WHO: Ser Artys Grafton & Joanna Strickland ( @wcldflower )
WHEN: Day Six, late morning
WHERE: The Training Yard
It was supposedly a day of rest, but Ser Artys was persisting in his duties nonetheless. There was a blunted sword gripped tightly in his hand, and it flashed through the air. First up and to the left, then back down to the right, a flurry of movement. The squire he was sparring against dutifully defended, parrying each blow and sending one back in turn. This one was new to the barracks, but he had a great deal of potential.
“Watch your back leg next time,” Artys grumbled once they were finished. He brushed a bead of sweat off of his forehead, “You can go now.”
The boy rushed off, and Artys let out a sigh, looking around for his jug of water. During his search he noticed then that there was someone watching him from outside the yard. A lady, it looked like.
“Good morning, m’lady.” He said warily, letting his sword hang dumbly at his side.”Did you need something?”
“Perhaps then, sir, both our apologies go unneeded. It was none and both of our faults at the same time.” Milla smiled kindly at the man. She didn’t know him, but if his attire was anything to go by, she was talking to a knight.
She looked down at her feet, grateful that none of her cakes had fallen, it wasn’t as if she didn’t have to spare but it would be a horrible waste of food. “I’m afraid we haven’t met yet, sir,” she said, looking back at the man. “Camilla Strickland, Lady of Rohoan and, as you can see, an avid baker.” She smiled with a little bow of her head.
.
She was certainly much more gracious than some of the other lords and ladies he interacted with. He tried to imagine Lord Brannon reacting with such grace, or Lady Mei, and reckoned their reactions would be swift and angry.
Artys grimaced, but did his best to pass it off like a smile. “It’s an honor to meet you, m’lady. I am Artys Grafton, of Amaranth. Though I spend most of my days here now.”
at his compliment, emeline looked down at her gown, hands patting the skirt in admiration. most of the time, an average dress would take several days to complete – but as they got more and more detailed, days would soon turn to weeks. so when someone commented on her work, it was difficult not to grin, immediately proud of her accomplishments. “you’re too kind, thank you.” she returned with a smile, going to lift her mask just slightly for a second before fixing it back over her eyes. “there’s no need for titles or formalities here, i’m afraid,” emeline said simply with a light shrug. “i must say you don’t seem to be having the greatest time, though.”
.
Artys blinked and felt a sense of befuddled recognition fall over him when she lifted her mask. She was... familiar, but he struggled for a moment to place her face. He wasn’t the best about remembering names, but he always remembered a face. He knew her, but from where?
------ “Like I said, I don’t come to these things often. I don’t much like formality. Or dancing. I would much prefer to be somewhere else, but I’m on duty,” He lifted his horn of ale, “So here I am.” Then,
“We have met before, you and I. I am sure of it. Have you ever been to Amaranth?”
SHE WAS slowly wrapping her hands. today had been eventful. she had won the most victories. there wasn’t any doubt. and most of those that went against her were fit for the kingsguard. she knew they were probably stricken with nerves. she remembered her first tourney. a dirty, orphan teenager straight from the slums… people laughed at her. but they stopped laughing when they saw her up close… and saw her swordsmanship. even if she used a rusty sword– something that belonged to her father. she showed her worth… and she was sworn into the kingsguard. did she miss it? not so much. she had her freedom now that she left the kingsguard, a sacrifice. she’d never be sworn back… but she didn’t want to be. she was happy to serve the house of kilcarin… to protect briar. she adored her. she just would never admit it.
“wench!” she heard from across the tavern. a sore loser. the first to lose against her. “you cheated.” he spoke against gritted teach. “a woman can’t win a battle without cheating.” a huff left her as she slowly took a sip of her mead. but when he knocked her goblet out of her hand, a long exhale left her before she stood slowly, quickly grabbing his head and slamming it against the table. “and you think a sniveling rat like you would be sworn into the kingsguard? you can’t even hold your sword, child.” she hissed out as her hand fell on the golden hilt of her sword. “i don’t cheat. i’m a warrior…. unlike you. and you offend the queen on her namesday with petty violence. and i will gut you for that offence…. and knocking my goblet out of my hand.”
and as she slowly slid her sword out of the sheath, the guy ran off with his punk friends. she scoffed before returning her sword back into the sheath. she looked over at the person watching the event. “what? he knocked my mead to the ground.”
Ser Artys watched the squabble with a grin on his face. The horn of ale in his hand was his third of the day. He’d fought in the tourney too, and had come out somewhere around midway in the rankings. It wasn’t his best performance, but it wasn’t his worst, so there was at least that. He’d left the tournament grounds after finishing, eager already to get started on his drinking. But though he did not stay to watch the end of it himself, the steady stream of patrons entering the tavern were more than happy to fill him in. If the buzzing was to be believed, this woman was the victor in the tournament.
“Look at her go,” He guffawed, glancing sideways at the man a table away, “smashed his head in right on that table. No bloody wonder she won the day.”
It was then that he felt her eyes on him. He waved a hand, beckoning her over. “No complaints from me. I’da knocked his teeth out if he’d done it to me. You won the tourney today, didn’t you?”
WHO: Domeric Kilcairn & Joanna Strickland ( @wcldflower )
WHEN: Day Three, Early Morning
WHERE: The castle, near the guest quarters
He’d always been an early riser. On the third morning of celebrations, Domeric woke before the sun broke over the eastern horizon. He was leaving his room after getting dressed when he spotted one of the Strickland sisters at the end of the hall. The younger one, he observed, quickening his pace.
“Lady Joanna!” He called, waving a hand and smiling.
to have trained in the arudous art of magic , to have endured agonising bruises from bitter mistakes , tolerated the stringent demands of the order , undergone painful mental and physical changes to be the perfect protector for mankind … and then asked to perform a silly little magic show for the queen’s nameday . it was completely and utterly humiliating . so after it all , she scurried as far away from the excessively exorbitant festivities , away from the the little children who wanted to see her levitate a leave , away from the possessive balding noble - men who reeked of ale . and she found herself in an empty hallway , seated on the windowsill of one of the castle’s many , many windows . but then she heard footsteps . she stood up quickly , taking her dagger from its sheath and pinning the intruder against the wall with her forearm against their chest and the blade just an itch away from their neck . all in a matter of seconds . “ no one ever taught you not to sneak up on a temarian ? ”
---- “No one ever taught you not to draw steel on your betters, bastard?”
Domeric said this in practically a hiss, eyes narrowing as he they met hers. He couldn’t help it. His heart pounded in his chest at the knife so close to his throat. It was one thing to face a foe across the field of battle, and another entirely to be sprung up upon in an empty corridor. Domeric grit his teeth, thought of twenty different ways he’d like to see her dead, and then faced her again with an icy glare.
Heloìsa offered a smile in Lord Domeric’s direction. “Good choice,” her voice was light as she took one last bite, before handing her plate to a nearby servant. “I do not know how mother expects to be able to choose between so many offerings,” She smiled in the direction of the Lady who had baked the cake, and turned to Domeric.
“I’m afraid I haven’t had a chance to visit the entries from Belhaven yet. Would you care to escort me?” Her grin turned mischievous for a moment as she looked up at him, “Perhaps we can visit Lady Calida on the way.”
.
He took the plate from the servant, and took a bite. Then he passed the cake back, uneaten besides the one piece. It was good, but he didn’t care to finish it. The servant took it from him, and then his attention was returned fully to Heloìsa, the table of cake and the people behind it forgotten.
“Of course.” Domeric held out his arm for her to take. “I am always happy to see my lady. She’s entered in this contest too, so I’m sure she is around somewhere. And I am sure that he would be happy to see you as well.”
He didn’t really feel the desire to go and seek out his betrothed, at the current moment. But it would have been rather unbecoming for him to say so aloud.
“These celebrations are certainly exciting, aren’t they? Tournaments and baking contests. I believe there is even a masquerade ball coming up. Are you enjoying yourself, Princess?”
Calida had made her lady in waiting hide behind a large vase of roses and watch the vestibule, alerting her when Domeric arrived. After all the years by his side, she was still learning to master the art of being purposefully late. Her lady in waiting had found it delightfully romantic, after an evening of oohing over the dress Domeric had given her.
It was quite magnificent, and Calida couldn’t help but run her hands over the rich fabric as she made her way down the steps. A light gold, and embossed with darker golden roses, it all came together with a purple sash at her waist, and fit her like a glove. Her loose curls had been pinned half up, with two small hairpins sticking out - one, a small orchid with a pearl in the center, one of her mother’s that she wore nearly every day, and one that she had chosen during her last trip to Belhaven. Upon seeing Domeric, she was sure that they might be the most decorated couple at dinner.
“My lord,” she said, accepting his hand with a small curtesy, before withdrawing a small wrapped package from behind her back, and holding it between them for hmm to take. “I could only guess what you might be wearing based on my own gown, though I do think it will match quite nicely.” A warm smile had not left her face since she had entered, though she shook her head a bit as she continued, “I fear I may make all the other ladies quite envious with my good fortune to be on your arm tonight,” she mused.
.
Domeric gave her hand a squeeze. It gave him a thrill inside to see her in the dress he’d picked out for her. It looked as wonderful as he thought it might when he put the order in to the seamstress. There was something so fun about the act of giving a gift. To watch the smile on someone’s face and know that it was him who put it there.
Calida, most especially. The small package she handed him was a nice surprise. He took it from her with his free hand, turning it over to give it a full look.
“The bards will write songs about the way that you look, my lady. And if they don’t, then I will pay them to.” He let go of her hand so he could look over this gift. After glancing briefly up to flash her a smile smile, he began to unwrap the package.
Who: Lucretia & Anyone
When: The fourth day, late afternoon
Where: the castle grounds
Lucretia was not yet accustomed to Kingsport in general or the royal family in particular, and dealing with the celebration on top of it all was quite stressful. She knew how to handle herself, of course; though her family had no titles, her mother had been careful to pass on the right sort of education, so that when Lu found herself in charge of a household, she would be prepared. And it would be even better if she could show to a noble family that she would be an asset.
The fact that she was now married to the prince was still an odd one for Lu, although she couldn’t complain about it. But still, once the hubbub from the baking competition and other goings-on of the day had died down, Lu was quick to slip away for some quiet. She was on a bench, with her shoes kicked off and her toes wiggling in the grass, when she heard footsteps and looked up with a guilty start. A quick flounce of her dress covered the shoes up and she tried for an innocent smile. “It’s a lovely afternoon, isn’t it?”
He put a hand over his eyes to block the sun, hanging low now in the sky as the world prepared for dusk. He squinted. It had been on Domeric’s agenda to speak with the Princess while he was still here and so he moved forward swiftly, lest anyone else capture away her attention.
“Your Grace,” He greeted, plopping down next to her on the bench with a casual ease. “you should not be so far away from the commotion without a guard.” He smiled at her.
“But I suppose I can see why. It really is a lovely afternoon.”
Domeric allowed himself a moment of happy relaxation and draped one arm over the back of the bench, allowing his fingers to dance lightly against the ends of the bench. His eyes fluttered close and he felt the breeze press cool kisses against his cheeks. Then he opened his eyes, turned and looked at Lucretia. “Are you enjoying the festival so far, Princess?”
While she should have expected Ser Artys to be nearby, it was still a pleasant surprise when it was his voice that responded to her musings. While Calida hoped that his response wasn’t purely out of duty to her family, she had a sinking feeling that had she been any other noble Lady, he would not have been inclined to respond.
“You’re far too kind, Ser Artys.” And, she was almost sure that there was some truth in his words. Between her father and her betrothed, her wedding was sure to be a spectacle. “I think I’d be just as happy with just the families in the gardens.” She laughed a bit, before shrugging, “I suppose it isn’t entirely for me to choose, though.”
.
Artys snorted, which was probably not very professional of him, but he didn’t think that Lady Calida would mind overmuch. It was not every day that he was described as too kind, or even kind in general.
“I’m not a very kind man, Lady Calida. But I’ve seen enough of Lord Brannon by now to know that he will pull all the stops for your big day.”
His eyes slid over the crowd. After a beat of silence, he glanced back to Calida.
“I have found, m’lady, that most people’s lives aren’t for them to choose.” And wasn’t that the truth, he thought, idly?
emeline watched as he gestured down towards his closing, eyes giving his plain leather doublet a quick scan before falling back on his black mask. in an effort to hold back any serious laughter, the brunette brought her glass of wine up to her lips and took another sip. “i take it you don’t own any… i suppose, better suited clothing for the night? appropriate sounded a bit harsh.” she took a look around, her head automatically ranking the gowns from best to worst without saying a word. “you’re in luck, ser artys” she finally chimed after a quick study of the mansion’s guests. “there are plenty of beautiful gowns here tonight for anyone to quickly dismiss a plain outfit worn by a knight. but if it’s any consolation, i don’t think you look so bad.”
.
Ser Artys shrugged his shoulders and took another sip from the horn of ale. He never cared much for finery. Most of his closet contained clothing that had some practical usage or another. He didn’t take any offense, however. This was a ball, and an expensive one at that, with the richest lords, ladies, and nobles in the realm all gathered in one place. He expected to look rather drab in comparison to most of them.
“I appreciate the compliment.” Artys said, glancing sideways to meet her eyes. “Though I look rather sorry standing next to you. Nice dress.”
He was not so adept in flattery, these days. But he tried.
“I don’t believe I recognize you underneath that mask, m’lady...?”
My thoughts are drowned, and this shipwreck seems sweet to me in this sea.
WHO: Ser Artys Grafton, and his twin sister, Anyah Grafton (deceased)
WHEN: 4 years ago
WHERE: Aboard a merchant’s ship
SUMMARY: Following the death of a loved one, Ser Artys and his sister experience trouble on board their ship.
WORD COUNT: 1,781. I got a little excited writing this one.
OOC NOTES: While I was writing Artys and his backstory, I ended up getting a crazy amount of muse for his storyline, so I decided to write this drabble. It’s a big turning point in Artys’ backstory, and had a big hand in shaping the man he eventually came to be.
TRIGGERS: Death, drowning, fire, general angst
The sickness came for them both, but only Artys survived.
It was autumn when the heavy fever washed over them like a smothering blanket, burning the both of them up from the inside. Only Willas was swallowed whole. He died in the night, so quietly that nobody even noticed until morning.
Artys was still very ill when he and his sister had been forced to leave, near to death himself on those first few days at sea.
His dreams were filled with Willas. The crooked smile and snaggletooth that Artys always found so endearing, the crinkle in his forehead when he was deep in his numbers book, and the way his hands felt when they touched one another beneath warm woolen sheets.
“Water,” Artys rasped, finally awake, and then felt a warm hand pressing a cool ceramic mug to his fingers.
He blinked up at his sister, who was standing above him and not meeting his eyes.
“How long was I out?” He asked tiredly, glancing around.
The worst of this autumn sickness seemed to be gone, he thought while sitting up. And the ship wasn’t rocking quite so badly, now, which helped with the aches. He almost felt like he might make it to the chamber pot in the corner of the room without being sick
Anyah hesitated. He glanced sharply at her.
“Four days,” she told him. “We’ve just passed Belhaven.”
Artys breathed a breath of shock. Four days. “Have… have you been here beside me the whole time?”
Gods, he still felt ill, as if he might dry heave at any second. But at least he no longer felt feverish, merely thirsty, so he supposed that was something. He brought the mug to his lips then, and gulped the entire thing down.
“No,” she said, and Artys blinked, surprised, lifting his head to meet her eyes. “You were doing fine, most of the time. I was doing a lot of thinking, above deck. But that’s not what I want to talk about.”
“What do you want to talk about?”
“Stop, just let me talk. I’m sorry, Artys. I…” She took a deep breath, and Artys went silent, brows knitting. “I realized while you were sick… I mean… that is to say… I should not have been so hard on you, after Willas… after he died. I know how much you loved him.”
Suddenly, Artys could not meet her gaze. He stared down at the empty mug once more, and wished he hadn’t dranken it so quickly. His mouth was suddenly much more dry than it had been when he had awoken.
“I don’t think you caused his sickness,” Anyah said.
“Don’t say things like that.” He said, colder than he meant to, and his sister flinched. “Don’t say things you don’t mean.”
“I don’t.” She repeated. “I swear that I don’t.”
Artys burst into tears.
He didn’t know how long he sat there on his bed, until his sister moved forward and wrapped her arms around him. Held him there in a warm, tight embrace that he didn’t ever want to leave.
“To be given a second chance at life, only to have it ripped away by disease. Tell me, Anyah, what was ever the point?”
“There was no point.” She murmured, running her fingers through his hair. “Disease takes who it will.”
He felt great gasping tears welling up within him, but still tried to hold them back even as they finally emerged, dripping onto his sister’s shoulder, after he’d been keeping them at bay since the day Willas took his last breath.
When the last cries ended, he was lying in bed in his sister’s arms, the ship rocking slowly around them, and Artys could breathe again. Anyah was looking at him.
“Better?” She asked him, and after another breathless moment, Artys nodded. “Good. Now let’s get you up and out of this bed. You’ve been lying in it for far too long, and you’ve got a musk about you. Saltwater will have to do.”
She climbed out of bed and began to tug at his arms. Though he still felt weak, Artys found himself smiling and doing as he was bid.
A loud clang interrupted his movements.
“What was that?” Anyah asked, looking up at the ceiling.
Without thinking, Artys reached for the pommel of his sword, lying on the floor beside the bed. “I’m sure it was--”
A loud crash reverberated through the hull, sending Artys flying out of the bed. He crashed onto the floor, throwing his arms out to break his fall at the last moment.
He tried to pull himself to his feet. But then the force came again, slamming him down like a rag doll. He was only barely able to see Anyah out of the corner of his eye, hardly faring better.
And then the whole cabin went up in flames.
“Anyah!” Artys screamed, as the fire ravaged the wooden cabin around him, as water lapped at his ankles. He glanced down. The cabin was rapidly filling, even as smoke choked at his lungs, and now it was rising to his calves. His throat closed with terror.
A crackling, breaking sound filled the air, and then the ceiling came down too in a blaze of wooden fire. He cried out in pain, smoke flooding his lungs again, as his back slammed into the ground. He whirled around from the floor, looking for his sister.
“Anyah?” He cried desperately, “Anyah!”
He took another breath, felt more smoke, and saw more flames rapidly surrounding him, though his back felt wet; perhaps from blood, or the sea beneath him, he couldn’t tell.
“Help! Anyah!” He screamed.
Another beam, burning too, fell in front of the door, a wall of fire now dividing him from the rest of the ship. A sinking feeling filled him, and Artys closed his eyes, breathing in deep again as the cabin grew unbearably hot.
They were going to die in here, he thought, horror filling him. They were going to die in one of the worst possible ways that he could imagine, burning alive, trapped like rats in a sinking ship.
He pushed himself onto his knees and craned his neck, still looking for his sister. Then up again onto his feet, stumbling forward through the cabin. It occurred to Artys that everything he owned of worth was now burning in this cabin just now. His clothes, his sword and his sister’s books, the new belt Willas had given him, the last present to him before the sickness came and ripped him away.
He knew these shouldn’t be the thoughts filling his head just now, but he couldn’t think of anything else.
And then he was running, slamming his shoulder into a bit of the cabin wall that was splintered, and still burning. Artys screamed at the fire, even as he knew enough to know he should be conserving his air. Then he slammed again, and let out a groan. Water rushed in even more quickly.
They were underwater. The whole cabin was under water.
“Anyah!” He screamed, and the second half of the name disappeared on his tongue as a wave of water rushed into his mouth. Artys choked, his hands flapping desperately before he disappeared beneath the wave erupting into the cabin to swallow him.
He knew how to swim, of course he did. In cool, still ponds in Amaranth, where one did not have to worry about being dragged away by a current or disappearing beneath waves as large as one’s body.
I am going to die here. We are going to die here, Artys thought horribly. He was going to sink beneath the waves outside Belhaven, and no one would ever know what happened to him. And though Willas was already too dead to mourn or miss him, the thought hurt all the same.
The water was tinted red with the fire above them, but he hardly paid attention to that, felt instead himself being crushed against the floor of the cabin as the water pushed in around him. And then, suddenly, the water reversed direction, sucking him out of the cabin when it should have done no such thing.
He finally saw his sister, in the water near him, but then she too disappeared, as the world around Artys felt heavy, and he found himself screaming again.
They were out of the ship, he realized distantly, though there wasn’t enough air reaching his brain to think more than that. They were out of the ship, still somewhere deep in the sea, and he was going to drown before he ever made it to the surface. And his sister was still floating somewhere too. He could barely remember what happened to the ship, but he turned to stare at it, and watched it burn away, sink, and then the flames were gone like the everyone else on board.
His thoughts of the ship suddenly died away as a figure appeared in the water before him, and he froze, felt air leaving him at the shock.
Because he recognized this unmoving figure.
His eyes went wide. Artys stared at the young woman, floating still in the water, her eyes wide and unseeing. He let out another scream, the last of his air fleeing him at the sight of his sister, pale and drowned in the water before him.
Dead.
Oh gods, Anyah was dead.
Anyah was tangled in the pink gown she had been wearing, and though he doubted she was dead for longer than a few moments, she already seemed unrecognizable.
Artys scrambled back, his limbs suddenly remembering how to move. He coughed, choking on water, because a dozen images were filling his addled mind, of Anyah, throwing her head back and laughing at something Artys said. Anyah, pouring him cups of warm tea. Anyah, teasing Artys in the nights before he first laid with Willas, when none of them knew what to expect from such a love.
Anyah, dead in the water. Suddenly it wasn’t just that he couldn’t breath, but that his lungs were on fire, and if he didn’t--
Artys gasped, and felt cold air burn through his lungs, and cried out at how painful it felt to breathe in now even as he grabbed onto a large piece of wood.
He couldn’t say how long it was that he floated out there, near to dead and maybe wanting to be too.
It could have been minutes or it could have been hours.
The last thing Artys remembered before he blacked out in pain was a pair of strong hands pulling him from the water onto a small fishing boat.
the man rúairí had decided to approach was much larger, and much more threatening than he had expected. rúairí backs up a bit, feeling as though he was about to get a smack across the face as the man turns around. however, that fear vanishes as he sees a familiar face he hadn’t seen in years. a grin forms on rúairí’s face as he throws his arms around the man in a tight hug. “artys! my god, how long has it been?” he says with a laugh. “i’ve missed you! can i get you a drink?”
Knowing who he was speaking to, Ser Artys might have expected the embrace.Yet it surprised him all the same. His shoulders went stiff, and his arms never moved to return the gesture. But he smiled where no one could see, turning his eyes to the wall over Rúairí’s shoulder.
“I would love a drink.” This was said very genuinely. Though he was in some discomfort, a laugh bubbled deep from within his chest, shock perhaps that he was seeing such an old friend. “I’ve missed you too, color me surprised. I mean it’s been how long...?” He trailed off, thinking.
Too long, he realized. A different world, it felt like now. “Must be like four years, right?”
who: high lord brannon celtigar and anyone !!
when: queen constanza’s name day celebration, day one
where: the terrace, right off of the great hall, brightwater keep
nobles milled about the great hall, sharing refreshment & small talk about the journey to the capital. brannon himself participated in the idle chatter for the better part of an hour, only now pausing to take in a bout of fresh air.
he slipped away from the merriment, and stood near a terrace that overlooked the capital. the king was growing madder by the day, and his decisions were beginning to beginning to impact the realm. he was outright refusing to meet with the small counsel, lest at least three of his kingsguard were present in the chamber with him. fearing what, exactly, brannon wasn’t particularly sure. if there was such threat to the king, it would surely follow him beyond the tower of the hand. the fool. just yesterday, king felipe had overruled yet another one of brannon’s appointments, and the high lord was beginning to lose his patience.
his ponderings were interrupted when he heard footsteps. someone interested to join him. brannon allowed the tension to roll off his shoulders, easing his stance before turning & raising his goblet to them. “a fine day for our seven kingdoms to come together,” he mused aloud, cutting across the silence. “ is it not? ”
He gritted his teeth. There were too many people around to keep a proper eye on his charges. It was only luck that Ser Artys managed to see Lord Celtigar slipping out of the hall to the terrace. He kept a close follow, as he always did, standing behind the man like a protective shadow, with so many unknown nobles around. There were threats all about even on the best of days, if the King was to be believed. Artys learned a long time ago that anything could happen, and so he stepped out to the terrace too.
Artys was planning on maintaining a respectful distance, near the door to the great hall, out of ear shot, should Lord Brannon find himself in those sensitive conversations he always seemed to be in. But then his lord was turning, raising his glass in his direction. Unsure what else to do, Artys hesitantly lifted his own horn of ale in response.
“Aye, m’lord Celtigar. It is a fine day indeed. Though it is nice to get a bit of fresh air, I think.”
𝐖𝐇𝐄𝐍: seventh day of festivities .
𝐖𝐇𝐄𝐑𝐄: masquerade ball .
( open to anyone . )
the number of balls she had attended throughout life were limited. after all, it wasn’t common for a seamstress to be amongst a list of nobles and royalty, her presence not having as much of an impact on others when compared to ladies of a higher status. still, having friends and frequent customers that were among that crowd meant that an invitation was sometimes extended to the brunette – tonight being one of those occasions. gathering the front of her skirt in one hand, emeline made her way up the steps of the grand mansion, brown eyes admiring the structure for a moment before entering the building.
once inside, her hands reached for a glass of red wine near the entrance, kind eyes thanking the server behind the mask as her lips extended into a genuine smile. attending a ball by herself was never a first choice, but there were only so many options at play for someone like her. seeing a figure standing on its own to the side, she made her way over to them, unsure of who stood behind the mask, and took a sip of her wine. “quite the event, no?”
If it were up to him, Ser Artys would not be here. What the hell did he look like coming to a damned masquerade ball? He fidgeted uncomfortably, standing off to the side. He wore simple clothing. A plain leather doublet and a black mask that didn’t do much to draw the eye. There was a horn of ale clutched tight in his hand and held close to his chest. Lord Brannon said he had to attend, but he never seemed to care how much Artys drank, so long as the job was done well. He swung back another gulp then another, before he made a long, drawn out ‘ahhh’ sound.
It was then that he noticed an approaching figure. A woman, and a familiar one too, he thought.
“I reckon it is.” He agreed. His thoughts aside, the event was stupendous.
“I don’t come to these things very often.” Artys admitted then, gesturing down with his free hand to his clothes. “But I suppose it will all make for a pretty painting.”
Milla had truly meant to bake just one cake, after all only one was needed to enter the competition, but it had been the enormous amount of options that had proved to be the bane of the lady. Rohoan was rich in many ways, but thanks to the ever ligering cold of the land there were few greens or fruits to be harvested, meaning Milla often had to settle for what was available for her sweets.
Such was not the case of Kingsport, from the moment she entered the kitchens, she was overwhelmed by the sight and scent of ingredients she had only dared dream of. Without even thinking, she started baking, ending with an amount of cakes and sweets so big that she couldn’t just choose one to sign for the competition. She still hoped people would be hungry enough to finish all her sugary treats.
Her mind was so put on balancing the pile of small cakes in her hands that she didn’t pay attention her steps, walking straight into the figure in front of her. “Oh Gods!, Please forgive my clumsiness,” she apologized, trying to make sure neither her dress nor the other’s attire had been soiled with glace.
Ser Artys stumbled, feeling his face twist in annoyance. How many damn times would he be knocked over at these celebrations? He was on the lookout for trouble, tasked by Lord Brannon to keep guard on the fourth day of activity. His head still hurt. He probably needed to drink more water after last night. This morning too. This headache he was afflicted by only served to exacerbate his annoyance. He prepared to spew some curse word or another, until his tired looking eyes finally realized who it was he speaking to.
“It’s quite alright, m’lady.” There was some grouch to his tone, but Artys knew better than to mouth off to his betters. Besides, she hadn’t even gotten anything on his clothes. He straightened his shoulders and nodded his head respectfully. “I should have looked out better in front of me.”
WHO: Lord Domeric Kilcairn and Lady Calida Celtigar ( @your-grxce )
WHEN: Fourth Day. Dinner.
WHERE: Kingsport, Aros
It was whispered that he paid more for his outfit than half of the ladies here combined. And while that was certainly not true, it was not very far off. Lord Domeric was in dark purple velvet, with more than a dozen golden roses embroidered onto his doublet. A silken half-cape hung in a honey beige color off of his left shoulder, fastened with an amethyst brooch. It was among his finest regalia, and he felt (quite smugly) as if he were the best looking man at the party.
Domeric waited a few paces away from the ballroom, hands folded easily in front of his body. He waited on his lady, feeling very pleased about their fashionably-late arrival and the looks they were sure to get upon stepping into that room. He grinned to himself about this until familiar footsteps sounded from behind him. He turned and faced his betrothed.
---- “Wow, my lady.” He smiled at her--genuinely, and extended his hand for her to take. “I’m afraid you have me near to speechless. You look... very lovely. I feel like the luckiest lord in the kingdom to have a such a woman on my arm.”
