Private Relations, Yours & Mine

"A couple hours is-s agreeable," Walter offered, right hand obscured by the fold of the cloak, holding it that way, dark stains slowly emerging through the wool. "After dark would be too close t-to supper." The corner of his mouth twitched and twisted in an attempt at nonchalance. "You won't find any here to judge. N-nobody should b..." he struggled, as if his brain snagged on the concept of speech, and winced, "...be used to this sort of thing. Join me then, I shall be at my quarters."
He nodded his farewells, and moved along the thoroughfare, leaving Olivier and Ophelia to observe the other lord's routes.

"Thank you for gathering them," Olivier mouthed, not looking anyone in the eye. He was just so lucky the dead man wasn't one of the other lord's. "Uh... if anyone might need calming drafts, Lancel can cook some. Yeah."
He looked guilty, in that pure way that yet unjaded good-hearted people were. Ophelia looked at the tarped body to hide the rolling of the eyes.

*

An hour and three-quarters later, Walter measured the narrow dining hall on the ground floor in slow, rhyming steps, clay cup of herbal remedy in hand, untouched and cooling, the rough texture and heat of the cup more comfort than its contents. The man's back was straight as a board, and draped over by a fresh shirt, that saturated blue making his cool complexion look almost healthy. Seemed like there was more red to his cheeks, he thought, and a nice cut for the shape, too - even though he loved this specific shirt for the sole reason of how it felt on skin... embroidery and cut were a nice addition, though. Just like he'd cared for the tailoring more than adhering to expectation, once.

That recent sort of violence onto his own flesh was nothing new. Not that he could really get used to it. Didn't change the fact that he was uniquely skillful at giving violence back, and dutybound, he didn't have much choice, from his angle. He was not going to run things from the back lines. Even though, lately, ... well, lately he'd have a tether out of that dark place of thought. Some small moments of peace without much turbulence besides enthusiasm. Almost hope for some normalcy. Even for things like him that remembered playing human so painfully well.

The wine was out, and so was the herbal liquor. Bottle for bottle - he was going to indulge in an aperitif, maybe a toast, but getting drunk would have been even more dangerous than his recent display. Everything was questions, there was no doubt. He expected Joutsentierna to ask them, here, in privacy - attendants could be sent away if need be. He pondered answering. Tongue pinned down at the prospect of a lie served no good in courtly manner.

The maids were setting the table, under occasional direction from the hall. Carved wooden slabs. A couple covered metal dishes. An amalgam of scents, from fresh baking to succulent meat under crispy skin, thyme, parsley, rosemary, he thought he felt, fresh sausages and something like a stew - and something honey-sweet, perhaps, dessert. An apology of a dinner. Almost like a cooked platitude, it felt, now that the initial circumstance of the invitation changed within the span of an hour.

Too close to supper? He blinked, then snorted, baring teeth. He didn’t explain his amusement, just nodded his head in understanding.

It would be, wouldn’t it. Thank Gods there was still some sense in the world, court rules, etiquette and the like, no matter how absurd they felt considering everything that had happened.

“ At your quarters. “ He confirmed, almost idly as he watched the man leave. As the Huntsman from before made himself known, he regarded him in passing on his way to the First Scout. Gesturing that hers be the lead to the coin house with the rest.

“ That sounds lovely. “ He responded, despite not knowing at all what calming drafts are. Lancel. Still no name for the young man himself, though. Rather humoured by the fact, he merely patted the man on the shoulder gratefully.

Keep your secrets.




He’d chosen blue and white; doublet a dusty cream, with a standing collar and slashed sleeves that revealed a pure white undershirt. On top of that, gown of vibrant ultramarine with hanging sleeves and silver embroidery repeating the motif of swans and stars. For added flavour, as was customary on her mother’s side of the family, the gown was lined with wolverine fur that peeked to view on the open front collar, hem and broad armholes. On his legs, particoloured hosen, one leg blue, the other white. Cut tight on a bias, leaving nothing to imagination.

The concept of being overdressed didn’t exist for him. Any excuse, every time, to the deep end. He’d put on his nice silver earrings, stars hanging off the end of hoops, and wore his rings. Even a colourful rondel dagger with a little tassel on its pommel tugged to a thin belt. Soft shoes, black and shiny. Thankfully he didn’t have to walk far in them.

He took no attendant. Zahra had offered, but she’d looked so harrowed he’d declined. He could knock on Lord Thornley’s door by his damn self. He was a big boy, not on his first run in less than ideal conditions. It felt powerful to do, somehow.

Like he was calling in secret.

There were lights in the windows and smoke in the chimney. He drew in that cool outside air, fiddling with the twisted fir stalk Zahra had twisted into the buttonholes of his sleeves. Darkness and secrets. An evergreen scent, a whiff of resin.

He set his jaw and knocked twice with the carved metal loop mounted on the door.

Lancel's pursuit, it would be easy to discover - lay a little more expensive than most apprenticeships, but worth it doubly so, from a purely practical perspective. Alchemy. He'd studied with an avid interest during the training. Anthea was the one teaching him herbology, now, while Garrick pondered further development of the young talent. Herbal dreaming poultices with not a thread of weave to be found in them? Or, altenatively, water with very few additions of a more potent magical variety, with weave packed in securely, to be consumed? He was second to Anthea, but after her - few of those present. Maybe Mender, though Walter never looked at her aides too closely.

---

Walter let the finished remedial rest on the maid's tray, and listened to the few footsteps measuring the rhombus-paved foyer to the broad round opening of the dining hall. The fire burned low to his side, lighting casting his half-silhouette in copper. More candles along the table, in groups of three per each of three candlesticks, pale bisque shivering echoes on grey metal of the dishes, bronze clasps, curious eyes.

The honeyed scent made sense, all of a sudden. Apples with hazelnut and dried berries, perhaps?..

The thought left him when the man of the hour entered. Hear, hear.
Walter blinked, then blinked again.

He thought about bluebirds, what with that gorgeous hue of azure and dusty cream undertones at the breast flowing into bisque and peach shades where the wolverine fur trim overlapped. And, well, the overall shape was bird-like somewhat, too, the wearer being a tad thick, with legs quite unadorned, compared to the layered torso. A very decent shape of unadorned, at that, ending in proper shoes. Polished, with only a few specks of puddle water marring them.
His guest positively shone, why with the earrings and the rings as well, in silver. Echoing the fashions, or?..

He wondered if the ultramarine pigment came from the shores of Bremen, and whether Jaakko knew about the geomancy tiered craters that made it possible to cultivate the coral that far north from the Free Cities, as they punched the seabed thinner and denser to the sources of warmer currents underwater. Made the nearby beaches quite lovely, too, during certain hours of the day, three hundred years ago. The white cliffs and the sapphire blue water. He thought of home, with a sad longing that squeezed his chest for a brief beat.

Compared to his illustrious guest, Walter was most certainly underdressed.
For a perfectly good reason, too, he thought calmly. He did not come here to be handsome, his face would have to do the job where need be. He came here to establish order, and security, and what arms he brought along mattered far more than what he wore.

This was the second instance someone dressed up for him, first one formal, and Walter found it amusing that while he meandered lost and solitary through the crowded halls of Glitterwake, while everyone tended to their own crowd - here, in Arpa, that was as far from polite society as Altalusian civilization permitted, short of bog witches and druids, with hell breaking loose... suppose, people needed a little color in their life. Especially here. Suppose, his violence elicited some sort of a response in some men that made them want to flutter their feathers a little, polish their rings and see what other tricks the Thornley critter knew. That such acute displays of prowess and dominance were what he did, not what brought him joy or who he was, touched few minds. Surely, a carpenter could only know the implements of his trade, and be no deeper of a person.

Or, perhaps, it was none of it. Perhaps the first time simply left a bad taste, and it was a good opportunity to cleanse the palate. The Joutsentierna man, quite bored and utterly exhasperated at being able to contribute very little, took this opportunity to dress up for himself, and to impress his host as well, perhaps, show the best of civility. Walter felt nostalgic. One of the few joys he had besides artificery - which was permitted because it would go towards his legacy just the same, creative pursuit put to purpose - was dressing up. And dancing. Dancing, too. He used to be so precise with his footwork. At least the singing stayed, though it had little practicality to it. He hadn't thought about matching hues and patterns for a long, long time.

There were... a few pieces, just in case, but mostly because he liked them. And he wouldn't have taken them if not for the matching cut and hues, that gave him an excuse. Just in case he had to receive guests.

So, Walter stood opposite the relatively short table, his head inclined in greeting the guest.
A thin bronze circlet ran above his brow, flat wire woven into droplet shapes and disappearing into the silver-touched locks of black, brushed and shiny like a mourning crow's plumage.
The shirt, a beautiful blue, ran with the collar open, the darker thread blooming in sweetbriar roses, delicate and diverse, a lighter grey outlining briars and thorns. The wide collar of it bent and folded over the lower ridge of the charcoal-grey doublet, bronze ivy leaves of clasps pairing and sprouting offshoot ornaments along the seam.
The neck remained covered, a strip of silk folded several times over and running in shimmering folds to fill out the shallow triangle between the clavicles.
Wide sleeves of the lapis underlayer flowed out the straight, narrower, unbuttoned grey doublet ones, and gathered in a tall embroidered cuff from wrist to mid-forearm.
The lower hem ran to mid-thigh, where the plain, lavender grey, landsknecht-cut wide hosen narrowed into soft tinted lambskin mid-calf boots laced with blue cords.
Around the waistline, lay a decorative belt, ivy leaves embossed around the length of it, and metal yellow-green bronze as with the rest. Beneath it - a sgian dubh, bronze handle ornate, with the family crest on the pommel, in a simple black sheath. The heir apparent's signage, same as the ring on Walter's thumb denoted the one with whom the family legacy resided.
As ever, the right hand was covered in thin glove, the medicinal scent much fainter as the day progressed.

"Good noon," Walter offered, gesturing at one of the carved, heavy chairs that could have only been brought from home, judging by the red tint on the oak that came naturally for only that one large grove. "Please, make yourself very comfortable. It pleases me to see that the earlier horrors did not tatter the boldness of your spirit, let us take this as an opportunity to clear the air, as it were, then, why don't we?"

He smiled luminously as he marched into the dining hall, breathing in all that mingled in the air — steam from sweet and savory, brickdust and a hint of the underground, woodsmoke from a hearth. His pace slowed just the little as he approached Lord Thornley through the room, eyeing him with refreshed curiousity. Grey and blue with bronze, misty and autumnal, a compliment to the rainy violets in the eyes. Thorns and twists of another evergreen, climbing and clinging on the fabric, an earthy contrast to the lofty theatrics of the skyborne, but no less romantic. The silk covering on the throat was a rather fine touch, one he’d not seen often, but had regarded as rather attractive way to replace a closed high collar. There was something about the way men looked with their necks so deliberately hidden and yet displayed, fabric hugging the shape.

Ah, to be a couple inches of fine silk.

“ Lord Thornley. “ He keeled his head daintily at the greeting, stopping for just the breath it took him to see which seat the baron pointed for him. In an appreciative nod, he’d draw it out, angling it a couple degrees sideways as to have that extra space betwixt himself and the table. For that easy lounging potential — the man had told him to make very comfortable, after all.

“ Certainly, though where I’m sitting the air seems plenty clear already. In that proverbial sense. “ And he believed it, having no ill-will nor grave misunderstanding as far as he knew. “ There is, of course, the matter for which I requested a meeting with yourself, but other than that—

He shrugged and leaned back against the sturdiest chair he’d probably ever sat in, bringing hands together on his lap.

“ I’d just like to congratulate you on fine work disposing of an immediate threat to our collective health, that— whatever it was. “ He glanced at the entrance through which he’d strayed into the room, like expecting to see a shambling shadow of today there.

“You move impressively fast. “ His look drifted through motes in the indoor air and back to the man, a smile in his eyes. Some admiration to balance out the part of him that was dying to know more.

“ I’m glad to see you recovered, also. It did not overly strain you? “

There was a toll for everything. He’d looked rather rough, walking out that door.

Head tilted, earrings jingled ever faintly. Walter caught the sound of metal elements shifting. The carved chair would not creak, even under the respectable density. It was certainly better appointed here on the ground floor and belonging to a set, rather than a cluttered over attempt to break it apart. Those man-eating elk-people on the carvings still made Walter quietly mad, and he preferred those sturdy, quality-built chairs with particularly detailed engravings filled and cutting off his view. Maybe someday something would break the damn things apart, and if not that, then regular use. He was not going to be outlived by such a loathsome set, however good its craftsmanship.

"I haven't paid many visits to your residence since your arrival," the baron spoke calmly. "It seemed proper, whatever might have transpired today, that I would extend an invitation."
As if there was no doubt that they would both be standing.
"Would you care for the sourwisp liquor as aperitif?"
Bowls with water faintly scented of flowers were brought over, two squares of undyed cotton to dry the hands, after. The servants were leaving the room, and soon, it was only Reginald, filling in the sourwisp into small, thick, palm-sized goblets from a pre-opened bottle.

"Doppel. That was a doppel. Highly intelligent, those things, and come in different shapes. We caught on pretty quickly, despite their manipulation," Walter answered, peacefully, and wrapped his hand around the small vessel. "I have picked up the southern short blade style in the Free Cities. It's better in crowded quarters. Seemed appropriate." The claw-blade was his weapon. Despite the dagger that hung on his belt now - his weapon was for harvest. Made the bend natural, surer, stronger. "Glad that most but three escaped unscathed, what a troublesome creature that was."

He brought the drink to his mouth at the mention of movement... and recovery. A thoughtful sip.
"Thank you kindly. It would be polite to say that it was nothing. But I did not pay the price I couldn't, I've no regrets, and what scars remain I will bear, I always do." His right hand, the glove-covered one, the one holding the drink, lagged a little behind his shoulder, and around the wrist, fingers clumsy for the damaged ligaments - but harder to track for the cover. "You seemed to have a sure swing, when the moment called. Ever enjoy swordsmanship?"

There was no way he was going to decline a single thing, least of all an aperitif. Sourwisp? Give it to me. The bob of his head was firm, accepting the offer wordlessly. Once the goblet was in his hand, he rose it with thanks to the attendant that’d poured it, catching the departure of the other servants in his periphery. The goblet was swirled beneath a breath in, to try the scent before the taste.

He drew a careful sip, working his tongue in search of notes. It was strong, the type that fucked people up if they weren’t careful. A little strange with it’s mix of elements, lingering with fruity tartness and burn of alcohol on the back of the tongue and throat. Good.

The space felt easier to breathe in with less people present, but he had a feeling there was a reason for it, other than short-staffing. Thrill mingled with the warmth in his chest, the ease of being sat down without hurry in company who was not his responsibility. To not know a man and entertain profound questions, all at leisure, just because he wanted to. No other motive.

He took another well-mannered draught, signifying attention in the midst by humming at Lord Thornley’s responses. Brief and perfectly pleasant as they were, proper, even. Doppels, trips to the Free Cities, tactics, only sensible. When it finally came to scars, he’d settled to watching the man who bore them, always did, with his goblet rested on the table, posture with a relaxed tilt to it. Such tolerance to pain had always rung a little sad for him as for its implications, considering the ones he’d met before who’d said similar things, but what else was there? To bear and to move on, for what was the alternative. His smile persisted, though his eyes burrowed on the shift of features on baron Thornley’s face. Considered the glove on his hand, but didn’t linger on it.

For all things hidden, the man did leave the impression of an open book whenever he spoke. Candid. What’s betwixt those lines, in the blank spaces?

“ Enjoy I have indeed, as befits our lot. It wasn’t obvious by my perfect form? “ He rose his free hand into an overhead swing, side of the hand slashing. Jest in his voice, all good fun.

“ Suppose one should carry a sidearm inside the walls as well, then. Miscalculation on my part, for how I had to borrow from one of the men. “ He stared into the firelight dancing off the rim of the goblet. Devilish shapes.

“ We sure aren’t in Chapoilière anymore. Nor Bremen — Though I’ve never been, I’ve heard of your lush groves and waters the blue of aquamarines. The shifting grass and white stone. “

They had none of that where he was from, not in that way. But there was comfort in the dark thickets and the rot. The drained wetland that ran with rye, barley and little huts. The smell of tar on the long, shallow boats. He always connected that stench with monthly trips to the temple, ever since he’d been a boy.

“ The Free Cities is another matter, entirely. Mainly the travel. How was it there, your stay? "

As befits their lot. Walter's lips curved to a good-hearted chuckle. He did not swig, either, relishing the sweet taste and that burn through his core, a balm for a frail and frigid soul. Only recently has he decided to curb the habit to acceptable limits. In moments of overwhelm becoming too severe, his hand found the bottle all too readily, and that was unacceptable. He'd make it a contest with himself, of staying sober until the lens trials... Having a clearer head would only benefit him, in the long run.

"Ah, but all the strongmen I have met sported a certain heft," Walter shrugged easily, "And perhaps, though I would not be so concerned. The doppel managed to slink behind your group, and we don't sport many newcomers. Better security will be implemented." That came as matter of the fact, as well, unbothered.

He carved a portion of pork with the meat cooked to silky soft melting bliss, partook of two slices of bread that smelled delightfully fresh, and settled, undecided on the rest.

"All that for Bremen. And motley flowers that whisper on the cliffs at dusk, and cries of swallows building nests beneath," he rued, in tone that was almost melodic, face softening for a moment. A smile touched his lips, mind carried away so easily with the longing to remember, to find himself there once again at least in describing it.

"Sometimes, far away, where the waters run deep closer to the coast, you can see the yellow-bladed cerulean or maroon fin, or the curve of the back, serpentine and merging with the waves. And between the meadows, the centenean oaks have congregated as dark labyrinthan cathedrals of twisted roots and green crowns, the only acolytes within - of nature's own order, merging as prey and predator. You should visit sometime, my lord."

And he missed it, and the nostalgia broke through because of how irrevocably dreary this place has been, how grey, bloody and hostile beyond measure and in so many forms. Though Thornhall was never a warm place, or a gentle place, its tall walls and elaborate carvings were missed, as well.

"I think you might find the land a little loud in boisterous colors, a little less dangerous, but quite deserving of nostalgia once revisited in memory, and of longing to return to it again in person."

A sigh.
"Forgive me. I get carried away. Surely, there are parts of Chapoilière that come to your mind, just as fondly? The tall and light pine forests? The vast array of wetland birds?"

He poured a sauce over the meat, and settled the boat-shaped vessel aside within reach.

"Depending on which stay and in which city. I've traveled by land and sea for several years, in different circumstances of my rebellious youth, you see. Quite a tapestry of folklore and song for an avid scholar, north or south or coastal islands. The mountains are the only place I have found utterly inhospitable, and far north is not somewhere I would find myself without a good reason." Richard was there, though. With the defensive outpost. Exiled by his own younger brother. Walter's eyes wandered, for a moment, before returning to Jaakko. "I surely could talk from here and to Crown's Hold, but allow me to ask, what in particular stokes your curiosity, my lord?"