Coloured Rain - open -

[aoife]

The ever useful basket was at her booted feet. Those of which were on tip toe then flat once more. It was a pattern that emerged as drops of water feel to the grasses by them. Some of the drops were not the soft clear of rain, but tinged blues and purples, even a pinkish red. These were all falling from the recently dyed and rinsed fabrics and ribbons she was hanging on the line. There were just enough breezes to make the fabric pretend to dry quicker than she wanted. Patience was not something she had for drying. The line went from the eves of her cottage's overhang to a sturdy tree. While she smoothed out the wet things, she'd hum, and then sing to herself and the flock that was a few yards off, enjoying their constant grassy buffet. Her voice was warm and light, not all together a horrible sound coming from those soft lips,

With admiration I did gaze upon that blue-eyed lassie O
Adam never had so much joy when he saw Eve in Eden O
Her skin was like the lily white that blooms in yonder garden O
She's my queen and my heart's delight,
my flower of Magherally O

On the last "O" she trailed off into humming again, as the lyrics escaped her at the moment, her damp hands came down to press against her red apron, her bell shape was back as the multiple skirts kept her a bit warmer when she was wading about in a near by spring with her handy work. The apron tied in a large bow at the small of her back; it went with the pale yellow overskirt. The bodice was a not the most restricting that some fashionable wore, but she had to be able to work and breathe, the soft yellow making her fair skin almost glow. Once her hands were dried, one would lift to push a wild curl from her brow, hands then going to rest on her small hips.

_{[ Song: "Flower of Magherally 'O" - Sarah Dinan from From the Ashes.]}

[Queen Beathag Aberdeen]

A great, grand city Turas Lan was. A great, large city. A city of infinite attraction that glistened in the sun of a thousand days with the promise to go on for a thousand more. Ironic, wasn't it, that the residents often escape for the silent allure of the nearby blissful countryside? One person from a world going to another. The grass being greener on the other side, and more extensive, the Duchess wasted no time or a good head wind. She didn't want to look at the green fields from her window or waste the fading summer looking what ought be lived. Pushing away from the stone ledge, she strode over to fetch her tartan. Black, gold, and touches blue woven together were the Aberdeen standard in Celtic color pattern. Hitching it over one shoulder, the rest came under an arm, up across her torso to meet the shoulder where it began. She pinned this with a clasp of thistle in paws of a knotted hound. The brown skirt and bodice she wore were fine for riding, good to match the dust and substance of the earth. A crown for her brow, a circlet? No. Nothing but the woman's glory of hair, wheat field in shade, with piece spiraling over the shoulder while the rest remained twisted in the braided bun. A few lengths down the hall to the doors, beyond them to the courtyard. "Hitch m'horse will ye lad, I'd like tae gae for a sojourn in the country. Turn the eye o' the watch on meh, n' will ye tell Kendrew tae come along, mayhaps some o' the women tae. Whomever can catch up."

She tucked the upper skirt up into rope belt at the waist while the boy went to pull Caldonhan from his stall. His tack was placed on him, simple yet befitting the horse of a Duchess. Both had moved up in the world! The symbol of white tabbard rimmed in gold went across his dappled body speckled in deep gray, for thatr was his color. The insignia of a Celtic Hound curled in a circle, falling to either side of him. Once the saddle was in place she came to sit full astride of it, thanking the lad with a cant to his head before taking off. So zealous, in fact, that her guardian and companions would rely on the hawk sight of the castle watch to chart the course of she down the road.

Some time passing, with the city at her back and nature at her front, she came upon the singing woman of red apron entrenched in water. Dripping ribbons, bolts of fabric rain split-split on the grass a multitude of colors. "Aye there," she said, "good day! Ye song is fine n' ye look busy this day. Is it a good time fer such, good woman?" Despite the tacking, the height, and the lift of head the war-horse was bred from a Highland stock, which in effect made him the grandson of adopted draft and pleasure horses. His lot became a war horse after proving useful for such, must like his mistress became a noble after bleeding a pint of blood and giving a three pounds of flesh to be useful. Still alone, the trail to be followed by company was a long route giving moments for the pair to greet. She considered the singing woman on this, the tail end of a summer's day. "Ye look familiar, good lady, but for the interests o' good manners, Ah be Beathag, tis good tae meet yet."

[aoife]

Wide blue eyes would blink owlishly at being addressed by a streamer of sapphire fabric, but a moment later, that fair face would peek out from behind it, her statue pixie-ish, for she had to look up, the lovely lady on a stead that would surely eat her as soon look at her. "Moghrey dhyt [good morrow], good Lady!" Pink lips were already in a friendly smile, absently pushing her own golden curl behind her ear, stepping out from behind her work so she wouldn't be popping out of it like a jack-in-the-box. Then it clicked. The lady from the castle, and of course the name was familiar. A leather clad shoe would curl behind the other as she curtsied politely, "Aye, aye, we 'ave seen each other twice, perhaps..Yer castle, the mask, but nay formal introductions. I am Aoife, dear Lady Beathag."

Another smile split her lips, her hands smoothing her skirts and apron as she stood again, eying the woman before motioning towards a table and stool. "Would ye like a drink? Some food? And aye, a fine day to be busy, fer I hope the winters will not freeze my hands to the line!" She'd let out a charming laugh, one someone would just have to lean their own to, or at the very least smile. She was trying to dye as much in the fall before it all went to seed and got to cold for her to work outside.

[Queen Beathag Aberdeen]

The last of the warm weather days was slipping away with each hour of sunlight. Soon the days would call for heavy wool wrappings, gloves, and care against the cold fronts. She saw the snow season beyond that as crisp as that winter not yet come promised. Spring came early in the year, unseasonably welcoming. For the sake of folk like Aofie she hoped it would be gentler still.


Upon recognition and a curtsy, she smiled, "Worry nay o'er it," she swished her hand away to dismiss the notion, "Nay need tae make curtsy, nay one around tae scold ye for it n' respect should be like tae like when we can, says I. If ye would have such a woman at ye table mistress, tis mah pleasure.." Caldonhan began to shuffle his hooves to alert that more hooves were nearby. French accent was smoother, more pronounced in fashion than the Scott's-Gaul or the Manx that would take up the bulk of the two women's conversation. Turning the head of the beast about to regard the man, her own was not far behind. He was not the first person she'd accept to follow in her steps nor was he the last. "Ye have an odd habit, Sir Chevallier, o' manifestin' with places Ah be at. Though this as nay as strange as our first meetin, for tis more ususal tae meet a Sir pon his horse than' sneakin' about castle rooms." Amusement propped up a side of her mouth in the famous half-smirk crinkling the laugh lines at her eyes. "Dae ye have room for two at your table, mam? This is Sir Phillipe Chavalier," her pronunciation, amazingly, was not off, "Sir Phillipe, tis the Good Lady Aoife here. N' ye are quite right m'thinks. Her singin' is vera pleasent."

[aoife]

Her brilliant eyes would lift to the newest arrival, she had no idea she was on a road so traveled. Not that she complained, she loved people and all that they brought to the table. Glancing over the man and his horse, he was fair too, this land would give the girls in her village something to chance after! Though as he opened his mouth, she knew he was not from here. At least not originally. A light smile as she'd curtsy to him as well, if he was with the Lady, he must be important too.

Aoife's full bottom lip was soon bitten at all of the complements on the Irish ditty she heard once as a child from a traveler. But..what have you, she'd turn that bite into a smile and bob her head, "Ta mee feer wooisal dhyt ," came her warm sing-songy voice, which resulted in another nod as she pressed her pinked hands to her apron, blasted dye! Then she'd blink as she carefully edged up to the gate, avoiding the large horses which would no doubt trample her, and she'd open the gate before moving back once more. "Please, come in. I'll be right back wit some drink and food. Ah..do not touch that one unless ye want to be red." She'd point at the deep red fabric she just hung, then held up her palms to them. Quickly turning, that bell shaped lass would sweep out of the yard and into the cottage. Mumbling under her breath, she'd eye a bit of cheese she had left over, fine for her..but it looked a bit dusty to serve.

She'd then go into a cupboard to fetch her nicer items. She was saving..but, ah well. A smooth decanter, plugged with a wide cork was brought down, filled with wine. She'd pull down a platter of the same pottery the first, blue in color, and lift the cloth she had over it, sniffing, just right. At least this would work in her favor. Ahh..and...bread? Bread..bread. Lips pursing as she scrambled for a loaf, the small as it was, but she was just one. It would do, a lovely oval shape, golden brown.

A knife, clean, thank the Gods, was put on the platter and she was soon balancing the plate with knife and food, the decanter, and three glasses towards the door. Smiling once more as she hit the sun, she'd set the vittles on the table, setting them up before darting back in and out again for the two extra stools. Nimble fingers would reach for the decanter, trying to pull the cork as she smirked to the man before holding it out for him to pull, "My bailliu [if you please]? It is stuck!"

[morgen]

(Agh, ok I made a new post lol)

Morgen rode out from the town walls astride his black Arabian mare, Cendrillon. Having finished his minimal amount of work for the day, he decided to quit the town instead of spend some time in his bookshop. The day was too fine and the summer too close to an end to. So he rode, posting in his fine black saddle, beneath the warmth of the sun. Riding down the newly acquired path, that strayed from his own farm, but winded past the small cottage of the Shepardess. His daily uniform was unchanged; clean white shirt tucked into black breeches with black knee high boots that met at his knee. His shoulder length black hair was combed back neatly without a strand out of place into a low ponytail.

Cendrillon's gait was a lovely one, a gait being any type of movement from the horse. Her long, sleek legs kicked high up and her black hooves curved inwards when she posted, kicking up chunks of dirt along the way. Her coat, mane, and tail were all a solid color of jet black and her tail was let loose to stream through the wind that blew and her own momentum. She came with him from France, a gift from his Uncle when he studied at the University at Paris, and he cherished her as a warrior might treasure his father's sword passed down from generations.

When they had reached the perimeter of Aoife's cottage Morgen could see from a distance two horses standing outside the fence and some blurred figures. Reading texts all of his life weakened his eyes slightly, and it also ran in his family. But when he was closer he was able to clearly determine just whom the Shepardess entertained. Cendrillon began to slow before Morgen pulled back on the reins, just because she felt her rider sit back firmly in the saddle and she was soon subdued in a walk then stopped once they were outside the house, already recognizing and having remembered where they were. But he barely touched his heels to her flanks to move her forward around the other horses, Arabians were a skittish breed and she normally did not get on well with others except for their heavy draft mare, Lady. Once at a good distance he swung down from the saddle, reins in one hand, and he approached the fence. Leaning against it with a hand resting on the ledge his blue eyes looked to the three assembled there.

"Good Afternoon," His voice passed his lips deep and eloquent with neither a Scottish accent like the others, or English like their opposers. Unless one listened closely and were a Scottsman, or woman, themselves would they be able to detect the true identity beneath his tempered tongue. Dark blue eyes moved to the Duchess and he gave a respectful bow from behind the gate. "Your Grace," Then he looked to the man he was not familiar with. "Sir." And back again to Aoife. "Have you room for another?" He wasn't sure why the Duchess was with the Shepardess...not that she would have any reason not to be, but he had thought Aoife new to Skye and virtually unfamiliar of most of Turas Lans residents, especially the Duchess. But, maybe they already had met before? And if they were there for a specific meeting, Morgen would not want to be the intruder.

[aoife]

As the Frenchman took the decanter, she saw his hands, stained pink with the dye, her fingertips went to her lips as she snickered, the impish smile returning to his lips. Waiting for him to pull the cork, once he did, she'd take the bottle and set it on the table. Her hands going to his, she'd lift her apron with her other one, chitterings along happily as she started to rub his hands with the dark apron, smiling up at him and then to Bess. "We 'ave him red handed!" And she'd laugh again, that charming laugh that wrinkled her nose just so afterward.

Taking Phillipe's other hand, she'd start rubbing as much of the dye off as delicately as could. The man was again, taller than her petite frame, hearing Morgen before seeing him, she'd lean to the side, her voice warm, "Sit, sit, Master Grey, please pour, please eat." Another smile for all around as she dropped the apron against her lap, her now free hand patted Phillipe's before gently letting it go and clapping her own hands together. "Dty villey pardoon ! I did not tink I would have guests, ah, ever," and then she'd laugh lightly again.

[Queen Beathag Aberdeen]

"Thank ye, Aoife for havin' us without invitation. Dun mean to put ye out of sorts or be an imposistion." The Duchess considered herself an imposistion? She was a person first and a woman of title in a far fletched second most of the time, for she had come to the country to escape the pretension of life. Somewhere, the party who had finally dressed, saddled horses, and rode out consisted of a Guardian who muttered at her quickness, and women who laughed.

So for now her company would be the shepardess, and a red handed Frenchman, a bottle of wine, and a little supper. But the strange thing is in settling we are always given suprises. Plus one more? A little cottage held three visitors and a shocked wee woman hidden in the company of two tall men, and one oversized woman. Court had surely been held in stranger places. "Ah'll take some o' ye red handed wine, Sir Frenchman," quipped the Scott in a tease, " N' Master Morgan, 'ello! This fine lady is a blessin' tae accomadate a wee party on such short notice. Tis a memory Mistress Aoife tha' Ah'll take with meh 'cross the sea to Aberdeen on how the hospitality o' the island is sae fine tha' any can sit at table n' break bread. Merry, iffn' Robert the Bruce does nay believe tha' we shall have to try harder."

While one poured the wine, Beathag would assist by slicing the bread, waiting to see what else would become of the gathering.

[morgen]

A brow did strike upwards when Aoife was wiping the other mans apparently red hand in her apron. But nonetheless he moved for the gate and stepped into her yard, approaching their table with a slight cant of his head. "Indeed, the Shepardess is a gracious lady." And he'd sit down beside Beathan. Dark and calm eye shifted between the two women and he'd inquire, "I assume then I find both of you in merry spirits?" The tone of his voice was of a pleasant nature, though not outside of his usual self of being monotone. Though when his eyes lingered a second or two longer on the Manx the corners of his mouth picked up in the faintest of smiles.

Shifting his attention next to the other guest seated there. "I have not seen you before on the island. My name is Morgen Grey." He only introduced himself as it would be rude to ignore an unfamiliar person that he shared a table with. In the back of his mind he did think this was a lovely day and a quaint little gathering. He entertained the idea of inviting Aoife and the Duke and Duchess perhaps to his home. It was large enough, built when his father invested all of his income from his merchant days in it with the help of their uncle who knew no home other than the sea and had no use for his money other than to dote on his favored nieces and nephews and assist his younger brother. He had eight siblings, but they were also well behaved, for the most part. He was a man of discipline and order and regulated his home that way, especially so in the absence now of their parents.

[Queen Beathag Aberdeen]

Such an upright bearing with a dose of somber humility. Surely, great intelligence lived inside of him. Sure, his humor could be a might dry from what she'd seen of Master Grey but he was going to prove his weight in political advantage as time progressed. Now considering a thought like that in a place like this was all but too funny. Looked like a lop-sided tea party where a scant three of them were over dressed to be inside of the little house of the shepardess. "Aye, good day. Good spirit tae, thank ye fer askin'." The tall woman made room for him, knocking her head slight upon a lower rafter before making an apologetic cant of her head. "Mah apologies, Mistress. Dun mean to go knockin' about your home sae."

Outside of the window, fluffy, puffed sheep roamed about nibbling on shoots of tender green. "Ye seem to have a healthy flock." Conversation was made twixt herself and Aoife as the men did a tit-a-tat for first impressions. The fabric of her array was oddly enough a weave of wool in the dress and bog-cotton in the chemise. "N' iffn I recall..dae ye make fabrics as well?" There was a memory come to the fore of a woman making almost tarty eyes, but not at her, at the garment she wore as if wanting to study every weave of it.

[aoife]

Aoife indeed felt small compared to the two men and Lady. A light shrug of her shoulders as the Lady pardoned for her cottage, "Is nay mine, I am a borrower fer the time..It is a wee place, is it not?" She's share a smile with her as she turned to push the filled cups of wine to the three, leaving herself out since she did not grab another cup. But all was well!

That wide blue gaze danced over their faces, lingering on Morgen's with a little larger smile then was needed. She'd start pushing the small bit of food around to the three next as she'd bob that golden head of hers. "Aye, aye..me flock helps wif the weaving, ye know, but I do the Irish thistle weaving ta. Tis a lot o' work, but I tink I am quite good at it from time to time."

Another smile to the bunch as she'd pluck the small heel of bread from the plate , tearing it, she'd pop a bit into her mouth.