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[Arcana]

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Arlin dubiously regarded the expanse of silverware that spanned the table in front of him, lined up in neat ranks like enemy soldiers and gleaming faintly in the lamp-lit twilight of the garden on Riverrun’s roof.

The utensils were arrayed in front of him because earlier in the evening, the half-ogre had accidentally slopped tomato soup in his lady’s lap while trying to do the gentlemanly thing and serve her dinner. On the bright side, the soup in her lap had distracted Arcana from noticing that Arlin had inadvertently put his thumb in the bowl. Again. He’d surreptitiously wiped his thumb on the hem of his tunic while offering a mortified apology.

“I can’t take you anywhere,” Arcana had joked, adding that at least tomato came out easier than orc blood.

Instead of laughing smugly as usual at the frequent joke, Arlin’s shoulders had sagged and he’d looked ashamed. “Ah know ah embarrass ya sometimes, Arcy.”

“No you don’t, Arlin,” she’d told the half-truth to save his feelings, knowing he was very sensitive about his lack of an even vaguely refined upbringing.

Arlin had given her a half-smile that said he knew better. He’d let a long moment of silence go by, clearly having trouble with his next words, so Arcana had squeezed his hand and waited patiently.

“Arcy, d’ya think y’could teach be ta be, ya know, more civilized? Like a noble?”

She hadn’t been able to conceal her surprise at the request. “Arlin, I thought you hated nobility,” she’d exclaimed with raised eyebrows. And quite frankly, given her experience to date, she’d expected to have a much harder time civilizing her half-ogre and was inwardly ecstatic that he seemed to be coming around voluntarily.

“Ah do!” he’d said defensively. “Ah just want t’be better company for ya, is all.”

She’d strongly suspected that her wearing a certain scarlet gown at the most recent occasion that had required elegant manners was having a large influence on Arlin’s sudden desire to fit in with something other than a rough crowd at a tavern. So Arcana had agreed with a playful, triumphant smile and then seriously set about the formidable task of teaching a half-ogre table manners.

“We’ll start with the spoon.”

Arlin took a moment to drag his thoughts from wherever they had wandered astray before he seized a spoon, holding it poised like a dagger over his soup.

“Arlin, your dinner is already dead. There’s no need to attack it,” she said mildly, trying to hide her amusement at the expression of intense concentration on his face, and positioned his hand correctly around the spoon.

Arlin regarded the spoon unhappily, its polished silver looking ludicrously small in his large hand. However, he managed it without mishap and grinned as his lady triumphantly. She gave him a quick kiss on the cheek which only succeeded in distracting him from pretty much everything for several seconds. Then he seemed to remember that he had been very hungry, and to Arcana’s dismay he picked up an entire leg of lamb from a platter and took a large bite.

“Arlin! Knife and fork,” she reminded him.

“Why?” he asked plaintively, turning to face her.

“Ugh, and chew with your mouth closed,” she added, wrinkling her nose.

“Oh. Sorry, Arcy,” he said, guiltily letting the meat drop to his plate which sent a splatter of juice in Arcana’s direction. She recoiled and made an involuntary noise of disgust. Blushing for once, Arlin swallowed audibly and wiped his mouth on his sleeve. He stifled a belch. Arcana dropped her elbows into her lap and rested her face in her hands, sighing. Arlin looked down at his plate uncomfortably, started to pick something out of his teeth, and then thought better of it.

“Its considered polite to use a napkin,” she mumbled, despairing of where else to begin.

“A what? Why?”

“A nap- oh here, its that cloth in your lap.”

“Oh.” Arlin wiped it over his face, wondering if he was allowed to blow his nose in it (the soup had a bit too much pepper, he thought), then figured probably not. He was quickly discovering that anything he seemed naturally inclined to do was considered poor manners. The things he did for… bah, women! He let the napkin fall back to his lap and dutifully picked up the knife and fork.

Arcana hated to correct him again so soon, but it was best to do something properly if you were going to do it at all, she thought. “You’re holding them in the wrong hands.”

Arlin looked at her blankly.

“The fork goes in your left hand,” she insisted.

“But Arcy, WHY?” he almost whined.

“I don’t know, its just the way it is,” Arcana said in exasperation, instantly taken back to her childhood, albeit now she found herself sympathizing with her late father’s point of view.

Arlin muttered a few choice words reflecting his opinion on the matter and switched the knife and fork. Arcana also insisted he put down the utensils between bites. No wonder she stays so slim, he lamented to himself, because at this rate he was going to starve to death before he ever finished a meal.