Searing 65, 121
Funny Faces
The sun sets past noon and begins its descent down towards evening, illuminating the people as they go about their daily routines. Happy people, some rushing for some unknown purpose, and those in armor with diligence written on their faces. They passed by a alley in the commons, dimmed with cooling shade inside, with a boy watching them from afar. He had no need to practice these expressions before but now he wishes to not embarrass his mistress in public with his lack of social skills.
The boy sits away from view of the passing public, peering his sight out from the edge of a few crates that sat with him. A plain brown cloak embraces his body and white mask covers his visage. Leaning forward and jolting back to cover when he thinks someone might look into the alleyway has become something of a game to him as time passes. Most do not and he finds the courage to not retreat on reflex.
Yshvold carefully studies those passing by and tries to commit the looks on their faces to memory. Humans Sitting, watching, making no movement, his entire focus being spent on the myriad of emotions he notices as they carry on. He supposes that this is what 'people watching' is and finds some intrigue in it, although not as much as he thought he would when he first started his research.
Every minute Yshvold spent watching felt like an eternity as he can not remember the last time he spent sitting in wasteful idleness. His motionless vigil of the alleyway broke as his leg shook in anxious boredom. So many faces with a limit types of countenance, he thought if he should leave to find another spot with more desperate figures to watch. The Middens came to mind immediately and a pit dropped in his stomach. There was no need to return to that place for he was needed here to find a better way to integrate himself with the people that surround Miss Petra.
Passively studying would only get him so far, practice was needed. Yshvold brought his gloved hand up towards his mask, hesitating at first, and took it off. His pale white skin shone inside the cowling as tufts of white hair fell forward. Apathetic grey eyes gazed at the ground as he mentally ran through everything he saw up to this point.
A smile. Yshvold thought and he twitched his mouth into motion. The muscles in his face felt wrong, out of place, and he pulled a dagger to look at himself in the blades reflection. The smiles he saw were natural, happy, pleasant, and above all else real. None of these words could be used for what he saw. His mouth contorted with one side open wider than the other and his nose wrinkled [up. Another attempt was made to mimic a smile and each resulting in something more hideous than the last. It was far more frustrating than having a fruitless day of finding food. He did find solace that he could naturally scowl.
Once more he peeked out of his hiding place with haste and found another guard patrolling. The blue and silver of his armor was easily recognizable to him as a Sky Guard, plate protecting his upper chest and a sword at his hip. His face was one of quiet vigilance and pride, a neutral frown with determination bright in his eyes. At first Yshvold thought the man was squinting or had smelt something particularly awful but remembered he was in the town proper and not in some dank sewer. A face he could use to silently stand by Miss Petra's side, he must practice this one more than others.
Once again he tried, running the mans face through his mind over and over again. Yshvold closed his eyes as moved the muscles on his face with his hands, pulling his mouth apart and down, pushing his brow down, and taking in a deep breath. The image of a strong soldier being able to scare away any aggressors with a glare came to mind before brought his blade back up again to look. What he saw was a boy who looked like he had been constipated for days.
Frustration turned to anger and the blade was pulled back to be thrown. Yshvold hesitated, his grip tightened and trembled, and he brought it back down to his lap. He did not know how to imitate these people or the emotions they had. The best options he had were to copy everything Miss Petra did as he followed her in public. He couldn't even tell if she wanted him around or not, only that he needed to be around her to help and protect her.
Kindness was not something he knew growing up. Every day was a battle for survival with the losers dying in some hole and he struggled to climb the cliff that was being an orphan in the slums. He fought, killed, and stole for the things he needed but never for what he wanted. Food was ever constant on his mind as well as others like him, all ready to drag each other down for mere scraps. The day he saw food being offered to him as he sat alone, ready to die, he felt his heart swell with something he hadn't felt before. Something blessed and warm, a feeling he never thought he would feel and to this day he still doesn't understand it.
Yshvold sat and remembered that day fondly, his face moving on its own. Whatever this was he wanted to see it and his dagger was raised slowly. Somehow, someway, he saw a boy smile. It wasn't as expressive as the others, and not nearly as wide, but he could see the cold empty of his eyes soften and his mouth slightly curled upwards. He couldn't help but think it looked sad, whoever this boy was wasn't happy but perhaps content. Quietly he giggled and the boy in the dagger opened its mouth a little and his teeth showed. Yshvold thought that maybe he was this boy and perhaps he could do this again for Miss Petra to show her he was capable of being near her more often, and the boy in the dagger's smile widened.
The idea felt delusional to Yshvold, he had just tried to smile and it ended miserably. He would have to try it again and again to truly smile so this boy was surely not him but the thought amused him anyway. The dagger fell to his lap again and he felt a laugh well up in him. Up to now he hid himself but the thought slipped his mind as he laughed. It was absurd for him to be able to naturally smile like that. The laughter was quiet at first and grew louder as he pictured himself as that boy in his dagger, such a silly thought, and he could hear murmurs from the people passing by his little alleyway.
This brought Yshvold back from his stupor and he scrambled to put away his weapon and fix his mask back to his face. Footsteps came in from the entrance with wordless voices nearby. By the time the guards came upon Yshvold's hiding place he was already gone. His cloak fluttered behind him as he ran through connecting alleys and vaulting over any obstacle in his way. For all his faults at socializing, he knew how to run and hide. Wind rushing past his body, anxiety of being prey, and the triumph of evading his pursuer pumped adrenaline through him like nothing else. Chatter of the crowd got louder again as the end of this alley came closer with opportunity for escape. The exit looked like much of the same as its own set of faces passed by and its own Sky Guard patrolling around as well. Paranoid thoughts raced through his mind that they were keeping him boxed in until they continued their patrol away.
Yshvold's felt like he could breath again but felt foolish. This wasn't his old home and he shouldn't have to be wary of every living being anymore but his habit's have been hard to break. Learning how to smile would have to be something he would learn after he can control himself in the face of unknown threats.
His mask had been placed to hastily and it fell from his face. White hair dropped as he caught it with the front facing him, the bland white and two small eye holes seemed to judge him for his cowardice. He should be more courageous with it on, and it was the one face he could rely on to be strong for another's sake, to hide away who he is from others.
"I'm sorry, I'll do better." Quiet as a mouse, with subtle meekness, he apologizes to it and puts it to his forehead. Fixing his hair back and putting the mask back on felt better. His heart slowed down as he calmed and stepped out into the crowd, blending in with the busy bodies and their smiling faces.
The sun sets past noon and begins its descent down towards evening, illuminating the people as they go about their daily routines. Happy people, some rushing for some unknown purpose, and those in armor with diligence written on their faces. They passed by a alley in the commons, dimmed with cooling shade inside, with a boy watching them from afar. He had no need to practice these expressions before but now he wishes to not embarrass his mistress in public with his lack of social skills.
The boy sits away from view of the passing public, peering his sight out from the edge of a few crates that sat with him. A plain brown cloak embraces his body and white mask covers his visage. Leaning forward and jolting back to cover when he thinks someone might look into the alleyway has become something of a game to him as time passes. Most do not and he finds the courage to not retreat on reflex.
Yshvold carefully studies those passing by and tries to commit the looks on their faces to memory. Humans Sitting, watching, making no movement, his entire focus being spent on the myriad of emotions he notices as they carry on. He supposes that this is what 'people watching' is and finds some intrigue in it, although not as much as he thought he would when he first started his research.
Every minute Yshvold spent watching felt like an eternity as he can not remember the last time he spent sitting in wasteful idleness. His motionless vigil of the alleyway broke as his leg shook in anxious boredom. So many faces with a limit types of countenance, he thought if he should leave to find another spot with more desperate figures to watch. The Middens came to mind immediately and a pit dropped in his stomach. There was no need to return to that place for he was needed here to find a better way to integrate himself with the people that surround Miss Petra.
Passively studying would only get him so far, practice was needed. Yshvold brought his gloved hand up towards his mask, hesitating at first, and took it off. His pale white skin shone inside the cowling as tufts of white hair fell forward. Apathetic grey eyes gazed at the ground as he mentally ran through everything he saw up to this point.
A smile. Yshvold thought and he twitched his mouth into motion. The muscles in his face felt wrong, out of place, and he pulled a dagger to look at himself in the blades reflection. The smiles he saw were natural, happy, pleasant, and above all else real. None of these words could be used for what he saw. His mouth contorted with one side open wider than the other and his nose wrinkled [up. Another attempt was made to mimic a smile and each resulting in something more hideous than the last. It was far more frustrating than having a fruitless day of finding food. He did find solace that he could naturally scowl.
Once more he peeked out of his hiding place with haste and found another guard patrolling. The blue and silver of his armor was easily recognizable to him as a Sky Guard, plate protecting his upper chest and a sword at his hip. His face was one of quiet vigilance and pride, a neutral frown with determination bright in his eyes. At first Yshvold thought the man was squinting or had smelt something particularly awful but remembered he was in the town proper and not in some dank sewer. A face he could use to silently stand by Miss Petra's side, he must practice this one more than others.
Once again he tried, running the mans face through his mind over and over again. Yshvold closed his eyes as moved the muscles on his face with his hands, pulling his mouth apart and down, pushing his brow down, and taking in a deep breath. The image of a strong soldier being able to scare away any aggressors with a glare came to mind before brought his blade back up again to look. What he saw was a boy who looked like he had been constipated for days.
Frustration turned to anger and the blade was pulled back to be thrown. Yshvold hesitated, his grip tightened and trembled, and he brought it back down to his lap. He did not know how to imitate these people or the emotions they had. The best options he had were to copy everything Miss Petra did as he followed her in public. He couldn't even tell if she wanted him around or not, only that he needed to be around her to help and protect her.
Kindness was not something he knew growing up. Every day was a battle for survival with the losers dying in some hole and he struggled to climb the cliff that was being an orphan in the slums. He fought, killed, and stole for the things he needed but never for what he wanted. Food was ever constant on his mind as well as others like him, all ready to drag each other down for mere scraps. The day he saw food being offered to him as he sat alone, ready to die, he felt his heart swell with something he hadn't felt before. Something blessed and warm, a feeling he never thought he would feel and to this day he still doesn't understand it.
Yshvold sat and remembered that day fondly, his face moving on its own. Whatever this was he wanted to see it and his dagger was raised slowly. Somehow, someway, he saw a boy smile. It wasn't as expressive as the others, and not nearly as wide, but he could see the cold empty of his eyes soften and his mouth slightly curled upwards. He couldn't help but think it looked sad, whoever this boy was wasn't happy but perhaps content. Quietly he giggled and the boy in the dagger opened its mouth a little and his teeth showed. Yshvold thought that maybe he was this boy and perhaps he could do this again for Miss Petra to show her he was capable of being near her more often, and the boy in the dagger's smile widened.
The idea felt delusional to Yshvold, he had just tried to smile and it ended miserably. He would have to try it again and again to truly smile so this boy was surely not him but the thought amused him anyway. The dagger fell to his lap again and he felt a laugh well up in him. Up to now he hid himself but the thought slipped his mind as he laughed. It was absurd for him to be able to naturally smile like that. The laughter was quiet at first and grew louder as he pictured himself as that boy in his dagger, such a silly thought, and he could hear murmurs from the people passing by his little alleyway.
This brought Yshvold back from his stupor and he scrambled to put away his weapon and fix his mask back to his face. Footsteps came in from the entrance with wordless voices nearby. By the time the guards came upon Yshvold's hiding place he was already gone. His cloak fluttered behind him as he ran through connecting alleys and vaulting over any obstacle in his way. For all his faults at socializing, he knew how to run and hide. Wind rushing past his body, anxiety of being prey, and the triumph of evading his pursuer pumped adrenaline through him like nothing else. Chatter of the crowd got louder again as the end of this alley came closer with opportunity for escape. The exit looked like much of the same as its own set of faces passed by and its own Sky Guard patrolling around as well. Paranoid thoughts raced through his mind that they were keeping him boxed in until they continued their patrol away.
Yshvold's felt like he could breath again but felt foolish. This wasn't his old home and he shouldn't have to be wary of every living being anymore but his habit's have been hard to break. Learning how to smile would have to be something he would learn after he can control himself in the face of unknown threats.
His mask had been placed to hastily and it fell from his face. White hair dropped as he caught it with the front facing him, the bland white and two small eye holes seemed to judge him for his cowardice. He should be more courageous with it on, and it was the one face he could rely on to be strong for another's sake, to hide away who he is from others.
"I'm sorry, I'll do better." Quiet as a mouse, with subtle meekness, he apologizes to it and puts it to his forehead. Fixing his hair back and putting the mask back on felt better. His heart slowed down as he calmed and stepped out into the crowd, blending in with the busy bodies and their smiling faces.
