Eoti--A New Beginning

Stoic as usual at his unintentionally successful attempt at sneaking up on the two juxtaposed cousins, it was without so much as a blink that Zeyd found his personal space invaded by a cob of corn at the hands of a disgruntled Minoa. He was used to her antics and had been for years, and so it was with ease that he ignored her comments, instead looking between the two noble children as if assessing their condition which, much to his relief, seemed to be well within the acceptable range to carry on without incident. Yild, however, was looking slightly uneasy, but Zeyd knew full well the source of his anxiety. Regardless, his lips remained sealed as they set quickly out again, heading directly toward the manor ahead.

An in-house staff of approximately twenty at any given time (seven of which had formal combat training) were rotated on a strict two watch shift within the main house and grounds of the Oakenhall, though all except four worked service and maintenance positions wherein they labored about unarmed. In contrast, a majority population of Treagan immigrants toiled about in the farmland sections as opposed to the Lochsalanians working within the core building, but that seemed to be of little tactical significance for the current mission. Regardless, Zeyd had taken care to memorize the lay of the land and the interior of the Oaklear manor, preparing potential escape routes accordingly. It wasn’t that he expected trouble, exactly, but such meticulous planning helped him to sleep at night. In truth, the danger was of a much less literal sort, but that was hardly his specialty.

It wasn’t long before they’d reached their destination that Yild spoke up, shakily trying to voice something Zeyd had already predicted days before. There were few things that slipped past the diligent bodyguard, after all, and it wasn’t as if the young man’s intentions towards Lord Oaklear’s daughter had been well concealed. Naturally, the certain ‘negotiations’ of which he spoke were less common knowledge and more of an assumption, but the times when Zeyd’s gut instinct had proved faulty were few and far between. Still, the request that was sure to be made was not something he was willing to comply with, but it seemed his declination would not be needed in the wake of Minoa’s impatience as her determined knuckles knocked at the thick entrance doors.

“Good evening,” Came a gentle voice a brief moment later from somewhere around the corner of the stone porch walkway, preluding the entrance of an elderly lady with features as gentle as the night itself. Her hair was as white as the moon, and her skin almost equally so, and yet there was a underlying current of strength behind her silvery eyes. Zeyd recognized her immediately: Lady Dahlia Ahlmir.

Long-standing member of the Council of Mages, an esteemed Healer and water Mage, and the Master of Cira Oaklear – she was someone of note in the bodyguards’ mental checklist.

“Lord Slauth, Lady Midas,” The kind woman nodded to each in turn, drawing closer. Zeyd simply folded his hands behind his back. “I must admit, I am quite surprised to see you this evening; your arrival was not made aware to me. Regardless, it has been quite some time. I’m glad to see you have grown healthy and well.” Her words, Zeyd noticed, felt quite genuine.

“I must apologize, however, as Lord Oaklear and the young lady are off premises, but come, you are welcome inside to wait for their return. They shouldn’t be long.”



(( Wasn't quite sure how well Gregor would've kept Minoa a secret, so correct me if I'm wrong in assuming that Lady Ahlmir would know who she is. ))

"They're... not here?" Yild managed to cover just how much his nerves had just been eased by speaking before he got the chance to sigh with relief. It was exceptionally strange that neither Cira nor her father were at the manor at such a late hour, but as far as Yild was concerned, it was a favor directly from the spirits. As much as he wanted to confess his feelings- and he did, he really did- the idea of doing so had gotten to the point that Yild felt an ulcer was coming on at any moment. Now he'd have time to plan. To plan, and not to dwell, as he'd been doing for what felt like his entire trip from Tectun in the core. He'd have to fill Zeyd in, at this point. There was little choice. And he could make sure Minoa was back under her father's watchful eye-

"Whose the old crone?" Minoa voiced. And Yild reconsidered. Sometimes, it seemed that sometimes Minoa was the only thing that got him moving out of his mental metaphors. And she was certainly distracting enough. Maybe he should keep her along after all, and Marik would be so busy glaring at her he wouldn't notice the weakness of Yild's personal anxiety.

But that was later, and Minoa was being rude now, to a person who deserved it much less. He'd need to handle that first.

"The gentlewoman before you is Lady Ahlmir. She is Cira's-" Now, Yild would have to be careful. It was of... dubious, knowledge among Lochsalanians that the name Oaklear meant something among mage circles. To admit any knowledge of anything to do with mages was considered something of a weakness among the nobles of the land however, and many commoners Yild had met viewed the entirety of the Council as a suspicious coven, that snatched children in the night. In Minoa's own case, she shared the sneering detest that the capitol's aristocracy adopted as policy, and the only chance of her ever offering Lady Ahlmir any sort of courtesy were directly correlated to her being kept in the dark on such matters.

Yild was aware, vaguely, of Cira's own abilities. But was just as certain that such things would fade to the background when they were together. Magic was something for backrooms and stuffy towers. Not the work of the governing class. It was something she'd grow away from with time. But whatever her arts, Dahlia Ahlmir was a venerable and wise Council to Yild's beloved, and he would think no less of her for the considerable power he knew she possessed. She had been nothing but kind and wise as far as Yild knew her, and such things mattered far more in his mind.

"-tutor. Like your instructors, Minoa. And she deserves your courtesy. It is a pleasure to see you again, milady."

Minoa grumbled something under her breath about her own instructors, and something about old people smelling funny, but a glare from Yild, and she seemed to take the hint, grumbling an apology under her breath. Not expecting anything better, he offered Lady Ahlmir a respectful bow, and his own apology.

"I apologize for not sending word ahead. I'm afraid we've had to remain secretive in our travel plans. I'm travelling with the High Diplomat, Lord Midas- err, as you seem to have guessed," Yild admitted, noting she already seemed to recognize Minoa from Yild's own accounts of her. "I myself am only going as far as Revelry. Governor Tarson is resigning, and I've been appointed Lord-Governor in his stead. But the caravan contains several Ra'an delegates, and with tempers as they are this close to the coast, we can't take any chances of someone hearing and doing something foolish."

Yild realized that he might not have even told Marik of such a thing, but hadn't hesitated to tell Cira's wise teacher. Something about her just made her easy to trust, and Yild couldn't even conceive of her sabotaging their efforts, despite her magehood. He wondered if she had ever even considered hating someone before, as some hated the Ra'ans now. "But I apologize, I'm keeping us outside. Thank you for the hospitality- we'd be happy to wait here until the lord of the house returns."

"You have any booze in this place, grandma," Minoa asked, in lieu of her own consent. Yild had been about to ask if she had a key to the manor, but it seemed that his cousin had already succeeded in jimmying the simple door lock while he wasn't paying attention, and the door was now half open. Hopefully she hadn't damaged it too badly.

Subtly, Yild shifted to Zeyd and whispered. "Let's make sure she doesn't do that inside the house. I'd hate to add burglary to my talks with Lord Marik."

With Dusk downstairs and the bustle of the patrons well below them, Elyse allowed herself to enjoy Lachlan’s company as they worked away to whip the room into pristine condition. Her mother would surely tease her about it all later, but she didn’t mind. After all, it was no secret that Emira quite liked the young Treagan lad, and Elyse, for all her shyness, had always been grateful for the fact. It was the little things she enjoyed most, though, and this was one of them.

“I could come down more.” Lachlan quipped, explaining that the end of harvest was near leaving him with much more free time to spare. He already managed to make time for her within the week where he could to help out around the inn or offer her company on a meander about the town, but she couldn’t stop herself from enjoying the thought of adding more time to their shared schedule.

“I… would like that.” Admitted, a small smile on her lips despite her back being turned while she worked away to wipe down the window frame.

“But,” She added, turning to Lachlan as she dipped her cloth into the bucket behind her. “try not to spend all of your free time working, alright?”


----

Exacting with his requests and meticulous in his forethought, Gregor was clearly the man of practiced expectation that his title demanded of him. By contrast, Emira was a kind but simple folk, and yet the way she absorbed every word the esteemed patron had said without so much as a stutter spoke to many years of experience dealing with such men, for when she dismissed herself with a slight bow and respectful ‘I’ll see to it promptly, m’lord’, Cira felt herself to be in an entirely foreign version of the Stave. At least, until the hollering from a particularly obnoxious table in the corner cut the illusion.

Nervous though she was for the inevitable meeting which awaited her, Cira took Gregor’s arm gratefully, drawing a couple looks from the more casual inn-goers who’d been stealing glances at them since the moment they’d entered. As such, the night air came with a welcome breeze, willing her to ease.

“He is spending the evening in council with a business acquaintance; I would not want to disturb him.” Cira explained to Gregor, politely subverting his offer. “I don’t expect he’ll trail far behind us, regardless.”

It was true, her father would undoubtedly be no more than a full watch longer, but she relished the idea of congratulating Yild without the man imposing silent expectation on her as he was most certain to do.




(( Keeping 'er short to get us moving. ))

Despite Gregor's practiced disinterest, the efficiency with which the Stave's hostess took in his tirade did not go unnoticed. In general, when he spoke to peasantry that had assumed any sort of managerial stance, his policy was to bombard them with enough bits of information that hopefully at least a few sunk through. Only in the capitol did he really expect his usually painfully specific plans to actually be followed to the letter. Perhaps this time, he would be pleasantly surprised. Perhaps- but he still doubted it. At the very least the end of the day would resolve into his own daughter's wits against those of a few yokels, and as much as he chastened her behavior, Gregor was wise enough to realize that Minoa was quite good at the elusive little underhanded tricks she had devised.

She took after her father that way.

Careful to slow his own pace so as not to drag Cira with his usual brisk routine, Gregor escorted her out of the bar, offering a dark glare to the single coachguard that was unfortunate enough to linger in their way- such would probably leave him more sober than a night of sleep and an apple could manage. Cira's reply about her father's whereabouts came as no surprise. It was all well and good that the lord Oaklear was conducting some under-counter business. Gregor would see about finding out the nature of the transaction later. If it was something he could hold over the other Lord's head in noble spheres...

Gregor sighed. Plotting to undermine his nephew's soon to be in-laws right in front of the future bride. Such ridiculous backstabbing urges just went to show that he was simply too engrossed in the Ra game already. He'd need to be careful that these unnecessary schemes didn't become a habit when there were so many actually necessary ones to think about. Fortunately, the short search he needed to find Everett outside was enough to have his head clear by the time he spoke to Cira again.

The former pastor was a man of thirty, only slightly taller than Gregor, and with a lean but sturdy shape. His features were rough, but not unpleasant, with sandy hair cut short as if he might go back into the choir any day. His simple leather lacked the unique flair of some of the other mercenaries, but the fact that a book satchel accompanied his sheathe was enough to mark him at least as a learned man. Gregor wasn't quite sure what had driven him from cloth to sword, but had managed to note that, despite a thick leather glove over his right hand only, he was in fact ambidextrous, something that some capable sellswords used to double their price if they could prove it enough as an advantage. When Gregor finally found him with Cira however, his hands were used only in engaging a small leaflet, which he folded at their approach, and rose to attention.

"Milady, this is Everett. Everett, Lady Cira Oaklear." Everett offered Cira a small bow upon the introduction, his hands closed together. Gregor pointed his finger meaningfully at the coachguard. "You are to accompany her to her manse on the Oaklear Estate. Don't tarry, and stick to the main roads."

"I would love to sir." In anyone else, his phrasing would seem either false or the lead in to an excuse. But from the former priest, it was his word. "I've been on my horse for far too long now. The walk will do me good."


Gregor turned his attention back to Cira and smiled.

"I'll make some rounds tomorrow, during the day, and pay a visit to you and your father myself. But for now, I must be off. A pleasure to see you, Cira." Cordially, Gregor offered a short, half-bow, as a gentlemen should, and left the young noblewoman with her guardian for the evening.

Everett scanned his brown eyes over the fields nearest the caravan, the nagging feeling of the dangers the night held very nearly reaching his face, even through his determination to be stoic. Too many hours on the road, and his nerves were beginning to fray. But he exhaled deeply, and let his anxiety pass, offering Cira only the best and most reassuring smile he could manage.

"Whenever you are ready, milady."