Letha Regis (![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
burntbridges) wrote in ![[community profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/community.png)
thesphererp2019-04-09 05:36 pm
burntbridges) wrote in thesphererp2019-04-09 05:36 pm
Memory Share: Letha's First Date
It has been an hour, and you are still waiting here. It's late November and the air is chilly, turning your fingers nearly white even as you try to breathe life into them. But still you wait, perched on top of a crooked gravestone for lack of a better seat, because he will come.
Eventually.
A carriage pulls up, driven by a skeletal man in a moth-bitten traveling coat and pulled by dark grey horses. It stops in front of your house, and a boy of nearly seventeen exits. Aristeo Regis, dressed to the nines as usual. His face is... almost disturbingly similar to Seregil's, although he is much younger. Long, dark hair falls around his pale face, and a belt of twine and animal bones hangs loosely below his intricate brocade vest. He is the walking definition of an arrogant prat.
"You're late." you chirp brightly, even if the cold is making your mouth sluggish.
"You're late." he mimics with a sneer, "You could have stayed inside if you were going to have me come here."
The graveyard is directly next to your own house. You choose not to mention that it's much nicer here than indoors; it is not any of his business. Instead you put on a well-practiced smile and hop off of the grave, offering your hand to him. "Shall we?"
"And you still haven't explained what we're doing." Aristeo continues to grumble, even as he guides you into the carriage and seats himself across from you.
"We are courting, my dear. As the outsiders do." You do your best to sound playful, joking. It's a hollow balloon of a thought; made of old ambitions, and thoroughly empty inside. "I thought it might serve me well to apologize for..."
"For trying to kill me?"
"If you must be so dramatic, yes."
"I don't know what else you can call throwing me to the floor and holding scissors to my throat."
"Those scissors were nowhere near you. And if you can't hold your own against a girl who grazes your shoulder, I can't be held at fault."
"You just surprised me..." He takes a deep breath, and fixes you with a cross look as he rubs the spot where his head met the floor. "This isn't much of an apology."
"Perhaps it isn't," you reply breezily, "But the night is young, I might find the words eventually."
Eventually.
A carriage pulls up, driven by a skeletal man in a moth-bitten traveling coat and pulled by dark grey horses. It stops in front of your house, and a boy of nearly seventeen exits. Aristeo Regis, dressed to the nines as usual. His face is... almost disturbingly similar to Seregil's, although he is much younger. Long, dark hair falls around his pale face, and a belt of twine and animal bones hangs loosely below his intricate brocade vest. He is the walking definition of an arrogant prat.
"You're late." you chirp brightly, even if the cold is making your mouth sluggish.
"You're late." he mimics with a sneer, "You could have stayed inside if you were going to have me come here."
The graveyard is directly next to your own house. You choose not to mention that it's much nicer here than indoors; it is not any of his business. Instead you put on a well-practiced smile and hop off of the grave, offering your hand to him. "Shall we?"
"And you still haven't explained what we're doing." Aristeo continues to grumble, even as he guides you into the carriage and seats himself across from you.
"We are courting, my dear. As the outsiders do." You do your best to sound playful, joking. It's a hollow balloon of a thought; made of old ambitions, and thoroughly empty inside. "I thought it might serve me well to apologize for..."
"For trying to kill me?"
"If you must be so dramatic, yes."
"I don't know what else you can call throwing me to the floor and holding scissors to my throat."
"Those scissors were nowhere near you. And if you can't hold your own against a girl who grazes your shoulder, I can't be held at fault."
"You just surprised me..." He takes a deep breath, and fixes you with a cross look as he rubs the spot where his head met the floor. "This isn't much of an apology."
"Perhaps it isn't," you reply breezily, "But the night is young, I might find the words eventually."