white_flowers | (no subject)

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"We must meet, and soon, my dear."

The strange whisper had floated to her ears even before she had returned to the bar, sifting down between past and present in that space which is no space. No more than a whisper, carried on a wind of its own, and with an odd hint of some spice wafting through the air-not air where she had been.

The White Rider is more than just slightly intrigued by this, and it is much on her mind as she walks through the edge of the forest.

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There is a man, in robes of ebony velvet, that swallow shadow like the thirsty gulps water. He sits on a log; a fire has a camp-pot over it, and there is waterskin, a few packets of spices, and odds and ends assorted here.

It is, Raistlin reflects, missing only Caramon's growling stomach to complete this nostalgic scene from the past.

"Stew? The rabbit is fresh." But his hands are clean of blood, and there is no hareskin here now. To whit, the stew is spiced; bubbling with meat, potatoes nd greens, it smells enticingly of marjoram.

The sound of his voice stops her first, and then the scent floats on the air.

Blodwen smiles, slowly, as she looks at him.

"Why, and it is kind indeed of you to invite a stranger to share your meal, cariad."

"Travelers should always one another kindness. The man you meet on the road may be king or pauper," Raistlin observes.

He ladels stew into crude traveling bowls, with rough dinnerware a humble thing against a hand that glitters a near metallic gold.

He extends one to Blodwen with a thin smile.

She smiles sweetly back as she accepts it from him, and takes a seat on another nearby log. The pristine white cloak drapes silently and easily around her as she does so.

"Among other things," Blodwen observes. The light soft voice is warm and seemingly kind, while ice-blue eyes are bright.

"You yourself, for instance -- my goodness, but you are not like any king or pauper that I have met."

"I've been many things in my time," Raistlin says, poking at his stew till he finds a good chunk of potato. He eats it with a delicateness rarely found outside of polite society-- no fuss, no mess.

A moment later, when his mouth is clear, he says, "You seem to be as any other woman; but there is always something more to the unassuming."

He should know; the illustionist's first rule is 'make them look elsewhere for excitement before you spring your trick.'

Trap can be subsituted for trick, too.

"Clever you are, to look beyond the surface," she says lightly. "So many it is that do not."

Blodwen takes a small taste from her own bowl, adding,

"Such a spice there is to it." A breath. "As familiar as your voice, it is-- although your name I do not know, dear."

"It is called majoram," Raistlni replies. "Our world says it is named for the god we take our family name from: Majere."

He dips his head a little, and smiles. "Raistlin Majere, my lady."

"A god, it is? My goodness me," she breathes, and ice-blue eyes are gleaming slightly.

"I am Blodwen Rowlands most often, here."

"We are named for a god; but we hold no kin to him. Once, perhaps, our family aligned to his temples, but... no more." He smirks, and takes another bite.

The name and the qualifier both earn a lift of one white brow. "Most often? What else are you called, Blodwen Rowlands?"

"Another allegiance it is that you claim, dear?" she asks. The high light voice is gently musical, like icicles being struck.

"Oh, I have been called many things," Blodwen adds. "Anghared of Northgalis, for one."

Her smile is almost poisonously sweet as she finishes,

"And it is that here you will hear me spoken of as the White Rider of the Dark."

"I give allegience to no one."

The names give him pleasure; he tilts his head. "The One Foretold, Master of Past and Present, The Archmage Fistandantilus..."

If they are exchanging psuedonyms it's only fair: She's given him hers, he ought give her his, right?

He smirks; where her lips drip with sweet poison, his are treacherously dry. "Raistlin, however, is name enough for now."

"Raistlin it is that I will call you, then."

Ice-blue, ice-bright are sharp with evident interest.

"And a dewin, then, is it? With power over Time?"

Raistlin's head dipped. "All that the title implies," he said simply.

"What is this 'dewin'? It is a word I am unfamiliar with."

"A wizard, it means," she informs him. "And my goodness, then it is that we may have something in common."

"Yes, then -- a dewin." He smirks; "We call ourselves magus."

"And you, then, have this among your many titles, Miss Rowland?"

"Oh, and some there are who would call me witch," she says easily enough. In fact, Blodwen seems quite amused by this.

"And some would say that it is I am rather more than that."

"Mage, Sorceror, Witch, Wizard. It's all the same -- one who weilds power that others fear," Raistlin says without concern, a negligent gesture of an elegent hand dismissing the semantics of it all.

"What would you call yourself, Rider?"

"Rider will do." She smiles, soft and warm, even if her disconcertingly bright gaze is naturally chill. "The White Rider it is that I am, after all-- and I do believe that you have been looking for me."

"Raistlin, in turn," he says.

But he does nod once, slow and purposeful. "I have been," he says. "Looking for you. Your-- work had caught my attention, earlier in the week." But what is time to them, really?

A light high laugh issues forth, at this.

"Goodness me, cariad, but I do believe it may have caught the attention of quite a few."

"Any man may notice a rainbow," Raistlin says, "but few are so discerning to to track it to where it lies."

He smirks, and then says, "After all, my message reached you, did it not?"

"Indeed it did," she confirms, smiling. "A clever trick it was."

"A trick is someting you create with flash powder and deception," Raistlin replies, one hand coming up; there is a flash at one hand, but no magic-- merely blackened palms. But in the other, three coins are held between his fingers, gleaming faces double-sided; coins of Janus, a twofaced god.

"I am not a showman or a deceiver."

By which he means to say At least, not one you'll catch.

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