Fate - First Reply Unseen hours

[Vel'duith Voiryn]

Drow society had little to no notion of personal modesty, and neither did Vel'duith Voiryn. To the dark elf, clothing was first and foremost a marker of one's station and occupation. She wore fine spidersilk, silver, and gemstones to advertise her nobility; her robes indicated that she was ostensibly primarily a spellcaster and scholar. Her displayed weapons were entirely usual for drow of any occupation to bear: that hers were silvered darksteel and adamantine with polished neverwood fittings again indicated chiefly her station.

Secondarily, garments provided a way to keep one's body temperature optimal in an environment where deadly danger was a strong possibility at nearly any given moment. The relatively less decadent cuts that Vel'duith favored were largely chosen because the bowels and out-tunnels of the Undercity were invariably chilly. She also liked that her personal style, or lack thereof, made her somewhat even less attractive to the higher-house males her mother had been futilely trying to match her black sheep of a second-daughter with for over a century. Vel'duith's half-smile broadened into a smirk at Vellabha'ilhar's various expressions of contemptful dispair as they played through her mind's eye. Her temple-rubbing to send the vision away was much less urgent this time.

The shock of apparent embarrassment that Sigrun and Voe had both displayed with hardly half their skin exposed to her was both bemusing and intriguing. She had seen the phenomenon before on occasion, in the mortified eyes of newly caught and bought slaves. It soon passed, superseded by much more pressing causes for concern. And so Voe's had passed as well. What was strange about that to Vel'duith was that Voe's more pressing cause for concern seemed to be her well-being.

Vel'duith had once read that tieflings on the surface formed communities to protect themselves against the fear and hatred displayed to them by the dull masses of ignorant, cowardly surface denizens. While she admitted, informed by very recent contrary evidence, that the latter part of the premise could potentially be skewed by the well-ingrained prejudices of the author's drowish mindset, the former part seemed quite reasonable. Was Voe extending forth that community to me by trying to help me? And what reciprocal aid might he expect in return? A snowy eyebrow arched on its own, even as her pupils shrunk to near pinpoints, the shade of her broad brimmed spidersilk hat notwithstanding.

"Well, then. I think I shall retire and risk a reverie, O Voe, possibly ameliorated by benefit of a morsel of your surface-root - did you call it Valerian? 'Twas an unexpected pleasure to meet you this morning, and to glean such provident cooking-lore, beneficial information about supplying my immediate needs, and astute observations and insights as you have shared with me. I shall certainly pen a page or two of reference notes in my journal! May your efforts this day prove equally profitable to you!"

Voe

 

[Voe]

"Um... right, yeah it's velerian root. Sleep... I mean, rest well. It was nice to meet you too Vel'duith."

He smiled and let her leave, no point in following, that would just get awkward and he'd prefer to leave as discreetly as he arrived.

Ironic that it was only when she let he managed to blush anew at replaying the scene in his own mind.
"Oh boy."
Scolding himself as he finished putting things away in the kitchen seemed the most sensible thing to do.
"Marvelous first impressions Voe. Caught naked in the kitchens like a homeless pervert."
A long sigh deflated his shoulders.
"I guess this is why Cass keeps her armour on."
It was funny really, he was often telling her to loosen up now he found perhaps he was being altogether too loose.

Once finished he hurried back to his cell before the rest of the keep could awaken and tried to pretend that nothing embarrassing happened that day.

Vel'duith Voiryn

 

[Vel'duith Voiryn]

Vel'duith walked back to the barracks, and then to the bathroom to retrieve the remnants of her slippers to dispose of them, sweeping up the spilled salts and dried petals with the fabric to deposit into what her nose told her must be the middens chute. Then she proceeded to the storeroom. She rummaged through the musty stacks, finding a doeskin that seemed about the size she needed, a handful of buttons, a thread-spindle with a bone needle stuck through it. She found a swatch of thick, scratchy fabric that felt warm, and she noted that there was no must about it. Finally, she found a couple pairs of half-worn boots, choosing the smaller. They were still a bit too large, but would have to do for now.

She unsheathed her dagger, and began the task of cutting her newfound materials down closer to her size, test-fitting carefully as she went, rending a series of makeshift button holes into the doeskin edges, reinforcing them with even (though hardly expert) stitching, minding the stress on the bone needle, taking her time. She tied snug button-loops, then test-fitted the fur-lined cloak. Less hideous than the footwraps, but still rather horrid. Function is the moment's need, however! Then she tried the boots. Her feet, even wrapped in silk, moved around far too much in them, but the warm, scratchy fibrous cloth she had found seemed to promise a solution. She cut off several long strips, then methodically braided them into cords. Then she cut pieces for two new footwraps (of wool, she would later learn), which she wore over the silk ones after removing their cords. Now she could just barely work her feet into the boots! 'Twill have to do, until I find a shoemaker.

She winced at the boots' noisy clopping as she walked the hallway back to her chair in the barracks. Better sooner than later... She sat down, draped the unbuttoned doeskin cloak over herself fur side down, tipped her hat over her face, clasped her sheathed dagger in her lap, and began to meditate.