New Manor, New Guest, New Life
Summary: Newly titled Dame Guinevere receives her first guest at Brandywine Manor, amidst much construction.
One particular section of the barony, Brandywine Manor and its lands, has been a flurry of activity of late. Many men are building housing, silos, and other infrastructure. The manor itself is in the process of being minimally refurbished to make it more habitable. A smiling Guinevere is speaking with her seneschal, nodding to much he says and pointing toward a currently vacant area.
From the south, riding a pale horse, is one unarmored and weary knight approaching a village for a night's rest. He reins his equally weary mount in at seeing the late construction, just watching it in silence.
A few guards note the incoming rider, one hurrying over to the speaking pair to inform them. Guinevere smiles at the young man, then starts toward the edge of the work site to greet the newcomer. Her seneschal stands protectively by her side.
Taran allows the guards to take the reins of his horse, still studying the scene with silent, tired curiosity. Attention being paid to the seneschal near Guin, and apparently taking orders from her.
Guinevere blinks a moment, her smile growing once she recognizes the man. Offering a curtsey, she greets, "Brandywine greets Sir Taran." Sharp eyes note his state, prompting her to ask, "Might you desire a room for the night or had you the intention to continue onward toward the Baroness' manor?"
Taran has, it would seem, hit that stage of exhaustion where difficult concepts need to be trimmed down for easier grasping. "...I know not of this Brandywine, mistress," he says slowly. "Whence all this construction?"
Guinevere tilts her head, then blushes softly. "My apologies. All before your lordship's eyes is Brandywine, the land of my late father, Sir Osrik, Baronial Champion of Argent Meadows." She motions for the seneschal to continue with his work. "I thank thee," she says softly to the man before he dutifully bows to the pair and heads off. "The construction, Sir Taran, is the rebuilding of his home and lands. Yet I see the fatigue upon your visage. Might we continue the discussion in the morn? Or, mayhaps, over supper?"
Taran studies the construction, the manor, and then some minutes studying Guinevere herself. "It is most late, my lady, and your staff are already taxed with the work of rebuilding. I sought no more than an inn-room, as I must onward to Amber in the dawning. Your offer is most gracious," he finishes, in the somewhat dead tones of someone running mostly on automatic.
"Then allow me the pleasure of saving your coin whilst providing me the honor of entertaining my first guest," Guinevere insists hopefully. In an old nervous habit, she begins gnawing on her abused lower lip. "A meal shall be prepared, with or without your presence, and it is far too much for me alone."
Another long regard, and then...Taran takes a slow, deep breath, straightening up in the saddle as if drawing reserves from some hidden quarter. "...I am honored, my lady," he answers in a more normal tone.
Emerald eyes alighting, Guinevere cannot keep herself from beaming a grin and clapping her hands together, although she stops short of squealing. "The honor doth be mine, my lord." She turns and starts toward her own mount, which is being brought over by one of the younger men at work. "I thank thee," she says to this one in her employ as well. "Sir Taran, might I inquire as to your recent doings? With all due respect, you seem quite tired."
Taran dismounts then, patting his mount's neck in a habitually affectionate manner. "Most recently, a patrol route through Brentinor, my lady," he says quietly. "On my way back to Amber from lands my kinsmen hold elsewhere. As I am no Shadow-shifter as yet, I must take the paths, and the route is long."
"Long, indeed," Guinevere replies before being helped upon her own mount. "'Twill be nigh a full day's ride to the docks, unless your steed is pushed." She leads the way to the manor, a mere 15-20 minutes away. Looking over at the man in silence, she seems to assess him more fully. "I trust all is well, my lord?"
Taran nods slowly. "At least, it has been during my ride," he says. "I have not required the weight of my armor as yet, at least." He walks with the somewhat stiff gait of someone who's been in a saddle for *many* hours. "I have received no news on the road, my lady, nor seen it pass me by the way."
"Good." Guinevere, by contrast, has been on her feet too many hours to -not- ride home. Keeping her pace slow enough for Taran to walk, she admits, "I have little familiarity with news from Amber. Doth there be any of importance?" Another small blush. "Many pardons, Sir Taran, if my questions further tire you. They can wait until morning."
Taran gives her an odd look. "So far as I know, no," he says simply. "But as I said - I have been riding, and sailing, and ...news oft travels by other routes."
Guinevere catches the look and cants her head, smiling nervously. "Why do you look at me so, my lord?"
"Because you have asked me twice, my lady, when I had said I had none," Taran answers quietly. "Are you waiting for some news from Amber, then?"
Guinevere blinks, cheeks burning once more as she looks forward and clears her throat. "Oh. Nay, my lord. Nothing in particular..." They near the well, the halfway point between the manor and the work site that will become the village. "I know not why I grow nervous around you, Sir Taran," she admits with a crooked smile. "Please pardon my mistakes, as there will surely be many."
Again, that slow studious gaze. Then, quietly, "To the weary traveler, my lady, there is no sweeter paradise than a soft bed and clean sheets. Think nothing of it."
"Should you require bed more than heavy fare, I shall have food brought to your room for you to consume should you awaken in the dead of night." Guinevere continues along, slowing her pace further to allow the man some ease. "And your position? Does it still bring you fulfillment, my lord?"
Taran blinks a few times at this, evidently trying to fit it into the conversation to date. "...I beg your pardon?" he asks, confused. "I do not understand."
"As advisor to the Crown," Guinevere explains, realizing her words are not keeping up with her mind. "Last we spoke, you were relatively new to the role. I was simply... inquiring after your welfare."
Taran lipquirks. "I have not been called upon to perform it," he says. "And well enough so. It is an empty title, my lady. I thought you meant my duties to my family or my Order."
"Oh. Well... I suppose 'twould be proper to ask after those as well, if you are inclined to speak on them." Guinevere chuckles softly, lighter and perhaps even more ladylike than the last time they conversed.
Taran shakes his head. "Not so much as I am inclined to ask about yourself, and this manor, my lady."
Guinevere lets out a slow breath as the manor broadens in their vision. Stable boys are at the ready now, one an older, grizzled man and the other resembling him enough to appear to be his son or grandson. "Much hath occurred, Sir Taran. I had given up much hope of discovering my true lineage with only the locket as a clue. I came here to plant roots of mine own and return to the homeland I had never seen. Yet the Unicorn favors orphans and led me upon a path so winding, it must have doubled back over itself several times." Another chuckle before she shifts her cloak a slightly to the side to reveal an intricate chatelaine. "Gran kept this. Apparently, 'twas commissioned by Sir Osrik for his..." She frowns a bit, face reddening again. "Secret love, as records and memories of those in the barony show. His drawings include a woman whom I resemble and one who is almost certainly Gran in her middle years. Other, lesser evidence exists as well." She dismounts and allows her horse to be taken away.
Taran nods. "And this manor? The Baroness funds its construction, my lady, or no? Do you owe fealty?"
Guinevere nods once. "'Tis still part of the barony. Considering neither I, nor Duke Wealde, had the coin to fund such an operation, an agreement was reached with the Baroness. In truth, as my father had no next of kin known at the time of his death, the lands reverted entirely to her. By her grace alone have his worldly goods been returned to his progeny. As such, fealty was a predictable requirement."
"Fealty is required of any landholder or soldier," Taran says quietly. "I was only uncertain to whom it was sworn...it seems a very new project."
"Yea, to the Baroness. It had slipped my mind that you were not present at the fair." Guinevere sighs a bit as she heads inside. The main hall shines with renewal, as do the dining room, kitchen, main bedroom and a pair of guest rooms. Minimal effort has been put into restoration thus far, with most of the focus upon building the village. Paintings which have seen better days have been cleared of cobwebs, but the years of disrepair have taken their toll. "As your lordship can see, there is much to be done." It is rather bare, containing only a skeleton crew. The one who opened the doors for them receives direction. "Sir Taran hath graced us with his company for the night. Please prepare an extra..." Pausing, she lets the man do his job by altering her words to a more vague, "Please prepare accordingly."
Taran smiles at the correction, and tells the man, "Sir, a rush-bag and blanket in a room with a roof above it will be more than adequate an it come to that. Do not put yourself to any hardship."
The butler bows deeply, an almost exaggerated movement as though imitating the gesture. "Very good, Sir. Dame Brandywine." Similarly, his speech sounds overly formal, as though only just beginning this role. Guinevere offers him a proud smile, then looks to Taran and guides him toward the parlor, the only other public room which has been made suitable for company. "Wine? Brandy?" She moves to the wetbar to search for other options. "Scotch?"
Taran shakes his head. "I am too wearied for drink, my lady," he says quietly. "I should quite fall asleep where I stand, to drink any. The offer is appreciated, of course." His jaw locks briefly, as one does to clench on a yawn. "I thank you for the offer of a bed, but...truly, I am poor company."
Guinevere smiles warmly, genuinely, giving a glimpse of the woman beneath the noble dress. "I invited you in not because I lacked companionship, but for your clear need of rest. Please, let me show you to your room." She steps out of the parlor, her skirt swishing against his leg in her rush to help the man. Her quick movements have her partially up the staircase before looking back to see how far behind the tired Taran might be.
Whatever reserves of courtesy the Knight's been drawing on, even they seem to be getting low; with a nod, he follows in silence to his room for the night, and then...fwoomp. It would have been a more impressive collapse in armor, but it's probably a more comfortable collapse without it. Head, pillow. Pillow, head.
One particular section of the barony, Brandywine Manor and its lands, has been a flurry of activity of late. Many men are building housing, silos, and other infrastructure. The manor itself is in the process of being minimally refurbished to make it more habitable. A smiling Guinevere is speaking with her seneschal, nodding to much he says and pointing toward a currently vacant area.
From the south, riding a pale horse, is one unarmored and weary knight approaching a village for a night's rest. He reins his equally weary mount in at seeing the late construction, just watching it in silence.
A few guards note the incoming rider, one hurrying over to the speaking pair to inform them. Guinevere smiles at the young man, then starts toward the edge of the work site to greet the newcomer. Her seneschal stands protectively by her side.
Taran allows the guards to take the reins of his horse, still studying the scene with silent, tired curiosity. Attention being paid to the seneschal near Guin, and apparently taking orders from her.
Guinevere blinks a moment, her smile growing once she recognizes the man. Offering a curtsey, she greets, "Brandywine greets Sir Taran." Sharp eyes note his state, prompting her to ask, "Might you desire a room for the night or had you the intention to continue onward toward the Baroness' manor?"
Taran has, it would seem, hit that stage of exhaustion where difficult concepts need to be trimmed down for easier grasping. "...I know not of this Brandywine, mistress," he says slowly. "Whence all this construction?"
Guinevere tilts her head, then blushes softly. "My apologies. All before your lordship's eyes is Brandywine, the land of my late father, Sir Osrik, Baronial Champion of Argent Meadows." She motions for the seneschal to continue with his work. "I thank thee," she says softly to the man before he dutifully bows to the pair and heads off. "The construction, Sir Taran, is the rebuilding of his home and lands. Yet I see the fatigue upon your visage. Might we continue the discussion in the morn? Or, mayhaps, over supper?"
Taran studies the construction, the manor, and then some minutes studying Guinevere herself. "It is most late, my lady, and your staff are already taxed with the work of rebuilding. I sought no more than an inn-room, as I must onward to Amber in the dawning. Your offer is most gracious," he finishes, in the somewhat dead tones of someone running mostly on automatic.
"Then allow me the pleasure of saving your coin whilst providing me the honor of entertaining my first guest," Guinevere insists hopefully. In an old nervous habit, she begins gnawing on her abused lower lip. "A meal shall be prepared, with or without your presence, and it is far too much for me alone."
Another long regard, and then...Taran takes a slow, deep breath, straightening up in the saddle as if drawing reserves from some hidden quarter. "...I am honored, my lady," he answers in a more normal tone.
Emerald eyes alighting, Guinevere cannot keep herself from beaming a grin and clapping her hands together, although she stops short of squealing. "The honor doth be mine, my lord." She turns and starts toward her own mount, which is being brought over by one of the younger men at work. "I thank thee," she says to this one in her employ as well. "Sir Taran, might I inquire as to your recent doings? With all due respect, you seem quite tired."
Taran dismounts then, patting his mount's neck in a habitually affectionate manner. "Most recently, a patrol route through Brentinor, my lady," he says quietly. "On my way back to Amber from lands my kinsmen hold elsewhere. As I am no Shadow-shifter as yet, I must take the paths, and the route is long."
"Long, indeed," Guinevere replies before being helped upon her own mount. "'Twill be nigh a full day's ride to the docks, unless your steed is pushed." She leads the way to the manor, a mere 15-20 minutes away. Looking over at the man in silence, she seems to assess him more fully. "I trust all is well, my lord?"
Taran nods slowly. "At least, it has been during my ride," he says. "I have not required the weight of my armor as yet, at least." He walks with the somewhat stiff gait of someone who's been in a saddle for *many* hours. "I have received no news on the road, my lady, nor seen it pass me by the way."
"Good." Guinevere, by contrast, has been on her feet too many hours to -not- ride home. Keeping her pace slow enough for Taran to walk, she admits, "I have little familiarity with news from Amber. Doth there be any of importance?" Another small blush. "Many pardons, Sir Taran, if my questions further tire you. They can wait until morning."
Taran gives her an odd look. "So far as I know, no," he says simply. "But as I said - I have been riding, and sailing, and ...news oft travels by other routes."
Guinevere catches the look and cants her head, smiling nervously. "Why do you look at me so, my lord?"
"Because you have asked me twice, my lady, when I had said I had none," Taran answers quietly. "Are you waiting for some news from Amber, then?"
Guinevere blinks, cheeks burning once more as she looks forward and clears her throat. "Oh. Nay, my lord. Nothing in particular..." They near the well, the halfway point between the manor and the work site that will become the village. "I know not why I grow nervous around you, Sir Taran," she admits with a crooked smile. "Please pardon my mistakes, as there will surely be many."
Again, that slow studious gaze. Then, quietly, "To the weary traveler, my lady, there is no sweeter paradise than a soft bed and clean sheets. Think nothing of it."
"Should you require bed more than heavy fare, I shall have food brought to your room for you to consume should you awaken in the dead of night." Guinevere continues along, slowing her pace further to allow the man some ease. "And your position? Does it still bring you fulfillment, my lord?"
Taran blinks a few times at this, evidently trying to fit it into the conversation to date. "...I beg your pardon?" he asks, confused. "I do not understand."
"As advisor to the Crown," Guinevere explains, realizing her words are not keeping up with her mind. "Last we spoke, you were relatively new to the role. I was simply... inquiring after your welfare."
Taran lipquirks. "I have not been called upon to perform it," he says. "And well enough so. It is an empty title, my lady. I thought you meant my duties to my family or my Order."
"Oh. Well... I suppose 'twould be proper to ask after those as well, if you are inclined to speak on them." Guinevere chuckles softly, lighter and perhaps even more ladylike than the last time they conversed.
Taran shakes his head. "Not so much as I am inclined to ask about yourself, and this manor, my lady."
Guinevere lets out a slow breath as the manor broadens in their vision. Stable boys are at the ready now, one an older, grizzled man and the other resembling him enough to appear to be his son or grandson. "Much hath occurred, Sir Taran. I had given up much hope of discovering my true lineage with only the locket as a clue. I came here to plant roots of mine own and return to the homeland I had never seen. Yet the Unicorn favors orphans and led me upon a path so winding, it must have doubled back over itself several times." Another chuckle before she shifts her cloak a slightly to the side to reveal an intricate chatelaine. "Gran kept this. Apparently, 'twas commissioned by Sir Osrik for his..." She frowns a bit, face reddening again. "Secret love, as records and memories of those in the barony show. His drawings include a woman whom I resemble and one who is almost certainly Gran in her middle years. Other, lesser evidence exists as well." She dismounts and allows her horse to be taken away.
Taran nods. "And this manor? The Baroness funds its construction, my lady, or no? Do you owe fealty?"
Guinevere nods once. "'Tis still part of the barony. Considering neither I, nor Duke Wealde, had the coin to fund such an operation, an agreement was reached with the Baroness. In truth, as my father had no next of kin known at the time of his death, the lands reverted entirely to her. By her grace alone have his worldly goods been returned to his progeny. As such, fealty was a predictable requirement."
"Fealty is required of any landholder or soldier," Taran says quietly. "I was only uncertain to whom it was sworn...it seems a very new project."
"Yea, to the Baroness. It had slipped my mind that you were not present at the fair." Guinevere sighs a bit as she heads inside. The main hall shines with renewal, as do the dining room, kitchen, main bedroom and a pair of guest rooms. Minimal effort has been put into restoration thus far, with most of the focus upon building the village. Paintings which have seen better days have been cleared of cobwebs, but the years of disrepair have taken their toll. "As your lordship can see, there is much to be done." It is rather bare, containing only a skeleton crew. The one who opened the doors for them receives direction. "Sir Taran hath graced us with his company for the night. Please prepare an extra..." Pausing, she lets the man do his job by altering her words to a more vague, "Please prepare accordingly."
Taran smiles at the correction, and tells the man, "Sir, a rush-bag and blanket in a room with a roof above it will be more than adequate an it come to that. Do not put yourself to any hardship."
The butler bows deeply, an almost exaggerated movement as though imitating the gesture. "Very good, Sir. Dame Brandywine." Similarly, his speech sounds overly formal, as though only just beginning this role. Guinevere offers him a proud smile, then looks to Taran and guides him toward the parlor, the only other public room which has been made suitable for company. "Wine? Brandy?" She moves to the wetbar to search for other options. "Scotch?"
Taran shakes his head. "I am too wearied for drink, my lady," he says quietly. "I should quite fall asleep where I stand, to drink any. The offer is appreciated, of course." His jaw locks briefly, as one does to clench on a yawn. "I thank you for the offer of a bed, but...truly, I am poor company."
Guinevere smiles warmly, genuinely, giving a glimpse of the woman beneath the noble dress. "I invited you in not because I lacked companionship, but for your clear need of rest. Please, let me show you to your room." She steps out of the parlor, her skirt swishing against his leg in her rush to help the man. Her quick movements have her partially up the staircase before looking back to see how far behind the tired Taran might be.
Whatever reserves of courtesy the Knight's been drawing on, even they seem to be getting low; with a nod, he follows in silence to his room for the night, and then...fwoomp. It would have been a more impressive collapse in armor, but it's probably a more comfortable collapse without it. Head, pillow. Pillow, head.