(1866-11-15) Mead and Mingling
Mead and Mingling
Summary: Baroness Gisela Quinn attempts to have a quiet drink with friends; Baron Thomas Chandus seeks news of the war in the north; Mistress Arielle Delara seeks company.
Date: Novembre 15th, 1866
Related: None
NPCs: {$npc}
Players:
Gisela  Thomas  Arielle  

Rikton - Lower Rikton - Marketplace - The Silver Cross Inn

The Silver Cross Inn is a far more stately place than its dockside counterpart, filled with members of the clergy and visiting nobility alike. An opulent and clean place, as most places inside the city of Rikton are, and is well swept with fresh, sweet smelling rushes strewn about the floor daily. Small windows that dot the front of the building look out onto the marketplace and its many lovely shops, while a merry hearth crackles at the back of its vast and open room. The maple wood bar is situated to the right of the room; long and polished to a gleam, just the way the dower owner, and resident bishop, of this establishment likes it.

The Inn's tables and benches are all of heavy maple, equally fine in quality and beautifully carved with the symbols of the faith, leaving the clergy and nobility to eat and drink in finery as well as sleep. The smells of fine food with various spices and tastes of sweet honey mead, made at the monastery and brought down the hill to be served to thirsty patrons, can be experienced at all hours of the day. The private rooms are set off to the left, the doors of heavy wood are finely wrought with large silver carved crosses backed by gilt suns and two silver moons in each upper corner.

Novembre 15th, 1866

It's the mead, of course — the opportunity of partaking of it without actually being in a monastery — which has drawn a quartet of quietly companionable middle-aged drinkers to what would at any other time of the year be a secluded corner table in the Silver Cross Inn. (Now, of course, they're sitting cheek by jowl with all manner of strangers.) That they've come from Wayston to celebrate Carnival, is stated clearly by one man's tabard in Arkanin colours, and can be further inferred from the generally rustic attire of the other three, in which leather is much the favourite over silk. Even the lone woman in their company, not the youngest of them and with a healing scar plain to see upon her strong-featured face, is clad in a finely-made doublet of soft dark leather fastened with a diagonal of polished copper buttons, and has a pair of studded leather gauntlets tucked through her belt.

She's seated with her back to the wall and has less to say, perhaps, than her companions, interjecting only the occasional remark inaudible beyond their circle but apparently humourous within it… All seven of their eyes (one fellow is sporting a patch) tend to drift about the tap room, perhaps a natural consequence of coming straight from a war to a festival, and being obliged (on the night before, more by good sense than by the law) to go about bearing no weaponry more wicked than a belt-knife.

Another group of pilgrims in the inn are also in rustic noble attire, albeit wearing clothes of a completely different style than the northern Galenthians. Instead of leathers, the trio are dressed in the fashion of the southeastern Ergonian border marches, in well crafted woolen garments, gambesons with a sun in splendor sewn into their breasts and boots appropriate to walking on flat land or up the sides of mountains. The group is composed of a short, stocky man with a flat face, a lanky red head in his early twenties and a blonde, postured man who is obviously the noble leader.

The sigil is that of House Chandus of Repton March, and they've been imbibing furious quantities of wine since an hour ago, amused at the large crowds of people and chatting among themselves. It's only when part of the crowd leaves that they are able to spot the Arkanins. The blonde man rises up and makes his way over to them, steady on his feet. His companions come too, though a step behind. "Good evening, my lady." He greets.

Shit, we're already on Carnival manners—? Or is he just a perceptive fellow; for nothing about Gisela Quinn's attire or her manner would, she'd think, place her on a step above her companions or oblige her to be greeted first of all. She's got better boots, perhaps, but their cost is perpetually concealed by scuff-marks and in any case they're hidden under the table at the moment, along with the copper-headed walking stick which, in Wayston at any rate, tends to place her at a glance even among strangers.

"My lord," she offers in return, lowering the tankard in her hand, sharing a quick unreadable glance with the man seated to her left. Not the one in the Arkanin tabard, nor the one with the eyepatch — a bearded and greying knight in his forties, dressed similarly to she herself, and silent when she speaks. Which in this case means he doesn't know who this fellow with the suns is either, though… She has seen the sigil before. It's just been a while. "Is there something we might help you with?" she inquires in that same low, pleasant, resonant voice, her northern Galenthian accent matching in every respect the rest of the scene thus set. A glance behind him. Her lips quirk into an approximation of a smile. "I daresay our table is to be preferred to yours, but we hadn't thought to leave it so soon."

A group of new arrivals sweeps into the inn, a gaggle of merchant heiresses fresh from Four Corners. At first glance they might appear to be a group of noblewomen but the lack of specific house colors or sigils suggests otherwise. Among their number is a short blonde woman with arms that might resemble those of a warrior for how muscled they are. However she is unscarred from battle as far as can be seen, her face bearing a youthful quality. That shapely body looks as feminine as it does healthy and strong. The dress she wears is a deep blue color, fashionable and clearly made by a master tailor. Yet the young woman hangs to the back of the group almost hesitantly and when they move towards a free table talking eagerly about costumes and fashion she quietly slips away towards another corner of the inn. Which just so happens to be occupied by what looks like nobles. She offers a polite low dip of her head to those seated at the table and looks around trying to find a free place to settle herself. Hopefully before her 'friends' catch her. There is only so much talk of men and dresses she can take apparently.

It's the demeanour that suggests that Gisela is the one in charge. A noble can nearly always smell another noble; the way they hold themselves tells. Amused by her quip, he returns to her, "Ah yes, well, I wanted to get away from the steerage over on the other side of this inn before we were forced to stay there. Further, I caught wind of the sigil," he motions towards one of Gisela's men, NOT the one with the eye patch of course, "and I figured that for news, you would be best to ask. Now I am being rude; Baron Thomas Chandus of Repton March. My Serjeant at Arms, Lewis and Corporal at Arms, Stewart." He introduces the three. "What news from the north?" The entries into the pub catch his gaze, but only briefly; he's occupied and interested with the Arkanin party.

The men sitting at Baroness Quinn's table pay rather more attention to the Four Corners girls than she herself, first of all because they're new faces, second of all (and more lingeringly) because they're pretty, and indeed would be so even if this weren't the third round; she espies the one coming nearer, out of the corner of her eye, but her attention is more for her equal, as he has just named himself. And, of course, now it makes sense. She nods slowly, looking up at the young Baron with eyes far more considering, and leans forward to offer him her hand over the intervening table. Her grip is strong, her calluses those of one accustomed to handling a sword — Wayston is hardly known for its female knights, but must have at least this one.

"I think," she concedes, as softly as is practical over the hubbub around them, "I met your father a time or two, Baron Chandus." A beat. "Baroness Gisela Quinn of Ghost Hills. Sir Hywel Weston," the fellow on her left, "Sir Hector Bly," that's him with the eyepatch, "and the redoubtable Serjeant Grimes, who has come with us to Rikton as his reward for glorious cunning above and beyond the call of duty at Buckvale, only to find himself on…" She pushes her empty tankard across to him, accompanied by a smile which contrives somehow to be an expression which will not be denied. "Refill patrol."

The man in the Arkanin tabard rises without complaint, bows to Baron Chandus, bows to all present, inspects the condition of everyone's tankards and leaves with the complete set clutched in his capable paws. By happy coincidence — i.e. because the Baroness realised she wasn't going to get out of it — this leaves an empty seat just next to her, to which she gestures the Baron.

Alas much to the young blonde's dismay all the tables are full to the brim. She glances around with a thoughtful gaze and looks back to her friends only to find that they are doing what they normally do in such situations, attract male attention and giggle about it. She considers each of the tables a moment, there aren't many good options but the table the Arkanin and the Chandus groups are occupying might be the safest bet. She starts over that way her steps bringing her over to the table with grace and poise. While she may not be noble she clearly has had some lessons in thier mannerisms and she drops into a graceful little curtsey for those at the table. She straightens her gaze a bright vibrant sapphire hue that sweeps from Gisela and her men to Thomas in a polite fashion. Her tone is just as polite if not more so, its gentle, respectful, but not timid and possessing the accent of those who live in Four Corners. "Please forgive me if I intrude on something of import but your group looks to be safer and better company than most by far. That is if you would not mind the company of another?" She enquires politely and she does speak the truth most of the nearby tables seem to be filled with what looks like either mercenaries or sailors.

Thomas, however, is not unused to female knights. His sister fell in battle during the Thirty Years War, though she was not yet a knight then, and he's got a female squire himself. He takes Gisela's hand into his and shakes it firmly before taking the empty seat. Normally, Lewis and Stewart would seat themselves nearby, too, but like Sir Hywel, Sir Hector and Serjeant Grimes (before he's called away to important drink bearing duties), they're busy staring at Arielle's friends. Stewart, the young redhead, quickly shifts his gaze to Arielle, flashing the blacksmith a shy smile.

"You might have, Baroness Quinn, and well met to you and yours. He'd have been Lord Chandus in those days of course. But, I'm told that peace has finally been reached in that atrocious conflict and well… I wished to know how." The noble's watery blue eyes dart over to Arielle. His eyebrows quirk up, head bobbing reflexively at the bow. "Sit… near us?"

Close to, Baroness Quinn smells not unpleasantly of herbal soap, horse, and black powder smoke; the mead on her breath is strong but sweet as she lifts one shoulder in half a shrug and offers, "What matters is that we reached it. Tell me what you've heard already, and I'll put you straight on the rest — without," she hastens to add, rolling her eyes to invite his understanding of the limits of such a conversation with a chance-met eastern stranger in an inn, no matter his father's bravery, "telling what may not be told."

Then the blonde girl interrupts them with her request and for a moment her broad and tanned Garaili face registers mild confusion. She'd forgotten she was there. She listens, patient but inexpressive, and at last remarks in an arid tone, "You came in with female friends, did you not? I see no reason why their company should not suffice for you, unless you have your eye upon a night with one of these fine fellows…" A casual wave of her hand encompasses the men in her retinue, and in Baron Chandus's. "In which case, won't you oblige me by making your choice in a timely manner?"

The gaze and shy smile from Stewart is met by a soft smile in return from Arielle. The young woman dips her head politely to the redhead as well in greeting acknowledging him in return. Thomas draws her attention back to him and she blinks and offers him a gentle smile and a little nod of her head. "Yes. That is what I was hoping for. If it will not cause any trouble for any of you that is." Gisela's words have her blushing slightly, a rosy hue appearing in her lightly tanned cheeks. She blinks at the woman but apparently the little blonde is not easily intimidated she glances to her friends and winkles her nose just a little. She looks back to the baroness meeting that gaze steadily unafraid and still perfectly polite. "If you wish to speak of gowns and crimes against fashion for hours they are fine company indeed. But on most nights I prefer to find other options and I'm sure they will do just fine without me. I am not here to steal one of your companions either…that would be improper and rude and that was not my intention at all. If my presence bothers you then you need only say so and I shall take my leave." She isn't arrogant or haughty but she does show a measure of confidence and fire.

Thomas glances back at Gisela; he seems rather unconcerned with Arielle and her request, though amused at the other Peer's words. "Mm, yes. Well, I'd heard that my co-vassal and erstwhile enemy, Lord Venantius, sent his Raging Bull Company to help. In fact, I am proud to say that I facilitated the hiring of them by the now Duchess, who seemed rather out of ideas at one point." His chest rises ever so slightly as he speaks; the pride is naked, but at least it's for a good cause. "Were they useful? How did you finally come to terms?" Arielle's rather eloquent (for a commoner) speech has him turning his head. "You're educated, are you not?"

One above, she talks a lot for a commoner. Gisela Quinn eyes her with a tightness about the eyes which most of the ladies of her own house would recognise as a signal of impending danger; and the situation is saved perhaps only by the advent of Serjeant Grimes with a borrowed tray. Not four tankards, but seven: served in order to his lady, to Baron Chandus, to the two knights of Wayston who have been listening (one stoic, one sardonic: it's important to note the difference) to this exchange, to the other two easterners, and then the last one for his own humble self as he loiters upon the fringes.

"Indeed; fifteen hundred of them," the Baroness confirms. "I'd not commanded mercenaries before but they were damned good men, certainly—" She can't help but give another faint, wry smile at the thought. "Better than any d'Armaz fielded against us. But what more one would expect of men from the east?" And this, her steady gaze makes clear enough, is a compliment to his lord father in retrospect, as well as to the Raging Bulls in the present day. Then she lifts her voice and calls to a man at the next table: "Ned, let the girl sit, or it seems we'll never hear the end of it."

A young man who has been drinking alone at the end of that longer table, an outlying scout whose allegiance to her was not immediately apparent, turns his head, looks startled, and vacates his place on the bench which runs alongside it. Another friend for Serjeants Grimes and Lewis, and Corporal Stewart.

Thomas's question is met with a single nod of Arielle's head. "Yes Your Lordship." She bows her head in a gesture of respect to the baronesss as the seat is offered. "Thank you." She seems to have noted the womans ire at her speaking too much and while a kind smile is given as she takes the seat nothing more is said. She relaxes into that seat with grace and adjusts her skirts a moment before her gaze sweeps the room. Several people are studied thoughtfully and she seems to get distracted her gaze flitting over a group of rather heavily armored men. However its not the men themselves she is studying, its the armor. She peers at the make and design of thier brigandine with a rather intent gaze only partially paying attention to whats happening at the table at this point. However she is paying some attention, enough that if she is spoken to she can respond to it. She will let the nobles talk without interuption unless they address her.

"Hah, well, Baroness, they are not actually from the east, but from the west!" Thomas is not so rude as to not acknowledge his drink bearer; Serjeant Grimes gets a gracious nod. It's obvious that the Marcher Baron has a healthy respect for all soldiers, no matter their station. "Originally from Kentaire, as is Venantius. But good soldiers, certainly." He largely ignores Arielle.

With that brash and talkative girl seated and out of the way for the time being, Baroness Quinn redirects her gaze to the young Baron at her side. "They're from the east now," she counters, with a nod of her own for the man who has brought her the glowing golden-brown refreshment sure to bestow an air of tolerability upon the proceedings, "and they'll father eastern children. You may know I've Kentaire across my river, so near I could throw a stone and hit it; I was giving them as much credit as they're due," she offers drily, and drinks deep from that tankard held in her strong, short-nailed hand. "I've exchanged gifts with the Volmars now and again; but, nevertheless…" Kentaire is an odd proposition, to be sure. Baron Chandus may be expecting more and more specific talk of the recent conflict, and of her part in it (to be inferred from her mention of commanding mercenaries, if he hasn't heard her name lately anyway); but another glance towards the nameless blonde commoner suggests that her tongue is more or less guarded very much depending upon whom she knows to be more or less listening to her words.

After a short period of time of being spurned and ignored by the nobles, Arielle appears to wander off on her own.

"So they are." Observes Thomas, leaning back in his seat. "And so they will. In some ways, they are more a kin to us than others. While the Tarris are proud of their Garaili, they are interbred with us native Easterners, and most of the vassals of the Tarris Duchy are of largely Imperial lineage. The Venantius too; they fit quite well." He motions with a nod to the departing Arielle. "Truly, what did she expect us to do? Engage her in conversation?"

"For our Garaili," intones Gisela Quinn, in whose features that barbarian strain is plain to see, "the term 'interbred' is scarcely sufficient." And then another sip of mead, or perhaps the eastern Baron's words, brings a small smile to the northern (ahem, North Galenthian) Baroness's lips. "I think my guess was near the mark," she suggests in a lower voice, "but it was you she had in mind… an early beginning to the traditional lowering of the barriers in Carnival week." She sniffs and shakes her head, not so much at the unlikelihood of such a pairing in theory as the unlikelihood of a man such as Baron Thomas Chandus selecting even the most casual companions from amongst women who approached him in taverns. (She knows where she'd draw the line.) "Now, what did you ask me, before—?"

Thomas is initially amused by his perception of Gisela's insistence on the superiority of the Garaili, noting wryly, "Without Imperial blood, language and culture, your ancestors would likely not have achieved quite as much as they have today. Likewise, your ancestors brought strong governance and martial virtue back to the former Imperial territories. We are better as one people, even if our blood and culture tends towards opposite ends of that people, Baroness." He raises his cup in toast to her, rolling his eyes at the prospect of Carnival. "Perhaps she did, but I am no prize to be won by fawning admirers. I make my choices, by the grace of the One, and her I do not choose."

The toast, Baroness Quinn answers first of all, touching her tankard to his cup; but she's shaking her head. "Perhaps you misheard me, with all the talk in here," and she leans a couple of inches nearer to explain: "I meant only that my family, for instance, is related to every other noble house in Wayston seven different ways in the last four generations. I intend to marry my children outside, in the next couple of years, though that's another box of snakes." She lifts and lowers an eyebrow. "In sum, we think more alike than you supposed."

"Ah! I see, my apologies then, Baroness. Indeed we are. My mother is a Langer, actually, though I suppose marrying into the old Imperial rulers of Firen does not really qualify as marrying OUT of the ancient nobility. Still, we are a stronger Kingdom for certain qualities." Thomas doesn't define these qualities, instead quaffing his drink. "So. You were saying about the war? If you don't mind me getting down to tacks. I suspect neither of us are about pleasantries."

This word about the Baron's ancestry is greeted with a knowing nod, like unto the Baroness's silent answer a moment ago to his assertion that he made his own choices. If he keeps asserting his soundness, she'll keep agreeing with it. "How sharp," she inquires, "would you like your tacks—? It's Buckvale you'd like, I imagine?"

"I imagine you're correct, Baroness." Thomas acknowledges, smoothing his tunic and crossing his arms over his chest. "I'm a soldier. I like to hear how the battle actually went; especially against such a knave as that upjumped fishmonger Armaz," notably, he doesn't add the d' which indicates Aequorian nobility, "and his gang of ruffians. And the Aequorians say that they are about chivalry." He snorts.

A swallow of mead goes down quite the wrong way at that remark. "Chivalry," gasps the Baroness, clearing her throat. She presses a hand to her flattened bosom as she coughs, takes another sip, breathes harder, and sets down the tankard upon the well-polished maple table before her with a remarkably deafening thump. She turns in her seat to regard Thomas Chandus directly, her dark eyes boring into his with a sudden glittering intensity. "I would have you understand, Baron, that what you've been told was a house feud over a Viscount's honour, was a war for gold. Mercenaries in the pay of Adriono d'Armaz were in Wayston before the Lady Jaelynn Arkanin committed her unfortunate error. Men, women, and children of our duchy were taken onto boats in chains, in large numbers, thence to disappear. I have a letter in Adriono d'Armaz's own hand, threatening to behead a citizen of his own," she gives a bitter snort, "Free City of Four Corners, for sharing my bed, before the war began. Where is the chivalry therein?"

"You'll get no argument out of me, Baroness. I think the Aequorians to generally be pompous, overbred fools. There are many good men and woman among them, but their culture largely breeds the self-important type that I have little time for. There are reasons beyond the logistical that we essentially won the Thirty Year War, though of course the next few years were spent undoing that in our own backyard." The latter footnote is something Thomas has much experience with; it was where he went from being Squire Thomas to Sir Thomas and then, in a two short days, Lord Thomas once his brother died. And now, Baron Thomas sits before Baroness Gisela. "Armaz is simply the worst of their lot. I was simply noting that it is even more farcical for them to claim to be conscious of their supposedly impeccable breeding and chivalry when they ennoble hoodlums like that barbarian who raided your lands. And now you tell me that he is a slaver, as well? Well, no surprise. Slavery is a sin, and he should be stripped of his title, but I doubt that in the interest of politics that anyone will go to those lengths. In any case, please, tell me about Buckvale?"

Her initial outburst seems to have done well enough for the Quinn baroness, who having taken another calming breath or two is able to reply in sardonic though not murderously irate tones: "I'd strip him of a damn sight more than that; but now we are at peace." She raises her tankard in a toast she couldn't possibly mean less, and drinks deeply from it. "It's a simple story," she sighs. "We sat outside for ten fucking days because I hadn't yet determined how to retake Castle Rogers without their first action being to slit the throat of Baron Rogers — a victory of the most pyrrhic nature, as I'm sure you'd agree. When a way was found, we struck at midnight, the same hour at which the remaining hostages inside the keep, well-provided with arms, set up a diversion within. Forty-five hundred mercenaries and a double handful of d'Cremani knights — all the house troops having been pulled out already," she leans nearer to confide, "once d'Armaz knew they'd bitten off more than they could chew and sought to protect their own. Another shining example," this in a withering drawl, "of the honour and courage of d'Armaz. They weren't ready, of course." Half a shrug. "I'd had my men on all sorts of drills and manoeuvres, every day, to keep them from sinking into a stupor — we were formed up and charging before even the few they had on watch realised it wasn't another exercise. I think they had around five hundred armed and armoured. The rest were asleep."

"Very foolish of them, it appears, but well done keeping your troops alert and sharp. Troops often and easily sink into a torpor when not properly led. After Tamlin Ford… well, that's neither here nor there. And so, did they resist or fly in the face of adversity? I'm interested to hear in how you took the castles. Fighting in an enclosed environment is, arguably, the most trying of all types. It is frightening beyond all measure for the troops, I've found, and nearly impossible to control. That's where good subalterns, serjeants and corporals make the biggest difference, I find." Thomas stops himself, grins and pours a new cup. "Excuse me for babbling. Please, continue."

That fourth round, intended to be the Baroness's last, doesn't seem to have gone far enough for her liking. It was all that bloody chivalry that did it. She peers into her tankard, raises an eyebrow, and calmly swaps with one of her knights — who doesn't do a very good job of stifling his laughter. "You are correct," she murmurs, and sips from her captured prize. "The men outside ran — north to the border as fast as their little legs could carry them, so many of them bare-arsed it was a frightening sight," she raises her eyebrows in what can only be mock fastidiousness, "but inside the keep, we had a job of work." She lifts a hand, one fingertip pointing to the fading scar on her cheek. "I don't normally become so involved, these days," she admits; "I feel my place is at the rear, where I can guide the situation as completely as possible. But I know Castle Rogers better than most, having been a guest there so often — I worked with a knight of mine who has a very good hand for these things upon preparing the best maps we could — but in a night assault in just such an enclosed area, with hundreds on their side panicking and striking out and unable even to surrender in an organised way… well."

She shrugs, and launches into a more detailed précis of that night, from the moment she rode through the open gates, chamber by chamber, her own experiences interpolated with the reports she received at the time and the stories she heard later on, in a seamless whole which betrays that this has become already a practiced recitation, almost impervious by now to the befuddling influence of alcohol. There isn't much 'I' in it, only 'we', until she drawls, "And then I walked right into a warhammer."

"I am of the same mind, with my style of command. I've done both, but been more effective controlling the battle from close enough to be aware of what is going on and encourage the troops, but far enough to not be sucked into battle myself. Sometimes it's unavoidable… sometimes, like you did, you must throw yourself in directly. Admirable, Baroness." Thomas chuckles at the last detail. "Unavoidable on occasion, as we both know! I was last wounded at the Peace Ball and… well, it's not a pleasant process. But in pursuit of duty to our lieges, it is the price we pay, yes?"

"Oh, everything of value has a price," is the Baroness's opinion, "and the more one is responsible for others, the higher it tends to be." Which she assumes a man in her position will understand with no more needing to be said. She does however, eyeing him, inquire: "The Peace Ball…?" For she was not among those present upon that legendary occasion, when the Archduchess Anca Arkanin amongst others lost her life. She rarely ventures outside Ghost Hills.

"Aye, that revolting event which took place in your Duchy's capital, intending to ensure peace among the Kingdoms. It failed that night and it failed later on and many good souls were taken. Clearly, the Evil One was at work that night and many after." Thomas frowns, shaking his head. "You know, the Lady Jaelynn saved my life that night, before she too was badly wounded. I suspect that it was the wound which addled her mind, poor girl."

The long span of moments before Baroness Quinn speaks, contains the suppression of a great many personal observations and opinions. "There's a…" She breathes out. "I was going to say a young man in my fief, but though he doesn't seem it he's older now." We all are. "A fool, a simpleton, injured as a child and touched in his own way, who performs with the greatest devotion simple tasks for the priest of the church nearest my castle. He's always — trimming the candle-wicks, or sweeping the aisles, or mending the surplices worn by the choir boys. He sews a neat hand; he's always willing; he has a sweet and biddable soul." She suppresses her next words with a swallow of mead, and adds, more diplomatically, "There is a place for each of us in this world."

Of course, when some ghastly error is made, when a creature of addled wits is the free and independent daughter of an Archduchess and none has the courage to constrict her…

Thomas folds his hands together and leans back in his seat, amused by the comparison being made. "Well, I do suppose that is true. Forgive me, Baroness, if I am more fond of certain types than others. The One loves all, indeed. Baron Chandus of Repton March, however, lacks the infinite wisdom and energy of the One and therefore must confine himself to caring for only the lackwits which inhabit his own fief. Not to mention those crippled by war of late. The burden is one that rewards in its fulfillment but still, saps the energy to deal with someone else's, if you understand?" His eyebrows shoot upwards, expressively putting emphasis on his question.

"My lackwit," his new acquaintance utters gently, answering his question with a slow nod, "has three meals a day and a roof over his head, and shall do as long as his behaviour warrants it." She pauses. "Some may consider I just fought a war for someone else's; but my word upon it, Baron, I did not."

"As do mine, Baroness. We can therefore be forgiven if we do not take care of others', then, as we take care of our own, yes?" Thomas lifts his cup to take a sip.

"… How is it," the reigning lady of Ghost Hills inquires suddenly, raising that thick dark eyebrow she most customarily lifts in these moments, "that you and I have never met? I suppose because you're so young. You've been occupied in the Succession War, and we went another way."

"Precisely, my dear Baroness!" Thomas notes with a chuckle. "I was a young lad in the Thirty Years War where my father and sister perished. The closest I got to serving Galenthia was an expedition with my uncle Sir Philip to punish the Caltu tribesmen. When I was finally old enough, I squired for my brother Sir William. He and my brother, Lord John, died at the Battle of the Fields." The battle also known as the Battle of the Betrayer, a name which he poignantly does not use. He then glosses over all of his own actual achievements. "And a host of other things. And now I am here, in the Holy City. Thankful to the One."

The way Baroness Quinn regards him seems to suggest that she has heard one or two snippets left out of his tale; but if he'd rather not say, she forbears to dig. "Well," she allows briskly, "as most people know, I've done buggerall since eighteen-forty-seven. The d'Armaz at least know now that rumours of my demise have been greatly exaggerated."

"And, I'm certain, rue the day they decided to invade the lands that Baroness Quinn call him. Well, your Ladyship, I raise my cup in a toast. A toast to Houses Arkanin, Charing and Quinn, to the Duchy of Wayston and her triumph over the forces of the base, barbaric forces of the fishmonger Armaz. Cheers!" The cup is duly raised. By Thomas.

Such a toast calls for another; the Baroness lifts her stolen tankard and answers, "To the men of the East, old and new, whose courage is such a beacon to all the West; and to the ruination of fishmongers!" Pewter touches wood; and being pleasantly inebriated already she sees no reason not to indulge in another deep swallow of that honeyed liquid which has contributed so much already to her enjoyment of her stay in Rikton. She gives Baron Chandus a slightly feral smile, by way of underlining her words; and lets out a sigh.

Thomas downs his own drink, sliding the cup on the table afterwards. A contented expression crosses his face. "Well, Baroness, this should be an interesting and lively Carnival indeed, and my first. I suppose we'll see, won't we?"

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