[PRP] The Low Hanging Fruit [Amalric | Nyxamora]

[MissMisnomer]

It was all Nyx could do but cover her mouth with her fist as he bent down, shoulders shaking, to contain her laughter. Don’t crack now, don’t crack! The sucker was ACTUALLY taking his shoes off! And if his arms said anything of it, being as light and soft as downy feathers, then undoubtedly his feet would be…

YES.

They were so. Damn. Pale.

She’d never seen skin so white in all her life, not even once. It didn’t even seem real; there was no way a person could be that pale?! By the Gods, he was practically translucent; she was at least 90% sure she could see blue veins from up here. But he was going to be coming back up soon; she had to get her s**t together, and fast.

Taking a few steadying breaths, she pursed her lips, wiping her palm down her face. That’s it, you’ve got this Girl. When he looked her way, Nyx was grinning, in what she hoped was at least a pleasantly earnest way, nodding encouragingly, “WAY. BETTER. Don’t you feel liberated? Shoes are for suckers; you need to feel the dirt beneath your feet if you want to conquer the world. That’s what we say in Tale, anyways.”

Affording herself a little snort, she squatted down, giving his feet a close up once-over, “It looks like your feet haven’t done much conquering, ever, have they? I assume they get about as much action as your hands, Book Boy?” Taking the laces in hand, she stood again, slinging his boots over her shoulder, “That won’t do. We need to help man-up your feet. They’re softer than a babe’s bottom.”


[8/10]  

[Miss Chief aka Uke]

‘Way better.’

That was what she said. She certainly sounded energized and optimistic, but it was difficult for Amalric to feel wholly convinced when he looked to his feet, toes angling inward and curling against the dirt. When was the last time he’d walked barefoot anywhere? Never. Indoors.

“Liberating isn’t…the word I’d choose, but…I suppose they are…freer.” Once he’d settled them on even ground at least it wasn’t so bad to be free of his boots, and the dirt and dust was not altogether objectionable without stones. The air was a comfortable temperature. “Conquer the world…? Is that a common goal here?”

Oh, no, she was crouching down. Really, they were bad enough from a distance-

I assume they get about as much action as your hands…

“A-action—?” Oh. Callouses. He cleared his throat. “I walk often enough, but never barefoot,” he said. “But so far as enduring labor is concerned, yes, similarly little ‘action.’ They—” His fingers paused mid-reach as she slung his boots over her shoulder, and he frowned. Did she have to carry those herself? He might need them soon. “I’m not certain they’ll take well to that. Aren’t these streets…unclean?”  

[MissMisnomer]

Nyx snorted, grinding her heels in the dust of the road, “I damn well hope so; we’re outside, that would be dumb for them to NOT be unclean.” She slid to his side and whapped her hand onto his rear, pushing him forward, “So come on Mr. Fancy Pants, stop worrying about something that’s not important and just move.”

She kept her hand there as encouragement when he started taking his first few steps, until it seemed that at least he wasn’t going to cop-out or freeze up. Then she gave one more departing squeeze before it moved on, propped at her own hip while scrutinizing his feet, “There, just some dirt and a few pebbles. Nothing to cry about. Be glad we aren’t doing this after the rainy season; you’d sink up to your knees trying to slog through all the mud."

[9/10]  

[Miss Chief aka Uke]

Whatever Amalric might have said in response—or any further initial protests for that matter—were silenced by the much unanticipated grip to his rear, and he gave a muted yip, biting back the sound a moment later and stumbling into his first—f—ck—few—ow—steps.

“Hnn-nnnnhh…” Fortunately—or unfortunately?—her hand remained where it was, steadying his progress and ‘encouraging’ him forward to whatever extent it could be encouraging to have oneself escorted by the rear through town barefoot and—nnnn—wincing.

He must have made quite a sight.

“I…imagine mud would be gentler? I’m accustomed to snow, but-” He cringed, foot bunching again on the next step, but if he focussed on the walk before him, he could maneuver his feet to more dusty and rock-free portions of road, which was far more forgiving on his untested soles. “Always with boots. My aunt and uncle were cobblers. I can scarcely remember being outside in my life without any—nnnn—thing wear. Might I-” He glanced to his boots, still strung in her possession. “May I have those back, do you think? I think I’m about as near to conquering the world as I’ll ever be.”  

[MissMisnomer]

What a little prissy. This was just a road, nothing compared to how rough and unforgiving the untamed landscape of Tale really was. If he was anything to go by, then the other men of Zena must be very underwhelming. Thinking they were so fancy, in their furs and their ice-palaces. But take away their swanky boots, and surely the lot of them would be crying with their tail between their legs.

“That sounds like a load of whiny excuses to me. How can you ever expect to be taken seriously as a man if you gripe about every little thing that’s an inconvenience to you? Just take it like a champ and you’ll be stronger for it.” Grinning, she flexed her toned arms, showing off some of her larger scars, “I’m betting there’s not a single scratch anywhere on you.”

She’d already toted him around quite a bit; though it felt like way longer, with the way he was fussing and weighing the pros-and-cons of every damn step he took. Hopping up onto a crate, and then another, she squatted on her perch, taking the boots off her shoulder to dangle by the laces above his head. “You think you’ve earned these?” Her eyebrow arched, laughing amusedly, “Please, your feet aren’t even bleeding yet, Beanpole. You’re still at exactly the same place you started, just a bit dirtier. Wake up tomorrow morning... and you’ll still be as soft and fragile as the dork you are right now.”

Nyx braced her hand on the edge of the crate, puckering in a mockingly smug kiss down at him,“Think of this as me doing you a favor, Baby Boy~” With a smile that should have been more at home on the face of a feral cat than a teenage girl, the boots were pulled aside as she twirled them like a propeller, releasing at the downward ark to send them hurtling over Amalric’s head and across the street, tumbling to rest atop the roof of a shop.

[10/10]  

[Miss Chief aka Uke]

‘Taken seriously as a man.’

Amalric eyed her with something bordering on amusement, if also a touch of bemusement. His eyes followed the length of her arm though when she flexed, and truly, she did have plenty to show for herself: a rich, healthy tan, a collective smattering of scars that likely all had stories, and lean muscle that belied a life of vigorous activity and engagement with the environment. He tended to think of his lack of injuries as a testament to how well he’d avoided risk thus far. A great success, for the most part.

But of course there were different ways of measuring success, all dependent on viewpoint.

“I can’t remember ever concerning myself over being taken seriously ‘as a man,’” he admitted after a moment. “I am a man. I’ll either be taken seriously or not, but the areas where I’d prefer to be are what I care about. I aim to be taken seriously as a sorcerer and a scholar. A historian, perhaps, one day after I’m better-read. Since society has progressed enough to have invented boots and my life circumstances afford me the privilege of having and wearing them I don’t see the benefit in putting oneself through more discomfort than necessary.”

…your feet aren’t even bleeding yet…

He shot her an obscure look. “They might be…” A hasty glance back, though, showed no signs of bloodstains, and admittedly, he didn’t feel as though anything had been cut—just unnecessarily tortured. Since she had just admitted he would wake up the next morning much the same as he was now, he wasn’t certain what the point of the entire endeavor was, then, if improvement somehow was impossible.

But regardless she was not going to give him back his shoes.

He sighed, watching her windmill them and squinting in the direction he suspected they’d go—and a moment later, there they sailed, arching neatly through the air, evidently given good propulsion, and slight wind resistance. They fell further east than they would have minus the breeze. His eyes skimmed the pair of men standing just outside the shop front, the building atop which his shoes had landed. Averaging their heights, the building looked to be about four men high, two stories, but with less of a sloped roof than was custom further north.

He glanced again to her, and for a flicker of an instant, the corner of his lip edged up with a look almost smug. Then, he concentrated. Drawing a single finger out, his eyes followed line in the air of its path, attention inward, pulling on the reserves of his magic like threading a line. With a slow turn of his wrist, a thin circle of white blue energy coiled and then, as though filling in a pre-set pattern, the spell circle etched inward, sharp angles interlocking with dispersed smaller spheres. He splayed his fingers, gaze darting to the rooftop again, focused just over his boots, and with his opposite hand he made a short arching gesture. His fingers curled. The air prickled.

Then, as he pulled on the latent energy of the pre-existing gusts, all wind immediately about them died to a whisper. In its place, a sharp funnel plucked, sending his boots sailing sidelong along the roof and then up as though snatched, and he pressed his hand, another visible spell circle forming just behind the boots midair. With a coil and turn of his fingers then, another stiff tunnel of channeled air shot them forward. He closed his fists. They dropped, thudding to the dust some two feet from his bare ones. Breathing a pleased sigh of relief and shaking his shoulders to dispel the lingering, over-eager reserves of his magic and fold it back inward, he smiled.

“Well,” he said, stooping to pluck up his boots again and look to her. “It has been a pleasure and a pain or many meeting you, Nyx. I wish you the best in your…” He glanced to her feet, “…world conquering. If soles are to be the judge, I think you are well on your way already.”  

[MissMisnomer]

Nyx was more than a little annoyed that he didn’t look properly put-out or surprised when his boots went careening through the air. He just seemed more indifferent than anything else. That wasn’t any fun. She’d hoped he’d at least put up some kind of fuss; stamp his feet indignantly, maybe even try to tell her off. But he was just standing there ,looking at them. Booo.

Her eyebrows furrowed as she squinted, a bit suspicious of that smile of his that looked way too confident in itself. The hell was he doing with his hands? And then, out of the air itself, something appeared, a circle of energy; if Nyx had been bored before, this unexpected development had more that sparked her interest again. She’d seen a bit of magic here and there, just an odd spell to aid in one menial task or another. But this seemed different, more complicated, like this was just a small drop in a much larger bucket that wanted to be poured out all at once, but all that was being released was a controlled trickle. She might not have meant to, but her breath stopped as the patterns in the air grew more intricate, and was undoubtedly entranced by the display of impossible physics that brought the boots flying back to their owner.

Releasing her pent up breath when his attentions were turned back at her, Nyx huffed, relaxing her posture once again: she may or may not have been leaning forward as she watched the theatrics. “Showoff…” There was no denying it was impressive, in its own way. “Guess you may not be as defenseless as you look. Don’t know if any fancy finger twirling or magic puffs of air will be worth a damn in a real fist-fight though.”

Nyx grinned begrudgingly, hopping down off the stack of crates to land beside him, propping her fist at her hip, “Thanks for killing my boredom for a while, Pretty Boy. Still think you might benefit from some abuse on the road―maybe you shouldn’t go putting those back on so soon. And do yourself a favor…” She smirked up at him, flicking his chest “You really gotta talk to some more girls; that was pathetically easy. See ya… Amalric.” With a departing slug to his arm, she turned, strolling off to take care of those errands she had been so pleasantly distracted from.

[11/10]