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| Details |
| Author: | Athena |
| Summary: | Avrenne stops by Devon Tennerow's townhouse to discuss the ongoing matters of the political sphere, and get a reading how where Devon's House's connections are progressing. General plot and personal plot discussion RP. 3500-ish words. |
| Rating: | T for Teen |
The Duchess Esprit, the Lady Fallon of the Stormwind Fallons, is not ordinarily one to take a carriage through a very short ride through the city from the Fallon Townhouse to the Tennerow Townhouse, but she has on this day. The reason for this is likely clear when she exits the carriage, helped out by the footman Vane — the woman is very pregnant. She's approaching that stage where it's starting to be a little alarming to see her, realizing that there is very much a nearly completely baked baby just under there.
Her dress is spectacular as always though, a lovely burst of the first sense of spring from the winter thaw of soft gold printed silk, the pattern clusters of white and rose acacia flowers, gathered into a lovely knot just about her bump, and flowing out gracefully from it. There is soft white lace across the bust and up to a high collar around her neck, and softer gold silk overlaid with the same white lace down her arms.
Her hair has been done up in a larger, softer chignon, with dots of little golden pearls in some of the pins holding it in place. Her earrings are the same little gold ones she has worn for many years, and she wears her wedding ring on her finger. The only other ornament is a gold and silver case like for a pocket watch hanging by a gold ribbon around her throat, resting at her bust.
She strides from her carriage to the front door of the Tennerow townhouse, five minutes before her expected arrival (and therefore, at her customary time), and knocks decisively, her expression as composed as ever.
A woman in maid's livery answers the door, and her eyes widen at Avrenne's amazing dress. It's probably that, and not the obvious nearly-baked baby that's making her goggle. She quickly regains her composure and gives a polite curtsey.
"Lady Fallon," she says in a high-pitched voice. "Lord Tennerow is expecting you. Shall I show you to the sitting room?"
"Thank you," Lady Fallon says, sweeping in with a rustle of expensive silk. She does, in fact, let the maid show her to the sitting room, but there is an obvious forward momentum of the duchess. She knows where she's going, she's just following the necessary protocol.
Marin, the maid, stays a step ahead to keep the facade of leading the lady to a place to rest. The sitting room is much as it was last time she was here, except on one wall is a landscape of Eastweald and the harp in the corner has a very fine layer of dust on it. Marin gestures her to the most comfortable chair and steps back. She pauses for a moment, an obvious invitation for the lady to offer any requests before Marin leaves to find the Lord Tennerow.
Avrenne's eyes flick around the room noting the changes, the state of the harp, the painting — there's no noticeable altering of her expression, but someone with sharp eyes might note that her face seems to have almost frozen for a moment, as if she became aware that she might make another expression and deliberately halted it — and then back to Marin. She inclines her head in a sense of a dismissal, as Avrenne takes the same seat she ordinarily does, something that seems firm cushioned, perhaps less comfortable and more fashionable, but sturdy, good for one's posture.
Marin curtsies again and backs out of the room. It isn't much of a wait until Devon enters. He's dressed in his usual suit, dark blue this time, with a bit of embroidery visible on the vest that peeks out from under the jacket.
"Lady Fallon, welcome," Devon says with a smile, taking his own accustomed seat. "Tea will be arriving soon. I hope the journey over was pleasant?"
"It was as comfortable as possible," Avrenne says, diplomatically, with a small, controlled smile in return. "It is good to see you looking so well, Lord Tennerow. Political activity seems to be agreeing with you."
"Yes, in the end, I think it does," Devon says, nodding slightly. "This political life seems to agree with you as well."
He doesn't mention the pregnancy - that would be impolite. Besides, the lady knows she's pregnant, so it's unnecessary to boot.
She so very, very much knows she's pregnant. She knows it all the time now, waking, sleeping, not-sleeping-because-she's-pregnant-and-everything-is-uncomfortable, ha ha any way.
None of it shows though — well, besides the pregnancy — as the duchess maintains her usual facade.
"Mm," is the soft, non-committal response. "It's always interesting having a ringside seat into the workings of a kingdom. It's not entirely dissimilar to feeling as though one is part of a rather large House, of many siblings and connections." Speaking of siblings. "I hear Lady Dara has advanced quite far in her current preoccupation with the Church of the Light." There's something sort of neutral about her tone of it, neither proud or condemning. Just factual, an observation.
"Oh? Yes, she's scarcely been home for months," Devon's smile doesn't falter, but there's a slight tightening around his eyes. "She's just a priestess-in-training yet, I can't imagine what tasks they have for her that would keep her so busy. But… I am pleased she seems to be finding her path."
If Avrenne knows any additional information on the matter, from certain sister-in-laws, she shows none of it, her expression one of that same polite interest. "Well, with the advantage of youth," I remind our readers that Avrenne is actually closer in age to Dara than Devon, "one does find the energy for all manner of occupation, significant and trivial both, simply to enjoy the industry of activity."
Is that what the kids are calling it these days?
"Like Lord Leric. He must be quite busy these days. I don't believe I've seen him at all since this past summer."
Devon nods. "What with the impending marriage to Kalindra Azuredown and the war in the north, he's been kept quite busy." Are those equal time requirements? He sort of makes it sound like those are equal time requirements.
Devon pauses as Marin brings in a tea tray and sets it on the table. It's a pretty white teaset with a light blue flower pattern, and the snacks appear to be a variety of small tarts. Marin curtsies politely and exits, and Devon waits for her departure before continuing.
"He was, as you know, at the Battle for the Wrathgate, though thankfully unharmed," Devon's expression grows somber at the memory. "And since then, he's been involved in the fighting in Wintergrasp. What little time he's spent at home has all been in Redridge, making plans for… a hunting lodge, for his future wife?"
Avrenne's brows raise. "Oh, a hunting lodge?" She buys herself a moment to compose a thought by examining the tarts and tea. "I admit I am not as familiar with the marital customs of the quel'dorei. Do you know if that is traditional, or personal, for his future wife?"
"There do seem to be a number of quel'dorei lodges in the world, though of course primarily farther north, nearer to their traditional lands," Devon says, taking his turn with the tea and tarts. "I suspect it may be something more personal, trying to build a place in Redridge where she can feel at home. I understand she may feel a little displaced, among humans."
"One does not need be entirely of another race to feel such a displacement far from home and one's culture. It is good of him to see to her comfort in that way," Avrenne says with a slight smile. "Though truly, such gallantry and respect is to be expected from House Tennerow with how the head of it comports himself." That is a Very Compliment from the duchess, even if it's delivered in such a way that it sounds more like a statement of fact We All Know than flattery.
Devon nods his head slightly in acceptance of the compliment. "I do my best. I would also express my hope that your own household is faring well in these times. How is your sister-in-law? I don't believe I've seen her around Stormwind as much in recent days."
"She's quite well, thank you, settling into her new position as a siege engineer of the 7th Legion, 6th E.U. under command of Captain Tyrrell," she says, as though this is not exceptional news. "House Fallon is ever seeking to be of service to the Alliance, and Sintha is no exception."
Avrenne attempts a lean forward to get at the tea. Her belly really makes it awkward. She's just a smidgen too far away to be able to do it without getting up.
Devon quickly notes the discomfort and moves to pour Avrenne's tea.
"I'm glad to hear it," he says smoothly. "Count Tyrrell is an admirable captain, so I'm certain she's in good hands. And your wards? I hope they are not feeling displaced in these days."
Is there a moment's pause too long, before Avrenne's chin lifts a little? Hard to say. "Finley, Isla, and Otto are all thriving in House Fallon." That's a little odd, that's only three. Avrenne had four wards. "Rather like fish put in proper water. Isla has been excited to hear of the revival around Lord Ference's plays. She's heard me speak of them before. I expect at her age she rather hopes to be cast in them as much as watch them, but she is young."
"Perhaps she might, one day, if it were deemed appropriate," Devon says with a smile. He does not comment on the missing fourth ward, and only reaches out to hand her the teacup. "I take it she has a vivid imagination, a thing that can be an excellent benefit to any young man or woman."
"She does at that," Avrenne says, as she takes her teacup, carefully avoiding any improper touches of Devon himself. She is a Proper Lady. "She recently turned 16, as a matter of fact, and should likely soon debut into Society. It seems a little strange to think of planning it, as though she was not only eight years old just the other day, but children do grow up." A sip of tea. "Do I recall correctly that you have been in recent contact with Lady Montall? I do hope her children have been well, in the wake of their loss."
Devon freezes for just the slightest moment as he moves to sit back in his chair, and then his smile is a touch embarrassed for some reason. "Yes, the Lady Montall and her family are well. She's an admirably strong woman, to weather such hardship and still provide a feeling of stability and safety for the little ones. And, of course, as she is a long-time… friend… I do what I can to soften the darkness of the world for her."
"It's very good of you, Lord Tennerow. It's something I have always admired about you for your willingness to do what good you can," Avrenne says with that same sort of cooler tone. It doesn't sound like the sort of thing a woman says to a man so much as one peer to another. "Your work on both a personal level as well as political. I have been glad to hear how the progress in Westfall has gone. I have not had great opportunity to investigate the particulars since the recent disruptions with the whole business of the Emerald Dream and that…disruption to normalcy." She sips at her tea, her expression composed, her poise giving little sense of how horrifying that business was.
"Ah, yes, that whole situation was quite… terrifying," Devon says calmly, no trace of terror in his voice. He takes a sip of his own tea. "It was rather an ordeal at my estate. I trust your people came through it well?"
"House Fallon's motto is Hold Fast, and I can say I have seen the proof of it. Siamus was home, and we managed well," Avrenne says and despite her control, there's no denying the softening of her expression, or the warming of her voice at the mention of Siamus. She might be passing fond of the guy.
"We had several of the staff, a guest, and — " the barest hitch, the tiniest pause not perfectly covered, "Isla and another were trapped within the Nightmare. I do hope your people have recovered."
"Yes, well so," Devon nods. "Our household is, at the moment, somewhat smaller. We had several of the servants trapped in Nightmare, and they were cared for. Only minor injuries sustained, luckily. I myself was lucky in that regard, not to find myself trapped in it."
"I am glad to hear it. We were very fortunate ourselves that we had a healer on premise, Brother Casker, a priest of the Light," Avrenne says, and there's a brief little pause, a slight self-conscious flutter of her fingers on her teacup. "And, well, I am a mage. I was capable of small magic enough to polymorph some of our more physically capable people, to avoid serious injuries."
"Ah, yes, that must have been helpful," Devon says, taking one of the tarts and shifting the tray to be in easy reach of Avrenne. "I wonder if Dara might serve that purpose in our house, once she is ordained. There's no one in my household at all with arcane talent, though… with the Lady Kalindra joining us, that may change. I have heard that all the quel'dorei have some talent in that direction."
Avrenne uses the pause to fish a tart into her hand, and perches it above her belly. She doesn't ordinarily eat more than a few bites of any sort of tea refreshment, but she already gets through two bites as Devon speaks. She might just mow right through this tart. The way her eyes go to the collection, she might already be thinking about a second tart.
"There was no one in my family with any arcane talent as far as we knew, until I appeared to possess it, manifesting under some small duress, so one never truly knows, I suppose. Is there any history of magic or deep faith in Lady Montall's family, do you know? I really should pay a call on her sometime soon. I haven't been traveling extensively recently." Because of the pregnancy, most likely.
"Not that I'm aware, neither," Devon says, shaking his head. "But then, she has not led a life that might involve the kind of duress that would bring it out. It is possible the children might, some latent ability from an ancient ancestor. And then, there are those who do not have the spark, but in whom it might be cultivated. Do you… find a use for your magic often?"
"Me? No. I have very little need of it, and…" Avrenne unnecessarily adjusts the tart a little on her plate, as though she needs to move it slightly to be able to bite into it perfectly. "I have little ability myself. On occasion, in an emergency," such as, say, the invasion of the Scourge, "it can be helpful, and I am glad to be of use in that way, but most often I find it unnecessary. Dependence on the arcane is most certainly not an attitude I wish to cultivate either. It is, as with anything, best in moderation."
"Certainly," Devon nods. "And in that regard, I'm pleased the Lady Kalindra is primarily a soldier, whatever her arcane talent. And you, naturally, have many more skills at your disposal aside from the arcane as well." He pauses for a sip of tea, and adds, "In general, it is always good not to rely on a single skill. For instance, had I relied only on my skill at arms and not striven to develop my education, I might find myself in a difficult situation now."
The tart has not been consumed in moderation so much as restrained enthusiasm. She reaches for another one after a few delicate sips of tea. "Very true. Although, one must always be open to the potential to learn something new, or start a new skill, having to begin from zero is far more difficult, and it's best to have been working diligently all along as much as possible," she says, arranging the tart on her plate. "There is the unfortunate reality as well now that it may be that such dual emphasis of your own upbringing of arms and mind is becoming more necessary, with more emphasis on martial training than there has been in quite some time. War with the Horde is likely inevitable, and there are now numerous, beneficial opportunities for those in the Alliance army in the wake of recent…rising difficulties in Stormwind." The Rise of the Poors™️ is really just a military recruiters dream.
"Yes, it does seem that way," Devon says, taking a tart for himself. "I do think it was inevitable from the day the orcs crossed over into our world and decided they were going to stay, though there have been delays along the way. They're showing now, in Northrend, their inability to coexist with us. If only one could travel back in time and prevent that portal from opening." Devon shakes his head and eats the tart. "I trust things are going well with the recruiting? Have the plays made any appreciable impact?"
"If I were to guess, I would say yes," Avrenne says, in that tone of someone who is modestly phrasing it like she's guessing, but with that level of expertise of someone who watches such things so closely that actually she is probably not guessing. "There has certainly been a sense of remembering options, of when one finds that there is no employment or housing to be had in what was once plenty, that there has always been opportunity and purpose in service to one's country.
"I do believe that it was for the best to focus on Westfall's strengthening and beginning the reintegration of the militia into the Alliance proper. Interest in Westfall as a potential place for finding that opportunity, and security as well — to serve and be served in turn by an army — appears to be growing, and they are now better set up to properly direct such influx." It sounds like she approves, at least by her general words. Her tone remains composed, framing it more like an observation than anything.
"It is a good place to find belonging," Devon says, taking another sip of tea. "And I'd imagine it's a place to find a path for those who can't find one elsewhere. And on that note, I've heard the Westfall militia is doing good work up in Northrend - I hope their absence is not causing problems for their countrymen back home. The defense force in Redridge is not nearly so organized, so I don't know that it would be beneficial to absorb them into the army."
"Some things are best done slowly, over time. Although, with things as they stand, having more eyes on Redridge might be for the best. As I understand things, the general lingering presence of the orcs has been much reduced in recent years, but at times like these, it becomes rather essential to monitor any changes of behavior that could indicate an attempt at building towards a war machine goal," Avrenne says, and it's hard to detect any sort of real feeling in her voice for this, beyond what might be expected for someone watching and waiting a military position.
"Have you noticed anything yourself of that nature, of changes in behavior of orcs on the outskirts of Redridge, Lord Tennerow? I realize if it had been something definitive you would have been certain to speak up, but even a smaller sense of things that one might ordinarily dismiss could be useful to consider in the wake of recent events."
"Oh, we've always had problems with incursions of orcs from Blackrock Mountain," Devon says, shaking his head. "I don't think there's much change? Perhaps a bit more combat recently in the north, but these things ebb and flow. These orcs, naturally, are not Horde orcs, though, so I doubt their hostility would be much tied to the villainous actions of those in Northrend. I suspect if they have their own plans, they will tip their hands before it comes to fruition."
Avrenne makes a sound of agreement, as she tips her hand for another tart. What? Everyone knows that the first two didn't count.
"Let us hope then that if they should tip their hands, that they find the Alliance's own hand there ready to knock it aside." She offers Devon another small smile. "In either case, I trust you have the matter well in your own capable hands, Lord Tennerow."
Devon smiles, helping himself to another tart as well. The lady shouldn't be made to feel self-conscious. "I will do my best, as always, both for my own lands and to keep our unity in the Alliance strong. Together with your own family and the others in the House, I'm certain we will find the best path forward."