05-26-2010, 05:15 PM
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It was actually a wonder that she had not submitted more—at home months ago, she was accustomed to kneeling when someone as highly-ranked as the shérif or the magistrat or the town came to the home of Pierre. Actually, if someone with the nobility of a seigneur or a baron had stopped by, she would probably either leave the room or bow to the ground—she did not even know what she would have been expected to do if the roi himself arrived. But of course she had been a slave, property, and looked upon as less than the average European Luperci. She was a savage from the sands, given the gift of the humanoid form as an action of paternal affection, so that it was only right that she serve in thanks and respect. As badly as it sounded, she had believed this; she still did, somewhat. Though a wolf named Isra would protest, the woman named Smith accepted that her changed state was less than those who were born Luperci.
Still, the kindness of the roi was drawing. She saw the movement of a smile from the corner of her eye, tempting her gray gaze to drift toward his somewhat. Eye contact had been forbidden in her servitude—she could not manage it now, though she had a better peripheral view of him now. It was strange to her that this man ruled a pack with a name in French, and could not speak it himself—she could not detect a hint of the tongue in his accent. Her own was a mystery in itself—Smith believed she spoke French natively, but there was a distinct tinge to it that would separate her out by any native French speaker. She could still speak Arabic fluently (though she rarely did), and that gave her accent a unique tone. English itself she had learned secondhand over several months, and much of the time she could not distinguish between French and English words. She had never really had proper teaching; Smith was self-learned in speech.
And she could not remember ever having been called Miss Hajara—her common names in Pierre's household were simply Smith, girl, or no polite address at all. But these thoughts were a flash in the pan as Vigilante admitted that he himself was the metalworker of the area, something that made the woman's gray gaze widen for a moment. And now she could notice—the especially vague scent of soot that lingered around him, though washed and faded through time. It felt as though the stars had alined and shone through the early morning darkness—was it simple chance she had arrived upon a French-named court in the middle of the Canadian coast, led by a man with the same occupation as her former owner. It took her a moment to consider this and answer, "Oui, monsieur. I was the—" What word to use? Was it safe to admit that she had been Pierre's slave? He had freed her, so she was no longer, but it was still a frightening concept. She continued after the smallest of pauses, "—Assistant of un forgeron for several years. I know much of it, oui." Her work had been perhaps her only comfort in that life—there was something about shaping things from previously unbending and unwieldy steel that was a magic in itself. It wasn't until now that she realized the missed it somewhat.
She was silent for a moment longer as she pondered things, her destiny and the alignment of the stars for her. She wished the moon were out—there was a comfort in Allāt's eye upon her. Still, life sometimes presented things that were to happen, and she believed in this. So after this moment of consideration she said, "Monsieur Haskel, would there happen to be vacance—um, open space—in your pack? It would be a privilège, and I am able to work."
It was actually a wonder that she had not submitted more—at home months ago, she was accustomed to kneeling when someone as highly-ranked as the shérif or the magistrat or the town came to the home of Pierre. Actually, if someone with the nobility of a seigneur or a baron had stopped by, she would probably either leave the room or bow to the ground—she did not even know what she would have been expected to do if the roi himself arrived. But of course she had been a slave, property, and looked upon as less than the average European Luperci. She was a savage from the sands, given the gift of the humanoid form as an action of paternal affection, so that it was only right that she serve in thanks and respect. As badly as it sounded, she had believed this; she still did, somewhat. Though a wolf named Isra would protest, the woman named Smith accepted that her changed state was less than those who were born Luperci.
Still, the kindness of the roi was drawing. She saw the movement of a smile from the corner of her eye, tempting her gray gaze to drift toward his somewhat. Eye contact had been forbidden in her servitude—she could not manage it now, though she had a better peripheral view of him now. It was strange to her that this man ruled a pack with a name in French, and could not speak it himself—she could not detect a hint of the tongue in his accent. Her own was a mystery in itself—Smith believed she spoke French natively, but there was a distinct tinge to it that would separate her out by any native French speaker. She could still speak Arabic fluently (though she rarely did), and that gave her accent a unique tone. English itself she had learned secondhand over several months, and much of the time she could not distinguish between French and English words. She had never really had proper teaching; Smith was self-learned in speech.
And she could not remember ever having been called Miss Hajara—her common names in Pierre's household were simply Smith, girl, or no polite address at all. But these thoughts were a flash in the pan as Vigilante admitted that he himself was the metalworker of the area, something that made the woman's gray gaze widen for a moment. And now she could notice—the especially vague scent of soot that lingered around him, though washed and faded through time. It felt as though the stars had alined and shone through the early morning darkness—was it simple chance she had arrived upon a French-named court in the middle of the Canadian coast, led by a man with the same occupation as her former owner. It took her a moment to consider this and answer, "Oui, monsieur. I was the—" What word to use? Was it safe to admit that she had been Pierre's slave? He had freed her, so she was no longer, but it was still a frightening concept. She continued after the smallest of pauses, "—Assistant of un forgeron for several years. I know much of it, oui." Her work had been perhaps her only comfort in that life—there was something about shaping things from previously unbending and unwieldy steel that was a magic in itself. It wasn't until now that she realized the missed it somewhat.
She was silent for a moment longer as she pondered things, her destiny and the alignment of the stars for her. She wished the moon were out—there was a comfort in Allāt's eye upon her. Still, life sometimes presented things that were to happen, and she believed in this. So after this moment of consideration she said, "Monsieur Haskel, would there happen to be vacance—um, open space—in your pack? It would be a privilège, and I am able to work."