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| Details |
| Author: | Athena |
| Summary: | On a spring day in cheery Northrend, Bertrand gets the welcome news that his fiance, Priscilla, has arrived and brought a friend, and invites his newest friend Zathary Tyrrell to come and meet Priscilla. Tyrrell discovers he's already met her friend before, and had his own offer of marriage rejected before by her to boot. Intentional conflict RP, read according to own preferences. 8k words. |
| Rating: | T for Teen |
Arc: Ringside Seats
Out in the courtyard of Wintergarde Keep, the displays of Kel'thuzad and his high-ranking minions have been left running, even though no one is listening to a lecture about them right now. Bertrand does not skip into the courtyard, exactly, but there's an excited spring in his step as he heads for the left-side entrance. He is dressed in his scouting leathers and it's possible that he might be on the way to change out of them.
Captain Zath Tyrrell appears to be on his way out, and for once is not in uniform, wearing instead a long black coat with furred shoulders and fastenings that have a military look about them. He pauses when he sees Bertrand though, and lifts a black-gloved hand.
"You're looking well and happy, Sgt. Aspenwood" he observes. "I'm pleased to see it."
"Oh! Captain Tyrrell!" Bertrand grins at him. He seems incredibly excited, more so than Tyrrell has ever seen him. "She's here! She came to visit!"
"I need not guess as to which 'she' could light up your eyes so," Tyrrell says with a strange, bittersweet smile. "Your betrothed, I take it? How marvelous for you."
"Scilla, yes." Bertrand smiles. "She is marvelous. You ought to meet her. Lady Priscilla Moore."
"I would be honored and delighted, but I certainly do not wish to impose upon your joyous reunion." He gives a slight bow, as though expecting Bertrand to take the opportunity to graciously leave the conversation.
"Oh, no, it wouldn't be an imposition at all! It's quite a rare opportunity, honestly." Bertrand smiles. "You seemed like you were on your way out, but if you have some time free…?"
"I do, which is why I was on my way out. But not to do anything of particular interest. I'd be very curious to see who has managed to win your heart so thoroughly." He smiles, and as always, even though it doesn't seem insincere it seems as though it is a thing he has to remind himself to do.
"If you don't mind waiting a few minutes, I was just going to change, but I'd love to introduce you. She enjoys meeting new people." Bertrand is still smiling. It might be stuck on his face.
"By all means," Tyrrell says, and his smile lingers a bit with obvious affection. It seems that his Strategic Friend may be genuinely growing on him.
"I'll be right back, then." Bertrand waves. "Don't go anywhere," he calls over his shoulder, and sets off into the barracks at a walk just slightly too slow to be classified as a jog.
Zath does not go anywhere. He stands just where Bertrand left him, breathing plumes of frost into the cold, gloved hands buried deep into his coat pockets as he gazes absently at the ever-present hint of the aurora in the sky.
Bertrand returns in a winter coat of his own, a dark tan color that manages to be both stylish and warm. His gloves have been exchanged for a soft brown pair that is clearly made for warmth rather than combat. "Hey," he calls, waving as he approaches. "All set? She said she and her friend would be staying at the inn here for at least a few days."
Tyrrell inclines his head in the affirmative, and falls into step beside Bertrand.
Bertrand sticks his hands in his coat pockets as he walks. "I don't think that leave is forthcoming any time soon," he admits. "But she came here. She isn't military, but she fences better than I do, and she knows how to shoot almost as well as me." There's obvious pride in his voice, speaking about her.
There is a flash of something almost like irritation or impatience in Tyrrell's eyes at Bertrand's comment about delayed leave, but it disappears as quickly as it came, softening into his usual amiable expression. "Such a long trip. Clearly she is devoted. But I suppose any young woman must feel lucky to find herself loved by such a kind, pleasant, and accomplished man."
"You'll like her," Bertrand says, heavily biased. As they round the curve of the hill and the inn is in sight, his steps get just a little bit longer as he picks up a tiny bit of walking speed.
Tyrrell keeps pace, hands still firmly in his pockets. "I like few people, if I'm being honest," he admits, "but I am firmly prepared to like this one, especially if it would please you, my friend."
"What's your people-liking criteria?" Bertrand asks, genuinely curious.
Tyrrell seems to think on this a long while. "I… don't know. I like all of my unit, and a few others in the 7th, but it's been quite a while since I liked anyone outside of it. Perhaps I've become a bit too… sequestered. I should try to meet more people. And like them. Hm?" He gives Bertand a funny sort of lopsided, unsteady smile.
Bertrand gives an easygoing sort of laugh. "Do you have a better-defined criteria for the sort of people you dislike?"
"Mmm, that's a good question. I suppose the very damning answer is that I default to dislike until I am given reason to feel otherwise. Sometimes that happens almost right away, as with you… sometimes, as with my second-in-command, there is a longer process." He takes a hand out of his pocket to hold up one gloved aha finger. "There is one. Terrible provincial accents. I find them utterly painful to listen to. Though not all accents; I find the Kul Tiran and Dwarven-Arathi accents rather musical. But Boles' Gilnean accent makes me want to stab out my own ears, even now that I have come to feel a fraternal attachment to her."
Bertrand laughs and holds the door to the inn open for Tyrrell, because they have reached the inn. It feels much warmer inside than outside.
Tyrrell lets out that very specific shudder one sometimes experiences upon walking into a warm room from the cold, and pauses to unbutton his coat and remove and pocket his gloves.
Bertrand tucks his gloves into his coat pockets as well, heading briskly for the stairs. "Room six, she said." It's a short walk up the stairs and a long walk down the hall to room six.
Tyrrell pulls out a small hand mirror from an inside coat pocket and furtively checks his face and hair for potential offense. Nope, he's gorgeous. He puts it back away.
There’s a laugh audible through the wood of the door, a young woman’s laugh. But this is not the laugh of tinkling bells, or musical chimes, any more than it is a braying sound. It unspools with delight that feels inviting, as though the one laughing is stretching out a hand of sound to the listener that says, join me, laugh with me. It’s beautiful the way a sunrise of a midsummer morning is beautiful, filled with warmth and the promise of real heat if one were to just wait a little longer, linger in it a little more.
A moment afterwards, a woman's voice says, "And I do mean it, Renne!" from behind the door. There are traces of laughter and warm amusement in her voice.
Tyrrell smiles reflexively. "Ah, I like her already."
Bertrand grins and picks up speed down the hall. He taps on the door with a rhythm that might be meant to match a phrase from some song or another.
There isn't a response to the woman speaking, perhaps cut short by the knock revealing that there is someone on the other side.
Tyrrell waits politely, hands laced behind his back. His now-open coat reveals… more black. Elegantly tailored, but… very black.
There is a flurry of movement from inside, and the door opens to reveal a curvy brunette woman wearing a very fashionable yellow riding habit. Her wavy hair spills loose around her shoulders, and her brown eyes shine with delight. "Birdie!" she exclaims, eyes on her fiancé in the doorway.
Bertrand grins back. "Scilla!" he says with equal enthusiasm. He takes her hand and kisses it in a way that is exactingly polite and appropriate. "Light, it's wonderful to see you. I've brought a friend for you to meet."
"Oh?" Priscilla, as she must be, opens the door further, stepping back to invite the two of them into the room.
Tyrrell gives Priscilla a polite half-bow with hands still laced behind his back, his eyes lowered as though slightly shy.
The room is not modest. It might be one of the few true suites available in Wintergarde, the sort of place someone of Great Importance would stay briefly before going onwards to something even more important. It's richly furnished, with a lovely round table and four chairs, as well as a dark frostweave covered loveseat sofa. There may be a bedroom or two behind one of the three doors stretching out from this main area, but the doors are currently closed.
The other woman sitting with a rigid, perfect spine posture in one of the four chairs facing the door is the visual equivalent of an icy rectangle. She’s dressed in a very modest, high necked maroon and gold accented dress with sleeves long enough to suggest a noble even before someone looked closely at the rest of the obvious hints. She has light cosmetics on, enough to darken her blonde lashes, and her blonde hair seems even more golden in the light of the room.
Avrenne Esprit stands regally as the others come into view. “Lord Bertrand, it is good to see you.” The voice is ordinary, the Lordaeron noble accent sharp and perfected despite years in Stormwind. There's a minor surprise as she adds, "Lord Zathary." It's almost a question, but not quite.
Tyrrell, having entered the room and taken a moment to absorb its lavishness, stops dead at Lord Zathary and turns his iceberg blues onto the woman in the maroon dress. He looks at her so long, and so coldly, that it seems he may be in the process of giving her the dreaded Cut Direct, but at last he gives a deep bow and says, "Your Grace."
On those two syllables, the velvety roughness of his voice when speaking to Bertrand changes into the roughness of a crust of ice over old snow.
Avrenne gives the exactingly correct curtsy back, sweeping her skirts perfectly in time with the long practice of it. She looks between Bertrand and Tyrrell with an unreadable mask of golden ivory carved into the suggestion of a face.
Bertrand smiles. "Oh, Lady Esprit, it's wonderful to see you. Please, allow me to make introductions." He offers his arm to Priscilla to escort her back to the table and chairs, and Priscilla takes it. As the two of them cross the room, Bertrand says, "This is Lord Zathary Tyrrell, Captain of the 6th Expeditionary Unit of the 7th Legion. Captain, this is my intended, Lady Priscilla Moore. And I take it you and Lady Esprit are already acquainted?" He pulls out a chair for Priscilla.
Priscilla smiles warmly and dips the appropriate curtsy. "It's wonderful to meet one of my Birdie's friends. Please, do join us?"
"I am acquainted with Lord Tyrrell," Avrenne says, pronouncing his name in the Lordareon fashion, despite Bertrand using the Stormwind pronunciation. Avrenne sits back down first, as the highest ranking person in the room.
"I would not say we are well acquainted," Tyrrell says coolly.
Rude of him to flatly contradict a lady.
"No, not well acquainted," Avrenne confirms. Her voice is as warm as a stream in the mountains of Northrend.
Tyrrell turns to Priscilla and he is all warm velvet again, with a hint of a smile in his eyes. "I am very pleased to make your acquaintance, Lady Priscilla. Sgt. Aspenwood speaks so highly of you, and it is clear that you bring him a great deal of joy. For that I am grateful, as joy can at times be hard to come by at Wintergarde."
Priscilla sits down second, because she is A Lady.
Zath is still standing. (Yeah, yeah, yeah)
The girls are, of course, sitting next to each other. Bertrand obviously means to claim the seat next to Priscilla, but he looks back and politely pulls out the chair between his and Avrenne's for Tyrrell. Maybe that's what he's waiting for?
Avrenne is the picture of composure. "Please do sit, Lord Tyrrell."
Tyrrell looks at the chair as though someone has peed in it. But he sits. Because: gentleman.
Bertrand finally takes the remaining chair. "I hope you two had a safe journey over? No sea monsters?"
"None worth speaking of in the sea at the least," Avrenne says, folding her hands genteely in her lap, golden brows arching up in suggestion. "I shall not recount in detail the particulars of a draenei sailor's…beard. It was otherwise unremarkable as a journey."
Bertrand laughs.
"No sea monsters," Priscilla agrees. "Not a single one, though I admit I wouldn't have minded the excitement. Perhaps a smaller sea monster."
Tyrrell sits politely in his chair and makes no comment.
"Given the amount of civilians aboard the ship, it was for the best we did not. We sailed with the Constant, as the Northspear was not yet available," Avrenne reports to Bertrand.
"We did see the aurora, though," Priscilla chimes in with something like a deep reverence. "I intend to paint it, now that I'm back on solid ground. The sky is so very beautiful here."
Bertrand smiles dreamily at Priscilla. "Isn't it? I told you my description wouldn't do it justice."
"When it's very quiet, and it is especially bright, and the weather conditions are right, you can hear that it makes a slight sound," Tyrrell says to Priscilla, which allows him to turn his back slightly to the woman on his other side. "A sort of crackling or hissing."
"Does it have any negative effects on the armor intended for stealth?" Avrenne asks in a cool, professional curiosity. "The light being different from what would be expected to be accounted for in the material, I mean; does it impact the safety of scouting or moving under the cover of what should be darkness?"
"No," says Tyrrell. And that is all.
Bertrand shakes his head. "Not any more than, say, the moonlight might," he answers in a little bit more detail.
"Oh, I didn't know it made noise," Priscilla says, fascinated. She is happy to subscribe to aurora facts.
"It's rare," Tyrrell says amiably to Priscilla, "so rare that at first soldiers who witnessed it were thought to perhaps be… in need of leave. But finally High Commander Wyrmbane heard it and that settled the matter."
"Interesting," Avrenne remarks politely. If she actually finds it so or not is unclear from the tone. "Have you heard it personally, Lord Tyrrell?"
Tyrrell turns to look at her, which would seem to be polite, but that is only because those on his other side can't see the coldness in his gaze.
"I was among the first to hear it, in fact, though I told no one. I knew that it was real, but when the local warlock starts hearing things no one else hears, it is not particularly comforting news to the average soldier." Very, very dry.
If the knowledge that Tyrrell is now a warlock is a surprise, it doesn't show in her face. She frowns enough to move her expression as she turns to glance at Bertrand. "I would hope that Lord Bertrand would have presented as a reliable confidant." There may be mild disapproval in her voice. Were you not a good friend, Birdie?!
Bertrand chuckles. "I hadn't arrived at the time, I imagine. I didn't make it in with the first wave of ships to be deployed, I was still finishing up my training." Also, they didn't really know each other yet, but that part is implied.
Tyrrell nods assent.
"I see," Avrenne says, the disapproval softening immediately. It's still not warm as she adds, "I would imagine that if something were to be unusual that a warlock might notice, however, that the 7th would be receptive to the knowledge. Why else have one as a Captain, if not to utilize his knowledge appropriately?"
"I was a Captain before I was a warlock," Tyrrell says. And leaves it at that.
"Do you have concerns about the stability of your position?" Priscilla asks. "Or is it simply that you would rather not spread unease amongst your comrades?"
"The latter," Tyrrell says quickly. "My position is quite secure. I grew up alongside the High Commander, so even if my record were not unimpeachable, I would have a distinct advantage. It is that advantage that allowed me to stay on even when I took a path of which the High Commander did not fully approve, and I have more than proven myself since, I believe."
Tyrrell turns amiably to Bertrand, arching the gray-streaked brow that resides under the gray streak in his hair. "You've not heard any unkind gossip about me, have you? Aside from the usual comments about my terrifying demeanor, which I frankly believe to be an asset in a commanding officer."
"One does need to compete with the frigid wasteland out here to command attention, it is true," Avrenne quips, without real rancor, just a slightly sharp wit.
Priscilla smiles at Avrenne.
"I've heard you called unapproachable," Bertrand admits, "but perhaps that falls under the usual umbrella of 'terrifying'. And it wasn't a member of your unit who said so, of course."
Tyrrell makes a soft tsk-tsk-tsk sound at Bertrand's report, but does not seem genuinely bothered by it. At the clarification that it wasn't from his unit, he nods. "Depending on which one you talk to, you'll get anything from 'O Captain My Captain' to language I daren't use in the presence of ladies."
Avrenne does not smile back, but she looks at Priscilla for a moment, before her dark eyes flick back to Tyrrell with the same unchanging composure. "And yet you did not feel able to speak to them of what you had heard? Or is the devotion of poetry of the unit purely one sided, Lord Tyrrell?"
Tyrrell turns back to Avrenne, narrowing his eyes. "It seemed a trivial thing, one I did not think worth mentioning until another soldier spoke of it and it was accused of ailing faculties. At which point it was particularly dangerous for me to admit to having heard it myself, given how ready people are to assume that warlocks are weak links in the chain of sanity. I did, however, speak up to say that I believed the soldier in question, as it was a peculiar and poorly understood phenomenon that might hold any number of unusual properties. I advised against forced leave, and my advice was heeded."
“In a roundabout way, but not directly. That does beg the question of the potential contradiction of having a man captain an expeditionary unit, if when he comes across some scientific discovery on the expedition, he feels he must withhold the information, due to his chosen profession,” Avrenne says like a sudden gust of cold air on what might have been a spring day. It’s definitely feeling very wintry now. “You are either trusted enough to heed your advice, or you are not. A scout whose word is not trusted on that which he discovers is as useful as no scout at all.”
"Well, do speak to the High Commander about your concerns," says Tyrrell. "I'm certain he would be deeply grateful for your insight."
"I intend to do so," Avrenne says to Tyrrell. What she intends to say is less clear.
Bertrand glances between the two of them.
"Would anyone care for tea, or anything to drink?" Priscilla offers, because she is technically one of the hosts and this is getting awkward.
"How kind of you," says Tyrrell, without actually saying yes or no. Light forbid he should do anything directly, ever.
"Something warm would be acceptable, Lady Priscilla. Tea, perhaps, if you would get out the tea pot. I can light the fire for it,” Avrenne offers.
"Yes, please," Bertrand says politely. "Something warm sounds wonderful right about now."
"Of course." Priscilla rises and goes to do tea things, as one does.
Bertrand moves as if to stand, because a lady is standing, and Priscilla, who was clearly expecting this, touches the sleeve of his coat and shakes her head. "I've got it, Birdie."
Avrenne stays seated. Maybe she does not do labor like getting teapots.
Priscilla knows exactly where the teapot is packed, and she fetches it in short order, moving about the room quickly in a way that doesn't actually make her seem rushed.
"Have you found Northrend a particularly different front than Kalimdor, Lord Bertrand?" Avrenne asks politely, if cooly. If she holds any affection for the man, it's hard to tell from her tone.
"Oh, absolutely." Bertrand smiles. "It feels like the weather influences everything here more than it ever did in Kalimdor, excepting maybe the heat of the Barrens. And, of course, enemies leave more obvious tracks in the snow when on foot, but so do I."
"Do you find that your current gear is insufficient for the weather?" Avrenne asks, and again there's a note of disapproval in her voice, but it might not be directed at Bertrand. "Or that it has not been wearing for as long as it should?"
Tyrrell turns a narrow-eyed glance toward Avrenne. "You seem awfully mistrustful of the 7th Legion's operations for someone who has only just arrived here."
Bertrand shakes his head.
Priscilla sets down the tea tray in the center of the table and moves the teapot itself closer to Avrenne.
"Ah, my questions are not some girlish idle curiosity, Lord Tyrrell. I am asking on behalf of House Esprit for the war efforts of the front. I have found the case to be far too often that those at the topmost report that all is perfectly well, for that is what they see in their accommodations, and those in the lower ranks are the ones with the most insight into what has been missed, or insufficiently provided," Avrenne says, and there's a scathingly cold tone in the words.
"I do not know that it is appropriate to discuss the details of day-to-day operations of one of the most tight-lipped covert military forces in Azeroth with a civilian. Even a Duchess, begging your pardon, Your Grace."
Avrenne reaches over to the tea light and there's a deep frown that emphasizes for a moment that she is no longer a young woman in her twenties, before a bright spark of almost blue flame lights the candle. She does not say whether or not she accepts Tyrrell begging his pardon.
"I do not require any details of the operations at hand. But too often quartermasters leave out the details of what those who actually use the equipment have long noticed. It is high time the buckles of the standard armor is adjusted to accommodate a rifle, and not a single general has spoken of it in the past two years."
"We take care of our own," Tyrrell says in what can only be called a Warning Tone. One can almost hear in his voice the static crackling and hissing of the aurora in a wintry night sky.
Bertrand shakes his head. "As you said, Lady Esprit, you're talking to those at the top. I know some folks I can introduce you to."
Tyrrell turns to Bertrand. "You have not been with the 7th for long, Sgt. Aspenwood, but I assure you, there is no need for such introductions. If there were anything amiss, my unit would tell me, and I've more than enough personal fortune of my own to ensure such things are corrected for my and other units. But as it is, I am led to understand that we shall be adequately supplied soon enough without my intervention. I assure you, however, that if needed, I and others within the 7th would intervene. We take care of our own."
"Yes, we do," Avrenne says with a snap of frost. There's an odd clenching of her hands together, a tightening around her mouth that would speak almost of fear if it was not so controlled. "House Esprit has always supported the Alliance Army, and we will continue to do so to the best of our ability. Whether that support is appreciated or not. Azeroth's future depends upon the success of this campaign."
Priscilla sits down in her chair and gives Tyrrell a disapproving, judgmental frown.
"I am certain those at Valiance Keep or Valgarde would be more than grateful for your charity, Your Grace. The 7th Legion is doing well."
Avrenne does not speak to what she has already done for the places in question, and does not mention what has already been funded for the construction of the Keeps. "I shall take your opinion of it under advisement, Lord Tyrrell," she says diplomatically, something still much too tight in her posture, as she waits for the tea leaves to bloom.
"The Alliance Army has always appreciated your support," Bertrand says diplomatically. In the attempt to return to polite conversation, he asks, "How is Mr. Green?"
Priscilla takes a deep breath. Oh boy.
Avrenne doesn't flinch. Every muscle in her face has frozen in place, and she shows nothing at all.
Except for a terrible, horrible blush that spreads across the sides of her cheeks. It's not a pretty blush of a maiden. It's a harsh flush of deep embarrassment. "I am afraid you would need to ask his wife that particular question, Lord Bertrand," she says with complete and total composure, with the sense that the response has been practiced to be so close to natural that it almost isn't noticeable.
"What?" Bertrand looks at her with absolute shock and horror, as if she has told him Mr. Green has joined the Cult of the Damned. "No."
Tyrrell turns to stare at Avrenne with an expression that can only be described as avid fascination. Not the warm, admiring kind, but the sort of expression with which one watches a tram wreck when one really did not like any of the people on the tram.
Priscilla looks at Avrenne, then back at Bertrand. "I regret to report that Mr. Green has eloped with a young woman by the name of Brigitte MacBride," she says with distaste.
"He and his wife are still in Valiance. I will be obtaining the records and information he was meant to collect soon. That is part of why I am here, doing his work. I expect he never arrived in Wintergarde at all," Avrenne says, and the blush hasn't yet faded. She sounds perfectly fine.
Avrenne looks at the tea pot. "The tea has finished steeping to the ideal bloom, Lady Priscilla."
"So it has," says Tyrrell mildly.
Priscilla says, "So it has," and reaches over to pour the tea.
Bertrand looks absolutely stricken. "But… he… but you…"
"Our engagement is, of course, over," Avrenne continues. "I wish Mr. and Mrs. Green all the happiness they deserve." She does not specify that amount.
Tyrrell looks at his tea. He seems really, really delighted with it. Contentment radiates from him in palpable waves as he lifts the cup to his lips. "Ahhhh," he says after his first sip. Sooo satisfying, clearly.
Bertrand takes his teacup. He looks at Avrenne with big sad puppy eyes and says, genuinely, "I am so sorry. I truly thought he was a better man than that."
Avrenne doesn't comment on the goodness of Mr. Green. The flush is fading slowly, almost painfully, even if she seems completely unaffected. "Plans and contact with the enemy, as they say." She turns to look at Tyrrell with polite frigidity. "You will have to forgive me for not being entirely aware of the minutiae of your House since your successful bid for land, Lord Tyrrell. Are congratulations in order for your own nuptials?"
"I haven't turned my mind to such things seriously as of yet," he says, still radiating contentment as he enjoys what appears to be the Best Cup of Tea he has ever had. "I have many years in which I shall be capable of settling down and raising a family, and perhaps not so many years in which I shall be capable of adequately serving the 7th Legion."
"Thank you for your service," Priscilla says politely, sipping at her tea.
"It is my honor and privilege to be allowed to serve in the 7th," Tyrrell says to Priscilla, the warm sincerity returning to his eyes and tone. "The High Commander rescued me from a life that had been quite empty of purpose, and gave me a valuable place. You must know, yourself, how joyous it feels to discover where you truly belong, and to look forward to the future." He glances at Bertrand warmly and then back to Priscilla. "If anyone deserves thanks, it is High Commander Wyrmbane, for his exemplary leadership. We are all fortunate to be under his command."
"Surely you do not intend to imply one must enter into one's dotage simply because one marries. I have heard that some men are quite capable of doing both," Avrenne remarks. She hasn't taken a single sip of her tea yet. "There are houses that must think of their heirs and preserving their line, of course, should they fall in combat in service to the Alliance. We do not all have the luxury of a large house to carry on our legacies."
Tyrrell sets down his cup of tea and pinches the bridge of his nose. He takes in a breath as though he wants to make a retort, but instead he simply drops his hand and says politely, "How right you are, Your Grace." He then picks up his tea for another sip.
"How is your brother Lord Amadeus faring in Northrend? Not too long ago, I had the pleasure of seeing Lady Gardenia and the young Lord Arnold. I heard he was stationed most recently in Westguard?" Avrenne asks Bertrand.
Tyrrell turns to Bertrand with obvious interest.
Bertrand nods. "He's been fine, or so he says. “Truthfully, though, I believe his standards for 'fine' may well be 'able to walk', so one can only hope. He and his unit are still in Westguard."
"Light keep him safe," Tyrrell says softly.
"Did he speak of the cannons at all in any recent correspondence?" Avrenne asks, possibly oddly without context.
"He did not," Bertrand says, shaking his head. "Would you like me to ask him? Or do you intend to head in that direction yourself, Lady Esprit?"
"Eventually," Avrenne says. "If he were to have any strong opinion on them, I would appreciate the information, but I expect I shall need to speak with those currently firing them for what I need. But I thank you for the offer, Lord Bertrand."
Tyrrell sedately drinks tea.
Avrenne has not had any of this tea, though she is holding it correctly, and appropriately. The composure is much easier to believe now that the flush has faded. "Unless, of course, you have already seen to the problem, Lord Tyrrell? Or is your concern only for the 7th?"
"I do my best to address any problems I am qualified to address, Your Grace," Tyrrell says politely. And drinks more tea.
"Have you seen Lucy?" Priscilla asks. "She's written to me, but the most recent letter I got from her was incomprehensible."
"I'm afraid I have not, since I arrived," Bertrand answers. To Tyrrell, he adds, "Priscilla's little sister, Lady Lucille Moore, is a battlemage with Cobalt Company."
"Ah, Cobalt Company," says Tyrrell with tentative enthusiasm. "I'm led to understand they take very good care of their people, Lady Priscilla." He glances warily to Avrenne before continuing, as though expecting her to take exception to this statement. "Our interim scout is one of theirs, and has told me that losses in the Company are almost unheard of despite their presence in many important battles. They value their people highly and deploy them most carefully. Do you happen to know to which end of the continent your sister was deployed?"
"The eastern side, at least initially. I don't know if she's stayed there." Priscilla tilts her head. "I wouldn't put it past her to have crossed all the way over by now."
Avrenne takes a sip of the tea, and sets it down soundlessly on the table.
"Ah, she'd have moved with White Squad, most likely," Tyrrell says, his enthusiasm growing despite himself. "One of my students is a member of White Squad, and may know more of your sister's current whereabouts and well-being. I could inquire, the next time we speak."
"That would be most appreciated, Lord Tyrrell," Avrenne says with a cool graciousness. "Would you be willing to perhaps contact them sooner? We will not be in Northrend overlong, once I have been able to conclude my business here."
Priscilla looks hopeful.
"I would be delighted to do so," Tyrrell says. "She has friends here in the 7th besides myself and could be easily induced to come here and report to you directly on Cobalt's efforts in the Howling Fjord, I'm certain - perhaps she might even bring your sister with her if she's available. If they are not friends already, I am certain it would do my student good to cultivate such a friendship."
Avrenne glances from Priscilla to Tyrrell and asks in a voice where it is difficult to tell what her opinion on the matter might be, "This would be a student of the fel?"
"Yes, but like myself she is cautious and responsible. I expect nothing less of my students, as they are an extension of my own reputation."
"That is an admirable way to look at the matter," Avrenne says diplomatically. "Particularly with your various positions to consider."
"I would appreciate that, Lord Tyrrell," Priscilla says. "What's your student's name?"
"Miss Averlena Coit," Tyrrell says, with a touch of genuine warmth.
There's a fleeting look of recognition on Bertrand's face that soon fades into a more curious look. "Miss Coit became a warlock?"
"An acquaintance of yours?" Avrenne asks mildly.
For a moment Tyrrell almost pales, and he just… looks at Bertrand.
Avrenne looks between Tyrrell, to Bertrand, and back, and then takes a longer sip of her tea.
Bertrand shakes his head. "The name is familiar to me, but I was under the impression that she was a civilian. We've never really spoken."
"Well, the past few years being what they have been, many have chosen to take up necessary arms," Avrenne remarks dispassionately.
Tyrrell looks faintly… relieved? "She is very much a self-made woman. Self-taught to begin with, as well, which can be disastrous, but she has a native level-headedness that has taken her quite far without exposing her to undue corruption."
"What is considered undue corruption, in warlock terms?" Priscilla asks politely. She sips her tea.
"Any sign of sympathy with denizens of the Twisting Nether. You see all sorts of wretched things in poorly-trained warlocks. Treating their summons as pets, or friends, or worse. Those with a lust for power can easily be swayed by demons, who can be dreadfully cunning in their study of human frailties."
Priscilla nods thoughtfully.
"I have been given to understand there are various areas of expertise, with their own particular pitfalls. May I ask what you specialize in, Lord Tyrrell? Or have you taken a broader approach?" Avrenne asks.
"I have at least a passing familiarity with demonology and afflictions, but my specialty, as befits a former mage, is the casting of combat spells. Chaos bolts and the like."
Bertrand, when Priscilla spoke earlier, had turned to look at her, and now he seems to have gotten stuck staring at her with a dreamy smile.
"As I recall, you were a mage of some skill before," Avrenne remarks. You know, the kind who already had power. And then somehow got into more power. She doesn't say it, but it's hanging there in the air with implications.
"I was indeed. Frost spells were my specialty at the time. My Blizzards were particularly infamous.” Tyrrell smiles faintly. Good times.
"And yet you chose to pursue the fel in the end?" It has no particular feeling behind it. Avrenne does not sound like she has a stake in this race, she's just curious.
Tyrrell’s gaze, having warmed on the subjects of Cobalt Company and his student, turns to ice again. "Volunteers were called for," he says. "I had no family, aside from the 7th."
"None?" Avrenne asks, and is that something a little gentler in her voice? Her expression certainly hasn't changed. "You were still House Tyrrell, as you are now." She's still pronouncing it the Lordaeron way. She will die on this hill.
"House Tyrrell was dead by the end of the war," Tyrrell says bluntly. "I am now a Captain of the 7th Legion, and nothing more. Most of us give up our other ties. What is it the High Commander says? We are the nameless, the faceless."
"Most of us," Bertrand says, and leans over to whisper something to Priscilla.
"I see." Avrenne glances again to Bertrand, before looking back to Tyrrell. "You do not intend to further your line as a House then?"
"I do not intend to discuss my intentions in great detail on this occasion," Tyrrell says. "I am here to meet my friend's fiancee and learn more about their plans for the future, in fact." He turns back toward the couple in question, but his smile is somewhat forced.
Avrenne seems to be unbothered by Tyrrell's deflection.
Priscilla smiles at Bertrand and turns her attention to Tyrrell. "I had hoped I might get to take a tour of Wintergarde, although I do understand if some areas are off-limits to me as a civilian."
"Anywhere that isn't dangerous, you'd be more than welcome. You and Sgt. Aspenwood are one in heart and spirit, and will soon be one under the law. What's his is yours, hm?"
Avrenne's hand tightens a little hard onto the handle of the teacup for a moment, and it may not be imagination that the water in it seems to be steaming more rather than less than it was a moment ago.
"I had not expected to remain in Wintergarde long, but I believe my plans have changed," Avrenne says with no particular inflection. "So, we will have perhaps as long as a week before I must move on to the other keeps to have enough time to conduct the necessary surveys for my contractors."
Bertrand smiles and rises to his feet very smoothly, pushing in his chair.
"Oh?" Priscilla looks at Avrenne with open curiosity. "Please do catch me up on this change of plans later, Lady Esprit. For now, if I might beg your leave, I believe my Birdie has a tour to provide."
Bertrand offers Priscilla his arm.
"Whatever you do, don't take her near the 6th EU's barracks. I fear Boles may have returned by now, and if so her foul language might carry quite a distance."
"Of course. If I might request an indulgence, Lord Tyrrell, I would ask for your assistance in another matter," Avrenne says in that voice that makes it clear she is a duchess. It's subtle but it's there. "Would you be so kind as to show me to the gryphon master here? I have not yet updated my passport and I will need it so before the morrow."
"Of course, Your Grace," says Tyrrell. If his teeth are clenched, it is likely just the cold.
Priscilla rises, taking Bertrand's arm.
Bertrand smiles. "It was lovely to see you again, Lady Esprit, and I'm glad Scilla had a friend to keep her company on the voyage over."
"It has been a pleasure as always, Lord Bertrand. Lady Priscilla's company, as you well know, can lessen any dullness," Avrenne says with the first real sense of warmth since the two men walked into the room. It disappears as she rises to a stand to address Tyrrell. "If you will give me a moment to get my cloak, I will be ready."
"Of course, Your Grace."
Tyrrell stands as well, because he is not a monster. Not completely.
Okay, he is a polite monster.
Tyrrell stands as stiffly as though carved from a block of ice as he waits for the Duchess to fetch her cloak.
"Oh," Avrenne says, as Priscilla gets closer to the door. She reaches into the sleeve of her dress and pulls out richly made dark maroon gloves. They clearly match Avrenne's outfit, not Priscilla's. She holds them out to Priscilla with the attitude of someone handing over something naturally, like she was just holding onto Priscilla's gloves in her sleeve. Maybe she was. Maybe Avrenne isn't the one who has been using them in Northrend. Only one of them is a mediocre fire mage, after all. "Do be cautious on the snow."
"Thank you," Priscilla says, accepting the gloves from Avrenne with a warm smile.
There's a hint of something in Avrenne's face, maybe a smile, but it's gone before it can form. She turns into the room headed to one of the doors while the couple makes their exit.
Bertrand gives Tyrrell a friendly wave and exits with Priscilla, the two of them already beginning to talk quietly to each other even as Priscilla pulls Avrenne's gloves on.
Tyrrell waves back at Bertrand with the last fading vestiges of the friendly warmth he came in with, then continues to stand as stiff as a black-draped statue, staring at the exit door with a hard expression.
Avrenne is not long, and she seems to be doing exactly as she said: she leaves the door open as she reaches inside to pluck a black and gold lined heavy cloak from a hook. With that same stately walk, as though she is doing something very important, she returns to the main room of the inn suite.
"Thank you for waiting, Lord Tyrrell. I did come prepared for the weather, but it has been colder and darker than expected." Yes. The 'weather' has been.
Tyrrell stares back at her. Coldly. Darkly. There is no cloak in the world that is going to protect her from that weather.
"To the flight master is it?" he says. "It isn't far, and the gryphons are easy to spot; you could likely find it yourself. Your Grace."
There is just enough pause before the formal address that it is most definitely some variety of insult. Somehow. Despite being completely accurate and proper.
"Oh, do attempt to at least unclench your jaw, Lord Tyrrell, before you damage your teeth. I will not trouble you to stand the apparent torment of my presence longer than necessary," Avrenne says as she shakes out the cloak. She hasn't put it on yet. "I have but a single remaining question, of sorts, that I would know the answer to before we part ways. And you may rest assured that it does not concern the current potential needs of the 7th Legion's efforts here except in a peripheral, personal way."
"What tremendous news,” Tyrrell says dryly. "By all means, ask away." He is already slipping his gloves back on. His hands are so white it would seem he has never removed those gloves outdoors in his life.
"In light of information I was previously unaware of that I now possess, I would like to propose a marital union between our two houses, of the heads of our Houses." Avrenne pauses and adds in the same tone of voice of someone asking where they got their gloves, "Will you consent to marry me?"
For a long moment Tyrrell simply stares at her.
Stares some more.
And then he throws back his head and laughs.
It is possibly audible from downstairs, and if so, it would be the first time any of the locals have heard this particular sound from him. A full-bodied, unrestrained, wild laugh, as though all of the tension of the preceding portion of the evening has been released in delighted response to some absolutely spectacular joke.
It actually takes him a while for him to compose himself; he keeps all but doubling over, bursting into fresh waves of mirth just when he seems to have caught his breath. He has to lean on the wall a bit. By the end of it, his eyes are streaming, and he seems too out of breath to actually answer.
Avrenne remains, throughout most of the show, unmoved and unbothered. There's no change at all in her expression, no flush, nothing but a glacier that has parked itself in the room.
When the paroxysm of laughter finally seems to subside, the Duchess pulls out a very fine handkerchief embroidered with her initials from the same sleeve that stored her gloves and offers it out to Lord Tyrrell with a haughty tilt to her head. She doesn't say, I'm waiting. but it's there in her bearing.
Tyrrell holds out his black gloved hand to refuse the handkerchief, pulling out one of his own (also black), which he uses to dab at his eyes.
"Ah, I'm sorry, was that not answer enough? Shall I ask my mother's corpse to send your mother's corpse a nice form letter making my refusal explicit?"
"Unless this is your way of confessing to the study of necromancy, that will not be necessary, no. I am the head of my House now, Lord Tyrrell, as are you, and I assume you are as capable of making your own decisions." Avrenne raises both brows as she tucks her handkerchief back away. "As you are no doubt now aware, I have recently had my prior engagement end. I am still in need of a partner, and I have evaluated the criteria you possess and you are the most logical and mutually beneficial arrangement of any option I have entertained."
"So now that you've utterly spoiled my evening, you intend to follow up by spoiling the rest of my life? I say again, Your Grace, no thank you. Though I am absolutely fascinated to hear the 'logic' by which you came to this deranged conclusion."
"I should think you are quite able to come to the same conclusions if you took a moment to actually consider them, but if you require an enumeration of them," Avrene holds up a small hand, raising her fingers up one by one. "You are a man of Lordaeron, possessing of sufficient fortune to suit my purposes, unmarried without heirs, ardently supporting the military, and of reasonable age." She moves her hand in a graceful gesture. Reasons enough.
"I am a duchess," is almost the complete statement before she adds, "I will not require you to leave your duties here, and I am quite capable of ensuring the success of what you have been granted in the Eastern Kingdom. I am young enough and in good health to provide you with sufficient heirs to restore your House's line."
"I can see you've given this a great deal of thought," Tyrrell says. "My answer is still no. I have set my sights elsewhere, I'm afraid. Would you still like an escort to the flight master, or was that simply a ruse so that you might confess your ardent longing to, ah, what was it? 'Provide me with sufficient heirs?' My heart is positively pounding at the thought, but I sadly must refuse."
"That you have set your sights elsewhere is not the deterrent you may imagine it to be," Avrenne says. "I have no interest in your heart, pounding or otherwise, so long as it is still beating enough for sustaining life."
She sweeps into a brief, restless pacing that she quiets almost immediately, exhaling a breath as she looks at the wall of the room. "I do not like you. And you do not like me." Despite the words, it's delivered without rancor. "With you, I can at least be well assured that I will not allow myself to be misled again by…” There’s a moment of real feeling that breaks through the icy control of her tone, “Damned sentiment. I will maintain the necessary cold logic that is my duty to provide. I have put my House, the Alliance, and those that depend upon me in danger because I let my heart lie and dictate to me my course of action. I will not allow it to do so again."
Avrenne turns her head to look up at Tyrrell. "You and I both know that affection is not a requirement for a successful match among our rank. In my case, the lack of it is now a requirement. I have learned from my mistakes."
"Congratulations on your harrowing journey toward personal growth," says Tyrrell, beginning to button his coat. "I have also learned a great many things over the past several years, and one of them is that being unmarried is vastly preferable to being married to the wrong person. You have nothing whatsoever that I want, and even what you think you need from me is staggeringly unimportant. I remain unmoved."
"I disagree. On the contrary, I believe you are, to a word, perfect, and that this is of the utmost importance," Avrenne says without any passion whatsoever as she puts on her cloak. There's something about the heaviness of it that manages to dim her slightly — she seems smaller without the dramatic coloring and lines of the dress, her face a solemn rectangular oval above narrow shoulders. "If it takes you longer to see the benefits of the arrangement, so be it." She holds out her hand, as though expecting his to be out for his escort. It looks like she is, in fact, going to the gryphon master.
"You would think your recent experiences would have cured you of the Duchess Propensity to assume that everything must unfold precisely as you command it. But your delusions are not mine to worry about. Just how long did you say you would be in Wintergarde, again?"
He extends his elbow toward her almost reflexively, with no air of gallantry whatsoever.
Avrenne sets her hand on his arm with a proper light touch, coming to stand by his side. Her head does not come up to his shoulder, and her hand looks small on his comparatively larger arm. "As long as I require for my purposes."
He looks down at her, and something almost like pity flickers over his features for a moment. He hesitates before leaving the room, to say softly, "I am genuinely sorry for what you have apparently suffered. No one deserves to be treated so." There is an unkind even you implied, but not stated. "However, I am not the answer to your problem. I do wish you the best of luck in resolving it." With that, he leads her out the door, perhaps to forestall any further conversation that would need to be Private.
"Thank you. I expect I will need it," Avrenne says a little dryly, as she steps out into the cold air of the inn with complete conviction in her course.