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| Details |
| Author: | Athena |
| Summary: | On the second day of her official wardship, Avrenne demonstrates and explains to Ralaea what that wardship entails, from being outfitted properly in wardrobe and weaponry to being set up with proper tutors for her education, as well as clarifying what Ralaea should understand about the Fallons' approach to marriage. Ralaea reveals that she's bad at secrets. Personal plot RP. 9700~ words. |
| Rating: | T for Teen |
It's the day after the busy day and momentous day of October 2nd, and the Vice Admiral is back at sea, summoned to his ship at 8am sharp. There's not much difference in routine or action about October 3rd than there was generally speaking October 1st, with the Lady Fallon seeing to the Lady Baby Ery, and her breakfasts, and dressing for the day with the seastalk case once more around her neck on its golden chain. But there is something about Lady Fallon that speaks its own little story, some combination of a deeply pleased brightness and a touch of wistfulness, in between happiness and sorrow, the lingering smile around her mouth balanced by the faint shadows under her eyes.
Still, she is as composed as ever when she knocks on Ralaea's door. She has on a dress of very simple dark orange satin velvet long sleeved and high necked with only simple gold embroidery of geometric shapes along the hems and in a band under her bust to mark the bustline, her hair left undone and down as a straight sheet curtain of vivid gold, and her cosmetics well done enough to brighten her complexion and eyes.
Ralaea answers the door, not nearly as sullen as usual, and, in fact, maybe a little antsy. She's wearing her usual long sleeved black shirt and black pants, but her swords are absent; they're probably under the bed for now. "M-morning," she says, ducking her head awkwardly.
"Good morning," Avrenne says, setting her hands in a light habitual clasp over her belly. "Do you have any certain plans today that cannot be altered, if I might have some of your time for some of the day at the least?" The question seems genuine, as if it's entirely possible that Ralaea might have a really busy schedule that day that she just hasn't revealed to Avrenne until this moment.
"I have one plan," Ralaea says, holding up one finger in emphasis, "but I don't think it has to be done today. That is, it definitely doesn't, it was just a thing I was going to go… do." Because that's specific.
Avrenne raises her brows. "May I ask what it is, or is it intended to be a secret?"
"Gryphons," Ralaea says. "I was going to look at some. For later. Eventually."
"To purchase for yourself later, or to look at for some purpose?" Avrenne asks because she really does have to clarify these things when it comes to Ralaea.
"Oh. Yeah. To buy, eventually," Ralaea says. "But it's sort of… motivation. To get back out there."
"Of course. We can make more of a day of it, if you would like. I know of several reputable gryphon breeders who specifically train them for combat and military purposes, who would be more than happy to bring over options for you perusal, so that you might compare and test ride them and pick out your preference," Avrenne offers. Right, rich lady with a world of connections at her fingertips. "If there is no immediacy, I can have that scheduled before the end of next week."
"That's… Okay. If that's not any trouble or anything," Ralaea says. "I need a fast one. I was thinking, if I could lure the dragon out of hiding, I might trick it into torching Andorhal. Then we just have to rebuild it after the dragon kills all the Horde."
Avrenne's expression does that brief little freeze, where you might have expected an expression to form, and then it stopped. "I must address several points on that plan, Ralaea, and while two are brief, the other requires a much longer explanation. Before I begin, we should begin walking towards Mr. Latour. I intend to have you measured properly for clothing, and we can walk as we talk," Avrenne says, as she starts to sweep towards the stairs.
"The first of the matter is that there is, to the best of my knowledge, no gryphon that could outfly a dragon aspect, except in a very short distance of a sprint, and given anything longer than a very brief chase, the dragon aspect would win in stamina and close the distance to set flame to you and the gryphon with no hope of survival of it.
“The second is that trying to control dragon fire from an enemy dragon is a foolish plan, because even if you were to somehow, against all odds manage to provoke him just there at Andorhal and not perish yourself in the blast, and somehow get away either by magical or practical means, he has no incentive to not follow you, or whether or not he does kill you, no reason to not continue to destroy everything as he goes. He has every reason to continue a rampage that you provoked him into, through the rest of Eastweald, burning up the Argent Crusade there, simply because he can. You have no way to turn off the dragon fire once he has completed what you wanted him to do. If you have no way to stop a weapon of war, you should not start it," Avrenne says firmly.
"Now, as to the third," she continues. "It would be best if you put yourself out of the mindset of using dragon fire against sentient beings while in this household, and I ask that you never, not for any reason, bring such thoughts up to Siamus. He was aboard the Proudmoore Fleet in the Second War as a child. He is 34 now, and he was not more than 10 years old when he witnessed the way the orcs brought the red dragons to set fire to the ships at sea, decimating the ships and killing hundreds." Avrenne pauses, breathes out a careful breath, her hands squeezing together.
"Including Siamus himself, who was on a mast in the crows nest when a dragon set fire to a nearby ship and the one he was on was caught in the blast, where he fell from the height, leaving that scar on his left arm where he was caught in the halyard, and he fell into the water, where he drowned to death. He was revived successfully, but that day stands out in stark remembrance, of watching the Fleet burn, his countrymen decimated by dragon fire. You will do him harm to speak of using dragons in that way that the orcs did, Ralaea, no matter what worthy goal you might think to use it to accomplish."
Ralaea walks along behind her, taking in all the information. "He died at ten?" she finally asks. "I didn't… know that. Um. Sorry." A pause. "I'm still looking for a fast one. Not for that, just. Fast."
"A fast gryphon has many practical uses," Avrenne agrees, as she leaves off the stairs, striding towards the door. The butler, Vane, manages through sheer force of will and extremely long legs to make it there before the Duchess, opening it expertly so that she walks through it without stopping. "And yes, he did. It was a terrible day for many reasons."
The day is brisk this early in the morning, a misty fog lingering around the grounds of Fallon House, the cloudy sky above them darkening the sky enough that the lamps from earlier of the stables are still lit and glowing. Near them is a small building close enough to a house to serve as one, suitable for an eccentric, old man who needs his exact routines and stable environments as time shifts around him in strange folds and bends. The windows are dark, curtains behind them drawn, but Avrenne makes her way steadily towards the building.
"I appreciate that you are trying to solve a problem, Ralaea, but the way you sometimes go about these hypothetical solutions often reveal a disregard for you own personal safety in unnecessary ways. There are times when sometimes a soldier must sacrifice her own life to achieve a worthy goal, but when there are other ways of accomplishing the goal, it isn't necessary sacrifice, it's recklessness, and it often leaves a wake of sorrow behind for those who care for her. Do try to remember that you have those who love you, and if you were to perish in a way that did not need to happen, it would cause great harm and guilt for not having done more to stop you, or protect you from it. Siamus, for one, would likely take the blame himself, for not having taught you well enough or better fast enough. He takes his responsibilities very seriously, Ralaea, and you are one of his now, by emotional tie and legal binding both," she cautions.
"I'm not really…" Ralaea stares at the ground as they walk. "I'm not going to do it. Not without… That's why I'm talking about it, right? That, and… I've been sort of… afraid to go out. The world's changing, and I don't like it."
"You are talking about it," Avrenne agrees. "But on a question of mine, as I learned it behooves me to ask, not that you came to me seeking advice on potential viable military strategies. I am very well versed in land military tactics on the large scale, such as in this case with creating a viable strategy against a dragon aspect that will require a massive military response. Siamus is an extraordinary commander with a vast repertoire of naval strategy, both conventional and non-conventional. If you would like to discuss the matter of how to formulate and consider various strategies for Deathwing, you need only ask. You have resources available to you, all you need to do is take them."
Avrenne pauses in knocking at the door. "Change is rarely comfortable, Ralaea. You are not the only one who finds an altered world not to your liking or preference. Mr. Latour has something in his mind that prevents him from finding easy purchase in his perception of time, and there are times when he slips out of understanding the present and into the past. This is not a literal traveling of time, like a bronze dragon, this is only in his own head. Changes and disruptions to his routine worsen his condition. I have been telling him that we will be here today, and for what, for several weeks, but we never know what his mind will be on a day until we are there. Too far back, and it can be very confusing and agitating for him. If he does not know who I am — if he mistakes me for my mother or sister — we will know that he's too far back in the past, and we should try another day. Talking over much about what is happening right now, with many details about the changing world, might make it harder for him to follow even if he doing well today, if he has misplaced the date a little, where he thinks this is last year, which is not terrible, but some things won't make sense if that is he where he is, so it's best to avoid too much talk on recent events. Do you understand?" Avrenne asks, kindly.
"I…" Ralaea swallows hard, recalling something, maybe someone in particular. "I think so, yeah." The muscles in her face and arms have gone tight.
Avrenne looks her over, and reaches out a hand to set in a motherly comforting touch to her shoulder. "He is completely harmless, Ralaea. If we leave, it is not for our safety, but his. He's an old man, and he deserves to live in as much peace as we can grant him."
"Just… reminds me of someone. I'll be fine." So she says, but the sullen look has returned, and she's gathered her arms around herself in a protective manner.
Avrenne pats her lightly, there, there. She knocks on the door in several sharp, efficient raps.
There is a long enough pause to make it awkward, but Avrenne waits with such an air of normalcy that it almost smooths out through sheer force of her will.
The man who opens the door at last, blinking at the two women like he's never seen women before, is a man of middling height, thin with narrow shoulders. He looks to be somewhere in his 60s, his hair completely missing on top, and springing out in tufts around his ears, with a face of birdlike, sharp features, and a nose that could merit its own small birdhouse. There's a crackle of energy to him, like he's a man who cannot be stopped, only slowed, and could possibly live to 100 years old if nothing manages to tackle him to the ground before then. His expression clears up as he recognizes Avrenne.
"It's Thursday, then," he says to Avrenne. He has a slightly gravelly edged, mid-toned voice, and a clear, obvious Lordaeron city accent. He gives Ralaea a once over. "And this is the new girl. Well, well, you best come in then." He shuffles off away from the door, his slippers making whispery slides over the smooth wooden floors.
The interior of the semi-cottage is one of those places that can only be described as neat as a pin. And in this case also filled with pins, all stuck into pincushions of such a wide variety of shapes and sorts that a person might reasonably conclude that this man collects them. They seem to have come from so many places that someone might wonder if they are not something he picks up where he goes, but that a certain duchess brings back with her to give him whenever she travels.
The front room is the "shop," the tailoring mannequins and benches, the triple set mirror, the small circular stand, the sewing machine and desk for finer work, and the storage places of endless bolts of fabrics neatly folded and threads of virtually every color ever created in Azeroth and Outland both. The walls have been painted a very neutral white, and the lights in the place are both an electric bulb above the center and scones that hold candles for different lighting. A door is shut off to the rest of the place, where someone might assume is his personal space.
Avrenne sweeps into the house, moving straight towards a simple upholstered chair with an ottoman, taking a seat promptly, and putting her feet up.
Ralaea enters more cautiously, and jumps at the sight of the mannequins, reaching for swords she doesn't have. It's just a small startle though, and she settles for scowling at them in silence.
Mr. Latour notes the jump with a wry sort of air, as he steps over to one and pats it affectionately. Judging by the cinched waist and smaller build, it's a Lady Mannequin, this one. "Don't let old Ms. Couture here startle you, young miss. She's an old bird now, and given up her wandering ways," he says affectionately.
"He means it only as a jest, Ralaea," Avrenne clarifies from her comfortable position on the chair. "Neither Ms. Couture or Mr. Vanity have ever moved, and they are not enchanted in any way." Mr. Vanity must be the other mannequin, the broader shoulders and lower waistline suggesting a masculine build. "Mr. Latour, this is Ralaea Westwind, House Fallon's ward."
The name does something to Mr. Latour, as he frowns and jerks his head like he's been sprinkle with a sudden flick of water. "Westwind?" He smacks his lips, as if he's tasted something, and can't quite place it. "Livia Westwind?"
"My…" Ralaea hesitates, looking at Avrenne for some reason. "My mother. She… shared your line of work."
Avrenne sits with her hands clasped lightly over her belly.
Mr. Latour bobs his head up and down, something like a seagull gulping down a sandwich to the manner, and he paces a little back and forth. "Yes, yes, Livia Westwind. I remember her. Demure. Conservative." The woman? "No flash, not a trendsetter. Bespoke and ready to wear. Genteel women, lower nobility, not a lot of on the bias cuts." Oh, he might be talking about the fashion. "Good attention to detail," he grunts at the last with some approval.
He gestures impatiently to Ralaea to set up onto the round, single step in front of the three fold mirror. "You've got something of her in your eyes and cheeks," he mutters at her, flapping a hand around his own face in demonstration of where those two things are located.
Ralaea steps up, touching her face as she looks into the mirror. Seeing something there, she quickly looks away, shoulders hunched.
Mr. Latour reaches out to tap Ralaea on the shoulders with a quick, professional touch and a scold of, "Up straight, shoulders down."
Ralaea grumbles something, but straightens out, closing her eyes instead.
Mr. Latour picks up an apron hanging from a peg, and puts it on, digging through the pouch for a measuring tape, and a pad that fits over the back of his hand, that holds a pencil through a loop at the top. There's a quiet moment as he starts to examine Ralaea, looking her over for some observation that isn't numbers, and then there's the light touch first at her shoulder before he sets the measuring tape there.
Then, "Ah ha. Is the cousin? The Roche side?" he asks Avrenne.
"No," Avrenne answers.
"Really?" The word is disbelief, not doubt. "She's got the look of the Roches, doesn't she? Could practically be your mother, Lady Mara Esprit herself, with her coloring. The eyes, the hair, that set of her chin."
"Yes," is the softer reply, something wistful and nostalgic, a thread of gray grief winding through her voice. "There's a portrait I recall in particular that if you stood her next to, she could practically be a long lost twin sister of my mother in her youth."
Ralaea has trouble holding still as it is, and at this revelation, she half-turns, looking back at Avrenne. "Really?" she asks.
Avrenne looks back over, brows raised. "Yes," she confirms again. "I inherited almost nothing from my mother. I look like my father, in most every way. My mother had your color hair, that same sort of texture to it, and quite nearly exactly the shade of your eyes. The shape of your face is like hers was, especially in her youth." That nostalgic grief grows stronger, a little sigh emerging, and sorrow etches out a few lines around her eyes and mouth, across her brow. "You're even of her height, as I recall. She didn't have your build, of course, she was a lady not a soldier, but… well."
This is as far as Mr. Latour is willing to allow the duchess to hold Ralaea's attention, and he gives her another light, but sharp tap. "Eyes forward, straight up," he snaps without real irritation, just impatience. "Or you'll be getting shirts that you can only wear when you're twisted up like this."
Avrenne's mouth twitches, as she represses a smile. "In other words, Ralaea, if you don't want to get stuck like that, it's best if you stand straight up and let him finish his measurements as needed. The better still you hold, and let him position you, the sooner it will be over."
This draws further grumbling from Ralaea, but she turns back around. "Well who knows," she says, "maybe we are distantly related."
"Well, if one goes far enough back in Lordaeron, or to the Arathi days, we all are," Avrenne allows. "I know the Esprit family tree to all branches as far as possible, but not as many for the House Roche, so it's possible that more than four branches out from there we share a common ancestor along that line." A pause, and then in a slightly different tone she adds, "But it doesn't really matter, because regardless of whether there is a blood tie down any line, where we have arrived to is that we are family now."
Ralaea turns back to give her a smile, a real one, that is cut short when she remembers she wasn't supposed to move. Oops. She turns around again.
She has just barely enough time to catch Avrenne's own returning small smile.
Mr. Latour makes the sound of an annoyed pelican ruffling its feathers, clickety and throaty. "Twisted hemlines. Twisted hemlines," he threatens, shaking a finger at Ralaea.
"Do hold still, dearest, he really will do it to prove a point," Avrenne cautions.
Some Time Holding Still Later
The day has warmed up marginally by the time the two ladies make their way back to the main house, the fog lifted up into the now even heavier clouded sky, and the morning chill replaced with a brisk wind. Vane is standing ready at the door to open it to allow them back into the warm fold of the house, the scent of fires going in their hearths and touches of cinnamon spices wafting from the kitchen as baking for the later half of the day commences. The order for tea is given as Lady Fallon sweeps her way through the foyer.
Avrenne steers them both towards the library, which at this time of day, is empty of visitors or other wards, Isla still abed, as it's not yet 11:30am, her usual rousing time, and her library haunting hours more often in the afternoon. "Now," Avrenne says as she takes a seat on the larger of the two couches, arranging herself to the right side of it. "There are some things I need to speak of with you, in regards to the way House Fallon operates, and what we are expected to provide for you, from our own consciences as well as outside social expectations."
"Do I have to start wearing dresses?" Ralaea asks, sitting in a chair. "Because… I used to, but I don't know how I'll do in combat situations. Maybe if it's a really short one?"
"You would be expected to wear dresses when they are the appropriate armor for the situation, that is, balls and galas, or social events such as weddings where ladies will be primarily wearing them. Just as you will be expected to wear the proper armor of mail and plate for a combat situation," Avrenne says. "Rather than wearing armor to a wedding, and a dress to a battle. These have their proper places. When you are home and especially when guests are not expected, you may wear shirts and trousers or day dresses as it strikes your preference. We also will be seeing proper footwear that applies to each, house shoes, sandals for the beach, dress shoes for formal events, and proper boots for combat. Siamus has informed me that you also require new swords, and has made arrangements accordingly. This Saturday we shall go to Stormwind and see the cobbler and the armorer, where we will also be certain to have you outfitted for another set of armor of the best possible materials and make."
Ralaea considers that last part seriously. "Think they make anything that's… fence-proof?"
There's a tension around Avrenne's mouth, before she settles it. "They cannot truly do so in the sense that there are other factors to consider than the 'fence' part. What you are really asking is can they make a set of armor that could deflect an impalement on a fence, and the answer is, given enough force of the person into the fence or enough force applied to the fence post, no.
"Let me clarify what that means. Any reasonable set of armor is 'fence-proof' in that if I were to pick up a fence post, even a sharp one, and with my very limited strength, standing right in front of you in armor, attempt to push it through, nothing would happen. The armor would be 'fence-proof.' However, if I were to take this piece of fence and attach it to a large, powerful ballista projectile — those siege weapons that resemble a very large crossbow — stand that armor in front of it, and launch the post into it, the fencing would pass through, and it would not be 'fence-proof.' Force and pressure is what makes the difference. To be strong enough to not have a fence post ever able to pierce the metal, the armor would need to be so thick that it would be impossible to wear, and non-functional.
"Your armor as you were wearing on that day was already 'fence-proof.' What it was not was 'black dragon aspect proof,' and as for how feasible that is at this time, all I can say is that we have, at best, dragon aspect resistant armor, one that could keep you alive with a healer at the ready against fire and impact, and yes, we will be sure to see you in such."
"Okay," Ralaea says, nodding in at least partial understanding. "I'll just… not fight near fences. Or stand near them. Or walk too close to them."
"It's not the fence part, it's the dragon aspect capable of knocking you through one because of how powerful he is. If it's not a fence, it's a tree branch, if it's not a tree branch, it's a rock, and so on. It's the force and impact a dragon of that size is capable of generating, not the specifics of fences. That is what you must understand about why being aware of your surroundings and assessing the capabilities of your enemy is so crucial in a battle situation. If you can be thrown into something sharp and you are fighting something that can throw you, that is dangerous. But fighting by a fence is not inherently the most dangerous, particularly if the other option is standing next to a canal where an ordinary humanoid opponent could kick you into it, and put you at disadvantage in your heavy armor. The canal is the greater danger in that scenario, and you are at far less risk of being impaled on the fence by a humanoid attacker. Combat requires assessment of physics and risk of what an enemy is capable of.
"You already may understand this instinctively in part if you consider things you have been taught intentionally or by experience. The reason why you might use certain forms of sword work against different types of armor and know how to behave when attacked by different weapons. For example, why you may know better than to try to quick slash through chainmail, because it blocks such, but it's weak to bludgeoning, such as with the impact of a heavier broadsword or a mace or hammer. And how a plate breastplate might repel a bullet from far enough back, but up close it can and will pierce through it. You know that you need to dodge a flail rather than take the blow on your plate armor, but that a knife isn't going to make it through the metal armor if you take the blow on the armor rather than in a chainmail covered joint that's weak to a piercing stab. Everything is about the physics of armor, weapon, and situation," Avrenne says. She wasn't kidding about that whole military tactics thing. Understanding the rock, paper, scissors of weapons and armor for selling to each tactical need for the army at the moment is how this woman makes her living.
"So… don't… fight the dragon?" Ralaea asks, probably her only conclusion from all of that.
"Fight the dragon intelligently, aware of his advantages and his weaknesses. That is part of what is taking so long to bring the fight to him, Ralaea. We have to ensure that we set a place and construct the weapons that will work against him, with strategies intended to use the proper application of tactics. Some siege weapons that would be useful against a stationary fort, for example, are strong enough to cause significant damage to a dragon, but are difficult to use against a flying target, and they are made partially of wood that would be weak to fire.
"However if we were to make fire resistant tanks that could close in on him, perhaps not do significant damage to him, but distract him, and longer range weapons could then be fired on him for doing the real damage, we could ground him well enough to send in ground forces with magic and weaponry now that we've taken away some of his advantages of flight. If we fight him in a place such an active volcano where he can toss soldiers in open magma behind him and to the sides, we could lose people to instant deaths, but if we can lure him into fighting with his back into a corner against bedrock of a mountain, his tail no longer a strong weapon he can use, we put ourselves to advantage once more," Avrenne explains. "In other words, dearest, we don't want to bring the fight to him where he can use the fence against us, and we don't want to bring a knife to a gunfight."
"Can't we just ask a shaman to throw a mountain at him?" Ralaea mutters. "Okay, okay, I get it, collateral damage, mountains are dangerous, fine."
Avrenne squeezes her hands together and for a moment she seems like she's struggling to find her words, a rare and unusual phenomenon. "Yes, they are. That is very likely what killed most of my family and destroyed our ancestral house during the Scourging of Lordaeron. We lived by a great mountain, you see, and half of it came down during that time, with evidence that suggests it was done on purpose, cannons and trebuchets fired to cause a devastating avalanche. It's not clear which side did so, but the devastation was monumental. Between it and the Scourge, no one survived," she says, her voice calm, but the composure she wears is so tightly controlled that it seems like it might be hurting her to keep it. "I was not there, of course, to see it happen. I was in the City when he arrived."
It is into this silence that Catrin arrives with the tea cart, the pot of tea steeped already and hot, served alongside a selection of six warm apple scones wrapped in a white blanket to keep them at temperature, two well filled pots of clotted cream and apple jelly with them.
"Thank you, Catrin," Avrenne says, using the moment to pour the tea out into cups, a simple ceramic set with no flowers on them.
With the tea poured Avrenne sets her three scones on a plate, using a butter knife to split them and spread cream over one. "Now, the matter of the House that we need to speak on involves the marriage arrangement between Siamus and I."
Ralaea opens her mouth, sits back in her chair and closes it again. "Oh," she says. "I'm sorry. Again. I didn't… know."
"I know," Avrenne says gently. "I don't hold ignorance of a thing against people, Ralaea. It's one thing to know and suggest, but if you don't know, there is no malice intended by the suggestion, and I am not upset with you. I tell you to give you context, for the future." She takes a bite of her scone, eating with the grim determination of someone who has agreed to consume so many calories in a day and by hook or crockery crook she is going to do it now.
"What you need to know about Siamus and I is that we have a contract for our marriage agreement, specifying a great deal of things, and laid out expectations of both of our needs and preferences. We have both agreed to the points, and negotiated together before we were engaged, and you should know we didn't disagree on a single point. The contract specifies a large number of things, from the fact that I agreed to try to bear a minimum of three children before I turn 35 – a point on which I should tell you I would have suggested myself if Siamus had not had it set out already; we are very much of the same mind, he and I — to how those children would be raised in the Kul Tiran faith, though Siamus allowed for the Church of the Holy Light as well had I any inclination to it, which I don't, as a point of faith." She sips at her tea.
"Another point that is important to know and be prepared for is that there is a specific part of our agreement that permits and allows lovers to be taken after the marriage took place. This applies equally to both Siamus and myself," Avrenne says.
Ralaea looks like she's trying to get a grasp on something, but can't, quite. "Does that mean you… invite other nobles into your beds? Do I have to dress up for that? I'm not exactly experienced, but I could… fetch… drinks?"
"Ralaea, you are a daughter of the family, not part of the staff. You aren't here to fetch drinks at any time. That's the staff's job, and you should be aware that it insults their positions to take these things up on yourself, as if saying that they cannot do the job that they have been hired to perform," Avrenne says. "Any lover of either of ours is to be treated the same as you would treat any other sort of friend of ours visiting, as in with respect and courtesy. It's rude in general to comment on someone's private business, which is what a lover is. So while it is appropriate to say, 'Lord Tyrrell came to visit Siamus,' it is inappropriate to say, 'Lord Tyrrell is Siamus' lover,' to a person outside of the household. Do you understand so far?"
Ralaea blinks. "Wait, he is? Prickly warlock guy? Mister 7th Legion uh… I forget his rank? If I'm not supposed to like… do anything, why are you telling me this?"
"So that you know, and that you know what is appropriate to talk about with other people, and what is not," Avrenne says as she spreads more cream and jam on another side of a scone. "You are part of the family, and you will, at times, be here while the company of a lover is, and it's important that you realize that this is not something that is anyone breaking any vows or against the fidelity of our marriage. There are people who will always believe that taking a lover while married is inherently wrong, and they will judge both Siamus and I poorly for it if they know of it, and so we have discretion around this. You are not to speak of who and who is not a lover of either of ours outside the house, not even to very good friends or your brother so long as he is not of the house, but to leave that to Siamus and I to decide when or if we tell them."
"You… probably could've gotten away with not telling me anything at all," Ralaea says. "Unless you… take lovers on the dining room table or something. I'm not… very good at secrets? We were told not to go announcing that there's another Lich King, but how's anyone supposed to keep that a secret?"
Avrenne startles so badly that she fumbles her teacup entirely, the ceramic vessel splashing hot tea over her dress, and rolling off her belly and onto the couch before it tips over the side to land with a spinning arc on the carpet, blessedly unbroken. Avrenne isn't paying any attention to this, however, nor has she reacted to the pain of the hot liquid, staring at Ralaea with a face so white that it might give the other woman genuine concern that Avrenne is about to faint.
"There's — " Avrenne breathes out, gasps and her mouth works in no actual voice for several words before she manages to get out a strangled, "I beg your pardon?"
"The ghost of Uther the Lightbringer that was in Frostmourne which was conveniently unguarded in one of the Halls in the Citadel told Jaina that there must always be a Lich King or the Scourge would destroy everything," Ralaea says without missing a beat, though she does watch the cup land. "Do we… have any towels? I don't believe the ghost, for the record, it could've been a trick."
Avrenne seems to be trying to listen to Ralaea through perhaps what is a very loud rushing sound in her ears, because she's staring so hard at the other woman that it's like she's attempting to lipread, her own lips moving faintly. "What? Yes, of course we have towels," she says nearly breathlessly, absently, as she moves her hands together in a hard clasp, keeping them off her dress. "What do you mean, there is another Lich King, Ralaea? Explain yourself, please."
"Where are the towels? Oh, never mind." Ralaea starts to take off her shirt — she only has a wrapping beneath keeping her bust in place.
The moment Ralaea starts to take off her shirt, Avrenne snaps to attention, frowning hard. "Ralaea, what are you doing?" It's a sharp, motherly sort of tone, the way a mother might scold a child reaching for a hot stove with a bare hand, concern mixed with fear.
"There's tea on you," Ralaea says, halting. "I was going to wipe it up."
Avrenne takes a deep breath. "That is unnecessary." She moves a hand in a single sharp gesture, and the temperature around the fire mage picks up several degrees as she practically swats the tea out of its liquid form and into a gas of steam. Flickers of flame dance around her fingers, and there are strange reflections in her dark eyes. "I am a mage," she reminds the other woman. "What I want you to do is keep your shirt on, and please explain to me what you mean that there is another Lich King." She speaks slowly and firmly, her face still that frightening paleness, but her chin lifted high, her shoulders rigidly squared off.
Ralaea pulls her shirt back down and sighs, but continues. "So when we killed Arthas, the ghost of King Terenas, who had to save us all because — you've heard that part. Anyway, he said the same thing as ghost Uther, and I still don't believe it, but whatever, and Tirion was going to do it — you know, put the helmet on — but Arthas had a guy up there he was torturing and it turned out to be Bolvar Fordragon, so he took the helm instead because he was kind of on fire I guess. From the red dragons. Oh. Don't tell Siamus that part."
Avrenne's horror is so deep that she puts her hand over her mouth as if she might be sick, the other hovering strangely in the air as she avoids touching anything. It takes her a moment to lower her hand from her lips, and she seems to be gathering herself in bits and pieces, forcing everything way, way, way down. "Siamus will have to be — he'll have to be told at least about the… that it's the Highlord Fordragon. He was… something of a friend of House Fallon's — not a lover," she says hastily, a clarification she might need to do a lot from now on, "and Siamus took his death, his supposed death, at the Wrathgate, very hard."
"Okay, so is his new Lich King status better or worse?" Ralaea asks. "It's worse, right? I'm sorry for… what happened. The Wrathgate was… Anyway. It's a secret." Ta-da. That is how well Ralaea Westwind keeps important information to herself.
Avrenne presses her hands over her face so hard that she leaves marks behind when she lowers them again. "Siamus will need to be told," she says, controlled and calm, but it's a forced one, and bright flashes of white and blue flames flicker over Avrenne's hands. "If you were given the order to keep this knowledge a secret, who gave that order?"
"Hmm… They kind of both did?" Ralaea says. "Tirion and Bolvar? I mean, Bolvar said to tell everyone he died at the Wrathgate."
"He did, one way or another," Avrenne says. "And with all due respect to Highlord Fordring, he is a leader of the Argent Crusade, not the King of Stormwind, to so order soldiers and citizens of the Alliance to secrecy. Ralaea, if that order had come from King Varian, you must know that it would have been your duty to never speak of it. That is what it means to have a monarch, and that is a power that he has over law and order within our kingdom. We are a military House, and there will be times when we will be ordered by the King directly, including secrecy regarding certain matters, that hopefully you will not need to know, but you may, such as if we were told to house a specific guest for diplomatic reasons that we were to maintain secrecy on, as a hypothetical example. You will need to learn how to hold your tongue, no matter how tempting it may be to speak of things, in those cases. In this case, I am glad you did tell me, for it was not something that Highlord Fordring had the right to demand, and he was not your commander to obey," she says.
She starts to rise to a stand, and then changes her mind. "Ralaea, will you please pick the teacup up for me?" she asks.
"Yeah, and besides, he lost the Ashbringer at one point by giving it to someone else who died," Ralaea says, getting up and grabbing the teacup, offering it to Avrenne.
"And defended an orc to the point of going against his own holy order." Avrenne's voice is as cold as the deep halls of Icecrown. "His judgement and decisions leave much to be desired." She takes the cup after a pause, holding it gingerly between her fingers, as if she's afraid that it will burn her, and she sets it down on the coffee table by the teapot.
"Well," the Duchess says. "That was not where I saw this conversation going, I must admit." She settles back into the couch, her eyes flicking across the room as if she might find the lost teacups of the conversation she had been expecting to have. "You don't need to worry that we will ever be doing anything so vulgar as engaging in intimate acts with a lover in front of you, or any of the children. You may see from time to time a gesture of affection, a brief kiss or touching of hands, or hear an endearment, but that's all. The reason why I am telling you about lovers and who they are is so that you don't ever speculate out loud about it when you see such small gestures. It's not appropriate to ask, especially with company, 'is that person your lover?' You will be told when it is relevant, otherwise, please do not guess, or speak of your assumptions to others outside of the family.
"Yes, Lord Tyrrell, who was once a Captain in the 7th Legion and is now a Sergeant as he was demoted, is one of Siamus' lovers. He has others, and will very likely have more. There's one that is relevant that I must speak with you about, as she will be visiting the house. As for myself, I have no lovers."
"It's not really my business though, is it?" Ralaea asks, settling back into her chair with a frown. "Except that you're making it my business and now I'm confused. You don't want me to do anything except be quiet, right? I'm not supposed to… help somehow?"
"No, we most certainly do not want you to try to help in any way," Avrenne says, composure gathered back to her like a familiar coat. "We don't want you to attempt to matchmake on our behalf. Don't approach people to suggest they become a lover of ours. Don't even suggest that we have lovers and that they might speak to us about it. The reason I am making this your business is to be certain that you know what you are not to do, because it's important to be clear, and to not leave you guessing at what your behavior should or should not be. Isla, for example, had to be told because she gets romantic notions in her head, and left to her own devices, she would have speculated out loud to other company as to the possibility of lovers being taken, and that is not what we want.
"There is almost nothing at all that is on the do list, except do be sure that you are polite to all our guests, friends or lovers. And if you need specifics on what being polite is, I can give you some of those now, but you will also soon be getting those specific etiquette lessons. Being polite as a ward of a House such as ours is mostly in the simple courtesy of using a person's correct title, and speaking to them with respect. It doesn't involve doing anything that the staff does. You may often follow Finley's example, if you want to look to someone for guidance."
"That all falls under being quiet, except the manners part," Ralaea says. "I can be quiet. The less I know the better though, because if I have an opinion, it's harder to do the quiet thing."
"I understand, and while I hope you will do your best, I do want you to know that if you make a mistake, to please tell me, if I am not there to witness it myself, and know that you will be forgiven, and it has no bearing on the continuation of your wardship. You will not be expelled from the family or the house. The wardship is not conditional," Avrenne says kindly. "I would rather know about a mistake and be given an opportunity to try to mend it, rather than have you conceal it out of fear that it will get you in trouble or make us angry at you. Is that clear?"
"Yeah. But just to point out, if I can't keep the secret in the first place, how am I supposed to keep the secret that I didn't keep the secret?" Ralaea asks.
"By not coming home right away, or by keeping to yourself alone in your room, or any other number of ways a person might avoid another person to avoid telling them something," Avrenne says. "If you were, say, out with Cobalt in Kalimdor and accidentally revealed that Siamus has a lover in the 7th Legion, instead of referring to Sergeant Tyrrell as a 'friend,' which is also true, by the way, and you may always refer to a lover in that way, that they are Siamus' 'friend,' rather than try to avoid the entire subject or person in some convoluted way. If you feared telling us that you had made the mistake, you might conclude that you would not be able to do so if you just didn't come home, and that is not a solution I want you to consider."
"Seems like a silly thing to not come home over," says Ralaea, the girl who has drawn much sillier conclusions from other scenarios. "But okay, sure. I'll just tell you. Now is this person who's coming someone you have to warn me about, or can I just forget I know any of this?"
"I'm given to understand that you know her yourself, a Miss Aszera Sunstrike," Avrenne says.
"Aze is one of — a, uh, friend?" Ralaea blurts. "How did — I… Okay. Alright. None of my business." She takes a deep breath. Yep. Nooone of her business. Except now it is. "Is she some sort of… elf noble?"
"No. There is nothing about our contract that specifies a lover must be of nobility, Ralaea. That's an assumption you made on your part," Avrenne says as she tries to resume even considering eating, staring her scone down like it's an enemy at the gate. "A lover, or if you would prefer, a 'friend,' of this sort can be from any walk of life, and any gender. And, Ralaea, if you have questions about a lover or a friend of ours, you are free to ask us about them, only do so while in private, not in public or when we have company. You're not forbidden to speak of them to us, it's only outsiders that you are not to speak of these people as 'lovers.' You may ask Siamus anything you want when you are in private, and he will always answer you honestly, about anything, and that includes lovers he takes. The same is true for me, where you may ask me anything at all when we are at home like this, with no one but the family here."
Ralaea sits in silence, considering. "Okay, so you're allowed to bed commoners," she says. "Does that mean that if Harvey had gotten married, he could've had me as a lover, as long as it was in his marriage contract? Because… he was always weird about that. Even in private, he was always so conscious, and… We never actually did anything. Except kiss. And now he's… You know. Maybe it would've made it easier if it was like that. Like he was allowed to."
Avrenne manages to force down a few bites while Ralaea speaks. It does not look like the scone is going down easy, but Lady Fallon is doing it. "If Lor — if Mr. Morningdew had taken a wife and had a marriage contract with her that they agreed upon a point that he could take any lover or lovers he wished, or if it specified only you, and you agreed to this arrangement as well, then yes, there would have been nothing wrong with that, if it was what you would have all wanted. I don't know if Mr. Morningdew would have been content with such an arrangement or not, as he and I never spoke of it."
Avrenne considers something and then says, "If you and Mr. Morningdew do marry as he is now, you could speak with him about a contract of your own between the two of you that allows you to take lovers, for emotional or physical needs, as well as the purpose of seeing to heirs, and so long as any lover you took was apprised the situation as well and gave his — or her — consent, this, too, would not be wrong. It's a personal, private decision to make, and marriage is a thing that we all have a right to define for ourselves."
"I could ask him, it's just that I don't think anyone would be willing to uh… be involved," Ralaea says, avoiding eye contact. "People are weird about it when I mention the death knight part and… I get it. Really. Besides, I'm not the most interesting person myself. Not in that way, at least."
"Well, in these cases, it's about holding the door open for possibility, rather than assuming that the possibility might never occur and shutting the door. You're quite young still," Avrenne says, as if she is not even less than ten years older than Ralaea, "and one never knows who one will meet. When I was your age, I would have never in even my most self-indulgent of dreams imagined myself married to a man like Siamus, let alone Siamus himself. I knew of him then, you see, for he was a friend of a friend of mine. I thought him a useful connection to have through our mutual friend and nothing more of it. I certainly never imagined how upon meeting him I would find in him all that I could have possibly ever wanted in a husband, a partner of such like-mindedness and of ideal fulfillment, who would not only be all I want and desire, but would look upon me in the same light." Woah. She does like the guy, apparently.
Avrenne smiles at Ralaea, a warm little sympathetic one. "I'm not really the most interesting person myself, either, not in the way that people mean for romantic ways. That's why, although I may have the right to lovers, I have none at present, and it's unlikely that I ever will," she says, in a way that suggests that regardless of the truth, she does truly believe it. "But what matters is that if in, oh, some ten years from now I were to meet someone who sees me the way Siamus does, and who I did find equally intriguing, I would have the ability to explore that and enjoy the relationship, where I might not have otherwise if I had not the security of the contract written as it is."
"I might be a little biased, but I think you're pretty and clever, and you do neat things with dresses," Ralaea says. "And I'm not just saying that because we're family now. But okay. Door open. Sure. Now I've just gotta find the man."
Avrenne's smile grows warmer and brighter, with an indulging look in her eyes. "The right one, or two, or however many there may ever be, will always be the ones who look at you and see you for exactly as you are, and view such a person as desirable and worthy, and that you find yourself admiring and respecting equally in turn," she says. "Of course, there is also nothing wrong with other reasons. A lover does not have to fulfill all things for you. Some might simply be that you find them pretty and delightful." She moves to refill her tea, having made little progress on her scones. "Now, with Miss Sunstrike, I was given to understand that she is a friend of yours?"
"She… helped with…" Ralaea pauses, a difficult sort of sorrow passing over her face. "She killed Mevlin, when I couldn't. So, yeah. A friend. We're still talking about Aze, right? Not her sister?"
Avrenne's smile disappears so fast off her face that it's like something snapped it off her face. "We are speaking only of Miss Sunstrike, not Mrs. Sunstrike," she says. "That's one of those terms of address that is important to know in identification. Mrs. Syarra Sunstrike and Miss Aszera Sunstrike. It's the latter who will be visiting, and part of the reason for speaking to you of these matters of lovers right now, ahead of time of her arrival, is that I don't know how well Miss Sunstrike might keep her own discretion in the matter. If she were to tell you, it would have been a surprise, and she might not have explained it well. But, as a member of the family, it was your right to be told anyway. All the other children know, as does Priscilla. She's not exactly of the family, but she is close enough, having earned that right to such intimacy," Avrenne pauses very awkwardly on that word for some reason, before she continues smoothly as if there had been none at all, "from her long friendship with me."
"Okay but shouldn't you be talking to Aze about that, rather than me?" Ralaea asks. "Did she already tell people?"
"I can't speak for what Miss Sunstrike has or hasn't done, but Miss Sunstrike is not my ward and responsibility," Avrenne says. "You are. You will always be informed ahead of time whenever possible in these situations. When Miss Sunstrike arrives, everyone will already know to expect her. She will be informed of our preference for discretion of those outside the house, but that is not now." She moves to rise to a stand. "I should see to the writing of letters to the gryphon breeders, and the rest of the day's business. Remember, Saturday, the cobbler and the armorer. It will take most of the day, so plan accordingly." She relates this as if Ralaea has an ordinarily busy schedule and will have to clear her day off.
Ralaea frowns a little at 'most of the day.' How could shoes and armor possibly eat up that much time, her expression says. "Okay," she agrees regardless. "Most of the day, then. Got it."
"And next Monday, your tutors will be arriving, for the teaching of our 'waves.' They'll be here to teach you the necessary reading, writing, and mathematics that you will need for higher learning of subjects such as trigonometry and physics in order to understand navigation and military strategies. I hope you will give them your fullest efforts, and if you decide that you want to learn more of any particular subject that catches your interest, you need only let me know, and we will ensure that your learning curriculum includes it," Avrenne says. "There will also be instruction on etiquette and manners so that you will feel prepared when we hold social events here on how to manage it without needing to guess at proper behavior."
"Do they have flexible schedules?" Ralaea asks. "Because if there's a world ending crisis or something, I'm probably going to go see to that."
Avrenne smiles at Ralaea. "Yes, dearest, they are our private employees. Their schedules are what I tell them to be, not the other way around. You will have them to start with four days a week, Monday, Tuesday, Thursday, and Friday. You will have Wednesday and the weekends to your own to do as you prefer. We will evaluate the system and the tutors at the end of Q4, that is, the end of the fourth fiscal quarter, which is the end of December."
"Okay," Ralaea says, nodding and standing up. "Just don't evaluate them too harshly. I've been told I'm difficult."
"They know what to expect, dearest, and it's their job to learn about their student as much as it is hers to learn what they are attempting to teach," Avrenne says. "Remember, you are a ward of House Fallon now, and the world will have to learn sometimes how to bend a little around you, rather than always the other way around."