|Harpy Comes 'Home' To Roost|
|Summary:||Two of the Terrick cousins, and Ilaria Haigh, receive most peculiar guests.|
|Stables and Kennels, Terrick's Roost|
|The Tower's Main Stables are nestled into the corner of the courtyard near the portcullis to facilitate quick, easy exits when required. The rear of the structure is backed right against the interior wall of the castle with the heavy wooden roofing gently sloped down towards the slate out front, the floor of the stables kept to dirt. Thick wooden beams are plunged into the ground and serve as a base for the walls between each stall. Hay serves as most of the flooring in the area with a large stack of it off to the side. Each stall has a thick layer on the ground to serve as bedding, with most of the space dedicated to horses though a few have pens of dogs and hounds. An enclosed structure at the end serves as dry storage for riding equipment and saddles.|
|25th September, 289|
Darion offers an appreciating smile and nod to Wesly. Still not used to having people do things for him. Even if he is a noble. He prefers doing things himself. Smiling and nodding about being a cousin to Justin. "Cousin yes. A son to ser Bolland, no. I came when we took revenge against the ironborn. But have kept my head low since then." Not going into the details of such. "If I may ask, who is your sister?" As she goes on he just shakes his head. "It is fine. I had been gone before. I was a tourney knight. Spotted eagle was what I was usually called." He explains. Glancing to Lothar as well.
The horses have just been taken care of by Wesly. Darion and Ilaria are speaking with Lothar having been wandering around the tower to study it. Having found his way here and just came down from the loft not too long ago. Though Lothar seem to have gotten occupied with something perhaps the horses. Who knows.
Wesly continues to unsaddle his knight's horse before moving to begin doing the same to his own. He is watching the others, paying attention, but staying out of the conversation as it is for now.
"Oh, I see, the Spotted Eagle?" Ilaria inquires politely, but having been to no tourneys herself, can only offer a smile to Darion at the name. "I am sure you are skilled and ruthless on the field." With that compliment administered, she clasps her hands together, glancing behind to Heolla who is busy doing nothing except looking extremely bored. Sighing, Ilaria waves her off. "Go to the tower, Heolla, and inform them that I am here. I may be staying the night, if only to…get away." She turns back to Darion and blinks once at the question. "My sister? Oh! Lady Katrin Haigh, my older sister. Our older brother is Lord Ian Haigh. He was working in Stonebridge, but he escorted us home to Broadmoor before…well, you know." She flicks her fingers dismissively, pushing away the subject. "My sister and I are staying at the inn right now. She is recovering well, but I cannot stand to spend my days cooped up inside. Hence I was in search of a pet to serve as company other than her Septa."
Lothar lets Darion talk as he observes the folks gathering up and figuring out the climate of the Roost so to speak as a good son should be doing or some such until Darion says something about the Spotted Eagle, "I think I've heard of the Spotted Eagle, wish I'd known he was a cousin of mine, you were at the tourney down by the Vale few years back?" He hmmms, "I was talking with the Young Lady Anais and Ser Justin last night we were talking about going for a hunt in the woods north of here perhaps we chould make it a big social event the ladies could go hawking or bring a light picnic?"
Darion ahs and nods to Ilaria's words. "I hope she recovers quickly then. I know how things can go." He still feels the pain in his back from time to time after all. Even slightly now. Trying to hide it though. "I do not suppose that you would all care to join me for wine or ale?" He offers to all around. Not only nobles even. At Lothar's words, he nods. "I think I was. About two or three years ago. I didn't fair too well back then." He's still a young knight after all. Even though he has won some in recent history. The last year or so. Had he continued then he might have been quite great. But he returned to defeat the ironborn.
Hearing about hunting and so on, he nods. "They hunt each week, do they not? I spoke with him earlier today." He explains. Then for once falling silent.
For some while now, it seems the sentries at the portcullis have had, well, something…on their hands. The sound of raised voices and wound windlasses has seeped even to the precincts of the Stables, at first no more decided than an everyday scrap between a haughty man-at-arms and a foolhardy commoner - then, increasingly, distinctly more so.
At last the episode reaches its consummation, in a file of half a dozen Terrick men, three dismounted and three upon sturdy little hobbies, who escort in another trio of dishevelled looking strangers, better mounted than their guards but on wearier beasts. These look almost like some religious allegory. In the lead is a stripling who can't have passed sixteen yet, straggling in the rear is a truly antique dame in Septa's robes, dewy with sweat of fatigue and fear, and in the midst of the crone and the boy is…a damsel whose years are hard to be firm about. She is dressed in a long gown, of good fabric, once richly green, but travel-stained to a sludgier hue; it's set off by the flame of her streaming red hair come loose in the ride. But all three 'guests' are obviously too exhausted to speak quite yet.
The Terrick serjeant at their head calls out, as a result, for them, his bluff voice ricocheting about the stables. "Lookin' for any Lords o' the Roost! We found these…ladies, aye, n' the boy. Say they're from Kingsgrove…"
"Wine sounds wonderful," Ilaria answers, watching as Heolla turns to head quickly toward the tower. Hmm, perhaps she would have been better off not dismissing her maid, or maybe even better had she brought her Septa with her. "In the—" she begins to inquire of Lothar, mouth open in an 'o', but the sound of a scuffle draws her attention. She turns quickly on her toes, skirt flaring about her ankles in a wash of dark blue, and blinks rapidly as her mind tries to piece together the unfolding scene.
The girl's avid, hazel gaze darts from one face to another, from one guard to another, and finally settles on the disheveled trio. She arches her eyebrows, listening to the call from the guard, and darts a look toward Darion. He is, after all, one of the aforementioned Lords of the Roost. "Shall I see if I can find Lord Justin?" she whispers to the knight, frowning deeply. The whole debacle is making her rather uneasy.
Darion nods to the lady and is about to lead them al to find wine. Though upon hearing about the guests, he studies them. "Ser Darion Terrick and lord Lothar Terrick here." He offers to them. Gesturing for Wesly to find Justin. "Just send word and get back here." He tells his squire. Wondering what might be going on. "If I may, what are your names?" Thinking that they might be familiar. If they are ladies. Studying them while waiting for the actual sheriff. Just in case.
Lothar's attention's drawn towards the gates and outside of the stables as well and watches the guard escort their guests into the courtyard and blinks, "I don't see that they need to be treated as if they're prisoners they look like they're fairly harmless."
The serjeant and his merry men obviously have no more idea of the answer to Ser Darion's question than he does, and their accusing looks are added to his curious one; although the hardness of all those stares may begin to melt after beholding the near-wretchedness of the hard-ridden new arrivals.
The red-tressed lady at the centre of the line trots her bay palfrey forward, as if to exert command and take over responsibility for the party's reply; but the horse is barely able to nudge itself much further, and the damsel still less; struggling to speak, she lunges forward in her saddle instead in a near faint, dramatically supplemented by her pallor. So it is the boy who replies, in the harsh accent of the smallfolk.
"Please, ser, it's Lady Rebecca Nayland, ser. Rightful heir to Hag's Mire," he adds with a devotion as fierce as it is flagging, "come seekin' guest-right at Terrick's Roost."
The distress of the noblewoman is enough to make Ilaria's heart wring, and she steps forward as if propelled by a force not under her control. Under the gaze of so many watchful guards, she nearly freezes, choking on her words even as her mouth opens to speak. Swallowing, she reaches up to touch her throat before gasping as the supposed Rebecca pitches forward in her saddle. "Please!" she calls out, drawing even nearer while casting a pleading look back toward Darion. "Please, can someone please help the lady down at least? If she faints and falls and injures herself, and if she does happen to be Lady Rebecca Nayland, it will be all of your hides." For what? She doesn't say.
By now the girl is trembling with the effort to speak so in front of so many bodies. She swallows again, rapidly, a nervous tic nearly as one step takes her close enough to reach out toward the tired palfrey. If it allows her to, she places her hand on its nose in a soothing gesture before turning to do her best to glare at the nearest guard. "Help her down. I am Lady Ilaria Haigh, guest of the Young Lady Anais and Lord Justin, and I will take responsibility for this young woman." This time she does not add a "please". Maybe it will help, or maybe she will be the one to faint away instead.
Darion smiles and bows. "Darion Terrick." He offers in return. As for her being the rightful heir, he doesn't answer. It depends on how you think of it. Besides, Terricks and Naylands don't really like one another too well. Why offend someone that might be more on their side. At least not insult them right away. Give it some time first. Moving to help the lady as well as her company. Making sure they are all safe. As for who she is, he shrugs. "It matters little to me who she is. I'd help anyhow." Which is true. Moving to help first Rebecca. Then the rest. "It is fine lady Ilaria." Looking around to see if Wesly has returned.
Lothar steps out of the stables and moves with all the speed he can muster to assist Darion helping the lady off her horse, before he points to one of the guards very easily ten years his senior, "You. Go into the tower and get some refreshments out here. As well as a chair for the lady to sit on and rest a bit, this is no way to treat a woman let alone one of noble birth."
Floating down in the arms of two big, strong eagle lordlings, the lady with the red-gold hair seems to have assumed a state of near-seraphic calm, when she glances over both their heads, gratefully, and almost shyly, in the direction of the dark-haired young noblewoman of House Haigh.
Her voice is a whisper, but somehow easily carrying, sinuous, enveigling its way into the listener's ear; it is also suppressing a rather hoarse little laugh.
"Alas, my kind, kind, …young… patroness, I am no young woman," she laments, but smilingly. "Only a Young Lady…and often not even counted so much…"
Her head and shoulders droop against Lothar Terrick, the red mane pouring over either of the lordly squire's hefty shoulderblades, and she seems to have slipped back for a moment into unconsciousness, so that he is especially encumbered with her, leaving Ser Darion to see to the septa and the boy - who, weary as he may be, looks in a blood-rage with Lothar - on his own.
Wesly returns, with several servants and guards with him. "Lord Justin is not available this moment, but these men will take them to quarters and see to initial care, Ser." He nods to the men he brought with, and they begin to help and gather the weak guests.
Ilaria wilts visibly, all the wind taken from her sails. It seems a young lady's wrath is nothing compared to a mere handful of words from a lord, and she seethes silently at the near-rebuke as she watches the woman being assisted from her saddle. She crosses her arms over her chest in a huff, trying to assume the most disapproving, matronly position possible. On one so young, however, it looks more like the petulance of a teenager denied her new pony. To add to the affect her lower lip trembles, and she bites it between her teeth to keep the weakness from showing. Perhaps this is how all young girls are inducted into "women's lib" movements.
She steps closer now, watching as Rebecca is taken up carefully. It seems she is not going to be shaken from her role as guard dog in this moment. The Nayland woman's words cause her to smile suddenly and blush prettily, and away melts her nervousness. "Will she be alright, my lord?" she inquires, hovering behind Lothar and peering at Rebecca's now serene countenance. "I will go with you, Lord Lothar," she volunteers, in a quiet voice, daring a glance toward the man's face. "She needs a—a lady's chaperone, and her Septa looks fit to drop at any moment."
Darion helps the lady and then leaves her in Lothar's care. Moving to help the others. Offering a calming look to the boy. "Worry not. It will be fine. Just keep calm and relax. We will make sure that you are all fine. Ser Justin would probably want a word with you as well. All of you. But first, rest. The questioning will have to wait." No matter what others think. It is not like Rebecca can do anything in her state anyhow.
Once he has helped the boy and the septa, me moves around a bit. Keeping an eye on the boy though. The rage will not be fully ignored. "Let us get them to rest." He tells them. Then looking to Ilaria. "You have two sides." He states calmly. Perhaps even a bit playfully. Nodding to her question. "They will all be fine. Just a bit of rest I am sure will help." He tells her before moving along and helping who ever needs it most. "Ser Justin should be notified of this by now. So once he has time he will probably check on you." He explains to those conscious. Nodding to Wesly as he brought the people to help the 'guests'. "Good work, Wesly."
Lothar nods, "Of course m'lady wouldn't want any chance of ill rumors to start, and she'll be fine after some rest but the Lord and Lady of the tower should definately be informed of whats going on." He holds up the 'Young' Lady's weight as he waits to be informed on where to go.
Apparently oblivious to the vexing question of her longer-term sleeping arrangements, Lady Rebecca Nayland - or, by her own and almost lone account, Young Lady - seems to be resting in content tranquility in Lord Lothar's youthful but increasingly put-upon arms. Her aged, doddery septa groans as she is huddled along less gently by a serjeant. The groom who accompanied them gives his Lady and the Terrick squire a dark stare, but is prevented from following it up with an instinctive pace in their direction, as a Roost guard's firm, well-intentioned grip forces him to give in, and be steered off in turn elsewhere, his aspect still sullen.