He shivers slightly, almost dropping the freshly repaired tool. "I need to put a bell on you. Hello, beloved." Samsaren reaches for Sendithu, drawing her close for an embrace and then releases her with a wince, eyeing his clothes critically. "I should get cleaned up before I ruin that dress."
The Elven woman laughs softly and gives his ponytail an affectionate tug. "Ruin it, arn sanbabest, I do not care. I will buy another, it is just a dress." With complete disregard for the scattered bits of metal littering the area, she seats herself atop the anvil, crossing her legs and arranging the plum-tinted firesilk neatly around her. "So, just getting started or wrapping things up for the day?"
He grins at her, taking a moment to appreciate the view. "I could be persuaded either way. What's on your agenda today?"
"I had not decided yet." She shifts slightly, picking at a non-existent piece of lint on her dress.
Samsaren smiles at her, taking her hand in his and brushing his lips across her knuckles just to make her blush. It always works, and they share an amused grin. He stretches, rolling his shoulders, before methodically taking out his forging tools one by one and carefully inspecting each for any sign of damage. Sendithu pulls a small ball of yarn out of her cloak pocket and casually begins knitting, humming quietly to herself. They work in comfortable silence for a time, her knitting needles clicking in time to his wire brush as he repairs his tools, until he glances over and notices that her work has gone awry and she doesn't seem to be paying attention to it. "Something on your mind?"
She blinks, glancing up at him and then down at her work. "What, are three armed sweaters not popular anymore?" He chuckles and she starts picking the stitches apart. "Just...thinking." She sighs softly and pitches the mistake-riddled mess into the bin. "Are we done here?"
He lifts her easily down from atop the anvil, setting her on her feet in front of him with an indignant squeak. His grey eyes crinkle with amusement as she half-heartedly swats at his arm, and he captures her lips in his just before she can utter a word of feigned protest. "Come on,” he says, idly tucking a lock of inky black hair behind her ear. “Let's get out of here and you can tell me all about it."
The winter air was refreshingly cold against their faces as they leave the forge hand in hand. The snow has stopped for the evening and the sky is full of stars, but the Elven woman hardly even glances up as they walk. Walking a diamondique lockpick across her knuckles distractedly, she utters not a word as Samsaren sets about arranging their customary booth at the Rose and returns the Publican’s greeting with the barest of nods. Once they are seated and the normal patrons have withdrawn to a respectful distance, eyeing the pair warily, Samsaren turns a level gaze upon his fiance and waits with a patient expression on his handsome face.
“The Leucius treatment, hm?” She chuckles. “Very well. Mazrian reached out to me, though I suspect he was really aiming for you. People do not generally talk to me on purpose or ask for my help.”
“People are stupid and constantly underestimate you, dearest,” he replies slowly, sipping his brandy. “What did Mazrian want? I didn’t think you two talked.”
“We do not. We have crossed paths once or twice, but I never cared for his type so he never paid much attention to me.”
Samsaren grins at her. “His loss, my gain.”
“Mhm. I believe you are slightly biased. At any rate, he was moaning about whatever was bothering him that day via crystal ring, and eventually got around to inviting me to Crossings for a drink. I was about to say something unkind, but he quickly amended that to ask if I would bring Synamon as well.”
Samsaren sits back slightly, surprised. “A drink?”
Sendithu smirks, reaching over to tug the Paladin’s ponytail. “Down, boy. We brought Khaelyn along as well, and you know I do not drink with people.”
He chuckles at her, clasping her hand and lacing their fingers together. “I never doubted you for a second, beloved…”
“...but you know his reputation as well as I do. I know. Believe me, I am not his type. Thankfully. No, like I said, I am very sure that he only wanted me there so he could get to you. He wishes to stir things up in Zoluren, lead a group into Sorrow’s Keep.” She pauses, watching Samsaren’s expression slip from amusement to surprise and back again in the space of a heartbeat. “I have no idea what he thinks I am going to do to assist with this, but your skills are obvious and well known. He asked Synamon to ah...raise some awareness of the issue, I suppose you could say. That may be a mistake, I do not know if her methods are going to gather any sympathy for the cause.”
Samsaren chuckles. “She has her own way of doing things, I guess.”
“Right. Tact and finesse are not her strong suit.” She twists her engagement ring idly around her finger, gazing into the depths of the large gem at its heart. “So, there it is. He wishes to group up and lead some sort of half-baked raid, and he wants you to help. Me too, I suppose, though I am most certainly only important insofar as I am likely a condition of your attendance.”
“And what do you want?”
She shrugs slightly. “You. I do not care about Zoluren’s woes. I am no fan of the Elpalzi, but they are not my problem. The scribe, though, Iazen. He was kind to me when I served as ambassador in Shard. He was perhaps the only foreign dignitary that treated me respectfully. He, at least, deserves to either be set free or put out of his misery if there is nothing left to save. At this point, it is probably going to be the latter and I doubt any of them have the stomach for it.”
Samsaren leans back, swirling his brandy for a moment and staring deep into her violet eyes. “I dislike you seeing yourself as a footnote or some sort of accessory of mine. I’m not Liuri, I don’t view you as my secretary. That being said, I’m game to at least hear the mage out and see if he has more of a plan if you are. I’m not a fan of the Elpalzi, and letting them fester and raid is a terrible burden on the common folk in that area. They shouldn’t have to bear it for as long as they have. So. If you’re game to hear what he wants, so am I. That’s the only way this is happening.” He leans forward suddenly, making a play for the lockpick on the back of her hand and missing by a large margin. She flashes a crooked grin at him and the pick disappears with a flick of her fingertips. “Fast hands.”
“Mhm.” A smile plays over her lips and she leans forward, turning his hands over in hers and running her thumbs over his palms. So many callouses, both from the forge and from handling weapons over the course of his lifetime. They were a warrior’s hands, but he was also a smith and was once a farmer, too. Glancing at him speculatively through her thick lashes, she knew by the look in his eye what he wanted her answer to be, so she gave it willingly. “Sure, let us see what he wants.” He is not Liurilias, he is not going to toss me aside in favor of a cause. Maybe if she keeps telling herself that, she will eventually start to believe it.
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