45 A U T U M N 517
It wasn't often that Ciraaci came out to spend time in a Diamond clan pavilion, but rare those though visits were, she came with the intention to learn from them-- and to learn well. The ethaefal came garbed in clothing she considered suited to the warmth of the season, her dress style little more than a linen tunic tied around the waist with a lavender scarf and fitted leggings she found comfortable for riding. Knee-high riding boots, her blonde hair braided in an artful mound atop her head, and accompanied by her horse- which she rode upon as proudly as she could.
Riding was unspeakably uncomfortable, indicating to Ciraaci that she was well out of practice with doing so. Her posture felt wrong, and the Aeres felt ungainly and awkward, although Ciraaci couldn't say she blamed the horse for the discomfort. It was her fault for being the least Drykas inhabitant of Endrykas and for binding herself to her feet.
With her discomfort at its peak, Ciraaci finally dismounted her horse and offered a sympathetic pat to the beast's shoulder. She chose to walk the rest of the distance to her destination, the Warstorm pavilion, and left her horse amongst the others belonging to its family members, employees and customers with the implicit trust that if she ran off, it wouldn't be far.
Ciraaci now entered it, and though she'd been diminished in the stature of her appearance the moment she departed the sunlight, she stood no lesser in the tent, her crowned head turning this-way and that, taking in the sights either out of curiosity for what it was like to be in a new pavilion, or simply because she wasn't entirely certain of where she ought to be or go. Eventually approached by a man wearing the Ruby colours, Ciraaci relaxed the tension in her posture and offered the lingering warmth of a blossoming smile; she welcomed any assistance offered her.
"You've come for training?" The man asked, his hands working through his curiosity wonder question, signs she read easily although her own hands quickly moved in response, signing out wordless expectation to begin. "I am," she said. "I want to learn how to fight with my hands." Embarrassment uncertainty and a question of her own.
"You're in luck," the man said, flashing a toothy grin of his own. He had a golden complexion, making the smile bright in comparison to the colour of him in the pavilion's shade. "We have an unarmed instructor. Come with me," he gestured, and led her outdoors and around to the backside of the pavilion where bodies moved in their own individual fights. She paused for a moment to take in the sight, briefly intimidated by men and women clashing with spears and practising their archery before she gathered a handle over the trepidation and caught up with the instructor.
"Samuel," the man said, indicating the instructor in question, his Pavi suddenly more pronounced, as if he were talking to a man near completely unfamiliar to the language. His hand signs became more pronounced then, too, a fact which amused Ciraaci into the very edge of a slight smile. "You're free? She would like to learn to fight unarmed."