Laslow grins and sets a finger over his lips. “Quiet. Yes, of course milord,” he says, forgetting entirely the definition of silence. He slows until he’s walking a respectful half-step behind his liege. His hands are behind his back, fingers threading together as he plans.
He has questions to ask, inquiries to make. What would his lord prefer? This, or that? A walk alone, or a drink in a tavern with his men? Ah, the walk would be better, no? Of course. Especially considering his lord’s hand. There’s no need to bring attention to the injury, lest some of his enemies get ideas.
Of course his prince would be just as deadly even with one remaining hand, but there’s no reason to tempt fate.
As Laslow thinks the rest of his questions fall into place and answer themselves. The wine over the mead, certainly. The roasted beef in the brioche - if the bakers have it.
Yes, yes. It’ll be very nice.
And certainly not a date. Merely a chance to prove himself to his lord that he can, indeed, last a night without getting into a drunken brawl.
Laslow is back to bubbly as soon as they’ve left the castle proper. “It’ll be right this way, milord. Down the path to the town. Did you want me to saddle your horse, actually? It’d be a faster trip, though of course not nearly as…stealthy as you might prefer. Ah, it won’t be a long walk, however. Perhaps ten odd minutes down to the town. Depending on if there’s a wait in the bakery, perhaps a bit longer…”
He stops his rambling long enough to look up, take a breath and smile. “You haven’t done this altogether often, have you? Taken time for yourself?” Laslow already knows the answer to that and so he carries on with, “You should, you know. Yes, I know you’ve many responsibilities, milord, but you’re no good to anyone if you’re exhausted beyond the point of coherent thought.”
He feels as if he’s slipped into the skin of a heathen penetrating the castle’s innards simply to burst forth and taint the walls.
Regret nearly tugs at what reins keep him intact. Horses were neither an option nor would they do the two any much good. Already, he prefers the solitary silence of his study, the eternal chill that permeates Krakenburg’s halls and not the temporary atmosphere Laslow’s all too cheery comfort provides.
Lips pull thin and he samples the next few moments of falling into stride just beside his faithful retainer with lips pressed far too thin.
“Walking will do. What awaits us in the bakery?”
kianamaiart
gummygunk
izzy806
theartofmadeline
stormborns
areudirty
kaledo-art
