on who they were dealing with, what kind of player had replaced Samson in their game. Now that Aginor was on his own in Eithne for the first time, he was being put to the test through a barrage of astonishing sights and unspeakable actions. It was an impressive (and distinclty Aodhian) tactic, assailing a new arrival with the most daring things imaginable to find their threshold.
In a way, it was working. Aginor was growing exhausted from acting shocked. He hadn't been able to spend enough time in his own chambers to find out whether or not the constant ambient noise of Valore was going to make it hard to sleep (compared to Nariah, which was silent as a temple) and with the constant shine of Valore's rich and famous blinding him, it was hard to figure out where to look. Aginor wasn't discouraged, but he was tired, and the simultaneous act of watching the crowd while maintaining his facade was growing difficult. When a slave, his body painted gold and wrapped in the pink silks of the host's sigil, offered him an hors d'oeuvre off of his naked back, Aginor's surprised expression was delayed.
He'd expected Valore to feel much bigger than Nariah, which was for all intents and purposes a capsule. However, in two short weeks Aginor had learned that Valore was almost just as much of a closed system. It had reacted significantly to the arrival of a new addition, and Aginor was finding that every function seemed to host roughly the same crowd of faces. Samson had already taught him all the houses and their names and their sigils, but he had learned even most of the court's minor players quickly on his own. Each family had their own insincere brand of flattery or gaudiness --or maybe it was just his Breimian conservatism making him think so-- but they were all loud. They invited Aginor out to shock him, to tempt him, to get a glimpse at what was in his hand, but by the end of every night, three goblets deep, they all always ended up telling him everything he wanted to know.
Except for her.
She was one of the first faces to greet him when he'd first arrived, introducing herself briefly in the entrance to the complex that contained the palace. A renowned adviser to the king, she was someone that Samson spoke well, but very rarely, of. Aginor had been watching her in every chateau he'd toured in the last fortnight. She had a gravity about her that lacked the pomp and pageantry of her contemporaries, but continually drew his eye. Her grace was natural, not bred nor trained, just a part of her. A fact. Her armor was thick, her eyes intelligent, her voice was... not quiet, but was without the frantic need to be heard that strained every other conversation he'd had in Valore. She seemed to be the only person who hadn't cornered him into a one-sided verbal assault. No matter how he tried, he couldn't seem to meet her gaze.
He wasn't the only one who wanted her attention. Cyndane always seemed to have a satellite or two desperate for her opinion and, to Aginor's intermittent observation, she was frugal with it. As he watched, a gaggle of revelers finally released her from the bondage of their company and, feigning light-headedness, Aginor excused himself from a conversation with a young lord to find some fresh air.
He approached her in a moment of contemplation, on a square balcony overlooking Valore. Verandas all over the skyline were lit up with similar parties. Where they all found the time and strength for this was baffling to Aginor. Every banquet was like a battle.
He didnt engage her at first, instead watching her from the doorway, his shadow long enough to touch the railing she gazed at the city over. He waited for her facade to fall, but it didn't. She was a veteran.
"All the things we can't say," he began, from behind her. His voice was smooth as dragon glass, lacking the hitch that Aodhian spectacle put into the poor sheltered Breimian's throat. She should have been a stranger to him, he knew, but he couldn't help speaking to her as if she'd come outside to wait for him, her old friend. He circled around to her shoulder, keeping ample respectful distance. "Make one wonder if what we do say matters at all."
Since arriving in the city, he had been practically inundated with invitations to every corner of the capital. Though previously introduced to the blatant artifice of New Valore, Aginor still found himself stunned by the parade of nobility put on for him, and the constant exhibitons of unfathomable wealth. Magnates made him offers of obscene gifts --jewelry, antiquities, people-- in shameless, aggressive displays of corruption, just to see his reaction. Anything needed to satisfy one's darkest appetites was available to the Aodhian elite, and nobles of every stature were going out of their way to put it within Aginor's reach.
Aginor understood what was happening. The members of the fire nation's court were trying to get a read on who they were dealing with, what kind of player had replaced Samson in their game. Now that Aginor was on his own in Eithne for the first time, he was being put to the test through a barrage of astonishing sights and unspeakable actions. It was an impressive (and distinclty Aodhian) tactic, assailing a new arrival with the most daring things imaginable to find their threshold.
In a way, it was working. Aginor was growing exhausted from acting shocked. He hadn't been able to spend enough time in his own chambers to find out whether or not the constant ambient noise of Valore was going to make it hard to sleep (compared to Nariah, which was silent as a temple) and with the constant shine of Valore's rich and famous blinding him, it was hard to figure out where to look. Aginor wasn't discouraged, but he was tired, and the simultaneous act of watching the crowd while maintaining his facade was growing difficult. When a slave, his body painted gold and wrapped in the pink silks of the host's sigil, offered him an hors d'oeuvre off of his naked back, Aginor's surprised expression was delayed.
He'd expected Valore to feel much bigger than Nariah, which was for all intents and purposes a capsule. However, in two short weeks Aginor had learned that Valore was almost just as much of a closed system. It had reacted significantly to the arrival of a new addition, and Aginor was finding that every function seemed to host roughly the same crowd of faces. Samson had already taught him all the houses and their names and their sigils, but he had learned even most of the court's minor players quickly on his own. Each family had their own insincere brand of flattery or gaudiness --or maybe it was just his Breimian conservatism making him think so-- but they were all loud. They invited Aginor out to shock him, to tempt him, to get a glimpse at what was in his hand, but by the end of every night, three goblets deep, they all always ended up telling him everything he wanted to know.
Except for her.
She was one of the first faces to greet him when he'd first arrived, introducing herself briefly in the entrance to the complex that contained the palace. A renowned adviser to the king, she was someone that Samson spoke well, but very rarely, of. Aginor had been watching her in every chateau he'd toured in the last fortnight. She had a gravity about her that lacked the pomp and pageantry of her contemporaries, but continually drew his eye. Her grace was natural, not bred nor trained, just a part of her. A fact. Her armor was thick, her eyes intelligent, her voice was... not quiet, but was without the frantic need to be heard that strained every other conversation he'd had in Valore. She seemed to be the only person who hadn't cornered him into a one-sided verbal assault. No matter how he tried, he couldn't seem to meet her gaze.
He wasn't the only one who wanted her attention. Cyndane always seemed to have a satellite or two desperate for her opinion and, to Aginor's intermittent observation, she was frugal with it. As he watched, a gaggle of revelers finally released her from the bondage of their company and, feigning light-headedness, Aginor excused himself from a conversation with a young lord to find some fresh air.
He approached her in a moment of contemplation, on a square balcony overlooking Valore. Verandas all over the skyline were lit up with similar parties. Where they all found the time and strength for this was baffling to Aginor. Every banquet was like a battle.
He didnt engage her at first, instead watching her from the doorway, his shadow long enough to touch the railing she gazed at the city over. He waited for her facade to fall, but it didn't. She was a veteran.
"All the things we can't say," he began, from behind her. His voice was smooth as dragon glass, lacking the hitch that Aodhian spectacle put into the poor sheltered Breimian's throat. She should have been a stranger to him, he knew, but he couldn't help speaking to her as if she'd come outside to wait for him, her old friend. He circled around to her shoulder, keeping ample respectful distance. "Make one wonder if what we do say matters at all."
875 words | post 1
