Private Tales Head in the Clouds

A private roleplay only for those invited by the first writer
Crumpled by his feet laid his jacket, a standard-issue piece of his uniform. Unlike most of his peers, who had taken to their own styles, Dorian was among the rare few to keep wearing it as intended. He preferred the tall collar, even if the jacket was a bit too baggy, and sleeves too long.

"Ruud died," he curtly answered.

He'd dragged the wounded boy quite a ways, and even after he'd died on the trek back to the Academy, Dorian didn't leave his body behind. Ruud certainly wouldn't have spared the same kindness to Dorian, but he thought it best not to dwell on that.

"It was a success, anyway." Another mark on the list. His eighty-sixth, if one were to check the records.
 
"Oh," a gentle answer, somber but not sad, "I am sorry to hear that. Ruud was quite innovative, don't you think?"

Not quite in the way that Tinker or Alistair or Ralene could be with their inventions, but Ruud had a way of turning simple magics into complex and powerful tools. He'd been talented, ever so much more than Chasmine thought of herself, but he'd also been quite foolhardy as the Proctor's often noted. Too bold, too full of himself. A loose canon at the worst of times and an impetuous ass at the best. He'd never been very kind to Chasmine, not that she would ever say so.

"Congratulations," she tempted gently, a flicker of a smile that disappeared quite quickly, "do you know if he was buried on the grounds?"
 
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"He relied too much on tools and was too easily flustered by unexpected circumstances."

Heavy as all hell to drag, too, but that needn't be said aloud. Dorian had constructed a makeshift sled, and using some old rope, pulled Ruud along for a couple of days

"Couldn't say. Probably the same place they throw the rest of us when we die. Why, think you'll see him again? He didn't seem like a guy with too many regrets."
 
Chasmine's gaze drifted from Dorian as he spoke of Ruud's weaknesses. It didn't sit right with her, to speak ill of the dead, but she couldn't bring herself to say so. Dorian could speak as he pleased. After a moment, she drifted over to an open bath area comprised of a square pool recessed into the floor, accessible by stone steps that lead down into the water.

Stooping down at the edge, Chas tested the water with her fingertips and set her basket of cleaning items along the stone platform there. The baths were only heated in the winter time, but could still be quite cold to use in the warmer months. This one wasn't too bad.

"Regrets are not the only thing that keep people from passing on," she replied gently, rising to a stand again to begin undressing, "sometimes something as simple as loneliness can hold a spirit here. So many students here have no families to speak of, then grow up in a world where friendship and connection to others is viewed as a weakness - and rarely do any of us have a choice in being here. With kindness so hard to come by, I've found a few kind words spoken over a grave settles a lost or longing soul."

A glance was given over her shoulder as she offered Dorian a short and sober smile, "I hope that when I die, someone will spare a few words of kindness for me over my grave."
 
Hands gripping the wash trough's rim, Dorian stared at the cloudy water in it as Chasmine spoke. He yanked the plug up, watched the water drain, and then turned to face his friend. Blue eyes absently settled on the girl as each article of clothing was peeled off.

Dorian rolled his eyes, "I don't have many kind words for the people here."

Wait, what in the fuck?

His gaze snapped back to her. Focused on her narrow shoulders, then traced a line down the ridges of her spine, and then the curves of her-

"I hope that when I die, someone will spare a few words of kindness for me over my grave."

Eyes frantically shot back up to meet hers. What had he been so cross about before? Ruud's death? Really, who cares about that?

"Right," Dorian's voice trailed, and he leaned down to gather his jacket and clenched it tightly to fight the trembling in his hand.

He'd seen Chasmine and, well, all the girls in his class enough times to grow completely sick of it. Not once had he felt even a budding of lust towards them. Even when the Proctors dragged them to the brothel, and he'd sat bedside with one of the working girls there, Dorian hadn't felt a thing.

"It's, uh, a bit early for a bath, huh?"
 
"I think you are not alone in that," Chas replied, lifting the length of her braid up and twisting it at the back of her head, pinning it in place, "that's why I do."

A wayward smile pulled at her lips briefly before she stepped down into the water, drifting in with a mild shiver until she was submerged up to her chin.

"The girls bath hour is later, it's true," she nodded, "but it's bad luck to bathe in water soaked in moonlight. Plus," her pale eyes slowly glanced around the empty hall, "it's quieter around this time. The girls can be quite ... spirited."

Chas shifted to pick her bar of soap from her basket, pausing as she turned back and catching Dorian's stare. Only, she wasn't quite looking at him, but his jacket, "I can fix that for you, if you like," she pointed, "the rip in your jacket. Bring it to my room later and I'll patch it."
 
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"Sure," he sheepishly responded. Cleared his throat. "Yeah, okay. I'll, uh, see you again. Later. Soon, uh, tonight."

Floundering, blubbering idiot.

"I've got a couple things needing... done. So, yeah," Dorian's hand cut the air in a stiff wave and the boy made a swift exit from the washroom before he would have to watch Chasmine begin to lather herself with soap.

As he'd said, that evening he sought her out, avoiding the Academy's staff as they made their nightly rounds. It had been his first time in that wing of the building since the girls had been relocated there. With a pair of curled fingers, Dorian knock-knocked on the door.
 
"Come in," Chasmine called from inside.

Chasmine's room was about exactly what one would expect from a girl such as herself: eclectic to the point of eccentricity. Though the Dreadlord Acolytes didn't have much in the way of personal belongings, Chas had apparently made a point to fill her room with found items and things. It was the epitome of kitsch cottagecore. There were trinkets and bobbles, many of which were broken, settled about high shelves. Books, books, books, and more books. Handmade things put together from nature. Feathers of all sizes and colors. Rocks - lots of rocks. Candles everywhere.

All the plants. In pots. Not in pots. Seeds. Drying blooms. Cut roots and leaves.

Symbols carved into the wooden wallboards and along the perimeter of her room, something which Dorian may recall from his first foray into Chasmine's previous room.

Phials and jars filled with collected ingredients, tonics, and oddities. Dead things, too. The skull of a crow sat atop a cork that enclosed a large jaw of its own feathers.

Her bedroom window looked out upon the Old Forest and the graveyard through a thicket of growing planets seeded into a makeshift flowerbox just beyond the panes, and an empty raven's nest sat off to one side.

Chas was stooped by the fireplace near the door, and looked up as Dorian entered, "You're just in time for tea."
 
Was there ever such a space in the old castle?

"Cozy," Dorian mused as he stepped in, tattered jacket folded over his arm. Compared to earlier in the day, the lines of his face were relaxed, and he spoke gently to Chas. He walked across the room to set it at the foot of her bed, then moved behind the girl, peeking over her shoulder.

"Tea?" The aromas piqued his curiosity, "I've never had any tea before."
 
"Yes, there does seem to be a great lack of tea in this Academy."

Chasmine pulled a kettle from the coals and stood, moving next to the small table against the wall nearby.

"Melinda from the kitchens brings me tea from the city. She brought me a new one this week made with vanilla and chamomile. It's very soothing." Looking to Dorian for a moment, Chas gave him a wilting smile, "I'm afraid the only chair in the room is quite occupied," her gaze drifted to said chair, empty and vacant.
 
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Dorian followed Chasmine's gaze to the chair and fluttered his fingers in a small wave.

"Hi, Dandy."

Back to the tea.

"Can't say that I follow," Dorian said with a shrug, "What's chamomile?"

The boy's eyes wandered to Chas, specifically to her choice of loose-fitting clothing. He followed her collarbones to her clavicle, then down and-

Meeeooow...

Dandy's disembodied cry startled Dorian, and he turned to the empty chair, frowning.

"Soothing, though? Huh. I'll try it."
 
"It's a flower," she replied, turning to a open-face cabinet on the wall hung over the table and stood up on her tip-toes to take down two mugs; one a very plain, simple, old wooden mug, and the other a rather nice hand-carved piece of art. On the next shelf down a tattered and worn gryphon stuffed animal watched Dorian with dull, beady eyes.

"It's used in many apothecary remedies. It can calm an upset stomach, ease restless sleep," she poured the hot tea out into the two mugs and picked up the carved mug, "and soothe anxiety," then turned to offer it to Dorian, meeting his wandering gaze, "guests use the nice mug. Take care, it's rather hot."
 
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"Some flower, eh? Super-flower..." Dorian took the mug, "Thanks."

While waiting for the tea to cool, he turned the mug in his hands and ran his thumb over the carvings. All the detailed contours. He closed his eyes and focused hard on the wood's texture.

"I like to whittle, but I'm not very good yet."

Satisfied with its feel, he held the mug close to his chest. The tea's scent floated up and tickled his nose. Something with such a pleasant smell would surely taste the same, Dorian thought. He watched Chasmine, mirroring her actions. Carefully bringing the mug to his lips, he gently blew over the surface. Then, gingerly, took a tiny sip.

Tea hot enough to scald assailed the tip of his tongue, and he couldn't taste a thing from the first sip. The second, he caught hints of sweetness and floral notes, but... it was just hot water.

"Mmm!" Dorian forced a smile at Chas and stared down at the mug. Was that it?
 
Chas perhaps was not a great person to mirror when it came to drinking tea. She preferred her's hot and though she often drank it quite strong, it was only because she let the kettle steep for too long. Today was not such a case.

A tiny smile formed when he tried it and proclaimed his liking, "I gave Ralene tea once, she said it tasted like mud water and spit it out." Her smile remained, showing no slight or offense for the story, "I suppose tea is not for everyone, but I am glad that you like it. There are so very many kinds to try."

She set her mug down next, and moved to take up his jacket from her bed, folding it open to look at the rip, "I'm afraid I'm not very good with a knife, in any manner of speaking." Whittling, sparring - she was equally inept at both, "but I am quite accomplished at sewing. I should have this fixed before you leave."
 
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"Sounds like her," Dorian said with a chuckle. Ralene was among the few that he didn't think ill of, but perhaps that was from a lack of engagement with her.

In the months to come, Ralene would earn a great deal of respect from Dorian as word would quickly spread of the reason behind her solitary confinement leading up to the Winter Solstice Ball.

"Oh, are there?" Dorian said, trying very hard to hide his worry. He willed the dread he felt back into the dark, unexplored depth of his mind. A second of mastery over his emotions. "Can't wait to try."

Then he smiled at Chasmine, "Thanks. I really wear it a lot. I just don't feel right without it."
 
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Chasmine turned a pleasantly, quietly excited smile up at Dorian as he explained his eagerness to try the various teas, "It's always nice to try new varieties with other tea drinkers. One day I should like to go to the Tea House in the city. I have heard Kristen talking about it - it sounds lovely."

Such a simple want. Chas knew it was very unlikely to happen, but she continued to find warmth in the idea of it; going into the city and visiting the Noble's Tea House.

Turning to walk to the small desk in the corner of the room, she withdrew a wooden box with sewing supplies. Chas took a seat on the floor and began to measure out sewing thread, "Agreed, you would look quite odd without your jacket. Like a turtle without its shell."
 
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Watching Chasmine move about the cluttered space to access the sewing kit, it dawned upon Dorian just how much stuff she had. Like she'd spent more time collecting oddities over anything else. She'd taken full advantage of the loosened rules.

It was almost impressive.

"Full-fledged Dreadlords still have quite a bit of privilege, you know. Even after the revolution," Dorian mused aloud, "Even those of the Third have the freedom to go where they please." Likely where the boy would end up, and Chasmine, if she would even graduate with the rest of the class. He frowned at the girl at work, unable to voice his concerns.

"Or a bald sheepdog," he added on. Softly chuckled.
 
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"You are kind to think I would be placed in Third ranking," Chasmine replied gently, glancing up at him with a smile that faltered briefly before she turned her attention back to the string to thread a needle, "or even graduate at all."

It did not escape her, the helpless nature of herself. The ineptitude. Her failure to be honed into a weapon, nigh even a useful tool for Vel Anir. The Revolution was what saved her from a likely terrible death in the Academy, but it would do her no favors afterward.

"That's silly, you would still have hair even without your jacket," but she was all too pleased to change the subject, brightness returned to her expression, "and I would cut you my hair if you lost your own."
 
What he hadn't the courage to say to his friend, Chasmine did herself. Dorian ruefully smiled.

"Well, it is pretty close in color, huh," he made a thoughtful noise and sat cross-legged, gripping his cup of tea. Sipped it, not intending on letting it go to waste. Even if it was far from enjoyable, she'd prepared it for him. Dorian didn't need a reason more to finish the drink.

The boy quietly watched as her thin fingers nimbly worked the needle through a rather large tear in his jacket.
 
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Dorian canted his head with a small smile, "Not quite." He placed the mug on the floor between them to take her braid into his hands and began to run his hands over the twisted strands.

"Seems like a lot of work," he said, "Your hair, that is."
 
"Oh," Dorian blinked, "That makes things easy."

Entirely satisfied having played with her hair, Dorian opened his hand and watched the braid slip from his grasp.

He sat back, propping himself on his hands, and was content to silently watch Chasmine continue mending his jacket.
 
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