(2023-05-21) They've Both Been Burned, But In An Entirely Different Way

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Author:	Athena
Summary:	Captain Zath Tyrrell pays a visit to Duchess Avrenne Esprit to further his campaign and bid for the House of Nobles. Avrenne has an agenda to uncover the precise strategy to use to help him, but Zath has his own game to play out -- one that's dangerous for both of them. Contains summary of Ringside Seat character campaigns and plot discussion for WEB. Intentional character conflict romance RP, read for own preferences. 8k-ish words.
Rating:	T for Teen

Arc: Ringside Seats

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There's nothing different about Avrenne's house. The wildflowers continue to run rampant. The door remains as unornamented and practical as ever. The heavy shades are open, but the interior is obscured by those white, wispy curtains that make perusal of the house impossible through the windows without pressing right up against the glass.

The duchess' invitation was sent earlier, set at the hour appropriate for tea rather than lunch or dinner, and the 7th Legion Captain is anticipated.

Captain Tyrrell arrives in his usual long black coat, but under it his black vest is… threaded through with silver and burgundy? C-colors?

He is also carrying a bouquet of white roses. Uh oh.

Finley answers the door. He's in full Butler Mode today, not a single trace of the impertinent, inappropriate man. "Captain, please come in. Her Grace is expecting you." His eyes remain dutifully ahead, looking at nothing in particular. If he's taken note of the flowers at all, it doesn't show through that perfect Butler Face.

Zath treats Finley like the butler, which is to say he largely ignores him other than to follow his instructions and come in.

Finley leads the way to the same sitting room. Nothing has changed here either. It's still a warmly decorated, cozy sort of room. On the table is a bouquet of purple columbine, set next to a delicate looking tea set decorated with gladiolus and gladioli flowers.

Seated in the same chair as before is Avrenne. She rises to a stand at the entrance of the two. She's wearing a dress that looks to be the darker twin to the one she wore in Dalaran — it's a dark purple with very bizarre pink embroidery; birds? flowers? scribbles?? — high necked and long-sleeved, with a softness to the skirt. Her hair is in the same pinned back style she wears outside of the ballroom. Business as usual.

Those dark eyes go from Zath's face to his vest to the flowers in his hands, and her eyes narrow in a way that looks as though she is trying particularly hard to tell how fresh they are.

"Good Afternoon, Lady Esprit," the captain says with a bow. It is the first time he has ever addressed her as anything other than "Your Grace" with audible capitals. He then straightens and offers out the flowers in a most gentlemanly manner.

Avrenne moves forward to take them, her expression fairly shuttered, and there's definitely a moment where she inspects them closely, as though checking them for signs they've been dried. "Thank you, Captain," she says in a cool tone. Having determined them to be fresh, she holds them out to Finley. "Finley, if you will have Daisy put them in water, please."

Finley takes the flowers, his eyes on Avrenne's face. There's a flash of something through the Butler Face, but he just bows correctly, takes the flowers, and leaves.

Avrenne moves a hand in an elegant arc to the room choices. "Please, have a seat. Tea?" She's already moving back to her seat as she speaks.

"Thank you," he says, finding a seat while keeping his gaze turned toward her. "I trust you are well?"

"Yes," Avrenne says, and there's a touch of wariness in her voice. "You? I hope you have been finding more doors open to you since the gala, for your campaign." She reaches to the tea pot to pour still hot tea into first his cup, and then her own, her eyes flicking from what she's doing and back to him as though she's trying to keep him in her sights, like he might suddenly spring up and run away.

"Things are going more smoothly than I expected," he says. "Though admittedly I expected to be nailed to the door of Stormwind Keep as a warning to other warlocks, so the bar was not difficult to clear." He wraps a hand around the teacup, as though to keep it warm.

"Good, I am glad to hear that. I have a few notes already on where you will find some difficulties, where you may need to either work on those fronts, or operate with the understanding that they will not be altered and must be accounted for as a loss. And I would like to ask some specifics that came up over the course of the past few days that I could not answer for those who were interested." Avrenne picks up her own teacup, holding it in an appropriately ladylike way. "Where would you prefer to start?"

"As I said last we spoke, my lady, I am at your service. We may conduct this meeting in whatever manner you prefer." He picks up his own cup and blows gently on the steaming surface of the tea. The way he holds her eyes as he does so verges on unseemly.

Avrenne's eyes go flat for a moment. "I see." There's a tightness around her mouth that suggests irritation, even anger, but she brushes it aside. "It will not help me aid you, Captain, if you insist on 'yes, Duchess'-ing me here, and then return to your own devices out there. I could be potentially pulling in an entirely other direction, and it could destroy what you are trying to build. I don't need your political face in here. I need to work with you."

"If I genuinely have an opinion about something," he says agreeably, "You should know me well enough by now to understand that I shall not be shy about it. I do not care where we begin. I would ask, however, that we do begin, rather than launch into an unnecessary argument about how we begin, or why I don't care how we begin."

Okay, so it's still Captain Tyrrell under the weird colored vest.

For some reason, there's a flicker of a smile at that. Okay, so it's still him under it. "Very well. Questions it is then. What exactly are you proposing in specific to address the draw of the Slaughtered Lamb as a gathering place for warlocks? There will always be some level of like-minds wanting to be among others they feel understand them; the religious have the cathedral, mages have the tower and the Blue Recluse, etc. But the Slaughtered Lamb has become what it is because there is no alternative. Do you have any particulars in mind?"

"I do not object to keeping the location. However, the basement should be used only for summoning and spellcasting practice, where the underground location makes sense from a safety perspective. Theoretical instruction and lectures should be held above ground, in well lit rooms, and open to observation by non-warlock members of the WEB. The tavern itself can serve as a social gathering spot, but again, non-warlocks should be encouraged and even incentivized to drink there as well. I also believe that the mages of the tower should invite warlocks to study with them on occasion, as an understanding of the arcane is useful even to warlocks who do not practice it."

Avrenne frowns slightly. "I agree," she says. "There was some concern as to how to prevent the same sense of isolation from before. Encouragement only goes so far. But, I think I can perhaps do something about that. Strategic placement of those patronizing the establishment can create enough of a draw. I will see who might be willing to be some of the earlier ones, and who will follow suit when the reaction is positive." She takes a sip of tea. "Will there be formalization of apprenticeship or mentorship being pursued?"

"While mages often benefit from having a close one-on-one relationship with a master, in the case of warlocks I believe it is detrimental to attach too firmly to one instructor. I think each apprentice should have no fewer than three regular instructors. This would serve two purposes: First and foremost, they can be alert to dangerous discrepancies in what they are being told. But secondly, and not to be overlooked, the study of the fel can be emotionally taxing, and there is too much of a tendency for students to form unhealthy, obsessive attachments to the one person who seems in control of the situation."

Avrenne leans forward, her tea forgotten, and real attentiveness in her eyes. "Interesting," she says and it sounds sincere as though that is, in fact, an interesting perspective. "What criteria will be used to select these instructors? Seniority or power or some other method to determine stability and temperament? That is, I should say, not a question I was asked prior," she admits. "I'm just curious now, myself, but I believe some would find the answer of interest."

"Keep in mind," Tyrrell says in a quelling tone, "that I have no authority over the warlocks of Stormwind City. Demisette Cloyce, I believe, is the senior warlock at the Lamb, and she answers, in theory, to laws set by the House of Nobles. I am simply giving opinions on what I believe should be done, and I hope the WEB will eventually exert enough influence to pressure the leadership of the Lamb coven. That said, in my perfect world all of the instructors should be members of the WEB, should be able to cast all of the standardized spells with reasonable proficiency, and should have been able to do so for at least a year without signs of fel corruption."

"Mm." Avrenne takes a sip of her tea, thinking that through and noting certain words. "The WEB?"

"Ah, sorry, the Warlock Ethics Bureau. I believe I mentioned it in passing — or didn't I? It was a very long and very confusing evening, when last we spoke."

"No, not to me," Avrenne says dryly. "One of the other blondes, perhaps?" There's no sharpness in her voice, just a small thread of amusement, as she takes another sip of her tea.

"Mm, possibly. Did you know, Lady Cressidha came to speak to me? Approached me," he unnecessarily clarifies, as though it's unthinkable. "And we talked until I excused myself — not from tiring of talking to her but from a consciousness of how very long I'd been about it, and not wanting to appear to be courting her. I've never seen a young woman so interested in silithids and Old Gods. My heart might have broken all over again over having no chance with her if the rest of the evening hadn't taken such an unexpectedly splendid turn."

He doesn't give her a flirtatious glance at this. Worse, he suddenly looks a bit uncertain, even vulnerable, and averts his eyes, attempting to hide his expression by taking a long sip from his teacup.

There it is — that movement of her hand on her lap, as though she would reach for him, but she's too far away for that sort of touch, and it's halted. Her expression however, has grown wary again, a touch of something around her eyes. "Lady Cressidha has always been of a serious disposition in that way. Her interest in work is not feigned, either. She truly does find joy in it. Her mother spoke of how she is hardly home because even when the Company gives regular vacation, Lady Cressidha will often volunteer for more work. It is her primary focus," she says and there's something gentle in her voice through the cool composure. "Did you not speak to her much before?"

He sets down his cup. "I approached her about the auroraweave, but… you were there." This last is very dry. "And one conversation before that, when she and her brother happened to encounter me while looking for Sgt. Aspenwood. I never expected her to initiate further conversation with me deliberately, particularly since she didn't even bring up the auroraweave project until I asked about it. But it was a badly needed respite in what had until that point been an absolutely dreadful evening."

There's a flash of something — pain, maybe — at the realization of how much that sense of heartbreak and courting came from so few meets, and Avrenne does not cover it well enough by reaching to pour herself more tea of her still mostly full cup. "I see. I'm certain she was glad of the company. She does not often attend these sorts of events, and the Aspenwoods, excepting Lord Bertrand and Lord Aspenwood, are often…not approached, assumed to be uninterested in others. It's often far from the truth."

"Well, she gave her lack of interest away quite clearly and without intention on our second meeting, so I would never have approached her in a thousand years. I am pleased I did not have to approach, as she is — a truly remarkable woman, and every moment with her is an unadulterated pleasure. I confess I shall properly hate the man or woman to whom she eventually deigns to give her hand. I feel certain I could love a woman like that. And there are… precious few women like that."

Avrenne makes a 'mm' sound, as she settles back into her seat, her expression as cold and neutral as any Aspenwood's. "I wish you luck with that, Captain. I do think, to return to the subject at hand," she says and there's ice in her tone if not the words themselves. "The Lady Aspenwood may be something of a concern for you. We spoke, and I did not come away with as much as I would have liked. She is rarely open with her opinions, but she was particularly neutral on you as a candidate. Your agenda seemed to have appeal, but I do not know which direction she will take for your vote. If she votes no, you will also lose Count Marchand's vote, and possibly more."

Zath shrugs. "I trust that things will work out as they ought. I intend to do my best, but I will not force the issue. If nothing else, I shall be heard, and I shall have my Warlock Ethics Bureau. If I am not wanted on the House, then I do not want to be there."

"The trouble is mostly that you cannot campaign to her; it would be a waste of time. She is unlikely to alter her opinion once it has formed, and I think she has formed it already." Avrenne takes a sip of her tea. "Countess Barfield as well is lost to you already, I am sure of it. There is no point in chasing after a lost cause, when it is only one vote of many." She flicks her eyes to Zath. "Do you intend to join with any of the other candidates as a shared effort? The Commodore mentioned that in his own run, that he will support your bid along with Lord Ference and Lady Morgauna."

"What would that entail, exactly?" He has some more tea.

"Essentially you make it clear when you are campaigning that you are working with the others, and support their agendas actively, rather than attempting to persuade the voters that they should vote for you instead of another. It can bolster the sense of cooperation significantly, and prove that you will be working with your fellow House members when you take the seat. It can also shore up weak points in your campaign, at least for the issue. The Commodore, for example, with his navy has no draw for Lord Westbridge, but Morgauna's agenda will be of keen interest to him, and knowing that Lord Fallon would support it, would be reason to vote for the Commodore, if not his agenda."

"Ah, I see. Well, I've no trouble saying I support Commodore Fallon," he says agreeably. Weirdly agreeably. And drinks more tea.

"The problem we will face is that those that object to you personally will not be persuaded by the company you keep of the other candidates," Avrenne says. "So we will focus on those that may not be interested in your agenda, but would like to know that there is another vote secured for the ones they want to pass. Lord Westbridge may be able to be persuaded for yours if you can properly express to him how warlocks have become persecuted. He is a champion for those who are seen as 'underdogs,' shall we say. Lord Amerith is best not spoken to in any real way. The more mysterious and bizarre you seem, the more likely he is to want you on the House."

"I do not need to seem mysterious and bizarre, my dear, I am mysterious and bizarre. Ask anyone." His tone is very dry.

Avrenne gives Zath such a yes, dear, whatever you say look that it almost spontaneously manifests an engagement contract on the table in front of them. "Are you familiar with all the agendas of the other candidates, yet?"

"Not in great detail, as the competitive portion of this exercise bores me to tears. I have been focusing a bit more on my own intentions, and if my intentions suit the House, so be it."

Avrenne looks faintly exasperated. "It is not necessarily about competition. In fact, the more you know, the more you can begin eliminating it as a competition at all, and turn it into a cooperation. There is no reason to not work together in a coalition, and the only way to achieve that accord is by working to understand each other and see if compromises can be made." She sets down her tea cup.

"Morgauna is running for local infrastructure. Her campaign will naturally be a little weaker because of it, since it is not a flashy idea, but it's a necessary component to what is important. We cannot focus only on war; without security at home to provide for our forces, we will simply lose when we run out of resources.

"Lord Ference's approach is similar. He is running for the same reason he began his mercenary company. They are natural allies in this. But, Lord Ference is taking an unusual approach to the campaign — he is operating much more on himself as a person, what he brings as a man with ties to important people and the heroics of his Company than a specific issue. His bid, therefore, will be on the force of personality, and that means showing whose agendas he supports will tell the House more about him than his campaign.

"Lord Tennerow is campaigning on the need to re-centralize the local militias, particularly with the changes in the local leadership." A pause, something oddly telling in it. And then she moves on.

"Lord Demasco is campaigning much more on his own history with the House than anything; they know him all too well, already. He has support or not, and he seems to be aware of it. His agendas are to do with the law, and are not especially compatible with your own enough to bolster them. He is generally well liked, but I do not think anyone who finds him likable will think you more so with the association."

There's another brief pause, a small breath, and Avrenne keeps her eyes on her teacup on the table for some reason. "Lord Fallon is running on the campaign of the need for a true navy. It is a very specific agenda, but he has the benefit of doing it at a time when we have never had it clearer how important it is." There's something in her voice now that sounds like it's closer to passion than disinterest.

Zath studies her for a moment, and then simply says, "It's possible I'm not at all well suited for politics. But I felt compelled to try. An opportunity like this is rare, and if I had simply let it pass while I killed another thousand thousand ghouls I would never have forgiven myself. Losing a contest is one thing. Never entering it quite another."

"Of course. That is why I am working with you," Avrenne says, picking her cup up again. "This is where I live. It's an important issue, and I feel your campaign is worth the attempt. I can only do so much myself, however. You have some general support already. Most of those I spoke with were very willing to listen to potential solutions, but the difficulty seemed to be that there is still little public understanding of what a warlock or the fel really is. It goes between either 'pure evil' or they think it too much like the arcane, treating it like it's the same as a mage and arcane magic. Neither is true, and therefore it may be of interest to consider what other ways you could begin addressing this issue through those with more reach for education. That is where Morgauna would be a very strong ally for you."

"I dislike her, and would rather not have to spend a great deal of time speaking with her, but I shall do whatever you tell me to do." He shrugs and has another sip of tea.

Avrenne's expression grows colder. "I will not order you like a puppet, Captain. I will only make the suggestion of a possible course. Make your own decision as you will." She takes a sip of her tea. "Morgauna is a dear friend of mine. I do not have many of those. She will always be welcome wherever I am." A flick of those dark eyes to his, the barest touch of a wall unwilling to budge in them.

"I do not have to like all of your friends," he says calmly. "I like very few people, so it's likely I will despise most of them. Especially given the sort of company you keep."

Avrenne's brows raise, and there's a touch of a Warning there, though it's blinked away. "’The sort of company I keep,’ Captain?" There's ice in those words, hard and cold.

"I've made no secret of my dislike for the upper class," he says, picking up his teacup again oh so casually.

Avrenne looks away from him, and there's a long enough pause to make it clear she's trying not to say something. And then she says it anyway. "The same class you not only are yourself, and part of that company I keep, Captain, but are considering marrying into."

"I am not of that class, no matter whose womb spat me out. I am a soldier of the Alliance, and that is all. I would drink rotgut whiskey with a hundred soldiers before I would take tea with one noble. Yourself excepted, of course, my dear." Sip.

The term of endearment seems to cause a twitch of her lips, and not in a good way — it's the start of a curl of anger rather than a smile. "That class is what is allowing you the privilege of what you are doing right now. You do not get to have it both ways, to deny your station, and yet claim it for eligibility for the House of Nobles." She's holding onto that composure with a fingernail grip, but she's got it enough that at least the tea isn't steaming.

Yet.

"I think you'll find I get to do exactly that. Eligibility for the House is based on law, not on flag-waving for Team Noble. I think you'll find more than one already seated who feels similarly to me on these matters. And I am not seeking a seat because I want to be accepted into that social milieu; I am seeking a seat so that I can serve the Alliance without needing to channel the fel. But I didn't come here to fight with you, so I'll drop the subject."

Avrenne keeps on that mask like she's mentally welded it onto her face, calm and cold and unfeeling. She drinks the rest of her tea in one single long sip and sets the cup on the table, folding her hands together in her lap. "Very well. Are there any other specific resources you require for the WEB? A building location to gather?"

"I think for now there are few enough of us that we can simply meet at the Ferences' place. They're both interested, so that should do for now. It was quite a windfall, really; I went seeking a paladin and found myself a priestess in the bargain. It seems I am reasonably competent when I am attending matters in which I have actual experience, knowledge, and interest."

"Good." Avrenne keeps her hands clasped together, and her eyes somewhere around Zath's chin rather than his eyes. "And I may have a building that could possibly be usable for growing into. The seller would be willing to sell or rent below market price. He is an acquaintance of mine — Mr. Bel. I introduced him to both Miss Coit and Miss Mullby at the gala. Miss Mullby has been working in Redridge, where Mr. Bel's niece lives, and Miss Coit's efforts with Cobalt Company restored the mail, an important issue for Mr. Bel to keep in touch with family in Kalimdor. The place is not good for a shop; the foot traffic is too low now, and it would be easy to negotiate a very reasonable sale, or a rent for a tenant."

Zath studies her for a long moment. When he speaks, his voice has softened slightly. "Why go to such effort on my behalf? Two weeks ago I'd have assumed it because you thought me incompetent to handle my own affairs, and I'd have said so, and we'd have ended in another fight." He searches her face with a momentarily unguarded, soft expression in his very blue eyes. "But I think it is not that."

Avrenne looks slightly startled. "I told you. I believe sincerely in what you are doing. This is…what I do, Captain. I do not have wealth, or land, but I do have a voice, and I have spent nearly eight years making connections and collecting knowledge to assist where I may. Which is something you would know about me, if you took the time to learn it," she says, but there's no sting in the words, just a sort of almost rueful wistfulness. "I have been doing it for years. You may not even know how often I have been part of something of yours." A pause, a thought, and a decision.

"I was the one who caught the error when scouting uniforms meant to be made for the 7th's Anh'qiraj campaign had not had their coloring altered from another campaign in Stranglethorn Vale; they would have been made in vibrant greens rather than the desert colors required for Silithus, a disastrous setback that would have delayed the necessary enchantments while they were remade. I had no direct control over the contract itself, but I did know the man who had done so, and that he had not bothered to check the details; I fixed it. This is who I am. What I can offer." It's oddly vulnerable herself, a card on the table rather than pridefully held back.

"Exactly," he says, even more softly. "You believe that is what you can offer. All you can offer. And I keep trying to tell you, I care nothing for any of that. It sounds as though I am simply being cruel to you, telling you that you are worthless, because you believe that to disdain connections and influence is to disdain you. But you are also a person, as much as you try to appear to be nothing more than an idea in a dress. Do you not believe that a person has inherent value, above and beyond what she can do for others? By your actions, I would surmise that you do. So why do you not apply this to yourself?"

That vulnerable look is slammed behind a wall, as she draws herself up, hands clasped together. "Of course I am a person," and there is ice cold venom in the tone. "But I am not offering you the person, or my friendship, or anything to do with who I am in that way. I have offered you marriage to an alliance of what I am and what I can do. That will remain no matter what you may feel or not for the person that I am. That is what will endure no matter what sentiment forms, through any argument or moment of…" A slight shake of her head, but she says it. "Passion."

"I doubt it will only be a moment," he says, the softness in his eyes warming to something approaching heat. "And I am far less interested in your 'alliance' than I am in the kindness you showed me when I was in despair. Kindness was not something of which I'd assumed you capable, when first we met." And then the heat mellows again, back into something tentative, almost shy. He seems inclined to look away, but just as clearly forces himself to keep his gaze on her face.

Something flickers around her eyes, and her mouth. Something that looks much too much like hurt, and it's strong enough to slide tiny fingers up into the cracks of the mask of composure. She doesn't hold his eyes, looking to her teacup as though considering if it's worth refilling for the ability to have something to look at and hold. "You assumed that Priscilla and Lord Bertrand would like and value the company of someone so cruel?"

"I didn't give it much thought," he says. "I only saw the title, and the dress, and your insistence on… being something I had spent years running from the very memory of. I wanted you gone and out of my life, and so I looked only for things to hate. I – " He hesitates. He looks like someone who might be about to … sneeze? Cough? Wait, is he gonna barf?? Something unpleasant and unnatural is about to explode out of him. Oh boy…. here it commmmes…. " — am sorry."

Avrenne's brows go up and she looks at Zath halfway through reaching to the table — her arm freezes in the air, fingertips still several inches from the handle of the teapot. "Oh," she says softly. Her eyes are warmer as they meet his, and she offers a small smile. "Thank you for the apology, Captain." She remembers what she was doing and pours the tea in a way that seems to be more about moving and looking away from him than anything to do with wanting more tea.

"I have been meaning to apologize, myself. I was thinking in terms of problems and solutions, and the necessity of making a decision quickly made me blunter than I should have been. And I did not mean to give you insult, or to imply the 7th was not well outfitted or pry into its secrets. I was concerned for the campaign, and for keeping something precious safe for a dear friend. I'm sorry for the offense I gave." She doesn't seem to have nearly so much trouble saying it as he does.

"You see?" he says, his voice almost dangerously soft. "This does not have to be the way we began. We can both learn to be and do better. To talk to instead of at one another. In that spirit I must tell you something that — may inform your understanding of why my initial reaction to you was so negative."

He exhales and leans back into his chair, as though he needs the support. Whatever he is about to say is clearly difficult for him.

"When we received your mother's letter… my mother asked me why I had thought you were interested in me. I told her — about our conversation. She was — furious. Perhaps she'd already begun to go mad; I'm not certain. I did not see, at the time, the path she was on, only the intensity of her rage. She called me a fool - she had never before abused me in such a manner — and then she went out to the garden and – "

For a moment it seems he isn't going to continue. He can't, and keep his face and manner as open and unguarded as it has been. So the mask falls down again, and he says the next very casually.

"— she set fire to the strawberries. With a wave of her hand. Held me by the shoulders so that I could not run for water, and so that I had to close my eyes to keep from watching them burn."

Avrenne listens to the story with a faint frown, in that serious manner of hers, finishing pouring her tea. But at the last, there is something dangerous in those dark eyes, cold and hot all at once, and there is fire that flickers in around her fingers like a candle flame licking around them.

She gasps in sudden pain, dropping the cup to hit against the table. It doesn't break, although it spills the tea all across the table to begin dripping to the floor, but Avrenne is holding onto her own hand with a grimace, redness around her fingers where they had been touching the teacup.

Zath leaps to assist, but there's nothing around that is remotely absorbent. So he abandons the tea and goes to his knees by her chair instead, pulling a healthstone from his pocket and attempting to press it into her hand.

Avrenne shakes her head a little. "It's nothing, Captain. A small…it's fine. You may need it," she says, and she's looking at him with something in her eyes, warm and sorrowful all at once, and trying to fit it back behind a cold, composed duchess who doesn't need anything from anyone.

"Take it," he insists. "I can make as many as I need. You said you know how they work, hm? Please." Eyes intent, he closes her fingers around the small stone. He gazes at her for a moment and then, still on his knees, he bends to briefly but fervently press his lips to those small, closed fingers.

Avrenne's lips part on a gasp, and if she's thinking of anything at that moment, it is not about healthstones or how they work; her eyes are arrested on Zath like a moth to a flame. Her other hand moves as if on its own will out to touch against his cheek, fingertips light and wondering, exploring the edge of the glacier, the fire of anger already draining away in the wake of a very different heat.

Finley enters the room and halts at the start of it. "Your Grace, is everything alright? Another teacup accident?" Not even a hint of something in that calm, butler voice.

At the sound of her title, Avrenne pulls her hands from Zath like they’ve both been burned, but in an entirely different way, as she rises to a stand, a flush around her cheeks. "Yes. I…I dropped a cup. It's fine. It's not broken. It just spilled. Could you please bring a towel?" She sounds a little breathless, even if she looks perfectly composed.

Zath is still on his knees. He looks sort of dazed, but doesn't attempt to scramble to his feet; it would not really salvage his dignity anyhow.

Finley takes in the Vibe, and there's something in his face when he looks at Zath. Is that approval or anger or both?

Avrenne frowns slightly, but it's too late because Finley is bowing, and leaving. She is still holding the healthstone, and since there's nothing else really to do, she crushes it in her hands. The fel green flashes around her in a way oddly reminiscent of her gala dress, green over the golden ivory of her skin, and the burn is gone.

Zath slowly gets to his feet and returns to his chair, eyes still on her face. "That's better, isn't it?" he says softly, and ambiguously.

Avrenne puts her right hand to her waist, and there's something in her face that looks much more ambiguous between panic and desire than ever before. "Thank you for your assistance, Captain," she says as evenly as she can, sweeping her dress a little to sit once more, as the tea slowly drips off the table.

Finley isn't gone long. He returns with a simple towel, and moves to immediately clean up the spill.

Zath waits quietly for him to finish. He doesn't look at him.

Finley doesn't look at Zath either. He cleans up, bows to Avrenne, and leaves without a word.

Avrenne reassembles her composure bit by bit, until all evidence is wiped away as surely as the tea. "Thank you, Finley," she says to his departing back.

"I didn't think the story would upset you so," he says quietly. "They were only strawberries."

"I was not angry about the strawberries," Avrenne says equally quietly. "I was angry on behalf of a young man I remembered, and what a conversation with me cost him."

"Strawberries," he reiterates, with some of his usual dryness, but there is also something reassuring in it. Really it's fine.

Avrenne doesn't argue the point, she just looks at the empty teacup, her fingers curled up like she's still holding onto a healthstone. The silence starts to drag before she says, "Of all the other candidates' agendas, do you know whose you would vote for, if you were already seated on the House?" It's a desperate bid for a return to safer conversation waters, and it shows. But she doesn't seem able to look at him, and it's all she has to offer at present.

"As I said before," he says, a sort of bewildered irritation lacing his tone, "I haven't paid much attention to the others and their agendas. Yet. But I will try, since it seems important to you."

"Yes, the future of the Alliance is important to me," Avrenne snaps back, a slip in that cool voice just enough to show the irritation, and then she gathers it back up. Calm. Unfeeling. Controlled. "It is not only about what helps you. Yours is not the only agenda that matters to me, or that I think is important. Lord Fallon's proposal for a real navy could be instrumental beyond words for the future of the Alliance, and if I know I can count on your support of it, it will help me as I try to aid his bid for the seat."

"If it isn't about me, then we needn't discuss it at all. Support whomever you wish. I had no Seat on the House when you came after me in Northrend, and my fortune isn't going anywhere if I lose. So focus your efforts on others who are better at the game. I've told you, I intend to win a seat on my own merits, or not at all, if I'm not deserving of it."

"I need to know how you will behave and speak on the matter, so that when I speak to someone to hint and nudge that Lord Fallon also has the support of a Captain of the 7th Legion, it is true and I am not setting myself up to be caught in either a lie, or seen as incompetent for misrepresenting a candidate." Avrenne's hands clasped together in her lap, and she stares at Zath with dark, cold eyes masking frustration. "I have a reputation to maintain, and if you would contradict me so openly, then I lose some of my voice to your unwillingness to work with me rather than independently of me. I told you. I can use alliances to get what I am trying to do, and those who would not vote for Lord Fallon who would vote for you could be persuaded to vote for you both as a block together in negotiations."

"Ah, of course, your repu– " He visibly stops himself, pinching the bridge of his nose. Exhales. Drops his hand and meets her gaze steadily. "Lord Fallon has my support in this, and in all things."

Avrenne's eyes flash dangerously at the mention of her reputation, but she brushes it back, and nods her head. "Very well. Dare I even ask about the others?"

"If I had to choose the four seats, with a gun to my head, aside from myself I would choose Fallon, Ference, and Tennerow."

Avrenne relaxes slightly, some of that tense squaring of her shoulders softening a little, as she nods again. "Thank you. I can work with that." She doesn't say how she will work with it or what she will do with it.

"But it has nothing to do with their 'agendas.' A man's agenda might change. His character does not."

"Yes, I understood your meaning, Captain. You said you would choose them. You did not say whose agenda you cared about," Avrenne says coolly.

"I do not have to agree with a man to respect him. I am not always right. I would rather have a man whose character I trust in power, so that if we disagree I can be assured it is not for petty or malicious reasons."

"It has nothing to do with that, as noble a sentiment as it is, Captain," Avrenne says with a wave of her hand. "This is not about philosophy. It is about tactics. It alters how I speak on it to others. Some will only want to hear what a candidate’s agenda is. They won't care how intelligent, and gallant, and brave the Commodore is," and there is an odd, genuine warmth in her voice, and she seems to hear it a moment too late. She hastily adds, "Or how kind Lord Tennerow is, or how charismatic Lord Ference is." Sure. Those lists were balanced. It's fine. "I cannot convince everyone by the virtue of the person. Some will be the opposite; I will not be able to convince them of their agenda, but I can impress upon them how the person will be, and convince them of that worth and merit. I must constantly shift and adjust my approach, tailored to each individual person, and the more that I know, the more I can do that."

"I believe you know enough about me to speak intelligently on my behalf if you are inclined to do so. But I must again emphasize that you are under no obligation to do so. I am not considering an engagement to you because I expect you to put me in power."

Avrenne closes her eyes for a brief moment. Calm. Controlled. She opens her eyes, and stares at him with that slightly pinched look like somewhere, something has hurt her and she is refusing to show it in full. "And I am not campaigning for you because you are considering an engagement, Captain, any more than I am campaigning on behalf of Commodore Fallon, because I am getting something from it. I told you. I am following my conscience in this. The only difference is what I can do, and what limitation I have as only someone who knows you, and not your fiance."

"I think you cause yourself unnecessary stress over the matter. I have not asked you to do anything for me. Do not volunteer for a task unasked and then berate me for not making it easier for you."

Avrenne goes even colder at that, something shuttering in her expression like a door being slammed. She moves to collect her teacup, and to pour herself more tea. "I see. I believe I understand now, Captain." What she understands, however, is not said.

"And I feel certain that you do not. Especially when you get that look. You've gone into Duchess mode, and the Duchess understands me not at all."

"What is that even supposed to mean," Avrenne says in a voice too tight to manage calm as she drinks a sip of her tea, drawn up with that particular head tilt full of pride and poise. "I am always a duchess, as much as you are always a Captain."

"Am I? I thought for at least a few moments, you saw me as a person. But perhaps it is I who fails to understand."

"It was you who insisted on that particular title, and it is still a part of you, as your whole, of who you are as a person. You may not always hold it, but that you are a Captain of the 7th Legion will always be some part of you, your history, what shaped you, the life you have led," Avrenne says quietly into her tea. "No matter what happens, who you are now will always exist in some form in who you will be; the person you were, the person you are, the person you become. I will never stop being a duchess, no matter where I am, no matter who I marry, or what I become. It is part of who I am, and it always will be."

"Only because you choose it. Because it is apparently more important to you than anything — than anyone else. Including yourself. You could renounce the title and still save everyone you care about, with a wealthy enough husband. But you simply have no idea how to alter a course once set, or even evaluate it. You have such damnable tunnel vision sometimes."

"And yes, how dare I choose it. How dare I, as a woman with no other form of power, choose to hold onto the power of a title to take action in the world, to do something about it when the end of the world comes to call. How dare I choose to protect those who have served this House for generations, who lost all they had, to want to give them somewhere safe with as much power as I can hold so they need never know the fear of being alone and unprotected,"

Avrenne's voice is getting louder and louder, and she looks as furious as he's ever seen her, though her hand are not on fire. Yet.

"How dare I choose to serve the Alliance with all I have, willing to sell anything I must to do it, because House Esprit will never abandon the Alliance, and I am House Esprit." She isn't quite shouting, but it's enough to leave a ringing emptiness after she stops, a faint shake to her hands clasped now so slightly together that the skin around her knuckles looks whiter, and her fingers have gone red.

"You are Avrenne, damn it!" he shouts back, suddenly. And then rises to his feet, and turns away, because that was not at all part of his plan.

Avrenne looks almost like he's struck her.

There's heavy footsteps — the sound of someone in heavy plate booking it across a room, and there is the older knight in the entryway of the sitting room, his right hand on his sword as he looks from Zath to Avrenne. "Your Grace." It's a very specific tone — a vassal asking for direction from his lady. "Do you require assistance?"

Avrenne stands slowly, with that rigid composure, every inch of her screaming Duchess Esprit in unspoken words. "No. Thank you, Sir Somer." It sounds calm and cold. "Captain Tyrrell was just leaving." Everything about her looks like she's shoved all that she is back behind an ice wall.

His back still to her, he clenches his fists suddenly. And then, without even turning, he marches toward the door.

Avrenne doesn't watch him go; she just stands there, holding so tightly onto her own hands that she's hurting herself.

Zath sees himself out, slamming the door behind him.

Avrenne flinches at the sound, flickers of flames curling around her fingertips in a dangerous touch of magic before they sputter out, and she brings her hands to her face to press them there, fingers digging in deep enough to leave small marks behind, her eyes dry and burning with tears she refuses to let fall.

FLOWER LANGUAGES

White Roses (fresh): Charm/Innocence/I Am Worthy Of You
White Roses (withered): Transient Impressions
White Roses (dried): DEATH IS PREFERABLE TO LOSS OF VIRTUE
Purple Columbine: Resolved to Win
Gladioli: I'm Really Sincere
Gladiolus: Strength of character/Generosity/Faithfulness