The Etwahl sat in one of its many cases, far less ornate than the one it had been found in, as Sona walked from a small Demacian carriage to the gates of Darkbourne Hold. She hated walking, not because of an innate dislike for the action, but because she spent so long floating. Her legs were beginning to ache even from the short walk from her carriage to the gates.
Her last visit had been a great success, she simply wished she had more time to devote to her own agenda. Of course, now she was back and as far as she could tell, everything had remained largely the same.
As she stopped and began to reach for her notepad, one of several guards at the gates raised a hand. "No need for that Miss Buvelle. You have business with the Grand General, yes? Right this way." He explained, motioning for the gate to be opened.
Sona had expected as much, despite her atypical choice of attire, a subtle, floor-length grey dress. Though it was not so ostentatious as her clothing on the Fields, it was by no means tasteless, enticing enough to draw the eye without falling prey to the trap of pointless seduction. Overall, a refined, elegant look. Her hair matched, falling as a multicolored cascade directly along her back, brushed to a point where it brought to mind images of the flawless morning sky.
She was lead along a path to the gargantuan building, the luxurious path dotted with enough light to see and enough darkness to leave the well groomed flora bathed in the enchanting majesty of night. The entrance to the manse was awash with busy people, not one of which would meet Sona's eyes, and dim lighting. It was the slightest bit unsettling, making the Maven reach out and tap her guide on the shoulder, giving him a confused look. No real answer, just a polite smile and another 'Right this way', again leading her through the halls and doors to what looked like a fairly standard room to receive guests in.
At least, so long as her understanding of nobility was concerned, it was normal. It was far more opulent than the lesser houses she had so commonly been invited to when she was younger.
"It will only be a moment, Miss Buvelle." The guard said, tearing away back to his post and leaving Sona's myriad questions unanswered. A tiny huff issued from her. He didn't understand.
Post by The Master Tactician on Apr 4, 2013 8:39:14 GMT -5
The sound of a cane and uneven footsteps heralded The Master Tactician's approach. Sona's acute hearing would pick these up long before he paused before the ornately carved entrance to the lounge, long before a Raedsel guard pressed down on the handle, long before the door swung open, long before he limped across the threshold and lowered his head in polite greeting, the slightest of pleased smiles on his weathered face. "Maven," came his hoarse address. A few crooked steps carried him into the appropriate range for conversation, but he maintained a courtly distance.
Even in the dim light provided by scattered candles, the Grand General's shrunkenness, the weariness with which he moved, the drawn quality of his features, were readily apparent. Before he could proceed in his warm welcome, a fit of coughs overwhelmed him. He turned his face, shut his eyes against the spell, the crook of his elbow drawn up over his face despite his shroud. The bronchial rustle of belabored breathing rang out in the lounge, even as his coughing faded. The sounds of his ailment hung in the air with no competition from the Lady Mute or the silent-sworn Raedsel. A scarred hand spread over his chest, over the golden breastplate that served somewhat to disguise his withered body. At his shoulder, Beatrice ruffled her feathers in dismay.
"Excuse me," sternly he frowned, gradually regaining his composure. Luminous eyes settled upon his guest's graceful form and his expression softened into one of genuine concern. "Word reaches our ears of an attack on Demacian soil. I am glad to see you unscathed." A muscle in his jaw twitched as rotting teeth ground against each other. He pursed his lips behind his shroud. "But after such a long journey, Maven, you must be famished."
He offered her his arm, a genteel gesture of his acclaimed hospitality. "Shall I escort you to the dining hall? The table should be set by now." The slightest of smiles crinkled the crows' feet at his eyes as he awaited her response.
Sona's wordless response was fairly indicative, striding across the room with her untrained, uneven steps to lock arms with the withering Grand General, locked out of any more meaningful conversation without the use of both hands. The idea of being pampered by what equated to the king of Noxus, at his own dinner table no less, was intriguing. Nobles had always tried to wow her with their supposed culinary mastery, but nothing had ever really beaten her adoptive mother's cooking.
It was a rare treat that she was afforded, Lestara was a dreadfully busy woman, shuffling to and fro for antiques and oddities. Of particular note was always her mother's impressive talent for baking. Sona had always loved a good dessert, her choices rarely mattered, they were all delicious in their own right. A nice tart however, would always be the first to disappear from the kitchen.
Just thinking about it all made the Maven close her eyes and lose herself in the memories, her stomach giving a tiny gurgle of impatience as she felt her self lean into the diplomat's side. Immediately she corrected herself, shaking her head profusely and offering him the support of her shoulder should he need it. She hadn't meant to put any further stress on a man who seemed so frail, even if he tried to hide it. She was holding his arm, as rough an exterior as he may have tried to affect, this close it was impossible to miss. Her gaze fell to the floor as they walked, a distinctly saddened look taking over her generally cheerful face and pretty features.
Last Edit: Apr 4, 2013 10:37:09 GMT -5 by mutelady
Post by The Master Tactician on Apr 4, 2013 11:50:18 GMT -5
Some semblance of distant mirth flashed in his eyes at the growling of her stomach, finding himself right in his assertion--and then again at her fervent yet silent apology. When she leaned on him, they nearly stumbled, though he sunk his cane in time into the carpet, steadying their strides: two forms frail of body but not of mind.
The Raedsel escorted them on through the twisting halls of Darkbourne Hold, two ahead and two behind. Finally, the party paused before the dining hall. A hulking guard strode forth to open the door. He stood at attention, in silent invitation for the pair to enter. Swain guided his guest across the threshold and over to the table, where a second Raedsel drew out a chair for her. He released her slender fingers, limping to take his own seat. He would wait until she settled herself. Then, slowly, arduously, he sat, a flicker of pain flashing over his features as he lowered himself into the chair.
There, set out on the table before them, lay a feast unrivaled. The appetizers, perfect golden quiches, had already been sliced. A servant strode forth to place a piece upon each plate. The Master Tactician grimaced ever-so-slightly as the meal was laid before him, but quickly redirected his gaze to Sona, gauging her reaction to this reception. The meal had been selected according to the Maven's tastes, prepared by the best chefs in Noxus, everything set out according to propriety.
A soft smile spread across Sona's face as she felt her host steady himself, a loud breath escaping her, a sigh of relief that was utterly foreign from the silent musician. She was not capable of much in the way of vocalizations, tending to keep what little she found herself able to do to herself, particularly those of happiness but could not contain herself. For as much as her world, the circles of noble Demacia, seemed to wish Swain painted with the broad strokes of a villain, she could not see it. He seemed frail but empowered, a man leading his people with the last of what he had to give. It was the last thought she had as their silent journey finally brought them to the doors of the dining room.
A polite nod to the guard who opened the door, another few steps to her own chair and she sat. Before anything else, she placed her notepad and pen upon the table before she allowed her senses to be stolen by the sight and smell of the delicious food arrayed before her. Her smile was broad and sincere, her hands clasping one another before her chest as she looked across the table with delight. She reached out as her meal was placed before her to softly place a hand upon her server's shoulder, stealing their attention to give them a deep nod of thanks. Still they would not return her gaze. The smile that lit her features diminished, always having placed great value in the exchange of a meaningful look.
Her attentions returned to her food, taking her fork between her fingers and taking a reasonable portion of the exquisite quiche to her lips, inhaling its scent for a moment before finally tasting it. Her glee returned in full force as she placed her fork back down and swallowed, dabbing her lips clean with a napkin before reaching for her pen to quickly and cleanly write out a note.
My apologies for not greeting you sooner, Grand General. I am well, though I worry after Demacia. How has Noxus fared since my concert?
Post by The Master Tactician on Apr 5, 2013 8:18:41 GMT -5
The broadness of her smile, the genuine joy she so readily displayed, the sweetness of her brief engages with the servants, contrasted with the grim formality of the Grand General's demeanor. Crimson eyes observed her wordless thanks to his house staff, the animated way she brought her still-warm quiche up to her lips. He watched almost in envy as she savored the single bite, his shroud in place as always, his quiche and utensils untouched.
He lifted his chin to read her note, the smile that spread over his drawn features only serving to deepen the bags beneath his eyes. "Noxus is in bloom, Maven, a vision of prosperity--despite the fouls of recent months." A flame of distaste for the events he referenced flickered in his eyes. The Arrow of Retribution's crude assault, The Burning Vengeance's incineration of his western lands and peoples, the League's reticence. "Freed from the chains that bind, she will be restored to glory." No doubt on her approach to the city, Sona had seen the gargantuan wall undergoing construction around Noxus' broader territories. No doubt she had ridden through the charred wastes's of Brand's destruction. No doubt she had heard the productive bustle of the city, even as the sun set behind the skull-shaped mountain, while her carriage trundled through the cobbled streets.
Swain folded his hands before him. He was silent but a moment before he offered his condolences. "Noxus relates with empathy to the tragedy your homeland has suffered. I am satisfied to see you unharmed, however." Only a musician's ears might detect the subtle hint of disdain in the general's tone when he referenced Demacia--but his expression of compassion seemed nothing but genuine.
I have been dreadfully busy of late, Grand General. I have heard very distressing tales of what has befallen Noxus. Yet in the streets I see no evidence of such a thing. The construction of a wall worries me, however. I fear that I do not quite grasp the necessity of it.
Sona's writing was as quick and immaculate as ever, the pad swiftly crossing the table in the Maven's calloused fingers, the most obvious sign of her tireless passion. Swain's tone did not escape her, however, when he mentioned her adoptive home, making her mood dim for a moment. there was more than enough time to question such a thing later, for she knew it was likely a sensitive topic for the man.
Her frown vanished as she took another bite, closing her eyes to the better appreciate the subtle flavors of the amazingly well-prepared quiche. She would have to remember to thank the chef personally later. She hoped she would be allowed, she was fairly curious as to the state of the hired help in such a wondrous building.
Post by The Master Tactician on Apr 6, 2013 14:43:25 GMT -5
Bushy brows contracted for but a moment as his eyes scanned the page. "We are a resilient people, Maven." Aching teeth grit behind his shroud. "But we are not invincible, as perhaps our national pride would have us believe. When Noxus departed from beneath the Institute's smothering wing, I took it upon myself to protect her. And protect her I shall, from whatever may come."
He pushed the pad back towards her, the tremor of his hand readily apparent as it glided over the mahogany. He interlaced his withered fingers before him, beside his untouched plate. "I am surprised that this, of all things, troubles you, considering the tragedy your own nation has endured. I will not suffer my people another loss." Again, he grit his teeth; a frown darkened his features.
"This is hardly dinner discussion, though, is it?" He offered a polite half-smile. "What of you, Maven? What of your travels of late?" His gaze lingered longingly on his glass of cold water for only a moment, then flickered up back to Sona's face in genteel expectation of her news. His eyes remained inoffensively matched with hers, never drawn to the delicate flesh of her exposed shoulder, despite its sensuous appeal.
A sharp scrape rang out from the Maven's side of the table as she took another bite of food, bringing it to her lips and chewing it slowly as she collected her thoughts. She was not fond of being silenced, insofar as she could be. Still, the night was young, with more than enough time for them to discuss more worldly matters than her musical career. She swallowed and took up her pen once more, writing just below where she had before.
I have been well. I spent much of the last month, since I departed from Noxus, visiting my old home, the orphanage in Ionia. Yet nowhere seems truly peaceful these days. It worries me, though everything that has been happening of late worries me.
The pad crossed the table again, Sona's mild irritation showing in the speed she flicked her wrist with to turn it so that it could be read. Still, she felt no need to censor herself here, of all places. It likely wouldn't be enough to escape Swain's scrutiny even if she tried.
Post by Alexis 'Mute' Lindser on Apr 6, 2013 21:50:37 GMT -5
At the wall stands a line of servants, wearing crisp, knee-length black dresses underneath their starched white aprons. Looking at them in their regalia, one would almost imagine they'd crinkle if they moved; they stand motionless and silent as they've been taught. Those who don't have short hair keep it pinned up, in buns or ponytails, and their stares are lowered respectfully to the floor.
One of them, shorter and thinner than the others, keeps her grey eyes a little further up. She looks instead at the Maven's hands, knowing that it'd be simpler for the musician to be noticed if she kept her gaze there. The other servants had insisted that she be the one to wait on Sona after the initial settings were placed, and if it was meant as a cruel joke, then Alexis apparently hadn't noticed.
(In actuality, she'd have to have been a fool not to, but decided not to risk her position at the hold with a scrap in the kitchen. It would have disrupted preparations for the evening, and she wanted to stay here for as long as she could; it was a far nicer place than she'd ever worked.)
She wasn't paying much attention to the conversation throughout the dinner, but the sharp sound of the fork scraping across the china attracts her notice, and the speed of the motion in the Maven's wrist tells the girl perhaps she should have been. The pads of her slim fingers press together behind her back in an expression of her nerves- the movement doesn't show, and so it's permitted by the rules of their training.
I've never met another mute before; it's something of a shame that she's from Demacia. But- I wonder what her plan is in coming here? Alexis would shrug, had she not better control over her body language than that. As it is- she stands with her back to the wall, her thin face expressionless.
Post by The Master Tactician on Apr 6, 2013 22:03:45 GMT -5
The slightest of frowns came over the Grand General. He pursed his lips behind his shroud, noticing his guest's sudden change of demeanor. She had finished her quiche, and on queue, a servant should step forth and remove her empty plate. Swain was about to speak when a series of hacking coughs escaped him. He turned his head into the crook of his arm, ever-mindful of propriety. The raucous sounds of lungs clearing echoed harshly in the otherwise quiet dining hall.
"Excuse me," he offered, running two fingers over his clammy forehead. "I only wish I could offer you some semblance of comfort, Maven, but in truth, there is every reason to be apprehensive." The general sat back in his chair, indicating that, though his own appetizer was untouched, his plate could be removed as well. "We can only prepare as best we may for the threats that loom on the horizon."
His gaze dropped. A brief sigh. Another few bronchial coughs. "But how rude of me. Can I offer you a drink other than water? Whatever your heart desires."
Post by Alexis 'Mute' Lindser on Apr 6, 2013 23:46:36 GMT -5
Noticing that Sona's plate is clean, Alexis searches her memory for the protocol in her partial training. Realizing what she's to do thankfully quickly, she steps up to the table, collecting first the General's plate, then the musician's. Her eyes are on her hands, and her movements are quick and efficient as she stacks one plate atop the other. She seeks no favor with her actions, simply to finish her work and be out of the way as soon as she can.
The Maven's hand reaches out deftly, her coarse fingers falling onto the girl's shoulder, oblivious to the her condition. She held her there, writing on her pad with the off hand quickly and carefully, choosing her words so as not to upset some fine balance she was unaware of.
I would like a simple white wine, please. And if it is not too much to ask, I would prefer to be looked at directly. The weight of a gaze shares much between two people and I have few ways to offer thanks to your humble staff.
Sona spun the pad back and smiled warmly, her previous ire forgotten. If there was one thing that could be said about her only means of explicit communication, it was that it was encompassing, that it disallowed her to snap as she had seen happen so many time in her life. She was required to choose her words as a whole, not simply by their own merit. It was something she was glad for, as it allowed her to forget her troubles rather easily.
Post by Alexis 'Mute' Lindser on Apr 8, 2013 0:36:04 GMT -5
Alexis pauses at the touch of Sona's hand, uncertain of the protocol to put into effect here, and, relieved by the familiar sound of a nib on paper, she looks down to the pad as the Maven writes. Her script is neat, and much lovelier than the servant's, but just as legible as it scrolls along the page.
The girl's grey eyes stop on the bottom of the page, rather than moving to wordlessly question the General- she's not so foolish to think he'd offer her any advice. Deciding not to set the dishes down, she turns her gaze hesitantly up to the musician's eyes, and nods once, the shadow of a smile at the corners of her mouth. There's a quality of hesitance in her expression; she's not sure whether a smile is as permissible from servant to guest as it is from guest to servant, but it seems safe enough.
'Simple' white wine? I will have to ask someone else what, precisely, that entails. I want to serve well tonight. I don't think my words are necessary, here-
And so, the interaction apparently concluded, Alexis waits for the Maven to take her hand away, so that she may go to the cellar to fetch what's been asked for.
The soft blues of Sona's eyes linger on the younger girl's own for much longer than any normal person would've ever bothered to remain, as did her hand, though it was light. The Maven's astute gaze pored over the other girl's steel eyes before breaking into a broad, caring smile, patting Alexis' shoulder delicately and giving her a nod of acceptance.
As she retrieves her pad and reorients it so that it can more easily be written upon, it's clear that her mood as brightened considerably from the soundless exchange. The kind musician's hope is that, as he was no doubt watching, Swain can perhaps appreciate the compassion in her gesture. Her cheerful face quickly turns back to the shrunken man before her, pausing a few moments before opening her mouth as if to speak, only to lightly click her tongue, the noise surprisingly pleasant for how sudden it is.
It was something she and her adoptive mother had found great fun in fashioning. With few ways to communicate quickly, the click was their way of expressing gratitude between them. It quickly developed as a second nature when she felt the need to genuinely express sincerity, even if the gesture was lost on most due to the startling rarity with which she tended to use it.
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