Revision as of 16:03, 23 June 2014

Participants

• Sveta
• Trace

Date

23/6/477

Log

The country lane that proceeds is unpaved, being mostly moist dirt, and maintained by the locals, although it evidently doesn't see a whole lot of use. The folk here have no reason to get around long distances on a daily basis, after all.

A smile, a mumble, and a nod as Trace follows behind sveta, silently, looking around the area. "About... About how far is it still?" he offers after a while, contemplating how to best introduce himself once they're actually there.

"It's just down the road," Sveta offers, her boots sinking slightly in the loamy soil of the road. "Not too far, now, although 'near' and 'far' are very relative things here, I suppose. Look, there's the cabbage patch. Seems like they're using the fourth field for it this year."

Indeed, not too far from where the two of them stand is a fairly large home, partially of wood, partially of magiced masonry. It seems to have grown from a small cabin built in the traditional style, simply added to when the place needed to grow, in a somewhat haphazard, organic fashion. Fields surround the homestead in neat arrays, although there aren't any livestock save for a few chicken coops.

A nod, a smile, and a click of Trace's beak as he continues his steps along the loamy soil, while his eyes cast on the house, the fields, the chicken-coups. "That's a... Big house," the kite offers after a moment of contemplation, nodding faintly, before looking back to Sveta, hesitantly. "How... How big are the odds they won't like me?"

"It has to be big, to house everyone," Sveta says with a chuckle. "Come on. I don't claim to be able to read minds - you should really just relax a little. They'd want to see you as you are, aye?"

For such an agarian home, it's odd that the main path leading up to the homestead is lined with rosebushes - some white, some yellow, others red. Sveta leads Trace up the path and past the flocks of scavenging chickens, stopping to rap on the door with a gloved hand.

Trace nods and mumbles softly, silently waiting for the door to open, brushing his clothes off once more to look as presentable as he can, while glancing nervously towards Sveta, nodding fainrtly as he shifts a little uncomfortably.

At first, nothing...then at large, the door is opened by another goshawk who looks like an older version of Sveta, peering out at her - then at Trace. A little ways behind her are two younger avians, about that awkward age where they're not quite chicks but still not that old yet. Probably Sveta's younger siblings...she was the fifth out of seven, was it?

"Ah! Svetlana! You are home, like you said you would be! And you have brought your special friend with you! Come in! Come in! Give your mama a hug! And this is he who you have been writing home about? He is so interesting!" she moves to pinch Trace's cheeks, while Sveta looks on with a smile and a roll of her eyes. "Your father and the others are in the fields right now, but they will be coming in for lunch soon. Please, come in and sit down, there is black bread baking."

A nod, and Trace looks back up at what must be Sveta's mother, seemingly not enjoying the cheek-pinch much, but not daring to say anything about it just yet.

"I... I'm Trace... Trace blackwing," he mumbles, before looking towards Sveta at the notion of being written about. That was definitely news to him.

Sveta looks at her two younger siblings, still looking at both her and Trace with some a mixture of interest and shoos them off with a wave of a gloved hand. Funny, none of her relatives are wearing them. "Mila, Zerika, go and help Mama set things out for lunch, all right? You're going to spook him. You can stare all you want at lunch - and when Papa is around to supervise."

As the two scamper off after the matronly hawk, she turns back to Trace and raises an eyebrow at his questioning gaze. "Come on, let's head for the living room and have a sit down - you shouldn't look as if you ate something bad. Something the matter?"

A nod, a small smile, and Trace follows after 'Mama' as well, his eyes casting to Mila and Zerika with curiosity, before mumbling. "I... No. E-everything's fine," the kite mutters, swallowing a lump in his throat, before mumbling lightly. "I... I'm quite fine, really," he mutters, more than a little unconvincingly.

Sveta tut-tuts at Trace. "Don't be so nervous. If you're already like this when facing just my mother and younger sisters, Creators know how you'll do facing my father. Come on, let's not get in their way while they set the table."

With that, she leads Trace into the living room, right up the large, crackling hearth, and pulls up an armchair near a heavy fur rug. The room is large, spacious, decorated with a few old keepsakes of Thera'doran origin, and more importantly, a large vase filled with cut roses on the mantle. "Come on, sit down, relax a little. Maybe you need a little cold water?"

Another beak-click, and Trace nods faintly, huffing lightly as he takes a seat, looking around the room and smiling faintly at his eyes fall on the farious odds and trinkets adorning the room. "I... I... You did tell me to be myself," he mutters after a while, rubbing the back of his neck in silence.

"I...I guess I did." Sveta offers him a smile. "But I think that you aren't really a nervous wreck deep down inside." She makes sure that Trace's suitably comfortable, then ruffles the feathers on his head and shoulders. "It won't be long now till lunch is served - you can smell it from here, can't you? What do you think of the home so far?"

A small nod, a repeat of his earlier beak-click, and the kite does seem to calm down some, nodding faintly. "Well... It's... Big. I mean, not as big as Lady Longtail's home, but... Big," he mutters after a while, gazing around and trying to store everything in the back of his mind. "And... The food smells good," he mumbles, nodding again.

Sveta smiles sweetly and continues ruffling and kneading. "I know you're braver than that, Trace Blackwing. So pull yourself together. They should be just about done, I think - ah, there they are."

Indeed, the sound of boots clomping through the front door, followed by them being pulled off and overcoats cast aside can be heard, alongside that of dishes being set out and after a minute or so, a bell being rung. "Come on," she says. "I think that's our cue."

A nod, and another beak-click, as Trace stands up again, looking towards the source of the sound. "Well... After you? Or... Am I supposed to go in first?" he mumbles, looking down at the ground. He's not so much afraid, more... Lost. Like a fish out of water.

"Let's go in together. All right?" Without waiting for Trace's reply, she hooks herself about the crook of his arm and makes to follow him into the dining room, if he will lead. "Oh, and one thing I do want to say. Don't start eating until Papa gives the go-ahead. It's terribly bad luck to do otherwise - a custom from the Old Country. everyone has to start at the same time."

Seated at the long table are all of Sveta's brothers and sisters - six in total, all goshawks of varying shades of brown and grey. The head is shared by both an absolutely serious-looking and thick-bodied goshawk, tinges of grey in his thick feathers, and at his side is "Mama", to whom which Trace has already been introduced. It's obvious that the both of them are from hardy stock.

The food is mostly simple peasant fare made to keep for as long as is needed - much of the leafy greens grown on the family stead have been pickled and cured, producing a number of sour and spicy dishes. The same has been done to a number of chicken cuts and sausages - fermented or salted, and in the middle of the table are a couple of loaves of heavy black bread with serving knives. Food to keep out the cold and put meat on one's bones, in that order. Everyone else aside, another place has been set at the table near the end, clearly slightly out of place as the table was designed to accommodate so many at most, but functional nevertheless - clearly this is where Trace is supposed to be, opposite from Sveta.

All eight pairs of eyes are on the newcomer as the two of them enter the dining room.

Trace nods and accepts Sveta's arm, his eyes cast around the room, smiling faintly as he looks towards the food, before looking back to sveta, then to the... Large, somewhat intimidating hawk that must be her father.

The kite quickly makes note of everyone present and their positions, the place of the food, everyone's expressions, and the fact that, well, everyone is staring at him.

Momentarily, he adjusts the collar of his shirt, coughing a little awkwardly and swallowing a lump, before moving the chair out of the way for Sveta, and once she seats herself, taking his own chair, silently.

Sveta gives Trace an encouraging look, clearing her throat ever so slightly as they finally seem to realise what they're doing and break their gazes. It's obvious that Trace is being evaluated, although on what criteria is unknown - perhaps even to Sveta herself.

At last, Sveta's father picks up both fork and knife with ever the slightest of clinks. "Let's begin," he announces. Seems like that's where Sveta gets her flat tone of voice, when she wants to be taciturn.

A nod, a small smile, as Trace looks around the table a little hesitantly, before carefully arranging some food on his plate. It's obvious that, yes, now he's definitely nervous, and he's trying his hardest to look presentable, without even fully knowing what exactly passes as such in this situation.

So far, the food collected on his plate is a modest amount, enough to feed him, but that's about where it stops, at the moment.

The meal continues in silence - for an event which would normally be considerably chatty, everyone seems quite muted. Even Sveta's usually exuberant mother deigns to be silent and let everyone at the table get their fill of Trace's presence, instead choosing to quietly fill Trace's plate, perhaps more often than is strictly necessary. "So," Sveta's father speaks up at last. "Why don't you tell us something about yourself, Trace Blackwing?"

Given that Sveta has been writing back as a matter of habit - and that Trace has been mentioned, it's probable that everyone seated at the table knows what there is to reasonably know. Why the question, then?

A slight mumble, a nod, and Trace pauses his eating for a while. "Well... I... I suppose Sveta already told you about me? I... I come from a small farm-town nearby Cliffside, and I've spent quite a few years inside of the city itself, learning to perform magic," he mumbles after a while, a small nod following. "I wanted to see more of the world, well... Learn more about my place in it in the process, I suppose?" he offers after a moment of contemplation. "And when I came here, well... I met Sveta," he adds after another pause.

"I see." He pauses a moment, studies Trace's posture and countenance. "When this meal is over, I'd like to speak with you. In private, naturally." A sharp glance is shot at the rest of the family. If one had expected Sveta to protest at this, she doesn't instead bowing her head and poking at her meal with fork and spoon.

"In the meanwhile, make yourself comfortable. Please."

A nod, a click of Trace's beak as he looks towards Sveta, almost as if to ask if he did something wrong, before he looks towards the large male hawk in silence for several minutes. "Of... Of course," he finally mumbles, poking at his food and seemingly not growing any less nervous.

"Alexandrei, you shouldn't be rude. You haven't even introduced yourself -" Svet'a mother begins, but is quietened by an affectionate pat on the shoulder by her mate.

"Ssh, Ibronka. It'll be fine. Trust me."

The atmosphere is slightly more relaxed after that - if not for poor Trace, then for almost everyone else. There's some talk about the table of the summer planting and haymaking, as well as the opportunity to discuss Sveta's knighthood - though, perhaps, not in more detail than is fitting for a dinner table. By and large, the food disappears down the gullets of the ten hungry birds at the table - well, minus one if Trace has lost his appetite.

Trace has not exactly lost his appetite, but it seems to have diminished even further than before, and he looks between the gathered birds in silence, clearly unsure what to add, or how to respond to everything... Or anything, really. He just sits there, still enjoying the food, at least to some extent, silently watching and listening in.

At last, the meal is done with, and everyone begins cleaning up the many dishes - well, save for Sveta's father. With a brief nod to the rest of the family, he beckons with a single feathered finger for Trace to follow him into the living room.

"Don't grill him too badly, Papa."

"I don't intend to grill him," comes the straight reply.

The living room is much as the Sveta and Trace left it, only now her father drags up an old, worn armchair up to the hearth. With a snap of his fingers, he lights the logs, then settles in the chair with a slight slouch and fixes his gaze squarely upon Trace. "Do sit down. There are some things I must ask, and ask of you. Firstly, I would like to examine your hands."

Trace nods hesitantly and follows after Alexandrei, taking his own seat and offering his hands up for inspection... Whatever the hawk may be planning. Again, the kite nods nervously, looking around the room, back up to the hawk, and towards the living-room for a moment. This was far more awkward than he envisioned it.

Awkward or not, Alexandrei doesn't seem to mind it, instead moving to gently - at least, for one his size - take Trace's hands and knead them between thumb and forefinger, carefully examining the joints and palms, looking for hard skin and calluses. Whenever Trace looks away, he simply angles his head in the same direction as the kite, conveying the simple fact that he knows Trace is trying to avoid looking him in the eye.

"I was concerned," he says at last. "Sveta did not mention anything about it in her letters home, and I do not expect her to, but now I am sure that you have seen hard work. Not as much as one who works solely with their hands has - or I would have liked - but enough to be able to appreciate its place and importance, I hope.

"Now that that is over with, as the head of this house, I, Alexandrei Kuznetsov, formally welcome you into this home. Please, sit down. It will help. I was in your place once when I asked for Ibronka's hand. There are things that must be done, and this is one of them. Once you have calmed yourself, there are a few questions I must ask you."

Another nod, and Trace admits a soft huff, before looking up hesitantly... "Like... Like I said, I have... A gift for magic. And although I can certainly appreciate the value of direct physical work, it's... Not something I'm good at," he mutters after a long while of contemplation, before gazing down at the floor.

"I never said you did not, Trace Blackwing." Well, at least one knows where Sveta gets THAT from. "It was merely a concern of mine. Sveta is a hard-working girl, and I do not intend to have her wed a wastrel who has never known a speck of labour in their lives - I am sure you have come across some of those in your life. Her judgement is usually sound, but she has been known to make mistakes in the past." He pauses to let that sink in. "You would want the same for any daughters you may have in the future, I expect.

"Very well, I shall acede to my daughter's request and keep this simple. In the end, I have but two questions. Why do you want to lifebond my daughter, and why, as her father, should I give you my blessing?"

Trace mumbles, nodding faintly. "I've... Seen a few. Though I will admit, Cliffside does not, in general, er... Reward such an attitude. You can't really afford it there," he mumbles after a while, before nodding again.

"As for eventual daughters... And sons, for that matter... I'd want them to be happy first and foremost... Though yes, I'd prefer someone who can pull their own weight, be it through physical work or mental work," he continues, looking down at the ground for another while.

"I... I couldn't tell you, sir... I like Sveta, and I enjoy spending time with her, and... Well," he mumbles, not even sure how to continue that sentence.

"You do not have an answer for me? The two of you being able to tolerate each other is fine, but one would expect more than that. Since you do not have an answer for me, let me tell you a long story, then. Perhaps you will have one after I am done.

"Ibrokna and I come from the Old Country in Thera'dor, where snow covers the ground at least six months out of the year, and if you go far enough into the mountains, you find either unedning day or night, depending on the time of year. The growing season is short, most manage only one crop, and anyone who lives in the moment either starves or freezes when the cold comes.

"Then we hear of the strangest thing: the King of Sweetwater is offering to let others have land if they settle on and improve it for the period of ten years. We decide to go. The journey is not easy or short, working our passage on the river barges that ply the rivers flowing south from the mountains. By the time we reach the border range, our firstborn son is weaned, and Ibronka is carrying another chick in her womb. Yet we make it across. This house did not stand then, and we had neither mathemagicians nor money to conjure one up for us. We built it with our hands the old way.

"When I set out, I was less than half the being I am today. Yet Ibronka's father did not merely allow her to wed me, but also had no qualms with us going to another strange land. Why was that?

"I am not looking for a whole being in you, Trace Blackwing, and neither is Sveta. I gave her that piece of advice, after all - you know which one I mean, for she wrote home that she had let you know. But either way, I must see a beginning. Now...let me ask you again. Why do you want to wed my daughter, and why should I give you my blessing?"

"I... Truly cannot tell you, sir. I can try to convice you I am a decent being, worthy of your daughter, but... I cannot do it with words. For one, I cannot find the right words to do so... And for another... Who is to say they are not mere honeyed words, if I did try?"

"I cannot promise her wealth, safety, or most anything else, since there are too many variables in the equation that is life. But... I can promise her that I'll try to give her those things, and more, if she so desires," he mumbles, looking down at the floor, certain he ruined his chances.

"You do not appear to understand what I am trying to say, Mister Blackwing," Alexandrei replies, tapping the hook-tip of his beak with a feathered finger. "The things that you mention are endings. They are what result after the mathamatics have been done, on the right hand side - of course I cannot ask you to make promises that you do not know if you can keep. I am looking for the things on the left hand side.

"You have known some hard work, you are honest, and you are not afraid of the truth. Those are beginnings. Whether they grow into endings, that will depend on you - and her, of course. I would still be in the Old Country, if not for Ibronka. Sitting in a cabin and listening to the winds howl outside, that would be my fate. Having a family improves some beings. For others, it does not."

He stands, picks a small hip flask off the mantle, and takes a swig before continuing. "Today, you have told me more than what you have expressed in your words. Yet you do not have an answer for me. So while I will not withhold my blessing, I will not give it either, until you have realised enough about yourself that you can put it into words. When you feel you have gained such wisdom, please ask Sveta to arrange another visit. Now, it is your turn to ask me questions, if you wish. I may not answer."

Trace shakes his head, and seems to go silent for a very, very long time. "As I said... I can promise to try, and do my best, but... Mere words can't prove it," the kite mutters after a while, before shaking his head once more. "What is there to ask? You've already told me about yourself, I doubt asking what I'd have to do to prove myself is a question that would be answered," the kite mumbles, looking away for a moment.

"The thing is... I know I love her. And I cannot tell you how, or why, no matter how long I think on it. Love is not just some mathemagical equation where you can fill in and determine the variables as you please," he mumbles. "At the very least, not for me."

"For lack of a better term... Love is magical. Perhaps the only truly magical thing on the whole of promise," the kite mumbles. "And I can tell you one thing... I can't solve the equation, if there even is one. If... That is what I need to give you to recieve your blessing, I'm afraid that, even though I would try, I am bound to come up short on providing a meaningful answer... And suppose I do figure out exactly what love is... Would that not decrease its value? Would it not take away the magic?" the kite offers, before sagging his shoulders.