Thread: Masks [Lagertha x Ryees]

The trek from the manor to the beach was longer than Anmillaen had expected, but the paved path made it an easy one. He had drawn his cloak back around him to cut the breeze coming from the sea and stop the salted air from staining his clothes with that starchy, itchy white palor. The sea was not a place he spent much time, and for good reason He hated it. Ships had not been kind to him in the past, and while there was no fear of the sea in him, the mage had no inclination for it either, preferring to keep his feet solidly planted on Terra Firma and allow others to do the seafaring work. He kept himself busy enough on the mainland as it was he saw no need to complicate it with sails and gangplanks and anchors. Coming to the end of the path, he sharpened his senses. He was not the only one to do so he felt the senses attached to him spread as well, complimenting his own and spreading out further, feeling for anything out of the ordinary. Quickly, those senses came back to him, and a voice echoed in his mind. She is here, but she is speaking. She is not alone. Anmillaens brow quirked at that. Who would be talking to down here, right now? Everyone of note is off at her idiot fathers soiree. None come to mind for me, either. Perhaps we should Anmillaen was already nodding. His weight shifted as he lighted on the balls of his feet, and he slipped from the path, moving into the brush on light, airy steps. A flexion came from within his mind and he felt a familiar power rush into his body. The edges of madness clawed at his mind, but a practiced mental dance kept his Self away from those tendrils of insanity. The sound of his footsteps dimmed into nothingness as his feet swished through the grass. Indeed, every sound he made Changed. The swishing of his breeches against the stiff stalks of the grass made a sound like the soft breeze his cloak, flipping and falling over the top of the grasses, splashed like the swell of the tide on the beach, even rising and falling in volume as the waves waxed and waned and his boots on the soft-packed earth clicked like the tips of crab legs scuttling over the beach. Anmillaen ghosted through the brush, making what most would call startlingly good time for a nobleman used to sitting in the courts. His mind wandered back to the days he spent before his fortune was made for a moment, of the time he spent in back alleys of slum cities and rushing through the woods trying to catch a hare, back to the days of his childhood before his power had found him. Those skills had been useful to him many times, over the decades. Many times indeed, he thought grimly, pushing a different set of memories back into the blackness where they belonged. He neared the edge of the brush and slowed, his eyes refocusing to allow sight beyond the thin sheet of grass remaining between him and the beach. He would be invisible for long enough to see what he needed, certainlyor more accurately, as he soon found out, what he wanted . What he hoped was a very pretty girl was bent over a canvas, her very pretty behind in the air and covered only by a tied off skirt as far as he could tell. As the girl mushed herself up off the canvas, her blue hair came into focus, annoyingly covering her face from Anmillaens angle, but more than enough to confirm her identity if the canvas had not already made it blatantly obvious. Curious and content for the moment, he settled on his chest, letting the grasses naturally wave around him, and he watched. Nearly an hour passed, and in that time, thoughts raced through Anmillaens head. Her artistry was superb, but there was something to her movements that suggested something. An idea was tugging at the edges of his consciousness, but he could not pin it down to properly interrogate it, and so it remained fleeting, darting in and out of his mind as often as he breathed and taunting him with its closeness. Chaos felt it as well, and began digging, rooting around through Anmillaens subconscious and jerking ideas from shelves only to dismiss them and deposit them on the floor of its hosts mental landscape. As such, Anmillaen had to fight for his clarity as memories and thoughts were tossed into his conscious mind with no warning or reason. It was trying, but not something he was unused to after so many years sharing his mindspace with the others thoughts. Focused as he was on the painting and the girls movements and clouded as he was in his mind, it was many minutes before the inky black pool next to her finally triggered his mind to focus on it. His breath caught in his throat at that, for he recognized it. Not in detail, and not in specific, but in concept, he knew it. All at once, that intangible, evasive thought slammed home in his mind. Artist!? The Masked lord could hardly believe his own thoughts, but the following minutes did naught but confirm his suspicions. Puddle turned to pool, and pool to mound, purple dots blinking to life in it and rearing up to watch her paint. It was another handful of minutes before she realized it was there, and paused, turning to speak with it. After a very short conversation, the pool coalesced into a beast and leapt at her, pinning her to the sand and saying something to her in a voice too low for Anmillaen to hear from his distance. He could not truly be sure any sound came from the thing at all he simply watched as the girl stared at it, then spoke, then stared again, then spoke again, the rhythm clearly indicating a conversation despite Anmillaens inability to catch any of the words. It lifted her, the nodded. She stood, and leaned forward, giving Anmillaen another look at her body. For the second time, his breath caught in his throat. The markings splayed over the upper skin of her bottom were not completely uncovered, but even partially visible as they were, there was no mistake in his mind. That tattoo danced before his eyes, undulating like the drifting leaves of plants under the water and glistening like the sunlight sparkling on the waves. Now is the time, came the whispered voice in Anmillaens psyche. He nodded in agreement. As the girls attention was freshly refocused on the painting, he ghosted aside, back to the path, and sifted out of the grasses. His boots announced his presence with a hearty click on the stone, a sound that faded as he left the path and stepped into the sand. You know, you truly present a man with a dilemma, he called out to her smoothly, a charming, cheeky smile pulling at one corner of his lips. You stand next to something like that, and you make it impossible for him to decide which is prettier the art or the artist. He took a few steps closer, lighting just behind her, the proper two steps' distance that would allow her proper space should she choose it, but easily allow her to approach comfortably. That distance had been hammered into him by the court ladies that insisted he know how to act like a gentleman. Needless to say, those lessons were written up well before they had ever truly met him.