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A man stepped quietly out of the shadows into the soft glow of candlelight and placed a hand on the woman's shoulder. He appeared older than she- thin and wiry, dressed in a brown leather jerkin and hose, the arms of the shirt blousing out over where the lower arms had been bound tightly in bronze cords. His long hair glinted copper in the light as it fell about his shoulders, and his eyes as he looked down at the figure before him were grey-blue, with a hint of sparkling green in their half-lidded depths. Curiously, although dressed as for fighting, he carried no weapon. The woman automatically wiped her pen and re-capped the ink, blotting the thick papers before her carefully before looking up at her son. She smiled slightly and reached up to squeeze his hand in greeting, then stood gracefully. Standing together, the difference in their heights was marked- her head only reached the middle of his chest. They made a strange pair, bound together seemingly only by mutual affection, until one happened to look at their eyes, which were identically grey-blue in shade, and to their bearing. Both shared the same look of fighters taking a rare rest, although there was a quality of raw, barely controlled energy about the man that was only hinted at in the younger-seeming woman. In her it had been replaced by a kind of complete confidence and contentment that superseded all else. The man bent and murmured something into her ear and she nodded. Turning, she hesitated, her fingers moving slightly as her gaze rested on the newly written papers on the rich mahogany of her desk, but after a moment's consideration she let them be. Both mother and son exited the room, the latter blowing out the candle as he slipped out, locking the door with an inaudible 'click', and all was quiet. A small breeze sneaked through the slightly opened french doors and stirred the heavy, crimson-velvet draperies that kept the room in darkness. A pale beam of glowing moonlight crept in through the gap and fell upon the papers, illuminating the rows of script-like handwriting covering their surfaces. The black ink gleamed wetly in reflected starlight, shimmering as the words seemed to leap up from the page... |
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