"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.
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.
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