Looketh Toward Damascus

[Lady Rosalind Avalle]

Whatsoever thy hand findeth to do, do it with thy might.
- Ecclesiastes (ch. IX, v. 10)

Rosalind was not amused by matters that kept most ladies busy. She did not care for selecting an appropriate gown, keeping up with the current fashions, bothering with her hair outside of braiding it and covering her head with a modest wimple. She was one of the few who had been blessed with a naturally perfect complexion, and her beauty regimen consisted merely of splashing rosewater upon her face in the morning, and rubbing a goose grease based cream upon her hands and feet before bed each night to soothe cracks introduced by winter's extremes. If she cared for appearances, she might be more self-conscious of her limp. She might rage at the crookedness of a limb that was once perfect, of a scar that marred tender flesh. She did not believe herself perfect, and when it came to accepting her fate, she had once railed against the Almighty. With one insult after another to her faith, it was a wonder she professed any belief at all! Her complaints had grown no fewer over the years, and no less intense, but with age came the responsibility to handle personal tragedy with grace and dignity. She should, and Rosalind knew it well, have pounded against the walls of her jail until her hands bled. Instead, she kept her head down, busied her hands with gratifying tasks, and planned for the battles in which she stood a chance of winning.

Fashion was not one of them. She let Gwen choose the gown. Rosalind listened to her lady's soothing voice, which worked like the balms Gwen applied to Rosalind's leg each day. The woman never chattered, for there always seemed to be some deeper emotion running along like a babbling brook, and it was refreshing to Rosalind to meet a woman whose thoughts bubbled a bit closer to the surface than her own. Rosalind's world often seemed like the deepest of wells, dark and quiet, a thought dropped within plunging through the fathomless depths. She needed the light Gwen offered, the hope she had carried figuratively and quite literally in her arms on the day the magi brought their gifts to the Christ-child. Rosalind needed healing, for she had been merely surviving for far too long.

Privy to Rosalind's thoughts, not through direct expression, but by the abstracted look in Rosalind's hazel eyes, Gwen went with her own instincts in finding a gown and all the necessary accessories. The deep blue complimented Rosalind's pale skin; the nearly translucent brocade, barely visible among the lush cloth, brought out the gold in her eyes and hair. A gold caul secured with clips adorned with freshwater pearls held Rosalind's surplus of chestnut hair high off the neck, and perhaps, surprising the many castle denizens familiar with the more modestly clad Rosalind. It was not the fact that Rosalind was, for the first time, dressed appropriately for her title, but that she even possessed such hair, so often was it covered beneath the linen wimples she favored as a widow.

She clenched her hands in her lap as Gwen placed the finishing touches on her hair, her body thrumming alternately with joy and terror. When news that His Holiness had traveled to Skye, it was as if the heavens parted and the angels' voices rang from every rafter. It was also as if a deep chasm yawned open at her feet. She had naught to promise the Pope, God's voice on this earth. She could offer him nothing, and Fearghus -- Fearghus had such a vast and newfound wealth, she could not hope to compete with him. Truth could be sold, and Rosalind was bankrupt. Yet she believed, if she could gain an audience, if she could persuade him that all she had ever spoken was truth, perhaps she stood a chance of gaining her freedom. Perhaps, she would have one less complaint against the Almighty's plan.

Rosalind did not know if it was possible to float with leaden feet, but that was precisely how she felt, with a slight addition of butterflies in the stomach, as she walked toward his receiving room. She attained clarity as she waited, standing with Annabella behind her, and Gwen at her side. She would walk into the room alone, face the men who ruled in the secular and non-secular kingdoms, and they would declare what had happened in her marriage bed. She reached into her pocket to find the warm beads of jet, but had not the dexterity to move them between her fingers to pray. She held them, as if she held the hand of her son, the one she must fight for above all else. Her husband would not let this boy live, and the hour had come and gone for Fearghus's compassion.

She stood, solid and unyielding as a marble statue, waiting to gain audience. She waited, for the annulment that would return to her hands Beauquesne's income and free her from Inveryne's sorrows. She waited for validation, dispensed by a man so far removed from her life, it was as if the hand of God hovered over her head, waiting.

Finally, the door opened. The priest emerged. In his black robes, his aura was as somber as the expression on his face. He bowed politely to her, and shook his head minutely. Rosalind's heart rose to her throat, and there it stuck, beating erratically. "I am sorry, my lady," he whispered. "His Holiness has other matters of import to attend to."

She heard a ragged "No!" from the room, but whether it came from her own mouth or one of her ladies', she would never know. The chasm yawned deeper, wider. Rosalind, toeing the brink, wavered. Darkness swam before her eyes, but at the warm and reassuring touch of Gwen's hand upon her arm, steely determination replaced the haze of despair. She righted herself, inclined her head coolly, and stepped back. "Good day," she said curtly to the priest, and departed, the billows of her dress less like those of a woman in mourning and more like the sails of a warship underway to battle.

"By God!" she shouted down the halls of the castle, the tongue of the native Picardie sharp against the stones and tapestries, cutting through the muffled wintry air oozing around every corner. "Is there no one not in the pocket of Fearghus Lamont?!"

[Lady Rosalind Avalle]

(Contains violence and adult themes)

News of her encounter with the Pope would spread quickly. Retribution would arrive, a return of salvos, for what were husband and wife capable of doing but waging war behind closed doors? She wrapped her arms around her chest, chilled and defeated, and went to sit before the fire once again. She pulled a knit blanket over herself, curling her knees to her chest, and stared into the fire. Rosalind did not wish advice from Gwen, nor a soothing of raw edges. She wished a conclusion, something solid, ground to place her feet on that she might stand a chance in her last battle. When the earth seemed to crumble so easily from beneath her, it was a demand growing ever more difficult to meet, but certainly -- she would stand. She was inexorable. So long as there was breath in her body, she would fight.

But in the aftermath of her visit to His Holiness, other news began to arrive. The men of Lamont had shown themselves in battle, not on some distant field in Scotland, but on Skye's shores. Their small losses were nothing to the loss of their captain, and a persistent rumor that, when MacGilledow fell, Kendrew of Dumfrieshire led them back to safety. Though logic would dictate the men of Lamont would be happy to have survived, rational men and women had no say in a blood feud. Fearghus Lamont had planned his clan's restoration for too long, had sacrificed too much, to suffer such a blunder lightly.

Days went by, waiting for the next piece of news, hoping her situation could only improve. She now had no recourse to her marriage with Lamont, for any public declaration of bribery or coercion would destroy a clan she genuinely cared about, and expose her son to far greater danger than an unbalanced step-father. Though she was determined to move on with life as usual, certain preparations must be made. Aldric could not remain in her quarters. She was too easily found, and his life far too valuable to trust to Fearghus's mercy. Though it pained her to know that she could not care for her own son, but must trust again in another, she did what she had to do, and put this offense too behind her. There would come a day in which she could be at peace with herself and those she loved, accountable to none but herself for her actions, but today was not that day. And when Fearghus Lamont entered Griffin Castle to reclaim his errant wife, his arrival came as little surprise.

The coolness he received from the castle's staff went unnoticed. He was nearly blind with his rage, and though he resisted the temptation to scream for Rosalind's immediate presence, he was not beneath stalking to her rooms and throwing open the door. The servants went scurrying. Though the men and women of Skye were valiant warriors each, what happened between husband and wife, Lamont chieftain and his lady, was no business of the court's. He kicked aside a chair in the way and stood before her, his gaze a fulminating glare, that had it not been met with Rosalind's icy look, would have turned bones to dust. He opened his mouth to speak, and then perhaps thought better of it, shifting his weight so subtly, she was unprepared when he swung his arm and slammed a backhanded blow into her jaw hard enough to send her flying to the floor. "You foul, poisonous wench," he hissed, a storm breaking as he swept up to her, and dragged her upright by the hair. Her eyes no longer held the aloof presence she seemed to reserve for him alone. They barely focused upon him, lids raised only because the pain radiating from her scalp prevented her from slipping into unconsciousness. "This marriage ends not with a sweet word from His Holiness, but when I release you!"

Her jaw would not work, even had she a response prepared. He released her hair and she fell back to the floor, landing on hands and knees with a hiss of pain. He believed her incapacitated by the blow or he would not have turned his back on her. Merely bristling with rage, rather than ready to incinerate, he closed the door to her suite and drew the bolt. When he turned back, she had gained her feet again, and launched herself at him. The surprise, not her weight, brought him tumbling to the ground, and she wrapped her hands so tightly around his neck, stars shot across his vision. He rolled backward onto her, his body weight easily crushing the air from her lungs, and despite the harsh blows exchanged tit-for-tat, the end to the struggle was brought about quickly, but not for her lack of trying. Gasping for air, he hauled himself to his feet, brushed invisible dust from his breeches, and stared dispassionately down at her. Where her fingers dug into his neck, there were sure to be precise bruises appearing within the hour, but what drew his ire most was the trickle of blood leaking from his nose. He slowly drew a handkerchief from his sleeve and gingerly dabbed at the nostril. The woman had been nothing but trouble from the first they met, but he had use for her. The men of Lamont still followed the idea of, if not the woman behind, the Lady Inveryne. And those who romanticized the wretch on the floor with hearthside fairytales were not worth the time necessary to correct any such notions. She was a rallying point and a strength to her clan. The men talked about her as if she led them to battle! After this, he supposed anything was possible. Yet what remained clear in his mind, as he struggled to control his breathing, was what might have been, had she only died four years ago at Inveryne.

She had never bothered to explain herself, and he had never a desire to listen even if she did. Her reasons were her own, and actions spoke louder than her protests. She had betrayed Lamont. She had betrayed his brother's trust. A whore, a liar, and a coward, he had not particularly grieved when he believed his effort to throw her to the boar was a success. When he knew her to be alive, ambition won over conscience and he sent a dowry he knew she would never accept. Her pride and stubbornness caused him the loss of a good merchant captain, and if it was possible to sour their marriage further, that was precisely the result of his "gift." But as she offered no wisdom to her actions, he was not in the habit of leveling with women, particularly traitorous, icy, damnably Norman wenches. His priority was to tear Inveryne from Campbell hands and place it back within the controls of Lamont. Now that he had succeeded, and Lamont was once again on the rise, he could now see to matters that had taken a low priority over the past few months, such as his marriage -- and the inscrutable woman he had just rendered unconscious. Hauling her over his shoulder, he marched into the bedroom. He had delayed too long in consummating this union. Though she would not live many months longer, neither would she trouble the Pope again for an annulment. He would ensure she had no grounds to do so.

"I go now to present myself to the Duke," he informed her coldly as he dressed, shoving his feet into his boots and standing abruptly, jostling the bed in the process. He knew her to be awake now, but she said nothing to him, and her expression was as cold as alabaster. While he went on with the perfectly ordinary tasks of making himself presentable once again, her world was rapidly disintegrating. Her heart pounded as a war drum in her chest. She feared he would hear it, but his expression was ultimately indifferent, his actions as banal as if they had been contently warring for years. To yield was politic. It would have been easy to hate him, but she knew, for all her loathing and disgust, it was far more complicated than branding him evil, and declaring her rebellion just. In the end, were not his ends justified as well?

He did not bother to give her even a farewell. His duty fulfilled, he would now volunteer the renewed strength of Lamont to the future King of Scotland. And when the door clicked shut, she pressed the back of her hand to her lips and bit back a sob.

[Lady Rosalind Avalle]

Her fingers could not remain idle. She would go mad. She stitched flowers into linen. She made an altar cloth for the cathedral in Turas Lan. She stood by Beathag's side, a solid pillar of strength when she felt like anything but. She ached, but rather than nurse the wounds, she worked. Whatever she set her hand to, perfection was the only acceptable result. It was only in moments of idleness that the despair began to creep in. Though she denied it, those moments were inevitable, and her years of resistance had worn her fortress down to nothing but a brittle shell of armor.

It began as a trickle and quickly rose to a torrent, washing over her fortifications and threatening to swallow her whole. She struggled. She flailed her arms. Though she sat perfectly still before the placid bowl of water on her desk, she was silently drowning, and counting the bruises hidden beneath the layers of fabric, veiled by the shadows of her wimple, blanketed by tabard and gown. She forced herself to breathe, to think, to plan. It was not in her character to submit so easily to so great an injustice. Rosalind had long ago proven she was far from approaching the standard model of feminine behavior, but she supposed she was in good company. The women she admired most in her life were far from meek, nor did she ever imagine them as victims. "Enough," she told her reflection, and threaded her fingers through her hair. Light from the setting sun blazed into the room, limning her few possessions with phosphorescent orange, turning shadows into a tranquil blue.

How she wished Colban were here. Had he not warned of this very thing so many months ago? She missed him. She missed his deep pragmatism, his unfailing loyalty. He would never be so crass as to remind her of his prophecy, but he would hold her hand, and remind her to breathe. Their friendship was a great light in the darkness, and for a while, he held back the uncertainties that haunted her every step. While the light filling her room now as the sun plummeted down through neon rose and dusky lavender clouds was enchanting, her thoughts were with her childhood friend, retracing a memory in which he stood cornered in her prison cell beneath Lanark.

"It is not my place to judge you, Inveryne, but listen carefully to me. Listen to me, woman, for I need be no prophet to predict rightly what will happen. The storm will come, and you will be swallowed whole in your pride and arrogance. You will think you might fend it off, and perhaps you will, bolstering your shores against the deluge, worrying over the color of the skies as you collect what is yours and hold it close against the lashing rains. It is not the storm that will kill you, but the calm. I have known you since you were fourteen years old. I know you well enough. The storm won't kill you, Rosalind."

And so the storm had come and gone. She had weathered his storm, and she could do so again. But in the prophetic words of Colban Campbell, who indeed knew her far better than she liked to admit, it was the calm that would destroy her. She would not brace for another impact, but struggle to retaliate, and in that, would lose everything that she had ever loved. She would lose her son, her heart, her reason, her strength. The casualty of this battle was to play a role she had always looked upon with the greatest disdain. If he wished her to play Jezebel in her tower, watching the world crumble beyond her window, while he was content to pick up the torch for Clan Lamont and run headlong into the armies of Syria, what could she do? What could anyone do in the face of such unstoppable momentum? Her tower looketh toward Damascus, and littered in the path Fearghus Lamont would soon tread were the lives of her greatest love, and her greatest friend -- Domhnall Lamont, and his foster-brother, Arthur Campbell.

"It is done," she breathed. "Enough. It is done." She stood up slowly, but had been seated so long that the familiar white-hot, snake-like pain threaded its way through her leg, and doubled her over. She grasped the edge of her desk to steady herself, using the pain as a reminder of life. She was, after all, still alive. She had survived. The ghosts of men whose bodies had long decayed in Scotland's damp earth waited for her to act, to wreck the calm following the storm, to break the shackles of the victim. It hurt. She ached. But she had never been as powerless as the fallen Biblical queen, nor so patient as to be a tower facing the oncoming hordes without first making decent preparations. She was far stronger than she looked, and though it had taken years to understand the depth of that strength, it had taken Colban Campbell but one moment -- the minute the midwife exited her chamber and announced Rosalind had birthed him a son and named him for peace.

When the men of Scotland met upon the field of battle, it was not enough to hope her husband would meet his untimely end by an enemy's hand. She had long ago learned men like Fearghus Lamont did not march off to war to die inglorious deaths. She feared setting the world to rights, however, required patience he had beaten out of her, and luck she had never possessed.

She splashed water upon her bruised face, rippling the orange glow of fading sunlight upon the liquid. She stared at her moving reflection. A course of action decided upon at last, she squared her shoulders, lifted her chin, and got back to work.

[Lady Rosalind Avalle]

Rosalind: Rosalind was unusually quiet, even for Rosalind. Though she had been seen fairly frequently throughout the castle, she was looking more like a ghost than one of Bess's ladies, and much to her chagrin, she knew it, too. Closing the door on her husband, she left to do a bit of wandering, and a lot of thinking. Thoughts ran freer when her legs were moving, even at her awkward gait. She stopped among the servants here and there, and though she felt quite alone in the corridors, the presence of the guards was a comforting blanket. Even her maid, rousing from slumber by Rosalind's exit, trailed after her -- just in case. She made her way into the great hall, and finding the fire growing low, had a servant stoke the flames while she stood to one side, pondering the pennants and architecture, but not really seeing either.

Ealora: Official business, though she had no idea what it was or what that meant for her husband, she had tagged along. It was a nice get away from the townhouse which still needed drastic change and which she had no energy for doing. They had even come to stay in Maahes' old room. It was interesting if to say a little hair raising, she had never been found of castles and nobles, nor the four walls that created them. Anywhere else, the townhouse, Red Wall, the Lily she was fine, it was castles perhaps..she just never fit quite well amongst the shiny things though called a proverbal diamond in the rough...no, not in hindsight, not in her sight. You could dress up a commoner to look like a royal but a commer still had a mouth and Ealora had the biggest one of them all. Enough of the four walls of the room, Ealora explored and had some fun with it, till she got lost...and finally was able to find her way back into the great hall though god forgive her, she didn't remember where the darn room was now.

Peregrine: Castles had always felt like tombs to the wondering Gypsy. The cool stone under his bare feet removed from boots far too muddy to track through royal floors, and for once he did not fear the flames of his touch. Was this what it was like for a whore to step foot inside a church? Did her heart seem to want to pound out of it's chest in fear of judgment. The pirate had never felt that he belonged to anyone, or any right in his mind. However, with the halls so full of life and sword drawn worries he could move with ease. Something had been changing deep inside the man, finding center and drawing upon the roots from his past--A tall oak tree that branched towards the heavens. His scent was musky forrest floor, rich soil and fresh leaves. His attire was in shambles yet still pulled off as it all went along with the vagabond heart that raced inside. Having never been the tallest of men, he could move very freely as he wished. Sunwashed strands of the wheat were held back tonight, with only wisps of careless curls falling free to shape his face. With every step the sound of bells beat with the drums of his feet as he moved, a "charm" to the ladies but if any knew the heart of the Romany, this Pirate played well in the diversion oddities could bring. So upon his shoulder his diversion was perched, a bird of prey unlike his name (without the 'e' hogging the end) sat waiting and blind. Would Skye get Falconers like the Avarian natives? Time would tell.

Rosalind: Rosalind had spent nearly every moment of her life in a castle or fortress. Some were grander than others, and in comparison to the homes of those her husband had ruled, her lifestyle had been luxurious. But there were drawbacks to castle living that so very few were aware of. Castles in the winter were often damp and musty, and a wealthy master or castellan equipped guests he liked with a constant supply of fuel for the fire and tapestries to line the walls. In the summer, they smelled of refuse, rotting food, and the constant and overwhelming odor of unwashed bodies. It was the real reason for a full court's progressus, to empty the castle for the real work of emptying the moats and garderobes, scrubbing the kitchens, and restocking game and grains. Griffin Castle was well organized, though she thought perhaps it was the anxiety of impending war that prevented the court from worrying about the comforts of the noble life. So warm now that the brocade of her dress was nearly hot to the touch, she stepped away from the fire in time to notice the new arrivals. Ealora's face she recalled from the tavern some time ago, and Rosalind's impressively neutral face warmed in welcome, though stopped short of a smile. Her jaw was stiff, and blue laced the pale skin of her cheek. Leaching and cold compresses had advanced the healing process somewhat, though the bruise had yet to enter its ugliest phase. Smiling hurt. "Good evening, Ealora, is it? And to you, Peregrin...and peregrine."

Ealora: The brightly colored Sari was wrapped loosely around her frame, better for her pregnant belly. Actually, she quite enjoyed the different style of clothing but still missed her pants..and her coat. They were in essence a mark of honor for her, though she no longer was a pirate, she was still a sailor..still a Captain. Russet curls fell loosely about her shoulders and dipped with her head as she greeted Rosalind with a nod. "Evenin.." Her head tilted a bit, celadon eyes blazed with curiosity and fire. "Who hit you?" No she didn't know the woman well enough to ask such a personal question but Ealora wasn't known for being discreet or proper in keeping out of personal matters. Besides, if Rosalind didn't the man a beating, Ealora would. Inwardly, the thought made a smile curl the side of her lips"and yes, its Ealora..good memory, better then mine.." Sandaled feet slid against the floor as she moved about the room, pausing and breaking her gaze from Rosalind to eye Perry before moving swiftly back to Rosalind.

Peregrin: So in such tomb there would be a fire from hell, warming the stones under his feet he found himself drawn. Nothing on the man matched, not a single color though all shades were earth tones to rich burgundy, The hem of his pants was in shambles, the old sails had served well but even weather worn they could not hold up against life on the run. The poster boy of paradise would forever have a cheshire grin, but as the sight of a beloved face turned..it faded very quickly. The distance was closed between he and Rosalind, like a wave rushing the shore he narrowed blue hues inside her own, daring her to not give answer. "You tell me you fell down..you were drunk." He hissed going over the bruise on her face like reading a map; crossing the lines with reading the page.

Rosalind: Honesty was answered with honesty, if with a slightly gracious nod of her head. "The Lord of Lamont, my husband. I believe as the men say, you should have seen the other guy. May I have a chair drawn up for you? Have some fruit juice served?" The question was not particularly a question at all, but a passive command to the servants waiting in the shadows, who hurried to provide both. She folded her hands behind her back. "I tend to remember everything when in my cups. A curse." Her slight Picardie accent gave a lightness to her words she did not quite feel. She was off her balance. When she had survived so long on confidence alone, it was disconcerting. "I am Rosalind, lady-in-waiting to Her Grace." As she was speaking, she noticed Ealora had the most fantastically colored eyes. They stood out nearly across the room, and reminded her of sea glass. How had she not noticed them before? "I did fall down. After he hit me. It hurt quite a bit." She flinched away from Perry's touch. "Particularly when you touch it, mon ami."

Ealora: "Should of seen the other guy, so I take it you didn't let that stand. Good. I like you all ready.."Her lips jerked into a quick smile that faded just quickly as it had come. She shook her head at the approaching servant. "No, thank you..the baby is all ready sitting on my bladder but thank the gods its empty.." Well at least she was being honest about it too. Celadone yes turned back towards Rosalind and again her head inclined, if politely. "I've heard of you..seen you here and there. Good to put a name with a face and a beautiful name what I am sure is usually a beautiful face, albeit the bruise." Damn, that didn't come out how she had meant it. "In your cups? Oh yes, I remember. A woman who can hold her liquir too. I am liking you more and more."Again a ghost of a smile pulled her lips only to have it fall again. Castles, made her uncomfortable, not the company. Just give her time and she would settle in as she did at the Briar Rose. "Perhaps you didn't ask the right question, Perry. Hello to you too.." Honeyed voice flowed in perfect elegance. Again, just trying to be nice.

Peregrin: "Ne m'appelez pas cela, je sera un ennemi avant trop longtemps...." The darkest blue would hesitate upon the last word, before meeting her eyes. His voice held back an inner justice that he cursed for surely it would be the undoing of the 'right' path. A long and winding road would always lead to this now wouldn't it? Though a pretty face could easily corrupt a nation, but one marked by another man could destroy his morals. His gaze would linger within hers for a moment before he turned to the open light of day in the closest window. Though winter had raged on, the closings had been removed boards of the fabrications able to be open, and here he would allow his pet to perch. "Séjour là." He spoke and the bird would give a quick expand to settle against the draft. "Perhaps I have spent far too much time out doors today." He turned back to the pair letting his gaze drift between them both, "and that my ears perhaps full of the sun..but did you say your husband did this to you?"

Maahes: Speaking of husbands, Maahes's voice could be heard down the hall in heated argument between other powers of the nation. Heads of country would forever clash, though the topic was of something that seemed so worthless. "Let me get one thing correct." His Arabic accent sounded so harsh with words rich in his own nation. "God has no Mercy for those who quit; who give up. The winter is almost over so you return message that their heads will be my breakfast if they back out now." To whom he was speaking would remain a mystery, as the figure gave a quick nod and ran out into the day; leaving complete silence around the Lord General of Skye. "Anyone else?" A cricket could not even be heard. "We break for now, again tomorrow from the beginning." With that they were released and quickly the room would thin out.

Rosalind: "Mm. Maahes found a particularly potent bottle of wine. My head was ringing clear through the next day. And it did not work any magic that I was aware of." Her problems strode right through the castle gates and into her bedroom. "Perhaps I did not drink enough." An amused look in her hazel eyes, which were admittedly a bit more tired than usual. Perry's response to her appearance was certainly not puzzling, but it was far more chivalrous than Rosalind had come to expect. She was grateful, really. The usual snap to her words had faded into gentle concern when she looked to Perry. "Ne faites rien de fougueux. Et il est impoli de parler une langue que la dame ne sait pas." She glanced at the bird, then back to Ealora, before resting again on the gypsy. "I did not mean to be false." Nor could she afford to be completely honest. She squeezed her fingers together behind her back. "Know that I am not a fool to enter battles I cannot win. Nor can outrage over what happens between man and wife sully a necessary alliance." In the brief pause after she finished speaking, she heard the booming voice of the general, and canted her head to hear it better. After all had dispersed, she merely offered a puzzled, "Quoi?"

Peregrin: "Alors ne m'offrez pas le sang. J'ai une soif pour elle peut-être à temps où vous comprendrez." He kept the dark of his eyes centered upon her own, and in that was his promise that all she would have to do is say the word, and all the fires of hell would rain upon the Isle. There was danger behind the beauty, as always; however rare it may be. "Battles are not about what is won, but how you grow to get to the end." He spoke much quieter but to them both as restless steps started to round the room in a slow almost dance like manner; a tango at it's very birth. "You can't win all the time." He gave them his back as he made his way to the fire letting a hand press to support his weight as he leaned against the hearth. "Half the fun is dying to be reborn again no?" Boy that little mark really bothered him didn't it?

Maahes: The serfs of the castle would quickly move to aid their General from his armor, but Maahes's hands would be quick to brush them off, only to feel their gentle touch once again. Turning in his steps just outside the door of the sitting room where his wife and company sat he faced the women with a heavy growl. An animal like sound hissed from his teeth and instantly eyes would widen with their steps starting backward. Clearly, someone had rubbed this Kitty the wrong way. He did not need to see his wife to know she was in there, call it strange--he felt her. "You," Sounding more like Jew as his accent thundered through, "need to pack your things. That house will be moved, I will not longer keep you in this city." He barked to Ealora as he moved back out of the room to make his way down to where he once called home, but now all he could do is long for Red Wall.

Rosalind: "I like your passion, Ealora. I have always enjoyed a woman who can express herself so clearly, and offer a valid opinion. No, you are not wrong, and I do agree." Her situation was infinitely more complicated than simply refusing to marry an abusive lout. It chilled her to the bone to recall the desperation of that day, of her hard ride across Scotland to meet her dead husband's brother in a clearing, surrounded by clansmen who believed her a deserter, a coward, and a traitor. Little of memory played across her face. She was not likely to share the circumstances of her marriage even if asked, but of a bruise upon her face, there was no other way to explain it save betray Fearghus's temper. She had stated her vows surrounded by weapons, before a bought priest, and had still failed to secure an annulment. There were failures such as these that now threatened to overwhelm, and she had no outlet for her rage save embroidery and poetry. She could not soothe Peregrin's temper when her own waxed between fury and despair. "I know this," she offered instead, softly. "I know this well." It would have been instinctive to touch his shoulder, had not that dangerous looking bird been so near. Instead, she turned away from the fire and observed the loving couple, her heart warming to know such a thing can and did exist freely. "When is your child due?" she asked instead, shoving her worries aside. "Soon? And good evening, Maahes. I hope you left some of them standing? They all fled so quickly!" It was clear as day why Bess kept Rosalind in her company. Faced with a maelstrom like Maahes, her voice was as serene as if commenting on the weather.

Ealora: Celadon eyes passed between Rosalind and Perry. She did not understand the words they spoke until English was used and understanding them was as easily and feeling breeze. It did not go unnoticed but she would instead let it pass as her eyes returned to Rosalind. "Soon yes, I hope. Honestly, I am quite unsure of the actual date."She let out a honeyed laugh before turning as Maahes voice boomed at her. What the hell had she done now?! "Will you excuse me, please"At least she had some manners. Turning, she waddled the same way she had come in, back out the door to meet Maahes, her hand reached out for his, stilling his movements as fingers traveled up his arm. "Maahes.." Concern laced her voice as her lips turned into a frown. "What's the matter?" Of course she would pack as quickly as possible, if it meant returning to Red Wall, she missed that land. It was more then just home, it was promised peace, even with everything that had happened to them, it still promised peace.

Peregrin: "Do you ride, Rosalind?" An odd question to ask, but what would the day be like without the sun..Or a day without this ones mischief. "Horses that is." He spoke again turning to face her and all the glamour and adventure would be lost under the quiet tones of his words for fear of letting too much be exposed. No one hit ladies, that was clear but darn it he was growing fond of this one.At least she had smiled..or tried. For he did fear deep down that there was a wasted canvas. However, it was clear now that her lips must be the gateway to her survival, and a smile was the sword to soldier on. Or perhaps it was simply how she masked her pain.

Maahes: In the dark of their room he was quick to be released from his armor, wanting nothing more then to feel free of the weight it carried. The fate of a nation rest on so many, but still he felt the burden on his shoulders. "Because I want to spend my last nights home not in this crowded city. It is moving fast..one more night is all I want. I'm afraid I will forget." His voice was thick with frustration, and even in the rich tones of a thousand burning suns over hot desert sands it felt lost. Already feeling the release of being free from the leathers he quickly would move to dip his hands in the water bowl and run the rag over the exposed flesh of his chest and forth. Over one shoulder he would squeeze the fabric and allow the water to drip down his spine knowing he'd get a real bath later. For a moment he would go silent before turning to face her. "I want no more wars after this. I will retire." He clung to the rag now as it were his shield, not at all wanting to hear the lash of her mouth just yet.

Rosalind: A faint Gallic sound of amusement at his clarification before she nodded. Perhaps there would be another flicker of a smile, but with the imprint of a fist upon her cheek, it was hard to tell. "In better days, it was a favored sport. I have not been hunting in some time. I would not expect to go soon, either, but perhaps when the weather is warmer?" Her last experience hunting had been particularly harrowing, finding out that she was the prey. But she would not allow the memory to spoil something she truly enjoyed. She forgot her injury when she rode. She was like any other lady shaking free the musty indoors for a bit of sunshine and laughter. "Does your bird have a name?" she asked next indicating his feathered friend in the window.

Ealora: Sliding the door closed behind her, she bolted the lock and leaned against the thick wood, just watching him remove the rest of his armor and move to wash off, if somewhat. To his credit she kept her mouth closed for a while, if to let him rant and rave his frustration off. It was nothing new to her, his booming voice when frustrated though usually directed at her. They were an odd pair, but they were..the storm. Meant to be together no matter the raging winds and rain. "All right" When she finally spoke, honeyed voice had lowered, calm and soothing. Pushing off the door, she moved towards him, taking the rag from his fingers, taking away his protective shield to dip it in the basin of water, fingers squeezed, pushing some of the excess water from it before she was taking his arm in hers and running it down the dark and toned flesh. "We we\ill go home to Red Wall today then. More then a day this time hmm, the threat of the wolves is less, so I hear, and the people will be missing us..as we miss them, and the temple, the land itself." As the rag left his arm, she bent her head to breath against the damp skin, warm breath moved against his flesh which at this point, would feel cool to the water still left clinging before she was moving to the other arm. "If you wish to retire after this war, then I will support you. Maahes, I have never wanted you to be less then what you are, who you are but if you wish no more wars, how can I refuse that? To say it would not be in some way my wish as well...to know I can grow old with my husband, love my husband till our dying breath..." The rag was drawn down the other arm and again, she breathed against his flesh to cool it before celadon eyes turned upward to his face. "No matter what you decide, I will love you. I will stand beside you, as I promised."

Peregrin: "She does not have a name yet, and she is not mine. She will belong to Skye in time. Her handler will name her." A boy of the woods perched then on the arm of a chair crossing stout arms over his chest as he settled his gaze upon her again and the heartbeat of the bird's wings came to life as she grew restless. "It is my trade, the one I can actually be paid well for." Though money never truly mattered, it just felt good to not be paid in blood money. "Your husband, does he ride?" In truth he was very confused with her, was she married? Was she not? Was she happy? Why would he hit her? It was times like this he longed to be able to read her mind like the pages of one of his books. This whole dance of right and wrong, skirting around answers would be lost, and he would be brought right to the point.

Maahes: Closing his eyes, his amber orbs were lost to the dark of the back of his lids and he took a deep breath as her hands worked. "I am just.." Broken English searched for the right word, as his tired body swayed before taking seat against the edge of the bed. "Tired." With so many things..of wolves, of roses, sister-in-laws, english, and this damn war." Opening his eyes again he pulled her closer as full moon met his lips as he kissed their child. "Go back to your company, I will find you for dinner?" Meaning he was going to nap, the sun had worn him. A Beast who has lived in the night as of late, born of the sun weakened. However still Maahes would forever be the one force of nature that could never be escaped.

Rosalind: "Yes, he hunts." She had been intentionally vague about her husband since her arrival, but no one in the castle had missed his arrival. Though she was notoriously private, her discomfort was clear in the shifting in her stance, the slight raise of her chin. His questions, had they been voiced, would have been met with the same stony silence she offered anyone who tried to intervene in her life, ignorant of the harm they were about to bring upon themselves for the effort. But with Peregrin, she might very well have answered them. "I am sure it is a rewarding trade, if hunting is a passion of yours. I have ... always distrusted birds. They look fierce." She tried not to make direct eye contact with the bird, but those eyes seemed to see everything, right down to her terrified little soul.

Ealora: Her hand lifted to brush the thick breads of his hair backward as he swayed and sat on the bed. "We will have peace Maahes" A small hum left her lips as he kissed her belly. "Our little Ra missed you today, kicked as soon as he heard your voice.." Was she trying to butter him up? Of course not but both of them delighted in details of their baby growing safely within her, waiting for the day it was ready to join the world. Her thumb traced the line of his jaw, pressing to tilt his face up to hers before she was leaning down to pull his lips into her own. It had been only a few hours since she kissed him last but she always kissed him with combined passion and love that she bore for him. Regretfully, she pulled away and let her lips linger against his forehead. "Sleep now, when you wake up, I'll have Nora and the household ready to move back to Red Wall..We can eat dinner there tonight."

Peregrin: "He hunts what?" A piece to the puzzle as she placed a trail of crumbs for him to follow. Where Maahes would live for glory and honor, fight for the just and true; Peregrin slipped through the fingers of the guards in dirty under the table jobs that left no line to follow. The Gypsy would stand, the sounds of the silver bells sang out with his furious steps. "You think dodging my answers will save your child?" Over his shoulder he regarded her lightly. a danger there like none other. Little was truly known about this man, other then he kept in the company of kindred spirits during the days and claimed the darkened streets at night. A sea captain run a shore, mother's knew to cling to their daughters, and perhaps Rosalind knew to keep tightly sealed her secrets. "You wear the mask well, little girl but I've not been a fool for many years now." With that his lips sealed together to sound for the bird, and the black underside of her wings beat fiercely but she would move no where as she was still blindfolded..Bonne fille" He praised going to collect her from her perch, lesson complete. "Until warm weather, Rosalind." He would raise his now gloved hand to his shoulder to let the bird perch there.

Maahes: His palms roamed the hardened state of her stomach and with a grin he met her eye. "You are so sure it is a son?" The pride in his face was like never before, almost childlike as he beamed. Closing his eyes at her kiss to his forehead he would leave her then to stretch out over the covered bed that had once been his tomb. "We cannot leave until tomorrow, but have it ready." And with that he was out, lost on a river that flowed through her heart no?

Rosalind: She shrugged lightly. "I do not know him well enough. Last we saw one another, before his arrival in Skye, he was hunting boar." Or Rosalind, depending on one's perspective, and what they were willing to believe of the disarmingly charismatic Lamont tanist. Knowing her answer was on the rude side of enigmatic, she folded her arms beneat her chest, and opened her mouth to further explain. But then he mentioned her child, and all her strength melted away to a pool at her feet. She was an adept at maintaining her secrecy at all costs, and if he waited for a reaction to his words, he would be sorely disappointed. He could not know this information. He must not know. But he certainly did. This was no bluff, for he was not looking for a tell to confirm his suspicions, knowing there likely would be none from the icy Norman woman. "Leave me, tinker," she responded mildly. "You spout dangerous nonsense. It upsets me deeply."

Ealora: "With the way the baby kicks...how could it not be..."She responded with a honeyed laugh as her hands settled against his roaming her belly. "My heart tells me it is a son.." Again she kissed his forehead, releasing his hands as he laid back on the bed. "As you wish.." She whispered against his ear and with one final kiss, she was out the door to see to it they were ready to go back to Red Wall on the morrow.

Peregrin: With his back already to her, his steps were in direction to the door, and a smirk would be turned over his shoulder he faced her. "I was already leaving, Aucun Sourire'" And with that he cast her that wink, the one that would seal the deal and cross his lips into secrecy. However, what kind of man would he be if he held none of his own? Her silent fears were safe..for now.