(2024-08-19) He Was In The Neighborhood

Details

Author:	Athena
Summary:	On a trip back from Westfall, Lukas Rhenardt pays a drop-in call to his friend Siamus Fallon, only to discover that the Vice Admiral is away, at sea with a recent hurricane, leaving his wife at home, hoping for news, and getting rain instead. The cure for anxious waiting is in company and conversation, which Lukas obliges. 16k words exactly.
Rating:	M for Mature 17+

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brief language, suggestions of racial bias against Horde, polyamory

The afternoon is unseasonably cool and gray for August; the sea is a restless slate-colored field of wind-chased foam, and the sky is a low shadow. The threat of rain hangs heavily in the air.

A rider on a sturdy bay gelding reins in before the edifice — made ominous by the weather — of Fallon House and gazes up at it for a moment before dropping from the saddle. A groom approaches to take the animal's bridle and receives a curt but courteous nod from the rider, who turns to the front steps.

Lukas Rhenardt, Lord Graves, is once again dressed in his somber and slightly out-of-fashion black suit. It may be the only suit he currently possesses, though whether this is due to financial exigency or simple disinterest is unclear. He whisks off his top hat without regard for the subsequent spiky disarray of his gray-blond hair as he mounts the steps to the door.

A knock summons Vane immediately. "Lord Graves," the butler greets him, and because he is still sort of an Amateur Butler he can perhaps be forgiven the faint note of startlement. He does offer for the hat by smooth reflex.

Rhenardt hands him the hat with a nod. "Here to see Fallon," he says briskly, as though this should go without saying.

One of the doors to the hallways between the front and rear foyers opens, and a head pops out curiously. The head is attached to one Isla Lenaire, whose gasp at the unknown gentleman is audible and unsubtle, her chaotically braided hair swaying with the movement as she darts back into the room, hitting the doorway with a shoulder as she does with a muffled oof.

From within the house is a mildly exasperated motherly scolding, "Isla. If you wait, Vane will tell us who is calling." The voice belongs to the Lady Fallon, her clear enunciation as crisp as the cooler air.

"Oh, but — there's someone here for Siamus, a stranger," Isla says excitedly, her voice not at all modulated. "Oh, do you think he's — "

"Isla." The name cuts the sentence in half, and there's the sound of swift, stately steps that precedes the appearance of the woman at the doorway, her head turned precisely to the angle of the foyer, her composure gathered to her like a familiar, necessary cloak, that same fully shuttered lantern.

She is, however, less put together than before: her hair is up, but it's relaxed, a loose chignon caught around a mignonette brooch. Her dress is a high waisted gathering of soft layers of silk organza, in defiantly warm summer golds against the gray of the day. Her wedding ring is on her finger with her hands clasped together left over right, but she wears no other standard jewelry — she does wear an unusual one, however, on a gold chain around her neck, a gold and stormsilver case that rests against her the center of her chest, the pearl pinned Stormwind navigational plates facing outward.

Her brows raise briefly at the sight of Rhenardt in surprise, but she drops into that automatic appropriate curtsey, her composed expression reasserting itself. "Lord Graves," she greets him, coolly polite.

"Your Grace," says Lukas in that chill, gravelly voice. He puts his heels together and makes a short, sharp bow in the Alteraci fashion. "I beg your pardon for interrupting. Your husband extended to me an invitation to stop and visit when next I happened to be in the area. I trust it's not an inconvenience."

It is the smallest flicker around her eyes at your husband, a small tightening of her hands in front of her, both obscured by a lifting up of her chin. "No, not at all an inconvenience. He would be pleased by your company, but he is not here at present. He is at sea, as the Fleet has joined the relief efforts of the Alliance ships lost and damaged en route to Tol Barad." Her voice is tightly controlled, exactingly measured. "Might I offer you some refreshment, and if you would care for any company while you take a respite? I expect to hear from Siamus as soon as he is able to send word, and if there is anything I might convey on your behalf, I will be glad to do so."

"Ah." Rhenardt assesses this information. He looks — perhaps oddly on his natively stern face — a little embarrassed. "I beg your pardon. I should have suspected." He looks around the foyer, glances over his shoulder at the grim sky outside. "I wouldn't like to trouble Your Grace for long, but a cup of tea wouldn't go amiss. It's been a long ride from Westfall."

Avrenne directs her gaze to Vane. "Tea," a small hesitation, "and a selection of afternoon sandwiches to the Little Parlor, if you will, Vane." She returns her attention to Rhenardt. "Westfall has had its share of difficulties as of late. You would be doing me a service if you would be willing to speak on what you have observed of it, and I admit I am curious what your perspective in regards to the ongoing situation is, given your experiences and knowledge." She doesn't explicitly mention the Gilnean rebels directly, because she is the diplomat; it goes implied. Instead, she sweeps forward towards Rhendardt, her hand raised expectantly for an escort, although in this case it will be something of her guiding him to the room in question.

Behind her, the dark haired Isla peeps from around the door of the hallway, her eyes wide and bright. Mysterious!

Vane bows his head to Avrenne and moves to carry out her directions.

Rhenardt looks briefly blank at Avrenne's gesture, and then some memory of social nicety reasserts itself and he steps in to meet her, offering his arm. If he notices Isla (he notices Isla), he does not acknowledge her. "I'm not sure what I have to say on the subject of Westfall that you've not heard already."

There's a smooth elegance in her acceptance of his arm that suggests this is, of course, very normal, and he has done nothing odd, as she guides them along the hallway opposite the library towards the Little Parlor. The room has not been officially prepared for a visitor, as none was expected, but the room is nonetheless ready to receive, clean and fresh, the drapes drawn to allow in the overcast light.

"There is always worth in hearing not only the news itself in the broad strokes of knowledge, but what an individual might offer of his perspective on it, the details of the specifics of what he takes note of, and what his impression therein is. A kaldorei druid will speak of different details than a Bronzebeard dwarven medic, of what they saw and how they put it. Part of what makes the Alliance an effective force is our diversity of those perspectives pooled together to create a more whole tapestry, allowing us to make better informed decisions on what to do. Your opinion is valuable, and I would hear what you have noticed that might have escaped another's, or supports their same assertion," Avrenne says as she sweeps to the couch that faces away from the window, illuminating her faintly from behind. Her seat is closer to the side table, allowing for an ambiguity of choice if he will take the closer seat of the same couch, or the other couch entirely.

Rhenardt settles courteously on the other couch, giving the room only a cursory look. "I see. I think, perhaps, that you flatter me, Your Grace. But if you have questions as to my observations, I am naturally willing to oblige as I can." He pauses. "I do not wish to impose on your hospitality, however. I hope you do not feel obligated to entertain my company in your husband's absence."

Avrenne settles her hands into place, arranging herself in such a way that it is not unlike she is aware of a painter that Rhenardt cannot see, who will now be immortalizing them there and she must pose perfectly for it. "One of the benefits of my station is that I rarely need entertain anyone I do not wish to, and I will admit to you that I have little difficulty exercising my right to turn away any company." She certainly looks it, steel spined and icily composed. "You may rest assured that I am sincere, and you are not imposing.

"In the matter of Westfall, it was a possible suggestion of place within Stormwind that arose in discussion with others of your pack that some of the same land-healing and guardianship as discussed for the 'Plaguelands' might be of significant use in the region. You might note, however, that I did not suggest it to you when you asked, and that is due to a concern on my part that there is growing unrest of allocation of current resources, and anti-royalty grievances, that might serve as a far more volatile location for those seeking a place, especially of a population whose is at highest risk of being made Other, and therefore turned against. However, there is something to be said of the potential for those who have some manner of experience with significant civil unrest who might instead find that they are able to aid the community when it needs it most, providing a crucial impact on local impressions and long term gratitude for opening a community to newcomers. What are your thoughts on the matter, from what you have seen thus far?"

Rhenardt nods curtly. "We have our people like Lady Kenelly working in Westfall to heal the place, but I'd not encourage any of mine to linger. As you say, resources are scant and feeling runs high, and I've no wish to create further ill-feeling toward my people. Nor toward Stormwind's King, who has graciously" — there might be the slightest sarcastic twist on that graciously — "accepted us into the kingdom, and whose image has suffered enough there.

"The anti-royal sentiment and rebel actions in the region seem more a threat to the people there themselves than anyone else. The Defias rebels are nowhere near as organized as Crowley's lot were in Gilneas, and lack the resources that noble or military organization and leadership would offer. The self-sabotage remains a problem, however, if it provides the spark that sets the rest of the kingdom ablaze depending on dissatisfaction elsewhere. I can't speak for Gilneans as a general matter, but I'm encouraging my pack to seek work hunting ferals in Duskwood and reclaiming the Plaguelands, both of which seem niches to which we're well-suited and where we're unlikely to boil resentments over. In both cases, in fact, the disaffected poor and unemployed might appreciate the effort to reclaim workable land."

There is a soft scratch at the door and then Catrin enters with the tea trolley. She arranges the tea tray on the side table by Avrenne, and places a tiered platter of sandwich-triangles and tiny fruit tarts on the coffee table.

Avrenne listens with that attentiveness of hers, her expression giving little away, but for a small smile of satisfaction at hearing that the Gravehowls are finding their niches.

"Thank you, Catrin," Avrenne says, as she moves to pour the tea with an elegance born of practice. She presents Rhenardt with his. "I agree entirely with your assessment. If the Defias were to find additional resources, particularly of skilled personnel, it would be dangerous for the escalation of the threat." You know, like if a bunch of disaffected Varian Hater worgen joined in. "Duskwood, I had not thought of, and you are most correct that it presents a unique opportunity for worgen to demonstrate in action that there are benefits to having uniquely suited neighbors. Duskwood is also, you may wish to know, the place of both the Ference and Lysander families ancestral lands." Just information presented, to do with what he wants.

"Lady Kenelly has continued with her efforts then of the worgen," a brief pause to hold the words separate, "organization, then?"

"She has," confirms Rhenardt, accepting his cup of tea with a nod. "I sent her my thoughts on the proposal after I last spoke with you and Fallon here, and she's moving forward." He pauses. "I did offer your name as a proposed liaison. I suppose your inquiry means she hasn't contacted you yet."

"No, not as yet," Avrenne confirms, pouring herself tea. She does not seem concerned, or worse, snubbed. "Though I expect if she is working in Westfall, her social calendar has been somewhat disrupted recently." She leans forward to collect a plate, setting sandwiches on it with the air of someone dutifully seeing a contractual obligation through. "What of yourself? Have you decided on a particular location to focus your efforts, or to begin establishing yourself in Stormwind?"

"I'm not one with a talent for healing either people or land," Rhenardt says dryly. "I'll stay in Stormwind for now and continue my work as a Gilnean liaison with the military. I've also joined Cobalt Company myself, to open the door for any of the rest of Gravehowl that wishes to. Ference was…." He considers. "Accommodating." He has another sip of tea.

"Your husband has a talent, it seems, for seeing… a warmer side of people. Or perhaps he's got a gift for wishful thinking. Lord Ference and Captain Tyrrell are both men of sterling character, I'm sure, but Fallon's characterization of both to me was…." Rhenardt shrugs a little wryly. "I must hope he speaks as well of me to others."

It's small at first, just a moment's hesitation, a freezing of her face, at the first mention of Siamus, and she sets her plate on the side table, returning her hands first to her lap, as if perhaps she always intended to do so. In an odd show of restlessness, however, she adjusts them, and then ultimately, for some reason, sets both around the case around her neck, holding onto it like she absolutely must. There are cracks in her expression, her composure held so tightly that it looks like it might be hurting her.

Her voice is controlled, as tightly modulated. "Yes, some of it is, naturally, that Siamus himself is rather charming, and the reception he receives is not always universal, but it is often an indication of a person's character upon better acquaintance. As a man of honor, respect, and warmth in his manner, he often evokes the better side of another in turn wherever he goes." Uh oh, the control is slipping. There's a tremor around her mouth, one that she could hide with a sip of tea, but that would mean letting of the case, and she doesn't. Her gaze, thus far direct and steady on Rhenardt, wanders wildly over the room, like she's trying to find purchase.

"You have joined Cobalt Company yourself?" she asks, her eyes landing on the case.

"I have," Rhenardt affirms, gravel-voiced. He studies Avrenne. He takes another careful sip of tea and sets the cup aside. "I appreciate your courtesy, Your Grace, but I believe I must be imposing. I can call again when Fallon is home."

Avrenne traces the oval of the case, and forces her gaze back up to Rhenardt. "On the contrary, company is a welcome distraction. I am not certain when I might advise you to when the Vice Admiral will be home." Her chin lifts, and her shoulders are held rigidly squared off. "There was a severe hurricane reported on the route of Tol Barad yesterday. Several commercial ships have been reported lost and destroyed. We have not yet received word on our Fleet's flagship under Siamus' command, the Lady Blanche, and if she took any damage in the storm."

Rhenardt sits in silence for a moment. "I see," he says at last. "I am sorry. It must be… difficult, to wait with uncertainty. The lives of seafarers' wives are famously fraught." His gaze is flinty. "I would suggest that Fallon is Kul Tiran, no doubt a skilled sailor, and surely has some experience of storms, but you would know those things better than I."

Avrenne nods. "As you say. And the Lady Blanche is an exceptional ship. She will have seen him through the storm." It has the ring more of faith than of surety, but she's clinging to it anyway. "It is only that if they were forced off course, or are engaged in extensive rescue operations, or requiring some time for emergency repairs, I cannot yet say, and therefore cannot tell you when to expect his return, only that he will come back as soon as he is able." There's a deliberate dodging around if he will come back. She's refusing to allow for the possibility. "In the meantime, House Fallon holds fast, and sees to the business here at home."

It's the reminder spoken aloud that might be what makes her finally let go of the case around her neck, and pick up her tea to drink it. See? Everything is very normal and fine. "You said that you have opened the door for the Gravehowl pack's entry into Cobalt Company?" she prompts.

Rhenardt studies her narrowly again for a time, and then nods once and picks up his teacup again. "Aye. He had some resistance to the idea. But I made him assurances, and I think we have sufficient in common that he was willing to accept them. An honorable man, and a reasonable one."

"Yes. He is also something of a reluctant politician, but he is a skilled statesman nonetheless, and diplomatic with an eye for practicality and calculated risk." She sips her tea and eyes the sandwiches on her plate like she's trying to negotiate with herself about eating one. One way or another, she must win, because she picks one up. "May I ask, if it is not overly personal, what reassurances he required of you?" She bites into the sandwich. Success. She eats it joylessly, but with a grim sort of determination.

"He required that I join them myself, and that the pack guarantee the behavior of our members. That is, if one of us should violate Cobalt Company rules, we will all be expelled from the company. If one of our number who is not a member of Cobalt Company should violate Alliance law, unless they are removed from the pack, we will all, again, be dismissed from Cobalt Company." Rhenardt's gaze is faintly sardonic. "A stringent standard. Fortunate that I was prepared to face resistance in the Alliance, and that I have my own high standards."

Avrenne's brows raise in genuine surprise before she sets her expression back into orderly composure. "That is certainly quite the gambit, and a high asking point, to require you to be a betting man, a man of trusting faith, or a man of deep devotion to his people. Or perhaps a little of all three." Her voice goes dry. "Lord Ference may be just such a man himself, truth be told. He does not, as I understand, ordinarily demand such standards in others for employment. Do you feel the terms are fair for this particular point in time of worgen assimilation?"

Lukas regards her levelly. "I would not describe myself," he rasps, "as either a betting or a trusting man." He makes a short, dismissive gesture. "I feel the terms are harsh. I accepted them because I know that my pack can meet such a standard, and I am willing to see a high standard set for worgen in the Alliance. People will see what Gilneas is capable of, and Gilneas will see what is expected of us." He pauses, still holding Avrenne's gaze. "I would not have my people take our welcome to the Alliance for granted." His tone is — perhaps deceptively — mild; an icy edge of alternate meaning seems to hang beneath the surface.

But then he shifts and dismisses this as well. "It seems a useful proof, for Gravehowl to meet Ference's standard and make our first mark in the Alliance as members of Cobalt Company. He has some… personal feeling toward worgen, and between that and the man's own reputation, I believe that if we can make our case to him, we can make a strong case for ourselves anywhere." His smile is tight and humorless. "Failing that, I suppose we might all just join the navy."

The icy edge peeking through the mild tone seems to catch her attention, a slight lean forward, as if there's something compelling in his eyes. And then it's blinked away as he dismisses it.

"Mm." Avrenne looks to her tea. Solve the worgen problem, little drink. She raises her eyes back to Rhenardt. "The navy would be welcoming, and perhaps an easier course that might better suit some temperaments, but it is also true that the longer term would be a slower climb socially. There is not yet truly a navy as there should be, and thus the broader establishment within it would lend more flexibility of hiring and housing, and the greatest opportunity for growth into leadership roles, but also limitations for reputation beyond its internal structure immediately." It seems to be a relatively neutral position, despite her obvious affiliation with the navy.

"When he began the W.E.B., Captain Tyrrell purposefully sought out Lord Ference because the man has a reputation for being vocal about his strong opinions on warlocks and the use of the fel. You will find few warlocks numbering among Cobalt Company, and all of them personally vetted by Lord Ference, allowed in more as an exception. Lord Ference's support of the W.E.B. and his level of control over it is part of that use of his reputation, and some only took the organization seriously for his presence in approval. The strategy does work, and Gravehowl's proof in action with Cobalt Company will have a noticeable impact, perhaps even more so for what some will agree are harsh terms of a high standard."

She takes a sip of her tea. It's difficult to tell if she is one of those, her opinion hidden behind the shutters of the stainless steel lantern. "It is also true that Cobalt Company does not demand exclusivity, and there are many members who hold the employment as well as others with equal loyalty."

Rhenardt nods. "There's flexibility in mercenary work that I appreciate for my people. We've a variety of skill sets." He sips his tea. His stony gaze does not waver from Avrenne's. "I understand your husband makes a practice of hiring Cobalt members."

There's a peek of a small smile, which she does hide by another sip. Ahem. Serious Duchess. She doesn't smile. Not even when she's pleased.

"Yes. Cobalt Company is known for having a higher standard than a typical mercenary outfit, and Siamus holds a high standard for his people. Miss Averlena Coit, Mr. Silvestre Silentstep, Miss Niksi Knockfathom, and a Draenei shaman named Miss Kaerix all work or have worked in the Fleet. Among our household are also members of Cobalt, Miss Ralaea Westwind and Mr. Costentyn Shine. Siamus was also the Admiralty's point of contact and contract with one of Cobalt's subsection teams, the Cobalt Eye, consisting of Mrs. Mayellen Hazan, her husband Mr. Jonas Hazan, Miss Maisha Cloudskimmer, Miss Ionala Webster, and Miss Annibeth Jansen." There is no hesitation at the recitation of the names, as if she's effortlessly reading off from an internal ledger.

"Miss Coit and Mrs. Hazan are both two of Cobalt's rare warlock employees, students of Captain Tyrrell, and members of the W.E.B. from its conception. Unlike Lord Ference, Siamus has less of a bias against warlocks as a whole, and has actively sought their use. That is not to say he does not vet them individually for himself. The Vice Admiral is not reckless, but he is a bold thinker, and often more willing to be the first to forge a path ahead, even with inherent calculated risks." She almost keeps the siren song steady, until the end, where it wavers as those cracks appear in her composure, one hand leaving the tea cup to grip onto the case around her neck.

Rhenardt sips his tea blandly, perhaps giving her a moment. "I had noticed that," he says after a courteous pause. "In his… openness to our acquaintance, and his willingness to work with and for my people." He watches Avrenne. "Although he tells me that you were a tempering influence in that regard. It might not have been his own first inclination." There is a glitter in the flinty gaze that might be… amusement? "He's a frank man, your husband is."

Avrenne traces the oval of the case three times, and then forces her hands to remain occupied by her tea, fitting the mask of composure back into place as best she can.

"Yes," she agrees. "Siamus is a direct and forthright gentleman. There are some who would say that such a personality is at odds with politics and diplomacy, but such people often say so because they place more significance on the playing of the game, not the very real outcomes and consequences of the political process. For a man like Siamus, a man who serves in the very Admiralty that rises and falls with the shift of politics, his conscience is his drive forward of progress, and his direction is of honorable intent and action. It comes down to principles, and where another might use their subtlety with great skill but to selfish purpose, Siamus will be frankly honest and his course will be direct to what he genuinely believes is to the betterment of the Alliance, and thus, he always has my support." She takes a demure sip of her tea. "And, of course, as you say, he is not unwilling to hear counsel and be persuaded by sound reasoning."

Rhenardt actually smiles at that — a brief, vaguely wolfish on-and-off again flash. "I don't often care to play politics with diplomatic sorts. We had a great deal of that in our first days in Stormwind. Fallon is… refreshing." He surveys Avrenne glitteringly. "I would say that you speak high praise of the man, but I've heard him speak on you no less well."

"In some ways, our highest praise has been in our marriage itself, of a partnership built on mutual respect. We both had requirements we were unwilling to compromise on, and specifications within a contract to a fine degree, and yet we were in perfect accord for a marriage between our Houses." The words describe it in unsentimental terms; her tone has gone off the prescribed rails and into a level of feeling that makes it sound oddly romantic. She clears her throat as if she can clear it of sentiment. "We are well pleased with the match, and you may trust that Siamus, as man whose word is an unbreakable bond, would never do or offer anything that would be against our contract and agreement."

The pause is longer this time; there is the barest suggestion of smile again as Rhenardt contemplates Avrenne. "Naturally," he says at last. "What a pleasure to deal with a man so open."

He looks around the parlor. "And as I believe I said, you seem to have done well for yourself. A fine marriage, a fine house" — unclear from his tone whether that's a capital H or not — "and a fine and influential place in the kingdom. I should only hope that some of my own people do as well in our new circumstances. Though of course we have the… additional difficulty."

You know. That difficulty.

"There are certainly different circumstances to account for," she agrees. "But as with many complex circumstances, while there are disadvantages, particularly in the short term, there are also advantages, unique opportunities that present themselves. At the moment, I expect the situation seems somewhat in between, some doors firmly closed and some unexpectedly open. I do sympathize. What you are looking at is the culmination of nearly eight years after Lordaeron fell, and I was in a similar place as you find yourself, separated from my country and the life I expected to lead."

She pours herself more tea. "The first two years were the most difficult, and I would have never managed as I did if not for those who saw their way to assisting me in integrating within Stormwind's Society. Now, I am in the position where I may do the same for others." She fixes that steady gaze on Rhenardt. "There is always inherent risk in being among the first to chart the new course in a foreign Society, for the scrutiny and that every misstep will be met with disproportionate censure, but I have found the benefits largely outweigh the costs."

"Clearly," Rhenardt agrees. "Would that we all may step so well. And it seems Kul Tiras, like Gilneas, has now had its own falling out with the Alliance. The salt of the northwestern seas makes for prideful peoples, perhaps." He watches Avrenne back just as steadily.

"If that is true," she allows, "it is also true that they have reasons for that pride. An independent nature is not in itself an unadmirable trait, in people or in nations, and can be a great strength when applied to certain situations, such in defense of a principle of a matter of sovereignty. There is also merit in a possessing a certain flexibility, to know when to bend and when to hold, as with knowing the movements of the tides for when to dock or sail out, and recognizing when survival through unity must take precedence to maintain any possibility of being alive to hold onto sovereignty, without sacrificing one's conscience to do so." Ah, speaking of politics with diplomatic sorts. Even her tone makes it unclear what her position on the matter is, beyond a neutrality of possibly seeing both perspectives.

He studies her. "A politic answer. Your husband sits on the House of Nobles. I wonder whose voice he's speaking with there?"

"His own strong, forthright voice, and with House Fallon's union, of course. The Vice Admiral is a man willing to hear other's perspectives and opinions, but he ultimately will make his own decisions by his honor and his conscience, both of which I agree with, and support," Avrenne says, the words as smooth and cultured as a worn river stone; she's very likely spoken them before. "I am no puppeteer and Siamus is no mouth piece of anyone but himself, Lord Graves. It is not in my nature to force another to do as I wish or would do myself. I offer advice where it might be useful or I have particular expertise, and I have an open ear to hear out a multitude of angles to consider."

"I wonder," says Lukas, "how many others have the same question, however. And how Fallon — prideful, that northwestern salt — would take it if he learned there were any who suspected him a puppet."

There is some watchful, predator's manner in his stony gaze now, as though he's only waiting for his prey to flinch before he makes the fatal strike.

Avrenne not only does not flinch, but there's a soft humming sound, a trapped laugh, in her throat, a hint of a smile through the composure, a leaning forward towards the predator rather than away. "The precise take would depend on the person speaking it, of course, but you might trust that he will be, and has been in those cases that have arisen, honest. I would say 'to a fault,' but I do not believe the trait to be a fault." She settles her tea at the side table, a hand drifting briefly across the case she wears, different from the clutching desperation of earlier; this is more of a caress.

"You must understand the context of before, that this is neither unexpected or unknown to him. When he was running for the seat in the House of Nobles, Siamus was not known as a political man. He had made decisions prior that set him in a certain light, and he had rightful distrust of the political sphere for its difficulties with actionable consequences that seem far delayed for a military man. His choice of engagement with me during his campaign was a deliberate timing, as I do deal in politics and diplomacy, and my reputation is well known among that sphere; my connections are extensive.

“My endorsement of him was viewed as reason enough to consider his political career seriously, and there were those who saw his choice of me as a wise political move. From the start, there were some that believed that I would be the one in control of the real politics and he my willing puppet, others that saw me as a moderating influence to a potentially capable military politician, and some who wondered at what deeper game I might be playing for myself." There's something about the way she says it, a hint of amusement in her eyes, that suggests that depending on the person, she played each possible perspective to Siamus' advantage, swept back in a blink into the cool elegance of the Esprit House.

She sips her tea. "The only things they have learned for certain in the year since is that Siamus is his own man — bold, resilient, capable, and intelligent — and I will stand by him through anything."

Rhenardt sits back a little, and considers her with a different — but no less intense — look. "What deeper game are you playing, Lady Fallon?" he rasps.

The choice of address, after all of those Your Graces, seems weighted with some significance.

The title elicits another small smile, covered quickly as she opens her mouth to speak. "You assume I have one," she says. "If I were to have a game at all, it would be obvious through my actions, of what I support, and whose voices I choose to amplify with my own. My father, you might recall, spoke in no uncertain terms that House Esprit would never abandon the Alliance. I am my father's daughter, as you have seen."

"Mm," says Lukas. "Your father was a sharp man. I suspect you're a subtler creature. Not the match I'd have guessed for Fallon, but a finely-balanced one, it seems. Perhaps he's shrewder than I gave him credit." He pauses. "Meaning no insult. I like the man."

He sets his teacup aside. "I've noted the two of you keep your own people about. Lordaeron and Kul Tiras both, in your household and on your staff, and down in that harbor village Fallon showed me. It's admirable. I intend to see to my pack likewise."

It's obvious that some part of her had settled into the flow, a political creature at home in her chosen waters, soothed by the currents of diplomatic sailing, when the reminder of the harbor sends a ripple of unease through her, a flicker around her eyes as she drops her gaze down to her tea once more, her hand drifting back to the case. It is caught quickly, banished back behind the refinement of her social mask.

"There is something to be said for ensuring personally the success and opportunities of one's connections, for what one owes one's people as the head of a House, and I expect the sense of duty is doubled as a leader of a pack, as it is with a leader of a Fleet," she says, her chin up and her eyes back on Lukas. "May I ask, how many members are in your pack at present, Lord Graves?" Ah, numbers. Who doesn't love some good defined numbers.

"Thirteen," he says. "I haven't got the resources that House Fallon has — but you may recall that Graves never had many resources. And I suppose advantageous connections in the kingdom will help to make up for it."

"One might say that connections are resources, and so are loyal people, dedicated to a leader, willing to place their livelihoods in his hands. House Esprit has had times where there was little to speak of financially, but that is where forming a shrewd union between Houses shines," she says. Is that a twinkle in her eye at the use of shrewd? No, surely not. Serious Duchess. She has no playful side. She drinks math in her tea. "There are many Houses that might have a level of wealth or industry that could benefit greatly from a strong guiding hand of devoted leadership, and infusion of a noble line of Gilneas."

Just for a moment, Lukas' expression betrays a fleeting startlement. The next moment, he is granite again. "A worthy aim — eventually. At present I'm not certain how… feasible it would be. It seems more pragmatic to focus simply on forming connections."

"The gains of the future are begun in the present, and the foundation of what is feasible is often merely a matter of having enough time, and that is something you — House Graves — do have as another resource. As for connections that might lead to other potential longer term investments, you have begun those from the moment you found yourself on the Alliance's shores once more, have you not?" There is something oddly teasing in the wording, beneath the cool politeness, a tilt of her chin, a knowing look in her eyes. Does she mean that figuratively from arriving in Kalimdor, or literally, like when he emerged from a swim to meet Siamus?

"I have found certain members of the Alliance more welcoming than others," Lukas says, stone-faced. Is there a glint in his gaze?

"Naturally." She settles her hands together in her lap, a habitual clasp. "There will be some who are cautiously accommodating, as you say of Lord Ference, and others who will focus on the additional difficulties to an adverse degree. But there will always be others more willing to be the first to forge a path ahead, and more interested in the character of the man himself." U kno. Like Siamus. With his wife's unwavering support.

Here Lukas may take a moment to wonder to himself whether it is his character that interests Siamus.

No matter. "You are yourself a quite accommodating woman, I must say, Lady Fallon. An admirable generosity of welcome."

There is another break in the mask of the Cold Unfeeling Duchess making careful calculations of strategic politics that her father would strongly approve of, and instead a glimpse at someone warmer, and quite a lot more sentimental (illegal). She leans forward, and there is a strange twitch of her hands, as if one might have reached out, and was halted immediately. Even her voice is warmer, by a few degrees.

"I do truly remember what it was like, you know, on the other side of this. I remember the sense of displacement, and the awareness that all the plans I had made of my life were irrevocably altered, and that many would never come to fruition. My country, that I always taken for granted would be under my feet, suddenly out of reach, overrun by the undead. My voice reduced to something small, watching a single kingdom of humanity in the Alliance take all precedence, my title considered hollow. My alliances all made strategically, because every small misstep might mean I could fall, and never recover my reputation in this kingdom." Right, like, being seen as sentimental. Ahem. She straightens. Frigid. Icy. But also —

"Now, I can afford to be generous, especially with those who so clearly make it obvious they are worth investing in." Yes, business terms. Those are like, peak friendship terms, right? Maybe Avrenne is the wrong person to ask that about. "And no, I do not flatter you, Lord Graves. It's not in my nature to do so. I make no claim to plain speaking, but I am not interested in the game of speaking to a man's ego for any purpose."

There's the faint flicker-smile again. "Admirable. I don't care for flattery."

He glances toward the window at a sudden gust outside; rain rattles abruptly against the glass. "Ah," he says.

The window isn't the only thing rattled by the rain. Avrenne flinches, paling a shade, her eyes locked on the window for one long moment like she's seeing something else entirely. The breath she inhales shakes slightly, but then clears on the exhale. "It's not usual for us for this time of year. This region sees an average of 0.24 inches of rainfall through the month, if I recall correctly," she says, her voice too distracted sounding to manage the usual attempt at modesty, "and we are already a full standard deviation away from it. This will only add to that." She clutches onto the math like a raincoat of defined variables. Although, it might beg the question of what sort of woman memorizes rainfall inches by region. (Ask her about how she tracks investments for lumber. You know, ecological economics, that's everyone's favorite casual conversation topic.)

"It would be unreasonable to set out in such weather." At last she tears her eyes away from the window, to fix her eyes on Lukas. "I would not want to send you into the… into the storm." That hitch in the smooth delivery has her chin tilting up higher. Her hands are no longer demurely clasped together; they're held so tightly that she might be doing herself some harm. "Do you have any further appointments today that need to be cancelled?"

Lukas frowns absently, watching the window. "Dinner with a friend in the city, but it was only a tentative agreement. I wasn't sure of my time in Westfall or of what welcome Fallon would show me here." His gaze returns to Avrenne and he weighs something.

"Perhaps," he suggests with that gravel-voiced impassivity, "you might show me the ground floor of the house? It's an impressive exterior; I'd thought to ask a tour from Fallon himself." He pauses. "I won't impose, naturally, if you'd rather not."

Avrenne's eyes flick to the rain and back, and she already begins readying herself to stand up — old habits of the end of her last pregnancy showing in the way she sets her hands to brace against the couch to push off it in order to obtain as much elegance as possible while at full term. "It would not be an imposition at all. I am meant to exercise for my health, and I have been less active than I likely should be with Siamus gone," she admits, enough distraction of thoughts that the words hit the air without full consideration of their implication until they've been spoken. Really, Avrenne, less active with your husband at sea. Why would that be? What sort of exercise do you usually do?

She rises up to a stand, settling her dress back into order. "I would be delighted to show you the house," she continues. That's a little broader than the ground floor but we'll worry about that later. "A walk would be beneficial." Yes. Walks. That's it. That's what she and Siamus must do together.

They… probably do? Sometimes? Maybe?

Lukas, a gentleman if not quite the gallant that Siamus is, rises at once crisply when Avrenne does, and moves to open the parlor door. "Beyond the quite natural dismay of a captain's wife left waiting, I suppose your condition must multiply distress." Is that… sympathy, Lukas? Because that is not how most people do sympathy. But you do you, bud.

Avrenne steps through the door in a sweep, and then halts, her hand raised expectantly for an escort. This is the way she travels.

Her brows raise at the comment. "Well, it would be in line with the general nature of this particular multiple condition, wouldn't it?" There it is again, that playful tease on the edge of the tone, not quite as coolly polite, a hint of amusement in those dark eyes.

Again there is that blank moment at Avrenne's gesture; again he seems to recall belatedly what it signifies, and gives his arm. The joke takes him a further moment. "Oh, aye. Multiply. I see." The faint smile comes and goes like a lightning flash against a stony cliff-face.

Hehe math jokes. Avrenne's own smile peeks out, warmer and brighter than it should really be, that reminder once more of the flame hidden deliberately behind the steel lantern rather than extinguished. Ahem. Serious Duchess.

"I am accustomed to the waiting, and in this condition," she says. "Siamus was often at sea during the Northrend War. It is only the recent hurricane, so out of season, and so severe, that adds a new element of concern. They would have little to no warning, I expect." She draws her shoulders straighter. "The Lady Blanche is not like a commercial vessel, and her crew is exceptional." She is already striding through the foyer, sweeping Lukas along with her. "Would you care to see her? Not in person, obviously, but we have a painting."

"Certainly," Lukas says courteously. "The last time I came for a visit, she was not yet in harbor, though Fallon spoke fondly of her." He's silent a moment and then adds, "On the subject of paintings, the one of you in the foyer is not the most flattering likeness. Is there a reason it hangs there?" His gravel voice remains polite, though the observation is blunt.

The small movement of her lips is a halted smile. Speaking of favorite jokes, and favorite diplomatic politics. "Yes, there is. It was the Vice Admiral's decision, and while it is not the most flattering likeness, it is the most complimentary and respectful of his wife's nature. Here, allow me to place it into some context for you," she says, smoothly altering their course to a direct line into the front foyer, bringing them both in closer to the painting.

Lukas' observation of the likeness is accurate; the woman in the painting bears only some resemblance to the one gazing at it with a notable, sentimental fondness, and she is not portrayed as an exceptional or glowing beauty. The Avrenne in the painting's cheekbones are visible, a gaunt hollowing of her cheeks, a sharpening of her features into harsher angles, with a darkness of heavy set exhaustion and grief etched around her eyes, her lips pressed together. She gazes out slightly off center from the viewer, a little up, and there is a grim, stern determination in her, caught within a sense of grief. The framing is gray and dark, the mood forbidding, and yet — that gold hair shining against it. There is the blue and white of Lordaeron, but so too, by the nature of her features, gold and blue of the Alliance.

"My dear friend Lady Priscilla Aspenwood is the artist, and she does a portrait of me every year on my birthday. This is the first one after The Fall, Year 21. I have spoken to you of knowing something of your position at present, of being in your shoes as it were as a refugee who fled the loss of her country and home. This is her." She speaks as if introducing another dear friend. "It is an accurate portrait. I, too, do not care for flattery."

Lukas studies the painting again. "Lady Priscilla. Whose wedding I attended." Briefly. "I am still surprised. I would not think it was a time you care to be reminded of. It is complimentary of Fallon to display his wife in straits?"

Avrenne's chin lifts a little higher, the set of her expression shifting to a stronger resemblance of her father's own prideful features. "She was in straits, but she emerged from them, unbroken and undaunted. There is a different sort of beauty in resilience, not often spoken of highly in poetry, or seen in the arts with their spotlights on great physical beauties, of which I am not, as my sister was." This is spoken with a firmness to the tone in the assertion like it is a truth and not an opinion, as if to forestall a potential rebuttal, a thread of grief weaving into her voice briefly. "The value of the woman in the painting is not in her appearance or the lost resources of her House, but in her determination, and her will, her own inner resources, the traits of which have much higher capital in House Fallon, a House that Holds Fast, through any storm." Again, her other hand touches down on the case around her neck, possibly without thought of it, her eyes on the painting.

Lukas glances sidelong at her. "I see," he says after a silence. He looks back up at the painting. "A gesture of respect, then, rather than sentiment."

"Precisely," she says. If there are also other gestures within it, layers of subversions of Society expectations, and playful teasing for contrasting such a stern, forbidding woman with a wife described in glowing terms, those are private. "Siamus is a respectful man. I approved of the choice and the placement." As always, Siamus has her support. She steps away from the portrait, drawing Lukas with her, as she redirects them back towards the hallway connecting the front foyer to the rear foyer.

On the other side of the hall, the door is already open, and the sounds of someone humming absently very quietly, punctuated by unintelligible mutterings, is faintly audible, more to Lukas than to Avrenne. The source of the sound is the young woman from earlier, curled up on a chair near a table by an unlit hearth, her feet tucked up under her, and a book held in one hand, while the other makes notes in a journal, her expression twisting rapidly from consternation to wistful as she moves from one sentence to another. Her hair has escaped chaotically from a braid, the dark brown bold against the bright buttery yellow of her summer dress.

Across from her, a chair has been moved to better face the hearth, with a collection of books upon the table in front of it; these are books of maritime subjects, and two separate almanacs, next to several sheets of graph paper already filled with complex mathematical calculations, calculus applied to trends and cyclical weather patterns. Perhaps it is not the hearth that the chair faces — but what is above it.

Above the hearth is a painting of a proud third-rate gunner ship, modified to best suit her captain, rendered in careful, precise detail, shown against a brilliant starry sky of deep indigo and violet, a bright White Lady moon illuminating the ship into true colors, and the sea below the ship into a softer glow of odd stillness, almost glass-like, with barely rippling waves. The crew is on board, visible in shadows and silhouettes, and then the captain himself, the Vice Admiralty hat marking him out, his positioning at the prow noble, his size a little larger than life.

Avrenne brings them to an elegant halt, and there is no mistaking the look on her face, a particular type of maternal exasperation. "Isla," she says.

The young girl — Isla — squeaks, and then it is chaos everywhere; the book is thrown over her shoulder to land behind her on the floor in a collapse of pages, the pen is dropped onto the notebook to fling ink over her latest words, and she launches half out of her chair, her legs tangling as she tries to get both feet down to the floor at the same time, a crash with the table seemingly inevitable.

Lukas raises his eyebrows and then pulls away from Avrenne and lunges at Isla with inhuman speed, in an attempt to catch the girl before chaos becomes full-fledged disaster.

There's a sharp gasp from Avrenne, the only audible sound of surprise.

Of the two, however, it's Isla who is more surprised, as she lands with a clumsy oof head first into Lukas' chest, her arms flung out wildly in an uncoordinated effort to halt her crash. Some instinct, or ingrained habit, has her clinging to Lukas as she gets her legs back under her like a colt learning to stand for the first time. She half-steps on a shoe, discarded, and wobbles awkwardly, as she looks up into the face of her rescuer. Emotions swipe rapidly across her face — surprise, confusion, and then a starry-eyed hero worship. "Wow," she says.

Avrenne sighs in equal parts relief and exasperation.

Lukas gazes down at her with a single, perhaps paternally disapproving, line etched between his brows. He does not otherwise appear to have any emotions, whether singly or in series. "Careful," he rasps, and steps back as soon as he's certain she has her balance. He keeps his hands up for a moment, though, as though she were a vase he'd just caught at the shelf's edge in an earthquake and he's waiting cautiously for a second tremor.

It's not a bad idea, considering. Isla cringes in embarrassment that has her turning pink and then red, as she steps back — right back into the chair she just launched out of, sitting abruptly. "Sorry, sorry," she apologizes, first to Lukas, and then over at Avrenne. "I'm fine. Sorry."

Avrenne steps closer, her hands clasped in front of her. "If you do not sit in ways that are not best practices for proper manners, then you will not feel the need to over-correct when caught at it," she scolds. Isla wilts further. "Particularly when you are aware there are guests in the house."

"I know, I'm sorry, Avren — Your Grace. Sorry," Isla says again, to Lukas, as she gets back up, more carefully this time, and manages a wobbly curtsey.

"If I might beg your indulgence, Lord Graves, this is my youngest ward, Isla Lenaire," Avrenne says.

Lukas puts his heels together and half-bows, crisply. "Miss Lenaire," he says. His tone is flat and chill, but then he adds, "I beg your pardon," as though the fault were his.

"No, I beg your par — " Isla starts, and then gasps, her hands flying to her chest. "Wait, Lord Graves. Lukas Rhenardt, Lord Graves?!" The embarrassment vanishes, replaced by an ecstatic rapture, her eyes brightening up into giant stars, as if she's just met one of the greatest celebrities of Azeroth.

"Oh, it's really you! Is it true that your father was a soldier, and married your mother in the most romantic wooing? Was he ever so dashing, and swept her off her feet?" Uh, this romantic wooing might be mostly in Isla's imagination, gleaned from studying Gilnean nobility alongside Finley and embellishing as she goes. She hardly pauses for breath, leaving her sounding a little squeaky by the end. "You're just like I pictured, from what Thaniel said, of how you're the leader of the pack and in charge of everything responsibly and take care of everyone heroically." Well, he did sort of imply that Lukas was the mom leader, and to be fair, when Isla pictures a mom leader, she pictures Avrenne, Cold and Composed. "This is so exciting," she squeals.

Now Lukas displays a touch of emotion. It is perplexity. Is perplexity an emotion? Close enough. No, wait: Now he looks faintly embarrassed. And embarrassment in turn seems to make him irritated. Look at that, a full spectrum of emotion there. "My father was a soldier," he confirms. He neither confirms nor denies anything else re: his parents, but he does not give the appearance of a man who could possibly be related to someone who was once swept off their feet. "And I lead Gravehowl Pack. You've met Thaniel?"

Isla nods avidly, clapping her hands together in pure excitement, as if Lukas has confirmed a great deal more than he really did. "Yes, at Scilla's wedding, which was so romantic. It was so thrilling! He was wondering if I had a pack, too, because maybe I seemed like a mysterious worgen," she exclaims. This may or may not be actually what Thaniel thought. She's lost a little sense of how loudly she's speaking, and has begun to approach the limit of an indoor voice. "He said that some people back at the Big Tree of Darnassus that some people might have brought over Gilnean books with them, and we were going to read them together, but I haven't heard from him yet. Oh, do you know if he's found any?"

Avrenne gives Isla a look of maternal warning. Unfortunately, Isla isn't looking back at Avrenne, she's staring up at Lukas like she's a breath away from starting up a pretty, pretty, pretty please, her eyes large and pleading. Pls, sir, do u kno where the books are? New books for the book poor??

Lukas is leaning ever-so-slightly back. He is not wincing, because facial expressions are for the weak, but it is plain he prefers Indoor Voices to Isla Voices. Wolf hearing, Isla. "I do not know," he grates, "whether Thaniel has found any Gilnean books. I was not aware this was a project he'd undertaken. Certainly I can ask him."

Isla gives a squeak of excitement. "Oh, thank you, thank you!" Before she can start on something else, or profess some other notion, Avrenne's voice cuts through, measured and modulated correctly.

"Isla, perhaps then while we have Lord Graves visiting, you might compose a letter to Mr. Clay for Lord Graves to pass along, to give proper greetings and express your gratitude for his efforts," Avrenne suggests. It's a strong suggestion. "You have your own stationary now." Upstairs. In her room.

Isla gasps. A plan! A letter! She gives Lukas another awkward curtsey. "Oh, I could — yes! I'll — don't leave without it, please! I'll be quick!" She moves as if to dart around Lukas, to take the path towards this thrilling prospect of a letter at a run.

"Isla!" It's a sharper warning from Avrenne this time. "If you do not run so in the hall — "

"Then I won't lose time when I trip," Isla finishes with her, slowing her roll like it takes real effort to not rush along. "I know, I know. Sorry." She isn't running; she's just eagerly strolling across the rear foyer. She has left her shoes by the chair. It's probably fine.

Lukas stands where he is, apparently a little stunned by Hurricane Isla. After a moment, he drops his gaze to the shoes on the floor. Then he lifts his head and turns crisply to move back to Avrenne and offer his arm again as though the entire exchange above was just a very weird dream, he's over it now, it's fine.

Avrenne takes his arm automatically by reflex. Her composure is unfaltering. All face palming is on the inside, where it belongs. "I appreciate your willingness to speak with Mr. Clay, Lord Graves. Isla is very young, and she has a keen interest in literature. She has been studying alongside my eldest ward, Finley, on Gilneas, its society and culture, and she is enthusiastic about being able to place faces to the names." That is certainly one way of describing it, a political diplomacy of attempting to reframe the experience without denying it.

"Studying Gilnean culture?" It is the second time in fifteen minutes that Lukas has looked nonplussed; surely he is dizzy. "What for?"

"My eldest ward, Finley, is an artist and a social gentleman, whose education is an ongoing process of his broadening horizons," Avrenne explains. Her other hand rises as she makes a circular gesture in the air, some encompassing of Isla in the gesture. "And Isla did not want him to know things she did not. Her motivation to outdo him has thus in turn inspired Finley to study harder, to avoid being outdone by a sixteen-year-old. There are flashcards involved, and I think a scoreboard. If I recall correctly, at the moment Finley is currently ahead by some count of theirs, although I am certain I will be apprised of the latest should that have changed, tonight at dinner. We all eat together as a family."

"I see," says Lukas, who does not sound like he sees. "How —" He pauses to visibly search for an adjective, his severe brows knit. "Charming," he eventually settles on. His tone suggests he is not entirely clear on the word's meaning and doesn't quite approve of it.

He turns his attention to the object of this excursion: the painting. He studies it with that stony intensity. "Lady Priscilla's work again?" he inquires.

"Yes. House Fallon stands as her patron, and she has done several works on our behalf. Her strength is in finding the truth of the essence of her subjects, and accuracy without flattery, but also in finding the brighter elements within her works. She is available for commission work, and she is in the conceptual stage of her next series, now that she has completed her Northrend series of work, which depicted the continent and various elements of the war, with a focus on the range of the reality of the place, which was not all grim darkness, but had its moments of beauty and quiet as well," Avrenne says. It has the cultured cadence of someone familiar with the subject, and particularly of helping to sell the artist in question.

Lukas continues to contemplate the painting. "I'm not much for art," he says — assuming for some reason that just because the Fallons have a house full of art and provide patronage to an artist they are, you know, into art — "but it's a fine use of light. And she's a fine ship. I've not seen quite that rig before. Fallon's own plan?"

Avrenne allows a very small smile to emerge, gazing at the ship — or, more likely, a silhouetted figure on the ship. "Yes. It is a modified version of what the new Alliance navy shall have for their ships of the line. The Vice Admiral believes in the strength of proof of concept, and while she is a unique lady, the Lady Blanche is still a demonstration of what the admiralty stands to gain, as we move away from the choices of necessity with incorporating what ships were available after the loss of the proper Proudmoore Fleet, and into a new era of a truer navy, guided by the expertise of Kul Tiras." Another agenda of the Lady Fallon, clearly, another voice she amplifies.

"'The expertise of Kul Tiras,'" Lukas repeats dryly. "By which you mean Fallon. An expertise of one, self-appointed."

There's the start of movement in her face, the beginnings of the pull of muscles around her lips and nose, and then it's halted, because facial expressions are for the weak. Instead, her expression is frozen, controlled, and set into deliberate composed lines, the impervious Duchess.

"The expertise of the one who stayed," she corrects, "who held to his oaths to Stormwind steadfastly at great personal cost, and who poured his expertise and proof of concept into the development of his Fleet to stand in guardianship of the Alliance, setting his own highest standard with a Proudmoore Academy's education and decades of experience to back it, where the Alliance was misled by other louder but far less educated voices into making compromises and cobbled together piecemeal makeshifts that have cost us dearly in soldier's lives." Or not so impervious — a thread of red anger weaves through her voice, and is then swiftly covered, sent back to the center, hidden by the restrained tones of a diplomat.

"Those who only see where we are now, the navy that is being built led by a true expert's voice, will never know the hardship and devastation of the past years of how long and the cost it has taken to come to this point, and it may be easy to misjudge the effort without the historical and social context that the Alliance has operated in, as they were not here to see it," she says coolly.

Lukas actually smiles at her, his flinty gaze glittering. "Naturally," he agrees. "And my apologies, Lady Fallon. Merely an outsider's observation — one I am sure others have made — and no offense meant to your husband, whom I rather like. Not least for the loyalty he seems to inspire in others."

He glances up at the painting again. "A fine ship," he repeats. "And one the Alliance is no doubt lucky to have."

"Yes, it is," she agrees. There's no returning smile, but then again, she doesn't smile. She makes mathematical expressions, and has no feelings. "Should you wish to hear more about her design, and what expertise Siamus has in the development of her and the navy, he would be more than willing to speak to you at length on it." The smallest hesitation, and a reflex of her hand holding onto his arm a little tighter before she forces it to relax. "When he comes back." Which he will, suggests her tone. "If you know of any Gilnean shipwrights or experts in their field, he would be pleased to learn of them. Those with experience will be invaluable as we work together to outpace the Horde's own unfortunate advancements in their naval forces. At the moment, we are hoping that their missteps of materials and rushed builds will come to haunt them, and that is not a comfortable place to be when it comes to rapid changes in war."

Lukas' own expression goes to granite once more. "I will say that — whatever the differences were between Proudmoore and Greymane, between Gilneas and Kul Tiras and the Alliance — if the old pacts had held, I have no doubt we'd never have seen Forsaken sails in Gilnean waters. If Proudmoore's Fleet still safeguarded Alliance coasts, the bloody Forsaken would never have run a dock out into the bay, let alone a damned fleet."

The growl in his voice deepens as he speaks, shifting from the ordinary gravel timbre to something lower and more animal, a menacing rumble of anger.

And then he pauses and rasps in his ordinary human voice once more, "Forgive my language."

There's no pulling away at the growl, as her head turns as if on a string of poise to look up at him, a sharper attention in her eyes, and the slightest lean towards the anger.

She moves her fingers in a quick flick of dismissal of the apology. "Oh, please do not pay it any mind. I spend a great deal of time around soldiers by the nature of what I do. I promise I will not require the use of a fainting couch if your language slips, and lets loose a 'fuck.'" The word is spoken with such impeccable enunciation in her noble Lordaeron accent that the actual profanity might take a second to register. "There are times when there really is only one way to describe a matter, and the Forsaken in particular often warrant it. I was speaking not that long ago when we received word about Hillsbrad and Southshore, that if we only had the close proximity of the Gilnean army at hand, we might have had the forces to beat them back before it was too late. Alas, we cannot go back. We can only go forwards, and learn the lessons from the mistake, so as not to make them twice."

A single blink is the only reaction to that deliberate profanity from the Duchess. His expression doesn't shift. "Aye," he agrees. "Just so. We lick our wounds and then it's back to the hunt, wiser and warier."

He looks up at the painting once more, cursorily, and then politely, inscrutably back to Avrenne.

Avrenne, who was looking at him with perhaps not such a polite or inscrutable look, holds eye contact for a moment longer before she deliberately breaks it, glancing away at the rear foyer, before she starts moving, sweeping Lukas along with her. "The library is just this way. Are you much of a reader, Lord Graves?"

"No," says Lukas.

"I will admit, I'm not much one myself, at least not of fiction, and most nonfiction. Most people won't allow for the counting of reading of almanacs and the occasional indulgence of a comfort read of a calculus textbook," she says. Is that a joke? No, surely not. Very serious Duchess.

Lukas eyes her. "A calculus textbook," he repeats flatly. If it was a joke, he does not seem to have gotten it. Or maybe he's just not a Math Guy. Or both.

He turns his head to take in their surroundings as they proceed: wainscoting and elegant silk wallpaper, the parquet floors, the ornately-woven rugs. "I enjoy military histories," he decides at last in that gruff way. "And philosophy. I have not read for pleasure, though, in… some time." This last is very dry.

Whatever response Avrenne might have made to that observation — likely diplomatic — is halted as Avrenne continues her perusal of the library in checking off What's Different (several books are out of place, taken by Isla, and a lamp at the far end has been displaced slightly, likely by Isla), and she jolts with a low gasp, pulling out of Lukas' escort to hurry forward, not quite at a run. "Otto!"

Crouched on the other side of the hearth near a kraken sculpture is a young man dripping water onto the floor, who looks up at Avrenne as she gets closer, all round cheeks and soft blue eyes, his strawberry blond curls a plastered wet mass on his head. "Yes?"

Avrenne takes his shoulders in both hands and helps him rise back up, revealing that he isn't much taller than she is. "Otto, what are you doing here? Why are you wet?" There's that motherly scold in her voice. He isn't going to be wet for much longer, as she glances over to the hearth — unlit, because it's still summer and warm enough even with the cold front to not need every one of them lit to keep the house from a chill — and she flicks her hand. The fire leaps up into life from nowhere, snatching greedily onto the few logs placed there.

"It's raining," Otto answers. "I was in the garden. I came here because you said that the books in the library are here because they have to be kept dry and the library is the best place for that, so I came here to be dry too." It's a kind of logic. And it sort of works, as Avrenne's hands hover above his shoulders, and steam rises up from him as the water is dried off him, her face ordered to be still to show no sign of the minor pain it causes.

Lukas watches this scene — you guessed it — impassively. His gaze flicks from Avrenne and the youth to the fireplace and back, and he clasps his hands behind his back to wait.

"Otto, you're not a book. If you get wet outside here from a storm or any other rain, the best course of action is to go to your room and start by taking a bath and following all the regular steps after," Avrenne says. The wording seems carefully chosen.

Otto nods. The drying process has advanced enough to his hair, which springs up into a chaotic cloud of curls around his head, like a dandelion fluff. He looks over at Lukas with a dreamy smile. "Hello. Did you come here to be dry, too?"

Lukas considers the question. "I came here to visit your — Lord Fallon. Although he isn't here, your lady kindly invited me to stay a while so that I won't get wet." The explanation is offered seriously but simply. After a moment, he adds, "I'm called Lord Graves. Or Lukas."

"I'm called Otto, because that's my name," Otto offers shyly. He reaches out to hold Avrenne's hand, hiding partially behind her. "Sometimes people call me other things, but those aren't my name."

"Lord Graves, this is Otto Renner, one of my wards," Avrenne introduces more formally. She looks over her shoulder to address him directly. "Otto, do be sure to warm up properly. You may stay here, if you like, and I will have Catrin in with tea."

"Okay." Otto remains standing there, still holding onto Avrenne's hand.

She gently removes her hand from his, and gestures to the wingback chair by the hearth. "Do have a seat, dearest. I am showing Lord Graves the House, so I cannot stay standing here with you." Otto obeys the direction, sitting down and wrapping his arms around himself. "Do you want a book to read?"

"Mm mm," Otto says as he shakes his head.

"Well, then." Avrenne sighs, and flicks her gaze to Lukas. There's that manner to her, as though nothing at all is unusual happening, an enforced attitude of normalcy. "The same offering for you, Lord Graves. We do have books on philosophy and military history, some of which might be familiar and others that may be new to you, whichever you might prefer?"

Lukas surveys the walls of bookcases. "I shouldn't take up your time at the moment by browsing your library. But thank you for the offer. Perhaps when the tour is concluded."

"Very well," Avrenne says, as she steps back to his side, hand raising up again for her escort, ready to sweep them back out of the library, her eyes flicking once more to Otto.

Otto rests his head against the side of the wingback, staring softly at the fire in the hearth. He doesn't stand back up to bow, or acknowledge that they're leaving the room. They'll be back. Avrenne because she lives there. Lukas because he might come back to browse.

Lukas inclines his head courteously to Otto, and gives Avrenne his arm to escort her out of the library once more. "Has he met Thaniel?" he asks.

"No," Avrenne answers as she guides them through the front foyer to enter the games room. "Otto was at Priscilla and Lord Bertrand's wedding for the potential opportunity, but he has a rather shy manner. He would not have been up for meeting anyone new, and as far as I know, he did not. Such events are not comfortable for him, and he went home immediately after the ceremony."

Lukas nods mildly. "Perhaps on a different occasion he might meet Thaniel. I think they might be friends. Thaniel is sweet and has a mild manner." He glances up at the severe portrait of Avrenne again as they pass it, and then turns to briefly survey the grey and lashing weather outside a window as they pass.

"Yes, I thought so as well on meeting him. Perhaps with Isla's message, if Mr. Clay does locate some of those books, he might pay a visit to the house directly, rather than send them along. Otto will be most comfortable here, among family. His main hobby and educational interest is in the garden, which we are in the process of re-establishing after the damage several months ago. Mr. Clay, as a harvest witch, has some passion and knowledge in plants as well, if I recall correctly." It's like talking to someone who keeps a constant on-going ledger of possibly pertinent information on everyone she meets. She keeps her gaze on her course ahead, the chosen route to the games room, with the intent to circle the room, and then divert to the ballroom.

Speaking of an internal ledger. "And you, Lord Graves? When do you have leisure time, do you have a particular hobby of interest that you would indulge time in?" The timing of the question is deliberate, as they enter a room full of leisure time activities. This room, at least, is empty of wards. For now.

Lukas looks around with bland interest. "More of a sporting man than a gaming one. Shooting, boxing, fencing, swimming. That sort of thing." He draws away from Avrenne to cross to the hearth and consider a bronze horse sculpture there, and then gazes up at the painting of Siroc over the fireplace. "Fallon's proud of his horses."

"Yes," she agrees, setting her hands in front of her in a habitual clasp. "We have a stable full of pure-bred Tirasian horses. They're lovely. I am certain he would be glad to show you them, if he hasn't already. Priscilla is an accomplished fencer, and Siamus is a fencer and boxer, himself as well, if you have been looking for potential partners to spar with. And of course, as I am sure you know, he is an excellent swimmer," she adds, although her voice trails off a little at the end, into a distracted sort of tone. Musing on something, perhaps. "I do beg your pardon if we've spoken on it before, swimming as a hobby, as I'm afraid I don't recall the conversation entirely." Quite an admission of fault, from the woman with the internal ledger.

Lukas raises his eyebrows. "You and I? I don't believe so, Your Grace."

Well now it's becoming a mystery, and Avrenne frowns as she considers. "May I ask then, did Abrielle mention it before, that I was a rather dedicated swimmer years ago?" She sounds somewhat baffled, as if she's trying to think of how that conversation might have happened, and coming up with a formula that doesn't make sense. "I apologize for the questions, it's only that, well, hardly anyone knew back then. It was something of a secret." Even now, over a decade later, there's some strange hovering of guilt around her, a fluttering nervousness of the way she reorganizes her hands clasped together, and unless his eyes deceive him, the faintest touch of a blush on her cheeks at the admittance.

"A secret?" Lukas frowns. "I hadn't realized. No, your lady sister didn't speak of it. I saw you once, on my way from the house. As I passed the lake shore. A great group of young people. A race of some sort?"

Avrenne blinks, and then is obliged to move a hand up to her mouth, catching the smile before it has a chance to form properly, but she can't stop the look in her eyes, or the hum of a captive laugh in her chest. "Oh," she says, as soon as she has the laugh under control, and most of her mouth. She looks away from Lukas to the room, wow, such an interesting room. It's as if the lantern's inner light is shining a little too brightly for the container, and she has to pause to deliberately control it. "That was, mm. Not quite a deliberate race, exactly. It was something of a matter of principle, you might say. I…well." She clears her throat, and returns her gaze to Lukas — or at least somewhere around his chin.

"It was a group outing, for the summer, taking a rowboat to the center island for a different swim, and a picnic. I get terribly ill on the water, on boats of all sizes, and I found the first summer that I could not take the rowboat without becoming ill. In youthful stubbornness, I refused to give up the outing, and so I learned how to swim the lake over the course of a year, and eventually trained to be at a speed quick enough to overtake the rower, who I will admit was not by any means an expert at it, and had not been aware of my own intent to try to swim it to train his own skill. I would have not out-swam Siamus rowing, even at that age, had we known each other then," she says, with a genuine sort of humility, but there's pride still streaking through her even now, many years later. And then it gets folded back away. "I had to stop eventually. My father… well. He had different views on ladies taking up such activities as swimming."

"Ah," says Lukas, enlightened. He is not smiling, but the gleam in his opaque gaze says that he might be smiling on the inside. There is a smile in his voice, anyway, when he says, "I didn't realize I was observing a rare and secret phenomenon; you seemed quite at ease. But a stubborn young lady indeed. No doubt comes from your father, whether the man himself would say so or not." He pauses. In a slightly different — perhaps gentler? — tone of voice, he adds, "He could be a stern man, I expect. As well as a proud and a stubborn one."

None of these traits, to judge from Lukas' tone, is a bad thing: they're just things. But he knows them.

"Yes." A thread of well worn old grief weaves a gray thread through her voice, and her eyes flick down to the ground. "He was decisive, sure of his expertise, and when he resolved to a course, he never wavered from it, for better or for worse. I learned valuable lessons through his guidance, on the comportment of honor, the strategies of persuasion, and the commitment of action." Some of those lessons might have been painful ones.

She brushes the feelings away, a hand moving dismissively through the air as if to cut the string out of the weave, crossing through the game room back to the door, to lead him along on the tour, her chin raised high. "Your observation of my actions that day was correct. I have always been at ease in the water, if not on it. I didn't spend as much time in the water in Stormwind City. I'm less fond of the canals, and the nature of the busy harbor makes for poor swimming conditions for a lady. Now, with the access to the beach of House Fallon, it's far more comfortable to do so, and the summer months are especially pleasant to have company along for it."

Lukas nods gravely. "I can't imagine a lady would swim in the Stormwind Canals. I'm sometimes impressed that fish are willing to swim there. But perhaps the… smell is not as powerful to some." He glances toward a window as they pass. "Stormwind Harbor is not a great improvement insofar as that goes. Fallon did offer that I might come here to swim on occasion, but it seems a great distance to travel from the city for such a trivial reason."

There's that humming sound again at the mention of the fish with low swimming standards, as she takes Lukas' arm in escort, sweeping them towards the ballroom, in through the first door.

"Mm. It is a notable distance from the city if one were to come for only such a reason, but of course, if one was already on the way, passing through the neighborhood, one might find that it fits into a reasonable itinerary," Avrenne says. Her favorite type of itinerary, judging from the tone of her voice. "We do often have visiting guests, some making a day out of it, others staying for a week, or longer." Like, forever. It's only the ballroom that makes her voice echo slightly, and not at all ominously. "The house can easily accommodate visitors, even on short notice, with plenty of room, enough so that there is privacy as well as socialization. Though I say so myself with an admittance of bias, it really is such a lovely place." And hey, filled with such lovely faces.

"I can see that there's plenty of room," Lukas agrees courteously. "It is indeed a lovely house."

He offers no comment on whether he'd like to visit for a week, or longer.

Avrenne is staring at a particular point in the ballroom, and there's a too long silence, her expression slowly shifting out of full control, and a hand raised up to the case around her neck, twitches around her eyes suggesting emotions, before she grips it back, deliberately looking away. "You said you had a preference for sporting activities, do you count dancing among those of your interests?"

Lukas looks toward the spot Avrenne had been gazing at and studies it a moment. "I do not," he says.

There doesn't seem to be anything particularly interesting about the spot in the ballroom, except that if someone was going to give a particular speech to a crowd, that might be where he would stand. Avrenne's eyes flick back to it, and then to Lukas, as she continues their course to take a turn about the room, true to form of her claim for a walk in exercise. "I can't honestly say that I do either. Siamus is a rather good dancer, and a willing partner to any looking to do so, regardless of gender. He is comfortable both in leading and in following for the purpose of enjoying the experience." Is she only talking about dancing? Maybe not.

"For myself, I must admit that I tend to find dancing a waste of my time in the ballroom, though there are times when there are exceptions." Her voice softens at the last, clearly unintentionally, because she firms it up. "In such a way we are well matched, for the Vice Admiral to take the part to enjoy the dancing at events, and thus freeing me to pursue my own preferences of business."

All Business this Duchess. She doesn't do Fun, or Smiling, or Laughing.

"Hm," says Lukas. "And it doesn't trouble you to be left to your business at a ball while your husband dances with all and sundry?" Is he only talking about dancing?

"Far from it, I appreciate the efficiency." There's an involuntary smile at the words, though it's kept small, her walk stately and elegant, neither fast or slow but some carefully metered pace in between. "I have never had a use for or desire to participate in the ballroom's antics of charming flirtations and dances, and it is good to be relieved of the expectations of them at last." She's a Frigid Woman, as per her reputation, after all. "The Vice Admiral is rather skilled at both, and I do always appreciate expertise."

Lukas glances sidelong at her at that. One eyebrow tilts upward for a moment. "Hm," he says. "Indeed." He surveys her, his gaze dropping down and then lifting to her face again. He nods mildly and turns his attention forward. "Do you host many events here? Balls, and the like?"

"We host an appropriate amount," Avrenne answers. It is possibly to an exacting mathematical degree, calculated by average balls and events per year, and kept within a standard deviation by similar noble titled Houses. There is definitely a chart for this, and probably a spreadsheet, arranged by year, and with variables of ongoing active military campaigns. "I will admit that I am not especially interested or skilled in the hosting of such events, not the way my sister-in-law Sintha is, and she is now a Siege Engineer of the Sixth E.U. of the 7th Legion, so until they invent a 25th hour of the day, her time for such social planning is more limited than it was before."

"Ah," says Lukas dryly. "A very Fallon trait, it seems, to judge among the three of you. That want of a 25th hour."

She makes an amused hum of a sound. "Personally, I expect I would end up using it to negotiate for a 26th, and then before you know it we would be in some perpetual single day of a mathematically elegant 100 hours, and a great deal of work would need to be done to manage the rest of the calendar," Avrenne says, leading them out of the ballroom and directly towards the music room.

"Mathematically elegant," Lukas concedes, "but perhaps not astronomically — the revolution of the planet, the movement of the stars and moons, the other elements that make up time. Perhaps your husband would object, if you were to pit pure mathematics against celestial movement."

That elicits an involuntary smile, much brighter than it should be. "Only if I didn't alter the base celestial movement itself, which I would indeed have to do to acquire these extra hours, and that is precisely the sort of project that would take a 25th hour of the day to even begin, and thus I am stymied from my time altering agenda," Avrenne teases. Wait, no. Ahem. Look, there's a harp, and a piano! Instruments. The smile is wrestled under control, and the lighter tone of her voice swapped for that cool politeness. Mostly. "Do you have any fondness for music?"

Lukas glances cursorily at the instruments. "No."

"Mm. I can't claim the fondness in a general way for myself. I don't play any instruments. I have become somewhat interested in songs recently, namely those of Kul Tiran origin, that were unknown to me." She hesitates, considers, and then admits, "I do know how to sing. My father, you may recall if he ever spoke of it, regarded the style of opera as a superior form of elegance, suitable for a lady to learn, if not to publicly perform. My sister was a lover of music, but she had no gift in her voice. I proved at least sufficient to be taught, so I was." There's that thread of old grief winding through her voice again, and her eyes are drawn to the window.

"Your father and I did not speak of opera, or of music in general," says Lukas. (They talked about War, as gentlemen do.)

There's a tension of something around her eyes, brief, and then gone. "Of course. He would have only mentioned it in speaking of me in a certain context," she says, turning to guide them back out of the room.

There is the sound of a person colliding with some sort of furniture, then apologizing to the furniture, before Isla rounds the corner back into the foyer. Her hair is in even more disarray than before, and she's flushed. She also isn't carrying anything in her hands, as she starts to rush towards Avrenne and Lukas.

"Isla —" Avrenne starts, and it has an immediate effect. Isla halts her rush, and attempts something vaguely in the vicinity of controlled walking. She looks like she might vibrate out of her skin with excitement.

"The rain's stopping, so I thought maybe Lord Graves would be leaving, and then I couldn't find you anywhere, but I finished the letter —" Isla goes to present the letter as proof triumphantly, only to wave an empty hand in the air. Her expression falls, and she presses both hands to her face. Her right hand has ink all over it, and now her right cheek does. "Oh, no, I left it upstairs!"

Avrenne once again has that sense of someone very deliberately enforcing a calm on chaos. "Isla, if you return upstairs to collect it, you will find us here in the foyer waiting. You may also use this opportunity to invite Mr. Clay to come to visit, if you would like."

Lukas smiles briefly at Isla, that on-and-off flicker. He inclines his head. "I'm sure Thaniel would be glad," he says, gravel-voiced.

Isla's dismay over her misplaced letter erupts into soaring elation, as she beams at Lukas with starry eyes. "Oh! My very first invitation!"

"Isla, it would be best to make it quick," Avrenne advises.

Isla bobs an awkward, off-kilter curtsey directed at Lukas, and then darts — er, walks to the stairs, in an exaggerated way that might be an attempted mimicry of Avrenne's stately walk. She's got this. She's got this. Towards the end, there's an audible change as she starts moving faster, unable to stop from hurtling towards the exciting development. A man's voice is audible, a Lordaeron accent crisping the edges. "Isla, slow down, before you hurt yourself. Wait, what did you do to your face? You've got something — hey, don't just run off, you have to — " The voice is hushed as a door shuts.

Avrenne listens and sighs quietly. She turns her attention to Lukas. "If you are set for braving the weather's consequences to the roads, Lord Graves, it seems at least the rain has obliged you for returning to your plans for the evening. Thank you for your company, it was most appreciated, and I am certain that when Siamus comes back, he will be glad to have your company himself." Yes. Lukas' company.

"He has indicated that rather frankly," Lukas says with some dry amusement, since various polite circumlocutions have by this point suggested we're all hinting at the same thing. "But yes, I should return to the road and not impose further. You've been a gracious and obliging hostess."

In a gesture at odds with the curt stiffness of his manner thus far, he turns rather abruptly to Avrenne to take her hand and lift it to his lips, a gesture on the warmer side of courtly.

And then just as abruptly, he releases her and steps away, his polite attention on the stairs where Isla has vanished.

Avrenne freezes in genuine surprise at the gesture, lips parting on an unvoiced question or start of a word, her hand hovering oddly in the air for several long seconds, as her eyes flick from her hand to Lukas to her hand, before she smoothly lowers it back down and into her habitual clasp. She doesn't seem to have her words quite so at the ready.

It isn't long before there's pounding footsteps, and Isla coming down the stairs at a run…. …faaaast walk. She's walking. The letter she holds has been folded clumsily into an envelope, addressed to Thaniel Clay, and sealed with wax that was pressed awkwardly off center. The ink from her face has been rubbed only mostly off, leaving a grayish cast to one cheek.

"I'm here, I'm here, I got it," Isla shouts, as she comes into view. She manages to get down the stairs without falling, holding out the letter with both hands to Lukas, still several steps away from him, making it awkward.

Avrenne clears her throat, pointedly, a motherly sound. "Thank you," she says so quietly that most wouldn't hear it, just see the movement of her lips.

"Oh, right — thank you, Lord Graves, for waiting," Isla says, attempting another curtsey, made more clumsy because she's still holding the letter, too far away for him to easily reach for it. Avrenne gives her a look. Isla stares back. Avrenne raises her brows, moving her left hand in a circle in the air. Isla snaps her attention back to Lukas. "Aaannd for delivering the letter, yes!" Isla adds, with the sound of someone triumphantly guessing a trivia question correctly.

Lukas steps forward quite naturally, nothing awkward about the distance at all, people handing other people things usually stop several feet away. He accepts the letter from her and then takes a single step backward to give her that short, curt Alteraci bow. "Quite welcome," he rasps. "I'll see it gets to Thaniel immediately."

Isla clasps her hands to her chest, grinning with excitement, and with the manner of someone who might just stand right there the entire time until Thaniel arrives, in elated anticipation of her very own visitor who may or may not have books with him. She's already bouncing a little. She might explode before Thaniel even makes it there at this rate.

Avrenne will handle it.

"I wish you both a pleasant evening," Lukas says. "Give Fallon my best regards when next you have word from him." Because you will have word, his smoothly certain tone implies. "Tell him I will be pleased to visit again on his return."

Avrenne's hands tighten briefly, and she nods in agreement. He will. And she will.