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| Details |
| Author: | Athena |
| Summary: | After learning about Lady Kenelly's proposal for the worgen community, Lukas Rhenardt seeks out his friend Siamus Fallon to speak on the matter of worgen employement, and to gain an audience with Fallon's wife, an old acquaintance, the once Lady Avrenne, now Lady Fallon, Duchess Esprit. 8100~ words. |
| Rating: | T for Teen |
Upon his midafternoon return from the city, the Vice Admiral has brought a guest.
Vane waits at the front door to admit the two gentlemen, who approach the house with their heads bent in close conversation. Siamus is carrying his hat beneath his arm; the other gentleman holds his by the brim in both hands. It is of a style not typically seen in Stormwind, a black top hat in Gilnean upper-class fashion. The gentleman's suit is a stiff, sober black, his cravat red: Gilnean colors.
He is not quite of a height with Siamus but possessed of a similarly athletic build, though there is a more hollow-cheeked, ascetic quality to his appearance, a wolfhound's lean intensity. He is at least a decade older than Siamus. As they come up the steps, he glances up to survey the house's facade; his flint-eyed expression gives nothing away, and he returns his attention to Siamus in the next moment.
"… and a similar initiative," Siamus is saying as they step into the airy foyer. He hands his hat and gloves reflexively to Vane, who turns to accept the stranger's as well, with a bow. "As Ference himself will tell ye, I expect. I'd be glad to arrange — Vane, could ye see to tea in the library? — to arrange the introduction."
Vane nods once and turns to vanish in the direction of tea-arranging.
The stranger nods to Siamus — not absently, he has been attentive — as his gaze travels around the foyer. It is arrested by the painting at the staircase, and he studies it for a moment with a slight, disconcerted frown.
Siamus follows the line of his look. "Ah," he says. "Aye, and I should collect the lady herself, she'll be best-placed to speak with ye on it directly."
"That is Lady Fallon?" the stranger asks in a gravel voice.
"Aye," says Siamus, and surveys the portrait of the stern-eyed woman in the sober, high-necked dress with an unmistakable fond satisfaction. "Her Grace. As ye remember her?"
"No," says the stranger, and continues to study the portrait.
Siamus laughs and clasps his shoulder briefly. "Come, let me see ye settled, and then I'll go and get her."
The stranger nods, regarding the painting a moment longer, and then turns away from it to follow Siamus down the hall to the library.
A few minutes later, Siamus emerges from the library alone, and jogs casually up the stairs to collect his wife.
Avrenne is found easily in her room, the door wide open, intended as an invitation to interrupt as needed. She is not seated at her desk, but standing (not a good sign for good news), and — a worse sign — pacing as she reads from a thick packet of multiple sheafs of paper, a trifold that suggests a letter or some other longer communication.
She is dressed in one of her relatively simple house dresses, a mid-toned satin blue of a high waisted draping bustline, and long sleeves with thick cuffs adorned by silken ribbons. The materials are rich, but the dress is deceptively simple in lines, expertly tailored, and as she has no expectation of company outside the House, it does not truly conceal her growing pregnancy, currently a soft lined bump of possibly ambiguous nature even given the slimness of the rest of her. Her hair is pulled up into a softer chignon, and she wears no jewelry at all. Her cosmetics do a little to hide her exhaustion, brighten her features, and darken her eyes, but nothing more. She's at home, in relative ease with guests staying at the House, and primarily concerned with her own business of the day.
Siamus knocks lightly at the door's frame as he steps in. He's shed the expectant cheer of his earlier manner at the sight of a standing and pacing Avrenne, and considers her with concern. "Something's amiss, Your Grace?"
Avrenne looks up from her paper, and there's an obvious, immediate lighting up of her expression at the sight of Siamus. Her day has just improved. She glances back at the letter, and waves it in a vague circle in the air. "Vice Admiral. No, or at least nothing new amiss, only unable to be altered or negotiated further. Materials are at an absolute premium, or in this case, exhausted to the point where there is simply nothing to be done for any large scale project. I cannot get single sourced lumber of at least six thousand board feet from any reputable lumber mill I have any connection with, unless I redirect or divert some other project from them, which I cannot do as none of them have greater acceptable variation margins." You know. Just ordinary problems.
She sets the papers down on her desk. "Did you need something?" Or perhaps have a diversion from unsolvable problems.
Siamus moves to join her by the desk, setting his hands lightly at her hips. "I wouldn't like to impose if ye've business more pressing, but I've brought Graves home wi'me to discuss Gilnean relations. Ye spoke with a young lady of his — Kennedy? Kelly? — about the WEB, and he's after an introduction — a reintroduction — to talk on the matter in more depth. Lukas Rhenardt, Lord Graves, that is."
Avrenne's eyes widen and freeze in the position. "Lady Kenelly," she informs him, distractedly, before she sets her hands first on his arms, then in a fluttery smoothing of her hair as if it has been set wildly out of place (it is fine). Her voice, when she speaks, has an extremely unusual girlish squeak to it that she doesn't immediately get under control. "Lord Graves is here? Now? Here, to meet. Now." Those are the basic words he said, yes. Her hands move from her hair to her dress like it might be slovenly wrinkled with tea stains (it is fine). She's clearly grasping for her composure, and it's tumbling around her hands like a bundle of improperly put away yarn tossed at her. "Here. Now. Lord Graves."
Okay, if she repeats it again, it's probably time to get her circuitry checked.
Siamus's brows draw together; the line of his mouth flattens. He studies Avrenne with consternation.
"Lady Fallon," he says firmly. He does not raise his voice and there is neither disapproval nor criticism in it, but it is an Officer's Voice and it contains an implicit command: Pull yourself together, man.
In the next moment he lifts his hands to cradle her face, his dark gaze intent. "Are ye well, pet? Shall I bring the man back another time, wi'more notice? Ye may take all the time ye please now to be ready — I told him you're a busy lady, and he and I have plenty to occupy ourselves with until ye can join us." He looks her over, and bends to brush a soothing kiss against her forehead. "Ye look immaculate, mo chroí. Ye know I'm partial to that dress."
Avrenne sets her hands at his wrists in a light grip, as if she's using it to subtly catch her balance. She almost has it, until immaculate, and then her eyes are flicking down to herself as if to ask is she, though? She touches a hand to the base of her neck, her ear, and inspects her left hand (bare of the wedding ring she often does not wear at home and when not around guests as a precaution).
"No, of course we cannot send him away or have him wait so long, not with the message that would send. I will accompany you back, together, a unified statement of the value of his time and of the direction of House Fallon," she says, distractedly, as she pulls away — and for a moment there's an oddity of how she walks, direct and rapid, before she pulls it back into the stately way she does usually, as if a memory has pulled up an old habit — to make her way into her dressing room, to go to her new jewelry box. "I need only a moment."
She sets to quick work. Moonstone necklace, on. Simple gold earrings, on. Wedding ring, on. "He knew my family, an acquaintance, though not me particularly well at all. I was not important. He knew Abrielle, and Anton, the heir. Of those he knew best of us though, it was my father." For another, she might have left it there. But this is Siamus, and for him, she tells him the fuller truth. "He will remember well enough to make a comparison of the one who held the title, and the one who was meant to hold it, with what he sees today."
She re-emerges from her detailing, the full cloak of her composure pulled into exacting place, every line of who she is smoothed out behind it, a perfect rendition of the Duchess Esprit, in her most public self, that sense of awareness of being judged by someone just off to the side stronger than ever, as if the ghost of her father just materialized there in the room.
"He will see nothing that does not impress him, Your Grace," Siamus tells her gently. "A formidable woman, a power in Stormwind, a canny, strategic mind. I've spoken so well of ye to him already, he knows how highly I esteem ye and how great a lady the Duchess Esprit is." He adjusts his cravat and drags a hand through his hair, smoothing it back from his face — perhaps in concession to Avrenne's new composure — and then offers her his arm. "I've put him in the library, and tea's being brought."
Avrenne steps forward with the heightened elegance, taking his arm with precision. Her expression has been ironed out entirely of anything soft, or worse, sentimental. This is a woman who hasn't had a feeling since Year 21, when she finally ascended from her previous lady form into her Duchess Era. She had all her emotions replaced with high octane cold logic, drinks nothing but unsweetened caffeine, and eats math and scientific logic for breakfast. She is so frigid that people take vacations to Icecrown, Northrend to relax and unwind in the warmth. She is married to Siamus Fallon. That's all the important information. She is ready.
Siamus escorts the Duchess Esprit downstairs to the library. By the time they reach the room, he is wearing his own typical social mask, that slight, ironic smile, the knowing tilt of an eyebrow. As they enter the library, he says, "Graves, may I present Her Grace the Duchess Esprit, Lady Fallon? Your Grace, this is Lukas Rhenardt, Lord Graves. I believe ye have some prior acquaintance."
The man in the sober black suit is standing at the fireplace gazing up at the map of Kul Tiras, his hands clasped behind his back. He turns at the introduction, his expression a courteous neutral.
It has been close to a decade and a half since Avrenne last saw him, and the intervening years have weathered Lukas Rhenardt into spare, granite edges, grizzled his blond hair. His eyes are the same flinty dark blue as ever; his gaze has always conveyed an impression of cold assessment, even at his most pleasant-seeming. He sweeps Avrenne with that assessment now, then sets his heels together and makes a curt, stiff bow. "Your Grace," he says, gravel-voiced.
If the years have weathered him, they have steeled her. The youngest Esprit daughter had been a young woman of such bright vivacity that every layer of artificial social lacquer had only struggled under the force of her true personality, a quick wit and intelligence surrounding a seemingly inextinguishable light. She was not the softness or the beauty of her sister or mother; she had neither the ruthless cold calculation or overbearing force of her father or brother. She had been a candle set blazing, warm and alight.
The woman who curtseys with exacting angles is a stainless steel lantern, the shutters closed, with no shine of warm light through it at all, only the cold metal. The resemblance to her father is uncanny, as if the Duke Esprit had been reforged several years ago, and set here in Stormwind, at the expense of his playful, spirited daughter.
"Lord Graves," she says, coolly polite. "It is good to see you again looking so well. I have heard much of your honorable leadership among the refugees of Gilneas and the worgen." She makes it sound like she's marked it down in a ledger, of a mathematical notation somewhere.
Lukas nods once, a polite acknowledgement. "I've likewise heard from several of my people of your efforts on their behalf. And Fallon, naturally, speaks quite highly." His gaze does not leave Avrenne. After a moment he says, "The resemblance to your father is uncanny. I am sorry for your several losses. I confess I was not altogether clear as to whether it was yourself or your sister I would find here."
Now he looks at Siamus; there's some speculation in his glance that suggests he might have believed it likelier that the other Esprit daughter had captured this gentleman's attention.
Siamus is impervious to unvoiced speculation and, as usual, the frost in the air. Mmm, tingly. "Can I offer ye a drink, Graves?" he suggests, and draws Avrenne toward an armchair before the hearth.
"Thank you," says Lukas, "but tea will do."
As if on cue, Catrin slips in with the tea trolley and moves into place beside Avrenne's usual chair.
Avrenne holds Lukas' gaze with an unwavering, unflinching steadiness. There's a lift of her chin at the mention of the resemblance, a tiny nudge as if she has realized the angle was off by a single degree.
She takes her seat with practiced elegance, settling her hands carefully in her lap, left over right, waiting for the tea to be put into place before she reaches out to take over the hostess' serving duties. "Thank you for your condolences. May I ask how your family has fared through the difficulties?" Not to be confused with the Circumstances of Lordaeron. "You had two sisters, if I recall correctly?"
"Correct," Rhenardt says. He steps toward the nearest couch flanking the hearth and settles at its end. "Annika and Lord Ealing departed Gilneas before the wall was closed. They initially joined the Kalimdor exodus from Lordaeron, but are presently established in Dalaran with their two sons." He pauses. "Astrid, I am sorry to report, seems to have died in childbed not long after Lord de Wine was himself taken by the curse."
There is an abrupt, awkward clink from the sideboard where Siamus is pouring himself a drink, as he has an unsteady moment with the decanter, but he corrects it at once without comment, setting the liquor aside and taking his glass up smoothly to return to the hearthside. He takes the couch opposite Rhenardt's, at the end nearest Avrenne.
There's a chip in Avrenne's mask at the clink, as if it's broken off a small piece, and when Siamus sits, as if entirely the normal sequence of events, she reaches over to touch her hand lightly on Siamus' arm. It's an at-odds gesture of affection with the rest of her manner, but the chip of the mask reveals a genuine softer sympathy directed at Rhenardt, wholly unlike the ghost of the Eighth Duke Esprit.
"May I congratulate you," Rhenardt adds in precisely the same tone, "on your own recent happy event?"
Presumably he means the birth of Ery, and not the even more recent event that is giving Siamus palpitations by the sideboard.
"Thank you. Our daughter is a blessing, and our children to come another," she says smoothly, her other hand set briefly on the swell of her belly. "My deepest sympathies for the loss of your sister. I hope that it has not been difficult to secure transportation to reconnect with Lady Ealing in Dalaran. I am not of the Kirin Tor myself personally, but it would not be any trouble to ensure a regular option is available to you, should you wish."
Rhenardt's eyes move from Avrenne to Siamus. "Ah," he says.
He looks back to Avrenne. "Then I must add my further congratulations. I was not aware. And I appreciate the offer, but Lady Ealing and I have reunited sufficiently." From his general manner this could mean anything from a rapturous, emotional celebration and flurry of visits, or that they have politely and mutually agreed never to speak again. One or the other.
"Graves and I," says Siamus, who is ready to steer the subject away from ladies and babies and anything lady-slash-baby-related, "have been discussing employment opportunities for worgen — he's met that Reeve who contacted me recently — as well as Lady Kenned—ly's public outreach initiative modeled on the WEB. Which I believe is an idea she took at your suggestion, Your Grace? She's met wi'Tyrrell on the matter, and presented a proposal to Graves yesterday."
Avrenne sets Rhenardt's teacup, filled with black unsweetened, unaltered tea, on the coffee table within reach, and takes her own in hand.
"Yes, Lady Kenelly and I had been speaking at the wedding reception on the matter of the WEB and what it has been for warlocks, and I was impressed by her initiative to consider the same for the worgen. I am glad to hear that she has been following through on the momentum. That is very promising," Avrenne says, although her tone shifts it to a cool observation rather than anything within the realm of eagerness or enthusiasm.
"Indeed. She is a young lady of great…." Rhenardt considers. "Momentum," he decides at last, and leans forward to pick up his teacup with a nod of acknowledgement.
At the remark, Siamus makes a small, throat-clearing sound that is surely not a laugh, and immediately covers it by taking a sip of whiskey: just something in his throat, never mind. Rhenardt flicks a glance in his direction, and there is the barest answering glitter in his gaze, a sly and hidden humor.
It's snuffed out by the time he sits back and takes a sip of his tea. "Can you tell me, Your Grace — Lady Kenelly's vision for her organization seems to encompass a great many aims. While I would say they are all admirable aims, I do wonder whether it would be more politically expedient to focus our action at present. Fallon assures me you are an expert in these considerations."
Avrenne's brows raise briefly. "Yes, it is true that I am not unaccustomed to navigating the various political waters of the Alliance's various spheres of influence, and the nuances of the current diplomatic situations are not unknown to me. I have some perspective both of Lordaeron and Stormwind that grants me a level of privilege to be more objective and invested both, to see it from multiple angles. However, I will admit that I hold no expertise on the particulars of what precise observed obstacles worgens are currently facing and making headway in military and social settings, and I know less than I would like on both from a closer perspective, especially with the shifting political climate as integration has begun properly. I would be very interested in hearing what you have noted, Lord Graves, on the matter, and what you think requires the greatest focus for such expediency."
Rhenardt clears his throat, nods curtly, has another sip of tea and leans forward to set the cup down again. "Lady Kenelly has conceived an organization that she seems to intend will perform outreach simultaneously to our people — finding opportunities for them in employment, housing, and the like — as well as public relations outreach on behalf of our people to the rest of the Alliance. She seeks to use the group also to provide… traditional spiritual counsel" — he glances at Siamus and then back to Avrenne — "to our people as well as education in such matters to the Alliance.
"It seems to me that she designs a group aimed at both broad private benefit and public relations, and I cannot say from my own experience — chiefly military in nature, as you know — whether that is too ambitious. I do not dispute that they are all admirable goals, but I wonder whether early efforts should be directed in one way or another? The WEB, as I understand it, manages to serve both the needs of its own community and provide a reputable public face for that community, but it is by its nature a narrower group with narrower considerations, and it is able to provide the reputable public face simply by virtue of the private service it offers its members; warlocks who have submitted themselves to an ethics organization will naturally appear more publicly acceptable.
"The ethics and spiritual and moral integrity of warlocks are not so broad a ground as the comfortable assimilation of the worgen into the Alliance. Our people are of all classes, background, professions. They will require a considerably greater breadth of services, I believe.
"There is also the matter of how to staff so broadly-targeted an organization. Lady Kenelly proposes to seek volunteers from among our people. I am aware that the WEB has advisors from outside the warlock community, but also that the number of these advisors and the directors of the WEB are small. I'm concerned that Lady Kenelly's… momentum carries her away, but would be interested to hear how feasible you think her aims are and how they might best be focused. Particularly with regard to public relations, which are —" He considers again. "Not a personal specialty."
Again there is that little flick of of a glance at Siamus, a moment of wry, barely-there humor.
To Avrenne, he says, "My feeling is that our people have a great many pressing needs at present, but if we were to focus on, say, the public relations face of the matter, we might by virtue of that focus open some of the opportunities Lady Kenelly also wants her group to provide. If people fear worgen less, they are more likely to hire and house them, for example."
Avrenne listens with an active attentiveness, and she clearly considers her words carefully timed to a pause.
"There is much to be lauded in the ambition of seeing a long term goal of an organization, and what it can be," Avrenne says, diplomatically. It is not exactly agreement with Kenelly. "The WEB was formed out of a crisis of necessity. There had been many years of diverging philosophies regarding the study of the fel, and it had arrived at an unfortunate pinnacle resulting in an organization forming informally, of like-minded individuals who did not improve the honor or discipline of their fellow fel users. A member of the House of Nobles was assassinated by this warlock informal organization, leading to Captain Tyrrell seeing the great necessity for an intervention of the ethics that should guide the community with official sanction and backing.
"Thus why the focus of that particular organization is both narrow, and also of so many outside opinions. That is a deliberate component to respond to the inherent potential for internal corruption of too many voices speaking into an increasingly narrow echo chamber of power. As I understand it, there is no such inherent risk for worgens, and as you say, many already come from multiple perspectives and backgrounds, leading to a variety of voices to be heard, and Lady Kenelly is right to ensure that there is a representative of those various situations.
"That is not to say that I think while the precise goals are not exactly the same, that it should be discounted what outside non-worgen voices would add to such an organization. It is not only perspective that others can bring, but also support in action. What Lady Kenelly proposes for the long term social, ethical, and spiritual guidance of worgens to provide a source of effort and solace will likely be instrumental in ensuring that there is unification among worgen individuals to guide them into greater goals.
"However, if the focus is too internal, the risk of isolation becomes higher, and falling into the mistake that warlocks made first that necessitated the creation of the WEB, though do I not mean to suggest that it would ever go so far into the same corruption, only that it would grow into a separation of seclusion. As you say, integration into the Alliance is the first, most necessary step. If worgen gather together, but have no focus of what to do with themselves after, to what purpose do they turn, and how often do they find themselves only trusting and turning to their own fellow worgen? Public relations to place worgen better within the Alliance, not as an isolated group, is essential to the process being successful for what it hopes to ultimately achieve, and for that, non-worgen must be willing to hire and house worgen within Society and the military, of a public relation crisis to respond to.
"I agree with your sense of focus, Lord Graves, for an order an operations," she concludes. "First things first, to overcome fear and possible bias for integration, while it is most necessary to do so to set the tone. The rest of the private benefit will follow by course." Who isn't happier and more spiritually content when they have a job or three, after all?
Lukas nods. "What manner of public outreach would you recommend to best improve perceptions? I had considered in my conversation with Lady Kenelly yesterday offering a hand in aid to those people in the kingdom who have been similarly displaced by the recent turmoil; as my own people find ourselves in similar straits, it may be best to promote a sense of fellow-feeling and shared opportunity rather than allow a perception of competition for employment or position to fester. However, it was observed this might itself dilute our focus from the needs of our own people. I'm curious about your thoughts on balancing our ability to forward our people's interests without upsetting public perception by seeming in competition."
He gestures at Siamus. "I'm aware of course that the Alliance military is in need of personnel, and many of my people are willing and more than able to fulfill that purpose. There are just as many of us, though, who were civilians and would prefer to resume a civilian existence: tradespeople, scholars, farmers, the like. I'm also aware that Stormwind has its own surplus of displaced civilians right now. A number of my people remain in Darnassus with the kaldorei, but as a Gilnean lady of business observed to me yesterday, the kaldorei do not themselves share our values with respect to business and property, and our assimilation into their society would be less comfortable for many."
"It can be difficult, and jarring to adjust to an entirely unfamiliar culture, particularly after being adrift as a refugee, and I sympathize with the preference to be among more familiar settings," Avrenne says. "I agree with Lady Kenelly and yourself. I can think of at least two avenues by which you might find direction to begin with for that aid. In that sense of fellow feeling, I think you will find an especial ally in those of us of Lordaeron displaced eight years ago. There has been efforts of reclamation of what have been called for far too long 'the Plaguelands,' and I am given to understand that worgen have a particular resistance to the plague of undeath. Those who might be able to best straddle a civilian existence with the realities of the turbulence therein of the land, might find that they are a welcome presence in that reclamation effort. I have also heard that you have those among your people known as 'harvest witches' who are guardians and healers of the land, another effort that would be greatly appreciated. In that location as well, there is less…competition, at least of the living.
"In a similar vein, we now have several places of the Alliance territory here in Stormwind that are under border attack and danger, including eastern Elywnn, and Redridge. I do not mean to suggest that all your people must sacrifice peace for a place, but only that in these locations, such assistance of a stalwart defense while working the land or trade or education opportunities, would go a long way to establish a sense of gratitude among other civilians who have less protection personally than the strength of a worgen and possibly their pack. Being within the community and offering a sense of shared responsibility, rather than outside it, or encroaching on limited resources to the benefit of the overall social impression.
"Most of all though, I cannot overstate the significance of the benefit of reputation of worgen taking up arms in the military. We have borne the brunt of the northern war, and experienced devastating losses that leave us in a difficult position for recruitment," she says, and her eyes flick from Rhenardt to Siamus, holding there for a moment before she returns her attention back. "And then there is the influential mercenary company of Cobalt Company, whose hiring practices are discerning enough that their own endorsement of employment will go very far socially among the people. Those who can fight to that purpose on those two fronts will form a cornerstone of reliable trust that the Alliance can place in the worgen community."
Rhenardt nods gravely, his flinty gaze intent on Avrenne. "All fine points. As to Cobalt Company — yes, Lady Kenelly and Captain Tyrrell both spoke of it with me, and your husband has kindly offered to introduce me to Lord Ference. Lady Kenelly herself has been working with the group, unlikely a mercenary as she seems."
"Yes, if I recall correctly, she is working with Lord Bertrand Aspenwood, the husband of my friend Lady Priscilla, and Lord Bertrand has placed himself in full support of the worgen cause. The Aspenwoods are an honorable family, and Duchess Aspenwood sits on the House of Nobles alongside the Vice Admiral and Lord Ference, and while she is never persuaded by sentiment, she is practical, and her son's word of experience and practical observation on the matter will not be unheeded. He is formerly a Major of the Alliance army and of the 7th Legion, recently retired from that service, but with excellent judgment therein of group cohesion and leadership." She does not seem to have any difficulty with an intent gaze on her, and holds it steadily in return.
"I had the privilege of introducing one of your pack, a remarkably calm and gentle young man by the name of Mr. Thaniel Clay, who represented himself as both an alchemist and harvest witch, and brother of a long-time paladin Dame Briellen Clay, to Lord and Lady Ference at the wedding. Lady Ference is an esteemed alchemist and botanist, and Lord Ference is himself a paladin, and familiar with Mr. Clay's sister." Because she was already working the angle two steps ago. She takes a sip of her tea.
Rhenardt smiles so briefly and cursorily it looks as though someone off-camera mouthed SMILE at him. "Thaniel, yes. I recommended him for efforts among the orphans at Tyrrell's estate. I'll be sure to mention him and their prior acquaintance with him when I speak to Ference." He inclines his head, and then sits forward for his teacup again. "Lord Bertrand I am of course… familiar with, in a general way. I believe I was at his wedding."
It is impossible to tell from the gravel voice whether he is making a dry joke or is in earnest. It is also impossible to know how "at" the wedding he was, unless perhaps you are Avrenne; it seems possible that he lingered on the outskirts of the festivities for thirty minutes or so and then backed into a shrub, Homer-Simpson-style, and vanished. (He did not do the backing-into-a-shrub thing. The rest is fairly accurate.)
"Yes, and I would say that he was the one dressed in a light blue linen suit, but as that encompasses over one hundred and seventy three men at that event alone, I expect that a closer introduction is in order," Avrenne says, and she is surely not teasing anyone. No, she is Serious to a fault. She has replaced jokes with math. Or, wait, is the math the joke. Tricky.
Lukas regards her levelly, with his usual flint intensity. He turns his look on Siamus, who gestures vaguely, genially back at him with his glass. Does this gesture mean something? It must convey something, anyway, because Rhenardt seems to take it for an answer to his equally inscrutable look, and turns his attention back to Avrenne. "If you were to propose perhaps two or three reputable Alliance liaisons to the worgeniz—" He catches himself and clears his throat. Whoops ha ha that's too easy to do. "…to Lady Kenelly's outreach organization, who might they be?"
"Lord Bertrand Aspenwood, for his military and mercenary connections and genial support, as well as the ties of his family. Lord Xandros Demasco, for his judicial expertise, as well as his already established interest in the matters of equal treatment under the law." A pause, where she flicks her gaze at Siamus, and then back to Lukas. "And myself, for the social and political spheres that will see my stepping forward as its own significant endorsement, and my voice can speak loudly enough to be heard over rumor and fearful superstition."
Siamus shifts on his couch, crossing his legs, smoothing a trouser-leg. He rests his whiskey glass on his knee, and with his index finger taps a seeming-idle staccato. Tap-tap. Tap-rest. Tap-rest. Tap-tap: a single Morse code ?, eloquent of startlement. He makes no other outward sign, still smiling that slight smile.
Lukas considers Avrenne in silence. At length he nods once, curtly. "I'll pass your recommendations along to Lady Kenelly. Thank you, Your Grace."
Avrenne's eyes flick to Siamus' hand, although her expression shows nothing but that same composure, her own hands still holding onto her teacup with a ladylike correct elegance. She mirrors the curt nod, a tiny, economical movement. "You're welcome. I am pleased to be of assistance in the matter." She pauses deliberately, to give a moment for Lukas to ask anything more, or make any other social inquiries.
Social inquiries do not appear to be Lukas's strong suit. He regards Avrenne stonily back again. "I may take the liberty of your time again, should I have further need, but I will endeavor not to trouble you lightly. I appreciate the welcome you have shown my people already. As do they."
"Will ye no' stay for dinner, Graves?" Siamus asks genially. "Or is it all business, no society today?"
Lukas gives him that tight on-and-off smile that he'd shown Avrenne a moment ago. "I'm not much a man for society at the moment, as you well know, Fallon," he says. There's nothing sharp in it; his tone is weary and seasoned with a touch of that barebones humor again. He shifts his glance back to Avrenne. "Another time, perhaps," he says, more to her than to Siamus. "But allow me to congratulate you again."
He studies her once more with that sharp, flinty regard, and then says, "By all measures I have seen of what the world's become during Gilneas' absence from it, you've done well for yourself, Your Grace. As much respect as I have for the late Duke, I do not think he could have done better. By you or by Esprit." He flicks another look at Siamus and then observes blandly to Avrenne, "And I assume you still swim, then."
There's a straightening of her spine and an unmistakable peek of a glow in her eyes at the praise, the tease of a smile brightening behind the mask, a sense that the stainless steel lantern is not unlit, only shuttered. She hasn't managed to tuck it under when he mentions swimming, and the smile slips out around, a flash of light of a younger, more vivacious woman, before she hastily raises her teacup up for a sip, covering it. Ahem. Serious Duchess, you saw nothing.
A thought occurs to her as she drinks, and there's a puzzled look to her as she regards Lukas, perhaps trying to place his knowledge, which she smooths back out. Rather than ask the question directly, she says, "I do, yes. I am very fond of swimming." Again, that small question, as if trying to recall if she ever mentioned it before. "Thank you, Lord Graves. I am glad to know of another perspective from before the alteration in circumstances to be noted having done my House justice. I do hope you know that I am pleased to see that House Graves continues on with honorable principle, and has returned to the Alliance." She sets her teacup down, smoothing out her dress in a way that indicates she is about to stand.
"House Graves, such as it is," says Lukas, and inclines his head in sardonic concession. "But perhaps House Esprit's example offers hope for us all, aye?"
"As long as at least one remains, the House has not fallen, and it can be rebuilt, whether from ash or rubble. All it takes is time, and one's determination to see it through. You do not strike me as a man lacking in determination, Lord Graves, and you have time as much as anyone else. And, as I understand it, you have a pack, your people of the Gravehowls. House Graves may not look as it once did years ago, but that does not mean that what it has become is less than before, only altered in form, not spirit." Avrenne rises to a stand with careful elegance.
Siamus and Lukas both rise at once as well. Lukas again puts his heels together and makes that curt, stiff bow to her. "Thank you, Your Grace. A pleasure to see you again, and in such fine circumstance."
"Shall I see ye out, then, Graves?" Siamus inquires, setting his glass aside on the end table.
"Obliged, Fallon," Lukas says.
Avrenne's answering curtsey is automatic. She possibly could not halt it if she tried. "Vice Admiral, I shall meet you in your office." That is all the farewell pleasantry she offers, moving to sweep out in the way forward, that regal bearing as though she's made an appointment with the king and now will see it held.
"Your Grace," Siamus acknowledges courteously as she passes, and waits to lead Lukas out to the foyer in her wake.
In Siamus' Office
The door has been left half-open, possibly because Avrenne is once again pacing along the room. Uh oh. A bad sign, possibly?
Some time has passed since the meeting in the library ended: perhaps ten minutes, perhaps a quarter of an hour. Siamus at last steps in, closing the door behind him.
He's now carrying a cup of tea, which evidently he went back to the library to belatedly arrange. He also has a plate of summer berries and some tiny ginger scones with cream and apricot jam, neither of which is a thing he would ordinarily eat. Sure enough, he sets both cup and plate on the table by the hearth, a silent invitation to Avrenne.
She turns immediately when he enters, but waits — semi-patiently — as he unburdens himself of tea and plate, before she takes a little bit of a run at him to throw her arms around him, beaming brightly. "Siamus, did you hear what he said?" Siamus was right there, he definitely heard. "He agreed that I am like my father in the best of ways, a credit to my House." That's kind of more a gist than exact quotes, but sure. She's going to take the praise to the bank and deposit it forever and ever to accumulate interest at a very reasonable rate.
Siamus laughs, almost as delighted as she is herself, and puts his hands at her waist to swing her lightly, briefly into the air, a gesture of exuberant congratulation that the last Duke Esprit would no doubt not have condoned. But Siamus understands what a giddy high it is to meet one's father's standards.
"He did say it, pet," Siamus agrees — executive summaries are valid — "and he'd be a man who knows."
Avrenne laughs with him, pressing kisses to his face, and then another longer kiss to his lips, drinking in the victory with a chaser of traces of whiskey. If she might have escalated from there, she doesn't now, not with the implicit order and understanding that she will have more tea and food, as per their agreement, and for better or worse, Avrenne is a woman who will continue down a path laid out unless given significant reason to reconsider. She releases Siamus to look towards the food plate, still aglow with success. She could eat an entire plate of food on this giddiness. "I am glad you brought him here," she says.
"As am I," he agrees, smiling down at her. "I wish he'd stayed longer, he's an amiable man. I've been pleased making his acquaintance."
Lukas Rhenardt does not seem like an amiable man, but this is Siamus speaking; he probably describes Zath Tyrrell as an amiable man.
Avrenne's brows raise, as if she's had confirmation of something, possibly a misread. "Oh," she says, as she strokes a hand lightly down his arm, moving towards the plate of food to pick up a scone. "I hope I did not cause you to cut anything too short to not enjoy each other properly, or if you had preference for the office over the library." Her eyes flick to the desk, and back to Siamus. That desk is not always used for business. Sometimes it's used for Business. "If so, I can be sure next time to choose another place after a reasonable social call, and to suggest a longer stay, if you would prefer?" Is she offering to help Siamus keep Lukas around long enough for a longer physical liaison? Sounds like it.
What? She's on his side at all times.
Siamus laughs again, gently this time, and shakes his head regretfully. "Ah, my pet, it's nothing like. I confess I'd find it agreeable, and have made it plain" — what? he's not subtle — "but beyond a good nature, the man's shown no inclination thus far."
That's right, thus far. Siamus is not just unsubtle, he is also an optimist. And patient, let us not forget.
He drops down comfortably onto one of the hearthside couches. "Ye must confess he's an appealing man." Must she? Is he? Siamus seems pretty confident on both points. And never mind his resemblance to Avrenne's dad; Siamus would totally have tapped Avrenne's dad, too.
Oh, Siamus, now you've made it weird.
Avrenne's brows raise higher as she sets a scone on the side of a teacup plate, and lifts both the tea cup and scone up, to take a bite and consider it.
"Well, there is no denying that he is a fine figure of a man," she agrees. Ah, the Avrenne compliment of men's physical features: fine figure. Like a geometric shape, but man. "Shrewd, principled, and restrained. I have no objection, of course. If he is inclined towards men at all, I am certain you will charm him with time." She believes in you, Siamus. "Should Lady Kenelly agree with my suggestions, and if he pays any calls on behalf of the worgen organization," she says, and it takes her accent to really keep those words separate and crisp. Worgenization really is too easy to say. "You are welcome to join in, to further the acquaintance, should you like."
Siamus does not waggle his eyebrows at the suggestion that he might join in because he is a gentleman and gentlemen do not waggle their eyebrows. That is an eyebrow-wagglin' smile if ever there was one, though. "Considerate of ye, Your Grace, and I'm sure I'd be well pleased."
He drops his gaze to the saucer of tea and the scone and then lifts it to her face again, and some of his mirth has fled. "And on the subject — ye will note I did not gainsay ye, and I won't, but I will ask whether ye think it advisable to take on a further political project, in view of the doctor's recommendations."
Avrenne leans towards him to set a hand lightly on his shoulder. "I am grateful for your support. I considered it from the angles. It would be the addition of more work and time, potentially, but this would be balanced against the possible stress of watching someone else handling it, possibly in ways that I would not as strongly prefer. And I had every intention already of furthering the cause on my own time, only now I will be able to streamline it further, and possibly better control the direction it takes into a more efficient course, ultimately lessening how much effort I would need to exert. I examined the potential other options, and for a variety of reasons, found them not as ideal as they could be compared to my own influence used directly." She pets along his shoulder, soothingly or encouragingly, hard to say.
"This is not an insignificant cause, as you know. Captain Tyrrell's future and his family of the 6th E.U. hang in the balance. I could not let it alone. I will not allow it to exceed the restraints, however, either. I will be careful, and attentive to my limits, and I promise you, I will ask for your help before I let it grow beyond management." Negotiations in progress.
"I trust that ye will, Avrenne," he tells her. It isn't a stern instruction but a gentle plea: He is trusting in you to ask. "I'm aware of the magnitude of the cause and ye know I support it; I'd just not like to see such a weighty matter rest too heavily on ye in your condition." He reaches to lay a hand lightly on her belly. "I've no doubt in your skill at managing the matter, but for the sake of your health and our children —"
She sets her hand over his, balancing her teacup and scone in the other. "The children and my health will always come first," she reassures. "There are others who can take up the cause to replace me in it to various effectiveness that will still see the matter done, but no one can replace me as a mother or a wife in this. I will act accordingly."
"Thank you," he tells her seriously, and then settles comfortably back against the couch again.
Avrenne snuggles in closer, pressing up against his side to lean a little on him, as she nibbles honestly, full on demolishes the scone. What? She's hungry. She's eating for like, four. There's a moment's thought, and necessary pause for chewing/inhaling the scone, before she asks, with a mild curiosity of someone who hasn't quite figured out a full solve for y yet, "Have you and Lord Graves been speaking of swimming recently?"
Siamus tilts his head, frowning abstractly. "We met swimming," he recalls. "That is, he was swimming, and I happened to be harborside. We've talked of… the sea, various ways. I can't think that we spoke specifically of swimming." He focuses on Avrenne again. "Why d'ye ask?"
She reaches out to get the berries over to her little plate. "That he mentioned that I still swim. I can't think to recall ever speaking of it with him. My father most certainly would have never; he did not approve. He would not have wanted to spread the knowledge either of the skill or my disobedience to his direction." She taps the berries into a line on her plate meditatively. "It's possible I'm simply forgetting a conversation we had that he remembers." Her brows raise. "Or perhaps there might have been a game of Not A Single Word in play, with something like 'water.' I know that was a word at least once, but if I recall correctly that was Abrielle who lost it, and I drank nothing but straight lemonade the entire night through." She shrugs, a controlled up and down as she selects a berry. "An oddity for me to not recall my side of a conversation, even so many years past, that another remembers better, that's all."
"Shall I ask him what he meant by it? Or if it troubles ye, I suppose ye might yourself when next ye see him." Siamus reaches idly for one of the berries on her plate as well, but only to offer it up to her lips with a faint smile.
"No, there's no need. If it's important or significant, I expect he will bring it up himself again in time. And if not, I would rather not press the issue to speak on why I would have been swimming at that time, or that I did so against my father's orders," she admits. She got a perfect score on hypothetical fatherly measurement approval today. Best not to remind Lord Graves how much of a disappointment Avrenne was to her real father at the time.
She holds off on her own choice of berry in favor of his, leaning forward. "But on another matter, if you did not enjoy yourself with Lord Graves, then that means there is no current wait time in progress, and a lady might perhaps take advantage of that." No, she doesn't need to close her mouth over his fingers like that, and no, she doesn't need to suck on them gently to get the berry. Technically. She smiles sweetly at him as she rolls the berry over her tongue, not quite biting down just yet. Oh, look, a closed door of Siamus' office.
Oh, look. His desk.
Siamus smiles at her, his own gaze veiled after a dark flash of heat. "If Lady Fallon has finished her proper nourishment, as her doctor instructed, then I believe she must have her proper exercise, as her doctor also instructed. Shall I exercise ye, Your Grace?" His hand finds her knee and slides lightly up the blue satin, his fingers curling toward the inside of her thigh. "I've not much on my desk to distract me at the moment."
Avrenne sets her plate to the side without looking away from Siamus, moving an arm around his neck in an invitation to pull her to his lap, either for there or to relocate them both. Her voice is a playful, husky tease. "Yet."