faderift | ( closed ) don't go chasing waterfalls

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( closed ) don't go chasing waterfalls

WHO: Lakshmi and Magni
WHAT: fancy meeting you here
WHEN: i have commitment issues
WHERE: the Gallows
NOTES: nudity, idk

( A long day at the forge, and her skin feels leathery with sweat and grime. It will be better after bathing, softened and human instead of its current state, which leading her to suspect that she could be reasonably mistaken as some sort of oddly shaped wyvern. Soot is smeared across her neck, jaw and cheek from thoughtlessly touching her face, or pushing her hair out of her eyes when her braid was in need of re-doing. In the Gallows, with these baths present, this is an indulgence she allows herself daily, soaking away the battering done to her muscles as much as the dirt clinging to her skin.

She has been in the bath only a short while, and slowly sinks below the surface, savouring the feeling of hot water rising over her skin until she is completely covered.

Holding her breath, Magni stays submerged for long moments. An old habit from childhood, disappearing into mountain rivers and competing to see how long she could hold her breath. Thirty seconds, a minute, and she is comfortable. A pleasant mental exercise, simply being in the space and enjoying it. Two minutes, three. This is something she does often, still, and eases the tension from her. Four minutes, pushing into five and then six—

before she feels the searing burn in her lungs. She will need to keep practicing to get to long, bursting back above the surface. )

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Huh.

Magni sinks back into the water, so it makes islands of her shoulders as she watches her for long moments. As you wish, says she, without any of that interesting warmth or teasing or daring of their prior entanglement. There are several possibilities. Embarrassment was one, shame another. Embarrassment and shame, so far as she could understand it, were two very different things, even if there were those that liked to twine them together and feel both at once, for extraordinary heights in discomfort. A poor night's sleep and a hard day's work, tiredness, days of emotional or physical defeat. Any number of reasons could lead to people not being eager or friendly. The stark light of day (or bathroom interior in the early evening) versus the sultry draw of the night (or dingy tavern in the much-later evening.)

She sinks lower in the water so that her mouth is under the water, and exhales to blow bubbles. Thoughtful bubbles.

"As I recall," she says slowly, that raspiness ever-present, "you did not see me untitled, so I am still your champion. If it is your wish to see me gone, I will heed the order."

If it is teasing, she doesn't smile. It's something of an offering, quietly friendly, not threatening to veer into flirtation.

She bites hard against the inside of her cheek against the warm words. Tinged with the after taste of skin. Warm and vibrant.

my champion. how the words weren't said so firmly, how they could take such a different, firmer meaning, when faced with the morning after. Feels the curl like a candle flame to wind. "There is no need for that, you know I have little say of where you come and go."

Its firm. One nights lust is not another's day commitment. Not where she was concerned. She would assume nothing but acquaintence. After all, what did they truly know about each other? She was not a Laila, to go about promising love in a kiss.

They could both be grown past such damned actions, surely.

A soft hum of acknowledgment, understanding, thoughtful, as she settles against the side of the bath, and begins to try and undo the complex braids through her hair. Now wet, more thoroughly tangled, removing the leather cords takes a little more effort and negotiating.

"No," she agrees, eventually, as it seems Manu is pointedly not acknowledging her existence with line of sight. "But I will neither harry your path, nor demand you alter yours."

Let's be clear. There's no need to be weird. Magni closes her eyes, content that now everything has clearly been resolved, and keeps working on a stubborn knot.

She waits - because she knows what she usually expects, how most demand. They know who and what she is. Why she hadn't given her title.

But it was never this easy.

She watches her as her eyes close. (and she was still so perfectly handsome. A strong, powerful, quiet woman who - can hear her calm declaration against that soft rough growl that had rumbled against her). Finishing running through her hair, watchful as she rubbed the remaining oil against the wound on her shoulder, to where she had -

Goodness. Enough Lakshmi. A wife, mother, widow and forty years beyond it. She was beyond such afflictions of thoughts.

She slides into the water, letting it wash all the way over her head before she sprung back up. Turning her back to her, hooking her arms over the edge of the bath. The long black hair spinning out like spider webs. Venturing after a moment. "I had not realised you were part of the Inquisition."

Another quiet sound of acknowledgement. "Weaponsmith. I am part of the forge. For now, I forge for the Inquisition."

And when the world is saved, she would work in another forge. Fire, coals and metal were part of her blood, perfecting balance and finding the potential in something raw and dangerous. The geometric tattoos spanning her neck and shoulders, reaching down her back like the feathers and talons of eagles. The marks of Talonhold, of wanting to carry her home with her.

"It didn't seem relevant." Quiet, amused, before she makes a sound of distaste and abandons trying to work out her hair and lets it fall in a tangled, still partially-braided twist. "But many natives are not at ease with shard bearers, unless they have had some exposure from the Inquisition."

Nothing seems very relevent when a forward woman has her hand up your shirt, is the mutter to herself. Her own foolishness then true irritation to her... Company.

"No, they are not." she breaths in the slow exhale. More than comfortable. "you did not seem bothered." Less than bothered, quite the opposite. Saying and not saying.

A pause, to consider that properly, weigh up her comfort and discomfort.

"Rifters puzzle me," she says finally, still thoughtful. "But the Avvar, we do not fear spirits the way many of the lowlands do. If you are all spirits, that does not mean you are inherently... wrong. I have no encountered spirits at all like you before, mind."

With that, she looks for the bar of soap she brought in with her, and starts to slowly lather it over her forearm. "Not all that is unfamiliar or puzzling is terrible."

Congratulations on not being terrible. "But— I do not fully blame those who are fearful of the unfamiliar."

Well, at least it was decent enough to speak for all of us. well done, marvellous diplomacy. she grunts something that might have been a simmering laugh. Pioneering relationships between groups.

"I am glad. I certainly am no spirit, I can assure you that much."

Shaking her head for it. Is that what they thought of them? Spirits and vapours. A chance devi, a djinn sliding out of the air. "I trust you found me perfectly human."

A smile cracks at the corner of her mouth.

"In my experience," she says, slowly, "perfection and being human have little to do with one another."

Take that as you will.

When was the last time she had an honest compliment? She breathes out slowly. Steadying again on the inhale. Fingers smoothing in the bath edge. "Then we can both rejoice in our flaws."

A push back, little teasing dig because she could never completely keep her tongue in her head. But even so - absently, she leans back, sliding her hair into the water then back up again. A comfortable drape of limbs and at least the water itself held no surprises.

It is tempting to look, when they have seen each other so entirely, and when they are both relaxed and able to comfortably sprawl in the water. Her grip on the soap stays firm as she washes her arms, shoulders, throat, head tilted back and slowly working the lather with her fingertips to ease away the grime layered onto her skin from the day's labour.

"No. I like to guarantee perfection in my work. That is one area where no flaws are acceptable; people rely upon those blades and arms to live."

Contrary, but only gently so.

There are oh - so many responses. Quick things belonging to the brothel. Meaningful things belonging to admiration. But she is ever more practical than that - "I prefer focus, in myself. I will leave perfection to God."

Her teeth gnaw on the inside of her lip. It was a foolish notion, spending more time around her might cause more complications but... She had seemed very exact, in her work. Determined in her hold.

You are not a blade, Lakshmi.

"If you were given something different, something you had not seen before, would you shy from its crafting?"

"Imperfections in people— make them real."

An agreement of sorts, weighty, as she watches Manu's mouth very briefly, and ticks her gaze upward.

"Not shy. I might take more time to learn how to best craft it, learn its particulars. Better to take more time and make something proper, I think."

She has many, she thinks and knows not for the first time. Felt and wretched and guilted and forgiven herself for. Refused to deny them, deny herself, as the knights had in the effort to distance themselves from others. Flattering and insulting as it was to be thought of as spirit. She was a woman, dames and holy as all the rest.

Her eyes keep up, enough to watch that flicker. To do no more than tilt her face up.

"It is the style of a famous blade to my people, but I have not seen its like here. We call it Urumi."

"Urumi."

The repetition is quiet, the word unfamiliar and a little clumsy on her tongue. Briefly she wonders if this could be a trap or a test, some made weapon deliberately made up. Somehow that seems less likely.

"Describe." Not quite an order, but certainly expectant as she turns to face Manu more properly.

That at least is easier than talking of herself, or making sense of this strange dance. Her hands move below the water as she shifts herself. Describing the famous weapon of Bajirao.

"A whip, but made of metal, is perhaps the easiest to describe it as. But thick as a piece of parchment. Both edges are sharp, like a fine blade."

As the urumi is described, Magni’s smile slowly widens. A spark, fascination, as she pictures the weapon. It would need a cross guard, surely, something to protect the hands and knuckles. The materials... she mused quietly.

“Steel,” she murmurs, contemplating the nature of it, how to keep it both strong and flexible. Certainly not a project to be mastered in a single day, or perhaps even a month, all other work and demands considered. She did not have the luxury of time that some seemed to squander so easily, piling duties upon themselves so thickly that it was a wonder they did any one with a measure of competence. It is hard to imagine perfectly, she suspects.

“Such a weapon would surely be as dangerous to master as to be struck with.” Her own main focus is the forging of weapons, moreso than the wielding of them; she is formidable, she knows, but there are others whose sole purpose is wielding. If Manu has mastery of a weapon that could so easily be treacherous, she must be skilled indeed, beyond even those highly though of in the Inquisition for their deftness with a blade.

“Come to the forge. I will do drawings, first, see if they match what you have worked with.”

"You must be fast, and you must be sure." not to say she crows over herself, though she knows what she's best at.

But there is an eagerness. This is where she is best, rather than sorting out the trappings of relationships she didn't know the best of. But a blade and it's crafting? That she is all eager, turned out open. "How long would you need to draft such a thing. It ought to be no longer than a great sword, but the width of a long sword."

She nods at that, and looks at her with a new kind of appreciation, gaze assessing and considering the strength and the speed of the other woman.

"To draft?" A quiet sound, not dismissive, but along the lines of not long. "I may need to experiment with the execution."

In fact, she stands in the water, unconcerned by her nakedness, and moves to the edge of the bath. Her hair is still messy, less than tamed and trailing water down her back as she steps out of the bath and momentarily disappears into the area where clothes and belongings are safely kept, before returning with a small notepad and a pencil. Neither of high quality, not the sort of thing used for fine art sketches, and the cheapest notebook money could buy for the sketching down of ideas when she has them. There is a towel over her shoulder as well, hands dry as she sits at the edge with her legs dangling into the water, and starts to makes notes of dimensions.

And then, a thought— "Can they be dual wielded?"

She is so much a woman. Lakshmi watches her as she walks away, gathering up her tools to begin drawing. A few minutes where she is no more than eyes watching above the water. A hungry river fish softly blowing bubbles below the water.

Only moving closing when she comes back. Shifting through the water towards her. Not too close, a respectful distance and no more. Hooking her arms on the edge of the bath. "No. Though often one can be in each hand."

Magni makes a quiet, thoughtful sound, as she keeps writing. "So the grip... should not be..."

She is thinking, and when she is thinking she doesn't care for speaking, moreso than usual. Speaking can lead to as many miscommunications as not speaking, perhaps more. She prefers to listen. It is the matter of her brain moving from through to thought as swiftly as a darting sparrow that leads her to neglect verbal offerings this time, instead gesturing with one fist alongside and over the other, as though grasping the hilt of a two-handed blade.

A shorter grip, for a weapon of swiftness and precision. A longer blade might disrupt the fluidity and balance.

Water threatens to roll down her arm from her hair, and she makes a sound of quiet displeasure; sets the towel down so the paper and pencil can rest someplace dry, as she retrieves the leather string she had been using for her hair and ties it up with literal consideration for the good of her hair, and as soon as that is done, goes back to sketching.

She lets her work with no interruption. Her quiet to herself. After all, she had come here to bathe. Taking the moment to dunk her head under the water backwards, scratching at her scalp with her short nails to shift the sweat from the day's work. Feeling the oil soften her skin, releasing old aches, even if she'd never quite been able to breath as deeply after that all too fatal shot, it at least loosened it all enough to not hurt so much.

Its when she's done, and sees Magni reaching to tie her hair back that Lakshmi clicks her tongue, a brief shake of her head. "Let me." if they are both moving in from this, then it meant nothing but being helpful.

The clicking tongue gets her attention, and she looks towards Manu, bemused, eyebrow quirked. Am I a horse on the lunge? she almost asks, instead entrusting her expression to convey the amusement and faint incredulity.

Her hand falls from her hair - still partially braided, tangled from said braiding. The sweat of the day's labour has been washed away, but the brutal effect of the forge's heat baking her hair through the day leaves it far too dry and ready to tangle at the slightest thing.

Her focus turns back to the sketch. "Is the edge hooked or serrated?" She assumes not, assumes it would be smooth as a standard blade, but assumptions in this could be foolish.

"More a like a stiletto blade." is the response as she pulls herself out of the water. The water running down her body as she did. Letting it drip a moment to track as little as possible.

But mostly sodden anyway, she moved around to kneel behind her - and it takes no more than a brush before she realises how miserable her hair is. What a mess. She touches it briefly, feels it's dried out tangle and admonishes soft in Hindi. She certainly hadn't noticed it before, but there was a dozen things to notice before.

She reaches for the oil, slathering it over her fingers, and for the wide toothed comb. "What did you do?" and despite the clipped words, her fingers are nothing but gentle as she begins to pick apart the braid.

She might not understand the word, but she does understand the tone, and looks over her shoulder very slightly.

"What did I do?" Quiet, prompting, because she thinks Manu is talking about her hair, and yet... her hair isn't that bad.

(It is. It really is.)

"You sound horrified, Manu."

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