| Conversations with a Frog |
| Summary: | Riordan gets emotional. With a rock. |
| Date: | 27/06/2012 (OOC Date) |
| Related Logs: | Immediately following Words Left Unsaid |
| Players: |
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| Riordan's Tent — Nayland Camp — Seagard |
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| June 25, 289 |
The scents of pine, juniper, and amber linger in the tent, on his clothes. Her scent. Riordan breaths it in deeply, still staring at the back of the tent, as if to will Anais to come back through it. But after awhile, it becomes clear that she will not.
Holding up his hand to eye level, he looks at the little red stone frog.
"I should not have said it, should I?"
The frog looks back at him with it's carved stone eyes.
"No, I know I should not have. I was not going to."
The frog continues to sit motionless in his hands, unblinking.
"Seven Hells, how am I supposed to put it all into words? Danae? Her… cripple. Everything that still is between us. But if that weren't there…"
The frog's red stone eyes seem to glimmer in the candlelight.
"Shut up. It may seem funny to you, but what would you know? You're just a stupid frog."
The frog's eyes seem to pick up the candlelight even more.
"Well I wasn't lying. Even if it's complicated and I shouldn't have said it yet… she's good for me. Despite everything, if I survive this, if we can somehow, miraculously pull it off… we'll be good for eachother. And then, maybe I can say it again. And it'll mean… more."
The frog stares back at him.
"Ser?"
Riordan jumps, glaring in surprise at the frog, then turns around, noting the shadow showing on the other side of the tent flap.
"Yes, Stanley?" Riordan asks, trying to keep the abashed nature of the look he gives the frog out of his voice as he calls to the manservant on the other side of the tent.
"Were you…" Stanley stops himself before he says more. It's a sign of his concern, and perhaps tiredness, that he even said those two words. "Hugh has your horse ready, Ser. Everything is set for you to leave when you wish."
"Very good." Nothing more then that, for now. He never feels the need to explain himself to Stanley Pembrooke. The man never seems to need an explanation, in truth.
Riordan looks back at the frog in his hand, then places a hand over his heart where, under his clothes, rests something over his heart. He draws it out by the leather thong that hangs around his neck, staring at it in surprise.
"Do you know, I actually forgot it was there?" he tells the frog, laughing softly to himself. At himself. He shouldn't be surprised. He's worn the thing for nearly half a year now, and it's just become a part of him.
He holds the frog in one hand, and removing the thong from around his neck, holds it's burden in the other.
It's a rather worn pouch, the scent of the dried herbs within long since gone except in memory. With a rip that has been repaired by his own unskilled hand, and blood-stained from the wound he took on Pyke, it has certainly seen better days. And it's state is rather poetic, for what it represents.
"It may be complicated for us… and she may have her hus… cripple. But I need to let go of the past, if I'm to move on."
The frog stares at the pouch.
"Stanley!"
The shadow appears on the other side again a moment later. "Yes ser?"
"Find me a pouch."
There is a pause. No needless or feckless questions, just silence, as if Stanley is waiting for something.
Biting back a sigh, Riordan glances at the shadow on the wall of the tent. "A small one. With a leather thong. Black, if possible. The pouch, not the thong. Or that too. I don't care."
"Yes, sir." The shadow disappears.
The frog stares triumphantly at the old, worn, bloodstained pouch.
