(514-06-26) Potatoes and Pears
Summary: A bump in the market leads to a bid for freedom from a few unruly root vegetables.
Date: 514-06-26
Related: None (Part log, if anyone has the rest, please feel free to add to this.)
martyn angharad braelynn eirian perin arngeir cyndeyrn erylys 


The eastern road heading out of Sarum, through the Damas Gate, is more open than any other roads or avenues in the city itself. During the day it is a mingle of colorful pavilions and carts, some covered but most open air. This is where the majority of produce is bought, sold, or traded in Sarum itself. Most of the produce is raw, various fruits and vegetables, but some vendors have prepared various dishes or specific items. While the backside of Sarum Castle rises up to the east of here on its Hillock, the dominant feature is the Cathedral to the North. Built in stone, it's the one structure that rivals Sarum Castle in its marvel.


Closer to the middle of the day, with the sun shining on a blue sky above, and the Farmer's Market is a busy place, with people buying and selling their goods. It's here one can find Sir Martyn de Baverstock today, looking around as he makes his way along between the pavilions and carts, shaking his head a bit as he watches the goods on display. For those who might be looking to his face, his expression seems somewhat distant as he walks, although so far he's managed to avoid bumping into anyone along the way.

… Or he had. Avoided bumping into someone. Martyn that is. Because it's in his oblvious state that his elbow catches on a young woman's shoulder. "Ow!" She's quite vocal in her surprise, that elbow catching her just awkwardly enough that the basket she's carrying slung over that arm, swings around and tilts its contents onto the ground. Potatoes. They scatter under the feet that those whom would pass, and roll beneath vendors stalls. "Oh no!" Slight of stature and build, and with copper hair spilling in a polished fall from a half-crown braid on the back of her head, Angharad looks on in dismay as one portly merchant's foot finds itself atop a smaller one, before his arms flail and down he goes. BANG!

Braelynn enters the market, carrying a smaller basket this day. She seems to be of a singular purpose, and enters the market hastily, until a raucous attracts her attention. She stops suddenly, too suddenly, in fact, because a young red-faced squire runs into her back. She lets out a small 'oof' sound, and turns to glare at him, before her eyes return to the market. She seems hesitant to enter further into the market, after all she did witness a murder here not so very long ago.

Eirian de Burcombe is standing on a roof. To be sure, standing is a bit of a misnomer. More like crouching with style, her long grey cloak trailing behind her like the train of a gown. The light breeze keeps throwing the light garment into billows that will replicate sails of longships doomed to strike these shores in about two centuries. Her hands are occupied by feeling out the thatch laid down on a bit of a slant, and her toes are already sunken into the fresh application of grass and sedge. A small collection watches her do this with amusement and occasional effort at concern. They mostly look like common labourers, by the cheap linen tunics and brawny builds. Why ever she has this ignominious role to scramble up to the top of the roof may be self-evident; the girl is made of sunshine, dandelion fluff, and rose petals. Thus is she in the perfect position to freeze when someone shouts, 'Oh no!' The alpine ascent — or as close as anyone gets in Sarum — is forestalled by nervous practicality. "What? Brigid forfend another raid." Her mouth tightens and she is witness over all of this, standing up like some very strange statue of Nike.

Martyn blinks as his elbow seems to catch someone, turning in Angharad's direction. "Sorry…" he begins, before he blinks again as he sees the ruckus caused by those potatoes. "Strange something so small can cause so much chaos, isn't it?" That is offered, before he moves to help gathering those potatoes again.

"Sorry. I'm sorry. So sorry…" Angharad apologises, mortification in her voice as a stain of pink grows on her cheeks. Whether the apology is to Martyn or the unfortunate man that now splutters on the ground, well that'd be anyone's guess, but there's not really time to ponder on it for too long, because — potatoes. "I didn't mean… I mean… I… Oh gosh!" And as she's about to drop and start to collect them, her attention is caught by a figure on the roof. Is that Eirian? Could it be? She squints, presses the edge of her palm above her eyes to shield them and squints a little more. But it's so ''hard'' to tell when you're standing there in the middle of a crowd, and guilty of felling someone from their feet. And Braelynn isn't noticed for now, not with people milling about and helping to collect up her spilt load, and just bother… isn't life so horribly embarrasing at times? She blows a breath away and follows after Martyn, subtly, so that he can hand her what he collects, as he collects, and when he collects.

Braelynn remains stationary for a moment, until the rush of people continues, and then she moves on into the market. Her eyes are drawn to the figure on rooftop and she squints as she looks up at it. A slight shake of her head is given, and she moves closer to the interior of the market. As she nears the great potato debacle, she stoops to pick up one potato that had rolled a distance away. Lifting it she calls to the woman retrieving them, "I have one here!"

No figure of heroic stature up there, Eirian holds her arms out briefly to balance herself against the eternal threat of tumbling head over heels back onto the dirt ground. Her knee flexes hard to further support her current position, though from up there, she plays an excellent witness for the spill of root vegetables across the ground and the chaos ensuing from the jostle of a basket. It's the proverbial butterfly wings. Squinting is less of a necessity but she has to shield her gaze and suffer her dark hair blowing around lightly in front of her face, a perpetual disturbance, without swiping it away. "Lady Cholderton?" At least that much of a redhead stands out against the crackling background of activity. The chortling at her feet, or rather several feet below her feet, is silenced by a sibilant hiss of disapproval. "You could be of some use instead of standing about mocking them for their troubles." The thatch hasn't given way under her weight but she is not advancing, exactly, until deciphering the nature of the threat below. "Are you all right? No one lost anything breakable?" The question is pitched ridiculously over the market, but she at least can be a guide.

Handing over the potatoes as he collects them, Martyn offers a brief nod to Angharad. "It's all my fault, my lady. I should have been paying more attention to where I was going." Moving to get hold of some more of those potatoes now, he nods to the others nearby, a bit absently.

Critical Fail!
You check your honest at 16, you rolled 20.
Failed.
You check your deceitful at 4, you rolled 15.

Angharad flashes an apologetic smile to Braelynn when she holds up her spoils. "Thank you," she says, reclaiming the potato and dropping it quickly into her basket. "They're so /round/ don't you think? Carrots would /never/ have rolled away in the way that the potatoes did." And then she's spinning on one heel, turning to seek out the voice from above when it calls down to the market. Because that most /definitely/ was the voice of her childhood friend. "No! Nothing broken and nothing lost. Well, save a little dignity!" she calls back, a smile melting over her face at the sight of her fae-like friend. But then Martyn's passing back more of her potatoes, and so she's gathering them up from his hands and trying to look as if this is just another everyday occurrence for her. "Oh no, it really wasn't your fault at all," she says, chewing on her lip as she fibs a little to save his feelings. Because clearly, CLEARLY it was all his fault. There's nothing in this debacle that could be laid at /her/ feet. Except perhaps a potato or two.

Braelynn smiles and drops the potato in the basket just about the time she hears her name from the rooftop. She turns her head toward the sound, and lifts a hand in a wave. She calls out to her, "Lady Eirian? You're going to fall to your death from up there!" Worry colors her features, and she shakes her head. She reaches out to grab the nearest arm, out of worry, and it happens to be Angharad. She bites her upper lip and watches raptly.

Failed.
Eirian checked her honest of 13, she rolled 18.

Forget any consequence of dignity wherein a girl exposed to birds, sky, and the whispering wind is involved. Rather than allowing her cloak to billow about like a maniacal phantom, she tries to figure the safest route to ground level. That means edging carefully around the roof towards where the hapless trio aim to recover the roots rolling away. "Carrots would be like a stylus or a brush, though, and be more difficult to pick up?" Her merry tone matches concentration needed to hold onto the thickets of sedge. And that reveals why she is up there in the first place, for while she moves, a recalcitrant little raptor pokes its head out from the thickly grassy peak of the shop and screeches. Not a pleasant tone, but it hardly constitutes the angry war cry of a kestrel about to land on a rabbit or choice mouse. The bird blends fairly well, but once poking its head out, it's fully visible for anyone trying to look up. "Clearly, Lady Angharad, this was all a terrible mishap." Her lips part into a light smile that fully supports that fib. Utterly. What a terrible little creature in cahoots she is. "I doubt I am going to fall to my death, as it so happens. I rescue birds all the time from trees and the highest reaches of Camelot Wood." Yes, that enchanted forest of dread depths. "I will endeavour not to step through the otherworld and concern anyone, though."

"They seems to be quite round yes," Martyn replies as he continues to pick up the potatoes, moving a little away from the others to get hold of the last few ones. Looking up towards Eirian as well, he shakes his head a little, but doesn't make any comment now. Focusing on retrieving those potatoes.

Angharad laughs. She has a warm laugh, the sound soft and vibrant in the market air, and as she takes further potatoes from Martyn's hands, she offers him a dip of her head and the smallest of curtsies. "Let it be known that Angharad de Newton Tony is most grateful for your help in retrieving her potatoes, kind sir." And her introduction might be short and sweet, but it's given most heartfelt, even if her attention is quickly reclaimed by way of Braelynn's warning to Eirian. "She will be fine," she says quickly, glancing up to the roof once more. "Why only last summer I swear that she was at the top of a tree at least thrice that height, and it with its branches bowing beneath her weight." Even so, her eyes do just linger upon the sprightly form that navigates the thatch, a hand left outstretched finding itself filled with another potato. How convenient.

Exciting times in the market turn a clear, later afternoon day into something slightly more thrilling than not. Angharad and Braelynn chase down stray roots rolling around in the dirt, collecting them into baskets. Martyn, away on dinner, continues to gather up the strays from the furthest reaches of the stalls. Eirian inches her way along a thatched roof of an adjacent building while amused labourers look on, serenaded by an immature raptor of some kind.

Braelynn glances at Agharad as she introduces herself to Martyn. A warm smile spreads across her face and she says, "You're Sir Seraphina's sister, aren't you?" She is, at the very least, distracted from Eirian perched so precariously on the roof, and some of the anxiety drains from her features at the reassurances. "I hope you're right." She looks back toward Eirian, putting a pale hand over her eyes to sheild them from the sun so she can see better.

Critical Fail!
Eirian checked her falconry of 10, she rolled 20.

Standing at the edge of the roof, Eirian looks back over her shoulder towards the misbehaving bird. "Of course you would emerge now. See if I care, Cyfnos! You can stay up there." Because clearly the route to coercing any cat or bird from its perch is by blatantly ignoring its presence. She turns away from the bird to consider the route of the roots, mouth pressed together. Far be it from her to deal with the bird's shenanigans, she gets her feet under her and slides down the thatch to its lip on her backside, and then simply slumps right over the edge to drop to her feet. "It was a mite easier when the wind was not blowing. I can be grateful it isn't misty or else these handholds would be awful," she manages. Then there's another angry cry and the bird, rather than sneaking back into its roost, takes wing.

The fey creature frowns, staring up at the departing shadow. Bother. "Cyfnos!"

Having gotten hold of those last few potatoes, Martyn offers a smile to Angharad in return. "Thank you, Lady Angharad." A brief pause, before he adds, "I'm Sir Martyn de Baverstock. It's a pleasure to meet you." Pausing a bit as he looks to Eirian, but he doesn't say anything yet.

Entering into the area himself, Sir Perin seems about on business. Not to help with potato issues, and certainly not pondering the issue of birds. That's for certain. It would be all but a normal day even, until of course, there is a call from on high. Someone at the edge of the a roof, calling up into the sky. It seems odd actually. The man enters with simple cotton clothes for the day, not intending to go to the castle at all. His house colors displayed certainly, and a sword at his hip. Perin was looking to make some trades most likely in the market here, this one better than the one in Wilton certainly. He had his mind set, until that call came. Cyfnos? He looks around the market as if that might be someone, then looks up at the curious person perched on a roof type. "Good lady," he calls up to her, "Far be it from me to interfere, but might I suggest coming down, before, well, the wind helps make that choice and you come down unceremoniously?" He holds a hand up to his eyes, certainly the sun is up there some where and he must shield from it in some context.

"Yes. Yes I am," Angharad says to Braelynn, smiling brightly at the redhead whilst trying to ''avoid'' looking at the merchant who's now back on his feet and dusting his large backside free of market debris. But it seems that there's plenty to occupy her attention, and given that he himself has plenty of other hands to help him, she keeps that smile pinned to her face when responding to Martyn's introduction. "Thank you, would that our meeting have been under better circumstances than these though." Still. She's smiling, he's smiling, they're all smiling. Well most are. One of those who isn't would be Eirian as she drops to the ground, rescue mission aborted as her bird decide to abandon her and take to the skies. "It seems he has thoughts other than of being with you today," she says, squinting after the retreating shadow, before falling quiet as Perin arrives. She doesn't know him, but certainly knows his colours, and should he stop squinting at the sky then she'll offer him a generous smile and a dip of her head before accepting MORE potatoes from yet another source.

Cyfnos, being the Cymric for twilight or gloom, is well-named. She is a shadow on the sky, flapping away for some other precipice. Putting her hands on her hips, Eirian casts a less than pleased look into the infinite blue of the sky, her judgment registered upon the gods of flying things and finding solace no doubt in the comforts of earth. The day it pays to be friends with the Queen of Air and Darkness… err, wrong literary link. She instead pulls her cloak down around her, smoothing over the light wool with her hand, casting grass onto the dirty ground. "Thank you for assisting with the gathering of the crop. A good wash, I hope, and they will be right as rain." Lots of rain on a wet bird, a hungry wet bird who can't find any voles. Her slightly stormy eyes promise all sorts of doom for a naughty raptor on the wing. She flashes a brief smile back to Angharad and Braelynn, then dips her head to the two men. "Eirian de Burcombe. A pleasure to make your acquaintance." The dip of her knee is sufficiently friendly, a measure of a guess for proper status. "Thank you for the recommendation. I would not like to be cast off a roof or a wall by the wind."

Failed.
Perin checked his forgiving of 10, he rolled 13.
Success
Perin checked his vengeful of 10, he rolled 3.

As she notices Sir Martyn, Braelynn tilts her head and then gives him a polite nod, saying, "It's nice to see you again." She takes a deep breath as Eirian is back on solid footing, and her hand moves to her chest, while she calms her nerves. Pale green eyes begin to sweep the market for a particular vendor before her attention returns to Angharad. She smiles and says, "Your sister is one of my dearest friends. It's lovely to meet you."

Looking to Perin with a bit of a nod, Martyn looks to the Burcombe, a brief narrowing of his eyes at the name, but gone just as soon as it came. "Being cast off a roof or a wall can be bad, no matter what the reason," he offers, a bit quietly, before he offers a nod and a smile to Braelynn. "You as well, my lady," he greets her, before looking back between the others again.

There is worry in his eyes of course, as Perin looks up at the woman. She has the dignity to stand tall up there, smoothing her dress and all that. Dangerous things, being up there, enough trouble with saxons or renegade knights of course, no need to risk such a thing. Even for a bird, but he didn't see the bird partake of its leave from her either. He has no clue about crops and rains which she speaks either. The looking up stops at the introduction by name. "Ah, yes, not a completely mystery." The oddness of being on a roof like that, and his gaze peels away, thickly. One may notice hints of a scowl, or a turning up of the corner of his lips. "Yes, do not fall off, least I be accused of being part of this endeavor." To upend her off her feet and the roof. His gaze does come to Angharad then of course. and the smile is noticed. He returns the nod at least, his lips try to smile through that scowl, there is mild success at least. "Good day. Everyone is after root vegetables, I was hoping from some summer fruit." He comments, as there is a gatehring near the potatoes.

Of course, when Arngeir decides we wants to come into town, it's usually going to take awhile. People tell him to take a horse, he tells them to piss up a rope. The man enjoys walking, which might not be the best idea, but damnit, he's not going to let his leg be a problem. Well, alright, he rode a horse to town, but he'll leave it in the nearby stables. That's the concession he makes. A rather finely crafted walking staff lets him put his weight on as he walks, a heavy limp signifiying an injury to a leg. A satchel, or rather /the/ satchel is slung around his chest, and when he's out and about, it's never not on his person. And like anyone else to travel to the market, he's here for something edible. Maybe an apple. Or if he's lucky, he can get his hand on a pear. He loves pears.

"They are mine, sir. They spilt from my basket," Angharad says quickly to Perin, not quite enlightening him as to the cause of falling, but offering him an insight to the incident at least. It's to Braelynn that she then turns however, the basket adjusted so that it lies more easily within the crook of her arm, though the weight of it now pulls her down a little on that side. "Oh, but I must tell her then that I have met you," she says to her. "Except that I am afraid that I don't as yet know just whom you are." She pauses, captures a strand of hair that wilfully flutters across her face to catch in her mouth to anchor it back behind one ear, and it's as it's tucked there that she catches sight of a familiar face threading it's way through the market crowd. "Arngeir!" She calls. Beat. "My brother," she explains to anyone listening.

For the record, Eirian counts among the smallest and slightest of the Burcombes in stature and relative importance. What bravado and bonhomie is present in her kin, only the latter seems to apply to her. She forsakes whatever passes for a reaction at the recognition for Martyn, instead casting a faint smile and tip of her head in recognition to him. Her shoulders draw back slightly and she sinks down to the edge of the rooftop, hands curled in the thick grass, rather than being consigned to the depths of Annwn by an errant breeze or lofted arrow. Feet swing slightly as she measures the difference down, and hops off. Landing in place is truly nothing so spectacular as it could be. "I hardly think the blame can be fully taken by you, Lady Angharad. You act as though you are responsible for making them round and keen to get away to every last nook and cranny. Though I imagine there shall be one who escaped and lives to tell the other escaped fruits and vegetables of its great adventure, fleeing the pot for the safekeeping of some dark little corner where it may flourish and grow as nature intended." She glances askance to Braelynn and pauses to see if the woman will introduce herself, offering her arm in solidarity for the root folk. Or rather rescuers of the naughty crop. "Hardly could we fail to notice the resemblance, sunflower. The two of you do have a similarity about you. I can hardly place what it might be. The hair, the nose? The same mother and same date of birth?" Whimsy ticks up the corners of her lips and she waves brightly in Arngeir's direction.

A flush of embarassment colors her cheeks as Braelynn realizes her error. She begins to say "I'm sorry, I'm Lady Braelynn de Cholderton". But it's just then that Angharad sees her brother and calls out to him. her voice trails off uncertainly, and she again begins to eye the vendors for the one she needs. She says quietly, "Excuse me…" Before she backs away shyly. As the crowd grows around Angharad her discomfort visibly grows and at this she walks away, or more like flees, to go conduct the business she needs to conduct.

"That the potatoes spilled from the lady's basket would not have happened if I had paid more attention to where I was going," Martyn adds to the explanation, otherwise keeping silent for now. Looking over in Arngeir's direction as Angharad calls out to her brother, he offers the man a brief nod, before he looks around, expression a little thoughtful.

The explanation of the potatoes given, even while not asked. "Yes, that would do it I suppose," offers Perin finding something of a grin there at least." A slight look up, not fully at Lady Eirian, escaping potatoes, that could be an eye roll by Sir Perin in the moment. As introductions have gone around for the moment, he does throw in his name as well, "Sir Perin de Steeple Langford. I would help with the potatoes, but alas, I've more than enough." And things seem well in hand. Still uncertain to what to make of someone on the roof for the now. He is instead focused on the gathering near the potato incident of 514. "Perhaps it was simply fate, destined to meet and it took this simple accident involving the root vegetables?" Not that he means to interfere with the already interferred morning of the one, but conversation is good at least. Taking his mind into this moment, not where every it might have been.

"She always says it like that. Like it's some kind of preamble to accountability of whatever I might say." Arngeir grunts. Oh, he's the grumpy sort, but most times, there's sarcasm laced with it that most people should realize that there's nothing antagonist about it. He's just naturally grumpy. "Angharad." he replies, coming to a stop short of the larger group. Large groups are not good for him, especially not with that limp. "Erri." he acknowledges Eirian as well, being the people he knows the best, as well as nods being given out for those he does not. "What exactly have I stumbled into?" he asks, frowning at the potatoes on the ground.

Angharad nods to Braelynn. "It is good to meet you, my lady," she says, going on to add when the other excuses herself, "… no matter how brief that meeting might be." As she turns, a potato is quickly slipped into her basket; a prank, a jest, a show of good intent perhaps, before she turns back to those that would decry it her fault, a scrunch of her nose and a shake of her head. "Fate indeed," she says to Perin, a sudden laugh colouring her words as with the arrival of Arngeir at her side, she turns to press a quick kiss to his cheek. Sister's can be embarrassing that way. "There was a collision of arms," she tells him quickly before much else might be said. "My basket spilt and Sir Martyn here was kind enough to retrieve them for me."

Braelynn's departure forces Eirian into turning the offered arm into a wave. "Have a lovely rest of your afternoon, Lady Cholderton. My best wishes to a quieter experience for the rest of the day." The farewell of a warm wave satisfies on that front, and then she slips her hands into the depths of her sleeves. Embarrassment of sisters or not, she gravitates towards the pair of Newton Tonys. Clearly they are well familiar to her, and she can serve as another human shield against Arngeir being bumped by some straggling urchin and his dog. She still scans the sky in futile hopes, the bright spark of edged mirth showing in her eyes. Wrinkling up her nose, she adds, "Mind if you see a rabbit falling from the sky. I shall not explain why."

A brief pause as he sees Braelynn leave, and Martyn offer her a quiet nod and a smile. "Be safe," he offers, before he looks between the others again. "I think that's how sisters try to handle things," he offers to Arngeir, before he shrugs a little bit as he listens to what's being said now.

"Ah." Arngeir nods, the explanation being enough for him to not press any further. "Well, I suppose I should be grateful for missing out on the explosion of pruduce and gords. I shall take cover if tomatoes finds themselves in the position shoot away from their rather more mundane stationary lives. Though I would consider flying produce to be a sign." Pause, considering. "Of some kind. I could not say of what." Idly, he adjust his satchel, leaning on his staff, a suffering snort at the sister smooching his cheek. "Raining rabbits? Is there a new plague of Christiandom that I am not aware of? Well, we would eat well, in that case. Though it may be more of a problem is it being pour stags."

As one turns to leave, Perin does at least offer a wave to her the same. The woman that suffered the potato incident smiles and finds a laugh at least in that, and joined by another, her brother even. "Yes, at the rate of our luck today, could well be the next new plague. Let us hope not, as I'm certain that would require more time with me knees to the floor to pray for an end to it. And I'd be remiss to want that to end, nothing beats a good coney stew." A slight grin at least, favoring the brother, Arngeir for the moment then. "Yes, pray that it stays on the rabbit stage and progresses not to the stage of stags. With my luck, I would end up having a higher incidence of bucks dropping, head first in my vicinity."

A smile smothered behind her raised palm, Eirian is demure as she averts her gaze to the side. The Lady of the Wood cannot be held responsible for the bedlam involving runaway produce. The birds, she will take that responsibility. Her eyes round dramatically and she whispers, sotto voce, "A stag-shower? Imagine if they all landed points down. It would be a terrible loss, except for the Boar's Beard. And rather attractive target practice, come to think." Her attempts to maintain levity fail entirely with a betraying ray of sunny laughter, pooling between the group in the middle of the market. "I have heard of a rain of fish, mind you, pummeling down over the coast, but that must be the product of a storm? I suppose that seems the most likely outcome. I would rather not chance upsetting fortune any more than it has been."

"Hey, the Boar's Beard isn't a bad place…" Martyn begins, before he shrugs a little as he listens to the others now. "But a staf shower sounds decidedly… uncomfortable…" Looking between the others, his expression a bit distant.

Cyndeyrn comes along on what is likely no more or less than his usual business on Sarum, although that business may be a bit more common since his more ongoing employment in the Count's retinue. But without sign of arms beyond his sword, he is clearly not about on such official business now, his own in the market probably no different than most. Indeed, passing some stall full of vegetables, he pauses to take a glance, although really only the browsing sort, suggesting a more idle approach to food-acquisition, maybe a later-day snack, than a proper shopping endeavor. Besides, his sister handles most of that. The Dinton's steps will continue on beyond that stall and toward the next, and so on, up until he comes upon the small disruption of some spilled merchandise and a hopping woman, pausing at a few paces as not to add any chaos to the mess.

With a few dogs at her feet, and dressed in pants and a tunic, Erylys joins those already in the Farmer's Market, the slim young lady carrying a pack on her back in which a few heads of birds can be seen sticking out of. Dead birds. With a bow slung over the other shoulder along with a quiver, it's apparent the girl has been out hunting. Giving commands to the three dogs that keep them close to her better than the leashes tied to their collars, she walks slowly along the road, heading towards the castle in the midst of the walled city.

"The Beard?" Arn blinks. "My, where else would I be able to drink away my regrets and ignore my personal failings?" he offers, taking a moment to stretch out his bad leg, hanging on his staff for leverage. "So." he straightens up, as best he can. "Now that the personal crisis of falling vetables and animals have now passed us by, is there anything about? Because I did come here to see if there was a pear or two for purchase, as hard as they are to find. I'm holding out hope that there might be some about, unless they've all already been brought." A glance is given Angharad and Eirian. "Unless the two of you were going some place else? I hadn't intended on staying long. Too many people creates greater risk for a fall."

At the centre of the knot of people, there's still the smallest flush of colour to Angharad's cheeks, because even now another child runs up with a potato for her. It's accepted and solemnly placed in her basket, a quick ruffle of thanks given the boy's hair before he's off and losing himself in the crowd once more. "Pears?" She's distracted by Arn's words, and despite the fact that he props himself on a staff, she leans into his side and offers him a companionable bump of her shoulder. "I did spot some on a stall just through there," she tells him, a lift of her chin given to indicate the direction along that which Cyndeyrn approaches. "Shall I run quickly and get a couple, or are you intent on doing this yourself?" Erylys for now goes unnoticed, save the fact that the birds' heads poking from her pack draws a quick lift of one brow.

"I had a thought of escaping to find that naughty falcon. She will not be far, but tracking her down cannot be done standing in the middle of a square." Eirian's voice pitches softer, losing some of its typical amusement for the task. "You may have to search and see what has not been disrupted by fear of the Saxons, my lord. A pear may not be too dear, but a full stag probably is." She touches Angharad lightly upon the arm and adds, "I meant to invite you out for a walk to a particularly pretty glade, but not at this hour, and the distance is not too far. Expect me to talk to you about it later, as you like." Pulling up her hood closer to her neck gives her the means to conceal her identity a least a little, though the perpetual floral coronet conspires to make her distinguishable even at a distance. She nods slightly at Cyndeyrn; another of the Count's employees, it should stand she might recognize him. And maybe he notices the lady of a mortal enemy, who knows? On that note, she withdraws a few steps and pivots, scouring the sky and veering towards the Visitor's Quarter.

There's a brief pause as Martyn hears Arngeir's words, offering the man a brief grin. "That is a good plan, drinking away one's regrets," he offers, words kept rather quiet. "Would probably take very much to drink, though…" A brief pause as he looks between the others, a nod to both Cyndeyrn as he spots the man, and to Erylys, then back to the others nearby.

It's not too likely that Cyndeyrn would typically count ladies of the non-armigerous variety among the mortal enemy listings unless they are the especially, well, aggressive or wicked sorts of ladies! Which, well, maybe Eirian is, though it would not be to his knowledge were it the case. And so his reaction to the woman's passing is one of very basic casual, but not unfriendly or standoffish politeness, from whatever familiarity they may have from haunting the castle. And then, well, he hears someone mention pears, and glances over, as, given his Quest for Food (tm), one of those sounds good. And oh, there is a stall with pears. So, he'll go to ask the merchant for a couple of those, paying whatever is due, before spotting Martyn and giving him a nod. "Sir Martyn. I hope the day finds you well."

"That…is not a bad idea." Arngeir notes, thoughtfully and giving a considering glance at Eirian. "Sister, I had not intended on staying here all that long." For all of his imbalance, he can still hold up Angharad when she leans on him. He's a big guy with a staff, he can take it. "I can retrieve my small bounty and be on my way. If you'd like to join me, feel free, but this." he gestuers at the squre. "Too many people." With that, he'll will indeed go and fetch his pears before he too will make his way out of the market.

Still an interloper in the gathering himself, Perin does pick up on the idea of peaches and summer fruits at least. "Ah, that is one direction I shall be headed in soon." A slight grin to the mixed company, not so much towards Eirian for the moment it could be noted. Even as she turns off to look for her wandering raptor, hopefully no bigger raptors in the sky today. Or maybe somewhere, had he known it was her bird up there, he might of pondered just that. As it is, he missed the flight of the bird so much as her calling for it from where she had perched briefly. A chuckle at the child that came up and left, giving a pear. An offhanded comment, "At least they've returned them." Instead of just taking it home for some reason. "I'll not tempt fate any more, and leave you to the collision." To Angharad and Martyn that is. Like the others, slowly withdrawing from the sudden gathering in the market, then again, potato incidents may tend to do just that.

"That sounds like the most perfect of plans," Angharad replies to Eirian, her smile bright for her friend before she, too, is turning to leave. A quick lift of her hand, a wave, and then she's turning back to her brother, the tilt of her face to him showing a smile that somehow resolves itself into the smallest of frowns. "Oh Arngeir, please don't go getting legless at the Boar's Head today," There's a joke in there somewhere. A quick glance about them is given, and indeed there are so many now within that market there that it most certainly does make it more difficult for him, so hefting her basket more comfortably on her free arm, she threads the other through his and makes of herself both prop and anchor. "We shall find those pears together. Excuse us." This given in apology to both Martyn and Perin whom she'd previously been speaking with, and notwithstanding being halted by either, she'll accompany her brother away from the gathering.

Unless otherwise stated, the content of this page is licensed under Creative Commons Attribution-ShareAlike 3.0 License