A hunt

Narr. Fool had stung in her tongue, in his own it had cut. He noticed that she avoided him as if he were worse than her cousins, and when he considered his behaviour she was not wrong to do so.

 

He had never attempted courtship. He approached it like war, as if she were a city to conquer. It was more difficult than he had expected, and he had made tactical errors. He spoke with his brothers trying to find a way he might still win her. The consensus remained, if she would not speak to him, her heart could not be softened, he could not win.

 

Waidschlagtprinz was almost poetic. If he wished to approach love as a war, he needed the right weapons. Soft words and gentle touches should fall like arrows and blade strokes. Anger and force had no place on the field. Klinglachprinz had laughed and suggested that wine be used as a siege engine. He had scoffed at the biting look Waidschlagtprinz had given him, claiming Halvhandt would require more than word and touch.

 

Halvhandt listened.

 

Wines and liquors of the Meazyr would be offered at the masquerade. If he could find her he would offer her bludtmet. He had made his own when he had returned home victorious after the war, and brought a bottle grudgingly at his brother’s insistence with the barrels of met and meazamet.

 

He was, however, at a loss. With a mask, it would be difficult to tell her from the others. Eyes like hers were not uncommon among her people. Her golden skin tinged lightly with green was common, as was her hair. He would have to approach many of the Draimenan guests to find her, it would take time, and she would likely notice and try to avoid him.

 

It was Grimeindprinz who gave him a gift with a silent smile. On a slip of paper was a description, a gown and mask. A green gown with delicate pale blue flowers, and a mask of vine with the same flowers to match. He wondered if she would still smell of white petals or if she would change her perfume as well.

 

Preparing for the masquerade he dressed in his hunting clothes, brown and grey, his mask brown and black leaves of leather. When he joined his brothers, Klinglachprinz had laughed. They were in well cut Meazyr dress garments, flowing shirts and embroidered sashes, and he was ready to hunt the wood. Their masks were inlaid and rich, his, while well-made, looked simple in comparison.

 

He smiled grimly, “Jag mina Zoldendochterblum.”

Author's Note

“Jag mina Zoldendochterblum.” - I hunt my Soldier’s daughter flower.