(514-06-02) Tea and Jealousy
Summary: Rowan visits Amalthea to make his intentions more clear. He sees a little green when she brings up a potential admirer.
Date: 6/2/514
Related: None directly
amalthea rowan 

The Dinton stables are not an ostentatious affair by any means. They lay just behind the manor proper, backing onto a large greenspace that is presumably for exercising the horses. Housing enough for ten horses, though certainly not so many stalls are occupied, the timber-wrought structure is solid and… strangley homey.

In fact, there's a cook pot over a crackling fire, logs that serve as chairs clustered around it, some cheerful flowers in a vase, and a rough-hewn bed in one corner. There is an Amalthea, too, bending over the stall of one dappled mare, speaking soft, sweet nothings to the creature, extending an apple its way. "Yes, that's it, my darling. I promise it's fresh. I remember last time, Princess. How could I forget?" Yes, she's having a conversation with a horse.

Rowan seeks Amalthea out a couple of days after returning to his manor and getting his pending affairs in order. A part of him looked forward to getting away; stewardship is not one of his strong suits in spite of being the lord of Wylye and having at least four years in preparation. Those responsibilities, once again, were now left in the care of his mother and cousin Breaca. They actually seem to enjoy it, at least!

He approached the manor and made sure they were aware of his presence, even if he did not speak with the lord personally; he did not intend to stay long. He finds the stables and gently nudges the door open, but he does not immediately step inside. Not yet. "Lady Amalthea?" Rowan asks curiously.

Critical Success!
Amalthea checked her awareness of 10, she rolled 10.

Amalthea knows that voice, as surely as she knows how to breath. It strings her tighter than a bow, leaving her just as plucked. This may not be a good thing, because now she's looking down at herself, also aware that she looks, well, like a stablemaster, in her dark boots, long legs clad in tights, covered with a tunic that has more than its fair share of dirt. Her hair, too, has straw in it, but at least she can't see that.

Frantically, the lady tries to brush as much muck from her clothing as possible, while calling out, "Um. Oh. Yes? Just…" One last little nudge is given to the flowers in the vase so they might sit up a little straighter, "… do come in!"

You check your awareness at 5, you rolled 13.

Rowan steps in once Amalthea confirms she is indeed there and gives her consent. The russet-haired knight is dressed in his travelling leathers, which consequently did not look much different from the outfit Amalthea is in! He doesn't seem to register the nervousness present in her voice, nor the fact that she had straw sticking out of her ebony tresses, and he offers her a polite smile as he ventures further in. "It's nice to see you again. I hope I'm not interrupting anything; I wanted to speak with you before I got caught up in other obligations."

Amalthea checked her lustful of 7, she rolled 18.

Amalthea checked her chaste of 13, she rolled 7.

It's flattering. It's sweet. This man, this desireable man, sought her out all the way at Dinton simply to speak with her. Amalthea takes an abrupt step towards him, something like fire kindling in her eyes, her hand lifting… and then checking all of a sudden. Her cheeks go a bright rosy crimson, and she turns that hand-lift into a halting wave at the boiling pot. "I am pleased," and a whole host of other things she thrusts down, "to see you, Sir Rowan. I was just about to have tea. Might I offer you a cup while you tell me what you wish to speak of?"

Critical Success!
You check your awareness at 5, you rolled 5.

The redness which floods through Amalthea's face is difficult to miss, even for him! The fire in her eyes also entrances him, ever so briefly, until she abruptly turns her attention elsewhere. His brown eyes drift down to regard the boiling pot. There is a pause as he wonders if it was possible to fail at making good tea, but he answers with a soft nod. "I will gladly take the cup, though my stay will be short," he admits with a twinge of regret. "I was wondering… if anyone was courting you?"

Critical Success!
Amalthea checked her honest of 10, she rolled 10.

Amalthea actually laughs. She can't help it. "Courting?" she looks around her at the stables, down her unclean garb, and to her bed over yonder in the corner with the horses. "ME?" Her voice hitches a notch as she tries to smother the laughter. "I am sorry, forgive me, please," she murmurs, biting her lower lip hard. "It's just… look at me! I am the antithesis of what most men wish to court." The tea is forgotten for the moment, and she gives her chestnut head an amused shake. "No, Sir Rowan, no one is courting me." Except, she pauses, and then tacks on, "Though Sir Martyn did tell me I was one of his favourite people. But I hardly think that counts."

Critical Fail!
You check your trusting at 10, you rolled 20.

Relief initially springs forth when she laughs, but it dims when Martyn is mentioned. The suspicion is hidden behind a mask of neutrality, but a small crease falls between his brows. "Sir Martyn, hmm?" His eyes glance over her attire and then he looks away evasively. "Perhaps Sir Martyn isn't like most men? You are hardly unappealing, milady - you light up the room you're in." It is his turn to bite his lower lip, now far more nervous. "But… regardless of his intentions, I will not be dissuaded from pursuing your hand myself unless you don't want me to."

Critical Success!
Amalthea checked her awareness of 10, she rolled 10.

Amalthea checked her honest of 10, she rolled 18.

Amalthea checked her deceitful of 10, she rolled 18.

Amalthea sees that crease in the brow. Perceptive tonight, she is, perhaps because of the subject matter. "Sir Martyn is not like other men, I should imagine. He is quite chivalrous and complimentary. It could be that he has a liking for me. I like him well enough." Beat. "But I wish to be courted by /you/, Sir Rowan. And not simply for your beautiful charger, but because you are more forthright, more bold, more… lenient," she references her almost running him down with a horse like it was just a simple matter of misunderstanding, "than any man I have met, and… I have an attraction to you."

A speck of jealousy remains, but Amalthea's kind words and her own forthrightness help alleviate most of the thoughts threatening to drag him into a brooding fit. He looks sheepish now as his eyes light up. "Y-you do?" He clears his throat as he earnestly locks his eyes with hers. "Then I shall. I simply didn't want to assume you were without admirers, or that you didn't admire someone else more." They have only known each other for a short period of time, after all, though it was enough to make him clearly infatuated. "I think you're gorgeous and I would not be surprised if other men thought the same. A dress matters little, truthfully."

Amalthea, despite her own honesty, cannot help the blush that pinkens her cheeks at his. She ducks her dark brown head to hide it, and the tiny, creeping smile that claims her lips. "Yes, well," she murmurs, clearing her throat a little at the sudden tightness there, "that just proves how unlike most men you are, sir. You are the first." That she knows of. "I… will you be speaking to my cousin? I can consent, but since my father has died, I am Cyndeyrn's ward." And stablemaster, which he might not love the prospect of losing.

"I will be," he answers without hesitation, fully understanding the concept of wards. His father had two of them! Rowan brings his hands up and rubs them together. "Though I think his father has the final say, being the head of the manor." Also a position he is familiar with! "And there may be a slight hiccup; I will be away on garrison duty for some time beginning next Pentecost. I can't promise I will be able to get away and visit you, but I can write if you permit it."

"I most certainly will permit it, sir, and," Amalthea pauses, casting about and finally settling for removing the plain leather thong that binds her long cable of a braid, "though it is not much of a remembrance, would offer you this token to take with you. Should you… think of me… mayhap this will help you to know that I also think of you." The brown leather bit is extended, smelling of the stables and hay, and should it be accepted, Amalthea turns to get the tea poured, now thoroughly bright red.

Rowan accepts the leather hairband with some curiosity. "Thank you. I…" He struggles to think of something to give her, but everything currently on him serves a purpose! "I will find something suitable to give you soon." His smile returns, brighter than it was before. "Though my thoughts turn to you just with the passing of time."

He seats himself on a log when she begins to pour the tea. The log he assumes he's supposed to sit on. There he waits patiently and studies the strap of leather gifted to him.

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