Private Friendship, Perchance

[kristofer]

Rodhan Manor​

Tidings had come from the west. Undecided whether they were good or ill, Baron Rodhan eyed the horizon that stretched on for miles upon miles, nothing there yet save for trees and fields and the haze that’d fade them all out to a monochrome blur. There was about to be something, however.

A presence shifted behind him, leather soles on the paved floor making an anxious tune. Or was it— Anticipating. Suppose he’d kept enough suspense.

“ Orland til Tourmalet marches with five hundred men. And retainers. “

“ Where to? “
“ Towards, apparently. “ Baron Rodhan continued, turning from the light at the window to return to his vacant spot at the head of the lengthy table.
“ Of course Barons Murtohovi would say so — “ His second son, Aukust, scoffed. “ They’re the first ones to shit themselves and rile up panic at any given opportunity. The man hasn’t— “
“ It is quite certain. Half of the procession has already passed Castle Murtohovi. “ The brittle slip of correspondence was discarded on the table. Like a feather, it landed on the maroon tablecloth. “ Another messenger confirms it. “

“ Huh. “ Was all the much younger lord managed, though it was without a smidge of concern. His arm lashed out to snatch the little roll of paper like a starving goose, before he proceeded to draw himself a seat upon which to then practically toss himself. Eyes on the brief message, he leaned heavily against the back rest and propped one leg over the other, settling to lounge in an infuriatingly mercenary way. His father was beyond acknowledging it.

“ Curious Orland wouldn’t have let us know. “
“ Is it? “ The Baron snapped wearily, patience fraying.
“ Yes. We’ve not lacked in friendship, before— “
“ Is that all it was? Friendship? “

His son blinked, an old, numb sort of hurt in his eyes. He tossed the paper down, as if it’d grown hot to touch. The easy manner about him splintered, visible in the tension of his shoulders as he sunk into his seat a little further, bobbing his head.

“ Yes. Although, it was Aksel who— “
“ Your brother is not here. “

The seconds of ensuing silence saw the old man sit down, chair and cushions creaking. This seemed to allow the shame to dissipate from his son, who dared speak next more resolute.

“ Then I’ll go — perhaps he’ll remember me yet. I’ll take fifty men and— “
“ Twenty-five. “
“ Twenty-five men. And ride out down the Queen’s Road to meet him. That’s where he ought— “
“ You will inquire upon his business and reason for mobilizing. Accommodate with lodgings. “ If he doesn’t kill you on sight.
“ Here? “
“ No. None will be here to receive the either of you. “ Alive or dead. “ You’ve your own estate. “
“ But it’s so small. Barely half the size of this one. “
“ So I should recall. Send some of your men back here if it gets too crowded. “

To communicate this was final, the Baron reached for the pewter pitcher set upon the table and poured from it. A bit of the wine splashed past the goblet rim, too rapid, but it seemed to matter as much as his son’s defeated silence. None.

“ Isn’t it quite the many miles, where you’re headed. “ The old man inquired rhetorically, the pitcher landing in a pointed thunk. His signed ring clicked against the goblet as he picked it up in quick succession. “Or are you waiting for him to get here instead, come bursting in through the backdoor? “

A touch more forcefully than he knew to be safe, Aukust pushed himself up from his seat, chair legs lamenting loudly against the stone floor. He stifled both denial and farewell, positively marching out the door that lay ajar at the other end of the hall. His father watched him go, staring a swordpoint into his back, and he could feel every second of it.

*​

The Queen's Road​

There was no mistaking the banners, even in the rain that misted down from above and cast a gauze of grey upon every colour and detail. Tourmalet hues and motifs. Young lord Aukust Rodhan exhaled, half relief half dread, breath visible in the sudden chill that’d descended to stab every hopeful soul in the back. Perfect spring.

His damp woolen cloak smelled positively of sheep and it made him feel no more confident. He hid it behind a smile, one so wide it was clearly plastered on. They carried two Rodhan banners in their midst, for symmetry’s sake, one on both sides of him. His hand rose at the advancing troop before his voice did, like such a silly little gesture would convince anyone determinate to bury him to do anything else.

“ Salutations, good folk, you who should travel beneath the banners of Orland til Tourmalet, Lord of Iron Gate and — I should hope — My friend. “ He begun, watching the armed men as they rippled to attention. With what intent, he wouldn’t let himself speculate, going on.

“ I am Lord Aukust Rodhan, come in behalf of my father, the Baron Rodhan, Lord of these Lands. Mine is to request audience, as word of your visit has failed to reach us. “ He paused, just for a second, adjusting the hood about his head. It did nothing for the droop of it, how it kept drip dropping rain in front of his eyes.

“ Will you grant me the honour? “

 

[Lysanne Shard]

The carriage traversed down the uneven path. Lysanne sat comfortable in plush seats inside the covered cart. The motion of the carriage had a soothing and drowsy effect on her. If it weren't for the storm of marching men's footsteps behind them, she could have fallen asleep. There was a lullaby in the soft creaking of the wooden frame and the clop of hooves. With two long fingers, she moved the curtain and glanced out the window, watching the dense forest flash past.

The trees were glistening from the rain. It always felt like nature became so much greener during a rain. So green that you could almost taste the chlorophyll in the air you breathed. The entourage rattled along the forest path and her thoughts drifted to nothing and everything all at once.

Lysanne was dressed in a meticulous tailored midnight blue dress that hugged her slender figure wonderfully, accentuating her statuesque posture. The garment, crafted from rich velvet cascaded in folds to the carriage floor. The bodice was adorned with delicate golden needlework, that shimmered subtly in the dappled wearing the night sky.

Beneath her veneer of confidence lay a flicker of unease. Then the carriage halted, the abrupt motion snapping Lysanne out of her thoughts. She frowned, listening intently. She reached for the handle and opened the carriage door herself. The gust of fresh, rain-sweet air was welcomed. The carriage door opened with a soft creak, and a gloved hand reached out, not to be helped down, push it open wide. Lysanne stepped out before any footman could react. “You may have your audience, Lord Aukust Rodhan.” she said at once.

"I was sent ahead. My brother, Lord Orland, will arrive within a fortnight with the remainder of our forces." she said calmly, her eyes never wavering from his.

She stepped forward, boots softly stepping in the wet dirt and her cloak trailing behind her in the mud as she moved closer. “You are right to seek answers. Word of our arrival should have reached you. It was sent. If it failed to reach your father’s hall, then we have cause to share in that frustration. I do regret the slight." She lowered her neck in a respectful bow.

She turned and watched the shadow of a mass, 250 men with retainers, behind the carriage. "This make a rather loud introduction, I know. If it were my decision, we would’ve come with half a dozen. But my brother prefers thunder to courtesy..." She smiled, but it did not reach her eyes.

 

[kristofer]

The carriage rocked as the door opened and, at once, a figure exited. A shimmer of dark velvet and gold. Aukust dismounted at once, walking the rest of the way to whom he’d tentatively recognized as Lysanne. The dark tresses, impeccable posture, but most of all — her violet eyes. He couldn’t really but stare into them while she spoke, mainly out of surprise.

This wasn’t precedented, why would they send—

“ I, too, regret that we should’ve met this way. But— “ He stepped a little closer, adjusting his grip on the reins of his horse. An idle fidget. “ Let it not sour the amiable relations betwixt our Houses, which I’d much like to remain as such. What with the war, many a message and messenger have gone astray. “

His smile was genuine when he finally mustered it, though a boyish sort of timidness kept it restrained, from spreading too wide where it might bare teeth.

“ For that, might you enlighten me as for the— Thunder your brother saw fit to march all this way? “ He swallowed and glanced at the men about them, hideously aware of their presence, then back at her. The rain beaded on the velvet of her dress, like morning mist on a bed of moss.

And somehow, he felt awfully guilty for it.

“ That is— Once we are out of this rain and the road, should you be so inclined as to accept my hospitality, Lady Lysanne. My estate lies to the east from here, down this very road. “

 

[Lysanne Shard]

“My Lord,” she began, "It’s a complicated matter, and while I could wax poetic about the finer details, I prefer simplicity in times like these.” She paused for a moment, letting her gaze linger on his face and the sweet smile. Her violet gaze flickered to his fidgeting hands, the way he adjusted the reins of his horse. It only served to gossip about an unease in her presence, and Lysanne found it... amusing. The corner of her mouth twitched.

“The peasants ...” she continued, her voice slipping into something almost coaxing. “... they’ve taken it upon themselves to block our trade routes, robbing us of not just gems, but of what sustains us all." Her smile softened, and she let out a small, almost disarming laugh. “I’m sure you don’t need me to explain the value of those caravans... Now you can imagine the consequences of such rash actions...”

“So, my brother rides with two hundred and fifty soldiers. Heavy foot. Mountain lancers and crossbowmen.”

She stepped a little closer. Rain shimmered along the curve of her cheek as she tilted her head ever so slightly, not quite a bow, but something gentler, maybe it was submission. "But rest assured, it is not meant to inconvenience anyone, least of all you... My Lord. I who rode ahead, not to bring thunder, Lord Rodhan... but to offer it.” She turned slightly, sweeping her arm with toward the gathered soldiers behind. This conflict with the peasants threatened House Tourmalet's prosperity. House Rodhan's cause is now House Tourmalet's, whether it suited them or not.

“I accept your invitation, and I do so gladly.” she said at last, her tone warmed like mulled wine. She turned half to her carriage, with a nod so practiced it bordered on regal. “Shall we, then?”

 

[kristofer]

There was something terribly pleasant about the way her mouth moved when she spoke. Every word was soothing, an answer that was as reasonable, delivery proper and upright, all without being condescending. Like she knew exactly what he wanted and how, glad to give it. Was this the thing people meant whenever they mentioned her in whispers, the impression stricken to whomever had met her? How out of place it was in this land where people preffered to fight and antagonize, rather than offer anything.

Was there a catch? His father would’ve said there was, warned him to take anything from her. But here they were and himself without the attendance of anyone that leashed him. Whatever he did, someone would punish him for it.

He looked at the men around them when she swept her arm about, pointing out all that generosity and concern for a shared cause. And he let himself keep smiling, a little wider as he nodded. Caught that sight of her turning as a Queen did, suggesting but not really. He’d let her lead this one, and do it, as she’d put it, gladly.

“ We shall. Right away, Lady Lysanne. “ He spoke, pressing his hand to his heart. From there it went to signal his own men that waited, two gestures to prepare that they would be moving back the way they came. Home.

“ And — “ He added, before she should disappear to her carriage and close the door. “ Thank you. For your patience and grace, my Lady. I look forward to conversing further with you on the matters at hand, once we are comfortably around our fires. “

With that he bowed, a fast thing lest they linger more, and turned in a damp flap of his cloak, all rapid movements as he swung a foot on a stirrup and mounted. The horse wheeled around, gathering a trot towards the helm of the procession.

“ To Elmhall Manor! “

*​

The thing that should’ve given the place it’s name, the line of tall and broad elm trees that arched above the road and then around the estate grounds on both sides like sentinels or colums holding up the vault of the sky, yet creaked a leafless and dark mess from the winter. Large, berrylike buds of flowers and beginnings of leaves, but nothing more. The front yard was a mess of mud and gravel, despite the planks that’d been spread on it to keep some shape to the soil where there was most traffic. The servants maneuvered past the puddles on tall wooden shoes, lanterns struggling through the dark that’d fallen.

In the grass and boughs surrounding the cluster of connected buildings that made the Manor itself, other lights flickered. Fire, from where the House Tourmalet men had been instructed to set up camp for the night, find whatever comfort they could after their miserable march through the wet countryside. The rain had stopped, but the clouds hadn’t relented. There’d be more of that, later, but at least it wouldn’t get too cold before the morning broke.

Aukust Rodhan turned from the window, an image of perfectly destitute worry despite his change of clothes. Finery of yellow and maroon brocade, sable fur trim with gold for buttons and the chain around his neck. Pleated collar and cuffs of his white linen shirt peeking to view amidst the Rodhan colours and motifs of sunflowers. Homage and Devotion.

The Rabbit — Whom does not attack unless provoked. One had to figure that was no longer accurate. It was all spurs now.

He crossed the space with the rapid pace of a young man who’d forced himself to reanimate — to go fast was to prevent the indecision to show, be it to himself or anyone who might be watching just beyond the door. There was a guest to tend to and he opened the door with that thought alone. He didn’t care about the war, what his father wanted, the other Barons and their games, the empty fields, not even the damn peasants. But he was made to, for who he was. Whose he was.

There’d be consequences to this. Every damn step. With tension in his heart and his stomach he marched down the candlelit hall like to the gallows, the burned brick scuffing beneath his leather soles. Too new to be walked quietly in, almost snapping. The silence was absolute as he stopped behind another door, not too many from his own.

It was the quarters his mother had frequented when she was still alive. Then, his sisters, but neither Augusta or Agnes were here. The last had been married off during the celebrations on winter solstice not three months ago, for promise of allegiance. That had yet to materialize and probably wouldn’t until his sister fulfill her ‘duty’ as a wife. He swallowed down the bile, staring at the murals of flowers and rabbit hunts on the walls. The dogs, hot on the chase for blood.

He knocked, sharp with the joint of two fingers.

“ Lady Lysanne. “ He started, forcing a louder tone through the door. At the end of the hall, barely visible in the candlelight, a servant passed with a basin of water. Meeting his eyes before rushing away in a pointed click of hinges. Seen.

“ I hope you find your quarters quite comfortable. It isn’t upto the latest fashions, but— “ He paused, shifting on heel and staring at the floor. Felt like he was babbling, showing the insecurity of youth. My father would never—

“ I was hoping you might spare a moment for what I eluded to, earlier today. Over dinner? It’s being— “ Despite the fact none could see it, he gestured down the hall.

“ Prepared. Perhaps I could walk you around the rooms while we wait? “ The hand landed on the back of his head, trying the short cropped dark hair in an upwards stroke.

" If you're ready, that is. "

Were the meager couple hours enough for a Tourmalet lady to do so? To settle down, bathe, get decent. Enjoy the refreshments.

 

[Lysanne Shard]

Not being ready wasn't in her book.

Lysanne's first act upon reaching the quarters had been to dismiss every servant save her own handmaidens.

Second, the bath. She had sank into the steaming water drawn from Rodhan’s wells, laced with oils of vanilla and crushed juniper. The heat flushed her skin to a faint rose, banishing the road’s grime and the scent of wet wool. Her hair darker than a chestnut, was unpinned and washed twice, then combed until it gleamed in the light of the wax candles.

The servants dressed her in front of a tall mirror warped with age. The dress she’d chosen was not too ostentatious. Midnight velvet, trimmed in tarnished gold threads, cut to flatter her slender frame and suggest more than it revealed. The neckline dipped just enough to remind a man where to look, though nothing so crude as to make her common. The trumpet sleeves were long enough to whisper over stone. Jewellery, minimal. A single necklace: a thin black chain linked in the pattern of 'Fool's Dilemma, with a pendant of rough mountain amber resting just under her collarbone.

She observed herself in the mirror without expression. Not admiring, assessing. Beauty, after all, was her trade. Appearance was not vanity to her; it was both her weapon and armour. Pale, smooth. Lips tinted faintly, eyes lined just enough to deepen their violet shade. Her cheekbones needed no help.

“Lady Lysanne.“ His voice muffled behind the heavy wooden door. When she heard Aukust’s knock, she instructed her maid to open the door. The door creaked open not by Lysanne’s hand, but that of an older handmaiden, a woman grey at the temples, her face lined from years in service. She said nothing as she opened it, her eyes lingering on Lord Aukust. Seen. Again. The older woman couldn’t help a quiet, audible sigh as the young lord rambled, before she stepped aside.

Unhurried, Lysanne moved past the threshold. “My Lord,” Lysanne said, letting the title linger softly. Her violet eyes met his directly. “You honor me.” she said. She dipped her head, not merely polite, but graceful, like a kitten lowering itself to drink spilled milk. A gesture soft and fluid. “I find your hospitality most comforting already. That’s worth more than fashion.”

When he had stumbled through his invitation, Lysanne extended her hand slowly, inviting him to take it. “Of course, My Lord.” she said softly. Inside, of course, she found his trembling hesitation wearisome. A tedious display unbefitting a man grown. Such fumbling was the refuge of boys, not those who bore the weight of names and power. Yet her smile remained steady, patient, disarming, and carefully measured. Beneath that courteous facade, a razor-sharp mind weighed every falter, every stammer, how best to wield his weakness to her advantage.

"Tell me, My Lord," she wondered with a tilt of her head. "where do you find your own peace within these walls?” she asked curiously, her smile unfaltering as she gently probed for more weaknesses in his composure.

 

[kristofer]

Whatever anxiety the old woman opening the door had sprouted in him, Lady Lysanne plucked out by its roots in quick succession. He could smile true, meeting her eyes as she spoke. When her hand was extended he took it, touch light like the cradling of a bird, and bent in a bow, head dipping down like he meant to kiss her rings. The gesture wasn’t supposed to touch so it didn’t, just hovered and then bounced back as he straightened and let go.

For how pleasant and accommodating she was, he felt he could do it with more confidence, chin inclined as he took a step back and aside from the door to let her out into the hall. Just the smallest gesture with the palm of a hand to urge her to tread alongside. Half of it was to play time for how her question had threatened to stagger him, the faintest little uh dying in his throat.

There was the true answer, a reminder of it in that room she’d just left behind, but it didn’t feel proper to share. So he resulted to tossing his hand at the very walls around them, some delighted surprise on his face. Feigned.

“ In these long hallways, actually. It is often quiet and— “ He glanced about at the murals and their scenes that ran the entire length of the wall. “ I find looking at the art allows one’s nerves a rest. Despite the um— “ Realizing the implied violence in the chase and aghast prey, he eyed them a bit more sheepishly.

“ Subject matter. There are rather beautiful tapestries too in the grand entrance hall — more peaceful spiritual themes, impressive millefleur and artful touches of gold and silver thread that let you find new detail from different angles — perhaps you spied them on your way in. “ He smiled a little wider, if not expecting that she had. His own father had never considered them much — just something to cover the walls. Dust collectors.

“ All that to say— Rather easily does one find peace out here. “ Self-aware, he shrugged and glanced at the floor absently.

“ How does the bustling Iron Gate treat a Lady in that regard? “ His look sprung up to her, considering that all too composed face.

“ You always seemed rather in your element in those halls. Amongst people. “

 

[Lysanne Shard]

She tried not to acknowledge his awkward pause, but a knowing smile tug at one corner of her mouth. Lysanne’s eyes lingered on the tapestry beside which they passed her fingers brushing lightly along the edge, careful not to disturb the weave. The gold and silver threads caught the candlelight, glinting faintly against the deep burgundy and forest green of the background.

“Art is instructive,” she murmured. Her tone was thoughtful, almost conversational. “It shows the way the world truly moves. Not always as one hopes. Not always with mercy.”

She didn’t lift her eyes to his, letting them linger instead on the tapestry. Slowly, she halted, leaning forward just enough. Her hand extended, fingertip brushing along the glittering red left beneath a fallen prey. “Exquisite work,” she said, her voice low but carrying clearly in the quiet hall. “The detail in the foliage, the layering of the colors… one can tell the hand that made this cared as much for the craft as for the subject it depicts.”

"My Lord.." She straightened slightly, enough to tilt her shoulder toward him. “Do you see yourself as the hunter in these scenes, or the prey?” Her gaze wandered back to the tapestry for a moment, tracing an invisible line along the embroidered path of the hunting dogs.

Lysanne let a faint, measured smile play at her lips, tilting her head as though considering the question. She considered telling him the truth, how the Iron Gate treated a Lady as well as she knew how to carry herself, how she had learned long ago that being “in one’s element” was less about courtesy and more about knowing exactly how to use the room and the people in it. She could almost hear herself saying it aloud.

But she did not speak it. To do so would be to hand him a weapon, honesty was a blade, double-edged, and she would be the first to bleed. If she could wield it against someone, so could they against her. Every truth admitted was a foothold, a lever to twist, a weakness to be exploited.

“The Iron Gate treats a Lady well enough,” Her eyes swept the hall, catching the glint of candlelight on polished stone. Lysanne let a small, delicate smile play at her lips, tilting her head as if considering his question with amused curiosity. "Though…it seems only the truly determined venture to the Iron Gate, and winter makes their absence all the more obvious. I find it… quiet, sometimes too quiet... and dreadfully lonely."

"I enjoy my pastimes." She added lightly, her tone teasing, polished, easy. A mask of charm. "Hunting, for instance." There was a thrill in the chase, in the rush of the hunt, in seeing who yields first, who falters, and who can be driven to their knees. "And I have my quiet diversions as well. The library, of course… I have spent hours among books." ...finding the secrets others think safe from prying eyes.