sir-walter-beck

Fable 3: Hugs of Your Allies

Walter hugs the way he speaks: with passion and purpose. He is tall and strong enough to scoop you up, yet he is aware of himself and he avoids crushing you. He is the warmest of them all, radiating heat of a different kind—pride and love in equal measures. One arm about your back, the other across your shoulders. He is surprisingly balanced and precise for a man of his size. He seals it with a booming laugh and a clap on the shoulder for good measure, and it is almost always accompanied by some sort of congratulation. He is proud of you, no matter the occasion.

Jasper knows his place, and that is to do what is needed. In the midst of a revolution, comfort is needed quite often, and when there are no other arms to hold you, Jasper will be there. He has the hands of a worker, calloused and firm, but with the warmth of someone who genuinely cares. His are brief hugs, smelling of clean linens and mothballs. He will be gentle and light, his arms putting little more weight on your shoulders than fresh-fallen snow. When he lets go, he will pat your back twice—thrice is too much, once is not enough—and begins to fix your favorite tea as he bids you toward a comfortable chair. 

Logan hugs awkwardly, all angles and limbs and bony fingers. Even before Aurora, he was tall and sharp, bending over you and pressing you painfully into his ribs. You can adjust, bending yourself in such a way as to avoid his elbows or shoulder blades, fitting yourself to him in ways he could not fit himself to you. He is not warm, but he is cautious and gentle, handling you as if you were fragile, and there is love in his eyes when he draws away. You would not change his hugs despite their discomfort; were even the slightest thing about him altered, he would no longer be Logan. 

 Page resists touching, save the occasional handshake or shoulder pat. She hugs with words instead, offering comments both cutting and soft. Honesty is her affection, and she will compliment with such, always finding the prefect time to comfort with small gestures, somehow eloquent despite the circumstances. She is unafraid of truth—one of the few advisors who is capable of shocking the court day after day—and she offers her care wrapped in the silken words she uses. 

Ben Finn does not hug; he embraces, warmth and care squeezed against you with near-crushing force. He likes to touch, to hold, to savor, whether it is with an arm around your shoulders or a hand upon your wrist. Something about him provokes the urge to leap upon him, let him spin you around like so many clichés. He will oblige, of course—he likes nothing more than a grinning face and a twirling skirt. The occasional blush never goes astray, either. He is careful of boundaries, however, and if you are disinclined to be swung about, he will instead offer a forceful thump on the shoulder, learned from his brothers and proudly continued in their honor. 

Major Swift greets his friends with a firm handshake. He has a routine, choreographed affection from a fine gentlemen the likes of which Albion so lacks. From the handshake, one step forward and a one-armed hug for the sirs, a kiss of the knuckles and a gentle clap of the shoulder for the misses. His displays are always accompanied by a hearty chuckle or brief “tally-ho” and the thick sweetness of pipe smoke. 

Kalin offers traditional Auroran greetings. With her closest allies, she kowtows low before grasping their hands, shrouding them in radiant warmth the likes of which can only come from living in the sun. She may touch your shoulders, a sign of honor, giving a tight-lipped smile. She is catlike with her trust, showing it subtly by closing her eyes or turning her back while in your presence—gestures that would otherwise leave her vulnerable. 

Sabine will exhale a breath of frozen air, a raspy laugh as he thrusts his arms out when you come into view. He half-runs toward you, bent crookedly as he is, his every footstep tinkling with the sound of winter bells and jewelry, and crushes your waist with his brisk, tight-armed hugs. It draws the breath from you like a smack of mountain, but the surprise is soon replaced with a smile as he begins to ramble fondly about his memories of you.

Reaver hugs no one. It will crease his suit; that is absolutely unthinkable. Reluctantly, he dips his head, kissing your knuckles and letting his lips linger on your skin long enough for it to be risqué but not so long for it to be scandalous. He makes no mistake with his movements—the smallest misstep, the most careless of gestures will be scrutinized by his peers. Such is the curse of wealth and fame. He may have embraced, once, much like Ben, with twirling hugs and laughter and love… but that was another man. A man long dead. A man who knew nothing of expensive fabrics.

Elliot does not grip, nor clench. He wraps you up as one would drape a blanket over themselves, giving just enough pressure to comfort while remaining light and moveable. He will release when you want him to, no sooner and no later—it is in his nature to mind your preference. Despite his bearing, a princess’s companion, he has the sprightly, casual air of one untouched by the restrained aristocracy. His hugs are affection embodied. 

Elise hugs delicately, yet strong in her own way, near-porcelain skin brushing up against yours. She runs her left hand in small circles on your back. Spiraling wisps of her hair will caress you, bouncing as they do with the slightest of motions. She brushes your cheek, gloved hands as gentle as butterfly wings on your skin, each touch a kiss of its own. She departs as quickly as she approached, leaving you with only a flushed face and the gentle scent of daisy perfume.