(2025-01-21) A Worgen Business Meeting (Dance Dance Side Scene)

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Author:	Athena
Summary:	Lukas Rhenardt has been conveniently scheduled during the same time as the dancing afternoon, allowing Avrenne to use the Business Get Out Of Dance Jail Free Card. Lukas doesn't dance. But he will stay for tea. 4k~ words. Worgen Plot Relevant RP.
Rating:	T for Teen

Chain: Dance Dance Day

Freed of the ballroom, and the prospect of dancing among a majority of people with no interest in dancing with her, Avrenne goes about her regular business, ignoring the sounds of the ballroom, and the occasional curious amount of the times the front door opens. She changes from the ballroom dress into a simple one that can be more easily undone for the task of seeing to the twin’s afternoon meal and snack, and that is suitable for walking outside, for a planned business meeting with Lukas Rhenardt, Lord Graves, to arrive at 3:15pm.

The ballroom at nearly quarter past 3pm is loud with the sound of a full band playing a piano and strings arrangement, and numerous people moving together, with only one conversation more audible than any other as Isla chatters at Brendol under the music.

The minute hand of the grandfather clock in the hall outside the library has just hitched to the 15-minute mark when Vane opens the front door once again to admit Lord Graves.

“Her Grace is expecting you,” he tells Lukas. “She will be down momentarily.”

"Thank you." Lord Graves is dressed today in a black suit, as ever, but his cravat is the rich Gilnean-red one, and his waistcoat is gray. He looks like the Gilnean flag. This is probably accidental. In one hand, he's holding a narrow box of thin balsa wood, a pattern of leaves burned into its lid and a red ribbon tied around it.

"Shall I take your parcel, sir?" Vane inquires.

"No, thank you," says Lukas, and nods curtly. He crosses the foyer to contemplate the forbidding visage of Lady Fallon in her portrait there.

Avrenne is, as said, down momentarily. She is punctual enough that she may have been listening for the door, as she descends the stairs in a stately walk.

There's some incongruity about her. Her dress is the most simple Lukas has ever seen her in, a brown and gray walking dress with double buttons down the front, and a high collar. It has nothing of interest to say in itself, beyond the somewhat severe practicality of it, the business walking dress. She holds a pair of dark umber gloves in one hand, the other elegantly skimming along the banister as she descends.

Her hair is in a smooth coiled chignon, a hairpin with fine maroon crystal in the shape of a calycanthus flower adorns it, and one little golden curled ribbon of hair is allowed out, a rogue lock, set over her right shoulder. She has golden disc earrings on, and her wedding ring, but no other jewelry. She wears more obvious cosmetics than he has seen before, with dark smokey eyes, and a touch of carmine to her lips.

One other thing: more than any other time he has met with her, the scent of her perfume oil is stronger, as if she had bathed that same day in her bath with the drops of it in it, instead of as subdued as it has been, and it follows her more closely, clings to her hair and skin.

"Lord Graves," she greets him, as she walks down the last few stairs.

He steps back to watch her descend the stairs, his expression inscrutable. "Lady Fallon," he says, and bows to her in his stiff Alteraci way. "The dress — your dress is suitable. That is — ah. Your dress… suits you." He hesitates and glances toward Vane.

Vane looks impassively back. Don't look at him, buddy. You're on your own here. But Vane can't wait to hear what's next.

Lukas clears his throat and takes a deep breath. "I beg your pardon. You look very well. I brought you — " Stop talking, Lukas. He steps forward and offers her the narrow box.

Avrenne’s expression is her own version of inscrutable in a composure that doesn’t break. He might note that while she clearly takes no insult at the unusual compliment, she also takes no pleasure from it; a remark on her appearance yields nothing.

She hands her gloves to Vane to hold onto for a moment, before she accepts the box. “How gracious of you,” she says in crisp tones. “Am I meant to open it now?”

“As you like,” he says gruffly, and clasps his hands behind his back.

Vane accepts Her Grace's gloves and then stands there, patiently prepared to hand them back to her when required. And also maybe to see what's about to happen.

The music from the ballroom fills the silence of action as Avrenne chooses to do so now, her eyes flicking over the leaf pattern for recognition of the precise leaf if she would know it, and fingers deftly removing the ribbon, handing it to Vane to hold, before she opens the box.

The box contains two neat rows of gemlike, sugar-dusted rectangles in hues of garnet, amethyst, and topaz. They are pâtes de fruits, an old, traditional Lordaeronian sweet.

Avrenne's face lights up at the sight, and a slightly brighter smile escapes the confines of smallness she ordinarily keeps it dulled to. "Oh, how lovely," she says, her fingertips passing just over the air above them, stroking an invisible line down the rows, greeting old friends, or at least the memory of them.

"I haven't seen anything like these in years." A thread of nostalgia weaves its way around her voice, and into her face, softening the edges of the ice queen. She turns the expression onto Lukas, still smiling. "Thank you. It's a most thoughtful gift."

There's a question in her eyes though, one she's not yet asking, holding it for the moment.

There is that lightning-flash of a smile again, and for a moment Lukas's expression thaws to… relief?

And then he collects himself. He bows his head to her crisply. "I am very glad. That it pleases you."

Vane looks faintly impressed. No, he doesn't, Vane doesn't do facial expressions when he's on duty. He looks like he might be faintly impressed on the inside, though.

Avrenne considers closing the box, not yet decided, and something has her choosing not to just yet. A little temptation, a craving for sugar, maybe.

"Perhaps just one now, as we are close to tea," she says, as she skims along the rows, fingers dancing over the options, until she selects a topaz, lifting it up to take a dainty, ladylike bite, careful with the sugar from long practice. She covers her mouth with her hand. She doesn't speak, because she's a lady, and her mouth is full, but she holds the box out in such a way in offering, brows raising in unvoiced question, if Lukas would care to take one as well.

He shakes his head, his gaze on her mouth. "No, thank you, Your Grace. They are — I brought them for you," he rasps.

Avrenne is not displeased; it's more for her. She pops the second bite into her mouth, and presses her fingers lightly to her lips to kiss the sugar off them. The carmine on her lips transfers ever so slightly to the tip of her finger.

The box's lid is replaced, and as she finishes eating her little treat, she passes it to Vane, her hand out to exchange it for her gloves. The treat consumed, she tells Vane, "If you could put it in my room, on my desk, please.”

Vane vanishes on silent cat feet to put the confections in the Duchess' room.

"An unexpected treat,” Avrenne says, as she starts to pull on her gloves, once again all business, the lingering taste of sugar on her lips notwithstanding. “I had the thought that we might take a walk today, with the weather as fine as it is, and assuming your business doesn’t require sitting. As you can no doubt hear, the house is currently occupied with an afternoon's entertainment of dancing."

From the state of her dress and hair, he might either conclude that she has left the dancing midway to see to this meeting (although she was one to set both the date and the time, so that seems unusual if she did time it so), or that she has not been dancing at all this afternoon.

Lukas tilts his head, gazing in the direction of the ballroom. "Aye. I hear them. Did you not wish to join them, Your Grace?" His face remains stony but there is a slightly troubled question in his opaque eyes.

Avrenne raises both eyebrows. "As I have said, it's a dancing party, and as you might recall me saying before, I tend to find dancing a waste of my time. The Admiral is doing his part, thus freeing me to pursue my own preferences of business. You can see, I was not speaking entirely in metaphor," she says, as she sets her briskly gloves in place.

"They are expected to be done around 3:40pm, give or take 20 minutes, and tea will be served at 4pm. We have several guests at the house for the party, some of whom may stay for tea, as well as the rest of the usual household in attendance, including Miss Sunstrike. You are welcome to stay for it." Just information presented for his consideration.

"I see," says Lukas, neither accepting nor declining the invitation at this juncture. He stands in slightly brooding — or maybe that's just his face — silence. He may be listening to the ballroom again. He may be thinking about tea. He may be doing both or neither of these things. "I suppose I should meet this Miss Sunstrike. But a walk meanwhile sounds pleasant."

As if summoned by the word 'walk,' Vane teleports makes his swift, silent way back down the stairs and crosses to the door.

"Then shall we?" Avrenne says as she sweeps forward — not waiting for an escort. She's just headed out at her natural walking pace, assuming Vane will get the door in time for her to keep moving smoothly, and that Lukas will keep up. "You indicated that there was something you wished to speak to me about? Has something happened regarding the worgen political situation?"

Vane does in fact get the door, and Lukas does in fact keep up. He keeps up so well that as soon as they have crossed the threshold and are moving toward the steps together, he offers Avrenne his arm. "Not precisely."

Her eyes flick to his arm, then back up at his face. "Are you certain?" she asks, indicating his arm with a slight dip of her chin as she keeps walking out of the house into the drive just as the music strikes up in the ballroom. "As we've established, it's not necessary, if you would prefer to eschew the social demand entirely with me."

"I would be very glad," he says seriously, "if you would do me the honor." He does not look like he has ever been glad about anything in his life, but his gaze is somber and earnest. "And forgive me for creating an impression otherwise. I have been… out of society a time."

The way she looks at him gives an impression that she is gauging the sincerity between the words and his expression. Whatever conclusion she draws does not show on her own face.

"So I have been given to understand. Very well." She takes his arm in a light touch without further ado, as if nothing odd has occurred at all, and turns her attention back to their route ahead – a simple stroll through the repaired front gardens, at a slow ladylike walking pace. "We were addressing the subject on which you wished to speak to me about," she prompts.

"Yes," he says in his gravel voice. "We had spoken previously on the possibility that worgen might settle on land… inhospitable to others, and perhaps try to cultivate something of it." He walks on for a few paces, and then abruptly asks, "What is that scent?"

Avrenne is following along with the thread of the conversation, and then she abruptly isn't. She sniffs the air delicately, and experimentally. There are no flowers in bloom yet, and there’s nothing around the house that would be unusual. "I don't smell anything in particular out of the ordinary. What does it smell like?"

"You." He eyes her, a little disconcerted, a little wary. "You smell of… something. I've smelled it before, but not so strongly."

"Oh." Avrenne subtly distances her body a little further away. "I do beg your pardon. I usually try to," she clears her throat, "rinse the scent to be weaker. I know that worgen have a heightened sense of smell, and that ordinarily even pleasing scents can be overwhelming and unpleasant. Today is an exception," for reasons, "and I was not thinking of it. I will be more careful in the future, but hopefully outside it will be better dispersed. As to the substance of your question, it's white lotus oil."

"It's very pleasing," Lukas says. He clears his throat. "Pleasant. A pleasant scent. White lotus? I don't believe I've smelled it before. Apart from you." He looks resolutely ahead, although he does tuck his arm closer to his body, as if to draw Avrenne herself closer again. "The Blasted Lands," he says.

"The Blasted — oh, yes, of course," Avrenne says, catching back up to the thread still in her grasp. The political wheels are turning at a rapid rate, and she doesn't fight against the draw closer at all in distraction.

"What an extraordinary idea. I admit I hadn't even thought of it. They've become so much a part of what I know of the south that I expect I have grown to accept it as a matter of course. Reclaiming that land would be…" She articulates a circle in the air. "The significance could not be overstated. And it has been uninhabitable for so long, that the land is likely effectively barren from all families with claims to it. There is only Nethergarde Keep in the northern section. Where precisely are you considering?"

"To be clear," Lukas says, "I am not considering it. I ask on behalf of a recent acquaintance, Mr. Marl Wormthorn. A druid. He is interested in the potential for a settlement at the southern end of the Blasted Lands, on the coast."

Avrenne's eyes light up in interest. "The coast," she repeats. "If it can be done, that could be strategically enormously significant. With the recent loss of Southshore as a port city, we are down a full location to situate and build up our navy. Obviously this would be likely many years in the future, but if it were successful, we could establish another port city, allowing for better transportation of goods to the whole of the region as well.

"There will always be some risk, of course, with the proximity to the Dark Portal, but a town populated by worgen has a far better chance of repelling any invaders of the Burning Legion, a significant mark in the favor of granting the land. I can very well see the practicality of it, assuming that the land is healable with concentrated effort, especially now that the Dark Portal has been stabilized. If Mr. Wormthorn has the formal request ready to submit, I would be glad to offer to speak with King Varian on his behalf, and I am certain His Majesty will agree to the benefits of the arrangement, particularly as it suits his recent suggestions of a future of healers."

Lukas bows his head to her. "Thank you, Your Grace. I told him you would no doubt offer your aid. What — I don't know whether he has a formal request ready. What would it entail?" He has turned his head, and is watching her intently.

"The preliminary details and description of intent, naturally," she answers, and it's like she's reading off some sort of internal ledger, scanning each line to an empty box to be ticked off or filled in. "How many people, their current nationalities, and current worgen status. Who shall be in charge, and under what system of local governance, particularly who will be settling disputes and enforcing Alliance law.

"By what metric will the land be granted from full control of the Kingdom of Stormwind to those who have agreed to work it, and under which sovereign king and to what Alliance nation, of a reasonable period of time or percentage of health restored, and if the latter, who will be in charge of evaluating such," she continues, and her voice has picked up an undeniable tone, a little thrill brought on by even this listing of necessities. "From where and how will they be getting resources to establish proper living conditions, from lumber to build houses, to food such as local fisheries or hunting grounds and supplemental goods, and how they will be transported, both goods and people, to the area. And, of course, by what system, collected by whom, will they pay taxes.

"If he is not familiar with the organization of such charters and contracts, I would be willing to offer my aid, and I can assure you that I will be fair to both sides, as a woman connected to two nations myself," she says. It's imminently obvious from someone studying her closely that for all of her composure and carefully measured words, there's a light in her eyes, a curve of her lips, and is she — her fingers were, for a brief moment there, stroking a line lightly across his arm as if truly following a final line in a ledger — abruptly halted. She readjusts her hold, to cover the movement, perhaps.

Lukas is still watching her with that opaque, stony gaze. He glances down briefly when she strokes his arm, and then up again to her face. "That would… please you," he clarifies. "To help prepare such a thing?"

Maybe it's just the particular phrasing that has Avrenne square off her shoulders, and shutters the light in the expression on her face into strict lines. Her voice contains none of the interest of before, cold and professional, and closed off. As they walk, she subtly puts a little more distance between them.

"Naturally, such a consideration would be absolutely irrelevant," she tells him. "What matters, of course, as I am sure we can agree, is that I am capable of doing it, and I am willing, of the necessary components for what a person would consider for such a task. However, if you have reason to think that someone else may have a more objective perspective on the matter, there is always Lord Xandros Demasco of Stormwind, who has significant experience in writing legal contracts and the laws surrounding such governance, and is well known for his fairness and neutrality.

"But if you are looking for someone with more of a connection to the Gilnean and worgen population to more strongly represent your people's interests, I am certain there are diplomats and political minded people who will be just as capable of formulating a charter of that nature, although for expediency, I would advise they do so with some assistance from a knowledgeable source for the nuances of the modern Stormwind Kingdom that they may have missed developing in the past few years."

Lukas's brows draw together. He looks nonplussed. After a few silent moments, he says, "I think it would be best if you did it. I will direct Wormthorn accordingly."

"I expect Mr. Wormthorn would do well to know what his options are, and make a decision from that information. One must always make such monumental commitments based on a logical evaluation of the possibilities, and how a person's perspective will influence their approach," Avrenne says with that frigid front. "Was there anything else regarding the worgen situation, in specific or at large, that you intended to bring to my attention? Is there any news of Miss Adamantia's circumstances, for example?"

"Ah," says Lukas. He is studying Avrenne with an intensity that suggests her face has been written in a foreign language he knows only a few words of, and he is trying to translate. "Adamantia, yes. She is doing well. I had supposed… beyond my hope for your counsel regarding a potential settlement, I thought that you or your husband might know of ships to get them there, if the charter is granted. It seems more efficient to travel by sea from Booty Bay than to cross overland in any direction. I am aware that Fallon does not keep passenger vessels, and that his present focus is the war effort. I hoped you might know of someone else."

"On the matter of ships and reliable captains, that is the Admiral's area of expertise," Avrenne says. "If you would like to speak with him today on the matter, it would be best done at tea. His schedule for the rest of the afternoon has several prior commitments, but as they are not entirely inflexible or time dependent, he may be willing to delay some of them for you, should it be deemed necessary or agreeable for you both." Her tone gives no sense of what other commitments the Admiral has, or who they involve. And it's unclear if she's also just speaking of discussing ships or discussing nautical means of transport. Maybe both.

"Was that all?" she asks, as they make a smaller turn around the winter garden, closer to the house once again.

"I — " Lukas is clearly considering whether that is all. Does he have more to discuss? Should he have more? No; extemporaneous speech in this particular context does not seem to serve him well. Stop talking, Lukas.

He nods once, curtly. "Yes, Lady Fallon. That is all. I am… grateful for your time."

Avrenne angles them towards the front door of the house, moving at a pace of a woman who knows that the door will open as she approaches, as if by magic or modern science.

She considers for several steps before she admits, "It is you who have done me the service of your timely request. Even had you not contacted me first, you might have found yourself here today regardless at this precise conveniently party overlapping time, as I would have asked for you to meet at the house, and had… some reason or another for it." What reason? Who knows. She flicks her eyes up to him and adds in a dry voice, something almost like a tease in the tone, "I truly do not care for dancing."

Wait, then, does that mean that she deliberately chose his company instead of any other opt —

This statement coincides almost exactly as the door to the house opens, and Avrenne sweeps them inside, releasing Lukas' escort in a smooth motion as she begins to pull off her gloves, all business once more. "Will we see you at tea, then, Lord Graves?"

Lukas is still looking perplexed, for some value of 'perplexed,' which is to say his eyebrows have shifted slightly in what would probably translate to an actual facial expression in another person. "I…."

Vane closes the front door behind him deliberately. Vane's a helper.

"Thank you, Lady Fallon," says Lukas, and gives her that brief Alteraci bow. "I will."

Avrenne gives him a small smile, and an automatic curtsey. Correctly chosen, Lukas, although the why may still be unclear. She sets her gloves into her left hand. The sounds from the ballroom indicate that another dance is going, and more people are talking.

"Very well," she says. She pauses, a consideration in those dark eyes. "It may be in your interest to know that as expected Miss Sunstrike is a beauty, and an especially skilled dancer. While you may not share the hobby in common, you do have other interests aligned, particularly when it comes to dancing with the Admiral specifically." Oh, I think we're back to dancing, the metaphor. This is just Information for him.

She gives him no opportunity to reply as she continues, "Tea will be served in the library. You will excuse me, I must change."

She sweeps her way onwards to the stairs with no pause, an efficient exact line of the shortest distance, nothing in her elegant posture to give him any better sense of what political or social purpose she has for that afternoon than her words have.

Lukas gazes up the stairs after her for a moment, and then turns to look at the only other person present. "I don't dance," he tells Vane, sounding baffled.

"No, sir," Vane agrees. "Very good, sir. The library is this way."