[PRP] Lessons with Lisette {Petra & Nortier}

[LoveByLetters]

There is a great big bowl of sweetened oatmeal and half a dozen fresh apples if Petra and Spokelse make it to Lisette's manor around an hour that can appreciably -- in either direction -- be called 'breakfast.' If not there will still be apples, and an odd sort of bulter (are there breasts bound down under that pleated front) that will take the guests back around to the same garden where they were before. They are lead not to the little nook where they sat and suffered through a terribly awkward tea but to an open space with a few sturdy benches on one side and a low hedge on the other. Parchment squares have been fixed to several of the bushes, and painted with rather messy concentric circular rings.

The benches are evidently not for sitting, but scattered with various articles and implements of war; bows and arrows of varying sizes (mostly small), knives, daggers, even small swords. Tending to this motley collection of weaponry is a man who looks as if he has personally faced every one of these weapons in combat before. He is huge, especially in comparison to scrawny little Petra, with big broad shoulders and a muscular frame, made somber by an outfit of black and brown leathers. His reddish brown hair is clipped short, and he is made even more intimidating by an impressive collection of scars. But either Petra or Spokelse may notice something -- being sensitive to that emotion, as it were -- that others may not. He glances very frequently at the house that lords over this garden, and presses his lips tightly together every time he does so. He is not comfortable here, with his coarse, foreign appearance; this place and its unusual atmosphere make him distinctly nervous.

Perhaps the fact that he is able to remain calm has something to do with the Guardian doe sitting on folded legs to one side of the benches; if the sun has come out from between the clouds she will seem so pale as to almost glow. She is young yet, not nearly large enough to be ridden, but there is already a cleverness in her lavender gaze and a serene stillness that even her Chosen does not have.

But her Chosen -- with his calloused hands and Aireish features -- is the man that the servants have indicated is to be the first of Petra's tutors, if she should so desire.  

[Rejam]

Her belly full of oatmeal and apples, her mind full of elaborate fantasies of being a natural-born marksman, Petra rounds the corner and is almost immediately put at her ease. The taut lines of her shoulder relax, loosened threefold: by the guardian, by the man's obvious discomfort with his surroundings, and by the man himself, whose large size and scars and general appearance remind her vaguely of her father as he was before the accident. She had had no undue affection for her father--he was coarse and rough and displayed very little in the way of love--but she had understood him and known his moods well, and instinctively finds Nortier's looks a comfort. A well-dressed, well-spoken, and beautiful woman will excite Petra's fears easily, but a huge and intimidating man is clearly no strange thing to her.

She clears her throat, Spokelse stepping from behind her towards the doe with a curious and almost-maternal glance, and reaches into her pocket. From this she fishes out--startlingly enough, perhaps, for Nortier--a tobacco pouch, stuffing a sizable wad into her cheek before stepping towards him and holding it out invitingly. "What's your name?" she asks bluntly. She is accompanied by an incredibly ugly spotted dog, whose teats sag below its shapeless body.  

[LoveByLetters]

There's a little spasm in his shoulders when she clears her throat, a little twitch in one of those calloused hands as he stops himself from reaching for a weapon. As if he has to remind himself that he won't be attacked by an enemy here, especially not when the 'intruder' is the young gel he's been warnt of.

"Oh ho," he says, and his voice is big and deep, a commanding rumble that is not altogether unkind. "And here she'll be, the wee likkle hallion oi'm supposed tae turn about intae something fierce! The name'll be Nortier Draughn, lass, though it hadnae been carried sae far oi'd expect ye tae know it." He waves off the tobacco easily, though he looks impressed that she should be so generous as to offer him a pinch. "Yon shadow there," he continues, nodding his head towards his Guardian, "is Fainelloth."

Fainelloth has risen gracefully to meet Spokelse, with a look of interest in the older doe. She has seen fewer of her kind then she would like, and despite her serene appearance her little fluff of a tail twitches madly back and forth as she stretches out and sniffs delicately at Spokelse.  

[Rejam]

The corners of Spokelse's eyes crinkle in a nearly-human echo of a smile, and she politely touches her nose to Fainelloth's in greeting. A pretty little creature, and less forward than Moira, which Spokelse approves whole-heartedly.

"My name is Petra but I guess you already know that. And I guess you might already know this is Spokelse." She grins, suddenly, and when she does the tooth under the scar on the corner of her mouth is missing. It makes her look altogether childish, although she is clearly approaching--if not in--her teens. She likes him. She likes him immediately and well, and far better than Lisette, even if the latter might be able to teach her to do something about her hair, which is currently in a semi-matted, pathetic excuse for a braid. "I'm already fierce, though. You have to do the hellion part."  

[LoveByLetters]

Unlike Moira, Fainelloth seems to recognize that Spokelse is something special, treating her with equal parts of deference and pleasure in her presence. There is the sense that she is sorry that she has not met Spokelse at some other time, in some other place -- that just now a good portion of her attention is bent towards her Chosen. Someone has to make sure he behaves here, after all.

Somewhere along the way something relaxes in the big man, too, as if for his part he'd worried that he'd be given one of those delicate little flowers in puffy lace dresses and expected to make something out of it. Petra is a wholly different creature, and he appreciates those differences. He won't have to watch his mouth around her, not unless she stops him and asks for explanations about some of the more exotic curses. He won't have to worry that she might squeal and drop a knife or a sword or a crossbow. He won't have to worry that she won't have the courage to put a rabbit down if she's hungry, or a wolf if she's hurt, or a man if he threatens her.

"Oh ho ho! And here oi were, worryin' that mayhap it were that Sunderland couldnae raise nae fighting women. Seems oi hadnae looked far enough! Well met, lasses, well met. Now, tell Cap'n Draughn what yer we likkle heart be yearnin' after, and dain't tell me there ain't naught you been cravin', 'cause oi'll know by the sparkle in them pretty eyes you'll be lying." He waves a hand towards the benches scattered with weaponry, like a proud uncle offering an array of birthing day presents. "Bows? Swards? Throwin' knives?"  

[Rejam]

"I already know how to throw a knife," she informs him, somewhat haughtily. Not that she knows how to throw it well, but she is learning, and practices often. But she pads over on her coarse bare feet to survey the offerings, as though they were, in fact, the finest birthday presents she'd ever been given. Although, truth told, Petra has rarely received a birthday gift, and perhaps wouldn't know what to do if she was offered one. "The Lady said you'd maybe teach me how to shoot."

The Lady is delivered with something very close to a contemptuous sneer. She glances up as Spokelse settles into the shade near Fainelloth, the ugly dog flopping down nearby. "What're you captain of anyway?"  

[LoveByLetters]

"Good on ye!" His voice is full of pleasure at her announcement that she knows how to throw a knife, though odds are good he knows that she isn't quite at the level where she'd be able to hit a wolf's eye from the back of her Guardian. There'll be time for that, provided the Lady's gold don't run out. Coming up behind her, he regards the small selection of bows before presenting her with one of the smallest, so that she might examine the weapon herself.

"Oh, it'd not mean naught tae ye," Nortier tells her casually in response to her question. "Oi served a group of lads in Airelund, seeing tae the safety and prosp'rty of all sorts of folk." His tone is casual, but he knows that the sort of lass that Petra is isn't a fool. She wouldn't have survived so long if she had been one, so as he says this he tips his head and gives her a wink. Safety and prosperity? Hah!  

[Rejam]

He may give her too much credit, or maybe she is just easily-distracted. She doesn't react a bit to the wink, although Spokelse stirs uneasily in the shade. She is, on the whole, more perceptive than her Chosen.

Turning the bow over in her hands, Petra hefts it experimentally, lifts it as though to fire it; she moves as though she's handled a bow before, but not often. There is no expertise in her hands, only experience. "I know a lady from Aireland," she informs him. "You wouldn't know it, though. She talks just like me. Well," she amends. "More like the lady, I guess, than me. She don't know how to use the word ********' right, or at least she ain't never when I was around and tells me to wash my mouth out with soap when I say it. Can you teach me how to use this?"

She abruptly goes very serious, the bow dropping, her face beneath its weathered tan and freckles going pale. "They say bullets bounce off 'em," she whispers.  

[LoveByLetters]

Fainelloth has gone to sit near Spokelse, as if to draw comfort from her presence; when the other Guardian stirs it is hard to say what Fainelloth understands of the exchange. But she must understand something, if only the feeling of mischief from her Chosen, for she sighs heavily and nudges her delicate head underneath Spokelse's as if to apologize for the man. All of that was before her. It will be different now, whether he knows it or not ..

Petra's rambling method of speech seems to entertain Nortier hugely, for he listens to the whole of it with a grin, offering her an arrow to knock to the little bow to see what she makes of it on her own. He may reach in to adjust her grip or the angle of the arrow, but he'll mostly let her have a go at hitting the target to see what she can do.

"S'why ye use arrows, y'ken?" His voice is teasing at first, but abruptly becomes more serious as he glances over at the targets and then back again to her with a more serious gaze. "Oi donnae know about that, lass. 'Tis an auld song where oi am from, cold and dark it is, aboot a man who goes mad and shoots his Guardian." Even Nortier, scarred as he is, seems uneasy simply talking about this. He glances over to their Guardians, so calm and elegant, and then looks away again quickly, no doubt with a silent vow to never let anything of that kind happen to his fair maid. "Oi figure, if them lot can be shot, so kin thonder wulves."  

[Rejam]

Her face is very solemn when he tells her of his homeland's old songs, although Spokelse, for her part, seems unalarmed--even tranquil.

Petra lifts the bow in her skinny little-girl arms, arms that are as wiry and hard as a boy's when her sleeves fall away from them. Her stance is bad; her grip is worse. But she handles the thing with a measure of familiarity, and when she lets the arrow fly, it misses the target--but not as widely as one might have guessed. And she doesn't seem upset, or flustered: to her credit, the failure only merits a squinted eye and a contemplative spitting of her tobacco. It's an old man's expression, ill-suited to her face.

"Hopefully I don't ever have to find out," she says quietly. And she gives him a glance, ready for another arrow. "What did I do wrong?"  

[LoveByLetters]

"Pah," says Nortier; "only everything, but 'tis nae mind, as we'll have it sorted soon enou'." There is pure pleasure in his voice despite his protestation that she has entirely failed, and this is perhaps not so bad a thing at all. It means he intends to treat her more like a lad, and when training lads everyone knows that it is of course necessary not to let their pride grow too great by showering them with praise. Only those of weaker spirit need constant compliments to improve, which is why some bodies hold that one can never inform a woman of anything she does wrong. Nortier is not, apparently, of this camp.

He stands beside her, to adjust stance and grip and the tilt of her head, even, then setting her with another arrow and correcting her again. He is neither a poor teacher nor a remarkable one, stopping now and then to pepper the air with curses if she makes a mistake, if a fly gets too close to his ear, or if he just feels the air is empty of them -- in the way of all good soldiers. After several corrections and attempts, he speaks more evenly, without changing either his expression or his posture.

" .. now, we both knows you're a clever lass," he begins, in a voice rather softer and more serious than what he has used before. "And oi'll tell ye truest, since 'tis easy enou' tae see -- oi'm jest come tae this city, and oi'll like not tae look a fool. What're folk sayin', 'bout yon Guardians?" The word rolls about on his tongue, emerging with a wholly different character from his cursing or anything else he has said: it is more important even then the scorched heat of his blasphemies, even sacred.