/hit/]
;; Nasrin Cavendish ;;
“Well, I had a braid, not pigtails, but you’ve got the right picture,” she said dryly, her voice conflicting with her somewhat reluctant, shy smile. Nasrin had always been tanned and scratched up from grass cuts and thorns, hair falling out of her braid and her clothes hiding scraps of leftovers to feed her forest friends. She never spoke about her childhood to anyone, not even her father. He liked to think that she really had been raised to be his heir, as if he had already blotted her real mother out of his mind. He wanted her to do the same, wanted her to blend in and mingle with the other nobles and behave like one. She would never. Never.
Nasrin didn’t quite register his little peck on her cheek until he was grinning at her moments later. She turned a bright red and lurched out of her seat, lips twitching a bit in what was most likely embarrassment before she glowered at him. “W-W-W-What…what did you do that for, you stupid Dornishman!?” she nearly shrieked, her cheeks inflamed with a heat that almost radiated off of her as she stood in front of him. “Y-You…” Finding nothing good to insult him with, she thwacked indignantly at his chest with the back of her hand, only to end up with a sore wrist. She muttered curses under her breath, face still flushed red despite the crude words. Bloody hell, why wasn’t the redness going away? Stupid mutt! Going and surprising her like that!
Now one had to observe that saying that she was overreacting would be an understatement. It had been just a little kiss on the cheek; nice and simple—and above all, chaste. And it had not come with any unwelcome lewd comments from that womanizing mouth of his...but she had still reacted so violently. Silly, childish, and even a bit bumbling, it seemed that Nasrin and that sharp tongue of hers went haywire when she was truly embarrassed.
“Lady Nasrin?”
Nasrin whirled around to see one of her father’s little page boys. “Oh—yes! Etain, what is it?” she asked, an almost mothering smile replacing her flustered, embarrassed expression at the sight of the small child.
“Milady’s father Lord Cavendish wishes to speak to you,” the boy told her dutifully, nevertheless grinning and wiggling his loose front teeth. Nasrin returned his grin, setting the page cap that was woefully misplaced on his head straight.
“Thank you. Tell me when it falls out, I will give you some sweetmeats,” she told him. “Inform father I will be in his presence shortly.” She smiled as he nodded enthusiastically and rushed off, wishing that he could run freely without those pinching shoes. “Well, I’ll be off,” she said to Dante without turning around, lest she become flustered or inclined to turn as red as a tomato.
She walked away, but came to a stop once she neared the entrance back into the corridors. Nasrin turned to face him, seeming to grasp for the right words for a moment. “Thank you.” She said finally, her tone softer than usual. She then hastily checked her words, the persistent pink on her face starting to come back. “Not—not for that,” she said, pointing at her cheek where he had kissed her. “For…for listening to me. But don’t get the wrong idea, womanizer!” she said stubbornly. “So…see you later,” she muttered, her words nearly inaudible.
With that, she spun on her heel and half rushed, half walked away, a scowl and a blush on her face.
Stupid Dornishman.
“Well, I had a braid, not pigtails, but you’ve got the right picture,” she said dryly, her voice conflicting with her somewhat reluctant, shy smile. Nasrin had always been tanned and scratched up from grass cuts and thorns, hair falling out of her braid and her clothes hiding scraps of leftovers to feed her forest friends. She never spoke about her childhood to anyone, not even her father. He liked to think that she really had been raised to be his heir, as if he had already blotted her real mother out of his mind. He wanted her to do the same, wanted her to blend in and mingle with the other nobles and behave like one. She would never. Never.
Nasrin didn’t quite register his little peck on her cheek until he was grinning at her moments later. She turned a bright red and lurched out of her seat, lips twitching a bit in what was most likely embarrassment before she glowered at him. “W-W-W-What…what did you do that for, you stupid Dornishman!?” she nearly shrieked, her cheeks inflamed with a heat that almost radiated off of her as she stood in front of him. “Y-You…” Finding nothing good to insult him with, she thwacked indignantly at his chest with the back of her hand, only to end up with a sore wrist. She muttered curses under her breath, face still flushed red despite the crude words. Bloody hell, why wasn’t the redness going away? Stupid mutt! Going and surprising her like that!
Now one had to observe that saying that she was overreacting would be an understatement. It had been just a little kiss on the cheek; nice and simple—and above all, chaste. And it had not come with any unwelcome lewd comments from that womanizing mouth of his...but she had still reacted so violently. Silly, childish, and even a bit bumbling, it seemed that Nasrin and that sharp tongue of hers went haywire when she was truly embarrassed.
“Lady Nasrin?”
Nasrin whirled around to see one of her father’s little page boys. “Oh—yes! Etain, what is it?” she asked, an almost mothering smile replacing her flustered, embarrassed expression at the sight of the small child.
“Milady’s father Lord Cavendish wishes to speak to you,” the boy told her dutifully, nevertheless grinning and wiggling his loose front teeth. Nasrin returned his grin, setting the page cap that was woefully misplaced on his head straight.
“Thank you. Tell me when it falls out, I will give you some sweetmeats,” she told him. “Inform father I will be in his presence shortly.” She smiled as he nodded enthusiastically and rushed off, wishing that he could run freely without those pinching shoes. “Well, I’ll be off,” she said to Dante without turning around, lest she become flustered or inclined to turn as red as a tomato.
She walked away, but came to a stop once she neared the entrance back into the corridors. Nasrin turned to face him, seeming to grasp for the right words for a moment. “Thank you.” She said finally, her tone softer than usual. She then hastily checked her words, the persistent pink on her face starting to come back. “Not—not for that,” she said, pointing at her cheek where he had kissed her. “For…for listening to me. But don’t get the wrong idea, womanizer!” she said stubbornly. “So…see you later,” she muttered, her words nearly inaudible.
With that, she spun on her heel and half rushed, half walked away, a scowl and a blush on her face.
Stupid Dornishman.