Private Tales It Ain't Much, But It's Honest Work

[Petra Darthinian]

Petra knelt beside Norvyk just outside the ring of the Monastery's empty training grounds; the afternoon sun casting long shadows over the sandy courtyard and baking the back of her neck while she worked. Her storm dragon’s emerald scales shimmered in the light, flashing like jewels where she had already scrubbed. He lay stretched out, his massive wings spread and draped in the grass, eyes half-closed in contentment. Her dragon was going through another shed and Petra felt compelled to help him through the normally itchy process.

A large bucket of warm water, laced with fragrant soaps, sat beside her. She dipped a thick brush into the mixture, her hands steady and practiced as she scrubbed along the contours of Norvyk’s powerful neck. The dragon rumbled softly, a sound that resonated through the ground, almost like a purr. Petra smiled, her fingers tracing the edge of a particularly stubborn patch of dirt that clung to his peeling scales.

"If I didn't know better, I would think you've been rolling in mud on purpose." Petra murmured; her voice affectionate yet teasing.

Norvyk turned his head and snorted, a gust of warm air blowing back the loose curls that had escaped her braid, "I would never dream of making more work for you." His tail flicked playfully, and he shifted to move one wing over Petra's head, acting as a shade from the hot sun. The elf grinned at him knowingly and continued to wash away the dead scaleskin.

Behind her, was the large pile of her dragon's tack, a collection of straps, buckles, and her saddle that had seen countless training sessions. But weather, dirt, and she had to be honest, blood had made it grimy. Her next to-do item.

After her current section was gleaming, Petra set aside the brush and wiped her brow, her arms having started to ache, and reached for a dry cloth, soaking it in another bucket full of oil she’d prepared earlier. The scent of it filled the air, a blend of herbs and spices to help keep Norvyk's scales supple and strong.

She fell into the calming cadence of her movements, and began humming a lilting ballad under her breath, a tune she’d learned during her early days in Fal'Addas. It was a simple, rhythmic melody that matched the task at hand and leant to easy daydreaming, her mind already turned to being on dragon-back again and soaring through the endless sky.

Sitra

 

[Sitra]

To someone that preferred silence above all else, the stifling confines of the dormitories with its myriad of unfamiliar faces and voices was as close to torture as she could tolerate, at times.​

Never mind the fact that she was one of the few squires with the luxury of possessing her own personal chambers, where her status laid bare the hypocrisy beneath one of the Monastery's core foundations. The subtle hints of inequality, even in a place that professed it as one of their foremost tenets, hardly made her any friends amongst her peers. But she had no intention of turning down a luxury so freely offered.

Nonetheless, the noise had no difficulty in carrying right through the walls of her room; courtesy of the amount of bodies all congregating in one place. There was certainly nothing to be done about it during the afternoon, when the sky held the sun at its highest peak and so sent the dizzying amount of squires running for the cool shelter of their rooms.

As unfortunate as it was, she expected nothing less.

She had been writing a letter to her uncle, one of the few people who had treated her like an adult with her own interests in their correspondence. A rare thing in her life. They wrote of all manner of things that she hadn't expected her own parents to indulge; he did not speak of marriage prospects or expectations of her, nor did he force her to plow through the excruciating minutiae of domestic life back home until her eyes glazed over.

Rather, they spoke of politics; of how the world turned while she was relegated to obscurity.

It had helped a little bit to soothe her soul.

Unfortunately, there was no hope whatsoever for her to concentrate, distracted as she was by the incoherent din of voices that carried through the halls of the dormitory and through the insubstantial wooden paneling of her walls. Oh, not that she necessarily blamed them - few had the luxury of writing letters at their own leisure - and the company of your fellow squire was probably more preferable to most than the quiet scribbling of quill upon parchment.

Although she did wish they'd be quieter about it.

Even if she had wished with all her heart to have simply been finished with the letter so that it could be sent on the next caravan that came rumbling through the relatively isolated grounds of the Monastery, she knew it would be impossible.

That it would have to wait became exceedingly more clear as she once again glanced up at the latest burst of laughter in a vain effort to understand what exactly it was that had caused such an excited stir of amusement.

On a better day she might've gone to find out for herself, but then it wasn't even close to a better day. Sitra was feeling homesick, and hoped that a finely written letter to her uncle might've alleviated that burden in her stomach, if only somewhat.

As it happened, all she could hope for was to wait the ordeal out somewhere a little more peaceful, and resignedly, she carefully slid the chair away from the table and across the uneven floorboards before following along in its wake; making sure to tidy up her desk and tuck away her paper and quill into a nook in the wall so that it wasn't left out for the ravages of curious children.

After a few quiet moments of fiddling with the kerchief draped over her hair, she took one final look about her personal quarters before deeming it acceptable to someone who tolerated not a single thing out of its rightful place. Then she carefully pushed her door open and slid out of her room, stepping into the cramped hallways of her new home.

She needed to be in the open outdoors, not in a place that threatened to suffocate her.

Even with the day at its hottest, and the sun at its most oppressive, Sitra found that she didn't mind the temperature nearly as much as others. The heat had suffused her bronze skin with a pleasant warmth and left her wanting to stretch her legs.

So that's exactly what she did.

The refuge she thought to find in the training grounds was due to the fact that she assumed that nobody wanted to linger in the dusty courtyard any longer than their daily practice required. Sometimes she would find a couple of knights at practice, but more often than not it was one of the few places that she would gamble on having all for herself.

But just like her hope for letter writing, so too was this hope dashed upon the rocks as she found herself looking at... an unusual sight, to say the least. She had unconsciously expected someone else to be there, yet the sight of a woman grooming her dragon? That wasn't at all what she had in mind.

How could she not be captivated?

As she watched from a short distance away, Sitra could not help but to observe the scene before her with what was probably wide-eyed wonder had she been paying attention to the face she was making. But she wasn't. Her attention was utterly occupied by the way the scarred woman seemed to clean the scales of the beast laying at her feet with the same casual grace that one might brush a horse.

The woman she knew by reputation, if not by sight; her name was Petra, was it not? Which had meant that the creature that she treated like a particularly oversized horse was Norvyk. Still, the fascination in her eyes was marred by a degree of uncertainty as she stood at the threshold of the training grounds, hesitant to interrupt them.

And yet, just as hesitant to move her rebellious feet to a direction that gave them the same privacy she herself so desperately sought.

So she did neither of those things; instead staying still like some kind of prey animal and listening to the sudden song that left Petra's parted lips, her hands clasped and folded at the front of her long skirts while her idle fingertips played at the fold of material she found beneath them. And while the easy pace of the task still kept Petra from noticing her, distracted as the other woman was by the simple ritual, it was not enough to keep Norvyk's attention.

Especially not when the newcomer made to move few paces to the side in order to get a better look - her curiosity getting the better of her sense of propriety when it came to spying on something she hadn't the permission to see. But how often did one get to witness the magnificent sight of a genuine dragon merely lounging in the grass like a cat would?

Oh, that wasn't to say the hypnotic movements of Petra as she sang to the afternoon air wasn't an equally captivating sight.

But that wasn't necessarily something she'd admit to with the same readiness.

 

[Petra Darthinian]

There was something in the way of a day spent in the sun, alongside her dragon, and music at Petra's lips that had a content joy blooming in her chest. The world felt more alive, the air easier to breathe, and the great evils that the Order battled seemed not so looming because of it.

Norvyk shifted beside her and grumbled deeply in his chest, the sound numbing her toes. Glancing beyond her shoulder, her draconian gaze zeroed in on their new visitor. A dark-haired girl that seemed just this side of running from the training ground if Petra moved too quickly. A deer facing down a wolf in the bush and poising to bolt. Deeply amused, Petra worked to keep her demeanor nonchalant as she stood from her crouch, making a show of stretching languidly.

Whistling, she tossed her oiled rag back in its bucket and took a curious step forward, Norvyk's wing stretching easily to keep her under the shade. She crossed her arms, casually aware of the way her biceps flexed under the suds and gave a friendly quirk to her eyebrow. "Well good morrow. You're a squire are you not? One of the ones with their own rooms, if I'm not mistaken." Her grin sharpened at Sitra's expense. "Yes... I have heard quite a bit about that arrangement. Have you come out here to train on your own?"

Sitra

 

[Sitra]

Nobody ever liked being caught when they thought themselves unnoticed, least of all Sitra who had considered herself rather discrete. But whatever brief flicker of panic that might've flashed in her eyes was promptly smothered beneath a serene smile and a careful, polite nod.

As flighty and skittish as she initially seemed, it didn't take long for the squire to conceal whatever she was feeling with an aristocratic poise; in the way she'd spent her entire life being trained to do.

It was a good thing, too. Petra might have kept her expression friendly and open; more than happy to showcase her amusement to the gawking squire, but the warm enough greeting was soon followed by words that had immediately caused Sitra's hackles to rise. She was instinctively wary, and tried her best to smooth over whatever imperfections could've marred her face's composure.

The subtle criticisms disguised as idle conversation was hardly a new experience for her, and with that wolfish grin on the other woman's face? Sitra wanted to make certain that there was no weakness to be found in a mask that smiled blithely back, apparently untouched by the... good-natured jab?

It was too soon to say what Petra had meant by it.

"Good morrow to you, Knight Sworn," Sitra had responded in kind, biting back any other response that threatened to bubble forth from her lips until she tamed her tongue into submission. As much as she disliked the implications of Petra's words, she knew it was more important to set the tone of the interaction rather than make unnecessary enemies. So instead of venom, she offered a soft laugh in the face of what was obviously common knowledge at this point; as easy and carefree as it was vaguely uncomfortable. "I am the squire with her own room, that's true. It was not something I thought to turn down at the time."

Implying that she was thinking about turning it down, now.

It had certainly come with its fair share of complications, and at the time she'd simply taken what was offered without thinking too much about the potential fallout. She'd been exhausted, filthy, and just worn down to the last of her nerves since arriving to the Monastery, and had only realized her mistake in the weeks that followed. Knights could be such filthy gossips.

But by now it had become a strange point of pride to her, and she hadn't considered backing down to thinly veiled ribbing. So, as humble as her words were, that same serene smile only deepened in the face of the implicit disapproval, "I didn't imagine it was my decision to turn down, even."

That was also true, she hadn't the faintest clue who to ask - and what to say - even if she had.

Nonetheless, the admission had caused a blush to colour her cheeks. She allowed the mask to drop, if only a little bit, as she crossed the width of the training field in short, certain strides so that they didn't have to practically yell at one another. Her hands dropped from the front of her skirts to then be relegated to her back, clasped together and out of sight so they wouldn't betray her nervousness.

"And no, my duties for the day are finished. I just thought I'd enjoy the day outside rather than be cooped up in my room, writing letters," Sitra's brow crinkled in amusement for the briefest of moments, then turned contemplative when her gaze briefly flickered to the lounging dragon. "I see that you and... Norvyk had the same idea, Syr?"

 

[Petra Darthinian]

If nothing else, Petra loved to tease. To test at the edges of what made a person tic. What made them scowl, or laugh, or rally, whatever it may be, as long as it was real. And for a moment, the elf witnessed those real pieces flash across Sitra's face, before hiding politely behind a mask. A knowing smirk wrestled on her lips. There she is. Not as demure as she played herself to be... Good. Petra preferred a little spice.

Copying the squire, Petra shifted her hands to clasp behind her back, if only to keep her strange limb a little longer from Sitra's curious stare. At the girl's question, she half turned with casual interest to scan her half-cleaned dragon. "We did indeed. He's shedding and asked for my help in reaching all the hard-to-get places." That wolf's grin was back with a mock whisper. "Although between you and I, I think the big lizard just prefers to be pampered and is afraid to say it." Norvyk rumbled behind her, and retracted his wing back to his side, she huffed a quick laugh. Okay, perhaps she preferred a lot of spice.

Turning back to Sitra, Petra's head quirked with a curious tilt, "Letters? Do you have many people back home to write to?" A familiar ache in her chest mirrored her question. Pesky things— memories.

Sitra

 

[Sitra]

The rumbling disagreement from their third companion inexplicitly put the squire a little more at ease; her features softening into something resembling an actual smile this time around, and she proceeded to make a face of wry amusement at the lighthearted banter directed at Norvyk.

Sitra had correctly assumed that the dragon's rider was simply a tease at heart, and so tried anew not to take Petra's own needling of her own accommodations too personally.

And yet, as correct as she might've been about the knight's penchant for spice, she hadn't the courage to fully imitate Petra's amiable smirk in the fear that she was missing some hidden, terrible jest at her expense. To say that Sitra was always suspicious, all the time, was honestly a bit of an understatement, but she made an effort not to let that show.

She looked at Norvyk again, her laughter less guarded after a sudden thought sprung to mind. "He looks rather content, at any rate. And who knows? He might even perversely enjoy the idea of such an obliging knight at his beck and call; it's certainly a bit of a different take on most fairytales between knights and dragons that I've been told,"

The concept of riding them was not one that was popular in the storytelling circles of Saknne, where tales of a hero astride a dragon were only ever told when it was for the purpose of plunging a sword into their heart. So, what she was seeing definitely made a case for fact being stranger than fiction, at least to her sensibilities.

She might've wanted to ask more about the story behind such a magnificent creature, but was soon interrupted by the next question - this one bringing a flicker of a grimace across those finely chiseled features before, once again, they was forced into a placid facade. She made a point of not looking away from Petra's curious gaze while she composed an answer in her mind. "Nothing like that, really," she had answered.

There was a hint of teeth in the playful, silent laugh that danced across her lips.

"Typically it's only my uncle, and sometimes a friend or sibling when when they're able to write." Sitra replied almost absently to what Petra had asked her, clearly far more interested in observing the reptilian eyes of Norvyk as the slits widened against the newest flash of dazzling sunlight that had escaped through the shifting foliage of the trees overhead. "There's not a great deal to talk about with me so far from home, and I don't want to bother them with every little detail of my new life here. So I usually reserve the rare letter for more interesting things. It's an arrangement I'm perfectly content with."

Her almond eyes returned to Petra; scrutiny in those brown depths, however brief.

"How about yourself, Syr Darthinian? Have you many people back home to write to?"

The question was made with a formal address, surname and all, in a way that made it apparent that this line of discussion was hardly something that thrilled the squire to discuss. However, the subtle challenge in her words was dampened by the guileless look that followed; she did seem interested at the very least, for all her reluctance accompanying the subject.

 

[Petra Darthinian]

Ah, well. She should have seen that question coming. It was only natural to politely inquire in return. More fool her.

To indulge the sudden urge to fidget under the squire's scrutiny, Petra moved back to her abandoned buckets, ducking her eyes and setting her hands to work with wringing out the oil rag. She stepped to Norvyk's folded wing, nudging lightly at his top wing joint— the dragon lifting it aside so she could work at oiling the clean scales along his ribs.

Humming thoughtfully, she looked back at Sitra with an appraising expression and nodded at her supplies. "Well, while you're here. Grab the scrub brush in that bucket over there, I haven't started on his right side yet. Many hands make light work and all that." She offered a grin, knowing that washing down a dragon's scales had to be the last thing Sitra would have expected of her day. But Petra was hoping it would do the girl some good. "We can talk while we work. And who knows, perhaps Norvyk will even let you sit on him afterwards."

A long-suffering draconic hiss filled the air and Petra laughed and smacked his side with her rag, that original tune already back and humming warmly under her breath.

Sitra