|Meanwhile in the Flint Camp|
|Summary:||A small gathering of folks at the Flint Campsite|
|Related Logs:||All Seagard logs|
|Flint Campsite, Seagard|
|A large cabin-style tent stands in the center of the small area granted, the light and dark device declaring it to be House Flint of Flint's Finger hangs just outside on a make-shift armour stand. Dotted around the main camp are smaller tents for the cavalry (who have to share tents), and for the foot soldier (they are stuffed into tents like sardines). There is a small but adequate holding area for their horses with a tent for the tack. In the center of their small area is a cooking fire, with appropriate cooking supplies.|
|Mon Feb 06, 289|
<FS3> Cordelya rolls Mind: Failure.
Afternoon in the Flint camp and things are mostly quiet. While the encampment is still more filled than others — nearer families have sent men and nobles home to visit their family, but not so for the Flints. Too far to go home, half the men are enjoying a delicious rest and the other half are off running in full armor, a task not envied by any watching it. Corrie came out near the few sparse trees at the side of camp earlier in the morning, first to see the men off, but now she's sunk down to sitting in the grass. Probably much to Orlagh's disdain, though she's not rolling in it to stain her pretty blue dress. She's carefully got a mortar and pestle in her hand, grinding at some herbs as she murmurs into the wind, to nothing really visible.
"I know that you have plans… I know, though you do not speak much, you have sent all of us here for a reason… Cherise with her delicate babe, poor Aleister and his fever… Even Orlagh, so innocent of all of this… she doesn't know the hells she's walking into… But they've all suffered such. Must you truly… truly pain them any longer? I know they do not all believe, but I do…. my husband does… I swear we will pray at your feet again, do not abandon us for being in this far land…" She murmurs quietly, though her prayer really isn't being whispered. It's carried on the wind enough someone approaching might hear, or if Orlagh has been watching.
<FS3> Orlagh rolls Alertness: Good Success.
For the better part of the day, Cordelya's newly arrived handmaiden has been keeping herself unusually busy, even by her own high standards. Maybe, just maybe, if she can find a task so tremendous, so vital and time-consuming.. she won't really have to take an evening away to go dancing and drinking with possibly the most infamous rake in the household? It's not utterly impossible. Much, as always, depends on how her mistress is spending her day.
Things are looking up.
Arms folded, Orlagh wanders away from the cooking fire where she has been carefully stirring a fresh batch of tea - it need be made in quantity, for the men who are training near constantly - and leaves it in the marginally less-capable hands of another. One of the kitchen maids. The sight of Cordelya seated in the grass doesn't seem to overly upset the girl. At least the Lady is in a pretty dress, rather than peasants rags, yes? But that she is seated alone, head bowed over some task or other in her lap? Well, that won't do. Orlagh's here to keep the woman company, as well as try and chivvy her into unpleasant things like gowns and etiquette. "M'la-.." She halts her quiet greeting as that worried speech drifts to her on the salty sea breeze, blue eyes scanning the vicinity. There's nobody nearby. With the shadow of a frown, she continues on toward Cordelya, slowing to a halt gradually as she nears.
Fenrir is just in from his run with the first half of the force; he's wearing a breastplate and heavy maile, his bronze-and-iron war-helm tucked under one arm. A heavy iron roundshield, wrapped in leather, is slung across his back. Whatever else the men may say (usually under their breath) about the slave driver of a master-at-arms, he is as fit as any of them, and pushes himself harder still. Sweat drenches down his frame as he staggers toward a water-barrel, setting his helm aside and splashing handfuls of water down his face. "Urrngh.." The sound is half-pleasure, half-exhaustion.
He shakes his head like a dog, spraying water around him, before finally seeming to come to himself a bit. His eyes slowly come into focus, scanning the area around him, watching other men collapsing beneath the weight of their armor and struggling to get as much off as possible. One or two are puking. A smile creases his face at that - the only good run is a puke-inducing run. He wipes a hand down his face, spotting Orlagh and Cordelya, and begins to lumber in that direction. It's amazing how the weight of armor adds bulk to the man - whereas he usually resembles a wolf, with canine grace and a sharp-featured face, one might instead mistake him for a bear when fully kitted.
Bits and portions of Cordeyla's words have been caught on the winds, netted by her ears while lacking a complete portrait to fit all the words together. Cherise does approach the Flint Campsite, but with some caution as others are present, while both hands are appropriately latched before her rounded abdomen, a little under half way through the ordeal of a pregnancy. In a deep green taffeta gown parted from the bustline to reveal a pale yellow underdress beneath, the tip of each steps brush through the terrain of dirt, gravel and both dead and lively grass. The result of many-a-men camped beyond the walls of Seagard. With little to no regard of the others nearby, Cherise voice cuts through rather curtly, "Oh for Seven's sake Lady Flint, why are you seated on the ground? Your dress!"
<FS3> Cordelya rolls Mind: Failure.
For a slow, single moment, Corrie's eyes flicker sort of in Orlagh's direction, but if she heard the maid's words it's not entirely clear. She then looks across her shoulder, a weak smile flickering towards nothing that really seems there. "Perhaps when I attend home, there may be a sapling or two. A godswood can be regrown… It will take years, much heart and hard work, but it can be regrow… I swear you are not forgotten…" She firmly promises towards the thin air and the wind, her small hands still grinding tightly at the herbs she's pasting in that stone bowl. It must truly be bad when she doesn't even notice Fenrir, or the WALKING Cherise, approaching the site. She should be losing her mind with worry right now and going into a flurry of activity to get Cherise off her feet. Corrie had even TOLD Orlagh that she'd put Cherise on bedrest. But that's of no focus to her mind right now.
A worried glance wanders meaningfully toward Fenrir as the handmaiden slows beside their Lady. And Orlagh never looks concerned, so that expression likely bids him a 'hurry up, please?' more than anything. "M'lady?" she tries again, still gently but a little firmer this time as she lowers down in the grass beside the noblewoman, unthinkingly kneeling in the dirt. Her own skirts, after all, are hardly so important. After a moment's hesitation, Orlagh tentatively reaches one hand out, seeking to stay the almost frantic grinding of herbs in the pestle. Her eyes, though, remain upon Cordelya's face, taking in that vacant look. Lady Tiaryn warned her of this.. but it's the first time she's witnessed it. And the faster she can prevent anyone else seeing, the better.
Ah, too late. Flitting a look up toward the approaching visitor, Orlagh swallows hard. Etiquette demands that she should rise and curtsey but.. "Lady Cordelya. You have a guest, m'lady." Maybe that will be enough to shake her from this unsettling reverie?
<FS3> Cordelya rolls Mind: Success.
Fenrir's head snaps up at Cherise's tone; his eyes narrow for a moment as he studies her, grunting softly as he reaches up to loosen the straps of his breastplate. The movement is clumsy, hampered by his gauntlets - he manages it, finally, letting the weight of the battered iron hang from his hand. Ah, that's better. The relief and ease of breathing distracts him for a moment, and he tilts his head back to take in a deep gasping breath. And then he's right back to it, bedraggled features focusing again on the women as he paces nearer.
This time, he's close enough to hear some of what Cordelya is saying, and a sad little smile creases his features. "She's praying, Lady," he announces. "Our Gods got no great temples." The man's tone is as curt as Cherise's as he continues to move closer still, standing at Orlagh's shoulder and looking toward Cherise coolly.
Pale blue eyes continue their survey of Cordeyla's estranged episode when her initial words had failed to gain any recognition. However for the others the Lady sweeps her attention over the blonde haired pair, from the kneeling servant to the tall male then removing his breastplate while providing an explanation regarding the Flint woman's status. "Praying…" Cherise repeats a touch amused, for it was not the first time she witnessed this absent look from the noblewoman, being present however not fully aware. Praying so openly with no regard to her attire, Cherise tsked lightly before her eyes swept a return to Cordeyla, the cant of her head follows. "Such intense prayers don't you think? Consumed and oblivious to all those around."
Cordelya still isn't really here, her mind distant and lost to whatever she hears upon the winds. She goes quiet again, head bobbing in just the smallest of nods to some seeming response that no one else hears. Perhaps the Gods do talk to her? The Reeds have been known for their strange Greensight, but then that might also just be a word for madness. Either way, it's not until Orlagh's insistant, strong words about a guest, and the snapping of her name comes that she even looks down to realize she's being touched. And then up to Orlagh. The momentarily unfamiliar face makes her tense, but then memory catches up with awareness and she drags in a sudden, startled breath. There are others around her — many others. Her pale jade eyes go wide as she looks from Orlagh, to Fenrir, and finally to Cherise. "…Gods…" She breathes out, half sick sounding, half scared. How much time had she lost this time?
But then the sight of Cherise up and walking about brings her features a good bit more stern. "Cherise! Gods… Why… why are you on your feet? Do you WANT to lose your child? Do you know the things they are saying?! Gods… Orlagh, get her one of the chairs -now-, and something for her feet to be put on. Fenrir, if you could get us hot water from one of the fires, I'd be most thankful." She's pushing herself up to her feet almost immediately, walking straight for the woman, quite back into her commanding, protective self. The Young Lady Flint. She can do this, all lost prayers forgotten and pushed aside for the moment.
Oddly enough, the handmaiden, if anything looks both relieved and quietly pleased as she's given a curt order from the Young Lady. Gazing demurely toward the ground, she rises back to a stand promptly, now that cordelya has matters to attend to - and realises it - and bobs a curtsey, both to her mistress and the visitor, belatedly. Unlike Fenrir, she hasn't the gall to address the noblewoman, in defence of her Lady or otherwise. She simply grasps handfuls of her woolen skirts and sets off almost at a jog to fetch the chair and footstool that has been demanded.
So this is the pregnant woman her mistress mentioned. She really oughtn't be up and about, by all accounts. But even the finest camp seldom keeps armchairs in the midst of their field. Orlagh heads for the closest pavillion; one that often plays host to a meeting for one purpose or another. There's a large table there, if she recalls. And padded, high-backed chairs. Yes, there definitely are.
"Seems she's aware enough. Lady." Fenrir crouches down to set aside his breastplate and helm, then lifts his hand to forehead in a respectful forelock salute to Cordelya. Perhaps laying it on a bit thick, the man half-bows as well. "Of course, Lady Cordelya." Shooting a sidelong glance at Orlagh, half-questioning and half-amused. And then he's off, like a rocket, long legs propelling him violently through the camp.
"Oi! Jamys! Gimme that.." Grabbing a small kettle of water - likely about to be used for tea - by its pot-handles, he doesn't bother to offer an explanation as he turns back and trots back up toward the pair of noblewomen - steaming water splashes out onto his gauntleted hands, but by the time it makes it through to his flesh, it doesn't seem to burn him too badly. Settling down into a crouch and lowering the pot to the ground, he murmurs respectfully to Cordelya. "Will there be anything else, Lady Cordelya?"
She's returned, at least somewhat. Even the brisk orders given to her servants are met with a smile, surprisingly after being verbally chastised for leaving her bed. "Really that is not necessary." She responds to Cordelya at first, "A small jaunt to your campsite is not harming Lady Cordelya, I feel at ease when moving rather than sitting there being stuffed with various teas." A delicate hand waves at the cloud of her words, "There is no reason to be alarmed, at least I am not running through fields hmm? Besides, he enjoys it." Cherise gave a gentle pat to her abdomen, indicating just who she was speaking of.
Awareness has come fast and hard, though not fast enough, and Corrie slightly blinks as she realizes she should have sent the pair on the opposite missions she did. Ah well. Too little, too late. As Fenrir returns rather faster than Orlagh, Corrie looks him over with a curt and thankful nod as she takes up the cooler handle of the kettle. "Go help Orlagh, she shouldn't be carrying chairs. Tell her to bring my herbs and you can bring the chair. Fast, Master…" She commands quickly, clear worry in her mezzo voice. Then she looks back to Cherise with perplexed worry, shaking her head slowly as she guides the woman over towards the warmth of the licking camp fire, even if it is not too cold out today at all.
And then she looks straight up to Cherise's eyes, her momentary mental studdering completely forgotten as she studies those pale features. "Cherise. Do you understand the pull of the earth? Every time you stand upright, the fact of nature is that child is being pulled in a direction that is not comfortably resting in your body. Every time you walk, you jostle your insides a little bit more. You were bleeding. While with child, moon blood does NOT come… Bleeding implies damage. Like a soldiers wounds. All this stress has done DAMAGE to your insides. Damage heals with rest. If you work a wound, it just pulls open again. Do you realize that is what you are doing to your CHILD? And where your child RESTS?"
Pariston has been doing the drills and making sure the rest of the section does as they should. He has just been doing the check-up of the kits. Walking in his usual attire, sweat still present upon his body, spotting Fenrir, as he brings the kettle away, and starts moving towards the man and those standing around him. Soon noticing who the company is, stopping in an appropriate distance, offering a bow to those. "Master Fenrir." he offers, having wanted a word with the man. But from the looks of it a conversation with him would have to wait. Standing nearby if needed, but enough distance to not intrude. Eyes keeping watch over a group of people a bit away from where he's standing.
"Right away, Lady Cordelya." The respect in Fenrir's voice is remarkable - despite the weight of his armor, he pushes right back to his feet. And he's off again. Pity the man who has to run with Fenrir Viiding - his heels barely touch the ground as he leans forward into the run, moving as though at any moment he might drop down on all fours. He meets Orlagh halfway back, accepting the chair from her and passing on Cordelya's instructions.
As the handmaiden moves straight back to the cabin-like tent, Fenrir turns and lumbers on with the chair gripped in both hands. It's hard to run with such an awkward burden, but he does his best. And there's Pariston, right where he needs to be - poor bastard, hasn't he learned that work is always rewarded with more work? "Vis! Go and fetch me two mugs of tea from the Lord's pot. Go on." He's breathing hard as he sets the chair back down, gesturing brusquely for Cherise to sit and wiping a hand down his face.
Seeming to have little choice in the matter, Cherise easily walks near the camp fire for warmth as so stressed by the madwoman. Not a single glance is given to the others as they continue to follow the raving woman's orders. Standing near Cordelya the lady is made to rub at her brow while relaying softly, "Cordelya… let us not have all of Seagard involved in our interaction hmm?" She prods after looking to the chair's arrival and of course sitting as so ordered by practically everyone. That should at least quell some of the woman's exaggerated fears. "See, I am sitting." Both hands take up rest upon the chair's arms as the lady's posturing is high prim and proper. "The Charlton Maester has said walking a short distance should be fine. Since yours was the closest I chose here."
Cordelya relaxes, just the smallest of touches, as Fenrir returns with the comfortable chair and she almost helps Cherise straight into the padding. She pulls over a footstool herself (probably really just a log) and gently lifts Cherise's feet up so as much of her lower body is horizontal as possible. "Orlagh!" She calls, as the woman is going, and hands off the kettle. "Just prepare that tea I showed you and bring it back! The one with the nettles!" And then the poor maid is off. Her eyes flicker back up to Fenrir. "Blankets, if you will. Thank you, Fen." Working with the servants seems to be all that is really keeping Cordelya from totally losing her temper. She then stares back at Cherise, her jaw set.
"I tried not to have all of Seagard involved last night. I tried to explain things to you and your husband. Clearly, it did not work, or you were not listening." There is no apology or delicate shame in her tone that Cherise so often brings out in Cordelya. There is only stone and fire. As she waits for the tea, studying Cherry's face, she continues, "And as for your Maester, is that the same maester that so well cleaned your husbands wounds? A week and he could not get the sickness clear. I think he was ready to give up. It is I who finally found the troubles and I who saved your husband's life. Not that Maester. Maybe you should think twice of how skilled and loyal his service may be? Not to mention a Maester is generally good a a soldier's wounds, but I find many have forgotten the delicacies of a woman's body, especially pregnant. I understand. It's an issue I've studied for many years. One I've readied myself for. Has he? Will he ever carry a child?"
Pariston watches as the others run around before he nods his head to Fenrir as he obey the man's words and move away to get the mugs. Disappearing for a while before showing up again with two mugs of tea and moves to hand them over to Fenrir, since he doesn't know who wants it nor what is actually going on. Though he's got a decent grasp on things. Staying clear of the group, just close enough to help out. Missing the request for blankets since he was away to get the tea.
"Of course, Lady Cordelya." Fenrir practically snarls the 'lady', so heavy is his emphasis, his eyes on Cherise. Reaching up, he unclasps his heavy wolfskin cloak and, without bothering to ask permission, drapes it across Cherise's lap. The fur smells of sweat and iron, but it has obviously been kept as clean as possible - and more than that, it is warm. Uncomfortably warm, before much longer.
He turns to accept the two mugs of tea, pivoting immediately to offer them out to Cordelya for approval - this isn't the nettle tea, but perhaps the Lady Flint would like a drink herself. "Soldier, remove your cloak and lay it atop mine." It's the hard, uncompromising tone of a commander that Fenrir addresses Pariston with, not the comradely voice he often uses.
She became a delicate puppet, made to sit in a certain way in order to please the master. Cherise all but grunted in displeasure as her feet were drawn up then came the drape of this servant's cloak which made the noblewoman raise her hands. "Enough! Seven Hell's Cordelya, is not my mind just as fragile?" She wouldn't stop the tea though, just the layers of furs being added atop of her. Sweaty man fur. It may be perceived as clean however the two blatantly had differing views of that. She pinched the near edge of the cloak fur, raising it from her legs and shrieking away from it. "Truly, the fire's are enough."
Cordelya knows the tea takes time to brew to proper strength, so she tries not to look so annoyed as she gazes back to the tent. She'd show Orlagh exactly the proper method and strength, and clearly the girl is doing it. It does little to assure her impatience now. She then gazes back to Cherise and sighs deeply. "Your mind has had two decades to develop it's defenses and strength. Your babe has had a handful of months. Now tell me which I should be more concerned over protecting." She sighs to Fenrir, motioning him to take the cloak back and to stop Pariston's own cloak from coming, but clearly she doesn't expect it done until she gives the orders. Corrie may have actually developed the back bone of a lady. "Fen, Vis…. you may take your cloaks. It will do no good to have her go into a fit as well. And, of course, neither of you will speak a word to others of what you have witnessed here today. We hate to hurt the Lady Charlton's confidences. Flint men do not speak poorly of their friends." Unlike the rumors that were spreading around the Charlton camp last night. Was that implied by Corrie's words? Surely not…
Fenrir lifts his cloak again, but he looks to Cordelya for permission before swinging it back onto his own shoulders. And so he's frozen in a little tableau, cloak held out - until Cordelya gives the gesture. He swings his cloak back into place and holds a hand up toward Pariston in order to halt him in place. His tone is more than deeply respectful as he speaks. "As you say, Lady Cordelya." Again, the heavy emphasis on the 'lady', and a faint twitch of his lips toward the young crannogwoman, a slight nod of approval. "I hear any lad speaking of it, Lady Cordelya, I personally promise he'll not just carry his own kit come morning runs, he'll carry his entire sections. Hear me, section leader?"
It's well known amongst the Flints, that Einar had never intended to be a soldier, having heard instead the callings of the Gods. It's equally well known among the Flints that the Young Lord's squire finds himself as he now is as a result of his brother's death and his own recall to family duties. Despite of this though, it seems the lad isn't in too bad a shape. THe recent run has taken a lot out of him it's true, but he's doing better for it than many. Maybe thats just his youth though. Who can say. Having taken the time to wash and de-kit he's now decked out in a fresh tunic with his sword hanging at his hip. Approaching the campfire he gives the Ladies present their due respects and nods to Fenrir and Pariston before asking the Master at Arms, "Any sign of the Young Lord? He was wanting a hand with something or other when I got back, but he seems to have gone a wondering. I don't doubt he's close by, but I'd rather not have to go hunting if I don't have to." Because right now, he's tired, and scowering the camp for Anders just seems like effort he wants to avoid.
Pariston remove his cloak and is about to gently lay it a top of Fenrir's cloak, just as the man had instructed him, but he stops when he sees Cordelya's and Fenrir's motions. Just swinging it back on. Then nodding as he listens. "Understood." He replies to Fenrir. Then walking to check on the nettle tea and Orlagh. A nod offered to Einar as he passes the man. He offers to take the tea from Orlagh and soon comes holding it as he returns. "I heard you mentioning this." He says, offering it first to Fenrir, letting that man being the middle man.
She could answer that truthfully or honestly. "I suppose you're right." She gives in to allow the woman her ecstatic rantings. There was such a relief to have that cloak removed and immediately the woman began smoothing out her skirts and likely brushing away the odor that may have lingered. The newly arrived male is given recognition only by the nod of her head. Should she rise Cordelya may pop out an eyeball. "As it seems I am to be settled out here for a spell or two, I hear your husband and I are to dine this evening. I though while our husbands talk of what ever men do, we should have our own small gathering in the Charlton camp. That is if you are not overly preoccupied with other matters." Which ever those may be she left unnamed. "Besides, someone should keep me company."
Pariston might have offered the tea to Fenrir, because really, that is the man's commander, but Cordelya leans forward and intervenes, taking the mug for herself and handing it off to Cherise, where it is desperately needed more than playing musical-mugs between ladies and soldiers. "Drink, Lady." Corrie murmurs, a touch more gently than before, not quite so fiercely worried as she was a few moments ago, but she's still unsettled. Einar's given a flickering look and a small frown, "I have not seen my husband since the morning. I suspect he is exercising somewhere, doing his best to regain his strength." Corrie is looking better herself, still bone-thin and fragile looking, but the command in her body and charisma behind her words helps hide a lot of that. She then looks back to Cherise at the news. "If my husband does not require me at his side, I will be happy to give you company." She seems about to say something more, but goes quiet as she just watches the woman's lovely features. She shakes her head slowly. "…Gods… Cherise… tell me, in earnest… do you actually wish this child?" A look is tossed at the men, an implication this might be the time they want to walk over there. Waaaay over there.
Fenrir might -look- dumb and -talk- dumb, but he's not stupid by a long shot. He clears his throat, turning to grasp Einar and Pariston both warmly by the shoulders and jerks his chin over to the next campfire. "I ain't seen him, Lord.." Yes, technically, he is outranked by the young Squire, though he often seems to forget it, "..but why don't we go have a seat, eh? You're fair knackered from that run, and I'm not much better off. Getting old."
He releases the men to grap up his breastplate and helm, before turning to look directly at Cordelya, dipping his head deeply. "With your respect, Lady, me and the lads'll be -just over there-. If you need anything.." He trails off for a moment. "Just give me a shout, aye, Lady?" He offers a faint smile before turning to guide 'his lads' off and out of the way.
<FS3> Cherise rolls Deception: Great Success.
<FS3> Cordelya rolls Empathy: Success.
Einar does not at least think that Anders will have been stupid enough to join the second of the kit-runs that Fenrir had so kindly arranged, but Corrie's suggestion that he might be off exercising elsewhere is treated as a serious option and the young Flint lord gives his goodcousin a nod in understanding. By way of reassurement he replies with a simple "I doubt he has got far." The hint is taken, doublely so thanks to Fenrir and he gives no resistance to the move. He's been keeping half an eye on Corrie when he can, but as the Master at Arms has said, they're not going far away, just over there a bit. "Don't talk like that in front of Anders," he offers with a faintly amused smile, "you'll get it in his head that he's old too and then I'll be fetching and carrying for him while he reclines in comfort."
Pariston feel the mug getting taaken by Cordelya and then he just stands still until the lady speaks and Fenrir starts to pull him to move. And Pariston moves along with the other men over to the other campfire. Staying quiet and only having a smirk upon his face. He stays out of the conversation at hand. Eyes going back and forth between Fenrir and Einar. Though the last part get a soft chuckle. Eyes keeping watch on everything around him, wanting to know the surrounding. Also still keeping an eye on the people in his section.
Cherise eyed the mug warily, practically waiting for Cordeyla to have either of men she's been ordering about to pry open her mouth, pinch the nose and pour the liquid down her throat should she not take it. Pale blue eyes swept to the others remaining somewhat at a distance, lending no credence to her imagination. Accepting the tea, the lady does in fact drink as instructed. The taste left something to be desired while she grimaced against the mug, drawing it away from her lips. "I bet you are enjoying this on some level Cordeyla." The Lady Charlton murmured in spite until she is asked about the child. "Of course I wish him, or her. That is a silly thing to ask me. I would not be drinking this hellish concoction should I not." She indicated to the mug in her hand, raising it slightly and unfortunately touching the mixture to her lips to drain it whole.
Cordelya relaxes a bit and gives Fenrir a brief, utterly thankful look. He's a better man than he knows. She then steps over to Cherise's side and gently folds herself down onto a log next to her. She doesn't care about getting bark or muck on her dress right now, though it is a lovely gown. That's half the reason she has a maid — to clean such things! She cares about sitting close to her friend and having a more intimate, quite conversation among servants she trusts. She stares gently up to the woman's pale features, relaxing even more as she sees Cherise drink and then speak those words. "I agree, it is a silly thing to ask. But the way you are acting… you take no care, you do not relax… I know it must be maddening to be confined to a bed, but is not your child worth such restriction?" Corrie shakes her head quietly, sending a few of those now loosening braids across her shoulders. "I am not enjoying this at all, Cherise. I have looked up to you…" She breathes out, "From the moment I met you. You are what a lady should be. And to carry a child?…How… blessed you are. The gods shine upon you. I just don't wish you to throw away those gifts that you have… I simply do not think you know how lucky you are."
"Right, lads.. Sorry about that, Lord.." Presumably, Fenrir is apologizing for briefly manhandling Einar. He doesn't sit, merely positions himself near the campfire well out of regular earshot of the other conversation. He glances toward the women, then to the other men. In a low murmur, he adds "I want you both keeping an ear open. Lady Cordelya and Mistress Orlagh are capable women, but.." Another glance to the other campfire.
"I won't say aught bad about the Lady Cherise, but I got this feeling like she thinks she's in charge. She ain't." In his flat tone, the master-at-arms clearly conveys that he is displeased about something. He sets his armor down, turning to look over at Einar for a moment. "Well, politics is your work, Lord, and I got to say.. I wish you the joy of it."
With the trio of men having drifted away, things between the ladies are returned to some semblance of calm and order. Which, in this household, is never to be sniffed at. Orlagh has had the presence of mind to pour a weighty pitcher of tea, seeing as her mistress and her guest seem to be settled in for a time.. and even a small basket of sweetmeats, apples and bread. Times may be hard in Seagard, but the handmaiden seems to have a knack for returning from the docks every day with a little something or other to please her Lord and his Lady wife. Today is no exception. Though her blue eyes wander after the departing Master-at-Arms, for a fleeting moment, Orlagh sets her focus firmly once again on cordelya, managing to dip a graceful curtsey without ever being in danger of spilling what she carries. A softly uttered "M'lady.." precedes the offering forward of the arrangement of food to the impromptu hostess, giving her first choice of a selection, should she wish. Then it would be on to the reluctantly reclined Cherise. No doubt any of these delicacies would somewhat replace the bitterness of that 'concoction' she so loathes. Even if these took far less skill to prepare.
Einar does sit, although he takes care to ensure that he can see the other fire in his periferal vision. He's not going to stare, nor keep constant watch, but he is going to keep half an eye out. He stretches his legs out and says nothing in responce to the politics comment. Truth is, he doesn't like it and would far rather just leave all that to Anders, he's used to it after all. Mostly though, for now, his attention, when it's directed that way, is for Corrie. He trusts Orlagh to make sure she eats and sleeps, but the maid isn't always around. "I don't suppose there's any of the ale that Anders had tapped left is there?" he asks in an effort to draw the attention away from said politics, "if I'm going to have to go hunting him I'd rather not do it with a dry throat."
Pariston is standing as well. Offering a nod to Fenrir. "I always do." He replies, glancing over towards the other campfire as well. Then looking at Fenrir as he goes on. Not commenting, only taking in the man's opinion. Head turning to Einar, "I can go look if you'd like." He offers, about the ale. Keeping up the things that he's told to do. Continuing to make sure everything around is as it should.
She fully consumed all that remained within the mug before extending it outward for anyone, someone, to take the vile thing away from her. "You are beginning to remind me of the Lady of Hollyholt." She relies with very little warmth. "Well certainly not in your mannerisms, or your healing abilities." Turning her gaze over to Cordeyla she is summoning up a list to compare the two. "Actually you do not, I have no idea why I had even thought of it, never the less. She too imposed an ungodly amount of restrictions upon all the ladies beneath her roofing. I dare say you would be extremely unhappy there if I could barely tolerate her tongue."
Reclining, Cherise shifted in her comforts while green slippered feet waved from side to side along with some unheard rhythm. "Frustrating isn't it when someone ignores or challenges your very wishes?" The lady's brow lofts while reaching for a treat from Orlagh's dish, something deeply appreciated regardless of the quality. A soft chuckle passes through the lady's nude lips. "If I am so blessed this child will remain until ready, will it not? I do not disregard the life so easily as you may believe Cordeyla. Are you going to mandate that I am to be carried like some cripple?" Cherise then slides a cut of fruit into her mouth while waiting for Cordeyla to answer.
Cordelya looks up to Orlagh as the young woman comes back with a tray of things and there is a thankful, respectful glance from her eyes. She doesn't speak it, but the look on her face says You are a lifesaver. She is getting more and more accustomed to a proper maid, and it didn't even take a week! She scoops up some proper, unherbed tea for herself, though leaves the sweet things for Cherise. "Orlagh, you are wonderful. Thank you, luv." Corrie murmurs with a small smile, a happy distraction from Cherise's harsh and somewhat disdainful words. Then her eyes go back to her sometimes friend.
"The Gods can only do so much, Cherise. They have blessed you with a child, but it is up to you to care for and treat that gift as what it is, a true gift and a new life. Do you think the gods would save you if you had decided to cut your throat, or starve yourself? The stresses you've put on this child…" Corrie breathes out slowly, pulling her sad, tired eyes away from Cherise as she takes a first sip of her tea. "It's a kindness of the gods you did not lose him or her already. Please… I am not asking you to imprison yourself for months or until the babe is born. Just a few days. Until the bleeding stops for a good day or two, not a few hours. Let that wound have a chance to -heal-… Please. And if that includes being carried back like you are the delicate being that you are, then yes, it does. You are not a cripple. You are a wounded woman."
Silent and dutiful, Orlagh takes the emptied mug from Cherise' grasp, after setting down the fare between the ladies, that they may pick at their leisure. This may not be the most polished of noble gatherings but it doesn't want for efficiency, while the handmaiden is around. A lifetime of practice, and with a far less pleasant mistress for the majority of that than her current one. Casting Cordelya a sidelong glance and daring a subtle smile for the Young Lady - unspoken approval, as if she required any such thing from a servant - the girl nods subtly in response to the thanks, then steps back so as not to further intrude on the exchange. The used mug is handed off to another of the House's girls as she happens by, and the snub-nosed brunette accepts it without breaking stride, continuing on her way to whatever task it is she's handling. At least, for once, she's not 'handling' any of the soldiers. She's a popular wee thing, after sundown. Anyway. Should the Lady Charlton find herself with a taste for tea, Orlagh remains close enough to be summoned by even a subtle gesture.
"No ale, Lord, sorry. We started to run low - maids've told me we ain't got enough left to be giving it out at will." Fenrir doesn't sound all that apologetic, but he offers Einar a wicked little grin. "I tell you what, Lord, if Lord Anders don't have my head for barking at Lady Cherise, I'll slip you a bit later tonight, aye?" His gaze travels back to the trio at the other campfire, eyes narrowing faintly.
"You don't think..? Nah, that'd just be my wicked old mind." He smiles between Einar and Pariston, then looks down into the campfire for a bit. "I ever tell you two about the time I wrestled a direwolf in a cave, lads? It was quite the thing, I'll tell you." His tone is lighter, but his eyes still drift toward the other campfire with a sharp alertness.
"Very well, I'll do exactly as you say." She relays easily to Cordelya no reason to argue her side of the point with the woman any longer. "And in turn you should visit me more often since I will only have Lady Ceinlys to accompany me." Cherise proposes while making a motion for Orlagh to return, specifically with the tray. "Enough about me, tell me of you and your husband. Have things improved? Are you eating normally and sleeping well? I believe this is quite fair of me to ask considering the state you were in."
Einar shakes his head in responce to Pariston. "Don't worry about it, I'll check when I go, just wondering if anyone actually knew." After all, it is looking more and more likely that he is going to have to go find the Young Lord and see what it was he was wanted for. Possibly, given the comment by Cherise, something to do with the evening, or something that needs doing before the evening? Only one way to find out… As Fenrir confirms the worst though he just nods once then shrugs, "If I find myself with free time this evening I might just take you up on that," he answers, but then rolls his eyes in an exaggerated manner at the folling question. "Only ever since I was old enough to first visit my Lord Uncle's holding, Master Fenrir." He tone is light, amused, but if this is going to discend into storytelling then he probably should be off and about his duties.
Pariston stands and looks at the two. Nodding to Einar as the man replies to Pariston. Curious as to what Fenrir is starting on about with that half question. But only gives the man that curious look, not asking what he was going to say. Then shaking his head. "I do not think so. Although I believe you're going to tell me either way." He replies in a light tone as well. Eyes keeps wandering. A smirk on his face and his arms crossed in front of his chest. He has no problem with talking it easy and listen to a story for a moment.
Cordelya exchanges a brief look with Orlagh as Cherise mentions that she should come visiting more. "I think my maid and I could make a few more visits. Orlagh here was sent by Anders' sister, if you two have not met. She is…" Corrie considers the small, pretty thing with a bit more of an enigmatic smile, "One of those unexpected blessings of the gods, in truth. And clearly good at making sweet things to wash down the vicious concoction I give you to save that babe's life." Corrie almost teases, as she says that, trying to draw a better smile from both the women. But then she's back with Cherise, especially as questions come of her husband and the state she was in. Her smile flickers away, a slightly guilty look dropping to her small, too thin hands. "Things are… improving, aye. With the ability to spend time at his side, things are better. But I am… I do not think I sleep enough, yet this place brings nightmares and visions of the worst sort. I suspect, just as your body and child rebels against the stress, this is my own mind's rebellion in it's own way… I am fine. There are just… moments. It will pass." She tries to believe that.
Stepping forward unobtrusively at the visiting Lady's behest, it takes Orlagh only a moment to grasp what it is Cherise is in need of. Seeing as Cordelya - and her damned sparrow-like appetite - has chosen to forego the offered sweetmeats and such, the handmaiden scoops up the simple wicker platter and moves it smoothly within easier reach of the expecting woman. It's only fair, after she stomached that medicinal drink. Whether she considers the new topic of conversation 'proper' or not is nigh impossible to say. Women do talk, after all. And at least they are in relative privacy, for the time being. It's likely that Orlagh knows perfectly well the current state of affairs within the household she runs so dilligently anyway, so there's no harm in mention of such things with her around. Cordelya's ample praise of her efforts does warrant a shy smile, as well as a curtsey toward Cherise as the introduction is made on her behalf.
"You used to ask me to tell it, Lord Einar. Used to beg, fact is." Fenrir grins over at Einar - and still watches the other campfire. He sticks his thumbs into his belt, nodding to Pariston with an answering smirk. "Aye, tell it I shall. Well, it was like this, see. I was hunting with my father, some years back, during the last winter. Well, you know them direwolves, like.. Big, ugly things, huge claws, with red eyes that burn like coal.."
He trails off for a moment, his gaze distant, the storyteller's trick to convey he is remembering the horror of the moment. "It had Da down, it had him in the snow, like, and he was apt to get his guts ripped up. Well, I got real mad, and I grabbed his tail, and I dragged him into a cave, and I took him by the ears and rode him!"
"Good." The lady returns simply just before the servant girl was given a name, then her purpose for being here. "I could not disagree." Adding while reaching for a few more treats from the dish, her appetite only increased and shamelessly not willing to conceal it. "I can only assume that being in Lady Cordelya's wake keeps you quite active Mistress Orlagh." She smirks, having only been reacquainted to the quirkiness that is the Lady Flint.
While the noblewoman shares of her mending relationship, Cherise chews quietly. The lingering taste of that awful tea was slowly being replaced by the sweetness of these fruits offered. "Moments or 'prayers' as one of the Flint men had explained. I dare say it has me concerned Cordeyla for if you are unwell you should not be… oh listen to me. As if I have any standing to chide you on your own well being." She laughs then, clearly amused at the humor of it. "It is strange to be affected in such a way. I am worried though, you were not so normal just last night."
While it's true that it certainly was one of Einar's favourite stories when he could just about boast being knee-high to the Master at Arms, he's now older, and taller. And, more importantly, busier. Pushing himself to his feet again he makes no comment about the continued glances over to the lasses but instead take shis leave of the pair in his company. "If you're going to start telling all your old stories again then I'd better go do some actual work. Wouldn't want to spoil the endings after all." He smiles over to Pariston and adds, "If he gets to the one about the shark, don't believe him, nor the white walkers neither." Taking a moment to see for himself that nothing ill has befallen the women he takes a deepish breath himself and then starts off towards the pavillion tent. It's as good a place as nay to start the search after all.
Cordelya still, perhaps foolishly, thinks she can trust Cherise. She will always think she can trust her friend, until it truly burns her. The discussion of her 'moments' is not something Corrie can easily ignore, especially when she is feeling lucid and mostly well. She rubs one of her hands across her face tiredly, not quite able to meet either of the women's eyes, so proper and lovely and she is so… not. "I know. I know, Cherise… and you are right…" She gives a little laugh, "Neither of us have room to be scolding the other at all. I am taking care of it, I assure you… There are some herbs which… quiet the Greensight… when it gets truly distracting. But they are far away and not in these lands. Though…" She looks down to that empty tea cup and sighs, "There are many herbs which grow easily in a swamp and not further south. Perhaps a brief visit home will be in order soon. We shall see how things go over the next days."
Pariston smirks as he listens as Fenrir is to start his story, turning to bow his head to Einar as the man makes his leave. Then it's back to Fenrir. Though still paying attention to the other company, making sure nothing is wrong over there. Raising his brow to what Fenrir tells him. Looking rather amused by the man's story so far.
Straightening a bit as Einar takes his leave, Fenrir gives the younger man a genuinely-fond smile. "Take care, eh, Lord? I'll be seeing you around the campfire tonight." He looks back to Pariston - and again past him, to the trio of women, his brow furrowing a bit before he commences with the tale once more. "Well, as I was saying before that young lad there decided to ruin two of my best tales.."
"I was in the cave, right, had him by the ears.. he's thrashing about, throwing me against the walls, the ceiling, rolling on the ground.." Fenrir mimes a bit of it, flailing around comically and trying to scratch behind himself. "Well, I just kept on going 'til he was tired, see, Vis.. then I stuck my fingers up his nose til he couldn't breath, and he died. And you know the moral of the story?" He raises his brows dramatically. "When you got a wolf by the tail, never let him go!"
"I consider it a great honor, madam, to have been sent in high enough regard to tend my Lord's dear Lady wife.." replies Orlagh, gently, seeing as she has been addressed directly. "..and have found it to be a pleasure, rather than a task. Which reminds me, m'lady." Venturing to speak a little further, as she has opportunity, the girl looks to Cordelya with a warm smile. "..the embroidery you requested is complete. And several of your finer gowns are ready and waiting, when the time comes that you no longer have need to be about the campsite quite so much." Did Corrie request any such thing? Probably.. not. But it's believable that she might have, and is therefore worth mentioning. Especially the exquisite dresses, which do, in fact, exist. Following these well-timed words, and since nobody as yet has need of more tea, Orlagh retreats a step back again, leaving the ladies to their discussion once more.
Pariston chuckles as Fenrir talk, blaming Einar for ruining his tales. He listen and looks at Fenrir, being amused by the comical appearance. Still occasionally looking over to the other company. Then he laughs softly to the end of Fenrir's tale. "Sounds like one good battle with the wolf. Perhaps you can show this again if we come across a dire wolf." Amused by the story shown by the wide grin on his lips. "Or perhaps I'll witness something equally incredible."
Cherise would listen as Orlagh spoke, particularly at the mention of new gowns which bring the lady to laugh in delight. "Truly Cordelya? Fine gowns? My my aren't we trying to be the shining star of these grounds." She'll believe it when the woman flaunts her new attire. "You must show me tonight." Clearly interested in the fashions of women's wear.
Before taking another bite, she returns to a more grave matter. "As for these distractions that plague you, is not seeing them vanished a high priority? I mean this is your well being after all. You are not quite yourself when this happens and truthfully I will be amiss to approach you in regards to the welfare of my child. Aleister does have his concerns and while I am unsure what ails you, I do know that it is not normal. People may talk and it is not beneficial to have such ill words attached to House Flint and particularly the heir." She does take a victory bite out of the fruit in hand, "So who will you send tomorrow?"
"Oh, you'll see something incredible, alright, mate. You'll see a direwolf ripping off your face, aye? And then I'll stop by and visit your ma and your lover and tell them you had a tragic accident involving really, really, big claws." Fenrir laughs and reaches to slap Pariston hard on the shoulder, but the laughter doesn't reach his eyes.
He's still watching the trio of women. "I'll tell you something, Pariston. If my wife were wandering about the grounds with a belly like that, I'd be tempted to right and proper tie her down. Nobs, eh? Weird, the lot of them - excepting the Flints, of course." He adds this bit hastily, though it's heartfelt. "They're alright. Proper nobility, them. Northern."
The dinner with Cherise is now looking more daunting that -ever-. Seeing that she's drank the tea, and now Corrie must prepare for a dinner as she would an elegant courtly funciton, the young Lady Flint begins to stand. "Yes, Cherise, I actually had some very lovely things brought now that the worst of the mess is over. It would not due to have Anders' wife dragging about any longer in a peasant dress. I will some day bear the heir to House Flint, after all." She states quiet and proudly, more assured in her position than perhaps she's ever been. She frowns a hint at the talk of her mind and states simply, "It is being handled. I am fine. However, if I am to be ready for the evening, I should bathe and prepare. Orlagh, ensure one of the men gets Cordelya back to her camp, or fetchs someone to take her back as gently as possible, and then meet me in the tents so I can prepare for tonight. Cherise, I shall see you then." With that, Cordelya turns on the ball of her foot and walks off smoothly to her husband's pavillion, much to be done to make a good showing this evening. And any last herbs for her mind she has will have to be dug up and drank!
"My Lady has many fine gowns, madam." murmurs Cordelya's handmaiden, with a hint of pride evident in her quiet tone. "Though, I believe her worth has been shown more, of later, in keeping alive and sound those upon whom some rely to make them shine.. than pretty garments." Orlagh smiles fondly toward her mistress, admiration written clearly across her face. If people will talk, it ought to be of a caring nature and skilled hand, rather than occasional lapses or distraction. Alas.. some people prefer the easy path. "If I may, madam.." Drawing a steadying breath, Orlagh gives herself leave to be bold, despite a flush of color across her cheeks. "..I would think Lord Anders would be more concerned about talk of the wife of his good friend and comrade being within the boundaries of his camp, in such delicate condition. What if, Seven forbid, something were to befall you?"
Seeing as Cordelya rises, however, the handmaiden comments no further; merely curtseying in respect at her mistress' request. "Of course, M'lady. I shall return shortly, to see to your hair." She smiles at this. Braiding those mousy waves into a thing of beauty is an undeniable pleasure. Affectionately watching the Young Lady take her leave, the handmaiden turns a pleasant look back upon the visitor. "I am pleased to see you enjoying the fare, madam. Would you perhaps care for some to be delivered to your pavillion, ere you go?"
Pariston laughs. "Then you must have some kind of magic, since I have neither a ma or a lover." He says, though not seeming disturbed by any of it. Just chuckles as he's hit on the shoulder. Seeing Fenrir looking to the women causes him to do so as well. "I do understand what you mean." Is all he offers, looking to the women. Listening to Fenrir but does not speak. His mind seems to wander a bit. Though still fully aware of what's going on around him.
Seeing that Cordelya has departed, apparently the delicate discussion of pregnancy is now over. Fenrir turns to Pariston, mirth vanishing, and remarks calmly as he begins moving back toward the female campfire, "Time to do our bit for politics, Vis. Follow me, keep quiet, and let's see if we can't stop ourselves from getting ate by the dragon-lady of the south."
He falls silent as he nears Cherise's chair, dipping his head respectfully to Orlagh, and then Cherise, and straightening up - even the stoop in his shoulders vanishes as he folds his hands neatly behind his back, legs shoulder-length apart. "Pardon the interruption, Mistress Orlagh. Did Lady Cordelya have any instructions, like?"
Pariston nods to Fenrir before following the man over to the women's campfire. Doing as the man says, staying quiet. Although he grins to the words. Eyes studying the women as they get closer.
Once close enough he follows Fenrir's lead, bowing to the two along with a charming smile. One arm over his chest while the other is behind his back. Then let Fenrir do the talking while he stands by as an observer. Eyes going back and forth between the three of them.
"Yes yes, of course." The lady responds to Cordeyla just before her parting, pale blue eyes also follow until the handmaiden speaks up, imparting her opinions. "Unfortunately Mistress, this world does care for the pretty garments, moreso than how willing a lady is to become riddled with blood and entrails. Granted, her efforts here have been pardoned however in the future I fear they will not go so easily cast aside. She should be reminded of such necessities." Cherise sighed heavily, "At least there are steps being made in the right direction. The poor thing." Without anything else to snack on within her hands, she gently shrugs, "But yes, if you can sweeten them a bit more. A layer of honey will be suitable." They should at least have honey within this camp. "I will be fine Mistress, the crowds seem part for a woman is expecting." She smiles then, the first time towards the handmaiden before the men return, reminding her of that glass shell Cordeyla had encased her in. That deserved another deep sigh.
Rather than irked, Orlagh looks belatedly horrified at herself for having spoken so.. well, by her standards, brazenly. But she holds her ground, as is proper in the absence of the Lady she represents. The only real giveaway is the tight grasp she keeps on that pitcher of hot tea. Calmly lowering her gaze to the grass underfoot with a cast of golden lashes, she silently listens as the noblewoman speaks her piece, a subtle tilt of her head offered by way of unspoken acceptance. "..the role of true nobility, as the Lady Cordelya is aware as the bride of an heir, is not without its vanities. But that does not mean such tawdry concerns ought to rule her. The Lady has many matters to concern herself with. That she chooses, even still, to spend time in the care of those beneath her.." The girl offers the Lady Charlton a soft smile as her gaze rises again, stepping forward to relieve her of the swiftly emptied wicker plate. "..bespeaks a kindness that the Lord Anders would never seek to suppress." And then, on to simpler matters.
Without remark as to what may or may not be available, Orlagh bends knee in a shallow curtsey. "Of course, madam. I will see that such is sent, to your satisfaction." The Flints are nothing if not generous, after all. "But.. forgive me, madam. I ought not go against the instruction of my Lady. I can claim nowhere near such knowledge of the body as she might. Allow me at least to have you seen to the boundaries of our Camp, lest she be displeased with me?" Looking to the two soldiers who have approached, the handmaiden returns a nod to each in turn. "Master Fenrir. Pariston. Would you be so kind, under the Lady's orders, to carry the Lady Charlton to where she needs be? Very gently, mind you." She indicates the noblewoman's chair with a subtle nod. Carry her.
Is that the faintest hint of a grin on Fenrir's features? Surely not - it would be deeply unprofessional, after all, and the man is a consummate soldier. Professional to the core, him. He inclines his head deeply to Orlagh, managing to smother the grin before it re-emerges. "Vis! Take the lady's left side, I got the right." He steps smartly to his task, moving to the right-hand side of the high-backed chair - and as he steps out of Cherise's sight, gives Orlagh a quick wink.
Crouching down to get a solid grasp on it, he looks over to his fellow soldier. "If you drop her, Pariston Vis, I'll be having you running in full kit for the next week. Right, let's escort the Lady to the boundary, shall we? Lady Cherise.. Try to lean back. And lift."
Pariston nods to Fenrir and a deeper nod as he passes by Orlagh and to the lef side of the chair. Staying quiet during the whole time, or at least until the other man speaks to him. "Don't tempt me to do so on purpose. Full kit actually sounds fun." He probably isn't serious, but who knows. Only having a smirk upon his features. Another nid as he bends down. Lifting at the same time as Fenrir does. Eyes looking to make sure that everything is in order.
"Tawdry concerns?" The lady had taken offense as her shoulders broadened, "You speak too far out of place Mistress Orlagh." Was the limit of her chastising, before the men would approach and that had suddenly given Cherise reason to grip the sides of her chair, releasing a gasp of concern once her frame had lifted from the ground. It was almost instant the she was made to lean back. "This… is hardly necessary." No matter, they would follow the Cordeyla's orders whether Cherise wanted it or not. Her eyes shift from her left then right side, particularly to her mules. "This. Never. Happened."
"Begging your pardon, madam." is the extent of Orlagh's apology, albeit along with another curtsey. "..it seems none of us are without faults, from time to time. Good day to you, madam.. and do take care of yourself!" This is called after the noblewoman as the two strong men hoist her aloft and turn. With an affable grin, which she holds determinedly in place, the handmaiden utters a few additional words to herself, through gritted teeth as she watches the Charlton being ferried away. "..we're not all as nice as the Lady Corrie…" Raising a hand in farewell, the girl then sets about clearing up the remaining empty mugs and starts back in the direction of the main pavillion.
"Aye, you're right there, Lady Charlton. None of this ever happened." Fenrir's tone is flat, but he looks over his shoulder to flash Orlagh a quick wink as he lugs the burdensome woman along. "You alright there, Vis?" The master-at-arms seems indefagitable, but he's quick to check on his mate as they near the edge of the Flint camp.
"You'll be wanting to walk from here, then, Lady Charlton? Or shall we carry you the whole way?" He grins a bit as he goes, drawing to a halt with a jerk of his chin to Pariston, there at the boundary.
Pariston shakes his head, almost unnoticeable, with a smirk on his face. Then when Cherise looks to them and speak, he only nods. "Of course not." He offers, staying polite. Nods his head as Fenrir checks up on him. "I'm fine." continuing until they reach the boundary. Only stopping once Fenrir does so. Staying silent, not talking mre than he has to.
Might as well go the distance, should word reach back that the woman dared to use her own feet across the Charlton campsite. At least one of them had felt as awkward with this as she had been. "Just to that pavilion of over there if you would." Cherise points to hers, adjacent to Lord Charlton's where the man spent his entire time healing.
"Of course, Lady Cherise. Let's get you right to the door, eh, Vis? Come on, then. Step.. Step.." If there is any humor at all in Fenrir's voice, it is concealed by the snap of his cadence and the solicitousness in his tone. Far more solicitous than he has been the rest of the day, come to that.
He spends most of the journey in silence after this, apart from "Oops.. Sorry about that rut, Lady Cherise, didn't see it.. you're alright, yeah? Good.. Right, here we are.." Fenrir's sweating now, but it doesn't dim the sense of satisfaction in his tone as he announces, "Right, lower her together now, Vis. On three. One..two..three."
Pariston smiles and nods, "A'right." Is offered as he starts to move again. Just staying quiet as usual. Or at least when around nobles, it seems. Trying to keep the chair steady as they continue to move. Feeling a bit tired in the arms perhaps, but he is having good enough control to keep it until they've reached their destination. Lowering her at the same time as Fenrir. Then looking at Lady Cherise, along with a smile and a nod.
Nearing her pavilion, Cherise was greeted by her four handmaidens all of which seemed a touch perplexed in the manner the lady was returning. Immediately she lifted two fingers pressed together in warning, "Not a single word." As if the whole ordeal was gravely embarrassing. She rarely looked at the two carting her across the distance while the sky and her lap occupied the majority of her attention. When lowered, Cherise was all too eager to rise on to her feet and smooth out the lengths of her skirts. She turned around for their parting, "Thank you." Her nod was crisp and short just before, too swiftly, stepping into the parted entrance of her tent. Her maidens grin deeply while turned away, only to follow in her wake of ire.
Winking at one of the maids, Fenrir wipes sweat off his forehead and claps Pariston on the shoulder. "Work of the chief's never done, eh?" He grins broadly as he turns to walk back to the Flint encampment, amusement etched on his weary features. "Well, she's certainly pregnant, but it was worth it, eh? See the look on those girls' faces when we came up hauling her? Oi, bugger off to the maids, see about getting yourself a mug of ale."
Pariston smiles and nods to Fenrir. Though turning to a bit of a wry smirk. "I always help out." Is all that's offered. As for getting some ale, he shrugs. "If rations are low I'd rather save it to the rest. I can be without." He says, though nodding in gratitude nonetheless. He heads back towards the Flint's encampment. Eyes looking around as he does.