|When 'No' Means 'No'|
|Summary:||Caytiv almost strikes out with Senna. Or does he?|
|Lots of tents and pavilions.|
|January 8, 289|
With the abundance of noble pavilions in the encampment, Senna's little tent hardly stands out. The only thing that can be said for it is that it's laid out with something that suggests a knowledge of how military camps work. It's out of the way of lines of march, protected behind the bulk of a Nayland tent, and conveniently located near the cookfires and upwind of the latrines. She has her own fire set up outside the tent, and a small pot is bubbling over the coals at the moment. Perched on a stool where she can mind it, Senna looks like she might fall asleep at any moment. Luckily, any attempt at sleep would be thwarted by the wobbling of the stool.
Trust in Cayt to use his spare time prowling the camp for girls. Or, at least, when he sees one, passing by the Nayland tent, he pauses and re-traces a few steps backward, tilting his head with an almost animalistic interest as he looks the slumber-prone girl over. "Ay, lassie," he greets her, re-directing his amble toward the wobbling stool and the fire pit. "Careful now you don't fall on tha unsteady bit thar, ay?"
Senna blinks once, straightening up at Caytiv's approach. There's a moment where she looks intently at him before a faint smile touches one corner of her lips and she shakes her head. "I wouldn't worry overmuch about that," she chuckles softly. "That's rather the point of the stool." Arching a brow, she looks him over once more. "I should have realized you'd be here. Passed on to Ser Rivers when Ser Jaremy moved on, weren't you?"
Caytiv meets the intensity of that first gaze with a welcoming warmth in his eyes, brows popping upward when she finally knows him. "Ay, so," he answers. "Reckon I well know what me sweet Annie was goin' through, passed down from one son t'other, ay? Still, an' Ser Rivers a good sort, ay reckon. Now, what a' ye, lassie?" he asks her, the question ambiguously voiced, quite possibly asking her what she's going here or whether she'd care for a roll in the hay.
"Busy," Senna answers Caytiv, though amusement glimmers in her eyes. "And exhausted," she adds more honestly. "I've somehow found myself entrusted with the care of the /other/ Ser Rivers of note, and was up all night trying to make sure he didn't roll over onto his injuries." She leans forward to give whatever is in the pot a stir, watching him.
Caytiv stretches his back a little in a disgruntled gesture when Senna claims being busy. "Ay, ay," he goes on, though, in re: the Other Ser Rivers. "Mine Ser an' I just went by t' see 'im. Stitchin 'im up on th' morrow, are they?" he confirms with a slow, pensive nod. "Right awful sight these swords make in a man, used in earnest, isn't they, now?"
"Hopefully he'll be stitchable tomorrow, yes," Senna nods, lips quirking at that first motion from the squire. "But hopefully the wound won't turn, and it should pretty simple to finish the job. It's not a terrible wound, for all that. Badly timed for the young ser, though." She taps her spoon on the pot, clearing it off before setting it down. "Have you seen battle before, squire?"
"Before them Ironers came, nay, Lassie," Cayt answers. "Tourneys, plenty, an' fights… an' sittin' ambushes fer rustlers, 'bout as close as I e'er got to… aught like so." He sounds a little wary of it, but considering the gravity of the situation, he seems to be holding up well enough.
Senna nods once, quiet for a moment before she speaks again. "Battle is ugly," she assures him. "And the injuries and aftermath can be far uglier. It's worse when it isn't professional. Soldiers know how to take care of things quickly and efficiently. Hastily trained peasant and knights who are more used to tourneys than real war get scared. They break. They run. They fail to kill with the first strike. And when it's over, they think only for themselves. So, yes. It's an awful sight."
"And yet we men are born to it, ay?" Cayt shakes his head. "To ride an' fall, if we must, for our own houses' safety." It sounds almost ironic, the way he says it, but not as though it were something he'd back down from. "It seemed so senseful, once, on a time, t'was naught but me an' mine brother an' he an' his brother, an' th' six goats we were in conflict o'er, knockin' each o'er about."
"Goats?" Senna echoes, lips quirking as she looks up at the squire. "Yes. I imagine a goat-centered conflict would be a rather simple one when it came down to it." She reaches into a bag at her feet, sprinkling something else into the pot and giving it a gentle stir. This time, though, she keeps stirring, letting it dissolve. "How did you find yourself a squire, then?"
"Found myself an bastard, first," Cayt smiles wryly. "An' when a Lord says he sees his seed in ye, life… gets more bafflin' than countin' the goats, ay?" He sounds almost sad for it, but he bucks himself up. He looks to have put on a couple of inches in height since the last time Senna saw him, though… it might be hard to tell. But he's definitely a growing lad.
"That it does," Senna agrees, introspective for the moment. "Pity it's turned to war so quickly. Just imagine. Given a few years, you could become a vaunted knight and have the ladies swooning at your feet." That smiles teases again when she glances up before a laugh escapes. "Though, to be fair, I get the sense that's not a problem anyhow. I should be grateful you didn't end up squired to Ser Coope. The two of you…"
Caytiv's eyes sparkle a little, the very imp in them. "Ay, lassie. But for when a stubborn lass says she's far too busy," he roves closer to her, then circles about behind her, catching his hand at her hip and giving her a squeeze as he moves about. "Ye work too hard, ye doze; ye'll be wide-eyed after a bit of the frisky, won't ye?"
Senna can't help but laugh, reaching a hand back to squeeze between his legs. "And what makes you think that, squire?" she asks, still stirring with her other hand. "Every man I've ever known has been more inclined to start snoring after a bit of the frisky than jump up and get back to work. Why would women be any different?"
Caytiv is wearing a sturdy pair of riding britches, meant to protect him from being uncomfortable while riding long distances, and so the hand, whether grabbing with kindly or malicious intent, can hardly gain a hold on much. "For when a lad slips it to a lass, he gives her some of the very life fluid of his sailf, ay?" he explains. "An' he does fall asleep without it, an' she's got more'n what she knows how to do with," he grins near her ear, sliding one hand about to her stomach and beginning to unlace his riding trousers with the other. "An' so a lass might rin her a ten mile after she's done with her lad, or else, does she sit idle, another whole life does grow in her belly with th'excess." Now that? Is a sound theory, isn't it?
"That is a fascinating theory," Senna agrees, lips curving in a wry smile. "And I'm sure, after seeing some of your first action, you are hungry for a girl. But I…" There's one more flick of her finger along those laces, and she withdraws her hand, looking over her shoulder at him. "Am busy." Taking the spoon from the pot, she gives it a little spin, then arches a brow at the squire. "Now get your hand out of the cookie jar before it gets smacked."
"Ay, lassie," Cayt complains, "Don't be so rough with an lad, ay?" he asks of her, hand retreating from her stomach to her hip, where he gives her a tender squeeze and a brush of his thumb along a bit of her back. "Ay, ye have aught to tend to. Come an' meet me tonight, ay, when ye've put your pots an' your spoons up for the night."
Senna laughs again, smile flashing despite herself. "Never take no for an answer," she chuckles, giving his hand a half-hearted swat with the spoon. "We'll see about tonight. It might be I've a few other appointments of my own, after all."
"Ay, reckon if I e'er took no fer an answer, lassies'd start sayin' it t'me," Cayt gives the lass a swat on the bum, a light thing mitigated further by a rub before he draws away. "Tonight, then, lass," he tells her.
"Or not!" Senna calls after the squire with a laugh, shaking her head as she turns her attention back to the pot. "Don't wait up for me, squire. Growing boys need their sleep."