The Waiting Game –open–

[aoife]

Bleating sheep were happily fenced by a generous stable lad and his horses, all were munching the grass, enjoying being off that wobbly boat. Aoife on the other hand was not enjoying it as much as her flock, having been on detour for far too long now, her destination of Ulster seeming further away now then ever. Also, seeing as Aoife did not have her favorite pastime being cud chewing, she’d have to find entertainment elsewhere. Not at that blasted castle though, the maids, cooks, hands were all pleasant, the nobles were lacking for her tastes. Then again, Aoife had a plumped up vision of “nobles” and never had really met one before her stop at Skye.

Her brown ankle boots made little noise on the streets of the Capital City, her wheat blond head cokeed to the side as she peeked in a shop or two, the soft waves and curls loosely tied at the nape of her neck with a red ribbon. Small hands were in her over skirt of vivid green’s pockets. Her sashay stride causing the skirts to sway, little peeks of other colourful hems underneath could be viewed if you stared at the hems long enough. Her altered men’s blouse of pale yellow was not hidden today by her shawl, the soft breeze feeling fine.

Cherub pink lips pursed as she stopped at the cross roads of the city lane, a constant sing songy hum came from her. Which way to go? What to see? Finding her way back to the docks was the last thing on her mind for now, adventure was sure to be h

[Lady Eirian Gwenyth Apollius]

"The problem with an expectation and opinion is that if narrow, in any way when the rendition of it comes past, it is a little hard to recognize that all of your expectations are thus defied, and your opinion should thus be changed."


The Cullin Mountains stretched fore and aft of the great, glorious stone city of Turas Lan. People milling about below the castle windows seemed small in comparison to the expanse. It took a view such as this for one to appreciate the depth, breadth, and circumference of the place. Eirian, however, had no desire to become lost on the winding paths or see the products for sale in the markets. She didn't want to walk in the stone squares, sit at the fountains, or look in the gardens of castles and halls. What the Lady wished was to return to her beloved valley. Twenty miles seemed to be a hundred stretched on an impossible road blocked by fire, assault, and all manner of things that broke the peace she built with her own two hands.

She placed a hand on the round, full dome that had become the home of the baby within. "We are leaving," she said to the bairin,"We are going out today." A flurry of waving hands, shaking heads, and women were pushed aside as she drapped an offered shawl over her arms. All that was left was for the guard to haunt her footsteps. God, no, she didn't want a carriage to be bumped around in. There was no way she could endure a saddled horse. Her feet should have stopped her, but then again if every listed ailment did not bring her down why should her feet?

She returned to the simple, the natural, and thus returned to herself. All of her clothing was at home. Spurning away the wardrobes, the seamstress, she took the offer of one of the handmaiden's dresses. Earthtones and pink. A chemise and a loose kirtle. Her hair was brushed and swept into an threaded net of cream Shetland wool. Thus she walked through the gates of the castle, down the steps, and onward. Thus she went to live by her own whim. The Artisan of the Griffin Court.

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[aoife]

[re-new post since I never got an answer, I'll just have her move along! ]

The meanderings of a wayward person were in fact erratic at best. Thus, somehow our little Heroin Aoife found herself in a big freaking circle, back near the gates of the castle. Her pretty pout pinched as she placed hands on her slim waist, frowning in figuring out how she ended up back here.

Then slender Irish Linen clad shoulders would rise and fall and she'd take the left instead of the right. Which, this is how she usually met people, by nearly bowling them over. Although this time she stopped herself in enough time from hitting the elegant looking pregnant lady. Whew!

She'd throw a smile on her sweet face, an easy task indeed, as she said in rapid Manx, then followed in English her apologies if she frightened the woman, "Dty villey pardoon! A thousand apologies, Mistress! Beg pardon of this clumsy shepherdess." At which point she'd give a low curtsy, though still smiling, it didn't make the apology seem any less authentic. The woman seemed fine, she made no movement like it had bothered her or she was in danger of tettering over.

Aoife would just curtsy and bob along the row, pretty pink lips pursed as she peered into the one shop after another, her humming began again. Wide blues would dart about as she peeked into a small cart's basket before continuing on the lane.

[Lady Eirian Gwenyth Apollius]

- Please forgive the very delayed reply to this thread. It seems I have been everywhere else and have to get back into practice reading the boards on a daily basis. -


"Oh, by all means tis fine, my lady! My lady?" The Artisan turned around only to find that now it was she who was fumbling gracelessly around the crowds milling in the lanes. If she was speaking to the brightly attired shepardess a moment ago, now she was speaking with a man who seemed sore at being regarded as feminine! Oh, bother it all! This interlude was going south in a very quick manner. In order to observe social grace (if not save herself from further embarrasment), the Welsh woman would look for an exit. It would be provided by two men lifting a heavy beam, thus parting the crowd far better than her "beg pardons," and "excuse me" could ever manage!


Turas Lan could make even one who'd roamed the stone streets lost if they couldn't keep track of landmarks. Eirian didn't claim to be a cartographer nor was she high enough to ascertain just what was fore and aft of her this day, thus passing stalls, blushing at brazen daylight harlots before turning toward civilization on a new row one more time. "Good Lord preserve me.." she uttered..only just in time to careening into the basket cart, and setting the stall keep a'flutter with worry. "Oh, Mistress, oh my let me help ye! You're dress, oh my! " Poor Eirian! She didn't know if she ought sooth the woman's worries or apologize for her apologizing! "Truly, it is fine! I did not mean to bump your wares...."

One strange turn begets another. Just as she stood up, she found that now she knocked sides with another human being. It was Aoife, though of yet she was known to Eirian only by her finely bright colors. "Oh my goodness! Good, my mistresses, I beg many pardons of you both ..for it seems..well..my feat are made of lead this day and no barings have I!"

[morgen]

The shop, where this continual clumsy collision of bodies was partaking infront of, was the book shop; Grey Books and Publishing Co. One of the larger and grander book shops in Turas Lans offering a wide variety of volumes in all genres, blank diaries and journals, parchment, quills and ink, and the young Lord Grey did personal calligraphy; he was known to have a beautiful script. He was the young scholar Morgen Grey whos family and history were well known throughout the countryside of Turas Lans, more commonly known now as the 'Grey Orphanage,' with Morgen the head of a household of 8 siblings.

The tall man was standing at a bookshelf, directly infront of the window infact, gripping a book with its spine in his palm mid-way to replacing it back on the shelf while his head was turned towards the window. He saw the regal, dark haired woman bump into someone, and then with the younger and lighter featured women. One long brow struck upwards at the scene, seeing them both flustered. Then he resumed his somber visage and returned his attention back to the books. The women in France have more grace.

Oh, how he missed France.

[aoife]

Aoife was a girl who was easy to laugh, which she was doing in a most lovely fashion. Her small, slender fingered hands were out gripping the lovely Dark Woman's elbows to help steady her. She was taller than Aoife, that was for sure, but it didn't matter, the lass would hang on for dear life to keep her up if she had to!

Luckily, she didn't, pulling her though into the half light of the doorway - to the Bookshop where the fit keeper was peeping through the window at their comical meeting. A soft flutter of lashes glance through the window before they were planted in the doorway, out of the throng of people for them to bounce off of! Perhaps she was not the most graceful, but what she lacked in strict movement of crowds, she picked up in personality. Or so she was inclined to think.

"We are drawn together, I know, deyr Shuyr [dear sister], for how could two strangers find each other in such a way so often?" That sweet purse of lips curled into a wide friendly smile as she gently plucked a few fuzzes from the lady's sleeve before making sure she was steady and kept her greedy little fabric touching hands to herself, brilliant blues flirting over the Woman's dress, then to her face again. If she was a man, it would be fresh, but she wanted details on her cloth!

[Lady Eirian Gwenyth Apollius]

"It seems the baby has stolen all my grace for herself and given her mother a set of donkey hooves 'pon two left feet," a humerous articulation came as she blushed heavy for the clumsiness that was neither common of her nor should it have happened, "Indeed, we are joined today..and God works miracles twould seem. My name is Eirian, and aside from careening in to you, how are you this day?" Of all the wonders Turas Lan had to offer, Eirian did fall in love with three distinct things: The Guild of Artisans, The Guild of the Weavers, and the publishers who did remarkable things 'pon the device known as the printer's press.

What was common in the lands of the East were only inklings of imagination here, but to find a place where books are made as quick as one can pull a lever? Christ be praised! She smiled to Aoife all while offering the shop keep a curtsy. It was a move of redemption, given a fluidity that would rival if not surpass any French woman by far! Aoife seemed to inspect the garment of the elegant woman round with babe, and questions did not ask themselves but should she inquire, Eirian would know precisely what it was.

It seemed that she stood between a store and two people who were all that was to her in the world: books and inks, art, cloths and shepards.

[morgen]

After he had replaced the particular volume back on the shelf where all the books were for sale, he turned to look at the two women outside the shop window again. He acknowledged the two of them with a respectful, but curt, bow of his own; nothing more and nothing less. Grey Books had a reputable collection of having every and anything in ones imagination, and for the young man's fine hand, but the last thing he was known for was a friendly or pleasent disposition.

Morgen's gaze lingered on the dark haired woman a little while longer. His vain thoughts of her clumsiness were eradicated on a closer inspection. She looked remarkably identical to his late mother; black hair and blue eyes, except hers were darker. Yes, almost brown, like his. It was refreshing to see and remember her, for after so many years, unwillingly the details of people begin to slip until they entirely dissappear from memory.

Perhaps that is why the quiet and reserved book keeper ventured to the door and extended a hand to open it wide for the two ladies, his eyes ever lingering on the older looking woman. At first, it might have appeared that the man would yell at them to make foolery somewhere else besides his doorstep, for his face was so severely expressionless that it looked harsh and austere. But, instead, his eyes broke for a moment from the dark haired woman to the younger, and said,

"Good Afternoon madam-Ladies. Could I interest you ladies in a new collection and variety of books or some parchment or quills perhaps?" If only his visage was not so inexorably void, he perhaps would make for a very charming gentleman. He stood aside then, still holding the door, to further invite the women inside.

[aoife]

Another light chuckle would leave her lips as the woman, Eirian, gave her explanation. Small hands would clasp together, fingertips pressing at soft lips as she gazed at the lady a moment, just not taking in fully that the state she was in. "Tink," for that sing songy lit accented her lips, "nothing of it! Better you and yer so called "donkey hooves" then me ram's real ones!" Another chuckle passed through her and she'd turn as the Lady did, towards the shop keep. Following them, she'd dip low, shinning gold head bowed before with a swift, sleek move, she was standing normal once more.

A quick glance around, she'd notice the shop, a fine one indeed. A slight step back as she looked at the man, young man, and share a smile with the two of them, letting the lady proceed her if she wished to go in. Where the man was stoic, she was expressive, it was a flaw as much as it was a favor, for it got her in just as much trouble as his may with gossip.

"Beg yer pardon, both of you, my name is Aoife [ee-Fah]! And as far as your lovely wares, they'd be a waste on my poor soul." She looked apologetic, and she truly was. She could do her numbers, she could read, but it took her a bit and it just lead her to questions which people got annoyed with answering. Such as life.

[morgen]

The Book Store was not a particularly vast or grand one, since books were relatively new, but it was cozy, cluttered, but pristine with not a smudge of dust and not a book out of place. The same could be set for it's keeper.

The walls were lined with shelves, all filled with books of various lengths and width and organized alphabetically. Across the room there set a handsome desk with some piles of parchment, an ink and quill, and a worn leather brown book that was the shop's ledger. In the center of the room there were two small round tables that had a variety of empty journals for sale, and near the front desk there was a square table directly next to it that contained the ink jars of different colors, mainly black. Then near before the large front window of the shop, that stuck out in sort of a half pentagon there was a display case of very fine and some lavish quills of rare bird feathers; those being the more expensive. One other door, besides the front door, was in the shop and that was in the corner on the left hand side on the far wall which lead to the back room where he kept two printing presses.

When the lighter girl spoke his eyes traced and lingered on her as she introduced herself and spoke. Both were very pretty women; one of a more regal kind he sensed, familiar with that from when he had studied at the University in Paris, and then the simple, yet flattering grace of the countryside he saw in the other.

"A pleasure, miss Aoife," He clasped his black ink stained hands behind his back, "I am Morgen Grey. My father, Adair Grey, ran this bookshop in his days and now I." His voice was deep and eloquent, his time in France having tempered the Scottish brogue that he now disdained, his black hair shoulder length hair was combed neatly and kept in a pony tail by a blue satin ribbon. His attire was plain; black breeches met by black boots with a white blouse tucked in. What he wore, literally, every day. Not even the color of his ribbon changed, though his hair was always tied so with not a strand out of place. The only unorderly thing about him was his ink stained hands, which he kept clasped behind him, because of his work.

When the two ladies entered, he closed the door behind them gently. "Pray, why do you say that miss Aoife?" Returning his hands behind him, one gripping the wrist of his opposite he stepped around his desk and stood behind it and the chair. Dark blue gaze sweeping over the store then settling on the women again. "I would say I have most an abundance of Bibles. It is what is most printed in Europe. In different languages, though," He said as if that would make it more exciting, "Then I some novels, philosophies, plays, poetry, music sheets, books on medicine and law." Morgen worked very hard to have something more than Bibles and native Scottish novels recently published in his shops. And some of the books were actually put together, written, and published by himself. Though under a different pen name. Such as a collection of folk lore from France and other countries he knew of when he studied there, having esembled them and printed them out himself. Only a few copies, however. What knowledge he had acquired in his studies, he printed, so that he could share with the rest of the world through his little book shop.

[aoife]

Aoife's light steps were taken as they were lead inward and she'd sidestep a bit to let the Lady through, in case there was a chair or stool for her to sit on, she did not want to get in the way of pregnant! Her cousin's wife about bit a youngster's head off when she shot for the chair over the very far along mother.

Her wide grin faded into a soft one as those wide eyes watched the book seller's as he talked about all of the books they listed, she nodded politely as he listed the books, aside from the Bible, they had. She had one of those, small, worn, torn, sheep chewed - thanks to that youngster mentioned before. Once he finished, she'd give him a low chuckle as her, for once, dye free hands would clasp before her, ignorance was bliss, yes? "Ah..Weel, me soul is in fine condition, for I mean that the lovely tings you sell would be in waste on me. I do my numbers just fine, my lettering too," she almost wanted to stress that she was not just some country pumpkin in front of the two very elegant persons, "but my reading? Weel, not.." Her hands parted from each other as she lifted them, as if she could grasp the word from the air, which was possible seeing as where they were, "soccoil, ah, easy going?"

Pink lips would fall into another easy smile as her gesturing hands self consciously now pushed back a few wheat blond curls, pushing them to join their red ribboned sisters.

[morgen]

Seeing that the older woman was encumbered with a growing child, he shifted to grasp the sides of his black leather arm chair of a fine ornate rose wood, lifted it, and brought it over to the opposite side of his desk with a hand gesturing towards the seat, "My Lady." Offering a curt bow afterwords, then returned to his place behind his desk.

He returned his attention to Aoife when she spoke and nodded. "That is understandable. Practice is perfection, however." He paused a moment, debating whether it was worth while to attempt contradiction and assign advisory, or to do as he always does; nodd and be silent. "It is imperative, of course, to be educated. If only mildly. But to read is not always with the direct goal of learning something." He meant to read for pleasure, of course. Which he did, but he also loved learning and would have never left the University in France if it were not for the unfortunate perdicament that found his family.

[aoife]

Brilliant blues would narrow at the young man as he explained his thoughts on what she should do. Granted, he had a point, but looking him over again, it did not seem like he really had to work as she use to..she was not well off, but she was currently on adventure, or at least, waiting until a destination revealed itself to her. After all, she arrived at this point in her life because of war, which point left her without much to stay for, then threw a pebble. It landed on a boat to Ulster, which was currently at war and diverted her to Skye until she was move along or settle.

Lips pursed as those thoughts crossed her mind and she would nod slowly at the man, glancing to the lady, who she hoped was not in any pain from the bumping. She did not want a birthing on her hands! "Aye, most certainly, good Sire.." She really did not know what to say, but he was a curious one, wasn't he? Now the Lady..her fingertips tingled with the touch of her sleeves as she wanted details on her cloth, "I suppose I should look at yer wares, mh?" A slow smile slipped over her features.

[morgen]

Looks are deceiving.

He glanced to the other woman, that was quietly subdued. He wondered if she was not feeling well, or was simply being entertained by their conversation. Which ever it was, he did not mind. Dark azures drifted back to the Aoife, taking a moment to study her a moment while her attention was directed on the Lady.

He felt something beginning to burn inside his chest. The muscle in his jaw flexed a moment beneath the skin of his cheek, a hand raised briefly to his chest as he cleared his throat. He was unsure if the question was directed towards him or the Lady and her cloth. So for a moment he looked between the two and when the other did not answer he responded, "Well, if you are sincerely not interested it does me no flattery for you to pretend that you are." He did not mean it in any antagonizing way, just indifference. Though pausing a moment after listening to himself, hoping it indeed did not come out that way. "I do have more things besides books, though," He offered with a step of lightness in his voice. Moving around his desk he unclasped his hands from behind him and stood infront of the small drawer that sat next to his desk on the left hand side. "I have different colors of ink and a few scented ones," Plucking one small jar of red ink he opened it carefully, he didn't want red on his fingers now with the black, brought it near his nose first and sniffed it. "Cinnamon." Stepping towards Aoife he raised it so she could smell it too. It indeed had a cinnamon scent to it. "Although I suppose you are one not much for writing letters either." He rolled his shoulders in a light shrug. Whether she did or not, he thought the scented ink was nifty nevertheless.

[aoife]

A bit stuck up, were we? She'd blink at the Lady who was being so quiet to the young man again. He couldn't be much older than her, she wondered if the raids her home had happened to her, happened to him as well. That could explain his the stiff line of his jaw, otherwise he'd be quiet a dapper man..her head shook slightly again as she let her mind change course. A light smile still politely played on her lips as she shook her head, though stepping towards him and his ink pots to take a sniff, she's raise her brows as she looked up at him, fidgety fingers wanting to dabble in the inks, but she'd just clasp them before her.

"Nay, I do not have any persons to write to, dear Sir. None that can read, that is, or care too hear from me. But I do not jest in interest at the books. Ye can point me to one at my novice level? I have coin to pay." She'd actually sewn her money into the hems of her clothing, last place many people would look. She did not know anyone and not that she did not trust the good folk about these parts, she did not want to leave it laying about.

"Aside, it seems as if I may be stuck here a while, I will need something ta do or go mad." At that moment, her fair features would burst into a warm smile as she stepped back from him and his inks a bit, giving him room to find her a book if he felt so inclined.

[Lady Eirian Gwenyth Apollius]

- Home is where the heart is -

Ink quills, pots, books, fabric, and three people converging in the publisher's shop encountered a cross-road of sorts. Three people of which two took off in words with expediant delivery of a reply. A sense of humor. A common space. Had she forgotten how to carry on conversation or were her wits as gone as the sense of balance? She would only curtsy to them in her silent demeanor while looking on the volumes bursting from the shelves.

"Bibles.....books....quills." Morgen's mouth had many words but gave only three that stirred the interest now. She looked on the fine wares with fingers reaching out to gently touch the packed volumes side by side. To some, a book would be nothing more than binding holding old monk's day labor. But the wonder of printing? Ravishing, spell-binding . The Chinese technique was a rarity in Europe or thought to be the fool's pursuit, but here it was in Turas Lan. A place that she had not thought held meaning until the library was considered, the Scholar's Hall, the Hall of Guilds.

To move to another world again is harder when you realize what you leave behind. Pieces of lives shower over the inklings of new times ahead. There is comfort, though, if you know where to look. Eirian's white hand reached out from the shadow of the wall-flower corner to the binding of a bible in Cymru. "Excuse me...Master Grey...is this the holy writ, in Cymru, in Welsh? This is a rarity indeed. Have you, Master Publisher...published the word of God in the Gaelic Tongue of the Poets?"

Rarely complained, rarely spoken. Rarely even more than the smile on her face now it flickered with realization of a peace of home. A long ago home, one that wouldn't be and rarer still for the fact no one spoke the Gaelic she did.

It was good to go to the home of the heart again.

[morgen]

"Understandable." He nodded, capping the small jar of ink carefully and returning it to its place inside the drawer. His home may not have been pillaged or in the midst of brutal raids, but he had experienced loss. It seems, in these times, no one can escape the fingers of death. And it may be unfair to say anyones pain is greater than the other.

He began moving towards one of the shelves, one arm bending behing his back while the other skimmed the book spines. Pausing with Aoife's last comment, he turned his head towards her. "In Turas Lans? Why is that?" From her accent he could detect she was from elsewhere, he was curious on the perdicament she announced herself to be in here. Though, when he thought about it, he was in the same boat. Critizing himself mentally for thinking so; it was a selfish thought.

Pulling out one slim black leather bound book from the others on a middle shelf he said, while looking down at the cover, "This one has just a few collections of folk tales from Scotland. There are more. Some Irish, Welsh, and I have one on Scandinavian folk lore." He pushed the book back into its place. "This whole shelf is. They have some entertaining stories. I have some compilments of poetry also, if that would be intriguing." Turning when the other woman finally spoke he walked over to her, his other hand clasped by the wrist now again behind his back. Stopping beside her he looked down to the book she had in her hand then nodded to her question, "In Scott's Gaelic, yes. There is one in Irish, as well. I have a few other books in Cymru as well."

Just then there was a loud clamor from behind the wall and an abrupt shriek. The door behind the front desk then burst open and out came a small boy that looked much a mini Morgen, but with lighter blue eyes that were now gushing with tears, and black ink stained on his round cheeks, and all over his little hands that he held up in the air. His mouth open, wailing his perdicament.

A hand swiftly rose so fingertips perched on his temple and he swiftly moved to the boy, glancing over his shoulder, "Excuse me ladies a moment..." He ushered the little boy back through the door, and when it swung one could see a large printing press briefly and a little girl standing beside it, also ink stained. "Casper! What have I said about..." And Morgen's voice was muffled behind the closed door, leaving the women alone in the shop.

[aoife]

Blond head would tilt [boy-thingy? really? this is what it defaulted when I used the word "c-ck" to mean tilt?] as she was lead towards a shelf of books. He'd pluck one then put it back as he explained they were stories of the fey. Lips quirking into a half smile, eyes of lapis lazuli were following the dark haired man as she was the last one to think he'd dabble in something like faerie stories. It was a pleasant surprise, but she should shame herself in thinking he'd be close minded to such. She should, she didn't. Aoife was rarely ashamed of herself.

"Och, why am I here? I through a pebble," a cryptic grin spread across her features in the most impish of manners.

Quick fingers would pull the book he put back when he turned to the Lady's question. The book was felt up in almost a lewd fashion, turning it and fingertips gliding over every smooth corner and then down the spine before opening it to look into the words. Wide eyes would squint a bit as she read the first few words on the page. She tilted her head again as she listened to the question, she had no idea what a Cymru was, but guessing where they were, it had to be a book, right?

Just as the first sentence was read, the door shaking open and then the wail of a little one made her head lift and the book snap shut. She looked as if she was on the ready for something as she took a step forward towards the boy before Morgen stepped forward and excused himself. He could be the father of the little one! Or at least a brother..they looked so similar. The door shut behind the pair and she'd step over to the Lady, who was by the window with her book. Her own in her hand, she'd peek out the window at the little one before smiling up to the lady. She swore, they must breed the women here to be giants, or she was just fairly short, "Ye find a book? What is a 'Cymru'?" the word was butchered of course, a tongue twister for the Manx, 'cam-roo.'

[Lady Eirian Gwenyth Apollius]

She tumbled out of the book's induced memories by the shrill, sharp cry of the young child quickly ushered off by older brother to a place beyond their sight. He talked of woes, and it made the mother-to-be pat the round of her belly and chuckle, "I welcome such worry," she said, before turning an eye to the cross engraved into the leather cover. Inside of it was the word of God that should recieve a believer's reverence. Instead, she worshipped at the feet of her mother and mother-tongue with a kiss to the gold foil sign of Christ and an utterance of, "Forgive me, Father, it has been so long."

Two women with jeweled stones for eyes continued a conversation on what the relevance of a word was. Perhaps it was the short step she stood on to retrieve the text that gave the illusion of height. Putting a hand against the shelf, she came down the division twixt the rise of the floor to prove that God had been ample in many things yet height was not one. Her grace was not measured in inches, for she was no more than five feet, with an extra inch up to serious debate. The women of Scotland were bohemoths in comparison! The Vikings surely fell for the firely lasses and gifted their off-spring with the stature the frost giants from the lands left behind. "Yes, m'lady, I did find a book." One hand was on the top, the other on the bottom as she lifted it for her to see if she liked "Cymru is the country, and the language. In the common it is called Wales, and sometimes it is called Cymrueg, the language..but many words for the same hting. The Cymrueg, Welsh, is my mother-tongue. Wales is where my blood comes of...and to think on it I think of the woman who taught me all this though we did not live on the soil. My mother."

A pang of loss constricted the heart before the beat began again. Her fortune was many. For fifteen years she lived in the care of her mother, her wisdom, guidance, and love. For fifteen years she was instructed in the ways of the feminine by a woman who extoled virtue. It was no wonder then her father spent fifteen years and four more to find the woman who was deemed a noble's throw away but his heart's greatest treasure. The country of Wales never died but lived on even in England. In stories, song, game, and instruction. It was a country who's ways she cherished yet could not embrace. That nation with it's station had been the death of her parents, the obsession of her grandmother, and the place of her own imposed exile from.

The bible she held in her hand made a mother wish to give her daughter the same instruction, the same paitence as she had been shown, for part of her was of Wales too.

[morgen]

In the back room where he had left his two of his younger siblings his hand moved to grip Casper's shoulder firmly, bending down on his knee so he was eye level with his brother. The little boy of five stared at him with wide sky blue eyes behind messy black bangs, that frozen look of fear that deer have when caught in sight of a hunter.

About to speak, Morgen tightened his lips and sighed. Loosening his grip on his shoulder, he hated when they looked at him like that. "Casper, you know you are not supposed to touch the press. Now you may have black cheeks forever, and if you do that is your fault." He rose to his feet and Casper remained there, wiping the tears from his eyes with the back of his hand and just smearing more black ink doing so. "Afton told me to," He threw out a defense while Morgen picked up a bucket of water and a rag. Morgen glanced to the accused who stood beside the press in complete silence, the last of the Grey's at 3, frowning instantly at Casper, glaring at him with her sea green eyes, and making a pout with her lip. Morgen had to contain a laugh, to himself he thought Afton was by far the cutes of his younger siblings, trying to retain himself in all seriousness while disciplining. Bending down on one knee infront of Casper again he dabbed the rag into the bucket of water and tried to wash the ink off his cheeks. "And what have I told you about lying Casper? If you continue to misbehave you will be left at home with your sisters."

"Noo!"

"Hush, tomorrow you are staying home." Now Casper was pouting. He did not like to be at home with his sisters because Constance always made help with chores. Morgen knew Casper to have lied because Afton ceased speaking since spring.

Morgen sighed, dropping the rag into the water and looking at his little brother. "You are going to need a bath. This is permanent ink, it will not come out for awhile, if at all." Morgen did not pity him, it would teach him a lesson. Hopefully. Getting to his feet again he set aside the bucket and rag, moving over to Afton and plucking her up off the ground. "At least you are not dirty," He smiled and straighted out the white cotton dress she wore, brushing back some strands of her dark blonde hair. Holding her in the crook of his arm so her hands were about his shoulders he began for the door, looking back at Casper. "Come on, now I know I can't leave you two alone in here."

So Morgen reappeared from the door with a blonde three year old in his arms that did not resemble him so much as the boy did. The boy following behind him glumly with black cheeks and his eyes to the ground. Morgen had recomposed himself to his impassive reserve and commanded, "Sit," to the boy, who obliged, scrambling onto the chair and bringing his knees to his chest, knuckels to his cheeks to try and cover the ink stains. He set the girl down beside him, the padded arm chair was big enough the fit the both of them.

With that done Morgen faced his customers, hands clasping behind his back once again. "Forgive me, sometimes I have to be a sitter and a book keeper." A lightness in his voice offered humor in his words. He observed that the two women both held books now. "Have you found something interesting?"

And Morgen was much a patron of folk stories. He had always been, since he was a child. And often he came home in the evenings to tell them to his siblings, and also played some folk songs on an old lute that belonged to his grandfather.

[aoife]

Aoife's sweet lips made a perfect 'o' at the Lady's explanation. Then she'd nod and give a light smile. "It is nice ta find çheer [home] in strange places, yes?" Wide eyes would look down at her book, noticing the Cross at last, she'd nod again, to herself though. She wasn't a heathen, she knew comfort when she saw it. And she was very much comforted when the lady, moments before, stepped off the stoop to come down to her level.

Thank goodness! Not all were so tall.

Thinking of the short, when the shopkeep came out with little bits and a new one, she thought they must be making the books! Then smiled a bit seeing the poor lad's cheeks, turning her head so that she could hide her low chuckle with the Lady as her guard, whispering, "Ah, ye can hardly wait?" Meaning, can you hardly wait for messy sticky children into everything and anything no matter what? She could wait a while longer, but it did not look like the lady had a choice. She'd smile brighter as she tried not to notice the boy now hiding his face.

Turning back towards the keep and glancing over the girl he was setting down, that friendly face would keep it's smile as she nodded to him before holding out the story book for him to take and tally for her. "Yes, Sire, I have. This one please. And the Ainleyn [angels], they are ta help me read it?" She'd quirk a fair brow at the man before winking at the two little ones. Her gaze would flick back to the man for her amount, hands folding before her once more.

[Lady Eirian Gwenyth Apollius]

"Aye, m'lady. That it is. A little bit of cheer carries the heart on light wings, makes it fly. Tis not so bad to be a might lighter." Eirian turned to the counter. Today, she'd make a purchase of the word of God in the Welsh tongue. "To find people too," she looked to Aoife with a smile, "That is the greatest gift." Time to wait for the keep was spent looking over additional pieces of Turas Lan to take with her on her journey: A stack of paper, a pair of journals, and new quills. A pot of ink, too, would be found. For her sake her hands were too clean! The baby demanded after a time to be free of the room where herbs, roots, and such created fumes. Dying, inks, paints. The colors of her world lived in imagination or the tips of the silken flosses colored months before for sewing.

She laughed, inspite of herself, at the child. Necessity demanded to be payed attention to so the child was dealt with in a mixture of patience and firmness. On talk of the angels for reading, Eirian would smile to Aoife once more, "You shall read it, I am most certain m'lady."