|Summary:||Desmond and Rosanna meet briefly in the stables of Stonebridge.|
|Date:||April 18, 2012|
|Stables — Stonebridge|
|The public stables of Stonebridge are quite large and even have a distinct area for visiting nobility to store their steeds while visiting Crane's Crossing. Saddles are stored within an interior building and out of the elements where services are offered for everything from repair to shining. Feed is supplied as well to make sure that the charges are well cared-for.|
|April 18, 289|
The stables are bustling with activity due to the recent homecoming of the men. Noblemen, knights and squire alike are conversing and directing stablehands who are attempting to win favors for prompt service. Desmond is amongst them, and is weaving through crossing horses to the stall belonging to a rather unsettled, black friesian that snorts and whinnies unhappily.
The festival likely doesn't help with the level of bustling and activity. Rosanna is returning from a ride, perhaps to take advantage of said festival, which means she also has a handmaiden and guard in tow. It's the guard that takes the reins of her horse and attempts to wrangle a stablehand once his lady has slid free of the saddle. It leaves her conveniently in the area of the stall Desmond is heading for when she sighs rather audibly. "Why is it so /busy/," she complains, ostensibly to her handmaiden, but really to the world at large. Maybe the gods.
"Why /wouldn't/ it be?" Desmond replies off-handedly, a bit too occupied with trying to remove the bridle from the disagreeable stallion. "Regret! Easy! Oh, to hell with you," he grumbles, throwing up his hands, which nearly get bitten when the horse cranes its neck. Finally, he turns to face Rosanna, quirking a brow. "The war is over, m'Lady," he says simply, looking for another stablehand himself.
Rosanna looks over just in time to be startled by the stallion attempting to make lunch of Desmond's fingers. "Is that horse even broken?" she says somewhat suspiciously, eyeing the dark creature warily.
"It… It /was/ at some point. I think. He belongs to my knight, and he's trained to be aggressive towards anyone but him," Desmond sighs, abandoning his attempts to flag the stablehands down in favor of properly addressing the woman. "Apologies. Lord Desmond Westerling. Good riding weather today?"
Rosanna looks just a touch skeptical of Desmond's alleged nobility. Maybe she thinks horses don't try to eat true noblemen. Who knows. But she lifts her chin and dips in a polite curtsy. "Lady Rosanna Groves. And yes, it is." She considers him a moment longer, then offers a more courteous smile. "Fit weather for the festival, as well."
Horses might not eat typical noblemen, no. Desmond barely looks noble. Though it's clear he's trying to keep up the poise. "Groves," he repeats, then glances over her shoulder at the open stable doors. It does seem rather festive outside. The townsfolk are still riding the high of celebration. "There's going to be another festivity tomorrow I believe. Will you be attending?"
"Is there?" Rosanna says a bit airily. "I can hardly tell when their is festivity or when the smallfolk are simply celebrating." She smooths back a lock of her auburn hair. "Mayhaps," she answers, the flit of her smile small small and musing. "Who is your knight, my lord?"
"I'm sure they're going to be celebrating long into the month. I hear the new Regent will be hosting this event, however," Desmond smiles. "My knight is Ser Garett Westerling. He's been occupied as of late, so I find myself with a lot of free time… You're the first Groves I've personally met, by the by. Either they're scarce or I have bad timing."
Rosanna's brows arch just subtly over her dark eyes, and there is a moment of containing the amusement that hints in her smile. "I see," she says, entirely demure. "Well, they /had/ been across the cape," she points out in an overly-mild tone. "At war."
Desmond shrugs. "All of them? I would've been right alongside, but I go where my knight goes, and he was summoned here." Pause. "I don't mean to keep you, if you've got other places to be. I wouldn't want to linger in the stables myself, as… pleasant as the smell is." Finally, he whistles, loud and sharp, and gets the attention of a scrawny youth. "Get that bridle off him, will you?" he tells the stablehand, flipping him a coin.
"Anyone needed to be a voice at home would naturally be at our house's seat in Kingsgrove," Rosanna says. "I am not surprised you would fail to meet any of my kinsmen elsewhere." His guard is still attempting to get their three horses dealt with, though Rosanna's handmaiden is of course nearby. "You are hardly keeping me anywhere simply by existing, Lord Desmond," she says with a hint of a smirk.
Desmond brightens somewhat. "Thought I'd be sure. If I may say so, and I mean this genuinely, that is quite a stunning shade in your locks. I haven't seen that color very much around here. I don't know what to call it." The squire is sure to keep a respectful distance, hands at his back, ignoring the stablehand who is more or less wrestling with the grumpy horse. It's not long before the stablehand calls in a few more to help, and after a lot of neighing, stomping and yelping, the bruised youths rush out of the stall with the bridle. "There you have it!" Desmond praises.
There is more than a hint of satisfaction in the slide of Rosanna's smile, and she tips her chin up in almost unconscious display of herself. "That is very kind of you to say," she says, attempting a sort of gracious insouciance. "I have heard it called auburn or copper." She watches the ruckus in the stall with greater hold over her reactions this time. No overt startling, at least.
"Auburn." Desmond eventually tips the brim of his flatcap. "Lady Rosanna. I've a few more errands to take care of, but I should hope to see you at more of the festivities. Do have a pleasant evening." He bows, and gives a nod to the guard.