673-12-07 - Grumpy Second
Grumpy Second | |||||||
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Summary: There is a feast after the tournament at Woodwatch, hosted by Duke Siegfried Fennim, when the winner of second place, Sir Vandrik, gets another chance to speak with Lady Sirelle Fennim. | |||||||
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The tournament is over. The victor has been crowned, the spoils spilt, and the celebration is at hand. Though, as with most celebrations in the current circumstances, it is a little more muted than possible. The 'feast' that has been laid out would normally be called a large supper in normal years, but it is the best that can be managed during a famine. But, there is music, and there is liquor, and so there is some fun being had as the troubles of the realm are put off for at least one night. There are tables aligning the walls that are arrayed with foodstuffs, as well as some set at the back of the hall for sitting, eating, and mingling. The main floor, however, has been cleared for dancing, for which it is being thoroughly used as people get more into it the longer the evening goes on.
For Vandrik's part, he didn't manage to win the tournament. He placed second. His jousting, as it appears, is not quite up to par with the rest of the competition yet. So, though he managed to take the ground combat, swordsmanship, and archery competitions, the main one- which receives most of the glory as well, was not to be his. Not akin to dancing, Vandrik stands along one wall, bobbing his head along with the music and holding a tankard of mead as he watches the others dance. Socializing and revelry is apparently another facet of knighthood in which Vandrik has lesser skills than most.
The famine seems to be one of the topics weighing on Ralph Fennim's head. His mien is slightly thoughtful, although the cheer and the overall festive atmosphere do not fail to have their effect on him. His dark brown eyes sparkle as they shift from a general sweep of the Grand Hall to his beloved wife sitting beside him, Eileen, who has their youngest child sitting on her lap. The other two, Geryon and Marvin, two boys of 5 and 3 years, are busy playing hide and seek among the tables. The meal had been adequate for the occasion, but still rather modest. Wine is there, and plenty of it. The Fennim glances to the Head of House Fennim, the impressive Duke Siegfried who sits at the head of the high table, beside that commoner woman he calls his wife, a fact that makes Ralph's forehead wrinkle momentarily.
Stepping in from a side door enters young lady Sirelle, decidedly late while most of the family is there feasting. She's dressed in a tasteful outfit of deep green. Her hair is arranged quite beautifully though, deep green and black ribbons keeping the light brown hair in a swept updo. There's not a smile given to those Fennim she walks by, her chin held up a little bit but when she passes Ralph she gives her uncle a curtsy in respect and an actual warm smile before the smile fades seeing the Duke.
Noticing when Sirelle comes in, Vandrik raises an eyebrow as he watches her reactions to her family. First of all, she's late. Second of all, she's not very friendly. Third of all ... Vandrik realizes he's probably staring and looks down at his cup, with a disdainful frown, as if it were the mead's idea for him to do so. Which, it probably had a hand in, but it's not really fair to place blame on inaminate objects. Or, really, to blame anyone for not being happy with nobles, what with the current situation and the fact that they were feasting during a famine when people were starving elsewhere. And then, Vandrik again realizes that his mind has started to wander and he scowls down at the mead, turning and setting the cup behind him. "That's enough of /that/ for the evening," he announces to the cup now behind his back.
"Peetairas, you're late!", Ralph murmurs to Sirelle when she passes him, his brows lifting in concern when she offers that curtsey. A worried glance is cast in the direction of His Grace, the Duke of Woriscant, before Ralph adds in a low hiss of a whisper: "You should know better than to provoke him - intentionally, Sirelle."
It seems as if Duke Siegfried were aware of their conversation, dark eyes dart over to where Ralph is seated, while Eileen elbows her husband gently to warn him of the ducal stare. A husband, who has been so far oblivious of Vandrik's attentive study of his niece as well.
Sirelle says quietly towards her uncle, "I'm sure nobody is paying attention to me, uncle and that's just fine with me." She smiles towards her aunt, perhaps the young woman is oblivious to the storm brewing in the duke's countenance. Or she's used to ducal wrath. With a swirl of her dress, she glances a moment towards those dancing and her eyes -do- catch the face of the knight who nearly came as the champion.
That knight which is now simply crossing his arms, as well as his expression, and not enjoying himself in his sullen sulking. He's staring out at nothing, thinking his happiness away, but also probably likewise chasing away the warm contentedness that alcohol can bring. What had started to become a relaxing evening of pleasantries has apparently ceased to be so for the young man.
Ralph frowns at the subtle nudging of his wife, at once becoming aware that Sirelle and he are the center of the Duke's attention. "You should sit down, Sirelle," he advises, a fake smile and nod offered in reverence to Duke Siegfried Fennim. "I am serious," is added when his niece remains standing, and turns, Ralph's own dark eyes following where she looks - and meeting the gaze of one of the participating knights.
Sirelle hears her uncle's suggestions, and without further antagonization, she moves to sit down at the table near him. "Of course, uncle. Did you see that last joust? Wasn't it amazing? To think there's such great warriors who make it all look like dancing." Her gaze sweeps once more the dance floor but she watches casually towards Vandrik's direction.
Vandrik's distant stare lasts for quite a while, until he bteaks himself free of it, sighing and turning around to reclaim his mug. "Better you and I be friends, tonight. Or else I don't think I'll make it through," he speaks to the brew. He then takes another swig of it and winces slightly, before letting a small belch escape his chest. He keeps it very quiet and also begs the pardon of any who notice his offense, but then just moves to stand against the wall, holding his ale and watching the dancers. Finally, after a few minutes and a few more sips from his mug, he begins bobbing his head to the music once more and seems to have relaxed.
Ralph seems to be visibly relieved when Sirelle follows his request, a slight roll of his eyes merely hinting at what he may think of the Duchess of questionable birth. "Oh, indeed. The showing was quite impressive," he agrees then, relaxing now that he is engaging in smalltalk. "Did anyone in particular draw your attention, child?", the Fennim lord inquires, as his gaze darts once again curiously to the knight who has now moved to lean against a wall.
"No, no one in particular." Sirelle replies, and she looks towards a passing server and with a glance towards her uncle, asks the server for a glass of wine unless Ralph says no. How adult of her. "The champion really was amazing." although Sirelle's eyes aren't on the champion, still just watching Vandrik and his mead.
Well, if Vandrik can't appreciate dancing, it appears he can at least appreciate music, as he's finally begun bobbing his head along with the song, now. If one watches close enough, one might even be able to notice that he occasionally sings along, when he recognizes a song. But, his position on the wall appears to be fixed, as even when a pair of ladies, quite obviously without counterparts, approach him and offer him a curtsy, all he does is raise his mug, bow his head, and then take another drink, not even bothering to make small talk. Which usually sends the girls away with sour faces and lots of whispering about how poorly his personality suits his looks.
"Oh," Ralph nods, without really looking to convinced by his niece's words. The fact that she gets herself some wine does not offend him. After all it the feast after a tourney, and who would mind a sixteen-year-old getting her own little cup of Athereyne Red. "The champion earned his title, aye," her uncle agrees, his dark gaze shifting from Sirelle to the knight in the background. "His opponent in the final tilt was as well, I daresay." The hint of a smirk has entered his mien, and a good-natured chuckle breaks free from his chest. "Come on, Sirelle," he shares a brief amused glance with his wife, "Elaine and I know you have been staring at him. Why do you not walk over and offer him your congratulations on his second place in the tournament?" Not that he thinks she will be successful in claiming more attention from Vandrik than the others who have tried before her.
With her little goblet in hand, she takes a drink of the smooth and complex red, wetting her lips a bit more than actually taking a drink. It's that amused glance from Ralph and his wife which bring a small awkward blush to her cheeks but as a challenge is laid, she's not one to ever back down. "I just think he fought very well, you can tell the quality of a champion by the opponent he faced." Standing up, smoothing her dress folds, she daintily makes her way through the crowd, cutting through dancers and ignoring possible suitors with a look of distaste until she finds herself standing in front of Vandrik. Looking up at him, she removes one of the many ribbons from her hair and she holds it in a hand out to him, "You fought very well, Sir. If I'm correct, one cannot have a legend without there being some great opponent and you showed exemplary movements on the tournament. You can take this."
Vandrik clearly doesn't notice Sirelle's approach, but when she's standing in front of him and pulling a ribbon out of her hair, he looks absolutely confused. Her words do nothing to bring any sort of realization to his face, nor does her extension of the token to him. So confused is he that he doesn't even immediately reach to take it; instead, his hand reaches up to scratch at his own hair in bewilderment. "Why in Felaguria would you grant a token to the /loser/ of the tournament?" he asks, completely puzzled. And probably considered incredibly rude since he has neither bowed nor greeted her with the proper honorific since she's addressed him. Yes, Vandrik is failing. Failing ever so badly.
"As you say..." Ralph smirks with a chuckle, before he downs the rest of his goblet, earning a slightly irritated glare from his wife as he holds it out for a refill. His dark gaze follows Sirelle on her way over to the knight, amusement dancing in his eyes as he observes the ensuing conversation between his niece and Vandrik from afar.
The young Sirelle without missing a beat says "This is where you say good Sir, thank you m'lady, and then you take the token and place it somewhere on your person, perhaps say pinned on your upper chest." and she continues to be patient, holding the ribbon out to Vandrik and keeping appearances of ladylike behavior.
Vandrik blinks a few more times before realization finally sets in and he almost drops his tankard as he stumbles more upright. "Sorry! My apologies, milady, I just ... hadn't thought ... wasn't expecting ... I'm sorry," he finally just admits, reaching out and taking the token and bowing his head to Sirelle. He then looks down at his clothing, the doublet and tunic having about a dozen places he could probably attach the ribbon. Of course, none of these are known to him, as he runs his hands down the garment clumsily, at a loss. Obviously, he's never been gifted a token before. Which is probably not a surprise by this point in the endeavor.
This isn't like the lessons at all, thinks Sirelle as she struggles to not show frustration at keeping her cool. She does manage to keep it though, and says helpfully "Why not here?" as she lifts a hand and extends a single finger to touch the tip of it to the left side of his chest once. "Any lesser person wouldn't have made the tournament so wonderful, and while we do have a champion you only can be a true champion if you have just as strong opponent. I wished to express my happiness at how well you fought, Sir Vandrik."
Vandrik looks at where she points and then nods, and then looks down at the ribbon for several moments, trying to figure out how in the world he's supposed to attach it there. Being Vandrik, the most sensible thing to do is just to thread the ribbon through, and so he does, and now he has one loose ribbon slide between a stitch in his doublet. Yes. A fine token, for a fine knight, indeed. "But ... I mean ... well ... I didn't /win/, you see. So obviously, he fought better. Wouldn't that ... mean you should be happier with him?" Vandrik replies, still obviously quite flummoxed by the whole situation.
Sirelle says, "I suppose I should, but then I suppose that wouldn't be nearly as interesting as cheering you on in the next tournament whenever that may come. Besides..." and she gives a look towards the champion and his fawning coterie and rolls her eyes, "..I think he's very busy already."
This causes Vandrik to look over at the champion for the first time since his initial scowl upon entering the festivities, and Sirelle's right. He has women- and men, to spare. "Oh," Van replies quietly. "... I suppose you are right." And then Vandrik falls silent, having run out of things to say.
The young lady turns her attention back to the knight wearing her token, and Sirelle says "You may keep that, and perhaps it will bring you luck, at least that's what I'm told." Aware that she's been standing now in front of him for some time, she asks, "And have you enjoyed your stay at Woodwatch Keep? What do you think of my home?"
"Oh, we do not stay in the keep, milady. We stay on the grounds, in our tent. But, the grounds are fine enough. And the keep is well looked-after. I am somewhat surprised that there is so much wood about, though, as if you were beseiged by fire, it would make its defense much more difficult," Vandrik says, now looking around at the architecture and things.
Sirelle shakes her head, "I've never heard of a great fire here ever since I've been here. Watches and guards are always alert, and the woods beyond is a thing of beauty when there is wildlife to track and hunt. You should enjoy it one day, I insist."
Vandrik frowns a little. "Perhaps. When there is game and wildelife to track and hunt. There is no telling when that day may be, though, as the Gods seem content to watch us starve," Vandrik says darkly.
Sirelle sighs, and she has to nod. "Perhaps, or maybe it's a challenge given and we need to all rise up to the occasion? When you're unseated and don't take the first place in the tournament, do you quit? Will you retire? Or will you try even harder to win?"
Vandrik's frown sours and he shakes his head. "In a tournament, I know my opponentt. I know what the conditions of victory are, as well as defeat. There are rules. There is reason. If I fall, I can see clearly where I erred. If I succeed, I can account for what I've achieved. This famine? This suffering? The deaths of our people, the weakening of our forces, and the decay of our society. There is no reason behind this. There are no rules. We pray ever harder for reprieve and are graced with only dust. Truly, if there are Gods at work in our lands, it seems their only purpose is to cull our old and enfeeble our young. And yet, our only recourse is to heap more begging, pleading, and worship upon them." And this appears to have Vandrik truly vexxed.
Sirelle thinks on these things he says and she says, "I look to my uncle for guidance on these things, he has always been there for me." Silence fills the space between them, but she looks up at him and asks, "I shouldn't be bringing sullen thoughts here, so forgive me Sir. Perhaps...." and she thinks a little more, "You would like something else to drink or..I know." and she lowers her voice conspiratorially, "Why don't you ask me to dance. The champion may have everyone fawning over him, but they go for anyone anyways."
Vandrik shakes his head, still upset over the previous topic of conversation. He's looking far-off, again, but he does tear himself away enough to scoff once at Sirelle's assessment of the groupies. "Well, even when I am champion, I am usually left alone by mid-evening. I am not known for keeping pleasant company, I'm afraid. And ... I don't dance."
Sirelle seems relieved! No dancing! Keeping her composure she says, "That's good, then no dancing it is and should someone ask you can say that you are first as I've given my token to you. I want to know more about the men you fight with."
"... I am first? First what?" Vandrik asks, confused. His expression is still quite angry as he looks to Sirelle, though it's clear it's lingering emotion from other sentiments, and not fresh ire at her statement. He's just not a happy camper, apparently.
(Possibly continued...?)