Date: Late in the day, late in the Autumn ------- Location: The Dancing Destrier in the city of Telos
Cutscene: An Evening at the Dancing Destrier
(Rudyard): A tall glass of water, half-full, sits on a table before a stout, well-groomed older man. He glances among the other patrons with the sort of stern absentmindedness that indicates he casually expects nothing but the utmost decorum from others, and then licks one finger before neatly turning a page in the book he rests upon the table's edge.
(Zosius): A diminutive young man wearing the robe that marks him as a Grand Library scholar's apprentice pauses next to the older man's table, slants a nosy glance towards the book, and then moseys onward to warm his hands at the hearth across the common room.
(Imogen): Down the stairs from the the upper story steps a tall young lady. The twilight blue gown she wears is well but plainly cut from good linen, lightly embroidered around the hem and collar, and showing glimpses of creamy white underdress through the side slits in the skirt. Her dark chestnut hair has been arranged with careful artlessness into a loose chignon, covered by a filmy scarf wrapped loosely around the head and the lower half of her face, transparently veiling her features.
Altogether the woman presents the appearance of a well-to-do traveler, prosperous enough to be treated with respect without attracting an undue amount of attention -- or at least no more attention than must inevitably be drawn by her height, the muted glimmer of her violet-blue eyes, and the clear Meroueni accent when she speaks.
(GM): OOC: Imogen just rolled magnetism by itself, coming up with 37.
(Imogen): "Two servings of your special of the day, my good fellow," the young woman tells a passing server in Ruvic, with a pretty smile and small graceful tilt of the head. "For my man and myself." Then, having made her way across the common room, she slides herself into a seat across the table from what must be the man in question -- that stocky tidy-looking one with his glass of water and a book.
Smoothing her skirts with a vaguely restive air, she leans across the table and says quietly -- if perhaps a bit obviously -- "So here we are in Telos." Her demeanour is a muted blend of excitement and nerves, like a highly-strung filly anticipating a challenging race.
(Rudyard): The passing scholarly apprentice receives only a brief glance from the stocky and tidy man, but the young lady's descent has her footman moving smoothly to stand. He offers a slight, understated bow before resuming his seat. At that statement of the obvious, his lips twitch. It doesn't quite count as a smile, despite the merest twinkle in his eye, because he still nods his head very soberly while replying, "So we are, milady. Telos."
(GM): OOC: Rudyard just rolled composure by itself, coming up with 24.
(GM): OOC: Imogen just rolled acuity by itself, coming up with 30.
(Imogen): Giving her manservant a sombre nod, the young lady is about to resume speaking but then pauses to eye him closely for a moment. Apparently having caught some sign of that subtle bit of mirth, she makes a small moue at him and lets out a short 'pfbt' through her lips before sitting up straighter, clearly more dignified now.
"I've never been here before, Rudder," she says after another pause, as if saying something else obvious could distract the footman from the first statement of it. She shifts her weight in the chair, glancing around the room without really seeing it, then furrows her brow back at the man across the table. "I'm not sure how to go about requesting an audience with him. I don't want to fail again, here." A small sharp shake of her head, and she corrects herself in a tone mixing a touch of sulkiness with steely resolve: "I /won't/ fail again."
(Rudyard): Rudder clearly doesn't think that a 'pfbt', no matter its shortness or gentility, is anything closer to dignified -- he faintly furrows his brow at this, and the young lady's words give him a long pause before he nods. "You will triumph eventually," he murmurs in quiet assurance, and looks towards an approaching server.
Two wooden platters of roast squab and root vegetables, draped in cheesy sauce, are placed onto the table, and the server lingers, possibly hoping for a tip from the foreign noblewoman.
(Imogen): "Yes, but--" She's interrupted by the arrival of their food, which she frowns at for a moment as if it were in the way of her train of thought, before looking over to the server who's brought it. He receives another smile, but it's a little more wan than the one she gave him when ordering. Opening the small tapestry purse tied to her girdle, she fishes out a few coins to place in the server's palm -- probably not the generous amount he was hoping for, but at least it's something. As she watches the man depart, the lanky young woman leans back in her chair with a sigh. "We're running out of money," she mutters.
(Rudyard): Giving the retreating server a bland frown -- barely a frown at all, and more like a resting sour expression -- Rudder leans a couple degrees forward in his upright seat.
"Lady Imogen," he addresses the young woman with a solemn, down-toned intensity. "Money or not, you will always be yourself." A short pause ensues as he gazes across the table, before adding gruffly but with perfect enunciation, "And that will always be enough."
(Imogen): "I hope that I can take comfort in being myself when we're starving upon the streets." The young lady -- Imogen, apparently -- sounds more mournful than mocking. Nevertheless it's only a moment before she turns an apologetic look upon her manservant and tells him softly, "I don't know what I would do without you to believe in me, Rudder. You're my only friend in all the wide world."
(Rudyard): "You honor me too greatly, milady," the stout older man replies, and neatly tucks aside his book -- a small ledger, at a glimpse containing the sort of detailed records and numbers that might befit a quartermaster -- into a pocket of his coat. Despite his humble words, he seems appreciative of the young woman's statement, features solemn and tone lowered. "Let us eat and gain strength for what trials lie ahead," he encourages her, before politely shifting one of the squab platters nearer in front of Imogen.
(Imogen): Imogen sighs again, shifting around in her chair as she plucks restlessly at her skirts. One gets the feeling that fidgeting must have been high upon the list of things she was scolded for as a child. For a moment she just stares at the squab platter, clearly thinking of other things, but finally she does pull a small belt knife from her pouch and starts in on her food.
Some time passes while the young woman chews in abstracted silence. Then, rather abruptly, she says, "I don't know what either of us shall do if he won't agree to hear me." The 'he' in question seems to be a reversion to her previous topic of concern. "But surely he will? He hates the Patriarch in Calentium so, everybody says so, and will do anything to spite him."
(Rudyard): Having begun eating shortly after Imogen, Rudyard chews silently, swallows neatly, and then looks to the young lady with a stolid nod. "You know the political landscape well, Lady Imogen," he rumbles, in his precise and thoughtful manner. "Should the Archbiscop fail to hear you, I am certain you will persevere through other avenues. Even if you have not yet thought of any." A short pause ensues while he glances down at his own knife, where his cold blue gaze lingers for a fraction of a second too long. "The Archbiscop's inattention would not be the end of your road."
(Zosius): Sidling past another customer on his unobtrusive way, the diminutive scholar's apprentice gives the hint of a bow towards the noblewoman's table. He slips out the inn's doors, apparently having sufficiently braced himself with the hearth's radiance against the cold of the evening.
(Imogen): "Hmf!" Imogen exclaims, taking a bite of her squab sharp enough to click her teeth together audibly. "To be sure, it won't be. Truth, I doubt my lord husband" -- she manages to infuse this title with a vast amount of scorn -- "will ever be bothered to come looking for me. But nor will he be inclined ever to lend his own support for an annulment.. it suits his interests too well, I dare say, to be hopelessly wed to a wife who will never return. So he can cavort about with his darling Georgiana as much as he pleases."
The young lady stabs the point of her knife into the next neatly-sliced piece of squab, possibly imagining some other target, before her attention is caught by the scholar making his small bow. Her cheeks flush in mild embarrassment over her display, however small or unnoticed it might have been, and her brow crinkles a little as she watches him go.
(Rudyard): "Mm-hmm," concurs Rudyard politely, and rather noncommittally, before offering the departing scholar a similarly polite nod. He returns his attention to the young woman, brow knitting into a solemn and somewhat hoary furrow. "Your fate is in your own hands, Lady Imogen."
(GM): OOC: The scene fades to black.