Casandra And T’alsydon

T’alsydon was the wizard of seven kings.
He was no longer her teacher and he was standing in her door without his upper-body carapace on. She mused that without his staff and his armor he looked very much like a normal human male. Except for the eyes. . .
She pushed him back and stepped into the hall, pulling the door closed behind her. She spun a quick and simple ward across the threshold, more out of habit than as a real deterrent. Any number of the teachers, tyros or cleaning staff could sweep her most tenacious wards away if they chose to enter her apartment.
“Casandra. . .”
She shushed him with a gesture and indicated that he might follow her to the portal.
They stepped from the Institute hall into a night rich with shadows and stars. Warm zephyr dragons twined through the orchard and brought scents of peach and apple blossom as offerings to the two of them. Though the night was riotous with the love songs of skizzards and beetle, both remained silent. Magic was in the air
He indicated the path meandering beside the river. She complied.
As the night shadows cleansed her, she felt a little bit human, even for war-stained wizardess.
“How old are you T’alsydon?”
“A question I shant answer.” He had to be at least a century or more her senior. He walked straight and tall, an easy glide in his carriage, and there was always the fineness of his handsome face to consider. But she was far too young for him.
“May I call you elder, old man?”
“No. You would never have the proper supplications of respect and honor in your tone.”
“What about wizened one?”
“And I shall call you Cassy. . .”
“Watch it mister, nobody calls me that.”
“Of course m’Lady Cassandra. Shall we walk to the dunes by the bay?”
She found it difficult to argue with this soft-spoken man but that had never kept her from testing him at every chance when attending his Transenergies and Look-far courses. Yes, he was taller than she by at least a hand’s bredth, and could carry her easily under one arm . . . even if he was a century or so older.
She had mastered the strength within herself and faced her share of death and destruction in the war, but somehow she still quivered at the closeness to this man.
The raw wet smell of the ocean reminded her of an open wound. The crash of the waves sounded like thundering horses to her. The starlight cast a pale light over all the things of this world.
T’Alsydon pulled his boots off as she watched. Then he removed most of his upper body leathers and most of the weapons from his britches.
“You’re in shape, for an old guy.”
“Swim?”
“I have never understood your humor. . .” And he was off into the surf. “I hate the sea at night, “ she called out.

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Chyfrin the Celtic poet

Artist, Poet, Electrical/Biomedical Engineer, Actor, Playwright, Set construction, Educator, Lover of womankind and single malt scotch

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