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{ R e n a u l t }
“Merely unopposed?” One hand splayed across his chest, the other extended with a dramatic flourish, Renault was the picture of mock affront. “You wound me, really, you do!” Heaving a melodramatic, sigh, he shook his head. Whoever claimed acting is the fool’s weak attempt at a strong defense, he decided, is a filthy, filthy liar! His hands clasped together with an audible clap, and, donning his best impression of a winsome smile, he said, “Ah, well! I do love a good mid-day stroll - nothing like a brisk jog to lessen rejection’s brutal sting, hmm?” Shoulders loose, posture casual, inviting - friendly, but not excessively so. Just enough to maintain the illusion of warmth and general concern for his wounded classmate. (Though, try as he might, he couldn’t suppress the sarcasm saturating his sentiments. Really, it was that imbecile’s own fault - loudly declaring a wish to resign in a military academy? Clearly, the wisdom was bountiful in this one.)
Considering the instructors seemed the sort to shatter one’s skull on an impulse, expecting that to serve as a suitable punishment, it wasn’t much of a stretch to assume they’d encourage student-to-student combat somewhere down the road. May as well size up the competition, see what I’m up against, I suppose! Actual sparring was the best preparation for combat, yes, but sometimes, a little bit of observation and reconnaissance granted one the upper hand.
(Besides, he had an entire lunch period to fritter away, and sampling the local cuisine was always a bit of a gamble. He quite liked having his tongue intact.)
“So!” He dropped his hands to his sides, hooking his thumbs into his pockets, rocking idly on the balls of his feet. “Whatever shall we discuss? The infirmary’s a dreadfully long ways off, and I’d hate to bore you!” He arched an eyebrow, gaze shimmering with mischief, wide grin turning positively impish. I won’t question your motives - not yet! That’d just be rude, and only a fool lays out his entire hand all at once. His gaze roved the group, scanning for a potential source of commentary. The goth-in-training - Kiara, he believed - he’d save for later - wait until there was less of a crowd. No sense in ruffling more feathers than strictly necessary. Heckling the girl cowering on the group’s fringes (Bits? An odd name, but certainly intriguing) seemed needlessly cruel, and the lump of flesh barely constituting a person was bleeding so profusely Renault sincerely doubted he’d notice any taunts. That left . . .
“Say, Sparky,” Renault chirped, tone light, innocuous, “pardon me for prying, but I couldn’t help but notice what interesting hair you have!” Not a single root in sight! How meticulous, thought Renault. “Do enlighten me - why the blue?”
The latest arrival - the newest recruit, Renault mused, if they were sticking to the RPG theme - descended on the scene with a wild, abrupt swiftness. No sooner had he merged with their ranks, lack of invitation be damned, than he began interjecting with all kinds of opinions. Expectantly, it almost seemed. Hey, that’s really presumptuous, you know? I say, what a rude little man! Smile now somewhat strained, Renault gave the newcomer a brief scan. Why, we had the same idea! Ha! I ought to file a plagiarism charge. He arched an eyebrow, serving the boy a steady, unwavering stare.
“Oh, are we picking our classes? Ah, how wonderful! Let’s see - " I see what you’re doing, you’re sizing up the competition - my, my, I may just have a rival! How thrilling! “ - I do think I’d have to pick the life of the daring, glamorous rogue! Since you’re a barbarian, we’ve got to round out this little entourage somehow, hmm?”
There was always the chance Renault had misconstrued the newcomer’s intentions. There was always the chance this entire blasted class consisted of nothing more than idealistic children, content to spin tall tales and dream about foes vanquished.
But in the event that he was right? That this boy might prove a competent challenge?
His grin widened. Wouldn’t that be something?
{ E l l i o t }
"You will either live long enough to go insane and lose whatever sense of self you have", the instructor had said, "or die in battle."
Inspirational stuff, that. Not exactly the sort of memories one wanted floating through their mind during the brief moment of respite a lunch break offered, and yet Elliot couldn’t manage to shake the thought. She couldn’t shake a lot of things, really. In fact, the only part of her doing any serious shaking were her hands, and that was - that was only because she was annoyed! Honest!
So why were her hands trembling?
Her fingers gripped the fork so tightly it seared her knuckles white (considering how white she was normally, it was kind of a neat trick), and, letting out a disgusted scoff (it was shaky, her breath was shuddering and her lips quivering) she let it drop. It clattered to the table with a dull series of clinks. Wow, good job, asshat, crooned a wry, lilting voice in the back of her mind, way to fall for a bunch of stupid, cheap tricks! How d’you get out of bed in the morning knowing you’re the most worthless, pathetic scumbag this disgusting crapsack universe has ever shat out?
Her brow furrowed, and her lips curved down into a frown. Her fingers curled inwards, hand balling into a fist. The motion did little to settle them, as they were still wracked with the occasional tremor, but the feeling of her nails digging little divots into her palm was comforting, almost. Like she could physically fend off the uncertainty with a solid blow, childish as it felt. Besides, she was an alchemist, wasn’t she? Weren’t alchemists supposed to be brave and unflinching? Burdened with the strength of their resolve, drawing upon determination in their time of need, all that cliched crap? And fighting was brave, right? People got hurt all the time, risked their lives, and if you willingly started a scrap, that meant you weren’t a coward.
I’m not afraid of some stupid words. Swallowing a sigh, just in case some pathetic little whimper tried to make a surreptitious escape alongside it, Elliot finally relaxed her hands. Bluh, all that whining killed my appetite. Least part of me’s good at killing, I guess. Bracing her palms on the table, Elliot made to rise and discard her mostly-uneaten food, and then, in a stunning display of inconsideration, some redhead slid into the seat directly across from her, effectively blocking her in. A bold gesture - very assertive, kind of like this girl thought the sun shone out her own ass.
"I'm Maeve. Couldn't help but notice you sitting here and decided to come visit, after all, our instructor did say to get to know some of our peers better and I don't believe we've ever spoken to each other. So how do you feel about this entire 'you're about to become hounds of AMRO' thing? Nervous? Excited? An odd mix of the two?”
Heaving a resigned sigh, because this was apparently her life now, Elliot slumped back into her seat, automatically folding her arms across her chest. “First off, who in the seven realms of fresh hell are you?” she grumbled, because like hell this chick had just “decided to visit”. “The inquisition, or something? Aw, hell - don’t tell me this is some bullshit psych evaluation!” Her grumble dropped into a slightly frantic hiss, because oh, shit, they knew, how did they know, could they read mi - oh. Wait. Peers. Maeve had said “peers”. Okay, time out for the idiot. The idiot gets a time out, and shuts up for a second. That’s you, she told herself, face dusted red with an odd mix of embarrassment and aggravation. “Uh, I mean - yeah.”
WOW. I am BLOWN AWAY by your linguistic prowess. Catch me as I swoon, snickered an incessant, nagging voice in the back of her mind.
Fuck off, she told it. “I’d be stupid not to be. Excited, I mean - I get to tear shit up, knock a few heads together, all that fun stuff.”
Well, at least she’d managed to get out a sentence, disjointed as it was. That counted as a victory, right?
