Yaris 75, 2717 - Evening
Well, she supposed she had hit him full in the face. That was not usually the most appealing introduction, even with all the other details left out of it. So she'd been disappointed, and that had irritated her. Interrupted, and that irritated her. And the young wick had been crass, which had irritated her even more. For all that Cerise pretended at reform, her temper did have a way of getting away from her. Hence, the bag.
Adrenaline--that was what this was, wasn't it? Cerise paid only mild attention in her introductory Living classes in lower form, but she thought that had come up. Adrenaline that burned clear and bright when she swung the bag, that gave her such a feeling of satisfaction when it connected with the younger wick's skull with a heavy thud.
Watch yerself, jent.
"Come put your money where your mouth is and make me." Cerise probably should have let sense intervene then, but she didn't. The taunt was stupid, and so was the animal growl that went with it. But there it was.
He pulled on the strap of her bag he'd managed to grasp, and she pulled back, intending to surprise him into losing his footing. The seams groaned and strained--the bag was old, and had seen better days. Cerise had not been kind to it either, weighing it down with armloads of heavy books on a regular basis. So it was no wonder that they gave up and the material tore apart. It was Cerise who lost her footing, stumbling back slightly with a snarl, still, on her face.
He raised his hand. She bared her teeth. He could hit her if he wanted--she had taken blows to the face often enough on the field. They had been accidents, and magical instead of physical, but she had taken them before and would gladly take this one if it meant she could strike back. There was no time to cast and she didn't need or want it--hell, she'd bite him if she needed to.
At some point, between the swing and the grab and the snap, Cerise had stopped paying attention to Emiel and the taller, darker wick she'd seen before. Her focus had narrowed to just the one she thought must not be much older than her, if not slightly younger. The sound of Emiel's voice made her turn her head, and he stepped between her and the hand that was coming for her face. Just a little too slow, and his shoulder jostled into her but he grabbed the wrist anyway. Hard, it sounded like.
With Emiel between her and the young delinquent, Cerise found that her momentum was broken enough for her to think. She was still agitated, her posture tense and expression sharp and wild. But Emiel said go, shoving the other one on the shoulder, and he went. A sharp spike of frustration went through her, which was stupid. She did not need to get knocked around by a willowy juvenile delinquent in an alley today, or ever. But all her energy was still coiled up and had nowhere to go now.
She heard the sound of paper being crumpled and looked down to see that when Emiel had stepped in to intervene, he'd also placed his foot on one of the books she had brought. More than the bag being torn--it was old and not particularly fashionable or even very nice--that made her angry. Not at Emiel, precisely, who had not deliberately done so, but at the situation. And at herself, for being upset that it was ruined because she had, stupidly, brought them in case he hadn't read them and wanted to. To lend. Or give, really--she didn't need them back.
It was hard to see what she was most angry at when she looked up, dark hair in an even more wild tangle now from all the commotion. Her grey eyes were bright, the edge of a knife. And then he mumbled an apology, turning towards her. Cerise blinked; the anger remained, but the adrenaline drained away. Her shoulders fell.
"I'm fine," she snapped, tone sharp. She took a breath and looked at him--there was blood on his face. When had that gotten there? The irritation shifted to concern. Cerise didn't reach out, but her fingers itched at her side. "Are--Are you?" There was a stiffness to the question, as if she wasn't used to asking that sort of thing. Which, Cerise supposed, she wasn't.
"I'm not a healer." Stating the obvious--there was no one who had ever met Cerise Vauquelin who would have thought so. She fished around in the pocket of her skirt, pulling out her handkerchief. It was not in the best of conditions, either. Cerise frowned at it--there were faded stains, here and there, from nursing her own wounds, washing it herself rather than putting it in the laundry with her other things. But it was better than nothing, and she held it out anyway. For the moment, she chose to ignore the remaining wick on the ground--that was not her problem to sort, and she didn't care in the least what happened to his face.