Welcome to Gaia! ::

Jessie didn't bat an eyelid at this. "It doesn't surprise me," he said, still tousling his hair with the towel "My people have become legendry after so many centuries beneath the ground. I've been mistaken for a demon and all sorts in my time travelling the surface of Gaia," he frowned, taking a few steps towards an armchair, now rubbing the wet off the back of his neck "I have heard of a pocket of dark elves residing in Durem, but I rarely venture so far inland and as such we have never met. Perhaps you could verify for me - is it true that they serve a boy king? If so, if they were once Drow, they have cut all ties to our culture. As I've told you before, men are regarded as the inferior sex in our society, and none may ever hold a position of power over women."

He gestured to one of the chairs opposing his. "Please, sit down. Make yourself comfortable. Would you like something to drink?" He paused, moving back towards some cupboards on the wall opposite the front door in case she was inclined towards his offer. "Of course, if you have any questions about my heritage I... will try my best to answer as fully as possible."

Nodding at her when she declined the drink, he moved around to the armchair and sat, folding his legs. He looked rather relaxed, despite his usual straight posture, but her question seemed to rattle him.

"Oh..." he began, with a hint of a blush "It's silly, really. It means little one."

He smiled at her from beneath his hair rather sheepishly, hands clasped in his lap. "I hope you do not take offense at that. My... my mother used to call me it. I suppose it has been ingrained into my consciousness."

He gazed at her affectionately, eye a little misted.

"To be honest, it's not exactly the most respectful nickname, since it implies weakness. In fact, a male would probably be executed for calling a woman such a name back home."

He grinned back at her, perhaps little michieviously. "But we're not at home, are we?"

No, he most certainly wasn't at home. For a few moments, the haunting image of his mother's face pressed close to his floated in his mind's eye. Her eyes, so like his, were burning with malevolence.

Biu sol whol biu sol... ussta lotha'uss!

Fortunately, the memory was easily shaken off. After four decades or so, one can come to terms with even the most disturbing of things. He was able return to the comfort of his rooms, and the pleasure of Coline's company. As far as she saw, his smile didn't even falter.

An idea suddenly came to him. "What's your favourite colour?" he blurted, almost without thinking.

"Blue..." Jessie mused "Yes, it is a lovely colour... but all the more lovely for your favour."

He thought for a little longer, seeming to see and not see her at the same time. Eventually, he nodded. "It would bring out your eyes perfectly, wouldn't it?"

Cocking his still-wet head a little, he smiled again. "My favourite is gold... as you can probably tell."

He tugged at the golden hem of his black robe, glancing down at it and then back at her. "And please, Coline - do call me Jessie."

Jessie watched her closely, enchanted by her reactions. The way she lowered her gaze, a blush rapidly stealing its way across her cheeks, was enough to set his own heart alight. Over the last few hours he'd come to regard her as the most beautiful creature in the world, and during their conversation, when not immersed in his own thoughts, he'd been quietly scrutinising her as if drinking in a living piece of art.

So far, he hadn't seen anything wrong in the way he was feeling. He'd wanted to protect her - to hold her, to keep her safe. But now, as he watched her pursing her lips, he was hit by a sudden image of himself - kissing her. He blinked, suddenly disturbed. He'd already overstepped the boundaries of propriety by hugging her that morning, hadn't he? And yet, as she turned her head demurely to look around the room, he somehow couldn't bade the fantasy to go away. The feeling of heat in his chest began to spread throughout his body. He was sure that he was blushing. And then, as the expression on her face suddenly seemed to make sense in his mind, he realised with an unhappy twist that he'd made her uncomfortable again.

He was just about to refute his request by telling her to call him whatever she liked, when she turned back to him. He started slightly under her gaze, but was pleased - almost relieved - by her question. "Oh, yes!" he said, jumping up "Every single one. A lot are just variations on a single type, you know," he gestured to a rack of rapiers, all in the recognisable style but with different coloured blades and fabulously ornate handles "But some are entirely unique, like that hammer over there. These are just part of a collection I've picked up on my travels. I don't like to leave them unguarded for too long, you know."

Realising he was rambling as he stopped to admire an unusually shaped shortbow made from some brightly coloured but unidentifiable material, he turned back to her, bowing his head a little in apology. "To answer your question more explicitly - yes, I am proficient in every style of weaponry present in this room. I picked up my early training while serving in the private army of House Lo'Roud in my home, around... fifty years ago. Since then, well," he smiled, rather shyly. He didn't want her to think he was bragging. "I've been around."

Jessie looked at her in surprise. Of course, the fact that she didn't know his age had never crossed his mind. He rarely thought about how old he was. A flash of worry went through him. Would it somehow change her opinion of him?

Whether it did or did not, she deserved to know the truth. "I'm sorry if it feels like I've deceived you," he said sadly "I may look like a young man, but the truth is that I'm almost seventy... that's still barely an adult for my kind, though."

In his surprise, he hadn't noticed her coming towards him, gazing at his face in wonder. He felt himself blush again, but thoughtlessly pulled back the hair which was covering his face so that she could get a better look at his youthful, smooth features. With defined cheekbones, jaw and brow, but a soft, feminine eye, mouth and nose, he might have been the definition of "pretty boy" if not for the hardened, taught expression that usually gripped his face.

He remembered too late the lack of patch to cover his missing left eye. True, the wound was not entirely offensive after so many years, but a missing eye is never for the squeamish and to him the loss was rather personal. Grimacing as he realised his mistake, he uttered a small cry and turned around sharply, releasing his hair and rearranging it with his back to Coline.

"I-I'm sorry..."