Private Tales Given the Chance

A private roleplay only for those invited by the first writer
Pawel was sure to do exactly as was told, raising his fists in front of his face in a manner that struck a small measure of fear in his heart that she was about to punch him. The relief when she moved away to get some padding was not a feeling that could be measured, although it did make him feel like somewhat of a coward.

He'd not been one for fighting if his ethos hadn't made it apparent. Even in his youth, the only time he'd gotten into a scrape with some children from the Gutters, his sister had been there to dish out a heavy hand. There'd never been much bother again after that.

Still, he did his level best to oblige, and while physically, he was not weak, Pawel could only imagine all the criticisms that were about to be levelled at his poor form. He threw a right fist that hit the pad with a loud slap, his feet lacking the movement of a practised combatant.

"Ah, that sounds..."


It wasn't painted in the most incredible light by Livia. The way she described both forms of her magic was more akin to a tool to be used by somebody, whether it was the Academy or her father. Even if it opened her eyes, so to speak. Wilhart couldn't find a way to put a positive spin on it, so a punch from his left followed in place of the conclusion of his sentence with a second slap.

"Are you happy, Livia?"
 
  • Stressed
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Livia frowned.

No one had asked her that question... perhaps no one other than Maseno.

Her brows furrowed, arms dropping when she saw he would not move to strike the cushion she held up.
"Why do you ask that?"

The question was enough to unravel many layers of what she had been forced to set aside, to deal with another day, but the days kept adding on and on. Liv made sure none of this was revealed on her expression, not needing another person to pierce through her defenses. "Are any of us truly happy, Wilhart?" She knew he preferred his given name, but if she had to admit anything, it was that using it would sound too trusting.

She dropped the cushion to the ground, her expression that had tried to keep neutral now frowned deeply.


"You are asking a Dreadlord if they are happy?"
Liv gave a derisive laugh. "I thought politicians were smart."
 
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The Dreadlord's answer was more than telling.

To question whether anybody was happy suggested that Livia's life had been so devoid of joy that she had assumed misery as the natural state of the world around her. He couldn't blame her; even from the brief snippets of her life that she'd shared, there was enough tragedy to skew one's view.

I'm happy, he had thought, but he left it unsaid so as not to rub it in. She might have questioned his intelligence, but emotionally, Pawel was smart enough to leave it.

"I'm sorry," the man finally answered, "my life's path has not led me to encounter many Dreadlords until now."

His expression was apologetic, not in the sheepish manner that his friends were well accustomed to, but in a more serious light. "But I'm trying to learn." Still, he would respect her feelings in the moment, the olive branch of a strained smile offered.

"If you wish for me to stop asking questions, I can do that. We don't have to talk at all if you would be more comfortable."
 
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Suddenly, she did not know why she was here.

Despite the defenses she put up, he would be able to see the way her shoulder sagged that she had been carrying something all this time.
"My life was never meant for joy. Before I had even been told if I wished to attend the Academy, I had done a grave mistake that made sure I would not have a happy life. In fact, I let things fester and I ignore the hard questions just so I do not need to be vulnerable."

Guilt. It settled on her expression the harshest, and she knew it. Livia turned away, meeting the innocent gaze of Marzipan. Tears threatened to spill from her olivine eyes, and the beastly hound got up slowly and pushed her head beneath Livia's hand.

She sighed, but her hand moved all on it's own to give the soft head the petting she deserved.


"I apologise that the first time you meet a Dreadlord is me. Someone that has barely earned the title of Lieutenant or the Third Rank."

A rank higher than what her earlier Proctors had guessed she would achieve.
 
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It was a tragedy, no, a travesty that any Anirian could stand there and say with crushing confidence that their life was not destined for joy.

Pawel grew silent, knowing that words and platitudes could only try and fail to improve things. What could he say? Every word the woman spoke was another stroke of the brush; the paint a thick miasma of tragedy, misery and mistreatment, every fresh layer setting the one beneath it in stone on the heart's canvas. What could he do?

Well, actually, there was plenty the man could do. In his position, he could strive for improvements within the Academy and for the Dreadlords themselves. Why not disturb another tradition that was only sated by blood? Still, that did nothing for Dreadlord Quinnick here and now, and promising better futures for others may have only stirred bitter resentment within her.

"You never need to apologise to me, not for anything and certainly not for your rank," Pawel finally replied, his voice resolute as he gave the woman her space and allowed Miss Marzipan to do comfort's work. "I think, perhaps, it would be best if we took a break." And before she had the chance to call herself weak and self-flagellate any further, Wilhart made an anticipatory excuse on her behalf. "I think I pulled something in my back, throwing that punch..."
 
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Reactions: Livia Quinnick
Livia carried a weight for so long, there were times she forgot she was still carrying it some days that, allowing herself to relax. That weight became too familiar to carry, dropping her defenses only reminded her that loosening the grip was not always the best. After all that had happened before graduation, she would not have held onto all this...

But Livia had been far from home for many a month, had been left for dead by a group that detested Dreadlords, and had also lost a reason to distract herself from everything else and feel loved by a boy. Her grip had been slipping for too long, life falling apart at the seams and yet, Livia still held that weight.

Pawel was all too kind. She knew he had not pulled a muscle. Her eyes had been watching his form, but he had potential to learn.

He was extending a kindness to her.

One last ruffle behind Marzipan's ear, Livia stood up with a deep inhale. Releasing it threatened to let go everything she held together, but she smiled.
"Do you take walks often? It will help strengthen your muscles. Let us see how far you can walk."