(514-04-18) If The Hand Offends
Summary: Tomas catches a thief attempting to steal from Morag.
Date: 18 April 514
Related: None
tomas morag 

The market is a bustling sort of place, the air thick with assault on the senses. Filled with noise and smells - some more fragrant than others - and of course sights, one such experience happens to be a set of entertainers who've rigged up a little theater with clay puppets on strings. A horde of children and a few adults are enjoying the story being presented; a recently heard yarn of some unnamed knight. No doubt it's been exaggerated for drama and with great success, as people laugh and clap at the antics of the dolls.

Morag is there too, standing toward the back with her arms folded and a smile on her face, laughing right along with the crowd and seemingly unaware of the proximity of a short little ragamuffin with a pinched face and an eye for one of the pouches hanging off her belt.

The dark-haired Idmiston knight has come to market on this day, however it is not to revel in the merriment of street theatre. Or rather, his intention was to browse the stalls in search of something in particular to catch a pale eye, but more often than not it wanders towards the puppetshow in curiosity.

A particular joke manages to force Tomas de Idmiston to admit in its wittiness, bringing a smile to his lips. It succeeds in its enchantment, drawing the otherwise dour man away from his task and towards the rear of the crowd quietly. He lingers a few feet behind Morag and the others gathered to watch.

Morag laughs heartily at some bawdy joke made in a tremulous voice meant to be the fair maiden that the knight is rescuing. Slapping her side, she doesn't seem to take notice of the child edging closer to her at all. So much the better for him it would seem, as a small knife, barely biger than his palm, appears in his fingers as he reaches for one of her many pouches with intent to cut it free.

Unfortunately for the cutpurse, Tomas is not so consumed by the show that he is entirely unaware of his surroundings, especially when it comes to noticing a cheeky boy with a blade reaching towards a woman. He takes the steps forward that are needed to close the distance, where he grabs the youth's wrist in a vice and yanks him towards the knight. The expression of amusement is entirely replaced by a stormy, disapproving frown.

"I believe what you are attempting to do is theft, boy. Drop the knife. I won't tell you twice." He commands of the child, and rather sternly at that. There is no effort to disguise the level of his voice, undoubtedly drawing some eyes in the crowd.

You check your generous at 16, you rolled 4.

The show must go on, and so the puppet show does, though now a few people are distracted from it to gape at the man who's successfully managed to yank the boy away. Turning her attention fully to the altercation, it only takes her a moment to realize the child's intentions toward her, not to mention that Tomas declared it so loudly. An intake of breath results in a frown that softens as she takes in the piteous state of the boy. "Here then. And just what were you trying to snag, hmm? You would have wound up with a palm's worth of foxglove, and that would do you no good at all." Her eyes drift to Tomas apologetically, as if she was the one who needs to say sorry, but she doesn't ask that he let the boy go.

"Sorry goodmistress. Jus' hungry." whines the boy, doing his best to seem piteous. Or maybe he actually is. "Me da, he's injured, me ma just died in childbed, and I got a baby sister to feed. Was hoping whatever could be found in your pouch, I could sell. I'm sorry! I'm sorry!"

When the knife clatters to the dirt, it is swiftly pushed away by one of the knight's boots and Tomas' grip on the boy remains even as he blubbers on with an excuse as to why he tried to thieve from a lady. He shares a look with Morag, before a second hand appears out from underneath the veil of his embroidered cloak with what appears to be a few pence that is held up to the foiled cutpurse's face.

"I am sorry to hear of your plight, boy. It is unfortunate. However, it does not excuse what you were trying to accomplish here. I will give you this for your troubles, but I had better not see you trying to filch from the honest people again, or I will release you into the custody of the guards. Swear to me that you won't." The knight would simultaneously implore and threaten, a double-edged tongue in his mouth it would seem.

Morag bends knees to the ground to pick up the little boy's small knife. Tucking it into her belt, she reaches into a pouch, and she in turn also produces a few pence. As she's doing so, the little boy is looking up at Thomas in disbelief and a little awe at the prospect of potential escape, and winces visibly at the idea of being given over to the guard. "No milord. No, I won't, I mean, yes, yes, I will. I won't be thievin' again, I promise sir milord sir!"

"And here," Morag adds, holding out a few coins. "I'm going to buy your knife. It's best you not keep it, and this is enough for a fair trade, not charity." The boy looks back at Tomas, as if asking for permission to take Morag's money.

With a slight approving nod, Tomas presses his pence into the boy's hand, seemingly satisfied. "Take the coins and remember your oath to me. You swear it to Sir Tomas de Imidston, vassal of the Earl Robert de Salisbury. Your word is your bond. Go home to your father and be grateful." The knight releases his grip on the (hopefully) former cutpurse, either of his hands disappearing back into his cloak when all is said and done.

It would be easy to add her own chiding remark, but she simply nods in agreement; upholding an oath as deemed by a knight should be enough. The boy makes a few more abjectly sincere (for the moment?) promises, and darts away, clutching his coins tightly as he scrambles off into the dust. Turning her attention to the saturnine man, Morag's smile comes easy and sincere. "My thanks, Sir Tomas. Both for the rescue of my effects and for your generosity with the child. Desparation does make people do unthinkable things."

Pale blues watch the youth until he is out of sight. For a moment, it seemed as if he intended to turn away and leave it at that, but Morag's words root him in place and so he must set his attention upon the woman. He takes in her countenance, and recognizes neither face or her colors, but his dour expression is reticent to reveal as much.

"Let it be said that the Idmistons are not without a heart to their justice. He should count himself fortunate; Another knight may not have been so lenient." The Pagan in him does not allow the man to downplay his execution of sound judgment, before he continues. "I am afraid you have me at a disadvantage with identity, m'lady."

"And I wouldn't want you to remain at disadvantage after so generous a display." she says forthrightly. "I am Morag de Burcombe." Of the very well loved de Burcombes, as it happens. If her name sparks any information, it's probably along the lines of her being Roaman's bastard born child of Beltaine, a priestess of the old ways, and a healer. "Justice is best tempered with heart, adapted and changing even as the seasons do."
Tomas checked his vengeful of 16, he rolled 15.

Ho-boy, does the name of Burcombe ring a bell once he hears it and his face, unfortunately, displays a twitch before Tomas forces himself to regain his composure with a quiet exhale. "Then that makes Sir Caerwyn your half-brother." The tone in his voice carries a hardened edge. If Morag has heard any rumors of the latest day in court, it would be how the two of those men had it out with each other during the feast, but they rescinded their words in front of witnesses.

"It is a pleasure to meet you, m'lady. I have strong rapport with your cousin, lady Eirian. I find the Burcombe house to be rather agreeable."

"It would. And aye, my cousin Eirian and I have quite similar sensibilities in many ways." There's an askance look at him as she considers his statements regarding her aforementioned half-brother. "Do you?' she asks of him mildly, and oddly enough, seems more amused than anything else.

It seems he has been caught in a confliction: Words that do not agree with his feelings of the knight Burcombe. "I do, for the most part. I have no doubt that you have heard what transpired between myself and Sir Caerwyn. Suffice to say, I find that he is a farcry from what I've come to expect of your house." A practiced smile, in an attempt to diffuse things.

Morag continues to consider him with her head tilted at a birdlike angle and without dropping her eyes from his. "I find that a singular meeting is no true means to declare in absolute the nature of any man's spirit. Perhaps you will come to appreciate my brother in time." From her tone, she suspects it's unlikely, but she has hope. "And a family is often greater than its indivduals, isn't it? If the hand offends, look to the heart. Or the eye. Or the foot. It doesn't render the whole body without worth." Her tone is almost a challenge.

If he perceived a challenge, it was not evident. "Twice have I witnessed your half-brother, and neither time was I impressed. You will have to forgive me if I find him lacking." That was incredibly blunt, but Tomas does not let the words linger for long before he continues. "That is why I look to Lady Eirian, or perhaps yourself, m'lady Morag. I do not condemn all the Burcombes for Sir Caerwyn's actions. In the grand scheme of things, the matter is trivial. He is still my Pagan brother, and our eyes are set to the Picts and the Saxons that threaten us all. We will fight together, not against, when it counts."

The wariness in her posture relaxes. She's not altogether pleased to hear his assessment of a sibling she loves very much, but she is impressed with his perspective in terms of the greater good. "Your wisdom does you credit in this regard, Sir Tomas." Her hands drift forward to lace in a relaxed fashion in front of her. "And aye, we children of the gods need to stand shoulder to shoulder in the face of those who would be rid of us. Even if our own instinct might be to otherwise elbow each other in the face as we stride forward."

The curve of her mouth widens at the corner just a tad. "You do me more credit than I deserve though, sir. As you correctly guessed, I am a half sibling to the knight who so stirs your ire. I'd say I come from the wrong side of the blanket, but truth be told, my mother concieved me on a Beltaine night and I'm not altogether certain a blanket was involved at any point in the effort."

There is amusement to Tomas' stoic expression, cocking a half-smirk that is easily gone within the next few moments. Choice words no doubt gnaw at the back of his throat, but they are swallowed in favor of how he answers. "It seems we both share a blessing of insight on the matter. That is good. More knights should think as you do, and we would become ever the stronger for it."

The Idmiston knight breaks his gaze from the woman, turning at the shoulder and looking to the sky as if to read something from the clouds. The puppetshow and the crowd's laughter are but ambience, it no longer appeals to him, it seems, and his mind edges to another matter before he comes back to reality. "It is in my hand to decide whether you are worthy of the credit that I give, as it is beauty in the eye of the beholder. Perhaps at another time we may meet and learn more of each other. For now, I have come here with a purpose I intend to see through to the end." He finishes, drawing his attention back to the lady Burcombe to regard her when she answers.

She can't stop him from calling her lady, even if it's technically not accurate. "Who knows? Perhaps if I had not been called into the service of the gods, I would be a knight like my sister." She's a little speculative at the thought. "I think they prefer me to tend wounds rather than cause them, though." And whether she gives a fig about her worth, he does have a point; his assessment is his own to make. "Another time indeed. Danu grace you with good health, Sir Tomas. I hope the rest of your business goes as well as your service to Justice on my behalf." She bobs a little curtsey, and returns her gaze to the show.

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