Because Sam did not care for tea and felt idle seating himself so soon upon his arrival, he instead found himself aimlessly milling about the gardens inspecting this or that. Until the brunt of the guests had arrived he wouldn't consider troubling Jerold, so his own company and the easy melodies strummed up by the Gallans would have to do for the time being. If his memory served him right, a group of performers from the Copper Islands would also be entertaining tonight––Gallan musicians, Islander acrobats. Were there no entertainers to be had in the Realm?

He did not think this spitefully, it wasn't in him to be that bitter, but it did strike him as interesting that the Master of Ceremonies hadn't summoned Tortallan performers. The choice of the acrobats he could understand: it wasn't the first time entertainment had been invited from the Isles or provided by the Rittevons for Anna's birthday; but he hadn't thought that there was much want of diplomacy with Galla to have warranted sending for the country's finest musicians. Galla had always been Tortall's foremost ally, so Sam seriously doubted that there was any cause to doubt that politics had shifted unfavourably between the two countries. After standing to listen for a time, the knight couldn't find fault in the decision to hire the Gallans and paid the maestro a quiet, but well-deserved, compliment before turning and wandering elsewhere in the garden.

As with most palace functions like this, mothers with marriage-ripe daughters in their finest and at their prettiest were present. Sam observed several matriarchs prowling the gardens for eligible bachelors, but really only a skilled tactician with experience in the field had much success in cornering the best catches for their daughters. Luckily for Sam, even though he had the honour and prestige of the Champion's title, it was a well-known fact that he was a widower, father, second son and poor as a nobility can get so he was left largely undisturbed by the throngs of scheming mothers. In all honesty, Sam hadn't a desire to marry again––the memory of Jay and his first marriage remained strong enough to give him the impression that his heart couldn't handle another beating like that. Prospective mothers no longer approached him with aims towards his brother––aside from Kennan's pathetically low coffers, Rennick's 'preferences' were another turn off. He was, however, slightly intrigued that no one had approached him yet about arranging a match between their daughter and Braden. In one aspect he could understand, the boy was only sixteen and still an unproven squire, but all things considered he was unquestionably the heir to Kennan. At present, Kennan wasn't much to consider, but in good times she was a prosperous fief... it hadn't occurred to him that he should begin approaching mothers with daughters with dowries ample enough to help Kennan survive its present dry spell.

Casting a glance across the birthday crowd, Samden chanced to spy someone hew knew. Amongst all these people, even someone as reserved as Sam felt lonely without someone familiar nearby, so he turned and strode towards his friend with a steady smile and a hand ready to clap their shoulder...

For once, Jerold was ready before his wife. Oftentimes, she would be the one to beat him and wait by the door to head to the party. He was now smiling at the fact that it was him, this time. Perhaps Anna was a bit slower because it was her birthday and people would be watching. Jerold had done the same thing himself, earlier this year at his own party. Unfortunately, there was snow on the ground then and tea was not to be had. Tea parties were much more relaxed than balls, he found. And when there was snow on the ground, a ball was about all that could be had. Besides, tea was more suitable for the warmer spring and summer months.

At Anna's suggestion, Jerold made his way down to the party without her. She could make her own grand entrance when more guests had arrived. In the meantime, Jerold would entertain any guests already there. As he walked toward the gardens, he took a moment to think about Anna's birthday. Not too long ago, the two had joked about their aging status, but it was really happening. She was about three years younger than he, but that didn't mean much when you put the ages next to each other. These thoughts took his attention all the way outside. It wasn't too much longer and he had reached the gardens. Many people had arrived and more had yet to come.

The event would last a few hours, at the least. Some people would choose to stay and watch the entertainment and others might leave before then. Everyone important would show up, because it was the queen's birthday, after all. They had picked a rather assorted selection of entertainment for this event. By assorted, he meant non-Tortallans. Some people might be offended, but Jerold thought it was a good thing. Inviting people from other countries to preform was always a nice idea. Besides it being good for diplomatic relations, the performers were wonderful to watch. It wasn't as if Tortallan ones weren't, but they had entertained in years before and the Master of Ceremonies thought it would be a nice idea to change it up. Jerold was inclined to agree.

Choosing not to take a seat, Jerold decided to mingle. There would be many people to greet and sitting was not the best way to do so. He spotted his Champion, Samden of Kennan, heading over to talk to someone. They would have a chance to speak later. For the moment, he would have to focus on other guests. Smiling, Jerold turned and greeted the person next to him. This would be a long day.

It was Anna's birthday, and she was having a ball. Not an event, a good time. It had meant her children had to say good morning, that she could have a week without stressing, and that she had an excuse to embroid her own dresses. Although Anna had protested at the thought of changing her gown several times a day, her maids had eventually persuaded her to do so. Wrinkling her nose at the thought of such wasted time, no matter how simple her maids could keep her attire, she'd decide one change, in the afternoon, would do. Her maids had no choice but to agree, and once again Anna was pleased at how she'd managed to abuse her power.

Sighing to herself at the memory, she ran a hand over her dress. It had taken her weeks to sew the little baubles to her bodice, but it was well worth it. the stunning gown was a rich red-brown, similar to her hair, trimmed with a light blue. The embroidering had been done with a mid-cream, a tad darker than her skin; she'd learned from one of her favourite artists that against a dark background, a mid-tone would look light, which had come in handy when making her own clothes.

Her maid poked the last clip through Anna's hair. Finally, she was ready. Turning around on her chair, she peered into the mirror. Gasping in surprise, she exclaimed in shock, "What'd you do? I haven't looked this good in years!" Her maid grinned in delight; the Queen looked amazing. The many curls covering her head were laced with ribbons, creating a rather dimensional appearance. The previous year, her husband had given her a beautiful pearl necklace, laid in gold and silver. She wore it infrequently; it was too valuable to wear like an everyday piece. But today was by no means an ordinary day, and she felt it was suitable, if not appropriate, to wear. Her hands were covered with white cotton gloves, typical of the latest fashion. Her feet-- well, no-one would see her feet, so she'd excused herself with simple and comfortable boots.

It had taken so long, her husband had been ready long before. Saying a quick word to him, he'd scurried off to join the party. She still had to wait; most of the guests would not yet have arrived. It would be another quarter hour at the least before she would make her entrance, and in the mean time, she was content to sit with her ladies-in-waiting. Perhaps she'd get the chance to talk to one of them, she thought with a smile.

At first he had panicked a bit, not sure what to wear, not sure what to give as a gift, unsure of whether or not he would be able to look presentable... And then, as if he had taken a moment to calm himself (which he hadn't), Senz was bombarded with several epiphanies: he did have a tunic and a pair of breeches that would suit this occasion, he did have a gift worthy of his Queen, and he would look presentable because the gods just couldn't simply be that cruel to one of their mortal followers.

Could they?

Senz shook his head as he rummaged through drawers, tossing clothing onto the floor as he searched for the exact tunic and the exact pair of breeches that he knew were part of the drawers' contents. The finding of such important garments was met with a whispered "Aha" before he swiftly tossed them onto his bed. It was only a momentary fight before he'd managed to tug the shirt he was wearing off, to throw the tunic he wanted on, and to do likewise with his pants. His boots, of course, would be the plain, simple boots he usually wore, but that couldn't be helped - he didn't pride himself in possessing multiple pairs of footwear like some of the men and women he had met in his life. Once dressed, he proceeded to rummage through the chest at the foot of his bed where he kept the treasures he had gathered from the Copper Isles. It may have seemed silly that he might offer his Queen a trinket from the Isles, her place of birth, but it was all he really had. Finding the rosewood box that the bracelet had come in, he flipped it open to see if the object was actually within.

The bracelet was originally intended for his mother as a gift, but he had already showered her with gifts from the Isles, along with his father, and had decided to keep the piece of jewelry as a future birthday gift or somesuch. It was wrought of silver with sapphire jewels embedded into its surface. The links of the bracelet looked almost vaguely like waves in the way they were shaped and hooked together, each sapphire shaped similarily within each link's centre. It was a simple trinket, not as expensive as some of the items he had seen while in the Isles, but it seemed fitting: not so fancy that he could possibly be accused of courting his Queen, but not so lackluster that he could be accused of not providing a proper gift. Snapping the box closed, he placed it on the top of his chest of drawers.

When he was prepared to leave his room - he had smoothed the wrinkles out of his clothing and had combed his hair to the best of his ability - he gathered the box in one hand, swept out of the room, and closed his door quietly. There were fewer servants in the palace today - most were probably attending to the Queen or to the gardens below, where the party was being held.

As Senz entered the gardens he glanced around, taking stock of the situation. On the one hand he was searching for Landen, to see if the boy would be attending, and on the other he was attempting to see who was attending in general, and how many people were present. As he slowly drew towards the crowd, the entertainment, and the music, he recognized very few people. That was fine - surely there would be someone here that he recognized. Of what he did see, it seemed to be mostly mothers trying to find their daughters suitors. And, as much as he would have liked a wife, he wasn't particularly interested in becoming a suitor just now.

Much like himself, he noticed that most of the people were well-dressed, probably wearing their best clothes. Senz was dressed in a navy blue tunic embroidered with silver thread and black breeches. The colour of his shirt enhanced the vibrant blue of his eyes. And those eyes continued to glance around as his ears picked up the foreign music. Amdist the crowd he noticed the King, and paused midstep. In his mind it was strange to see such a regal man mulling about, as if he were a step lower, just a mere mortal. Senz only realized he was gawking when a maid ran smack-dab into him. Pivoting sharply on the ball of his foot, he nearly dropped his gift, his arms swinging up and then down as he managed to keep it cupped in his hands. Grinning sheepishly, he cocked his head so that he could see the woman bearing the tray that he had unintentionally run into. "My apologies." She stalked away with an almost annoyed expression. Senz remained here he was, looking almost lost.

Excellent way to begin a celebration... Running into one of the servers and nearly causing her to lose her goods. I'm certainly doing well.

This was one event that the princess had never even considered trying to get out of. For all that the general idea – an afternoon tea – was hardly what the girl would find interesting, the entertainment arranged would surely make up for what she, at least, would consider dull, and the importance of the occasion marked would ensure someone with whom interesting conversation might be had. Not to mention the fact that this was, after all, her mother’s birthday party.

The gift that the teen had decided upon to commemorate the occasion was hardly an ordinary one, and one might even dub it impractical (if one were, that is, superficial and interested only in valuable trinkets). As far as Líadan was concerned, however, it would at least make the queen’s life an easier – a personal guarantee from daughter to mother, from princess to queen, to attend the next five major (or minor, should Anastasya will it) court events without protest, and without trying to sneak out well before their completion. It came with the unspoken hope that said events would be less foreign dignitaries so that the seventeen year old would be able to enjoy herself more – as she always did when minding her tongue wasn’t all that stood between friendliness and international conflict – however with the Carthakis about for the foreseeable future, this hope wasn’t a particularly realistic one.

Her dress was simple and light – suitable for the summer heat that had embroiled the city, if not for the regality of the event she would be attending. Its lavender color was contrary to her typical preference of darker tones, even more so was its white detailing, however, as Lee had reminded herself countless times already, it was her mother’s birthday. If she couldn’t put personal preference aside on such a day, what kind of daughter did that make her? ‘The worst; one of the ones who would sooner kill their mother than not marry the richest lord in the area,’ she thought in answer to her own question, delicate nose wrinkling in distaste of such a daughter.

Though it was unusual for the princess, she arrived for the party almost early; to be sure, there were guests already present, however her attendance rarely came more than scant moments before that of the guest of honor, giving Lee a chance to mingle. With people. People to whom she might talk, and might say something she shouldn’t, and… oh dear.

The Conté princess sighed, teal eyes scanning quickly over the crowd in search of a safety net, someone to whom she could speak without creating some sort of upset. It wasn’t that she didn’t know when to hold her tongue, or even that she couldn’t. Rather, the teen’s challenge lay in not forgetting herself – where she was, with whom she was conversing, and her own station.

It hardly helped that she was somewhat of an oddity. She was clever, she was well-behaved, and she was outgoing enough, however she was just too judgmental for her own good, almost snobbish. Should one of the ladies actually enjoy embroidery, Lee considered it a mark against them. Illiterate? Another mark. Such marks served to build a fence between her and her peers – well, the closest to peers that she could get as royalty – herding her off towards the intellectuals to whom she’d be nothing more than a princess, endearing because she was actually interested in what they had to say, and should genuine insight, but not much good otherwise. This, at least, was her fear, however in seventeen years, she had done little to try and rectify it.

It was only proper for a foreign guest to be present for the Queen's birthday, so Brynjá had primed herself for the occasion and braced herself for the inevitable assignment of being included in the Scanran diplomatic party to offer gifts and birthday wishes to Anastaya of Conté. Although she was happy that she did not have to provide a gift individually, she was very apprehensive about joining the Scanran ambassador and his party. Thus far in the months that she had been at the Palace, she and the ambassador had succeeded avoiding one another; unfortunately since this was an important state occasion, they were forced together not only by the Master of Ceremonies but for political reasons as well. The ambassador, backed up by the Master of Ceremonies, had sent word to Brynjá and Dagmar that they were to dress in Tortallan fashion––anything that would make things smoother between them Brynjá was more than content to oblige to.

Together with her handmaiden they met the ambassador's party at the designated time. Byram fa Bána was there to greet her, as cordially as he could manage for appearance's sake, and offer her with only mild stiffness his arm. He may be Cyttan's uncle and the two of them may have many difference between them, but she was the daughter of an influential warlord and the only lady of rank among them. It would not do to snub her in the presence of the Queen, a fact that made Byram bristle and Brynjá feel quite smug. Dagmar drifted into place behind her mistress among the ambassador's train, timid and wide eyed––very rarely was she included in such occasions, and hardly ever with such important people. While Brynjá was an image of perfect grace curtsying before the monarchs and well-wishing the Queen on her birthday, her handmaid performed a clumsy curtsy, knees knocking visibly with nervousness.

After they had greeted the King and Queen, the Scanrans were free to disperse throughout the gardens as they willed. Brynjá, however, taking advantage of Byram's arm to spite him while she could, remained at the ambassador's side for some time before she released him. She left him nearly quaking with irritation for having to suffer through her company and treating her politely for so long, something that made her smile privately and wickedly to herself. Dagmar, taking the cue from her mistress, followed her into the next garden over, now looking quite pale and anxious compared to Brynjá's elegant, indifferent calm. The two of them were just seating themselves for some tea when Brynjá noted, with interest that did not break her haughty expression, that she recognized their table partner...

Brett's day had thus far been neither very good nor very bad, falling somewhere in the neutral or "ok" zone. After scarfing down a swift breakfast of rolls and water (watched by the disapproving eye of his manservant who had offered to procure an actual morning repast but was turned down), Brett had hurried down to the practice courts where he spent the better part of the morning sparring with his brother and practicing with his other weapons. It was his opinion that if he didn’t exercise and constantly keep up his skills so tediously and laboriously gained, all his years as a page and squire had been wasted. He had gone through knight training to learn how to competently use various weapons and so he lost value to the Crown if he didn’t maintain those abilities. As an added bonus, Brett also felt better when he was physically fit.

Following his morning workout, Brett had addressed issues that had popped up during his absence from Linden. The fief’s weapons smith, a single man in his late thirties, had contracted some illness or other (the missive from his steward hadn’t specified) and summarily died. Despite being a morale dampener for both the people in Linden and for Brett himself (though a mite gruff, Brett had liked the man), this presented a small problem. While his men-at-arms could go to the village blacksmith for minor repairs, the blacksmith did not have the skills to mend major damages to create new weapons. While not exactly an urgent problem, Brett and his steward felt that with times as uneasy as they were that it would be best to start the search for a new man and soon as possible. This was one among several minor issues that he worked on for the rest of the morning.

Lunch was an agreeable affair that he had shared with a few friends. The food was tasty and their conversation pleasant. It ranged over a wide variety of topics, from joking things to serious ones, from Tortallan events to those happening in far off places. The meal lifted his less than chipper mood considerably, so that by the time the queen’s birthday tea rolled around shortly afterwards, Brett was prepared to entertain and be entertained in return.

He then returned to his rooms to prepare for the afternoon’s event. Brett dressed in a tunic of blue, lightly covered with silver embroideries (Linden’s colors), underneath which was a cream shirt. He also wore black pants and his better boots. Linden was wealthy enough to allow him two sets of boots, one that he wore everyday and everywhere, and another that were nicer that he wore only to formal events. Brett then retrieved Linden’s gift to the queen and set out for the gardens, his manservant, Miles, following closely behind him. Kenn and Brett’s gift for her most royal majesty was fittingly something made with many gems. A pair of gold combs, wrought in the shape of a vine with many small flowers, inset with diamonds and rubies.

Upon arriving at the gathering, Brett first cast his eyes about for his younger brother, but after a few minutes of fruitless searching, decided to wait a time before presenting himself and Linden’s gift to the queen so that Kenn could come and be present for it as well. Scant moments after making this decision, a hand clapped his shoulder. Brett turned and saw his friend Samden of Kennan. He clapped his shoulder in return and said jovially, “Hello Sir Samden! It feels like it’s been a while. How is life as the King’s Champion working out for you?”

Aaron was sitting at one of the dozens of tables, drinking juice and munching on pieces of fruit. He was relaxing and enjoying himself, the food if not the party. It was a great chance to see all the foreign dignitaries, and maybe even some of his own people. He'd been born in Tortall, true, and Corus had and always would be his home, but he was still curious to see his fellow Gallans and hear of their latest political movements. Unlike Tortall, the Gallan Court was a tad more complicated, with nobles and commoners alike being played against one another for the amusement of another. They weren't ruthless, however, which argued that their closest cousins were not the Scanrans.

Yes, it was nice to relax and see the result of his hard work bear fruit. Guards out of uniform had slipped in, to keep an eye on things. Others in uniform patrolled the perimeter, ensuring the safety of all the partygoers, and most especially the royalty-- two dozen guards, both in and out of uniform, were to act as almost personal bodyguards. Even though the war was over and everyone was apparently happy with Tortall, one never knew when assassins would strike. Parties were the easiest--too many people to count, plus the panic the victims and innocent experienced. It created the perfect escape.

This was why Aaron had spent the past month slowly preparing for the event. He had to make sure that all the exits would be guarded, decide on a suitable number of guards, who would be in uniform and out, who would be allowed to mingle, who had so poor manners that they'd need a bit of training, and getting all said guards new uniforms. Out of all that, he'd found the latter was the hardest. He'd almost screamed in frustration before he worked out that some men are fussier about clothing than ladies.

The Captain had arrived at the location quite early, almost before the Master of Ceremonies himself arrived. All the heavy tables had to be moved, which he'd helped with, but mainly he wanted to watch as all the guests arrived. It was partly out of curiosity, and partly because there was only one entrance, and that was where any would-be killer would come from. Yes, he was paranoid, but he'd always been concerned about safety, especially when it'd be his head if anyone was killed. He'd noticed no-one he'd not seen before, and once the Queen had arrived, he'd sat down. He could pay his respects later--they knew he'd want a chance to sit down.

He was surprised, however, to see Brynjá fa Wyrmssköld seating herself beside him, along with a stranger who was probably a maid. Blinking, he thought of why she'd have chosen here to sit. Their last encounter had been rather cool, resulting in both Aaron and the Scanran ignoring each other. Finally, he noticed the tea. It was why he was there, after all. Tea in preparation for a long day was usually wise.

Deciding he had no place to be rude simply because he wasn't keen on the young lady, he quietly asked, "Would you and your companion like any tea, ma'am?" Secretly he hoped that she'd flatly refuse and give him a reason to disappear-- he had no interest in ruining what was potentially a good day. Aaron highly doubted she'd suddenly become nice, unless the ambassador had worked a miracle.

((OOC: I give you permission to eat me, Roy. Geez I can waffle XD

EDIT: Thanks Roy XD))

If Brynjá had taken care to see who it was she had seated herself next to, she would have never troubled Aaron Denvorn with her company. As it was, however, she was determined to make the best of the situation. The two of them had gotten off to a slightly rough start, careless errors all on her part of course, she had since found out who he was. It couldn't be helped though: the damage was done, as evidenced by the tight, quietness of his voice. She did consider their acquaintance salvageable based on the fact that he had spoke to her, given that he could have ignored her completely––even if he had good manners, nobody is above ignoring someone they don't like.

Whereas a moment before she was pretending not to have recognized who she had sat beside, she now allowed her brows to lift in subdued surprise, a chilly coquettish smile playing at her lips. "I didn't think you liked parties, Captain Denvorn," she remarked in an airy, but cold, voice, still allowing herself a smile that didn't reach her hard grey eyes. It seemed she wanted to make a delicate point that she had, after all, figured out that he was 'Aaron' and Head of the Palace Guard, something he had not cared to divulge to her previously. The statement was also empty; she knew, as he must know she realized, that his presence here was not mandatory for appearances, but a matter of duty as well. Turning swiftly from Aaron to Dagmar, she questioned the girl if she would care for tea and since she was too anxious to say no, she agreed with an enthusiastic nod. Nothing recently had given Brynjá more satisfaction than to turn her attention back to Aaron and say: "Yes, please. Tea would be lovely. And Dagmar likes hers with cream. None for me, thank-you."

Whether the thanks was honestly given it was doubtful, but there was definitely an underlying edge to her tone that hinted that she was gleaning some vicious pleasure out of his politeness. Outwardly, however, she was anything but unpleasant if not appearing slightly and delicately aloof as would be expected of a lady of her station––or arrogance.

Bryn's expression had turned from neutral to slight surprise-- interesting, noted Aaron. Had she recognized me from behind, or only just now? he wondered to himself, a little unsure of her intent. Finally she greeted him as Captain, which sent genuine surprise shooting through him. It had been quite a while since their last encounter, and in that time she may have done some research, but he found it somewhat startling that she had. He also found it interesting that she had chosen that sort of statement to try and... what. Annoy him? Let him know in a subtle way that she knew who he was? Had she been offended?

Sitting back a little, he quickly thought of a suitable response. He didn't want to let on that he was startled or uncomfortable, or give a sharp reply that would offend her, so a neutral and uninformative reply would have to do. "It depends on who is there, my lady," he replied, allowing himself a small smile to give the air of general amusement, even if he didn't feel it.

Nodding in acceptance, Aaron rose from his seat and wandered to the tea. It had already been brewed, like most large parties. With scores of nobles attending, it would take too long for them all to brew their own drinks (or tell a servant to), hence the prepared pots. With one eye, the Captain kept an eye on the tea as he poured it into two china cups, and with the other, glanced over at the table where Bryn was sitting. She hadn't snubbed him, but it was almost like she was enjoying and abusing his good manners. He didn't care; she wasn't an inconvenience, nor was she manipulating him. Adding a final sprinkle of cream to one of the cups, he walked back to his table. After gently settling the cups down in the right positions, the one with the cream next to Dagmar, he seated himself once more, with a quiet, "You are most welcome, my lady."

Not that he was particularly interested in how the Scanran was feeling; he thought it would be amusing if he played along to her little game. Whether or not she'd realise he knew, was another matter entirely, but he was happy to play verbal chess. Chess, his thoughts wandered. Perhaps she enjoys chess. With a sharp mind like hers, she would most certainly be a good player. About to ask, he realised that she probably didn't know-- it was, after all, a Tortallan game, made by Tortallans for Tortallans. He'd only learned when he came to the Palace, so perhaps she didn't know. Once again returning to his original plan, he politely asked, face as straight as ever, "And how are you two ladies faring?"

(OOC: Hope it's okay to jump in. This post is primarily for Lee. <3)

He really should have been used to life at the palace by now, after having been home and knighted for more than a year, but at times like these he found himself still amazed at how differently the paces were set. During his Squire training, Zare had woken early, worked hard, and gone to bed late. Each day was filled with training and traveling and fighting and riding, but although the places changed from time to time, it was the same basic routine repeated over the weeks. After a time he became used to the lifestyle, and it was an easy one, comforting. Each day was the same as the last, and there was always enough time to complete the day's work before sunset, it seemed. Royalty had no such respect for time; here he was constantly in over his head, rarely found himself with free time that he didn't have to use in thinking, and at the end of each day mostly wondered where the hours had gone. Even that daily shock had faded with time, though, and although he still pressed himself hard to try and solve every problem, he'd come to terms with the fact that, as the future King of the Realm, he would seldom lay his head down without some thought to trouble his dreams. But when David had quietly reminded him a few days before that the queen would soon be turning a year older--when he connected that with the fact that, in a mere month, he would be twenty-three--a fresh wave of panic spread over him. Where did the bloody days go?

David really was his most invaluable servant; without him, the prince would like as not have missed his own mother's birthday party. As it was, he'd had enough time--although he'd had to scramble a bit--to come up with a gift he hoped Anna would like. It was a recently finished, but allegedly comprehensive set of books, gathering from various sources from various countries. It was the history of the world, as was known to mortal men, at least. There were a good eight or nine thick, leather-bound volumes, a daunting task even for a woman who spent most of her free-time buried in books. He was crossing his fingers that she would enjoy the set; it seemed like interesting enough material, and enough to fill a few rainy days, at least.

He arrived at the party after a modest crowd had accumulated, not, by any means, everyone who would be attending, and not after the guest of honor herself, but definitely not early. Dressed in a fancy, gold-on-black tunic and the usual other garments and adornments, he was not meant to blend in, but tried to do so anyway as he slipped in through the gates. The palace guards nearby dipped their head and shoulders respectfully as he passed, then resumed their patrol wordlessly. The prince's grey eyes grazed over the heads of the crowd like a deer sniffing for a bite to eat. The King's Champion had taken up with another knight, from Linden, and the two seemed to be conversing cheerfully. He noticed Denvorn, head of the guard, seated at a table where he had a clear view of most of the garden, and particularly the entrance, but his attention seemed to have been diverted by a pale woman--the Scanran lady. Not far from him, the prince recognized another fellow knight--Senz of Pirate's Swoop--who was looking sheepishly uncomfortable as a serving girl stalked away from him. A spark of curiosity flitted through Zare's brain, and he started towards the embarrassed knight before someone else caught his attention--his sister, who was wearing a casual light purple dress--which didn't seem like her at all.

It had been a while since he'd last talked to Liaden, although he always enjoyed their conversations. He'd simply been too busy, he guessed, with the arrival of Boaz, and especially since he was scrambling to try and make amends for the Betrothal party, still. She was, surprisingly enough, not yet engaged in a conversation with any of the fluttering young ladies in the area--although it would hardly have stopped him from interrupting if she were; in his experience she only heard half of the things said unless you really had her attention, and the empty-headed girls simply had no chance of that. The princess also appeared to be bored. Then again, Lee always had something to be bored about, even on the grandest of occasions.

Zare made his way smoothly towards her, although he had to weave in and out of a few other persons, all of whom either dipped their heads or flashed too-brilliant smiles when they caught his eye. Approaching, he began warmly and informally, "Lee. Glad to see someone dragged you here. I'd advise staying at least until our Mother arrives." It was obviously a joke; no matter how much she might not like events of any sort, they both knew she wouldn't dare disappoint their mother on her birthday. "No one's swept you into a fascinating conversation about the newest fashions and designs of lace, or some such? You must not have been here long."

Brynjá did not condescend to thank Aaron a second time for the tea––once was her limit, whether it was meant in sincerity or not. Dagmar however accepted her tea with a quick 'tenk you, sir', as if she were concerned her lady might frown on her manners. The maid was happy to have something to fidget with as she sat; she only had a vague idea of who Aaron was and the conservative, dark way in which he was dressed and Brynjá's manners towards him only made her all the more nervous. What was she supposed to do or say? Swirling her tea with the spoon, she considered working up the courage to excuse herself from the conversation and retreat to more familiar circles amongst the other Scanrans.

Her mistress, meanwhile, promptly took her tea as soon as it was offered to her and delicately blew away the languid coil of steam. She took a careful sip, determined that it was brewed a little weak, but instead of commenting on it simply set it down to allow the impression that the liquid was perhaps too hot yet to drink. "And how are you two ladies faring?" Brynjá cast Aaron a sharp glance, taking in his straight expression and polite tone. Something prickled along her spine, making her wary of what was really going through the guardsman's head. Even though she was quite keen on pressing her boundaries with Aaron, she knew she would have to step wisely. He may not seem to be entirely dismayed to be stuck in her company, but when he had risen to fetch their tea for them a few minutes ago she had noticed that he had been caught somewhat off guard. Whether he was now taking and offensive or defensive position, she couldn't ascertain.

With a curl of a soft smile, one that as usual didn't reach her eyes, she replied obligingly, "We are well, if not a little disappointed in the Master of Ceremonies. He shouldn't expect that many Scanrans to get along with one another, even in the presence of royalty." At the end was a hint of genuine and cutting irritation toward the Master of Ceremonies' decision to bring bitter enemies together for the sake of presentation––but it also seemed to acknowledge in a faintly light hearted way the fickleness of Scanrans' animosity toward one another. She paused a moment, reassessing what she had said, and chose to add in a somewhat remote and cool voice: "I will commend him for his choice of entertainment, however. I heard a folk air a little while ago that I haven't heard in years." While this was true and she had also welcomed the familiar lilt and wail of the violins, she had been with Byram fa Bàna at the time. The melody was east Scanran, perhaps more Gallan than Scanran, and while pleasing it had reminded the two of not so pleasant things from the past. "And I should like to see the Kyprish performers," she admitted out loud, in an attempt to quickly divert her thoughts from the past to the present. After the words had left her lips, Brynjá winced inwardly at the delivery––too genial.

To smooth over her small slip, she gave her tea a brisk stir and brought it to her lips. She blew lightly to cool the liquid and before taking a sip, she observed chilly to Aaron: "So are you truly here for yourself tonight Captain, or is it a matter of duty? I can't imagine they could afford to dispose of you at an event like this."

Regan fiercely stared at the young page. He instantly averted his eyes away from the intense glare and shifted nervously in place. He thought he had been lucky when the Duke asked him to deliver a message to his sister, one of the most beautiful and charming young women in the palace, many of the pages spent their free time sighing over the woman. Yet when he realized the message was that the Duke would not be able to attend the party, explaining it as he was busy with 'business', the page knew he had been duped.

"I'm sure he sends his regrets, milady," he said quietly, trying to keep his voice steady under the unnerving stare.

Regan looked at the page and sighed, she didn't mean to scare the boy, "If he regretted it he would have said it. No, he's happy and relieved to get out of society and used you to deliver a dangerous message." she smiled and patted the boy on the head while handing him a coin, "Let this be a lesson to you! I'm sure even you can be braver than the great spymaster himself."

The page smiled and jogged off with a wave. He was relieved that Regan remembered whom she was angry at. And she touched him. Regan of Wellam touched him! He was going to be lord of the table with this at supper.

Regan watched him run off and turned to look at the partygoers now gathered and celebrating with the Queen. She frowned, wiggling her mouth in thought. Here she was again, forced to keep up the Wellam name alone. Recluse mother poet, antisocial brother spy. What more could a socialite ask for?

She fiddled with the pink pearls of her necklace as she managed the crowd at the tea party, finding a place near the Queen's table to call her own. Luckily her gift, a well crafted mahogany loom specifically made for a thread mage like the Queen. Regan wished it could have been fancier but the look of delight on the Queen's face was enough for her. Maybe her mother was right about simple pleasures being the best?

Today she decided to be demure in a cream silk gown with soft pink roses embroidered on it with delicate Tyran lace work on the neckline. With the outfit she had tentatively planned for the hunt later in the week, she figured low key was the way to go for now. She moved through the crowds, listening to conversations that peaked an interest, especially the gossip that had travelled with the Gallan minstrels. Carlisle was missing some interesting things. She met one in the eyes and smirked as she gave a vaguely guilty look. He would be here long after the rest moved on, she knew.

Regan wandered over to him, and enquired about the musical selections they had made for the party. She nodded in agreement to them and then smiled up at him in a knowing way. They had made small talk enough for the rest of the group to ignore them.

"Who is paying you, minstrel?" she asked innocently, pretending to read the playlist again.

"The palace of course, we are here to celebrate Her Majesty after all," he replied guarding his voice in a cheerful manner.

"And after the party, minstrel?" Regan looked up at him, her eyes dark, "Who is paying you then. Whose eyes and ears are you extending to Corus?"

"I know not what you mean, milady," The minstrel responded, glancing over at his group members to save him from the conversation.

She stiffened, "When you remember this information I suggest you find me, or I will make sure that your master will never be happy with the information you send him," She said, narrowing her eyes, staring down the would-be spy like a prey to be hunted.

Regan turned swiftly and stalked back to her table and quickly penned a note to herself about the man, hiding each letter as she wrote them. Only then, half way through her note, thinking of who could be behind the spy, she noticed who exactly she was sitting beside. The Princess Líadan and the Prince Zarian were standing right next to her. Her cheeks burned bright red, she hadn't acknowledged royalty. She sat down beside them without even curtsying! A mental twitch and Regan wondered if she should just sneak off as fast as possible and hope no one noticed. Without the passion of the spy in her grasp, she would have more likely fainted than ran.

Aaron's brows never rose in curiosity at the servant lady's accent; having spent time near Scanra, he'd heard a variety of accents, and welcomed them. They reminded him of his other home, the one he'd not even spent a full few years in. That was a sad thing, and perhaps, one day, he would return. That would be nice. Gazing back at the servant lady, he noticed she looked a tad uncomfortable. Was it because she was naturally shy around strangers, or because her mistress seemed cold towards Aaron? Unsure, he decided to politely ignore the lady-- after all, if she grew too uncomfortable, it wasn't beyond her to excuse herself.

Having slightly adjusted himself to Bryn's cold nature, he took her smile as one of politeness, not pleasure. She followed it with her reply, "We are well, if not a little disappointed in the Master of Ceremonies. He shouldn't expect that many Scanrans to get along with one another, even in the presence of royalty." Aaron allowed a tad of mirth to reach his eyes, as he was well aware of the fickle Scanran nature, but kept his expression neutral. He wasn't keen on having to explain himself, should he offend the sharp Scanran, and that seemed likely. Or maybe not offend, he thought to himself. Whatever I say she could take the wrong way, purposely or no. Keeping that in mind, he simply nodded in agreement. The Master of Ceremonies was being a tad hopeful there, perhaps too much so.

Bryn continued, in what Aaron took as a conscious attempt to not be rude. "I will commend him for his choice of entertainment, however. I heard a folk air a little while ago that I haven't heard in years." Blinking slightly, Aaron allowed himself a moment. Was that regret she had implied in her comment, or had he mistaken it for something else? Despite this, he was in agreement--he'd not heard many of the folk songs for years, either. Since the last time he'd been in Galla, really. They were, after all, more common in Galla than Scanra. "The Master of Ceremonies has chosen well," Aaron replied in a warmer tone, implying that he, too, had enjoyed the selection. He was not as inclined as the last time the two had met to be 'nice' and 'polite', but with other Scanrans and no Gallans present, he thought it strategically wise to avoid an incident.

"And I should like to see the Kyprish performers," Bryn admitted, and this time, Aaron flashed a grin in agreement, despite noticing a slight change in the delivery. If she was being honest, then either she'd given up on trying to get on his nerves, or, like he was himself, she was waiting to decipher the personality and strategies of the other person before making a move. Although she was no doubt several years younger than Aaron, she was making quite an impression on him. He'd not met many with such a sharp and tactical mind, and really, he was a tad impressed, He'd never let it on, however--neither would think it acceptable to be 'nice' just because of that. Besides, the Captain had his pride to think of.

The next question, however, took Aaron slightly by surprise. Expecting Bryn to pick up on his previous reply, which had been rather uninformative, he'd waiting patiently for her to inquire more about who Aaron would enjoy being around. It was, after all, more of a political hotspot than whether he was here for himself or for duty.

Pausing, not to conjure a smart response, but to appear to do so, he instead spent the time wondering what Bryn was trying to achieve. Trying not to smirk at his confusion and Bryn's unique way of making conversation, and succeeding, he replied, "Duty follows me everywhere, my lady, although I ensure that myself and the Guard are given the chance to mingle during such events." A chance meant, for most of the Guard, to go along, drink a bit, then disappear before their Captain gave them punishments. Aaron didn't mind them drinking a glass or two--getting drunk was a different matter, but the Guards seemed to think he would.

Thinking to add a little leverage to his position and implicating caution, he emphasised his importance by adding, "And no, I imagine not, either." He didn't say it in a rude, proud, or arrogant tone. Rather, he said so as if it was a fact, and one he could do without quite easily. It wasn't a bad thing, nor was it good. Let her stew on that, he thought to himself, smiling inwardly.

Aaron's grin, with reason, startled Brynjá––almost to the point where her fingers nearly fumbled stirring her tea. Suddenly she got the very unsettling notion that their positions were shifting a little, with the guardsman gaining the upper hand. Whether he realized it or not, that grin had been quite the wild card to pull on her: she was expecting him to be reasonably polite and tolerant, but he was gradually allowing genuine and warm reactions to their conversation surface. His grin had been just the thing to set Brynjá back on the defensive, mentally going back and sifting through the details of the conversation to try and pick apart where she'd gone awry.

It had pleased her when she saw a faint glimpse of amusement on his part about her comment about Scanran nature. That had shown her that she at least had his attention, if not his interest. He took her compliment towards the chosen entertainment seriously and had agreed with it, but instead of appearing wary of her approval he hadn't been. Now that she looked back to that exchange, it even seemed as if he had been turning something she had said over in his mind––that he had paused to consider something. Somewhat fretfully, she tried to push her memory back to exactly what she had said, and how she had said it. Failing to find a word that she may have let slip, she decided that she must've allowed too much feeling into her tone. That had left him something to consider, to wonder about, not something to counteract. Then of course, there was that poorly tacked on bit about the Kyprish performers... Brynjá tried not to choke on her tea remembering that. Was he grinning at her because he was laughing at her? If he had picked up on the undertones of bad memories in her voice, surely he would've recognized that pitiful attempt at a change of subject. It gave him the perfect opportunity to pounce.

Eying him over the rim of her teacup before she delicately set it down again, she searched for signs of an eagerness to take advantage of his situation and begin to criticize her. Instead she was left a little frustrated by the remnants of the grin that lingered on his face; it was inconceivable for the Scanran that he could let go of their initial prejudices against one another so easily, or that he had ignored the abrupt, unchecked openness in her remark. The notion that he may be letting her little slip up pass was even more difficult to Brynjá to grasp––and that appeared to be what he intended to do. That was not to say, however, he wasn't moving to take the reins of their conversation into his own hands.

Too preoccupied with worrying over what had been said and trying to establish where she now stood in their conversation, she hadn't noticed a fleeting look of surprise flicker across Aaron's features. While his reason to think where his response to her earlier would have led the conversation was justified, Brynjá had interpreted it quite differently than he had expected. With so many opportunities for an ill-doer to make an attempt on royalty and nobility alike, she would have expected him to be on duty for the occasion––but here she had found him sitting quite idly by himself.

Aaron did, however, succeed in steering her towards the topic he had anticipated with his further remarks on the subject. Before his first statement left his lips, he had Brynjá studying him quite closely, trying to pick out whether he was making a show of things or if he were seriously considering how to respond. If appearing coolly attentive outside, inside Brynjá was bristling with each second Aaron took to feel out his response. His attempt to shuffle her nerves a little was successful in that she couldn't decide what was more irritating: being thought as easily diverted, or being lured into thinking he still had the under hand in the conversation.

What Aaron eventually said did make Brynjá sit a moment herself before she formulated a response of her own. It forced her to go back to their first exchanges and consequently fall into place exactly as Aaron had initially predicted she might. Here he was, the 'indispensable' Head of the Palace Guard, doing his part to ensure their safety, but yet also present out of his own desire to enjoy the entertainment and mingle with others. She caught the return of neutrality in his tone when he chose to embellish the emphasis she had lent him, and even the added pointedness he had given it. That immediately brought a question tingling to the tip of her tongue, but she waited just a moment longer before she let it loose. Recalling their first encounter, she had treated him very poorly on account of mistaking him for a simple guard and at that time he seemed to have been very uncomfortable, even displeased, to be present for the occasion. But now that he was at a party willingly and happily, if not altogether thrilled to have encountered her again, he had seemingly sought solitude from those who favoured him. That considered, she also noted that he did not appear to seek out the company of his men who were present at the party.

Seizing her opportunity to question him, she asked with a hint of slyness, "You leave me wondering why you are not 'mingling' with those of your station. Surely you don't feel that strong of an obligation to be polite to me? ––my company cannot be that diverting either." Brynjá sat back and allowed for a rare break in her frigidness when her hand fluttered to her breast and she affected a look and tone of mock horror and said: "Unless you suspect me to be a threat to their Majesties!" Her shocked expression soon faded back to a slightly more human remnant of its usual façade, the hints of a faint smile tugging at her lips. More seriously, but bold in its intent to push her boundaries with the guardsman again, she continued: "Or perhaps you tire of their society, their petty aristocratic discussions. You rank among them, but that does not mean you can relate to them, does it?"

There the Scanran seemed to feel a tiny surge of triumph, only to have it quickly dissipated by Dagmar seizing the opportunity to ask something of her mistress––in Scanran. For a long moment Brynjá stared at the girl and then in a detached way waved her hand to dismiss her. To Aaron it might appear that she were displeased with Dagmar's request, enough so that might refute her own daring remark about his place in relation to his 'peers'. By blood, Brynjá was no noble, so to seemingly treat Dagmar harshly would have been hypocritical. Truthfully, Brynjá was more dismayed when she heard her maid's desire to spend the evening with the other Scanrans, and even feeling a small pang of betrayal. Dagmar knew what injury those animals had done to Brynjá's family, yet still she would associate with them?

Returning back to meet Aaron's opinion, a frigidness had taken over her previous expression. In all, Brynjá now seemed transformed back into the cross, taciturn creature that she had first been when Aaron first met her. Her chin raised itself haughtily, ready to meet Aaron's response and not to yield. The remoteness of her features, however, did not allow for the sting of her hurt feelings to show.


(blagh, evil post that prrrrobably won't give you enough to work with... it's Wednesday and so far the week and "der blonde Eckbard" have fried my mind. x.x)

(EDIT: HOLY CAMOLEY... evil and LONG. How on earth did I manage this? *dies*)

Not at all concerned that Bryn was warily eyeing him, Aaron shifted in his seat. It wasn't the sort of fiddle of nervousness, uncomfortable conversation, or boredom; rather, one of his muscles twanged with pain, making him move and hence, stretch. It was perfectly natural for Bryn to eye him as she was. They two were, after all, having a verbal spar. If she hadn't eyed him and tried to work out his weaknesses, he'd have given up trying to talk to her a long, long time ago. He didn't like playing with those who couldn't appreciate subtlety or wit, and were far too predictable. Bryn, however, seemed full of surprises. Remembering this, he simply deemed her another challenge to overcome, by any means necessary. Almost any means, he corrected himself. There was such a thing as honour, and he wouldn't go so far as to embarrass her just to save himself a tad of time (which he couldn't be spending elsewhere, actually).

What Bryn was thinking about between sips, the Gallan didn't know. Was she thinking of what he was doing here, or how to go about her next attack, or how to respond to his comments without appearing... well. Nice. He could have snorted at his own short description of the younger lady, if only he wasn't in her company. Perhaps he'd have a laugh about it later. Although the situation wasn't exactly an enjoyable one, Aaron was determined to get the most out of it-- both Bryn's cold nature and his constant dancing.

While thinking this over, Brynjá finally presented what appeared to be her joker. "You leave me wondering why you are not 'mingling' with those of your station. Surely you don't feel that strong of an obligation to be polite to me? ––my company cannot be that diverting either," she'd said slyly, which sent alarm bells ringing through Aaron's head. He blinked once, slowly, giving himself a moment to ponder and develop a response that would hopefully ruffle more of her feathers. Either that, or send alarm bells ringing through her head. The Captain wasn't fond of questions regarding rank and station. It reminded him that the world wasn't perfect and that, as much as he tried to fit in and be the silent, but deadly, servant of the Crown, he was still a Gallan, and not of high status. Forcing himself not to feel offended, he smiled slightly, hoping the opposite reaction of what she was attempting to bring to the surface would frustrate her. Grinning internally, he replied loftily, "I'm able to contact and meet with anyone here at any sensible time, my lady. Hence, I'd rather spend time with those I don't know, and call upon my friends at a later date. They understand my time constraints, you see." He blinked again, then added with another smile, "I will confess you are good company. It's a shame we haven't had the chance to talk more often." Because I really do like a challenge, he thought to himself. He was rather proud of himself--yet again, he'd managed to emphasise his importance, even when he wasn't of much birth status.

"Unless you suspect me to be a threat to their Majesties!" Bryn mocked, which provoked only a chuckle from Aaron. Pausing for a moment, he realised what she said was true. Or, in reality, what she hadn't said. She could be a threat; he knew almost nothing of her. Considering her splendid acting and manipulative skills, he wouldn't have all been surprised if she was an agent or assassin of some kind. If that was the case, even Aaron had almost no hope of discovering the fact until it was too late-- too late to arrange that she be left alive for questioning. His guards weren't stupid, and the amount of security present around their Majesties was enough that an army of assassins would have trouble. It was only a passing comment, intended on provoking him, yet it was a tad unsettling. Of course, he could always ask her. If she lied, or tried to, he'd know. Still, he felt that it wasn't meant for anything. So, he informed, "Certainly not, my lady. You'd not have been allowed her if you were a threat." Seeing the lady's expression return to her usual cool self, he relaxed again, confirming his suspicions that she was only fishing.

"Or perhaps you tire of their society, their petty aristocratic discussions. You rank among them, but that does not mean you can relate to them, does it?" Bryn asked, once again cool and collected. This made Aaron think, and in a way he'd not done for quite a while. No-one had ever asked him that question, so he'd not really thought of an answer. Slowly, cautiously, but not at all perturbed, he spoke as he thought. "I relate rather well to other nobles, my lady. If I couldn't, I wouldn't be talking to you. I find pleasantries a waste of time, but, there are many who have little to do with their lives except for mingling and achieving nothing. I remain neutral in my view of such people-- there is the social structure to consider, after all," he said, implying sarcasm in the latter part of his response. He gave nothing away; by remaining apparently neutral, he'd, in a way, told the lady that he wouldn't be grovelling or asking forgiveness at any point in time. This didn't mean a lack of respect, however, and if anyone was to accuse him of being impertinent and rude, they would have little to support their claim.

While replying, Aaron noted Bryn's harsh view on nobles. Yet, wasn't she one herself? Slightly confused by Bryn's negative view, he once again was left to wonder what Bryn was getting at. Her servant request to join a small group of Scanrans, and, probably sensing that Aaron would point out her hypocrisy if she'd refused, Bryn let the servant go. He had the opportunity to criticise her, but at this point, Aaron thought that perhaps silence but an amused look would be enough. Twitching his lips slightly, then returning his expression to neutrality, he watched as the servant left.

It was tempting to ask the same question, that of mingling, in return, but that was dull and would only result in another unhelpful response. Eyes lingering on Bryn, then casually over to the large group of Scanrans the lady's servant had requested to join, he silently wondered why his sparring partner wasn't with them as well. Did her family have problems with the Scanrans present? he asked himself, although the chances of his thought being wrong was scarce. Feuds were so common in Scanra that it was only natural to assume that most nobles would like few others. Here was the perfect fact to seize, one that he could twist to his advantage. Cocking his head in the direction of the small group, he asked, appearing curious, "What of you, my lady? Here is a group of Scanrans, looking rather bored, yet you are here, conversing with someone you barely know." Either she swallowed her pride and admitted she had family problems, or she talked down her own class. Sighing silently in relief, he sat back a little, giving the woman time to formulate another sharp response. Or insult. Either way, Bryn was in a hot spot, and Aaron was relieved it wasn't him in such a position.

((OOC: lol my post was only 22 words shorter (or something very close, anyways XD))

"I relate rather well to other nobles, my lady. If I couldn't, I wouldn't be talking to you."

Brynjá's eyelashes trembled momentarily as she narrowed her eyes at Aaron. Well, he is either ignorant or he is implying that he can adapt to any type of society. Checking herself for a moment before assuming him ignorant of her station, she convinced herself to look at what he had said from a more ambitious angle. If he wasn't able to at least play along at relating to the concerns of the nobility, he wouldn't be Captain of the Royal Guard––the king very well could have found some second or third son of a nobleman to fill the position. Instead here was Denvorn, and quite comfortable as things were. Pressing her lips in a thin line, she consented to give him the credit of fending off her remark rather well.

As for his comment about her being enjoyable company, she had not hesitated to snort in disbelief––that was a poor attempt at a bluff and she didn't refrain from throwing him a piercing look to show she had seen through it. There was a subtle timbre of an undertone implying that perhaps in some way there was a small truth to what he had said, but it wasn't significant enough to concern her. Brynjá hadn't felt compelled to reply to what he had said because in doing so she would either appear at loss for a response or would allow him a minor victory. Once again she chose to bide the time by taking a few more sips of tea; it kept her busy and concentrated, when through her frustration she was beginning to fear losing her composure. Here she had a Gallan who was cleverly countering everything she said, evading her traps more or less, and a short distance away her only friend and confidante was laughing warmly in the company of her enemies. Suddenly she felt very unfit for the challenge Aaron was proving, whereas normally she would have welcomed it. Instead of submitting to her combativeness like most tended to do, he was firmly standing his ground and even gaining the offensive in some instances. Actually, more instances than she was ready to swallow this evening, especially with her good humour spiralling wildly downwards.

At Aaron's next remark, Brynjá reacted in a way that she soon afterwards regretted. She set her cup of tea down with a little too harsh and forceful of a motion, flashing him a very dangerous look as she did so. From her expression, she did not seem to be much surprised that he had been capable of cornering her like that––in fact, it more than likely gave him the pleasure that he had hit his mark. Scowling at him he sat comfortably back in his chair, awaiting her answer, her own posture became rigid. It was his turn to pick on her, and although it was a right well earned and deserved, Brynjá did not like the feeling of it. Leaning forward and in a low, tense tone laced with anger, she told him: "I do not care for their company, sir, because two of them conspired against my father and the ambassador's nephew killed my brother. If that does not make it clear why I prefer your company to theirs, then we will have nothing more to say to one another."

While she spoke her voice maintained a cold, sharp bite, even when it did not increase in volume with her emotion. By contrast, she seemed to grow paler as she spoke, and seeking the refuge of what was left of her tea she seemed to fight back a quaver that threatened to shake the steadiness of her hand. It wasn't really Aaron who she was upset with––he was irritatingly good at countering her attacks––but with other people. The Master of Ceremonies and his lack of consideration, Byram and the vile creatures with him, her father and his scheming, the musicians and that silly folk air, Dagmar, Asúlf––all of this was combining to make her dangerously distressed and vulnerable. Quite suddenly she was seized with the impulse to get away from Aaron before she did anything more she would regret––perhaps Carlisle had made it afterall; spending the party with him droning on her ear about this or that would dull her nerves and subdue her anger. But just as she was about to excuse herself, she was dismayed to find herself rooted a little while longer as Aaron's lips parted. Now she'd have to sit through either an apology or another affront, neither of which she was sure she could readily confront.

Though it wasn’t quite expected, she could hardly have said it was a surprise to hear her brother’s voice, and was less surprised still that they were a teasing commentary on her event attendance. Lee couldn’t deny that her tolerance of court functions was sporadic at best, but not even she would dare miss her mother’s birthday. Zare, too, the princess suspected was of the same mind; she had always thought he’d be the sort to haul himself off of his deathbed for a family occasion.

“No one's swept you into a fascinating conversation about the newest fashions and designs of lace, or some such? You must not have been here long.”

She couldn’t help but let out a very unladylike snort at this, rolling teal eyes as she smiled a greeting to her eldest brother.

“No, I simply scared them all off at the betrothal party, and they’ve not dared try it since,” Lee replied cheekily. “I’d ask if you’d forgotten, but oh, wait… you weren’t there!”

Though the girl was well aware her brother had been ill at the time of the event in question, and so most definitely unable to attend, she didn’t feel the least bit guilty teasing him about it. As far as Líadan was concerned, to coddle him over it would only make it a big deal; he’d been ill for as long as she could remembered, and it was as much a part of him—in her mind, at least—as her own inability to function as a ‘proper’ court lady. While it was unfortunate, it was hardly likely to change.

Her fingers fidgeted idly with her dress, and Lee wondered if the unfamiliar wardrobe would survive a brisk hour’s ride. Were that the case, she could easily sneak off after greeting her mother, and still make it back with plenty of time to actually socialize as was expected of her. The only kinks in such a plan were that she likely wouldn’t come back prior to the celebration’s end, and that she would probably feel guilty all the while. As awkward as she felt, the princess’ best bet was to talk to Zare until he went off to converse with someone else, at which point she would have to attempt to stomach some idle chit-chat.

If she were as wise as she’d have liked others to believe, Lee might have, in her seventeen years, found a way to balance what was ‘ladylike’ with what she enjoyed—much like the more ambitious women in court—which would grant her an opinion, though too the ability to express it without coming off as odd. The teen voiced as much to her brother.

(Lee and Regan)

The princess responded to his tease with a snort of laughter. Although some would have frowned at such a seemingly unflattering expression, Zarian couldn't help but smile. It was always a relief to keep company with people who shared his sense of humor, and Lee, in particular, was always a treat. He knew that her devil-may-care attitude in regards to social custom and formality caused problems in many regards, which usually had to be cleaned up by other people, but frankly, he found it amusing. No one besides Lee could ever have gotten away with such a thing. The fact that she was royalty hardly explained it; for most of the royal family, standards were higher and 'informal' time was found less frequently than in noble households. For Liaden the equation seemed inverted, although Zare could not fathom why, other than that was simply how things had always been with his eldest sister.

“No," she began, rolling her eyes up at her brother and smiling. "I simply scared them all off at the betrothal party, and they’ve not dared try it since. I’d ask if you’d forgotten, but oh, wait… you weren’t there!”

"Ah, very funny," Zare scowled, but the expression was tainted by a hint of a smile that he could not quite contain. He knew that the princess meant absolutely nothing by the jab, and he really didn't care if she joked about it. The half-frown was more for propriety's sake than for any actual resentment of what she'd said. The girl barely seemed to notice; she was taken instead by fiddling with the edge of her dress, although her mind was still caught on his comment about lace a few moments ago. When she spoke, the change of topic was completely unexpected, at least for Zare.

"I don't think it reflects on your brain at all," he answered in response to her statement. "You're smart enough that you could've balanced two things if you wanted to. The problem is that you have absolutely no desire to be a lady. Mother actually complained about it just the other day--but that's no new news. Mother's always bewailing at some level or another how you don't want anything a normal girl should."

His sister might have responded, or she might not have; Zarian couldn't be entirely sure. As he finished his comment, he caught sight of someone familiar--Regan of Wellam, bedecked in a soft off-white dress with gentle, light roses crawling up the sides as if they wound around a wedding arch. It was a modest dress, or relatively so, at least, but it suited her well. She was a shade lighter, at least, than most others as she passed them, making a beeline for the table Liaden and he were at. She didn't even glance at him as she quickly sank into the chair opposite Lee and began scratching out a few lines, shading them with her arm as she wrote.

The knight kept his eyes on Regan, curious as to what she was writing and why she seemed to be in such a hurry to do so. After a couple of lines she paused, glanced up, then did a double take. Her cheeks flushed until they were much deeper than the pink of her pearl necklace, and that made Zare's lip twitch upward. He could imagine what was running through her head; from the look on her face he could deduce that she'd hardly realized who she'd sat down with, much less registered that custom would dictate some form of respect offered. Truthfully, it mattered little to the prince; he knew Regan well enough to know that she'd meant no offense by the matter. He even smiled a little bit more at the irony that Liaden had just mentioned how everyone but her was socially flawless and perfectly content. It seemed only fitting that one of the court's social butterflies would make so trivial a mistake now. He looked at his sister, to see if she'd noticed the same parallel he had, and if she was getting any enjoyment out of it. Crossing behind her, he drew out the chair between Lady Regan and his sister and sat, nodding his greeting to the noblewoman as he did so.

"Lady Regan," he began conversationally, wordlessly forgiving her for the error which she, judging by the hue of her cheeks, took more seriously than either he or Liaden did. "I've not had a good conversation with you in a while; it seems like my social life has been missing something. I should make it a point to converse with the people I like more often, but most of the times I find my schedule does not agree with me. I'm sure your brother knows the feeling. Is he here?" Zarian would have expected the Spymaster to have attended, or at least have several agents in attendance, but so far he'd not seen the man. Granted, he'd come straight from the entrance to Lee's table, and hadn't really scrutinized the crowd for familiar faces. It was very possible that the man had some business more pressing than a birthday party, even the birthday party of arguable the most important woman in the kingdom. With the arrival of the Carthakis, Zare would have to have skipped his most beloved sister and put Diona in as the second. He doubted Lee would mind the demotion much.

Score, thought Aaron, as Bryn thinned her lips. He wasn't quite sure what she was feeling, but he would be willing to stake his career that she was either trying her best not to openly insult him, or she was despising his ability to fend off her vicious and callous attempts to win their little spar. It never occurred to the Gallan that she might have been thinking differently, like, say, how he wasn't exactly being all that polite himself, but that was simply because it didn't seem to fit Bryn, at all. He had no doubt that the lady would use that to her advantage, at some point, but it wasn't a huge advantage--she hadn't played nice, either. The two advantages cancelled each other out to a certain extent, although Bryn didn't have much of a reputation to damage.

Whatever Aaron had said, Bryn obviously did not believe him. A snort erupted from her mouth, one which any 'proper' lady would frown upon. Well, at least her reputation as a lady can't be dinted, thought Aaron to himself. He had no problem with the fact that Bryn was not a typical Tortallan lady, of course, as he was rather enjoying the challenge, but it would in the eyes of others. Should he ever need her to disappear, he'd just found one option. If she were to be socially shunned for being extremely inappropriate, she would either leave of her own free will, or be told be some older noble lady that she had no place in Corus, and that her mere existence was insulting. Perhaps they would say it in subtler and less forward terms, but they would say it. Tortallan ladies were not supposed to be sharp, intelligent, or in any way a challenge to converse with to their counterparts. The Queen clearly did not fit the bill, but she did so in an acceptable manner--Bryn did not.

Surprised that Bryn had never replied to the Captain's comments on society, he leaned forward a tad, resting his elbows on the table. Bryn didn't appear concerned with etiquette, so there was nothing wrong with ignoring a few pointless rules himself. Had he known that the lady seated opposite to him was rather uncomfortable with how he'd been so successful fighting back her endless stream of subtle insults, and that her composure was failing her, he might have left her be. Or, perhaps, he would have pointed out that she should have chosen her target a little more carefully--poke a dog with a stick too many times and it will bite back. Especially if that dog was actually a wolf or a bear, and a hungry one at that.

His elbows didn't stay on the table for long, however. "I do not care for their company, sir, because two of them conspired against my father and the ambassador's nephew killed my brother. If that does not make it clear why I prefer your company to theirs, then we will have nothing more to say to one another," Bryn replied, obviously angry at the situation. Aaron frowned in thought for a moment--he'd not realised. Subconciously, he had known that Bryn, as a Scanran, had no doubt experienced the harsh realities of ruthless politics from an onlookers point of view, but he'd not known at all if she'd been a victim of said realities. There was a difference between the two, and it made more sense now why Bryn was as untrusting and cold as she was. Having experienced the loss of sibling was enough to turn even the kindest soul into a tyrant.

What confused the man a great deal was why Bryn would excuse herself, which was what she was attempting to do. In the short second that he had to formulate a response that would startle the lady into staying, as was his intention, he wondered why she wanted to excuse herself, whether she was angry at him, or whether she was simply afraid that her pride would suffer should she stay. Blurting the first thing that came to mind, he asked, "I wonder if you play chess, my lady? For someone with an exceptionally sharp mind, you would no doubt be quite adept at strategic games." He wasn't at all concerned that admitting Bryn was intelligent and sharp--she'd already know that. The tiniest twinge of doubt that the lady didn't know had been demolished long ago--even her manner gave her away. If she was ignorant of her own mind, her responses would have differed. Slightly concerned that she would be offended by an apparent dismissal of the loss of her brother, he added, "Unlike politics, chess doesn't involve making enemies or killing anyone. I for one find that rather encouraging." It wasn't an apology for her loss, nor an insult. It was her own fault if she was upset about something, but Aaron found her too entertaining and... interesting, not to try and get her to stay, hence he attempted the sort of comment which allowed Bryn to not feel under attack or pitied in any way--which would play to her pride. If she was as good at chess as she was verbally sparring, he would have one hell of a night!

"I wonder if you play chess, my lady? For someone with an exceptionally sharp mind, you would no doubt be quite adept at strategic games."

The Scanran froze in place, half-seated and half-rising, and stared at Aaron with an expression that couldn't be anything less than dumbfounded. An honest inquery and a compliment in the same sentence, however hastily and impulsively spoken. Feeling the weight of both, Brynjá sank helplessly back into her seat and leaned back as if she required a moment to recover. She was nothing less than bewildered that Aaron would attempt to persuade her to stay without immediately seizing the opportunity to pounce now he had found a sensitive spot in her pride. Instead it seemed that a rush of guilt and confusion of his own he'd just spewed out the first thing that came to mind, absurd as it was. What compelled him to do so? Upsetting her surely hadn't been his intention, she acknowledged that, but why did he feel sympathetic towards her? He could've seized it as a moment of triumph. She'd dealt him her fair share of insults, afterall. But it was quite clear from his reaction that he wasn't gleaning any pleasure by upsetting her. Shaking off her astonishment and beginning to try and formulate something sensible in response, she resolved that perhaps he was concerned that a botch with her would be slight blemish on his reputation.

That still did not explain why he prompted a new topic instead of apologizing, however. Realizing this, Brynjá found her reaction delayed. Aaron hadn't seemed to notice her inability to work out a level-headed reply––he seized her lack for words as an opportunity to smooth out the blurtish nature of his comment. "Unlike politics, chess doesn't involve making enemies or killing anyone. I for one find that rather encouraging." At this her pale eyes flashed with new attention, her brows lifting from their furrows, in genuine surprise. The guardsman, while affecting the tone of idle continuation of his earlier remark, had cleverly and delicately readdressed what had passed between them. It wasn't exactly an apology but it was an attempt at making amends to a certain degree, respecting her feels while not yielding too much of his own grown. Only half grudgingly, Brynjá could respect him for that and was placated for the time being.

There was, of course, the problem of Aaron's being courteous towards her––and actually even mildly interested in her response. Chess? Her lips thinned at the thought of pronouncing it, let alone admitting that she hadn't the slightest idea what he was referring to. He had called it a strategy game but still nothing came to mind. She was drawing a great, big, hopeless blank and as a result was beginning to feel her flustered and strained emotions creep back into her countenance. Forcing those emotions sternly back, Brynjá racked herself for the most appropriate response. She wasn't about to become suddenly obliging to Aaron as a result of his gracious treatment of her, but she at least consented that he deserved to be treated a degree or two less antagonistic than she had.

A peculiar, ironic smile curved her lips as soon as she lighted on her answering remark. Folding her hands in her lap and dipping her head as if to conceal a silent chuckle, she replied, "You forget, sir, that I am but a woman." She knew that he knew very well how intelligence in her gender was treated, rather belittled, and that games of war and strategy were very much reserved for the likes of men. It was also a perfect excuse for not having the slightest idea what chess was without owning it directly or having to make a fool out of herself trying to pronounce that troublesome 'ch'.

Regan looked down at her now black paper and folded it carefully as she felt Zarian's eyes on her. She stole a glance at him as she pocketed the note and her blush deepened. While there was an amusement in his eyes that she didn't understand there was not a hint of hostility or blame for her grievous error in manners. Despite the friendly manner she resolved to be more observant of her surroundings in the future. she noted the forgiveness in Zarian's voice as he addressed her. He took a seat between herself and Liaden while Regan was able to take a glance at the her. She hadn't spent much time speaking to the eldest princess, perhaps none in an intimate setting. Regan was suspicious that it was prejudice on Liaden's side that had prevented this occurrence. Her mother had lamented more than once on the originality of Liaden's chosen path in life.

She nodded in acknowledgement Zarians address with a smile much unlike her usual false, courtier smile.

"Honestly, I have missed our rare conversations," she admitted, "I find myself desiring and hoping to catch you in a garden once again." Regan's cheeks coloured again, only slightly realizing she was flirting with the crown prince, not only in front of everyone but in a sincere manner.

"However, I understand the constraints of time," she consented and then laughed at his next question, "Carlisle? Attend a social gathering without being forcibly dragged to it? Indeed no!" She smiled broadly. The idea of Carlisle being social now was just plain silly. Maybe before his installation as Spymaster but even before that he was changing from a public to a very private person.

"No your highness, between my brother and my mother, i find myself to be the lone pillar to hold up Wellam's reputation," Regan shrugged, it wasn't a position she abhorred though she felt support in the matter would make it easier to her to be successful in. However, she realized long ago her freedom would be severely limited by her mother taking an interest or even more so if her father was still alive.

"I think his position has made Carlisle fiercely protective of his privacy. He has turned into a poor conversationalist as of late though, and for him to catch up to the social court I would be afraid of his methods to do so!" Regan smiled, Carlisle had long ago stored his charisma up to use when he needed to put it to better use than talking pretty with people like she did. She was though surprised at how sincere she was being about the current structure of her family. However, looking at Zarian she found it was impossible not to be.

She nodded in an apology for Liaden who she had not addressed yet. "You are uncommonly elegant today, your highness," she commented with a smile, "the light colours suit you whether you like it or not. It illuminates you, especially your eyes and does not dull your dark hair like your usual darker colours," Regan shrugged slightly, knowing Liaden wasn't interested in such things. However she knew her mother would appreciate someone else repeating it to her, even if the princess didn't want to hear it.

Mithros, no! horrified, the squire screamed inside the walls of his mind, a mere few seconds after he had sharply opened his eyes. His forehead was sweaty and so were his hands. The sheets were thrown across the floor, and the bed looked as if some child had decided to use it as his playground and had jumped on in careless of the matters as well as the bed itself. This was all the result of the terrible dream Noah had travelled through during the day. It was no peculiar dream, nor was it something that would make a boy think for days, but was rather a normal unpleasant dream that humans tend to forget about in a matter of hours upon waking up.

The squire wiped his forehead with the sleeves of his white linen shirt. It was already evening. The Queen’s Birthday Tea must have started hours ago. The party he was supposed to attend and the party where he was supposed to arrive before time. Not entirely my fault, is it? his mind wondered. Maybe it was his blunder, maybe it wasn’t, but he would be the one to be blamed. What had happened was that Noah had decided to be a good, model squire and former page. To achieve this title, he had decided to help one of the younger pages in Mathematics. Though he himself had never topped the class, he obviously knew more than a ten year old page; he had studied it all before and still was –just, luckily, not as much. So, after finishing his regular duties, the boy had met the smaller child in the library and spent a whole of two hours tutoring him. The child had needed much help, and in explaining every formula, every theorem, every proof that was present in the chapters, more than thrice, Noah was more than irritated and tired. Teaching this child –or any child for a matter of fact- was more tiring that training for six hours straight; Noah was the living proof of this. It was today that he realized how much his educators worked, the amount of patience their job required, and the true devotion that was needed. He was glad he was not a teacher.

Well, so Noah had given his best at the tutoring, tried his hardest in not yelling at the poor child, or scolding him very harshly, or even showing the signs of irritation and boredom; but, upon finishing his self-assigned task –one had he would never burden himself with again in his entire life however long it happened to be and however much it was required- the squire had decided to rest his throbbing brain in his quarters. He still had more than a few hours to get ready for the Tea Party. True, there was a lot to be done, even his clothes were not out and ready, but two hours was enough for all that he would need to do, was it not?

Apparently not, a few hours were not sufficient. As he had rested his body on the bed, the boy had fallen asleep: tired, and bored; and, as predicted he woke up no earlier than till after the party had started. Plus, he did not wake up on his own; it was his dream that woke him. A terrible dream filled with Tortallan numerals moving, laughing and suffocating him. It would make a good laugh when he would share it with his friends, but while he was asleep the dream had troubled him much; enough to make him open his sweat all over and make a mess of his bed which he would have to fix due to the lack of personal servants.

Generally, after waking from a terrible dream, one expects peace, but here the poor squire rose from one nightmare only to be thrust into another. If his tardiness was figured out, Noah could look forward to hours of punishment. Anyhow, he managed to get out of the tangled mess, find clothes that were not crunched, torn, dirty or too plain, find his boots, and get ready. The dark boots were dull, since he had not polished them after training, and increased the amount of time he had to stay in his quarters. Noah could also not find the tunics he had in knight-master’s colours. They seemed to have disappeared! He was then left with two options: either find them, iron them and be even more late; or just wear anything that did not look out of place.; both would lead to frowns, but the latter seemed somehow better than the former.

Dressing hurriedly, Noah rushed out the numerous doors in the palace and entered the part of the gardens where the Queen’s birthday was being celebrated. The place was full. He was, as he had feared, a bit too late. Everybody who was anybody was already present, even Her Majesty. The place was so well illuminated and decorated that for a couple seconds, Noah just stared in amazement. There were musicians. Gallans, Noah decided –not from his musical skills, but from memory of what the invitation had said. Acrobats from the Copper Isles were also expected. This would be a wonderful and memorable day for me, dressed in a white full-sleeve shirt, light blue tunics, comfortable dark black breeches, and shinning shoes the squire began to think, if it isn’t my last! Surely they would not chop off his head for such a minor offence, would they?

The gift he had for the Queen was secured tightly in a wooden box in his hand. Being just a fifteen year old squire, Noah was not required to present something to the Queen, but his father had still, for the honour of their fief, sent a beautiful pen for Her Majesty. The outer body was made of silver, with a small white beryl embedded on top. Small flowers were carved all over the pen, and a thin line of gold circled it right in the middle. This pen was more for showing purposes than actually writing, but was still filled with blue ink. It would probably be kept amongst one of the many stationary items the royals had according to Noah’s thinking. However, he still wished that it would be liked.

(OOC: Primarily for Christina)

Aaron's rather surprising question had the intended effect; Bryn had frozen in place, and looked rather. Well, dumbfounded. Shocked really wasn't the right word, the Gallan thought. Yes, dumbfounded. Obviously she mustn't have thought I'd not want her to leave, he thought to himself, which didn't at all surprise him--they weren't exactly the best of friends. He did, however, consider the Scanran to be rather intelligent, and such intelligence was a gift rather infrequently bestowed upon the Tortallans Aaron had the sometimes (dis)pleasure to mingle with. As Bryn sank back onto the bench, still looking a tad confused, he decided not to lie to himself. Intelligence was the main reason for not wanting Bryn to stomp off in a huff--Aaron had his reputation at stake. Although he doubted many would be concerned that he'd offended a rather dislikeable Scanran, if the Scanran in mention thought to make Aaron's life miserable, she could easily spread a few rumours here and there. It was better in the long run to keep in everyone's good books, and, as he so rarely conversed with anyone for leisure, and so not having the chance to offend, he didn't have to worry about keeping in good repute in the future.

Watching intently as Bryn's eyes flashed in acknowledgement of what he'd said, the Captain wondered how the lady was taking it, it being his sudden turn towards kindness as opposed to a slightly negative regard. Was it only her surprise that kept her seated, or had she softened to the point of actually wanting to stay? If he'd known Bryn better, he'd have choked on his own thoughts--they were far too hopeful. There was no chance at all that Bryn actually wanted to stay, but she was too cautious to ignore protocol and make haste towards safety. Unfortunately, Aaron had no way of knowing why the lady, who had managed at last to reign in her emotions, was still seated before him. The 'why' was very important, or at least it would be if she decided to attack him once again; knowing whether to appeal to her pride or her curiosity would be rather useful.

An unusual smile crossed Bryn's face, which, coming from her, was a slight cause for concern. It wasn't the sort that older children expressed when they were about to pull some dirty prank, but neither was it totally innocent. Some would have considered Aaron's attention to body language rather inappropriate and a waste of time, but when he and the Scanran said so little but meant so much, it was the only tool he had for predicting actions. As it was, any such suspicions he had were soon demolished when Bryn replied, "You forget, sir, that I am but a woman." Ahhh, Aaron thought to himself. Now she's playing to my pride. Of course, I've not grown up around strong, capable women and learned nothing. His thoughts lingered on his grandmother for a moment--very few men could stand up to her. She seemed to be able to talk her way through anything, and, despite common assumptions, she'd fought against what was considered to be 'the odds' and grown sharper in her older age. Not going without a fight, the old woman would say. She wasn't the only one, either--the Queen was a perfect example of fine leadership and intelligence in women. She was a rare gem though, Aaron admitted to himself, but only the tip of a treasure trove.

Telling this to Bryn would probably induce a fit of laughter, however, so Aaron kept his private life to himself. However, he did lean on his thoughts and opinions, and, keeping his focus on the lady's eyes, replied steadily, "And you forget, my lady, that you are in Tortall. Here, women have just as many rights as men. I do believe our rather large number of lady knights and squires is a fine enough example." It was only a partial truth, that women had as many rights as men, as much of society still leant towards discrimination. In the middle and lower class noble families, however, females tended to lean towards their own wishes and not that of the role they were expected to follow. According to reports, even commoners were beginning to respect women a little more, and there'd been far less cases of abuse in the Courts. That was no doubt the work of the Queen, who seemed tireless in her efforts to provide for her fellow ladies. It would probably take centuries to change the common beliefs and opinions of women, but it would one day be achieved. Aaron looked forward to it--he'd have more intelligent women to talk to.

Christina fidgeted where she stood, then silently berated herself. Just because no-one was looking didn't mean no-one couldn't see her, she reminded herself. If she'd said that to someone else, they'd have probably told her to talk sense or not at all, so then she'd have explained that just because one didn't think one was being watched, didn't mean that one wasn't. Even a fleeting glance around could reveal all sorts of habits that would eventually because the subject of gossip, and for some that was unacceptable. So, to distract herself from that annoying itch under her foot, the young lady moved about the garden, nodding greetings to those she knew well and opting for formality for those she knew only by sight. Many she'd met on the night she was announced to Court, but alas, one could only meet so many in a few short hours.

Mentally sneaking past a small group of older ladies, the young lady managed to guide herself to one of the tables. It had been hours since she'd last had something to drink, and amid all the excitement she'd forgotten to grab herself something. A servant assigned to the table snapped to attention, quickly pouring Christina a small mug of tea. Since it wasn't totally appropriate to give thanks to servants, Chris only gracefully smiled, then added a touch of sugar. Glancing over her hand, which was busy stirring, she tried to see where her parents were. Only moments later, she gave up on the task, deeming it a total failure, then placed her spoon down on the table with a soft 'tink'. She noticed steam still rising from the mug, so she blew softly. It'd only been two days since she'd burnt her mouth, and she had no intention of repeating that mistake. Of course, she'd only done so because she gulped down what she thought was cold water-- one of her young friends had decided to pull a prank. He found himself receiving a rather harsh talking to from Chris, and, determined not to live through that pain for nothing, made him promise to be her little messenger for a fortnight. She never sent messages, of course, but it was the simply thought of obligation that would suffice to teach the boy a lesson.

Sighing in distaste at the memory, Chris took a cautious sip. Satisfied that she wouldn't have another unpleasant experience, she took another few sips, then began to wander. Several times she stopped to chat with friends, but most were busy talking up other young nobles--that of the opposite gender, of course. She should've been trying to find a suitable husband, but the constant stream of party invitations, gatherings and simple polite visits had tired her to the point that she longed for a day alone, without people to impress and guidelines to follow. So, she sat herself down on a clean bench near the edge of the gardens, under a tall oak. The Queen was visible from where she resting, and the many young nobles yet to present their gifts. Pity filled Chris--the poor Queen would be standing there another hour receiving goodness knows what.

Chris, fortunately, had already given the Queen her present. As was typical of the young lady, she'd arrived right on time, not a moment too early or late. Hence, she was one of the first nobles to line up, which was just as well, as her gift wasn't the sort that would fare well if left out of a cool area. She was giving wine, of course--several bottles of the finest, some from Tortall, some from other countries, Tusaine included. It was a gift on behalf of herself and her parents, as it was rather expensive, and, although everyone knew the Queen didn't drink much, it was common knowledge she had a special appreciation for anything of good quality. It earned Chris a rather large smile and hearty thanks.

As unbelievable as it would sound, the Queen was rarely giving wine--usually it was dresses, jewellery and promises. For once, it was something her tongue could savour. Chris was glad of her choice--so far, she was still the only one to have presented such a gift. Closing her eyes for a moment to rest them, she randomly wondered if anyone had come later. Glancing back over to the line of nobles, she noticed a young man who was about to present his gift--a lovely pen. From the gasps of the ladies, it was obvious it wasn't an ordinary one. Probably studded with jewels, she thought, trying her best not to feel too jealous.

Studying the young man for a moment, Chris tried to decide if she'd seen him before. He was on handsome side, in her eyes, with cute hair and a pretty face. Surprised at how thin he looked, she decided he must've been a younger son. No page or squire would have tiny muscles like that, she scoffed. Still, she decided it would be worth introducing herself. As she was still only 'new' to Court, few knew her, which was totally unacceptable. To find herself a good husband she'd have to work hard to impress everyone--and she could hardly impress if no-one knew her, could she.

The Queen had smiled her thanks and gracefully accepted the gift, commenting on the high opinion her son had of him. Chris blinked, a tad shocked that such a skinny boy could be the Crown Prince's squire. Sniffing to herself, she decided he just had small and wiry muscles. That didn't mean he was weak, she reasoned. The herald announced the next noble, an older lady who was obviously good friends with the Queen, from the way the two greeted, and Christina glided up to the squire. "That was a pretty pen you gave Her Majesty," she began, using the typical find-a-subject-and-comment method, "She looks rather pleased. May I ask who crafted it? The maker is indeed a fine artist."

((OOC: lmao, I'm such a waffler. Still, I'd have felt bad if my post was half the size of yours. Feel free to make yours shorter if need be, though XD))

(Regan and Liaden)

Her blush was amusing, more than it should have been, since it was only the natural thing for a proper young lady at court to do under the circumstances, but somehow it just seemed odd. Yes, a noblewoman could and should blush a bit around a prince and princess, especially if she'd just accidentally made a slight social blunder without thinking, but when Zare thought about it in less general terms, that Regan was blushing because she'd failed to bow her head to Lee and himself, it seemed absurd. She smiled as he said her name in greeting, and, confusingly, a slight tinge of heat began to prickle at the top of his cheeks.

That shouldn't have happened; Zarian smiled again in an attempt to banish the very slight blush. He thought he was successful, especially since it had been so small and almost unnoticeable to begin with. Regan admitted that she had missed their conversations, too, and added, "I find myself desiring and hoping to catch you in a garden once again." The mental image of Regan wandering through the garden, her dark hair flowing out behind her, curiously peaking around the corners to see if he was there, was almost too much. It made him wish that he'd visited the garden more frequently since then, except, of course, that doing so was possibly hazardous to his health.

Regan laughed when he asked about her brother, and the sound made Zarian look up, drawn out of his brief daydream to be engaged in the conversation once again. Her soft chiding of her brother reminded him somewhat of the royal family's loving but sometimes frustrated attitude towards Liaden. She hadn't commented, and might not even have been paying attention; Zare couldn't be bothered to find out by looking her way. If she wanted to be included in the conversation, she'd speak up, and there was no need to him to drag the princess into a chat she didn't want to be a part of.

"No your highness, between my brother and my mother, i find myself to be the lone pillar to hold up Wellam's reputation," Regan said with a slight shrug of her shoulders. Zare smirked; for being the only one concerned with the social view of Wellam, she certainly did a fine job keeping it respectably grand. Lady Regan bordered on a socialite; she knew how to play the court like a well-tuned instrument. Young girls entering from the convent looked at Regan as a role model: young, pretty, and in command of a variety of wide social circles.

Zarian smiled along with her as she described her brother's conversation skills, then looked over, finally, at his sister, when Regan addressed her with a nod. "You are uncommonly elegant today, your highness. The light colours suit you whether you like it or not. It illuminates you, especially your eyes and does not dull your dark hair like your usual darker colours."

The conversation was friendly enough, but had a certain undercurrent to it that Zarian knew his sister would pick up on. Although she hadn't explicitly said so, Regan had insulted Liaden's usual style of clothes. The 'uncommonly elegant,' could also be taken as a subtle criticism. Knowing Lee, she could take that one of two ways; she would either shrug it off, having little interest in such things anyway, or, more likely, she would catch the mild disparagement and respond with a quick and sharp tongue.

Zarian liked Regan well enough, and he didn't want his sister to start an argument with her, so he jumped in before Liaden had a chance to say anything at all. With a brief glance at his sister, to communicate what he was doing here and silently warning her against returning to the topic, the prince said lightly, "Lee's interests lie elsewhere." With that statement he entirely dismissed the tension that might have budded between the two women, and with his next, changed the subject. "She'd rather dress up her horses than herself. Speaking of which, Lady Regan, I've heard rumor that there's a hunting party on the horizon. Care to shed some light on the event?"

Liaden was hardly more interested in hunting than she was in clothing, as far as Zarian knew, except that horses were generally involved in a hunt. He had heard someone mention it, but he forgot who had done so, and when. The primary reason the thing had stuck out in his mind was that the name 'Regan of Wellam' was attached to it, and it seemed like a fine segway between the topic of his sister's unconventional interests and less shaky ground.

Standing in one spot, electrified, was not going to help Noah situation in any form, now, was it? In fact it was only going to worsen it. The look on his face made it the truth obvious, made his tardiness obvious; but, if the boy had the brains to mingle in the crowd, one might miss his delay. Or, rather, the master of ceremonies might miss his delay, and that was all that mattered. Thus, when he spotted a queue of nobles waiting to be announced to the queen and to offer her their present, Noah jumped at the opportunity to join it. He had to offer the present anyway, and the earlier he did it, the more likely it seemed that he had arrived at the tea party a while back, as it would look highly suspicious if he stood there, in front of a man, clamming his presence in the event for some time but still had the gift in his hand; and, suspicion was always better if avoided or cast upon another.

Making his way towards the queen, he waited till she was ready to accept his present, and then, offered it to her with a bow and the best words he could think of for greetings. She mentioned about his knight-master and his opinion of Noah, the boy blushed lightly. He has high opinions of me for being tardy to the most important event of the year? he though to himself; but rather than showing it, he instead, with a courteous smile he had been taught during his page years, stated how honoured he was to under Prince Zarian. It was not a lie to be exact. Noah was honoured to be taught by the crown prince of the country for which he would so willing give his life. It was not everyday a prince decided to take a squire, and it was not every squire who was given a chance to serve the prince. All that said, formalities done, families mentioned, Noah walked away after a final bow. The queen had many nobles yet to meet and greet and he did not wish to hinder her in any form –not that he had anything to say to her.

Soon after he walked away, Noah looked around. His eyes were searching for his tormentor: the master of the ceremonies. With all his heart, Noah wished the man had not noticed his late arrival and was, instead, busy with entertaining nobles and inquiring about their various families and acquaintances. Luckily for him, the man was busy, and Noah got a chance to slip away without troubles.

The garden was beautifully decorated, more so on the insides. He had only viewed it partially from his position at the entrance. He had to agree ‘they’ had done a remarkable job. Though, Noah was too impatient to actually care who had done the job, or rather who was he so carelessly complementing in his mind.

It was then that a girl approached him. Well, that made him smile. If it appeared that he was taking part in a conversation the chances of someone discovering his delay decreased further; and what was better if the person he was talking to was a girl who seemed to be around his age?

She was definitely of noble-birth; her dress, her manners, her words all confirmed it. And, to increase his glee, she fell into the better side of the categories created by the numerous squires and pages for judging which girl was worth talking to. It was rather an embarrassing and idiotic way of deciding who was worth one’s time, and was thus known to only those boys who were enrolled in knight-training. This pretty girl, Noah decided, was undoubtedly not too old to the court, or he or any of his friends would have seen her before, and they would have talked about her, just as they bragged about any girl whose attention they managed to get.

"That was a pretty pen you gave Her Majesty….She looks rather pleased. May I ask who crafted it? The maker is indeed a fine artist." The girl had said. It was a fine way to start a conversation and with a polite smile Noah received the compliment. However, when she asked who had created it, the boy was inarticulate with surprise. Who had created the pen? Noah had absolutely no idea. His father had sent it though some messenger with letters that told about the welfare of King’s Reach and his eight-year old sister. Noah had received the pen, kept ii properly in a place where he would not lose it, and replied with utmost gratitude, and news about himself and Fredrick, his thirteen year old page brother. He had even mentioned how beautiful the pen was, and how he was sure that the queen would like it; though, the latter had merely been a presupposition. But, had he ever cared who was the actual master-mind behind the pen? No. No, he hadn’t.

The position had Noah trapped. For once in his life, the boy had no idea what he should do. Should he just say ‘I don’t know’ or make up an actual human being. The second option, though tempting, was dangerous. This girl was a noble, she had every right to inquire about this man, and if she wished to have him brought to the court so that she could get something crafted, Noah’s repute would be lost forever, and so would be his fief’s. No, he could not use the second option. He just had to find a fancier way of stating the lack of his knowledge.

“Um,” he began, with a gulp, “You see, the jeweller who created the pen, I assume works for my father, but I personally do not take much interest in jewels, so, I would not be the right man to ask that question.” Well, that seemed sufficient. He was a squire with manly duties. He did not need to care about which jeweller did what, if the man even was a jeweller! Noah had concluded that it was created by a jeweller due to the beryl on top and the gold and silver patterns, but it could always be some other craftsman. “Though, I agree, he is quite good in his trade and you, my lady, have a exquisite taste,” he added for the sake of politeness.

In a desperate want to change the subject, Noah looked about, and inquired, “So, what do you think of the tea? Does it satisfy your imagination, Lady…..?” There were two questions in there. First was quite traditional: he was asking if she was enjoying herself. The other was merely to take her mind off the pen. She would have to introduce himself for the answer of his second question and then he would be obliged to do the same, and, the matter could easily be forgotten if she was not too keen.

Before his encounter with the queen, Kenn had not exactly been looking forward to her upcoming party. However, after her last words, he felt more inclined to take her suggestion and attend with a joyful heart and true smile. Perhaps it would not be as bad as he thought it would be. In any case, his attitude towards the event did a complete one-eighty, going from almost dread to somewhat of a nervous excitement. He and his brother had decided upon the usual gift, some sort of jewelry, and although it was an unsurprising gift, it was quite exquisite if he did say so himself. Unbeknownst to his brother, he had also gotten another gift for her himself, one that he hoped she would enjoy as much as he had enjoyed acquiring it for her. He had inquired after many merchants and their wares before finally finding one that was willing to sell him what he wanted, and although the search had not been particularly difficult, he felt a sense of satisfaction nonetheless.

The morning of the gathering Kenn woke early as usual, in a worse mood that he had hoped. The night before had been full of tossing and turning, and he still felt cold and clammy after the supposedly disturbing dream that he could not remember. As he got ready for the day, however, his mood continued to improve. He washed his face, neck, and hands, the cool water feeling exceptionally good against is flushed skin. After that was done, he took time to shave the dark hairs from his face, taking pains to make sure every last inch of skin was clear of hair. He then combed his hair, and dressed, not for the party quite yet, but in simply, but well, made shirt of tan, leather tunic, and dark red breeches. His day was quite uneventful, though the palace itself was bustling with activity, making last minute preparations and adding final touches to the food, decorations, everything pertaining to the party.

He found the busy atmosphere too much for him, and retreated back to his rooms for the remainder of his free time, and changed into his finer clothes. He dressed in dark grey hose, tightly woven to fit him well, a sapphire blue shirt that brought out the color of his eyes, topped off with a light grey brocade tunic, trimmed with a dark yellow, akin to a golden color. Once that was done, he combed his hair once again, and then went to get his gift. His gift was inside a red velvet bag, drawn together with a golden chord at the top. Pulling lightly at the strings, the bag opened, revealing a *sandalwood puzzle ball. He picked it up with gentle fingers, poking his pinky through one of the opens, moving the sphere’s around, marveling at the intricacy of the carvings. Smiling softly, he replaced the ball in the bag, tightening the drawstring.

It was time, and so he left the security and comfort of his rooms to join the festivities. The courtyards were already filled with people, all smiles and laughs. He bypassed them without much thought, eager to present the queen with his gift. He made his way through the throng of people, and was about to join the line of people presenting their gifts to her highness when he spotted his brother. Had he given them Linden’s gift yet? If not, perhaps it would be best if they presented them both together. He weaved easily through the people, and was soon by his brother’s side. “Ho, Brett,” he greeted, clapping him on the back, a traditional greeting.

*A sandalwood puzzle ball is an unusualy carved wooden ball, handmade in real sandalwood and scented with its natural perfume. Each ball is made up of four spheres one within another. Each ball has been carefully hand carved from one piece of rare wood. The art of carving these balls is a closely guarded secret and is why they are called puzzle balls.

The words of greeting had barely left his mouth when Brett felt his shoulder clapped yet again. He glanced over his shoulder and saw his brother. Of course Kenn turned up after Brett had given up looking for him. “Ho, Kenn,” he replied in turn, an amused smile on his face. “I see you’ve decided to put in appearance—I was starting to think I would have to present Linden’s gift to her Majesty all by myself.” Brett was glad that his brother had put aside his dislike of social functions and chosen to attend. He enjoyed Kenn’s company and also watching the consternation of people who attempted to converse with him. Though most everyone knew that Kenn was not the most talkative person, some people had it in their heads that they were different and that was always amusing to watch.

Realizing he had been neglecting Samden, Brett turned back to the knight with an apologetic expression. “So sorry Kennan! I think you know my brother, Kenn.” Over the Champion’s shoulder Brett saw the line of well-wishers and present-givers dwindling. “I believe that duty is calling,” he nodded his head in the direction of the queen, “and it would be disrespectful not to answer. If you would excuse us…”

As the two brothers made their way through the crowd towards her Majesty, a serving girl walked approached them offering a silver platter laden with small treats. Obligingly, Brett took three of the small cakes and gave her a wink that would have scandalized any watchers. Being friendly with slaves was certainly not the list of approved things nobles should do, but Brett didn’t really care. The stuffy and elderly could do with a good shock now and then. He passed one of his spoils to Kenn and swiftly downed the other two. They weren’t the best he’d ever eaten, but by no means were they unpleasant. They were slowed a few other times as those they knew well as well as those they didn’t greeted them, but soon they were near the queen, waiting their turn to see her.

As her Majesty was looking over someone’s present, Brett’s eyes alighted on the red velvet bag in his brother’s hand. As they had already selected the queen’s gift together and Brett was holding it, the purpose of the bag and it contents were mystery. He gestured to it, a questioning expression on his face. “Been holding out on me?”

“Did I interrupt something?” he murmured to his brother, his voice rather soft above to din of the festivities. When he had first greeted his brother, he had not noticed that someone else had even been speaking to him, and he felt rather abashed to have just butted his way in like that. However, his brother did not seem to hear him, for Brett didn’t answer the question immediately, but greeted him with a smile, jovial words flowing from his lips. The corners of his mouth twitched with a smile that was not unwanted. “Do you doubt me so, brother?” he asked, arching a dark eyebrow. It was always so much easier to jest and be happy when around his brother. Perhaps it was because he spent so much time in his brother’s constant happy nature, never hearing an end to his often humorous words, and so he himself took the same actions upon himself when he was around Brett. Or maybe it was bec