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Fragments
Rowan Leaf
Character Description
A new kid in town
Rowan Leaf was an Elf. She was of the Northern Sidhe, not one of the squatty, swarthy Southerners who swarmed in this place. Tall and reed-thin, she was blessed of skin so smooth and pure that it appeared to be translucent. (And indeed, if she stood in front of a bright light, one could see shadows through all but the thickest parts of her body.) While her figure did have its share of womanly curves, they were curves scaled for a far shorter woman. On her frame, which was nearly six-and-a-half feet tall, their visual amplitude was diminished. Her hair was titian red and, when it was unbound, it fell to her waist. It was rarely seen in that state however, as she habitually wore it braided and the braids pinned to the sides of her head in long loops that hung to her shoulders. The fastening was done with clasps of gold and silver and sometime encrusted with jewels and semi-precious stones. Her eyes were a startling blue. Deeper than ice or sky blue, they were almost cerulean, with a haunting flickering of silver. Her features were fine and delicate, like a porcelain doll's, but sharp and narrow, with high cheeks, with eyes that had an uncanny ability to convey the impression that she looked deeper and saw farther than ordinary folk did. The tips of her pointed ears were tufted with red hairs and the rest of her body was covered with fine white hairs, almost invisible against her skin.
Although she could just as easily think or sing herself a set of the world's most beautiful muscles, and, indeed, had little practical use for strength, she nevertheless chose to engage in the patterns of behavior that mortals called "a workout." She was on her way to a session in the O'Connor Gym at that moment. She wore a red leather vest that was specifically cut to show off her physique. Nobody ever said Elves weren't vain. The muscles of her upper arms were cut as sharp as any weight lifter's, for all they were gained in less structured activity. She wore finely crafted armbands of silver filigree on both arms that matched one pair of the seven in her ears as well as a large pendant that rested on the flat of her chest. Her vest was of a deep, rich red, the leather finished a soft as a baby's skin, its skins sewn back-to-back, yet marvelously light and supple. It was closed by a single jeweled fastener at her sternum and was cut away to show off her hard, flat abdominal muscles. It was cinched in at her waist, flared at her hips and was cut away into a short set of tails that flopped in the breeze with more intrigue than any miniskirt on a mortal woman. On her legs she wore tight, tight leggings of the silk of the Blue Carbuncle Spider that clung to her thighs, buttocks, and sex as thought they were afraid to let go, but hung looser on her well-muscled calves. Her feet were tucked into tidy, no-nonsense boots that, for all their practicality, were nevertheless exquisitely-designed and -made.
Her stride was long and sure, her expression dour and threatening. She stalked the sidewalks and corridors of the Center for Xena Studies like Death himself. Mortals--and even the elfin Southerners--scurried out of the way at her approach, avoiding her gaze, pretending hopefully that she was not there or did not notice them.
Of course she noticed them. All of them in their fearful little worlds of despair and useless hopelessness. She paid them as much heed as she did the gravel under her boot soles. They were of no moment to her whatsoever. The Southerners were poor relations to her clan, stunted and grown vulgar in their intimate association with humans and other mortals. The humans for the most part could not even see her. The Center's leadership had insisted--wisely she thought--that she wear a glamour that made her seem as someone other an altogether more ordinary than herself. She found the armor it provided to be a blessing as it protected her from being importuned by the ungainly curiosity of the mortal members of the faculty and student body of the Center. Nevertheless, her baleful aspect carried through the glamour to make her the object of some discomfited attention.
She rounded a corner and bowled over a diminutive figure who, she discovered once they had disentangled themselves from each other, was one of the Southerners who worked the machinery of the Center. He was one she'd met briefly. He bore the improbable sobriquet of Nasty and from all reports he was a piece of work. The difference in their heights was extreme. He was well under four feet tall and she was, as I have said, almost six-and-a-half. Of course, being an Elf himself, he could see through the glamour to her true nature. Indeed, he could see even more than the humans who ran the place. She looked down on him from the height of her physical stature as well as her cultural superiority and sniffed with disgust.
"Prin pok!" she spat at him in the High Tongue, "Quesque bernair sool thinpen!"
"Sal peezich," he apologized, bobbing obeisance to her.
"Speak English," Rowan commanded. "Your accent is atrocious."
"Your pardon, Great One. I should have looked where I was going. I beg your gracious forgiveness."
"Your flattery is mendacious in the extreme. You know very well I am not a Great One. Therefore you must be attempting to--to..." she snapped her fingers impatiently, "...grease me up. I warn you Nastasi, you will not succeed. Better you did not try only to anger me."
Nasty swallowed hard and nodded. "Yes, Lady. I understand."
"Go then! And pay closer heed to your surroundings!" Before she finished the sentence, the little mannikin was off, running again through the between-classes crowd on the sidewalk, headed toward the Admin. Building. No doubt on some errand for his betters. Rowan turned, crossed the walk through a Red Sea of students that parted at her approach, and strode up the stone steps of the O'Connor gym, her long legs taking them three at a time without apparent effort.
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