Feeya is a roleplay character in a currently-unknown year/Cohort, but post apoc. If she could spell, she’d spell her name Fille.

This story involves violence and some bad French.

Tempo’s nose was broken and he was missing two teeth; his knuckles were bruised and he was having a little bit of trouble walking. It didn’t stop Feeya from struggling against him, trying to add another bruise to his collection as they made their way down the hall.

Finally, despite his better judgement, he mumbled out an order. “Calmer. Cesser les combats. Calm your actions, and stop fighting for the moment.”

She steadied in his grip. “Right. Walk with me, marche avec moi, now.” Only by continuing to talk, short orders through a face that felt like it had swollen to three times its size did he manage to get her through the halls.

Where was Luke? There was a cy’Fridmar manhandling his angry Kept through the halls; Luke should be here with wings flapping and glare on. Instead, Tempo had to get the girl all the way upstairs, all the way into the gym. “Stay. Rester.” He released one of her wrists, blocked a punch, and knocked on the door.

Doug looked surprised to see them, although it could have been the broken nose. Tempo pushed Feeya in front of him. “Sir. I think she’s your Student.”

That stilled her. And it made Doug flare. “I don’t have any Students this year.”

“No, but I think you ought to.” He touched his nose gingerly. “She’s a fighter.”

“What did you do to her?” There was a clear threat in the teacher’s words. Tempo wasn’t surprised.

He touched the back of Feeya’s neck, where her hair was coming in shaggy and ragged. “Tried to give her a haircut.”

This entry was originally posted at http://aldersprig.dreamwidth.org/886206.html. You can comment here or there.