You Should See A Cleric

The glassy waters of Lake Kielstron lap gently underneath the bridge, a hazy mist rising from below. The bridge itself seems to be rather aged and worn, though still sturdy. It appears to be made out gray stone, and bits of moss and lichen grow in green and yellow patches near the underside of the bridge.

The setting sun lingers upon the metal banded fishing rod held by a curly haired figure sitting on the edge of the bridge’s railing. A thin wisp of smoke rises from the weed rolled up and stuck in the corner of his mouth while his boots tap an occasional tha-rumph against the wooden side of the bridge. A small bag nestles by his side, presumably bait and he gives the fishing rod a small jerk, the expression on his tanned face being one of total boredom.

From the path leading off of Triame Road, the sound of hooves hitting the base of the bridge pauses briefly. The mare snorts in protest yet stops at the tug of its reigns. A woman eases herself from the side and begins to rummage through a pack resting against its flank. From it she grabs a smaller bag and starts to make her way down the side of the bridge. Taking no note of the man sitting at the other end she disappears almost as quickly as she arrived.

The metal-band fishing rod jerks upwards and the line is sent flying; the tanned fellow frowns immediately on seeing that the hook is gone, as well as the bait. His hand digs into the small bag by his side, and the deepening furrow on his forehead indicates that he’s run out of bait. The sounds of hooves coming forth gets his attention immediately — and he leans back agilely from where he’s seated, his gaze catching sight of the woman dismounting and moving off first; and then he yells after her, “Hey, lady. You have some bait?”

The woman in question kneels down by the bank and begins to remove one of the leather bindings around her forearm as the timber of a male voice catches her unaware. Startled, she places a hand at her side to steady herself while she searches out the sound.

From her place, she can see the top of the bridge but the sun setting behind him makes his features difficult to discern. Strangely, it cast an unearthly glow about his frame instead. This brings a strange grin to her features as she squints into the light. “I’m sorry; I’m fresh out of bait today. Maybe tomorrow.”

The tanned fellow attempts a helpless shrug and then swivels on his seat on the railing; looping his legs over and drops himself neatly on the bridge like a cat. “No more fishing for me tonight then. I’ll probably have to find something else to do while I wait.” His sight shifts up and down the whole length of the bridge itself, catching the few passer-bys walking back and forth, and not really sparing him a glance. Then he eyes the woman, “And who might you be?”

His last question registers something across her features, a brief blink, an intake of breath, as if deciding exactly how she wants to answer that question. Shrugging as if it were of no importance, she continues with her task.

“Kaiyri, I haven’t been in Eldestra long.” She offers without a last name. “What is it you’re waiting for?” Responding with a question to him, she hopes to deter any further questions about herself.

As the band is lifted from her arm a long gash is revealed, red and ugly. No longer looking at him, she dips the cloth into the chilled water and begins to dab at the tender flesh.

The tanned fellow gives a narrow-eyed look at the wound the woman has sustained and then he leans against the railing, buffering his arms against the wooden edge and looks down where she is. “Waiting for approval to leave.” He tells her flatly. “And I don’t like waiting.” The man does take note of the name and stores that away. He gives another look at the wound, and this time, the gaze seems to be hued with some disapproval.

“Fishing is a pretty eventful way to pass the time,” She remarks a bit dryly, sparing a glance up at him through nearly colorless orbs as the dimming lights reflects across them. “Especially for those graced with little patience.”

The sun is finally a bit more forgiving on the second glance however and she can make out the deep tan of his skin and the contrasting hue of his hair. She flinches suddenly as the cloth rakes across her skin a bit too harshly and it begins to stain a bright red hue once again.

“You should get a cleric to look at that.” The tanned fellow advises suddenly, leaning forward even more and peering down at the woman, looping strands of hair shifting over his eyes. “And where did you hurt yourself?”

He seems overly concerned for no reason, but perhaps taking an interest in this woman washing her wound by the lake is something to pass time again eventfully. It’s a good thing he likes conversation, even if it’s somewhat topic-less.

Frowning, she stands from her kneeling position, “I didn’t catch your name.” Her tone is riddled with annoyance, not at him per say but at her inability to tend to herself. His interest seems a bit too keen and she wishes suddenly to be away from that gaze. “I should probably go see Tilea. I don’t suppose you’d have sewing as an added skill to go along with fishing.”

Crooking one elbow against the wooden railing, the tanned fellow strangely smiles. “I’m Aranvar.” He does not provide a last name either; she did not, and why should he — that he thought. “I can sew, and very adept and that too.” The tanned one replies to her comment with a rather annoying perkiness to his voice. “But Tilea is a much better choice.” The man finishes off, and does not bother to explain why either.

He loosens himself from the railing and picks up his fishing rod, resting the length of it over his shoulder before starting down the bridge towards the end that the woman’s at. “And where did you get that wound?” He asks, stopping once he gets off the bridge and is on the pathway.

Eyeing him warily, she nods in agreement to the suggestion of a cleric. “I’d rather not bear the scars of my… adventures if possible.” Giving the impression that this has happened more than once, she already knew the cleric by name. “They always tend to look better on men.”

“How did I get this?” He’d asked again, which no doubt meant he expected an answer this time. “I wrestle wild animals in my spare time. Doesn’t’ everyone?” She remarks, her voice carrying out with a joking manner though the humor is dry as she watches him advance in her direction. Her eyes told lies to those that looked into them. Whether she was being honest or not in her answer was uncertain, even to her.

That remark seems to make the tanned fellow laugh genuinely; and he nods in agreement. “It was a little difficult to see that you’re one to protect your vanity.” He comments very candidly; and perhaps that might earn him a slap later.

An eyebrow is jerked upwards at the comment of ‘wrestling wild animals’ and he breaks out into a laugh that nearly doubled him over. “Yes, you wrestle boars in your free time; alright, lady. Whatever you say.”

He looks away from her face though, definitely not at her eyes; and his sights are set further down the road. “I do think I see my ticket to freedom coming.” The tanned fellow says; spying another Elohai in a half-jog-run towards them.

“Well at least one of us is in stitches.” Her lip quirks slightly in his obvious amusement at her expense. If she is offended by any of it, it’s quickly tampered down with the flex of her jaw. If the darkness falling around them had its way, he’d he sure to remember those words in the future. Glancing in the same direction, she takes a step back from him and begins winding the band back around her forearm. “Lucky for you, it seems your tedious wait has come to an end then.”

Her attempt at puns makes him laugh once more, and he chuckles at her: “And I thought you would feel some sorrow at our parting.” The tanned fellow replies as he does a some-what odd salute to the Elohai who finally reaches them, and whom is panting just slightly. A few folded letters is exchanged between the two, the papers given a very cursory look and Aranvar’s face wreathes into a smile.

“Very good. Now we can leave, finally. Trust that old woman to take her old time with all these things.” He shakes his head at the other man and stuffs the papers into his belt, continuing to instruct him : “We’ll be gone for two weeks and then back. You go prepare first.”

The other Elohai, equally darkened by the sun and whiplash thin, gives the nearby woman a dirty grin and without a comment, he moves off over the bridge. Now his diverted attention is consolidated back onto Kaiyri, the tanned fellow scratches his head slightly and tells the woman, “Well, it’s been interesting to meet you, I suppose! Maybe we’ll see each other again?”

Kaiyri listens without really hearing, her steady gaze fixed on the man that had just disappeared from view. “I don’t really see how that’s possible,” She responds, finally turning her attention back to Aranvar, “but if I’m ever wounded again, I’ll know exactly who not to go to.”

She smiles teasingly at him and starts to head back to the horse waiting expectantly where she’d left him. “Remember to write though would you?” Packing her things back where they belong, she glances over her shoulder back at him, the shock of crimson falling down her back sways heavily with her movements.

And there is that moment that the tanned fellow finally notices that the woman’s hair is red. His shoulders sag noticeably and a furrow sets in between his blonde eyebrows. She probably meant the last comment as a joke, but nonetheless he appears to cheer up, or if he’s just faking it – and the man nods, waving a little at her and then folding his arms, as if thinking what to do next. “I’ll write.” He promises, and adds. “And I’ll get you a present when I come back!”

At this, it’s Kaiyri’s turn to laugh. It’s a light sound but genuine. “Such pretty promises.” She tsks at him, taking his change in demeanor to mean that he is much more accustomed to the more flirtatious form of her gender. Playing at the game, she responds lightly, “Enjoy your trip sir, I fear that if I held my breath I’d die a swoonful dramatic death at your expense.”

Holding up her arm in reminder, she hoists herself onto her ride. “But first, I’ll have to see to this in the meantime.” She waits there, reigns held casually in her fingers, for him to decide his next move of responding or taking his leave.

The man rolls his shoulders a little in a shrug and sets his hands on his hips, “And good night then.” He says, lifting one of his eyebrows at her comment about dying a swoonful death. She’s starting to join the section of strange women in his book now. “I’ll have to get going before night-fall. And pretty as my promises are, I usually keep them.” He slips back a step very gracefully, and bows to the woman on her horse. “Farewell!”

And with a jaunty step, the tanned fellow moves up the bridge the other way, the fishing rod and its silvery line swaying side to side as he vanishes down the other end towards the gates of the city.

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