The Hour of the Rooster passed with the sun marking the sky in shades of peach as it began its slow descent behind the mountains. Brayandli delicately drew the wet tip of his brush across the paper on the desk. Clear, neat strokes formed before him in fine glistening lines, his attention completely rapt. His expression was passive, but if one knew to look closely they could see the slight curves at the corners of his pale lips. In the quiet of his chambers, the hushed whisper of ink over parchment was the one thing that truly made him feel content.
However, no peace lasted forever. Brayandli was snapped out of his bubble by a loud rapping at his door. His pale eyes lifted from the parchment to watch as Willow entered, several parcels in her arms.
“The delivery arrived just in time,” she chimed as she set a pair of parcels down on the table before him. “Your sword has been serviced, and these are new garments for the dinner tonight." Brayandli nodded silently in thanks before carefully and precisely rinsing and drying his brush, stoppering his ink, and placing his calligraphy set back into its immaculately carved wooden case. Willow noted that not a single spot of black marred his pristine white sleeves. No surprises there. She began unwrapping the dark fabric covering his sword.
As the fabric fell away, they both took in the sight of his sheathed blade. Hanging from the triple moon sigil shaped pommel was a lilac tassel, whilst pale blue stones were inset into guard. Polished to perfection, they glittered up at the white-haired pair. The quality was exceptional, truly a weapon deserving of the composed Okan clan heir.
"The Nightingale Clan brought a new member with them," Brayandli said neutrally after a moment, his gaze floating over to Willow as he ran a hand down the scabbard, feeling supple pale leather’s cloud motif embossing.
"Ah, yes. Young Master Taown." She responded lightly, glancing up at him as her hands continued to work on the wrappings. It was uncommon for Brayandli to bring up people in conversation. “You met him this afternoon I take it?”
"Mm." Brayandli reached over to an open pot of fine sand on his desk and dusted a pinch of it over his calligraphy.
“Quite a character, isn't he?" Willow replied in the same light tone. She handed him the sword before turning back to the table, pulling the bulkier parcel towards her and beginning to unfasten the strings keeping it closed.
"He…” Certainly has a lot of mischief in his smile, Brayandli thought to himself, licking his lips as he tried to find more appropriate words. “…is very enthusiastic.” Then, with a sigh he added: “Yan does not like him."
Willow’s slender hands abruptly stopped mid untying a knot, and her smile faded.
"I would guess from his name and his piercings that he is of Mohan heritage,” she said, words soft, “While Yan's mother is from Vistorna. You know their history is… Complex.”
“I do.” Brayandli unsheathed his sword, and raised it. A mirror polish. Silver eyes gazed back at him without expression. "I am worried that things will escalate, especially given what happened at the last Summit.”
"I will keep an eye on him, but you should let your sister and father know too.” Willow promised solemnly. “Did Balin speak to you this morning regarding that…?”
“He did.” Brayandli re-sheathed the sword with a shing and joined Willow at the table. “Father spent half of the morning lecturing me about it.”
At that Willow laughed, but there was a bitter ring to it.
"And me, this afternoon. I am to avoid him at all costs, of course.” Willow opened a package. She paused and let out a small gasp. “Ah! Bray, look, this fabric is gorgeous!"
“He told me not to ‘engage in anything that may cause further conflict between our families’,” Brayandli bit the words out, rolling his eyes as he stood up. "I look forward to summer being over. There are too many people here now. There is little peace to be found anywhere in the grounds."
His fingers caressed the pale blue and lilac silk in the package. The garment was indeed gorgeous, but Brayandli felt little joy at the expert needlework or elegant colours. Swords, books and art, he understood. Parading among other nobles as an unwilling peacock for the sake of passing pleasantries, however, were an entirely different endeavour. No matter how hard Brayandli tried, the interactions he had with strangers felt stilted and awkward, as if they were attempting to speak in two different languages. He could barely understand the point of these gatherings, much less face them with enthusiasm.
"At least try and get along with some of them." Willow laughed for real this time. "Why not befriend Young Master Taown? I’m told he was only adopted a few years ago when he was in very poor health, so he hasn't left his clan's lands before and doesn't know anyone here. He doesn’t seem to know anything about our customs either, so you would probably be a good help to him.“
Brayandli, she knew from personal experience, had something of a soft spot for outcasts and underdogs. Despite his reclusive nature, he had taken her under his wing when she herself had arrived at the clan gates friendless, clueless, vulnerable and horribly alone.
“I don’t think he gets on well with Tomar,” she added, with a slight slyness to her smile.
“I do not think anyone gets on well with Tomar,” Brayandli pointed out matter of factly, oblivious to the subtle nudge in her words.
“The Mohan tribes are famous for their proficiency in art.” Willow’s gaze rose to the mural depicting the mountains and a number of rare spirits that was painted across the entirety of one of the walls. “You might share some common interests there.”
Brayandli cast her a meaningful sidelong look before turning away, dragging the flowing robes with him to a mirror in the corner.
“Young Master Taowren seems very energetic and outgoing…” Brayandli did not deceive himself; he knew he was a reserved, withdrawn person. Someone entirely without charisma or social charm. He was always frozen in moments where others would take the opportunity to let loose and have fun. Brayandli did not consider himself someone engaging to be around at all. “…I doubt he would be interested in someone like me.”
Expression gloomy, the Okan heir held up the garment before himself. The hem was embroidered with silver lotus flowers and leaves, as were the lapels. It was, truly, a beautiful garment. A beautiful, heavy, stifling garment to wear for an entire evening of suffering through loud music and incomprehensible small talk, Brayandli thought.
“Oh Bray,” Willow shook her head at him as she brought over the matching sashes and belt. Brayandli was always like this—too apprehensive to take initiative with anyone, even when she could see he obviously wanted to. Despite his covetable face and enviable skills, Brayandli had the self-esteem of a drowned jerboa. “I can't be the only friend you have forever. You need to start making some allies in the other clans if you're going to inherit your father's title."
Brayandli shrugged and avoided her eyes as he took the items from her hands. If I could simply disappear up the mountains and never inherit anything or see anyone again, that would be much better. Let Bayfolin inherit the title of clan leader instead. Of course he would never say such words aloud, but hearing Willow let out a deep sigh told him she had guessed his thoughts from his sombre face alone.
After a brief silence, Willow spoke again. "Come on, let me fix your hair. You can't show up with that bun looking like a bird's nest tonight."
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