Private Tales One Man's Trash

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Iseppa Arladi

Iseppa Arladi

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Arladi Manor - Early Evening
Luca Arladi, Iseppa Arladi ​


Like the newly tilled Spring fields stretched to the horizon, the missives and requests before Iseppa stretched, too. In the fire orange and blush pink light of the dying sun that tumbled through tall windows that stood open against the slight breeze, crisp with the faintest remainders of winter, she sat hunched over her desk. Righting herself was a reminder of how long she’d been at work, her back protesting. Pain snaked down her spine, eliciting a sharp inhale that hissed through gritted teeth. To combat it, she stood, forcing her body into compliance.

There was little time for things like pain.

Bracing against the desk’s edge, her fingers sprawled, and her palms pressed flat against the cool polished wood. A tip of her head to the side and another flash of pain, this time she did nothing aside from twist her lips into an indolent scowl. It’d remain as another shock of pain swept the room, this time in the form of her brother, light of foot and responsibility. The room’s air of severity seemed to lift, buoyed away upon something altogether lighter that Luca carried with him always.

“Luca,” she greeted, pushing from the table with an easy grace. Standing straight with her chin lifted haughtily in the way it always was preceding an attack, Iseppa took in her brother’s measure and found it, of course, lacking. “Close the door.”

Candles guttered with the swing of the heavy wooden door and settled. Iseppa rounded the regal desk set at the center of the room, acting as the focus of the study. When she came to the other side, she clasped her hands together among the many folds of her indigo blue skirts and let her brother make himself comfortable. The silence stretched for as long as either of them would allow before her soft voice dashed it once more upon the stone that surrounded them.

“I can smell the stench of camp on you from here. Hardly a fitting perfume for a man of your ilk, is it not?”​
 
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The pungent odor of sweat and alcohol waltzed into the room with him, though as light upon the air as his feet upon the ground. His smile likewise carried no weight, lighting upon the heavy smoke and parchment with all the infuriating levity of a boy too young to care.

"Afternoon sis," he said, his dulcet tones dancing with the candlelight. A playful frown sat atop his smile as he looked Iseppa up and down. "Have you moved since this morning? You really must take better care of yourself Iseppa, or you'll be getting wrinkles before mother."

He was too used to it to groan, but Luca did roll his eyes as he was asked to shut the door. Yet he did so without complaint, wheeling twice round to shut it and then make his way back over to the bureau at which Iseppa sat. There he joined her, in the chair opposite that few received permission to sit in. He dropped himself into it, one leg kicked up over the other and getting dangerously close to kicking the desk's corner as it settled.

"You should join me sometime. Stretch your legs, see the city dad took care of. " He leaned back and folded his hands behind his head, rolling his eyes at her comment. "Exercise and sweat exist. Sorry for trailing it into your parlor of aromatic musty paper and candlewax."
 
Luca wielded words as he did a sword, she thought. With a carelessness that belied his skill in the craft. His japes and shallow attempts at jabs cut her only so far as that fair skin that was in danger of wrinkling. They were superficial cuts, not meant to hurt, but to voice worry. Behind them was a want to remind her that there were things outside of these walls.

A hum filled her throat in response, a mixture of acknowledgment and warning. Hands unfurling, one crossed over her middle, acting as a rest for the other’s elbow. Slender fingers wrapped idly about her throat, a habit to assist in thought. A finger tapped against her skin, amber eyes following Luca with dull curiosity.

“Yes, I am well aware.” Her flat tone carried her words like stone, dropping them at Luca’s feet. Once they were there, Issepa turned away from her brother, releasing her hold on her throat and, in a soft swish of skirts, returned to her side of the desk.

“Musty paper and candlewax,” she mused under her breath with a long draw of air through her nose. “You have forgotten the smell of work. Need I remind you that it is does not smell of blood and shit.”

Gathering her dress, Iseppa lowered herself into the chair waiting for her, leaning back into the welcoming, stiff back that waited for her. Her arms stretched along the carved claws that acted as rests on either side of her and stared across the disarrayed landscape of the desk at Luca on the other side. The twinge of pain still hadn’t left her spine entirely, but it was diminishing, presenting as a dull, slow throb rather than the sharp bolt it’d been before.

“Do they seem in good spirits, the Blackshields?” At the very least, she could put to use her brother’s frolicking.​

 
Luca shrugged. "What does it matter what spirits they're in?" he asked. "They march and kill just as well when they're upset. Better, even."

The thought brushed aside as quickly as it'd been mentioned, the young lad's eyes fell from their aimless meandering back onto Iseppa's own, a pointed look hiding behind the mischievous glint. "If you're curious, why not pay them a visit yourself?" His foot lowered back to the floor as he leaned in excitedly. "It'll be a reason to step outside at least. No need to step in the blood and shit, just come down to the bar and show your appreciation. That'll lift their spirits, being in your good graces, and keeping company with the captains is good for our image."

However received, Luca's ideas bubbled out of him unabated. His knee bounced with enthusiasm, and he gripped the arms of his chair like he was ready to leap out of it at a moment's notice. Not even ridicule dampened his enthusiasm, washing off of him with the same carelessness as his posture. The most he'd offer is a shrug, knowing Iseppa would do as she pleased anyway, and he settled back down.

But then his lean lost a lot of its energy once the flurry of words left him. His posture, always lean and flexible, seemed almost to curl and wither into itself as the silence stretched between them.

"You summoned be to talk about dad, right?" said the boy. "It's about that time. Got something planned?"
 
Had she the energy, Iseppa might have bothered to explain her thoughts on the Blackshields and the importance of their spirits. Their mood, and whether they were upset, in her opinion, mattered greatly. Instead, her brother’s flippancy earned only a long, slow sigh. Or, at least, it might have been long if she’d not cut it short for Luca’s next suggestion.

“Luca…” Fingers wrapped about the end of the chair’s armrest and her head tilted in disbelief. “Not only is what you suggest inappropriate, but there is little to be gained from it. Our image among the captains is fine. I see to that and I needn’t throw myself into a cup of swill to do so.” A pause, marked with a sharp regard for Luca. “You should not be doing it, either.”

The conversation was fading, though. Just as Luca might have known his suggestion would fall on deaf ears, Iseppa suspected hers would, too.

“I did and it is, yes.”

In a few weeks’ time, the anniversary of their father’s death was upon them. Four years was so short a time in the grand scheme of life, she supposed, but it had been a long four years fraught with danger and strife. Attacks on Alliria, the increase in unnatural dangers and bandits, too… It was as if the world rebelled for the death of Agost Arladi, though he would have scoffed at the idea. It was too vain for his liking, Iseppa could hear his voice declaring such even though she’d not heard it in full strength for many more years than even he’d been gone from the world.

“We are making a donation to the guard on his behalf. I intend to make it something done each year to aid them in their funding. There will be a feast and celebration on the day itself. I expect you to be in attendance.”
​
 
The bridge of Luca's nose scrunched ever so slightly in distaste, though at what there was no clarification. Iseppa knew though. This was not the first they'd butted heads on the aggrandization of their father's death.

"The guard do perfectly fine as is," Luca pointed out, to no one's surprise. "Could always just give them the money and be done with it."

Leaned back into the chair, his leg braced on the desk so that he could furl even further within himself on the seat. His other leg bounced, and he massages the edge of his brow with a finger while bracing his elbows in the arms of the chair. His frown glowered at the air between them, threatening to become a scowl if not for the futility of it.

Nothing would come of the argument Iseppa knew. Luca would insist they'd let father rest, and then show up to the event anyway. Even for all his failures, he was still an Arladi.

"When is it?" he asked.
 
“If it were simply about funding them, Luca, I would, but it is not and you are aware of that.”

This again. There were no understanding sighs, nor looks of empathy; such things had long since faded. Years had turned them into passing remembrances of patience one had and no longer entertained. Stern, even with her soft voice, Iseppa held her ground with the same self-aggrandizing sense of righteousness she always embodied in those moments. For Luca’s bouncing leg, she was still as stone, for his scrunched nose and his finger working into the flesh at the corner of his brow, Iseppa’s hands sat neatly in her lap, one atop the other.

“When is it?”

“A fortnight from today, actually.” Finally, she broke her stare to glance down at the table. The topic of their father faded as quickly as it had been broached and whether the coolness of Iseppa's movement past it was due to apathy or a want to flee from it could not be determined by her placid expression. “Tedesco Buscha will be arriving in a few days’ time. The timing is mere coincidence, but I expect he will be in attendance, as well. I need not remind you of the importance of his family and how vital the relationship is to us. No mentions of drill yard romps, please.”
​
 
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"Buscha?" Luca parroted, his posture immediately unfurling as he rose in his seat to look at Iseppa more clearly. Quickly, the languish with which he sat vanished into his earlier energetic attention.

The tapping knee straightened out, and though Luca waved away the severity of the subject there remained still a smile that tugged at his lips. "Mark my words, he'll be gone some week hence the festivities. Fancypants like him from Alliria always are, never staying long from their ivory towers." His head tilted to one side. "That he came at all was surprising to be fair. I wander what brings a bored little Buscha out to our stretch of the coast."

After a spell, Luca turned back to face his sister with a wry grin. "Rest assured sister, I know how much the attention of such a name means dearly to you. I shall be sure to refrain from regaling his nobly-ness with tales that might make his poor powdered face flush with heat or drenched with sweat."

The was a loud noise as Luca slapped the arms of his chair, unfolding his legs so that he might rise to his feet. "Well, thanks sis, for this ever so touching reunion. If that's all however, I believe it's about time I go beck to wasting my time being the trash Arladi. Such talk as this makes me long for the bottle."
 
“We are not without sway, Luca. Nor are we without luxury. Do not talk as if he comes to wallow in the stye.” Coin enough to rival some of Alliria’s wealthy, an army, a town that hovered just close enough to import that it could be considered a threat, no matter how minor. Buscha may consider Arladi nothing more than glorified farmers, but they could no longer be ignored. So Iseppa thought.

How far she was from the truth of Tedesco’s visit. It would be comical for any privy to both sides of the coin. Pride was an insidious thing.

It was the slap of palms against wood that drew her from her musings, and before her, her brother rose to his full height, clearly finished with his sister’s admonishing. Would that she was through giving it, though.

“Patronage from the Merchant families benefit not only our name, but that of the people we are entrusted to care for. You would do well to remember that,” she said to him, the fateful warning she was always wont to give. “Stay away from the bottle long enough to bathe, if you’d be so kind.”
​
 
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