|Summary:||Rowan and Caytiv happen upon Lucienne, and talk of… fishing… ensues.|
|Related Logs:||None yet?|
|Courtyard, Four Eagles Tower|
|The Courtyard of Four Eagles Tower is floored with a fine grey stone that match the color and tone of the interior structure of the castle's yard. Plants have been potted and placed around the entrances to add some color, the greenery accompanied by several trellises of flowers that climb the support columns. The most prominent structure in the area is the set of large slab steps that lead up to the great oak doors of the Great Hall. Several hallways and accesses lead off into different sections of Four Eagles which makes this the hub of noble activity when court is not being held.|
|Thu Sep 01, 288|
Late afternoon, nearly evening, the shadows long and the light growing dim in the courtyard of Four Eagles Tower. Rowan Nayland comes — as is often the case — from the out-building that houses the horses and hounds. He's a bit muddy and is, as he walks, half-heartedly attempting to brush dog hair from his shirt-front. There are dark circles beneath his eyes, as though he could dearly use some sleep, and a yawn catches him mid-stride, prompting him to pause as the great, braying inhalation scrunches his eyes shut. "Mother of fuck," he mutters, scrubbing a hand vigorously over his face in an attempt to wake up a bit.
In the last of the light, Lucienne - not far from sleepy Rowan and his muttered curses - looks to be daydreaming when she should be picking herbs or flowers or some other such to fill the small cotton-lined basket slung over her arm. She wears a buoyant smile, her eyes turned up toward the vivid sunset, but is interrupted by that which Rowan utters. Her face swings to place him, but even foul language can't bring more than a furrow to her brow. "Evening, Row," she bids cheerfully.
And of course, startled and abashed, the next words out of his mouth are, "Oh fuck!" The boy grimaces deep and bows even deeper, hands clasped over his heart in contrition. "My lady, I am so sorry… I could not be less chivalrous or more ungallant…" Still bent almost double, he cranes his head and squints at her through his flop of hair. "May I be so bold as to note how lovely you look?" he ventures, hopefully.
Lucienne's smile doesn't waver, and in fact, she looks amused rather than offended by the extra slip. "Hop up, silly," she says, batting around her free hand to dismiss the apology. "And pray tell me, how does Rowan fare today? And how is your Knight?"
Rowan hops up as commanded, smiling pleasantly despite his exhausted state. "I do well, m'lady, as does Ser Gedeon — though I've seen him little today, I fear. Sasha went into labor just after midnight and I've been up with her all this while. She — " his words catch on a yawn. "Seven. Sorry. She's well now, though. Proud mother of six gorgeous pups." He studies Luci a moment, quirking an eyebrow. "I'd thought you might need cheering, with Lord Anton gone and all, but you look — quite cheered!" And he looks quite nosy! Though he's not so rude as to go prying around her love life. Directly.
Rowan and Lucienne aren't far from the stables and kennels, the latter with a little basket slung over her arm, seemingly interrupted in her quest to obtain flowers or herbs or such. "Ohhh," says Luci, her smile only growing wider to hear of Sasha's good news. "You must be beyond tired, but what wonderful news! I am, thankyou, much cheered. Some words with my father, and my brothers, and I have chosen today to focus on all the good things. There is much to be glad about, is there not?"
At that, Rowan's smile turns a little melancholy. Or perhaps it's just the whole lack of sleep thing weighing down the edges of his mouth. "There is indeed, my lady," he agrees — and sounds sincere enough, at that. "There is indeed. Tell me — have you ever considered raising a hound as a companion? Not that you, so lovely and beloved, would ever want for company — but…" he shrugs, still smiling. "When they're ready to be weaned, perhaps you'll come look in on them? See if one particularly tugs your heart."
Caytiv tends, somehow, to be at his most boisterous when he should be the most tired. Another day out in the town playing beast of burden for the folk as per his Ser's tasking has him returning to the tower sweat-stained but in fine feather, as if being out and amongst people whose worries tend to end with the needs of their several stomachs were the very tonic for a simple mountain lad thrust into a less-than-simple world. "Ay, Rowan," he nearly shouts, strolling closer and then dipping his shoulders forward for Lucienne, "Lady. So the bitch's done dropped 'em, ay?" he reckons, with Rowan being out and about. "Well seen-to."
"I can't say I've ever entertained the idea," Lucienne tells Rowan thoughtfully. In these good spirits, she agrees easily enough. "But, yes. I'd be delighted to stop by and see them. Will it take them long? —Master Hill," oh yes, the shark is greeted far more formally, yet still met with the lady's unwaveringly cheerful smile.
Rowan smiles at Cayt, giving the other squire a rough, boyish punch in the arm. "Oi! Welcome back! I thought maybe you'd gone — " he stops himself before he says exactly what's on his mind, glancing at Lucienne. "Fishing." Right. Anyhow. "Sasha didn't need me there, much. I was just on hand case anything went amiss." Then, returning his attention to the lady present, "Six weeks? You're of course welcome to visit them before then, but it'll be about that before they're ready to get along on their own."
"Ay, so it is, oft enough, the wee ones fall right out, don't they, then? But it's best someone's sitting looking-on, in the off-chance, isn't it? 'Tis no mean slip a' time set into training them hound." Cayt lifts a hand to the back of his head, scratching there and then just holding onto the back of his neck. "Fishing? Nay," he draws out the last syllable, as if not sure why Rowan would have thought he'd go fishing, brows flattening as if suspicious there's something he's missing. "I only go to fish when Annie or Gwennie's keen on a trip, for the main. I never much took to a-sighing at the sea."
Lucienne 's brows raise; fishing? So that's what they're calling it these days. "One must be terribly patient with the rod," is her opinion on fishing, the actual sport. Although probably best applied to other sporting, too! "Six weeks, is that all? What efficient little growers they must be, Row. I'd be delighted to come see them before then, I'm sure they're precious as gems."
Rowan choke-snerks at Lucienne's advice about rod-handling. "Tis so very true, m'lady," the slender boy agrees, patting poor, puzzled Cayt on the shoulder. There, there. "You pull on it too hard, you're like to break it." He's talking about fishing. Swear to the Seven. No innuendos here. Move along. But then — puppies! Guh. He beams, looking proud as if he'd gone and had them himself. "They are that, Lady Lucienne. No bigger than your gentle hand, faces all scrunched up like raisins, eyes not even open yet."
Understanding dawns for the mountain lad along with Rowan's mirthful snorting. "Ah—! Ay, ay, the lassies here do rather like to take a firm hold of the rod, don't they, then? Less the present company, still being patient for a go with one," he defers to Lucienne's virtue. "And as for the hounds, they'll be a fair sight more the precious with their eyes open, I reckon."
Lucienne blushes fiercely at the further comments on fishing, her eyes blinking wide and seeming to exclaim: goodness! She ducks her head, wholly unable to look upon either of the boys for a moment. My, her basket is interesting. But puppies. Yes, precious little pups! She clears her throat to gush, "Ohhhh. How adorable. Do their eyes take some time to come open, then?"
The Nayland squire side-thwaps a backhand into Caytiv's stomach. Ixnay with the exsay unpays, Illhay. "A bit!" he enthuses a little too enthusiastically about the pups. Subject change, for the win! "Aye, a bit. Uhm. Two weeks, perhaps. Sometimes less."
Caytiv has done something wrong— the Lady is blushing, the lad is hitting him. "Fuh!" he grunts. First he's talking about fishing, and they're talking about fucking and having a fine snicker over it above his head, and then he figures it out and changes topics accordingly, and gets hit for all his pains in navigating the conversation. The more he reflects upon the situation, the more he starts to look as though a sulk is impending, the sort of sulk he generally gets when he can't figure out the right thing to say. In any case he doesn't add anything further to the conversation, eyes skipping distractedly over toward the main hall, though he doesn't make to leave, just yet.
Lucienne clears her throat again and lifts her head, her cheer not to be deterred by any small cause for blush. "Is that so? I should like to see them before, if I might. Will Sasha allow us to look in on them, then? Tonight I had wished to be playing my harp, but perhaps tomorrow?"
Rowan smiles sympathetically at Cayt and bumps the bigger lad's shoulder with his own, reaching up to muss the Hill boy's hair. "Of course, m'lady. Sasha's as sweet and gentle a thing as you'll ever want to meet — provided you're not wild game. I'm sure she'd welcome the visit, and I'd be glad to accompany you."
Caytiv ducks his head away from the mussing, hair still damp as it is with the day's labor worth of sweat darkening the dirty blonde to something more dirt than blonde. "Beg pardon, Lady," he finally mumbles, tipping forward into something like a bow. "'Til later, then, Rowan," he makes his farewells without further explanation, heading in to see what he can find for a pre-dinner snack. A hard day's work is a fine thing, but it leaves a lad hungry-bellied.
"I am most certainly not wild game," Lucienne assures Rowan jovially. Her eyes flicker to Cayt's approximation of a bow, and she dips her head to his farewell. "Master Hill." The lady does watch as he goes, possibly for a little too long, before she remembers herself - and the Nayland squire. She clears her throat again. "I hope that wasn't something I said?"
Rowan also looks after Cayt, frowning a bit. "I don't think it was you, m'lady…" He looks guilty and a little confused, fairly certain he's at fault, but not altogether sure why. He sighs. "I'm much stronger than I look," he quips dryly. "Most likely I ruptured his spleen." He sagenods.
"Ah," says Lu, with a nod of her own. Not at all sage. Because she's not at all convinced . "He's a funny lad, Master Hill. Still settling in, I think?" She drops a look to her empty basket, her smile tugging, mildly guilty. "It must be a difficult thing, to be so far from home."
Yeah. Rowan definitely feels a twinge of guilt, too. He nods in agreement. "Must be. Least his sister's here. They seem close." His mouth tugs into a wan smile. "My lady, forgive me, but sleep weighs on me and… I think I may smell more like dog than the hounds do. But tomorrow? Puppies." This he makes a promise.
"That they do," agrees Lucienne quickly. "Ah, yes. Tomorrow. Puppies. Forgive me for keeping you so, Rowan, do enjoy your sleep when it finds you!" She'll just go back to her daydreaming - er, picking - as the last of that daylight fades away.