|Summary:||Kittridge and Roslyn talk about the upcoming tournament. And do nothing at all scandalous.|
|A collection of tents in the Nayland colors, only the main tent flying the harpy banner.|
|Thursday, May 17 289|
By the time the evening begins to dim, the grounds around the Crossing have accumulated a small forest of pavilions, with more popping up every hour as the houses of the Riverlands arrive. House Groves is among them, the purple and forest green stripes of their tents fading rapidly into seeming blacks and greys in the encroaching twilight, but their banner, with its golden crown, easy enough to spot. Not far from it is Ser Kittridge, a goblet in hand, wandering among the camps, peering at pavilions and up at banners, checking to see who has arrived.
Encampment set somewhat away from others with long-born suspicion, only the main tent of the Naylands flies the Harpy banner, though they all reflect their bright orange and green colors in every pitched tent. Outside of her own camp, the Lady Roslyn is alone and seemingly seeking a refuge in the cool night air as she tries to drag in breaths through a stuffed nose that is rubbed raw. Skin is still flushed, splotchy as the summer's evening breeze whispers over fevered skin, and her curls are damp where they hang down her back from a recent bath that likely speaks of a lot of work on a servant's part.
Eventually his meanderings bring Kittridge past the Nayland tents, where he slows and then pauses. "Lady Roslyn?" he greets uncertainly, whether for the darkness or the blotchy, red-nosed face.
Genuine surprise filters across Roslyn's expression, in the slant of wide, hazel eyes as they cast about for her maid even as she knows she will not find her. She does not pursue looking for her any further, however, turning and stepping towards the knight with a quiet, "Lord Kittridge. I am sorry."
"Ah, it is you," Kittridge says when Roslyn speaks, and he bows, "Evening. What are you apologizing for?" Seeing no maid emerging immediately from the shadows, Kittridge hangs back from the tent, remaining in the path for the time being for propriety's sake.
"That you must see me such as this, perhaps," Lady Roslyn replies with a quiet laugh, her fingers smoothing back a damp curl from her forehead. Stuffy, the words come out slightly odd, but they attempt at lightness. "Hold a moment, and I will find a servant. If you wish to stay." She lifts up a hand in a plea, her gaze tracking over to Kittridge with a small smile before she turns to retreat towards her own camp. It only takes her a moment to find an appropriate female servant and return.
"Maybe it is for the best then that I can't see you very well," Kittridge jokes, "But you sound as if you're ill? Of course," he tacks on, taking a step or two back again while she goes to find a maid. When she returns he asks, "I hope you aren't unwell, Lady Roslyn? Was it all that riding back and forth constantly across the Cape?"
Drawing closer now with the safety of an escort, Roslyn answers, "No, a common cold. Could happen to anyone, really." When they are worn out from riding across the Cape. Her fingers touch at her sore throat as she swallows, a smile flickering across her lips. "I would come closer, but I am sure you are riding tomorrow and I would not wish to get you sick, my lord."
"I'm glad to hear it is nothing more serious than that," Kittridge replies. He returns her smile and chuckles, "I appreciate the concern. I do intend to ride tomorrow, my brother as well, I expect. It wouldn't do to be sneezing in our helmets. Terrible for your aim."
"Depending how terrible your aim is to begin. Perhaps I will only improve it, but I still would not wish to get you sick, Ser Kittridge," Roslyn murmurs warmly, if still rough where her throat is raw. "Thank you, of course, for your concern."
Kittridge laughs. "Come now, Lady Roslyn, I am not so bad as all that!" he says, "Just because I doubt I can beat your brother who has some magical ability to speak to horses or make them fly or whatever people say doesn't mean I need a sneeze to get my lance to hit the target." It's a good-natured complaint, and he chuckles again, and shrugs, "We will see how my luck runs. Will you be watching, do you think? I'm surprised you've come rather than stay home to recuperate."
"And miss the opportunity to see such knights ride against each other? You can be sure that I will be watching every tilt, my lord," is assured with the curve of a smile, eyes sparking with mirrored humor and something—more at the laugh she earns from the knight. "I shall say a silent prayer to the Seven for you, and hope you are not paired against my brother."
Kittridge smiles, and says, "Well, I hope we all put on a good show for you, lady," he says, and then laughs again as she offers the prayer and nods, "And I will hope the Seven hear you. I'd like to win a couple, first, at least." He grins, and then says, "My lady sister has come as well, perhaps you two can watch together. I believe the Lady Anais will be here too, she told me."
A laugh wins free of Roslyn at Kittridge's, a quiet thing that has her agreeing, "I shall like to see you win, as well." But at the information on his sister's present, she adds in agreement, "I will certainly seek out such company. I would very much like to watch the jousts with the Lady Rosanna, as I am sure her own youth and excitement must rub off on those around."
Kittridge smiles widely, "It is kind of you to say so, Lady, though I suspect if it came down to your brother versus me you might say different. Not that I could blame you," he assures, "Family first and all that, of course." He offers another easy smile, and says, "Oh yes, Rosanna is quite a fan of tilting," he confirms, "Though I have a sneaking suspicion she might prefer the melee," he says, with a conspiritorial arching of a brow.
"And why would you suspect that of her, Ser Kittridge?" Roslyn questions curiously, her smile making permanent residence in her expression as she watches the knight. "Family first, certainly, but that does not mean I would not—. I'd not want to see you fall."
"Oh, just a feeling," Kittridge says, smile crooked as he taps the side of his nose, "A brother knows." He grins, half-joking, it seems, and then arches that brow at her again, asking, still with that slightly-teasing grin that seems to be his favorite expression, "Would you see me win, Lady Roslyn?"
"I would," Roslyn says simply. It takes her a moment to lightly add, teasing and wry as well, "My brother has won enough tilts that he could spare one tourney."
Kit's brows lift, and he starts to reply, and then laughs as she goes on, nodding, "I am sure he has, lady. How generous of you both." He grins, and then tilts his head and asks, "Will you prove it, then? A favor, as evidence of your support?"
Roslyn flushes, though from fever or perhaps a momentary loss of sensibility as she agrees quietly, "Yes." Stepping closer as she catches at her lower lip between her teeth in a very unladylike gesture, she slowly untangles a ribbon in bright emerald green adorning her the neckline of her dress, wrapping it around her fingers thoughtfully before catching herself and holding it out to Kittridge almost unsurely. As if not certain he would really take it.
Kittridge smiles as Roslyn agrees, and manages not to smirk at the choice of ribbon. He watches as she winds it about and hesitates, and then reaches out to take it from her. "It's even my color," he grins, twining it about his fingers, "Thank you. I will wear it proudly, and hope it brings me enough luck to do it justice tomorrow."
"Good luck, my lord. I will cheer for you," Roslyn says, all smiles to that grin and quiet sureness about her as her gaze drags over the ribbon against his fingers. She sweeps a curtsy, andding, "I shall have to return, before my brothers miss me. The lord regent will surely be wroth if I do not seek my bed again soon." She glances back at him again, smile lighting up her eyes until she moves to seek the Nayland camp and her own tent.