Silver-grey eyes cast a baleful, final look over his shoulder before Zeen left his personal rooms. Despite his exasperation, he cradled the wrapped brown paper package carefully in one of his palms. While he did not truly believe that Callie would carry out her threat of bodily harm should he drop the intended gift, he would not put it past her to place glue on his chairs, or something equally unpleasant.
I am not a pack mule, the Amadician thought irritably, giving the leather cord that supported the pins and ring of his rank around his neck a quick tug. Nor am I an errand boy. And yet here he was, on his way to meet with the First Weaver. Mostly at his bondmate’s behest, carrying with him something that she could have easily had delivered to the Infirmary. Or, better yet, delivered personally herself. But I am the one bringing it to him... Zeen grimaced faintly, dark amusement drawing down his brows. He snorted quietly at himself. Burning bloody woman.
He shook his head slightly, reordering his thoughts. There was nothing for it now. The Arafellin had given him a reason to get outside, so he supposed in that things were not as bad as they could be. He would actually get to feel the sun on his skin without the impolite barrier of power wrought glass.
As the former Green made his way out of the Tower proper, he could not deny that he enjoyed the way a path immediately cleared for him, no matter how crowded or busy. In the time since he had been made the Fang of Hama Valon, he had grown accustomed to it. The bows and curtsies were not something he particularly liked, but he took it in stride; that was something that he was expected to tolerate. He would never get used to the honourific of “Father”, however. The murmured obeisance made his skin crawl. Light in heaven, he was no one’s father.
Quickly dismissing that thought, Zeen instead focused on the meeting that he had hastily requested. He hoped the summons would not be ill-received. He had not meant any offense, but he did not think that Maever would be. Given what he knew of the man, the First Weaver seemed like the easy going sort.
The tall man made his way through the city, coming at last to a small field, bright and fragrant with young trees, grass, and flowers. The line of broad shoulders relaxed visibly, the tension draining out of Zeen’s body as he took several moments to simply breathe deeply, soaking in the warmth and the peace. A glance around showed that he was more or less alone. He wasted no time settling down on a nearby fallen log. Still holding onto the gift, he kicked off his boots and promptly buried his toes into whatever dirt and soil he could work up. A grin lit up his face, all else temporarily forgotten as Zeen delighted in the way the earth shifted and moved beneath, around, and over his feet.
I am not a pack mule, the Amadician thought irritably, giving the leather cord that supported the pins and ring of his rank around his neck a quick tug. Nor am I an errand boy. And yet here he was, on his way to meet with the First Weaver. Mostly at his bondmate’s behest, carrying with him something that she could have easily had delivered to the Infirmary. Or, better yet, delivered personally herself. But I am the one bringing it to him... Zeen grimaced faintly, dark amusement drawing down his brows. He snorted quietly at himself. Burning bloody woman.
He shook his head slightly, reordering his thoughts. There was nothing for it now. The Arafellin had given him a reason to get outside, so he supposed in that things were not as bad as they could be. He would actually get to feel the sun on his skin without the impolite barrier of power wrought glass.
As the former Green made his way out of the Tower proper, he could not deny that he enjoyed the way a path immediately cleared for him, no matter how crowded or busy. In the time since he had been made the Fang of Hama Valon, he had grown accustomed to it. The bows and curtsies were not something he particularly liked, but he took it in stride; that was something that he was expected to tolerate. He would never get used to the honourific of “Father”, however. The murmured obeisance made his skin crawl. Light in heaven, he was no one’s father.
Quickly dismissing that thought, Zeen instead focused on the meeting that he had hastily requested. He hoped the summons would not be ill-received. He had not meant any offense, but he did not think that Maever would be. Given what he knew of the man, the First Weaver seemed like the easy going sort.
The tall man made his way through the city, coming at last to a small field, bright and fragrant with young trees, grass, and flowers. The line of broad shoulders relaxed visibly, the tension draining out of Zeen’s body as he took several moments to simply breathe deeply, soaking in the warmth and the peace. A glance around showed that he was more or less alone. He wasted no time settling down on a nearby fallen log. Still holding onto the gift, he kicked off his boots and promptly buried his toes into whatever dirt and soil he could work up. A grin lit up his face, all else temporarily forgotten as Zeen delighted in the way the earth shifted and moved beneath, around, and over his feet.