Private Trouble at the gate [M]
- Thread starter Laric
- Start date
Another shiverful breath of autumn passed through the manor grounds.
Garrick remained steadfast, right arm behind his back, his posture so precise that not only it would do an impression even at the royal court - it betrayed the deep confusion the more the old majordomo tried to hide it.
This man had not parted with the lord amiably, last time he was there. And then, the lord went missing for a night, returned home after the rest of the hunters. The maids said, the lord acted like someone pondering a dalliance, and his clothes told the part as well. Before the current Hunt's departure, once more leading the men himself rather than staying with his duties (much like his grand ancestor, Garrick had to admit) - lord Thornley gave an order to accommodate the viscount's son should he ever arrive. What a very odd turn of events. One had to wonder if young Delirien managed to charm the baron out of his rational mind.
"Welcome to Thornhall," the servant announced, tone steady and measured, as the stablehand approached Laric to take the horse's reigns and lead it to the stables. Garrick's blue eyes measured Laric head to toe, never quite meeting the man's gaze. A curt, polite bow was offered. "Please, follow me inside, young master Delirien, it would be my pleasure to extend hospitality to you once more. It delights an old man to see you in the same capacity as you were once wont to visit in the years past. To what do we owe the pleasure?"
The halls inside were dimly lit, as ever, it would seem, candle holders to Shroud lanterns. Garrick didn't step ahead, as if looking whether Laric would remember the way, choose it for himself. Dining hall, where he would be served refreshments of choosing? The small library, with its heavy ornaments and mythical beasts carved into bulky chairs and thick-topped tables? The waiting room, just to the left, the only one that had some sense of levity added to the stern decor, thanks to mistress Dolores?
Garrick remained steadfast, right arm behind his back, his posture so precise that not only it would do an impression even at the royal court - it betrayed the deep confusion the more the old majordomo tried to hide it.
This man had not parted with the lord amiably, last time he was there. And then, the lord went missing for a night, returned home after the rest of the hunters. The maids said, the lord acted like someone pondering a dalliance, and his clothes told the part as well. Before the current Hunt's departure, once more leading the men himself rather than staying with his duties (much like his grand ancestor, Garrick had to admit) - lord Thornley gave an order to accommodate the viscount's son should he ever arrive. What a very odd turn of events. One had to wonder if young Delirien managed to charm the baron out of his rational mind.
"Welcome to Thornhall," the servant announced, tone steady and measured, as the stablehand approached Laric to take the horse's reigns and lead it to the stables. Garrick's blue eyes measured Laric head to toe, never quite meeting the man's gaze. A curt, polite bow was offered. "Please, follow me inside, young master Delirien, it would be my pleasure to extend hospitality to you once more. It delights an old man to see you in the same capacity as you were once wont to visit in the years past. To what do we owe the pleasure?"
The halls inside were dimly lit, as ever, it would seem, candle holders to Shroud lanterns. Garrick didn't step ahead, as if looking whether Laric would remember the way, choose it for himself. Dining hall, where he would be served refreshments of choosing? The small library, with its heavy ornaments and mythical beasts carved into bulky chairs and thick-topped tables? The waiting room, just to the left, the only one that had some sense of levity added to the stern decor, thanks to mistress Dolores?
"I see." Garrick seemed ironclad in pleasantries, his fatherly tone schooled to perfection. Something about him was echoing in Walter's high walls, as if the old servant was presenting not as a human nor a man, but a majordomo exactly - nothing more and nothing less. He did not seem as worn by the invisible weight as Walter, surprisingly. "We are awaiting his arrival since yesterday. Perhaps, my lord has been delayed by the weather. If waiting is agreeable by you, how may we accommodate you? Should a room be prepared, just in case?"
The floors did not creak underfoot, save for some boards, most hidden under the carpet. Those emitted a very similar, peculiar sort of thin, high-pitched squeak. A noise that would not go unnoticed.
"And if you would be so kind to humor me - the household has a query about the cats you brought along, last time. Did those belong to you? We've kept them, naturally, some have proved to be good mousers. Particularly the one that managed to make it past the manor's outward defenses, which isn't an easy task for any cat. Please, let us know if you would like them back."
The floors did not creak underfoot, save for some boards, most hidden under the carpet. Those emitted a very similar, peculiar sort of thin, high-pitched squeak. A noise that would not go unnoticed.
"And if you would be so kind to humor me - the household has a query about the cats you brought along, last time. Did those belong to you? We've kept them, naturally, some have proved to be good mousers. Particularly the one that managed to make it past the manor's outward defenses, which isn't an easy task for any cat. Please, let us know if you would like them back."
Garrick smiled. Anthea, his wife, would like to keep the cats, on account that they would not serve as eyes but as mousers on the grounds. He made himself scarce, after, attention caught by a different servant, and placed a lackey by the door, to tend to Laric should he need.
Minutes passed. A rain started, growing from a drizzle into a heavy waterall whipping the grass in steely streams, darkening the colors and greying the sky. Something touched Laric's foot - the tabby came to say hello.
Anthea peeked in a minute later, the warm smile wrinkling her sun-kissed cheeks, grey hair braided neatly. She offered whether Laric would humor the lingonberry jam tarts and apple pies. Eyes lingered on the filled study place, shifted back to Laric with the smile that was now tinged with sadness.
"Would you like honeyed flower brew, my lord Delirien?" she offered. If grown up boys drunk wine, she would deliver that, too.
Another hour passed before the relative silence was broken once again. The grey outside had turned into pitch black, and most noises died down, though it must have been some time away from midnight yet.
Distant, muffled through mostly-closed doors. Commotion, several feet making their way across the large ground floor hallway, the heavy front doors swung open on the other side of the estate. Something was going on in the courtyard.
Most people who exited the manor proper seemed to be headed to the servant housing in the west, closer to the kennels and stables. Then, two pairs of footsteps, in a heavy sync, resounded in the main hall. One pair stumbled.
Garrick was helping Walter, clothes utterly bloodied and only slightly less reddened bandages peeking through at the right side. The heavy, rain-soaked cloak - already off the baron's shoulders, taken away by one of the maids. Walter had to stop, steady himself against the wall, and Garrick's face darkened with worry as he tried to get the man's arm over the shoulders in support.
"My lord!"
Walter resisted, and grabbed instead the railing of the stairs that led from the entry hall upstairs.
"Dolores?.."
"Still on her outing to Crown's Hold. You do have a visitor, however. Lord Delirien has been waiting in the library since before duskfall."
"Offer him late supper." A slow inhale. "Show him to 's room. I'll see him in the morn."
"Yes, my lord."
"I will be well. Sooner than the rest. Let me be, take care of Percy."
"But-"
"By my order." Walter's voice never raised as he leaned to the railing.
"At your command."
And Garrick hurried down the stairs, whatever events taking place in the front - the life or death priority.
Minutes passed. A rain started, growing from a drizzle into a heavy waterall whipping the grass in steely streams, darkening the colors and greying the sky. Something touched Laric's foot - the tabby came to say hello.
Anthea peeked in a minute later, the warm smile wrinkling her sun-kissed cheeks, grey hair braided neatly. She offered whether Laric would humor the lingonberry jam tarts and apple pies. Eyes lingered on the filled study place, shifted back to Laric with the smile that was now tinged with sadness.
"Would you like honeyed flower brew, my lord Delirien?" she offered. If grown up boys drunk wine, she would deliver that, too.
Another hour passed before the relative silence was broken once again. The grey outside had turned into pitch black, and most noises died down, though it must have been some time away from midnight yet.
Distant, muffled through mostly-closed doors. Commotion, several feet making their way across the large ground floor hallway, the heavy front doors swung open on the other side of the estate. Something was going on in the courtyard.
Most people who exited the manor proper seemed to be headed to the servant housing in the west, closer to the kennels and stables. Then, two pairs of footsteps, in a heavy sync, resounded in the main hall. One pair stumbled.
Garrick was helping Walter, clothes utterly bloodied and only slightly less reddened bandages peeking through at the right side. The heavy, rain-soaked cloak - already off the baron's shoulders, taken away by one of the maids. Walter had to stop, steady himself against the wall, and Garrick's face darkened with worry as he tried to get the man's arm over the shoulders in support.
"My lord!"
Walter resisted, and grabbed instead the railing of the stairs that led from the entry hall upstairs.
"Dolores?.."
"Still on her outing to Crown's Hold. You do have a visitor, however. Lord Delirien has been waiting in the library since before duskfall."
"Offer him late supper." A slow inhale. "Show him to 's room. I'll see him in the morn."
"Yes, my lord."
"I will be well. Sooner than the rest. Let me be, take care of Percy."
"But-"
"By my order." Walter's voice never raised as he leaned to the railing.
"At your command."
And Garrick hurried down the stairs, whatever events taking place in the front - the life or death priority.
The cat chose to take a half an hour nap on Laric's lap, purring and loafing in a position only comfortable to herself. She wasn't keen on monsters, not even the dogs. The good life served her much better than hunting field mice to survive.
The cart outside was on the side closer to the servant building, and a man pale as a sheet was loaded into the carrier to be taken in. A maid pulled his own cloak over him, to keep him warm. Garrick seemed to be in charge, giving curt, quick commands in Altalusian. Anthea could be seen retreating into the servants' housing, a long separate building to the side, close to the kennels and the stables, giving a set of orders of her own. The torches lit were only by the front doors, other sources of light - in carried blue lanterns.
The cat slinked along the hallways, passed the two maids who were carrying enchanted jugs of water upstairs, troubled looks cast to the doors. A drop of blood stained the second step before the topmost. Another - landed on the way to what must have been the master bedroom.
"Lord Delirien, please," Garrick's voice rang out, a steely insistence carried in the tone, "it is bound to get cold outside soon, why don't you head indoors?"
*
Walter tossed his torn up clothes into the basket and landed heavily onto a stool behind the carved modesty screen, eyeing spring does and flowers scattered in a pattern. He was pale, too, veins pulsing dark, seeming determined to simply wait it out - whatever 'it' was. The bandages around his shoulder, opposite leg, back, and side, were stained rained-out pink and a deep, fresh red that wasn't weeping. As he waited for the maids to lay the tub down with linens and fill it from their bottomless jugs, then toss a heating stone inside, he hid his face in his hands, cussing in a harsher native dialect from the south, closer to the Free Cities. Waited for the door to close, and stood heavily, to eye the fresh shirt and the steaming water with a weary sort of relief.
The cart outside was on the side closer to the servant building, and a man pale as a sheet was loaded into the carrier to be taken in. A maid pulled his own cloak over him, to keep him warm. Garrick seemed to be in charge, giving curt, quick commands in Altalusian. Anthea could be seen retreating into the servants' housing, a long separate building to the side, close to the kennels and the stables, giving a set of orders of her own. The torches lit were only by the front doors, other sources of light - in carried blue lanterns.
The cat slinked along the hallways, passed the two maids who were carrying enchanted jugs of water upstairs, troubled looks cast to the doors. A drop of blood stained the second step before the topmost. Another - landed on the way to what must have been the master bedroom.
"Lord Delirien, please," Garrick's voice rang out, a steely insistence carried in the tone, "it is bound to get cold outside soon, why don't you head indoors?"
*
Walter tossed his torn up clothes into the basket and landed heavily onto a stool behind the carved modesty screen, eyeing spring does and flowers scattered in a pattern. He was pale, too, veins pulsing dark, seeming determined to simply wait it out - whatever 'it' was. The bandages around his shoulder, opposite leg, back, and side, were stained rained-out pink and a deep, fresh red that wasn't weeping. As he waited for the maids to lay the tub down with linens and fill it from their bottomless jugs, then toss a heating stone inside, he hid his face in his hands, cussing in a harsher native dialect from the south, closer to the Free Cities. Waited for the door to close, and stood heavily, to eye the fresh shirt and the steaming water with a weary sort of relief.
He heard the door shut softly, and exhaled with relief.
Then, the door shut again. Walter kept cutting away at bandages, not with a surgery knife - with his own, jaw clenched tightly, breath shaking. The wounds revealed were almost circular, as if from rows on a round jaw with long, triangular serrated teeth. That thing must have been hard to get off once it took hold, and a few spots where skin had regrown were darkened with dips of missing flesh. Hands remained steady, the agonizing beat burning through the rest of the Shroud accumulated in him.
Laric's appearance from behind the screen - startled him. The man moved fast, knife swiftly pointing at the intruder, gaze sharpening. He looked, then, and recognized. Shoulders relaxed slightly. He shuddered, tossed the rest of the dirty bandages into a bucket. Slammed the knife onto a small table, probably used for shaving on any other day.
"Laric-..." He swallowed the curse, lips knitting tightly for a moment. Seemed to force himself to relax, take a deep breath, now pointedly unarmed. "Laric, you..." He noticed the attire, brocade or embroidered pattern in silk for that almost oily metallic sheen. An exhale. "...look... very fetching." The voice was hoarse, still. "Ought to learn to knock, though, for the love of the gods."
A step closer to the tub, he put his fingers into the water, sending ripples. Only a few spots of light - candles on the shaving table, and one burning by the bed.
"One of my duty-bound outings went very wrong," he offered. Stood on a low stoop to swing his freshly healed leg over, into the water, with a low splash. Hissed, almost whimpered - the flesh was still very tender. But he wanted to get clean more than he feared pain. "Ended up in a close scrap with a shroud fiend. It got gruesome. There's more of them around this time in the season, as the moon grows gold."
Another stifled growl, and he stood in the water, then lowered himself down to sit, shuddering as the surface passed each wound. At least he stopped wanting to shiver from the cold. The wounds screamed at him for negligence. But they would unfray. Not in a minute, but soon enough. Better than those two...
The gloved hand dove underwater, out of sight. Only then did he pull the cloth off, and set it against the edge.
"I will be fine. I'd rather you didn't see. Just need to... soak off the road. Pass me the blue vial by the candles, would you kindly?.."
Then, the door shut again. Walter kept cutting away at bandages, not with a surgery knife - with his own, jaw clenched tightly, breath shaking. The wounds revealed were almost circular, as if from rows on a round jaw with long, triangular serrated teeth. That thing must have been hard to get off once it took hold, and a few spots where skin had regrown were darkened with dips of missing flesh. Hands remained steady, the agonizing beat burning through the rest of the Shroud accumulated in him.
Laric's appearance from behind the screen - startled him. The man moved fast, knife swiftly pointing at the intruder, gaze sharpening. He looked, then, and recognized. Shoulders relaxed slightly. He shuddered, tossed the rest of the dirty bandages into a bucket. Slammed the knife onto a small table, probably used for shaving on any other day.
"Laric-..." He swallowed the curse, lips knitting tightly for a moment. Seemed to force himself to relax, take a deep breath, now pointedly unarmed. "Laric, you..." He noticed the attire, brocade or embroidered pattern in silk for that almost oily metallic sheen. An exhale. "...look... very fetching." The voice was hoarse, still. "Ought to learn to knock, though, for the love of the gods."
A step closer to the tub, he put his fingers into the water, sending ripples. Only a few spots of light - candles on the shaving table, and one burning by the bed.
"One of my duty-bound outings went very wrong," he offered. Stood on a low stoop to swing his freshly healed leg over, into the water, with a low splash. Hissed, almost whimpered - the flesh was still very tender. But he wanted to get clean more than he feared pain. "Ended up in a close scrap with a shroud fiend. It got gruesome. There's more of them around this time in the season, as the moon grows gold."
Another stifled growl, and he stood in the water, then lowered himself down to sit, shuddering as the surface passed each wound. At least he stopped wanting to shiver from the cold. The wounds screamed at him for negligence. But they would unfray. Not in a minute, but soon enough. Better than those two...
The gloved hand dove underwater, out of sight. Only then did he pull the cloth off, and set it against the edge.
"I will be fine. I'd rather you didn't see. Just need to... soak off the road. Pass me the blue vial by the candles, would you kindly?.."
Walter was sinking into his own head, pain too much. He felt like an exgausted dog that crawled home after a long sprint. Only to find himself not in a comfortable solitude but in unapologetic company.
"Thank you," he took the vial, tilted it over an open mouth until three white round pearls fell in. Swallowed them. Handed the vial back. "Well, I hoped to see you in the morning, dressed, decent and in higher spirits. You will respect that I am sometimes too weary to appreciate your striking looks and tender manner, so you will knock and be let in from now on. If you will not, I may start locking the door, because I do reckon that I deserve both privacy and dignity." Fingers curled around a length of cloth, wetted it, started brushing slowly at the neck, shoulder, down to the scapula and down the chest.
"Yes, I have destroyed it. Never get clean from all its blood... but it's gone." A shuddering sigh, an iresome, pained groan, veins filled with purple darkness. It hurt. It hurt all over. "Now... Tell me if the road was kind to you. There is a chair behind the modesty screen." The washcloth passed over the arm. Bathing himself with one hand was unwieldy. But he was not alone. "And tell me what are you doing in my room at this hour, though I could hazard a few guesses."
"Thank you," he took the vial, tilted it over an open mouth until three white round pearls fell in. Swallowed them. Handed the vial back. "Well, I hoped to see you in the morning, dressed, decent and in higher spirits. You will respect that I am sometimes too weary to appreciate your striking looks and tender manner, so you will knock and be let in from now on. If you will not, I may start locking the door, because I do reckon that I deserve both privacy and dignity." Fingers curled around a length of cloth, wetted it, started brushing slowly at the neck, shoulder, down to the scapula and down the chest.
"Yes, I have destroyed it. Never get clean from all its blood... but it's gone." A shuddering sigh, an iresome, pained groan, veins filled with purple darkness. It hurt. It hurt all over. "Now... Tell me if the road was kind to you. There is a chair behind the modesty screen." The washcloth passed over the arm. Bathing himself with one hand was unwieldy. But he was not alone. "And tell me what are you doing in my room at this hour, though I could hazard a few guesses."
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A sigh behind the screen. Water splashed into the face, hands pressed to the cold skin, fingers splayed as water ran down both his hands. He was quivering with pain, too tired to even be angry. So he took a few more breaths, straightening. The resonance of his heartbeat felt like it was echoing through the entire tub as his body mended, ever so slowly. The pain would take minutes to numb out with the drug. The drug would make him slow. But he didn't think he had reason to suspect foul play from Laric.
"Laric, listen. You have to hear me." His voice cracked, finally, gaining an edge, uneven quality. "You bloody startled me, appearing like a ghost. There's just been several days of violence and tending to my men and carting them all the way to Bremen - despite the brigands fleeing from marsh wars, ...good gods, man I was ready to put a knife in you before I recognized it was you. What if I hurt you? Can you even begin to consider at least that? I'm touched that you came to visit, but- please, do better in announcing yourself. You know so much better than most, I'm not a gentle dame that will jump and giggle if grabbed out of the blue, what if I actually hurt you, because I don't want to do that." That thought seemed to trouble him, most. It was not just about Laric, and what bonds they were awkwardly trying to rekindle. Something about his humanity, too. Something about not becoming like those things.
An inhale, another handful splash into the face, a hard swallow. He was a lord. The responsibility for all the people in his domain was on him.
"Stay. Do you want anything? I have some elven wine in the... the decanter, leftmost shelf. And a narguile I brought from the south."
He was not going to play a game when a reason for Laric sneaking into his bedroom was revealed, and voicing that Laric's come to Bremen because of what they shared by the campfire would only stoke the conflict. He was too tired to be moved into the slot of inconsiderate bastard tonight. Not that his own concern was not quite valid. The wound he could have dealt if his tired mind didn't catch up - was nothing even a healer could remedy quickly.
"Fuck," he whispered, under his breath, not to Laric but trying to wrangle a thought still ringing in his head in abating echoes, catching up with the rest of his body that didn't feel quite connected with his mind... never did after bloody, dark things like these, until it clicked back together. "If I didn't-"
Exhale, inhale.
He stood again, skeletal hand grabbed the edge of the tub to keep him steady, and wiped the rest of himself. Didn't feel clean, but could not stand the ache anymore. Then again, he would not feel clean until he'd rub the skin raw - and not having dirt or blood or sweat on him anymore had to be good enough for now.
A long shirt slid over his head, arms shrugged into the sleeves awkwardly to keep his right hand out of sight. Stepped into the shoes, didn't bother with trousers with the edge of the loosely draping fabric being just around the knee - he wasn't that well-hung.
He didn't want to be seen until he clicked into being whole again, like a faulty mechanism. He was tired. He was hurting. He was not all there. Andin his room, he chased the servants away until morning because he needed a sanctuary to recollect himself. He didn't want to be seen weak, pathetically scrambling to get the words out in phrases long enough, soothing enough. He didn't want to be forced into a position where he had to fight through himself just to keep composure and bite down on words too harsh. He wanted rest, a space where he could unravel, weep away the stress if need be. A fresh one-night lover, former-maybe-future friend, was not unwelcome, nor was his concern invalid. Touching things, things he did appreciate - if only they didn't come alongside the casual breach of his sanctuary from eyes until he was ready to face people again.
He breathed deeply in and out again while he applied an ointment and wrapped the bandages around his right hand, the regeneration sped up by the heat. He was beginning to understand the Captain, he thought. What a dreadful notion.
"Want to go out to the balcony? Stars get brighter this time of year."
"Laric, listen. You have to hear me." His voice cracked, finally, gaining an edge, uneven quality. "You bloody startled me, appearing like a ghost. There's just been several days of violence and tending to my men and carting them all the way to Bremen - despite the brigands fleeing from marsh wars, ...good gods, man I was ready to put a knife in you before I recognized it was you. What if I hurt you? Can you even begin to consider at least that? I'm touched that you came to visit, but- please, do better in announcing yourself. You know so much better than most, I'm not a gentle dame that will jump and giggle if grabbed out of the blue, what if I actually hurt you, because I don't want to do that." That thought seemed to trouble him, most. It was not just about Laric, and what bonds they were awkwardly trying to rekindle. Something about his humanity, too. Something about not becoming like those things.
An inhale, another handful splash into the face, a hard swallow. He was a lord. The responsibility for all the people in his domain was on him.
"Stay. Do you want anything? I have some elven wine in the... the decanter, leftmost shelf. And a narguile I brought from the south."
He was not going to play a game when a reason for Laric sneaking into his bedroom was revealed, and voicing that Laric's come to Bremen because of what they shared by the campfire would only stoke the conflict. He was too tired to be moved into the slot of inconsiderate bastard tonight. Not that his own concern was not quite valid. The wound he could have dealt if his tired mind didn't catch up - was nothing even a healer could remedy quickly.
"Fuck," he whispered, under his breath, not to Laric but trying to wrangle a thought still ringing in his head in abating echoes, catching up with the rest of his body that didn't feel quite connected with his mind... never did after bloody, dark things like these, until it clicked back together. "If I didn't-"
Exhale, inhale.
He stood again, skeletal hand grabbed the edge of the tub to keep him steady, and wiped the rest of himself. Didn't feel clean, but could not stand the ache anymore. Then again, he would not feel clean until he'd rub the skin raw - and not having dirt or blood or sweat on him anymore had to be good enough for now.
A long shirt slid over his head, arms shrugged into the sleeves awkwardly to keep his right hand out of sight. Stepped into the shoes, didn't bother with trousers with the edge of the loosely draping fabric being just around the knee - he wasn't that well-hung.
He didn't want to be seen until he clicked into being whole again, like a faulty mechanism. He was tired. He was hurting. He was not all there. Andin his room, he chased the servants away until morning because he needed a sanctuary to recollect himself. He didn't want to be seen weak, pathetically scrambling to get the words out in phrases long enough, soothing enough. He didn't want to be forced into a position where he had to fight through himself just to keep composure and bite down on words too harsh. He wanted rest, a space where he could unravel, weep away the stress if need be. A fresh one-night lover, former-maybe-future friend, was not unwelcome, nor was his concern invalid. Touching things, things he did appreciate - if only they didn't come alongside the casual breach of his sanctuary from eyes until he was ready to face people again.
He breathed deeply in and out again while he applied an ointment and wrapped the bandages around his right hand, the regeneration sped up by the heat. He was beginning to understand the Captain, he thought. What a dreadful notion.
"Want to go out to the balcony? Stars get brighter this time of year."