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Plenty of times, Strohl would spend evenings fixated on mirrors. Stroking the contours of his near featureless left horn, inspecting how both jetted out from his head, the way their tips were naturally dipped in ink, the slightest bumps, his lips bent into a frown. It was something he wanted to write off as a trick of the mind, shaped by subdued candlelight and the heaviness of his eyelids, though once his eyes adjusted—and upon closer inspection—they came across as erroneous. A blemish. They had always been short and a tad aesthetically bothersome. Chiefly in relation to his parents’, with longer bends and consistent tones, but even stubbier ones his fellow clemar had were of a solid color and fitting shape.
Embarrassingly, he couldn’t quit thinking about the horns of unsavory characters. From the naturally elaborate, almost majestic curvature of Zorba’s to the smoothness of Morris’s, even the sheer size of Louis’s… The helmet that one guard had—Xanth, was it?—only further highlighted their potential length… Gah, why did they look better?! With a sharp, tired exhale and the instinctive need to bang a fist on his lap, he gripped his hair, splayed fingers accommodating his sorry features. This only prompted a nervous squeak from his captain, along with Gallica to emerge from his bag (hair matted and wings sagging, much to her dismay). Flustered, Strohl eased his grip.
“Strohl, keep it down! It’s too early to start making scenes!” came a distinctive tiny hiss-whine. Will gently nudged her back into the cramped confines of essentials.
“I-If you don’t want to try it, that’s fine,” he stammered out.
“I know, I know, that’s not…” Huff. Forced smile. “It’s just a ‘me’ problem.”
Well, partly, yes. There was also the matter of it being an Idlesday, which kept streets crowded as citizens planned for the week ahead, save for the most devout of Sanctists who took the name of the day seriously, opting for Metalsdays instead. Vendors in Grand Trad and Brilehaven definitely took advantage of such, packing the markets. Then there was the accursed soiree, to which he was already having to pipe down about—Hulkenberg and Gallica were already tired of his ranting.
In his defense of the latter, how they look could determine the amount of suspicion thrown their way. Louis and those brothers that followed him around were well-groomed, having Junah lumped in with them only further contributed to a higher-class appeal to such a grand event, and despite their popularity amongst the working class, not even Louis’s men appeared as commoners. Armor and weapons fitted in the finest materials coupled with the cleanliness and effectiveness of their overall getup made them pass better as a royal guard than rebels.
“Doubt the patchwork jacket makes me fit the part, eh?”
Will tilted his head after giving Strohl a once-over. “Does this also have something to do with that one inn? The one where they thought you weren’t a noble?”
“Hah! Don’t remind me. Milo spent a good minute ripping me a new one over it. Pompous bastard.” In spite of his words, the feigned grin was replaced with a real, gentle one. Strohl coughed into a fist, then put his hands on his hips. “Makes me wonder, is all.”
Besides, Brilehaven did pride itself in appearances more than the capital. Plenty of imported goods and tailors to go around. Have the reeve or the impulse and it would be an ideal place for a shopping spree.
Akin to a cat, Will’s eyes widened ever so slightly at the sight of… something, dragging him into the mess of stalls and passerby. Seems that was the end of that. Thus, Strohl got back to window-shopping—
“Found them!”
One of Strohl’s arms was swiftly caught in the elda’s grip, dragging him in with unmatched strength before he could comprehend his predicament. Soon enough, he was faced with a booth run by a young clemar woman, outfitted in golden horn extensions laced with handmade ornaments, some of which lay atop a cloth-dressed table. Cuffs and jewels evenly spread out, prices clearly labeled on slips of parchment. There were risks for someone of Will’s tribe in terms of picking up merchandise, yet he did so. A simple, golden cuff modeled after a feather.
“Saw her the other day,” Will hastily explained. “Would you, uh… maybe like to try this on?”
Strohl blinked. “I… haven’t worn the sort before.” His mother had, thinking back. Father would bring her flowers or jewelry after longer trips. Honestly, she looked beautiful in them. Better than the concept of extensions, that’s for sure.
“So no?”
“Never said ‘no.’”
And without much thought, he allowed Will to slip it on. Small enough that it didn’t go past where the blackened tips ended, yet noticeable. It was an odd sensation, not just in terms of the slip but in terms of Will’s touch. Delicate enough that it tickled, having his heart race and his stomach fill with butterflies. A quiet purr nearly escaped his throat, swallowed right before it could.
“Does it look okay?” he breathed out, trying to ignore burning features that the elda was definitely aware of, judging by how he noticeably bit back laughter.
“Mhm. Everything looks fine.”
That was when Strohl finally realized that his captain’s hand hadn’t left his horn.
“I don’t know what you find so charming about them,” he added in an airy manner, wryly chuckling. “Nothing to be ashamed of, but you aren’t exactly subtle when it comes to your wants. Suppose that’s the same strangeness I’ve grown so fond of.”
Will slowly mouthed an ‘oh,’ flushed and breaking into a nervous sweat. Truly devious.