A visitor to Darkenhold

[Tebrin]

Soft brown eyes stared up at the great manor, lips curled into an amused smile. How had Quincy come to live at a lavish estate like this, he wondered? It was certainly far beyond the attic of the Dagger... far beyond the flat she had stayed at with him every so often... far beyond, really, the girl's means. And yet here it stood, seemingly out of nowhere - he certainly didn't recall it from his previous visits to the region. He would have to inquire.

The gates welcomed everyone, did they not? Certainly they would welcome one such as him, and making his way towards whosoever deigned to meet him, it was from behind a veil of oaken curls that chestnut hues regarded his greeter. Jobs available. Librarian. Gatekeeper. Cook. Lord knew what else... special benefits to be discussed during the interview process.

Brushing off a cream-colored tunic and dark trousers, adjusting the silver, hawk-shaped clasp of the cloak he wore to ward against the chill of the winter air, and finally, adjusting a familiar leather satchel he held over his shoulder, he cleared his throat. "Good evening..." he offered, that smile spreading ever so slightly, eyes sparkling as he spoke in typically soft undertones...

"Could you please tell Miss Randall that she has a visitor? And, ah, if Miss Carnath-Emory is on the premises... it would be nice if you did not mention it to her." Smile turned into a boyish grin, then, left hand clasped at the back of his neck... for, certainly, Ariane would inundate him with threatened violence, as she frequently did, if he did not reach Quincy FIRST.

Even then, her bark would be no less ferocious. His health would simply not be in such immediate jeopardy if Quincy were happy to see him.

He winced a little, then. Hopefully, she would be.

[Farsiris]

Siris glances up through narrow, square-framed spectacles at the face of the visitor as she stands in the doorway. Wearing a long, black dress with plain, white cuffs and collar, she strikes a very modest, somber impression. Her mousy hair is drawn into a pair of long, limp tails, and she is holding a thick tome against her ribcage. There is a quill behind her ear.

"Good evening, my Lord," she peers at him with calm eyes as he voices his desire for a discreet visit. "Yes, I see."

She's yet to let him past the open door; despite being feminine of stature, she baracades the way forward with skill.

"Are you here in reply to the public notices? What is your name?" She patiently questions him.

[Quincy]

Meanwhile ..


Recently returned from a small trip to the Broken Dagger, having had an enlightening conversation with Seth Bloodmoon, Quincy sits in Darkenhold's elaborate library -- its collection of books ever-growing by the grace of Syl Duquesne -- and writes a letter to Cinnabar.


DEER SINOBAR

HELLO HOW ARE YU GUD I HOPE WEL I WAS TALKING TU SETH BLUD MOON TONITE AND HE HAS TOLD ME THAT YU WILL BE SOON TU ATAK TERON ASH FEEND WHO I DO NOT LIEK AT ALL DOT

I WUD LIEK TO HELP BY GARDING OVER SETH BLUD MOON WHIL HE ATAKS THE BRAINS OF TERON ASH FEEND DOT SO I AM ASKING YU TO PLEEZ LET ME NO WEN THIS ATAK WIL HAPIN SO I CAN BE OF HELP TU SETH BLUD MOON HE SAD I SHUD ASK YU FIRST DOT

KWINCEE

She dips the quill into the inkpot and frowns at the letter, proofreading it for errors. With a small noise of realization, she abruptly tilts down and very delicately crosses one of the massive T's.

"Tha's much better."

[Tebrin]

Oh, Quincy... how Dias would die inside if he ever saw the butchering of the language which took place upon the sheet of parchment you held.

He shook his head in response to the inquiry, offering the woman a tip of his head and a small smile. "Dias Coyne... and I am just a friend, visiting from out of town." Always visiting from out of town, weren't you, Dias? When was the last time the minstrel had actually stayed in Myrken for a prolonged period of time?

"Is this a bad time? I could always return later..."

[Farsiris]

As Dias speaks, his greeter opens and makes a note in her book; he can not see what she is writing.

"No," Siris looks up and smiles once he has introduced himself. She snaps the book shut, steps back, and holds the door. "I will take you to her. Please follow."

The foyer is a brief room with a richly coloured runner-rug from one door to the next; there are ornate, but empty weapon-racks on its wall, where guests may peacefully leave behind their blades before entering the main Hall.

She leads him through the next door -- and Dias may have to tilt up his whole face to find the highest pinnacle of a vaulted ceiling; the walls have dark pilasters, and the strangely-glassed windows overlook peaceful grounds and breathtaking landscape. Every step on the hard, shining floor elicits an echo, though around the hall's burning fire -- clearly a social arrangement -- there are spacious, embroidered throwrugs that might have stifled footfalls, and there are low, deeply voluptuous chairs. Many corridors branch off from the main room, and there is a winding staircase that circles up into this fortress-home's upper reaches.

Dias is not taken the way of the staircase, however; he is led into Darkenhold's eastern wing by way of a long and picturesque corridor. He may amuse himself by looking at the spaced torches and newly-purchased art along the walls.

Siris stops him at the end of the hall, her dress drifting to stillness at the pause.

"One moment."

The young woman slips through the door at the end of the corridor without affording Dias much of a glance beyond, but he can hear her speaking.

"Quincy, there is a man called Dias Coyne to see you."

While Dias may certainly hear this only moderately muffled statement beyond the aperture a door held nearly-shut, he may also make note of the absolute lack of sound that follows.

"I can send him away if you like," Siris prompts the silence.

[Tebrin]

Lucid brown eyes stared at the gorgeous paintings, the brilliant architecture, the lavish EXCESS of the manor with no small amount of surprise.

Dias was a minstrel - he had played for nobility, he had attended court, he had seen countless wonders and this was merely one high atop the list... But he had never before seen QUINCY involved with any such material wealth. Frankly, she had seemed - no, she had BEEN - quite poor when last he visited her.

The woman's voice tore him from his reverie, and he tore his eyes from one of the lovely paintings upon the wall - the talent displayed in which dwarfed his own, in his eyes, and caused a slight twinge of jealousy in the troubadour's soul. And telling silence brought a quiet sigh from the young man's lips.

Quincy had, every other time, greeted his return with cheers, and joy, and hugs, and love, and... well, anything BUT silence. She had likely grown quite tired of his repeated disappearing acts over the years, no matter how lovely their time spent together was. Part of him had expected this. His heart sank, slightly, though other than a brief wince, he stood his ground. A dark brow lofted, then, as he waited to hear if he would be shooed away.

[Farsiris]

" . . . "

Siris exhales. There is still no sound from Quincy; perhaps the greeter is responding to gestures. It is left to the imagination of the minstrel.

"Very well."

The door opens slightly, and the girl returns to the corridor; she pushes her spectacles up her nose's bridge with a finger, then looks up at Dias with a grave face. Her eyes search his own, a little invasively, before she speaks.

"You may enter the library."

Siris steps aside for him.

[Tebrin]

This was why Dias liked to leave. He was good at leaving. His job DEMANDED he be good at leaving, and travelling, and wandering. Livelihood demanded he go where the work was.

Reunions were always awkward. He had taken for granted that Quincy would always leap to her feet and squeal at the sight of him - that she didn't simply made him feel worse. He met the woman's gaze unabashedly, offering her a warm smile and thanking her in quiet undertones, before, with a deep breath, pressing forth into the room, eyes seeking out the small girl.

[Quincy]

If Dias' eyes steal away even briefly, he may be taken by the library's star-shaped, glass wonder of a ceiling -- mostly clear, but with some, lightly coloured panes; the morning sunlight pours down into the room, granting ample light for readers. When the sky is filled with stars at night, the library must be a wonderful sitting room. The dark spines of books line a few shelves, though the place is not yet brimming with knowledge; the collection is being slowly developed.

There is a littering of tables and chairs, both wooden and upholstered; there is a desk and an office-door, though no one works here yet.

One such table is overflowing with parchments, a few, crumpled sheets spotting the floor around it. A high-backed chair dwarfs the warrioress that it supports. There is a wild streak of ink across her face, which still holds the frown lines of a three hour sulk-session due to stressful spellings and interviews. She has had two, great successes on this particular day: the letter to Cinnabar, which is proudly sprawled in front of her and currently undelivered, and the hiring of one employee.

But she can not think of these things any longer.

Surprised, dark eyes stare across the room at the young man in the doorway. Siris' introduction of a visitor has robbed her of many things. Her inability to speak is an example of this theft.

The girl sits there like a stark, staring statue for at least ten seconds solid, and only then does she lurch to her feet with coloured cheeks. Her hands fly up to her disorganized hair, and then down to her rumpled house-coat.

" .. Siris. Please don't forget t' feed the Farazh," she manages to say, at last, by way of dismissing the wary-looking ward. This also permits her a moment's shyness. Darkenhold may be grand, but it is made for humble people.

[Farsiris]

" . . . "

Siris tolerantly shuts her eyes.

"Yes."

The carved door swings shut behind her, and her footfalls down the corridor grow more and more quiet as she moves away.

[Tebrin]

Dias was an observant fellow. But, for all his eyes wandered on the way to the library, they remained fixed, here, upon Quincy. Perhaps she would notice. Perhaps not. But he joined her in silence for the full ten seconds, before finally tearing his gaze from hers, glancing over his shoulder towards the ward - an excuse to look away, if nothing else.

The girl's sudden attempt to straighten her hair, her clothing, what have you made the minstrel smile - though the smile was meant for the wall behind him alone. By the time he returned his gaze to the young fighter, it had faded, leaving behind only scant remnants upon soft lips. He even dared to take a pair of steps forward, then, uncertain where to start.

When was the last time Dias found himself at a loss for words? Can YOU recall, Miss Randall? Finally, lips parted to permit soft words, and slender digits released his satchel, set it down beside him, for it weighed heavily upon him in that moment.

"To say it is good to see you, Miss Randall..." He had never really shaken the habit of honorifics, had he? "Is entirely insufficient." Each time he returned, he had the sneaking suspicion she would be dead. Again.

"I would have understood, I think, had you sent me away."

[Quincy]

Uncertainty hangs around them.

She lays her quill down on top of her parchments on the table; this is to give her hands something to do, aside from twist together. It is a very slow and deliberate gesture.

Perhaps she does not step around the table, yet, because it will begin an inevitable, forward momentum. There are glimpses of her scarlet cheeks beyond the streaked veil of her dark hair as she turns her eyes, evading contact at first.

Quincy finally presses her fingers together and looks at him sidelong.

He may find it reminiscent of approaching a stray animal that is particularly wary of an outsretched offering of food or affection. She seems to consider what he offers with his presence; she seems to contemplate it without giving him the benefit of conversation.

There is a long stare.

He is a minstrel. This next moment may best compare to a string on the brink of snapping: he may either play a pure, clear note of vibrant volume, or he may elicit a bitter, flinching twang as the broken thing curls up on itself. Perhaps he may detect that the outcome lies in his hands, for her stare is not a scathing thing: it searches, it puzzles, it worries, and it wants.

[Tebrin]

Dias liked silence. He enjoyed it. He relished in it, taking it as a welcome reprieve from the necessities of polite conversation, of singing, of art, of performance... be it social or entertainment. But this silence was not to last, for it was abundantly clear who lingered in the spotlight. Whose move it was. Whose turn it was to sing.

Dias smiled hesitantly - the last thing he wanted from Quincy was song and dance. Heaven forbid. So, he took a breath, and, shrugging off any nervousness as he would with any performance, he spreads his hands to the side in a gesture of what could almost be interpreted as surrender.

"There is... much, Miss Randall, that I would like to say to you. And that I hesitate at all is uncommon, and troubling, but most of all, it is telling." Soft, precise, fluid enunciation carried particularly well upon the still air, piercing the silence like a stiletto.

"I did not stay. I never stayed. I could stand here and try to tell you, right now, why. I would, if you demanded it, though I fear it would occupy the remaining hours of my life, for if your sister catches me waxing poetic when I should be apologizing to you, I am quite certain it shall be ended." For a joke, the minstrel himself did not seem to find it terribly funny. Instead, he continued the song, plucked the next notes, drew the bow along the conversation's strings, produced the melody, and pushed forward.

"Sometime I will tell you. Tell you why I came and I went, why I stoically demanded Mikhail's head for harming a hair on yours, and then disappeared a month later, rather than staying to enjoy your return. That is, of course, if you would hear it." Dark eyes turned from the girl to the floor, to the ceiling, to the books, even to the door, as if Siris would return and offer him his next line. No such luck.

To Quincy, then, he offered a faint, but warm smile. "I grow tired of wandering, Miss Randall. I am not as young as I once was," though he was still quite young nevertheless, and Dias seemed to recognize the irony in his words, as a slight lilt in his voice would indicate, "and it has never made me particularly -happy- to do as I did."

"So, it is with apologies and self-deprecation that I stand here, now, looking and feeling rather foolish, and quite like the churl your sister has told me repeatedly that I must be for leaving... and ask you, Miss Randall... Quincy... if you can forgive me. I would certainly understand if you could not. I disappeared what... four? Five times? Never with an explanation, other than that the job required it? And if you cannot, then I shall leave, I shan't intrude upon your life any further. If you can..."

He pursed his lips, then, gnawing at the interior of the lower tier. "I have no intentions of letting you down again, Quincy."

[Quincy]

The floor claims her eyes. Her small frame gives the nearby shelf a scaffolding of irregular shadow, and the sunlight pouring through the star-crafted glass makes her black hair shine like the sun on a raven's wing. The tips of two fingers are at her lips; it is a ponderous posture.

While she may not have been sleeping well for a couple of days, her over all health has been acceptable: she's mustered all the curves that she ever will with her dining habits, remaining willow petite. This is not so much remarkable as it might be relieving: at least he can not very nearly see her skeleton anymore.

That Quincy is easily charmed, it is no secret. Considering many of her questionable friendships in the past -- some of which were not only renowned, but imprisoned for the results of their foul dispositions -- one may come to believe that her standards are frightfully low. This is an easy, but awful misconception. Her alternative view of goodness simply does not have much place for social formalities and, in some cases, the law itself.

She has a great tolerance for many ridiculous things and many ridiculous people; this is a fact that will likely never change. There are a few things, however, that set her off balance. They are a very select, but very important few things. One of these things just happens to be the amazing consistency of men.

They are very consistent.

They consistently charm.

They consistently promise.

They consistently leave.

Quincy is fairly certain that consistency has something to do with recipes or flour or something else equally beyond her understanding; however, if there is such thing as a Man Recipe, she is absolutely certain that there are very bad tasting leaves in it. Also, however long this Man Caserole is left in the oven, the instructions indicate that one must remove it when it is only half-baked.

She's even, briefly thought that maybe Sawyer has the right idea ..

"No."

Quincy's small voice is not as clear and pristine as Dias'; she is a little ragged with feeling.

"No, don't be sorry," she hears herself say; her face is a little hesitant, and she's no longer touching her lips. Her hand is holding a hank of her dark hair taut against her cheek and jaw. The girl's posture makes it obvious that she has taken comfort in his words. He is a true master of his craft.

"People do what makes 'em happy. Never be sorry for followin' your heart..."

Or sticking to the Man Recipe.

"Dias... "

[Tebrin]

Quincy looks down, and Dias looks away. She ponders, and he parleys. She was healthy. This was good - at least he wasn't having the devastating effect on her he imagined, in his melodramatic and romanticized imagination, he might.

The woman had terrible luck with men, this was true... and in a lot of ways, Dias had hoped to break that string, to reverse that trend. And, in his own way, he had been every bit as bad.

Save for the abuse, and the... well, okay, so maybe Dias remained a step above that, but it wasn't good, nevertheless. But Dias didn't quite fit the Man Recipe. No, this... ahem... 'Man Casserole' was missing something. Consistently charming, sure. Consistently leaving? Always.

When did Dias ever promise he would stay? When did Dias ever promise -anything- other than to treat her right when he was present? That promise he had kept. He had been careful never to tie himself to Myrken.

The woman's first reply, and what Dias assumes to be her final reply, causes the bard's breath to catch in his throat. If there had been one response Dias had NOT expected, it had been 'no.' He had taken for granted, really, that she would simply accept his apologies and his promises, and dash merrily across the room to be held tightly to his chest. He was unused to failing to please an audience, if nothing else.

...Ah, but he had reacted too soon, for there she seemed to be acquiescing, there she seemed to be relenting, and the wave of relief that passed over the wandering minstrel's frame was surprising to him.

"No... Quincy... that is just it. I did not do what made me happy. I am apologizing here to you for -not- following my heart. I... want to change that." A pause, then, and the beginnings of a sheepish, boyish, -familiar- smile. "If you'll let me."