Your support makes Blue Moon possible (Patreon)
MoldaviteGreen
The world’s upside down here…
- Joined
- Dec 7, 2018
"I'm not what you think."
The tankard of ale was set down atop the polished wooden bar, half-empty and now nursed with two rich olive hands. Her fingers were slender, her nails painted black and kept sharp, and they curled about the tankard to interlace slightly at its back. She hadn't chosen her usual corner this time, instead drawing a stool up to the bar and taking seat beneath a bright lantern. The warm amber glow cast the white of her hair as soft gold, the thick of it braided down her back. Wisps framed her face, pulled from the braid by the wind, and they curled against her temples and sharp cheekbones.
Keres wasn't what a lot of people believed her to be. Female, but not docile and meek like what was demanded of her. Illyrian, but stripped completely of her wings, not even small nubs left behind. White-haired, but not High Fae; not even a drop of it in her blood. Rumours followed her, wherever she went, and she wondered which one it had been to draw the High Lord and High Lady's dear Shadowsinger away from Velaris.
"I'm not a ghost," she began. "I'm not an impersonator, or a High Fae, or anything else. No, I don't intercept the wine going into Velaris, I'm not the thief you're after." The rich obsidian black of her eyes glimmered as she finally turned, looking to Azriel who'd folded himself into the stool beside her. "Whatever you're here for, whatever you think that I am, I'm not."
The Shadowsinger seemed to ruminate over her words, his hands folded together atop the bar, his gaze cast forward. He'd made her uneasy the second he'd settled beside her, and uneasier still as he hadn't spoken. Keres was doing a great job at talking for the both of them, she realised, and she bit the flesh at the inside of her cheek and turned her eyes back to her ale.
The tavern was fairly empty, most males off with their females or training. Another hour and all the stools would be full, the tables covered in pints of ale and gambling cards. Still, there were enough eyes here to take note of the special and unexpected presence, and the interest he'd given Keres. It wouldn't be long until word reached her father. The quicker this was over with, the quicker she could shut down the rumour before it began to circulate and fester. She didn't need another one drawing her any more attention.
"What do you want, Shadowsinger?" It sounded harsher than she'd meant, but she didn't particularly care. He was costing her more than just time.
"I could say the same to you."
Keres stilled, her world growing quiet. Her breath had caught in her lungs and she tried to remind herself to take another, to breathe, but it came shaky. Her knuckles paled as she gripped the tankard tighter, whatever warmth she'd felt in her head from the ale having evaporated in an instant. Keres was painfully, dreadfully sober.
"I don't know what you're talking about." With a far steadier hand than she'd thought she'd manage, Keres lifted and took a mouthful of her ale. It was bitter over her tongue, vile now that he'd ruined her appetite for it with fear. She didn't look to him, feeling the burn of his gold eyes on the side of her face, as she swallowed and set the pint down with a soft thump. "I think you have your wires crossed, and have mistaken me for someone else."
"My shadows don't lie." Azriel turned slightly, one elbow remaining atop the bar as his other hand fell atop his thigh. His voice was low, velvet even, as he murmured; "Just as yours don't."
Her dark eyes slid to him then; narrowed. What he was inferring was dangerous. What he was inferring was that she was like him. But Keres was not cut from the same cloth, and he was a fool if he thought her to be. The steady throb between her shoulder blades, over the silver of her jagged, nasty scars, reminded her of exactly that. He was revered because he was male, because he had been afforded things in life that she had not. She was hated, spited, shunned because she was female, not just because she was different. He'd learned her truth, but if anyone else did, she'd be the next Illyrian female to go missing.
"Good for you," the sarcasm in her voice dripped like venom, "you found me." Leaning closer, the wooden legs of her stool groaning with the shift in her weight, Keres hissed through grit teeth; "Now leave me the fuck alone."
Azriel's look was as equally sharp, though ambiguous. His face was like stone, masked with neutrality, and unable to be read. The lantern above them caught the blue stones of his siphons, tucked in at his hip; not a threat, but a reminder of who he was. It was a reminder of how very different their circumstances had been, simply because of their gender. It didn't matter how hard the High Lord and Lady had fought to stamp out the barbaric practice of Clipping. Illyrian society was so deeply engrained with misogyny that everything about their way of life was entrenched in it. One law couldn't change that.
"If you stay here for any longer, you'll be drawing unwanted attention to me." Keres glanced over his shoulder, to a table of two Illyrian males she recognised to work for her father. She made a mental note of their faces, that she'd need to deal with them when Azriel left. "So you best be on your way if you have nothing else to say."
He wasn't someone to be dismissed, and Keres knew this. Azriel would leave when he deemed it fitting, not when he was told to do so. Still, she was grateful when she watched him rise from the barstool, his wings pulled in tight against his back, before he lingered over her. "You'll be seeing me again."
Scowling into her ale, Keres huffed; "When you see your High Lord and Lady, tell them that the Clippings have stopped. Tell Rhys that they've found a way around the law. The males here can't be punished if they're simply shredding the wings of Illyrian females, since the law only mentions Clipping." Black eyes lifted to his face, her look a hard stare. "Tell them I'll be seeing them soon."
===
Azriel was standing before Rhys and Feyre, his shadows lurking about his ankles. "The rumours remain relatively unsubstantiated." His arms were crossed over his chest, his Illyrian leathers having been swapped for a dark shirt. The female had given him little, and yet her response had given him so much. "I wasn't able to confirm anything, but her reaction was answer enough. Whether or not this is a rumour that she has circulated herself as a means of protection, I'm not sure. She certainly isn't…your usual Illyrian female."
The female he'd met was not the usual type of anything. He'd found her in a tavern, in a camp that still saw it punishable to enter when it was designated only to men. He'd found her drinking ale when, in that part, it was forbidden. He'd seen the shape of a knife at her calf, strapped under the leather of her pants, and knew that she risked a broken arm for having it on her person. The lace of silver over what little exposed skin he'd spied, told him that she'd been punished heavily in the past and yet still did all of those things. Either she was mad, or dangerously stubborn.
Rhys and Feyre were sharing a look that told the Shadowsinger they were conversing silently. He found no offence, and moved to scratch his jaw, before he recalled Keres' last words.
"She mentioned something," Azriel announced, his voice grave. "She said the Clippings have stopped."
"That's good. That's what we hoped would happen with the law." Feyre was frowning though, not entirely convinced but still hopeful all the same. They knew that the change in Illyrian culture would be slow, that it couldn't be forced all at once lest they wish to do more harm than good.
"She mentioned that they're…shredding the wings instead, since the law only makes continuation of the Clipping punishable. I would assume she meant that they're shredding the membranes."
"And her wings?"
Azriel grit his teeth. "She had none."
"Well. I think we need to pay them a visit."
The tankard of ale was set down atop the polished wooden bar, half-empty and now nursed with two rich olive hands. Her fingers were slender, her nails painted black and kept sharp, and they curled about the tankard to interlace slightly at its back. She hadn't chosen her usual corner this time, instead drawing a stool up to the bar and taking seat beneath a bright lantern. The warm amber glow cast the white of her hair as soft gold, the thick of it braided down her back. Wisps framed her face, pulled from the braid by the wind, and they curled against her temples and sharp cheekbones.
Keres wasn't what a lot of people believed her to be. Female, but not docile and meek like what was demanded of her. Illyrian, but stripped completely of her wings, not even small nubs left behind. White-haired, but not High Fae; not even a drop of it in her blood. Rumours followed her, wherever she went, and she wondered which one it had been to draw the High Lord and High Lady's dear Shadowsinger away from Velaris.
"I'm not a ghost," she began. "I'm not an impersonator, or a High Fae, or anything else. No, I don't intercept the wine going into Velaris, I'm not the thief you're after." The rich obsidian black of her eyes glimmered as she finally turned, looking to Azriel who'd folded himself into the stool beside her. "Whatever you're here for, whatever you think that I am, I'm not."
The Shadowsinger seemed to ruminate over her words, his hands folded together atop the bar, his gaze cast forward. He'd made her uneasy the second he'd settled beside her, and uneasier still as he hadn't spoken. Keres was doing a great job at talking for the both of them, she realised, and she bit the flesh at the inside of her cheek and turned her eyes back to her ale.
The tavern was fairly empty, most males off with their females or training. Another hour and all the stools would be full, the tables covered in pints of ale and gambling cards. Still, there were enough eyes here to take note of the special and unexpected presence, and the interest he'd given Keres. It wouldn't be long until word reached her father. The quicker this was over with, the quicker she could shut down the rumour before it began to circulate and fester. She didn't need another one drawing her any more attention.
"What do you want, Shadowsinger?" It sounded harsher than she'd meant, but she didn't particularly care. He was costing her more than just time.
"I could say the same to you."
Keres stilled, her world growing quiet. Her breath had caught in her lungs and she tried to remind herself to take another, to breathe, but it came shaky. Her knuckles paled as she gripped the tankard tighter, whatever warmth she'd felt in her head from the ale having evaporated in an instant. Keres was painfully, dreadfully sober.
"I don't know what you're talking about." With a far steadier hand than she'd thought she'd manage, Keres lifted and took a mouthful of her ale. It was bitter over her tongue, vile now that he'd ruined her appetite for it with fear. She didn't look to him, feeling the burn of his gold eyes on the side of her face, as she swallowed and set the pint down with a soft thump. "I think you have your wires crossed, and have mistaken me for someone else."
"My shadows don't lie." Azriel turned slightly, one elbow remaining atop the bar as his other hand fell atop his thigh. His voice was low, velvet even, as he murmured; "Just as yours don't."
Her dark eyes slid to him then; narrowed. What he was inferring was dangerous. What he was inferring was that she was like him. But Keres was not cut from the same cloth, and he was a fool if he thought her to be. The steady throb between her shoulder blades, over the silver of her jagged, nasty scars, reminded her of exactly that. He was revered because he was male, because he had been afforded things in life that she had not. She was hated, spited, shunned because she was female, not just because she was different. He'd learned her truth, but if anyone else did, she'd be the next Illyrian female to go missing.
"Good for you," the sarcasm in her voice dripped like venom, "you found me." Leaning closer, the wooden legs of her stool groaning with the shift in her weight, Keres hissed through grit teeth; "Now leave me the fuck alone."
Azriel's look was as equally sharp, though ambiguous. His face was like stone, masked with neutrality, and unable to be read. The lantern above them caught the blue stones of his siphons, tucked in at his hip; not a threat, but a reminder of who he was. It was a reminder of how very different their circumstances had been, simply because of their gender. It didn't matter how hard the High Lord and Lady had fought to stamp out the barbaric practice of Clipping. Illyrian society was so deeply engrained with misogyny that everything about their way of life was entrenched in it. One law couldn't change that.
"If you stay here for any longer, you'll be drawing unwanted attention to me." Keres glanced over his shoulder, to a table of two Illyrian males she recognised to work for her father. She made a mental note of their faces, that she'd need to deal with them when Azriel left. "So you best be on your way if you have nothing else to say."
He wasn't someone to be dismissed, and Keres knew this. Azriel would leave when he deemed it fitting, not when he was told to do so. Still, she was grateful when she watched him rise from the barstool, his wings pulled in tight against his back, before he lingered over her. "You'll be seeing me again."
Scowling into her ale, Keres huffed; "When you see your High Lord and Lady, tell them that the Clippings have stopped. Tell Rhys that they've found a way around the law. The males here can't be punished if they're simply shredding the wings of Illyrian females, since the law only mentions Clipping." Black eyes lifted to his face, her look a hard stare. "Tell them I'll be seeing them soon."
===
Azriel was standing before Rhys and Feyre, his shadows lurking about his ankles. "The rumours remain relatively unsubstantiated." His arms were crossed over his chest, his Illyrian leathers having been swapped for a dark shirt. The female had given him little, and yet her response had given him so much. "I wasn't able to confirm anything, but her reaction was answer enough. Whether or not this is a rumour that she has circulated herself as a means of protection, I'm not sure. She certainly isn't…your usual Illyrian female."
The female he'd met was not the usual type of anything. He'd found her in a tavern, in a camp that still saw it punishable to enter when it was designated only to men. He'd found her drinking ale when, in that part, it was forbidden. He'd seen the shape of a knife at her calf, strapped under the leather of her pants, and knew that she risked a broken arm for having it on her person. The lace of silver over what little exposed skin he'd spied, told him that she'd been punished heavily in the past and yet still did all of those things. Either she was mad, or dangerously stubborn.
Rhys and Feyre were sharing a look that told the Shadowsinger they were conversing silently. He found no offence, and moved to scratch his jaw, before he recalled Keres' last words.
"She mentioned something," Azriel announced, his voice grave. "She said the Clippings have stopped."
"That's good. That's what we hoped would happen with the law." Feyre was frowning though, not entirely convinced but still hopeful all the same. They knew that the change in Illyrian culture would be slow, that it couldn't be forced all at once lest they wish to do more harm than good.
"She mentioned that they're…shredding the wings instead, since the law only makes continuation of the Clipping punishable. I would assume she meant that they're shredding the membranes."
"And her wings?"
Azriel grit his teeth. "She had none."
"Well. I think we need to pay them a visit."
Last edited: