Darkenhold - Two brothers.

[Carnath-Emory]

There is no rescuing herself from this: Betzalel had inserted stunning new concepts into the conversation, and now Calomel has done the same. Even had she wanted to escape from this steady flow of new arrivals, the swordswoman would have been hard-pressed to abandon their conversation.

These ideas are interesting. These concepts are puzzling, which is to say that they fascinate. Puzzles, like promises, communicate far more than the sum of their words -- or so she's reckoned it, at least. Certainly she's taken this morning's conversation for proof.

"Do you hear this?" she's asking of Cinnabar now almost immediately, with a prod of the egg-laden fork towards Cambree. "I take this for permission, mn? The Governor's wife, after all; her word is good enough, yes?" Which has her laughing through the mouthful which follows, except that at some point Calomel's manifesto reaches its peak of Ultimate Ounceness, and the laughter has become choking, has become a sudden reach for the water-mug and a great, gasping swallow of its contents.

"But what is this -- " No, a wave of the empty fork dismisses that question before it's quite begun. Flourishness will be a word for letters sent the next morning; so shall innate, which is to say that it will be a simpler exchange than is sometimes the case. But for now, the swordswoman is choosing her next words carefully, having given some real thought to the Governor's proposal.

"So, then. This coin, this silverness. Your goldsmith, he will wrest from it all the things which are not silver at all, and then only the silver shall remain, is this what you say? Then I think you decide this for us, perhaps -- Glenn Burnie!" With a twist of her head back towards the unfortunate student, all lit by a grin of slow triumph. "We must make a visit to your paintsmith, so that he may explain to us how this red is made. Then he shall reduce it to its parts, and by this means we shall measure its undeniable redness."

Her mug is raised in wordless toast to this happy notion, and there is a smile with it, a smile which welcomes Ymir into their midst, however briefly. This is uncommon -- there has been a long caution lingering between those two. But a good breakfast does kind things to the woman's demeanour, and such conversations as these are her very favourite sort, and it's no fault of Ymir's that such mention of portals and confusion catches her imagination in such odd ways. Neither that she's parted lips upon verge of a reply to that, when rogueish Betzalel speaks such words as demand, and immediately, the whole of her attention. As Ymir steps away and Glenn moves to join him, the swordswoman has begun to rise as well -- but it's the builder who holds her gaze now, and when she speaks it's with a voice that has recalled quiet.

"Just recently, then?"

The stables. The entrance. The grounds. There is a glance for the bench, where her weapons still lay.

"His brother -- does he travel alone today?"

[Ymir]

A brow raised as Glenn came towards the half-breed and his statements seemed to echo the thoughts inside the Mul's mind. "Indeed." There was further words, further ponderances on the meaning of this and the extraction of that and the definitive hue of something. Some of this was lost on the ears of the half-breed as he stood there, enjoying a hearty half-dwarf sized repast, his gaze locking for a moment upon the swordswoman. The caution between them lingered around a single moment that concerned a single person. Sister to Ariane, student to Ymir. Both trying to protect the woman in their own way. He remembered that moment, in the hallway of the tavern, he at one end, the swordswoman at another. The violence had felt imminent that night, yet none occurred.

Breaking away, he tilted his head to the side as he eyed Glenn for a long moment. "Redness? This was about colour? How did it end up on flour?" And for that matter the 'ounceness' of something. His gaze returned briefly to the table with eyes a little wider. "Are we sure the food isn't contaminated Glenn?" Yet his gaze would sharpen suddenly as the swordswoman glanced towards her weapons. He straightened a touch as he ate his food and descended into silence. It wasn't hard to recognize the woman's look.

[Wendy]

A quiet 'thank you' is delivered for the adjustment of her chair before she sits, then Cambree is pulling a napkin to rest upon her lap. She is looking well this morning, but for somber eyes that express a wistful sleepiness. The charm of nearby companionship is reason to smile; to listen to the effects of those around her that eat and continue to discharge philosophy.

Cinnabar earns mental promptings to please, stop challenging minds with riddles at this hour - namely hers - even while the swordswoman no doubt adores the conversation. It's not that Cambree isn't in good spirits, but she hasn't had enough of a sleep to follow along at their pace (which is a shame considering how much she normally enjoys dispensing wit.)

Thankfully, there is Mister Ymir to join them. A bitten strawberry is waved as a greeting for the Mul, since the woman is still chewing. She watches Burnie leave to join the teahouse's night manager and considers taking her own plate to do the same.

Glittering truisms settle amongst this assortment of friends. It is as if all have taken a moment to breathe, and then motion ensues. Cambree's glance reaches Ariane at the suggestion that the woman is going to leave her seat. Her own gaze follows that of her friend's and rests on the countenance of the builder.

[Duquesne]

Still paused near the doorway, Eurian Betzalel observes the swordswoman in as neutral a manner as a human being can unconsciously achieve, retaining his indestructable good spirit and enjoying the hot cider in his mug. It could not be said that circumstances did not sometimes upset the man, but it was that no one thing seemed ever to reach his core and thus he lived in a steadily harmonious condition.

A casual swallow of drink follows Ariane's questioning and he sucks briefly at a tooth that tingles sensitively from the heat of his cider. "He has two with him. They look like spectators but... I suppose you never know, right?" A little grin and he lifts his mug a bit to indicate he was done. With this, he turns right around and strolls from the kitchen, casually eating and drinking as he generally always is, taking the corridor down toward the foyer and the hulking front entry. He had a horse in the stables and that is where he is headed, be there trouble therein or not.

[Carnath-Emory]

A suggestion. An impression. Some passing mention of coins, and a woman who does not believe in coincidence must find that significant in this hour. 'His brother', Eurian Betzalel has said -- by which he means Ethan Duquesne, who weeks ago she had encountered not in this stronghold, but a simple tavern. And there he'd stood a moment by her side at its common bar; had stood there and spoke hardly a word as he did, except that from between his fingers there'd slipped a single, glittering coin, and he'd watched its fall as if his very soul plummeted downwards with it.

On some inexplicable impulse, she had bent to retrieve it for him from the floor, and this man - this soldier - his green eyes had stared as she offered it to him upon her palm.

When he thanked her, it was with a word which described the significance that his eyes had already communicated, and she had thought long on this moment in the weeks which followed it. She must necessarily think upon it now as well, but if there are words which may draw her from this brief reverie, Betzalel has just spoken them.

Conversation continues at this table; a swordswoman is meantime turning slightly upon her feet, a solemn gaze fixed upon the irrepressible Eurian Betzalel even as he turns to depart the kitchens. Those eyes assess, and it is not the width of a builder's grin that they measure. Those eyes weigh one fine moment against so many severe others, weighs it most of all against this matter of spectators, and her conclusion has Ariane straightening for true at last. There is a slow, taut shake of the head, and no hesitation to her now. Just a glance turned towards the morning's visitors, towards and through and beyond. Just a cold press of grim lips, as she bends to retrieve her swordbelt.

"Glenn." Quietly, now. This is the transition from woman to guard, and the precision of it marks even her words. "With me. We make those numbers even."

When she turns, it's to stride sharply in the builder's wake, hands fastening belt-buckles blindly as she moves.

[Cinnabar]

Calomel can't help but grin at the reaction his brain-teasers provoke around the breakfast table. There's a pleasantly convivial atmosphere, a wave of a fork in farewell as Betzalel heads out. The food is good, the company is of the very best sort, and the conversation is entertaining and carefree. At least to begin with.

A curious look follows for the swordswoman soon after, however, noting the abrupt change in mood, those words for Glenn a moment later, and then her hasty departure from the kitchen. Hm. Grey eyes glance sidelong to Cambree as if in query, fork returning to his plate as he clears his throat.

"Is there some trouble?" Question for Ariane or Glenn or... well, whoever might have an answer, really.