Creatures of Habit

[Mara]

12 Spring 512AV
The Basilika

The buds of leaves were sprouting, peppering the heads of exposed tree limbs in droplets of dark green. The glacial gust of the evening mountain air shook the friable twigs of the saplings scattered down the foothill, but Lhavit’s citizens were still swathed in Syna’s warmth as the sun was pitched from one reflective plane to another on its decline over the glass covered city. Chimes chirped sweet melodies, flittering over the waning call of tiny song birds.

A book pinched between elbow and rib and quite a few more concealed away in a leather pack lobbed across his shoulder, Marvasa shouldered past the unending hordes. The rock beneath his steps morphed into a gradient of polish covered slates across a lengthy lane of ascending steps. He scaled them hurriedly, ducking around elbows and crossing feet with an experienced balance. The voices were growing, a reverberating similar to the sound of the chimes just below, and the skyglass cupola let stretched creeks of light sprinkle along the floorings and illuminate the canvases cluttering the floor space.

Only a few chimes earlier the base had carried an unalike set of purposes, booming speeches with flamboyant opinions, gathering followers and arguing their intent. Now artists covered the expanse, the fragrance of chalk and extracts pulverized into a gummy paste spoiled the air and smeared over curved wooden pallets and the fine white mop of hand fashioned brushes.

The half-blood tucked into an open bench, the crimping sheets of his well-worn book splayed into his lap and his bag landed beside him. He ran his ink covered fingers across the pages rifling for his place since he had formerly shut it. The view he had chosen passed over a row of blank works waiting to be satiated. Each artist was fidgeting with his materials and searching for their latest conquest in a room bursting of stimulus. It was only in recent times that Mara had selected to come here, his mind had less time to wrestle with the silence and the odor of fresh paints gave him a comfort he had long forgotten.

A reedy leg slipped under the other and the words before him spilled to life. He could no longer sense the persistent glances pirouetting over his lissome form or the grimace of discrimination when his sickly insipid crust and black tipped nails gave him away. He had been here enough, overheard the whisper of Widow in passing. Still he was permitted to stay and even some who occupied the Basilika by day reasoned a similar case. Not all who dwell in the cavernous depth of Kalinor harvest and they should be judged by their character and not race alone. Still it was challenging to overlook when the sting of still ever present Harvests haunted the families of lost daughters, wives and mothers. He knew all too well, he had been there as women of Lhavit and many other cities labored with Symenestra children. It was no secrete this tradition may have decreased but was still alive and well.

Mara drew a pencil from behind his ear and scraped it to the paper, sketching a crude resemblance of the defined procedure he read over: an incision made into a skull after blunt trauma had caused swelling to the brain. Three small cuts were made along the left quadrant of the head, creating a window into the skull for a spiny instrument to fissure the skull. He could already think of several ways to improve this process.

The end of his utensil pressed to his lip as he searched his illustration over and, in his daze, dared a glance to the canvas nearest him. A watercourse of greens and browns became a great dappled bear, the abstract style and subject of which reminded him of a former acquaintance.

[Fraint]

The sound of his feet connecting with polished stone reverberated throughout the hall, seamlessly weaving into a rich tapestry of sound that brought the Basilika to life. The low buzz of murmuring and chatter tickled Fraint’s ears, Leth’s moonlight filtering in through the skyglass dome that loomed overhead like a celestial deity scrutinizing his tiny, insignificant feature. A plethora of artwork and sculptures littered the Basilika in scattered disarray, painters musing over their artwork with a harsh, critical eye, refusing to back down in the face of competition. Fraint’s bemused eyes wandered the room, his lips set in a tight frown. He seemed to realize that there weren’t any intellectual debates going on, pursuits of wisdom seeming to be the last thing on everybody’s minds. His memory worked backwards, recalling the words of a kind stranger who’d told him that the Basilika was one of the best places to go for politics, philosophy or religious debate, good old-fashioned discussions about the wonders of the world, or, more specifically, Lhavit itself, the prime subject of Fraint’s interests. The Star Festival had been a particularly exhilarating experience, though Fraint couldn’t say that he’d actually been a part of it. It was something he’d observed, being the painfully languid man he was. He was an unsociable prick when it came to conventional social activities. So where was it? His gaze flitted about the room, noting the serious Lhavitians with their souls poured into their artistic masterpieces, none too eager to intellectual debate (of course, Fraint hadn’t been planning on doing any debating anyway; there was a lot to be said about listening). His visage clearly reflected his disappointment, his arms neatly folded across his chest, his lean body standing erect as his neck swiveled about. This was not what he was expecting at all. He soon couldn’t do anything but give up, his solemn expression giving way to the black and overwhelming waves of loss. If he’d stayed a few seconds longer and not bolted off for the Basilika that the stranger had told him about, he would’ve known that intellectual pursuit occurred in the arms of Syna’s light. He pinched the bridge of his nose, eyes closed shut as he breathed out a weary sigh. He should’ve known he would be tricked one way or another. Unbeknownst to Fraint, however, the intelligent debates would assume control come the next day. Ignorance was a dangerous thing. Vexed, he rolled his shoulders and whirled around on the balls of his feet, meaning to exit the way he’d come. His mood had quickly gone sour, his brows furrowed together in annoyance and brilliant blue eyes narrowed and a whole shade darker. He nearly collided with a sculptor, who’d thrown her a scathingly bitter look and received a hasty, deadpan apology from Fraint, who hadn’t stopped walking. Messy, black hair in the corner of his peripheral vision caught him off-guard, causing him to come to an abrupt halt. He gave the stranger one look over and his lip curled into a frown of distaste. Sickeningly pale skin, black nails—he’d known the description far too well for his liking. He didn't even look for crimson irises, because he was almost certain of his biased deductions (drowned in the disappointment brought on by himself). Was he one of them? The stranger most certainly looked like it. That was all Fraint needed to know. His narrow-minded nature had leaked through his exterior appearance, causing him to stand there with his arms still folded across his chest. His expression clearly said, if the raven-haired man ever decided to look up from whatever it was he was busy with, that he didn’t like him. At all. OOCI am so sorry this was late. My deepest apologies. Also, I hope you can work with Fraint - I realize it's a bit different compared to what we had planned for them, but, well, this was what I was feeling for him.

[Mara]

The ligneous instrument in hand smeared its charcoal tongue across the discolored papyrus in his lap. The hilt of his lids were careworn at half-mast across the vat of brewing wine they sheltered under the splay of blackened pine needles. It only took an instant for the prickling of gooseflesh at the nape of his neck to enlighten him of a boring set of eyes meandering their way transversely along his hunched stature.

It was tentative at first, unsure of the certainty of his body’s reaction, the half-blood peeked up at his side with his pencil slacking against the grip of his thumb. He found a still stated stance set a good expanse from him. Marvasa’s eyes fixed resolutely from the planted bases and deliberately rose across the long lean figure. He swallowed so the sinking of a diminutive adam’s apple undulated down the taut skin of his throat. It was testament to the knot that was slickened and forced down to make room for the much needed inhale that segregated the plush bends of exasperated lips.

The human form continued upward until the chiseled chin came to view and at last he was sure, with the arch of a pronounced frown that he was the cause of the disheveled ditch puncturing through him. He hastened his ascent and captured the human’s steely blues within the spectacle of his own forge born gaze. It was a prolonged distrustful moment. Where the other soaked him in with obvious distaste, the young healer leveled himself in his seat and smoothed the flecks of besmirched charcoal from his page by the nether of his knuckles. His eyes tapered in concern and head sloped in a slant trying to procure some crest of hidden connotation in the boy’s disposition. It had been some time proceeding since his skin had crawled under the smelting heat of a condescending looking glass, and he searched his memory for some wrong he had involuntarily committed. Still no answer greeted him within the informal forefront of his mind.

Mara glided the writing utensil back behind his hole bearing ear. An uneasy tongue worked his bottom lip back with a subdued slurp that clicked the metal ring, the one running through the gist of the blushed opening, against the ends of peeking fangs.

The page in his lap was snatched by its corners and tapped against the edge of the bench to clear the residual dark shavings. He stood, efficiently and cast another troubled glance toward the stranger before assembling his belongings and popping the paper into the anticipating maw of his sack.

The huff that escaped them was creased with some maladroit indignation. His arm rounded out form the bench as the rawhide strap slung across his narrowed down shoulder. The mixed blood had come to the supposition that he was being glowered upon for in some way being out of place, such as taking some bench that would have earned him such instantaneous dislike. More disposed to give it up than abide in the exasperation, but still pitched from tranquility, he offered it up.

“All yours.” He finished, bowing at the middle as his arm hurled out to present the emptied seat with a well-rehearsed simulation of sincerity.

[Fraint]

The young-looking Symenestra fellow (or, that was what Fraint had selfishly made him out to be, though he was fairly certain of himself anyway), had occupied himself with a queer-looking activity that befitted his kind (or, that was Fraint had convinced himself, anyway). In actuality, he found himself taking an immense interest in what the black-haired man was scrawling across the yellowed page from what may have been some sort of sketchbook. A long, slender brush danced across the careworn papyrus, leaving a trail of black in its wake. Fraint, being the immensely curious being he was, found himself wondering what it was he could be drawing. He, however, was stubbornly torn between inquiring and leaving in a huff, with his no-tolerance rule for the enemies of the Lhavitians. Speaking of which, if they were the so-called enemies of the denizens of Lhavit as he was told, what in the world of Mizahar was this particular Symenestra doing smack dab in the middle of their homeland? More questions burned at the tip of his tongue, thought his jaw remained firm and taut, determined to keep a leash on whatever wanted to fly out from between his lips. By now, his expression was an amusing amalgam of confusion (at both himself and whatever it was the Symenestra was doing), flickers of anger because of a biased belief and a child-like curiosity. He still held an erect, displeased posture, with his arms folded neatly across his chest. On the other hand, the Symenestra tentatively lifted his head, meeting his steely gaze. A brief parade of expression crossed his face, but he sensed a feeling of resignation for the sake of peace. In response, Fraint cocked an eyebrow skywards. One wouldn’t normally assume such tranquil behavior from somebody you disliked, and Fraint was no exception, no matter how hard he tried to hide the fact. The Symenestra gracefully gathered his things, including the paper with the scribbling (much to his disappointment), and stood up, evoking some movement in Fraint, who abruptly held up a hand as though he could stop him from getting up. Surprised at his reaction, he stopped himself as well, leaving his arm awkwardly floating in the middle in the air as he struggled to gather himself. “I . . . didn’t mean for you to get up and leave,” he muttered gruffly, wrinkling his nose. Now almost embarrassed, he brought his down to his side. He sought comfort in the shadows, looking behind him as though he were going to bolt. “I just—” he began, but stopped. What was he planning on saying? I’m sorry, I just hated you upon first sight and decided to stare you down. In retrospect, he was acting immaturely, and he silently beat himself up about it as his features softened, swiftly moving from anger to wariness appropriate for dealing with dangerous-looking strangers. He was probably capable of taking him down with a poisonous bite, or so he’d heard. “You . . . can sit down.” He slowly gathered himself, attempting his best cordial ploy, even though he and the Symenestra both knew that it was busted. Fraint bit his bottom lip, wondering what course of action would be the best choice without making him look like a fool. Thankful that there were no spectators, he gracelessly tried to steer the already failing conversation in a totally new direction. “Um . . . you were drawing something.” OOCYou can probably tell, but I've been having writer's block, so my writing probably seems all jumbled up right now.