Kell gave Neria a small shrug as she glanced at him. They both remembered that night, the wounds and the water barrels red with blood from her hair, the screaming coming from the tent after Griffith had entered it to interrogate the enemy mage, and how she’d patched up his wounds. How they’d spoken of Holland, and things carried. He could remember the touch of her hand and her magic, could remember casting alongside her and pushing what had been his limit…
But he couldn’t remember what she was wearing.
It wasn’t that that had made him consider her a friend.
As she spoke it came trickling back in flashes. Her sturdy leather boots. The blue of her torn tunic. Her scraped hands and long damp hair. Crossing his arms over his chest, he leaned against one of the poles of the small pavilion, watching Calla make her selections.
“Blue,” she agreed, a murmur under her breath in Arnesian, something low enough for Kell not to catch. The rustling was leather, silken cloth and Kell found himself touching the glass bead tucked beneath his shirt. After a few more minutes, Calla came back with a few garments draped over her arm. Fine black woolen pants that would fit Neria’s shape, to be tucked into knee-high tooled-leather boots with metal fastenings. The color of the metal was something softer, that seemed to take the light and reflect it back as a few different shades of dark.
The top was a soft blue tunic held closed in the front with the same metal fastenings, form-fitting but not tight, belted and long enough to cover the tops of her thighs. It was not quite a dress, but it gave the impression of femininity while still allowing for full and practical movement. The belt matched the boots and held several different pockets, each carefully placed and balanced so they did not break the line of the outfit.
It was elegant, but not overt in its richness. Not precisely the local fashion, but not far from it. It would set Neria apart but still look like something that belonged. The way Kell’s coat did for him.
“Try these,” Calla offered, nodding to what looked like a small booth in the back of the tent, a curtain drawn across for privacy. Already, Calla was choosing another outfit.
no subject
Kell gave Neria a small shrug as she glanced at him. They both remembered that night, the wounds and the water barrels red with blood from her hair, the screaming coming from the tent after Griffith had entered it to interrogate the enemy mage, and how she’d patched up his wounds. How they’d spoken of Holland, and things carried. He could remember the touch of her hand and her magic, could remember casting alongside her and pushing what had been his limit…
But he couldn’t remember what she was wearing.
It wasn’t that that had made him consider her a friend.
As she spoke it came trickling back in flashes. Her sturdy leather boots. The blue of her torn tunic. Her scraped hands and long damp hair. Crossing his arms over his chest, he leaned against one of the poles of the small pavilion, watching Calla make her selections.
“Blue,” she agreed, a murmur under her breath in Arnesian, something low enough for Kell not to catch. The rustling was leather, silken cloth and Kell found himself touching the glass bead tucked beneath his shirt. After a few more minutes, Calla came back with a few garments draped over her arm. Fine black woolen pants that would fit Neria’s shape, to be tucked into knee-high tooled-leather boots with metal fastenings. The color of the metal was something softer, that seemed to take the light and reflect it back as a few different shades of dark.
The top was a soft blue tunic held closed in the front with the same metal fastenings, form-fitting but not tight, belted and long enough to cover the tops of her thighs. It was not quite a dress, but it gave the impression of femininity while still allowing for full and practical movement. The belt matched the boots and held several different pockets, each carefully placed and balanced so they did not break the line of the outfit.
It was elegant, but not overt in its richness. Not precisely the local fashion, but not far from it. It would set Neria apart but still look like something that belonged. The way Kell’s coat did for him.
“Try these,” Calla offered, nodding to what looked like a small booth in the back of the tent, a curtain drawn across for privacy. Already, Calla was choosing another outfit.