(514-08-02) A Brother Disowned
Summary: Brother disowns brother.
Date: 514-08-02
Related: A New Morning, A New Life, What Their Future May Hold, and A Difficult Homecoming
eirian elrick lainn miruan padrig 

The river Bourne cuts north against the contours of the land, and the slow-moving waters skirt alongside a hundred years of deadfall. Arching branches sweep in a glorious, complicated canopy against the sky, the tangled thickets lending some cover and privacy against the banks. Birdsong trickles through a light breeze, a sweeping stroke of nature painted upon a pristine sky choked by sun-limned clouds. So much illuminated gold and silver would make a tremendous ransom were any man, king or peasant, capable of grasping them. Smoky trails mark the homesteads at a distance, punctuating the grip humanity holds on acreage beyond Sarum's long shadow. A long-dead tree collapsed from its rooted anchorage lies in the shallows upon a low sandbar, creating an ideal space for a girl to shelter in the still backward or, in case of Eirian, sit atop the log with her bare calves danngling over. Rolling liquid rushes past her feet, kicked up by frequent small sprays. Someone within the manor surely knows where she is, if Elrick chooses not to give escort to his new bride wandering down to the river that so precipitously tried to swallow her before the tourney at Carlion, Arthur's wedding on the calendar.

After whatever justice of a family is dispensed, resolution to find her thoughts might drive her down here.

Unfortunately, Elrick was indisposed for a period of time as he was dragged away, somewhat willingly, by his male family members for the Laverstock way as punished. That would mean he would be searching for his beloved an hour or two later after he feels himself in less pain, from the blows taken. His face is in okay shape, perhaps a bruise forming here or there, his cousins knowing that body blows are most likely for the best, lest they carrier the results into the civilized world where people would deem them to be a bunch of savages.

For now, the Laverstock Knight is walking a bit gingerly at the aches and pains his body feels, but it isn't the first time and he knows there isn't any lasting damage done. Just a sharp reminder that he made a foolish decision that could damage the family reputation, at best. He was pointed in the direction towards the river Bourne though, when asked about a particular maiden and that is where he heads towards, a hand reaching up to his jaw as he walks, wincing slightly.

Nothing quite raises the ire of a young woman of capricious temperament like seeing one of her favoured mistreated. Quite another matter when he carries his shield to intercept a blow than stands unflinching before blows taken from cousins and brothers. Perhaps her willingness to depart from the shadow of Laverstock manor is to open a forum for violent resolutions her pretty words cannot ameliorate. What is she supposed to say? Every household has their traditions. Not for her will these peculiar methods of conflict resolution cease, at least not without resentment dogging her heels like the Wild Hunt. The outsider here, in every sense of the word, Eirian retreats to her favoured element.

Besides. This isn't Constantinople, where disputes are solved by 17-year-long court cases and assassination.

She sings to the water, a tune as old as she is. At a distance, hearing the individual lyrics might be a challenge. The kick of her feet throws diamonds across the Bourne and every so often she leans forward, as though to admire her own pretty reflection in the chasing waves. Perhaps she means to see the future through the liquid element that defines so much of Salisbury. Or perhaps, just perhaps, it has something to do with the pile of soapwort flowers gathered in the bole of the fallen ancient. A large rock is set to the side, something that would take a hand to hold firmly to. As long as it takes Elrick to reach her, she actually puts the curious stone to use, finally picking it up and scooting on all fours atop the rock. Then she leans back onto her knees, spreading out the flowers in front of her. Only then does she start pounding them, still singing.

You check your awareness at 10, you rolled 1.

Though the melody is not being sung loudly, it is her voice and that is something he would never forget. Once his ears picks up that gentle tune, it is as if a flare has been shot from that location, Elrick easily moving in that direction. The closer he is, the clearer he can hear her. There is no rush to get to where she is though, content in just hearing her. Once the river is in sight, so is his wife, and he slows to a stop, apparently content to just watch from where he is. When she shifts from her seated position above the water to the rock, he becomes curious as to what she is attempting.

Eirian checked her awareness of 10, she rolled 9.

She keeps singing softly above the water and the pounding rhythm of the stone beaten into the flowers and their stripped stems. Leaves have been plucked away, and the firm tempo punches through a year's moss and fungus upon the tree. Its bark, since softened by many a season of rain and another of frost, remains pliant beneath the stone's flat face. What violence requires a maid to take her aggressions out so? One that permeates the air nearest her with a considerable sweetness, clean and modest. She stops occasionally to gather up the flattened mass between her palms, pushing inwards to form a pyramidal heap. Then her hand dips down into the river and brings a sprinkling of water to join. Eirian returns back to the thumping of the rock, though the addition of water to the released sap and liquid content of the blooms has a notable effect: foam. Soapwort releases saponins and through her vigorous efforts, releases no little amount of lathered sweetness.

Such occupies his newlywed wife — turning flowers into something to clean her hair with. She is much consumed by her task, though not so much she does not oft check the bank or upstream. In that moment the Lady of the Wood brushes her hair from her face with the back of her hand, lips parted. "Lo!"

The curiosity was well worth as Elrick was able to see the rigorous and thorough process that his wife is going through to create the soapy, lathered sweetness. When she spots him, the smile that appears reveals that all is well for now, as if the family thrashing was a common affair, having no real impact on him. Approaching Eirian, he doesn't climb up to join her just yet, letting her proceed with her work without interruption or distraction, "So this is where you have wandered off to. Quite an interesting task you are working on… so that is the secret of how you continue to possess the most ladylike of qualities." Looking at the stone in her hand and the mashed flowers that are now being mixed with some water, he nods understandingly, "Lucky to be me, having you as my wife."

"If she were mine, and loved me well,
Life would be crowned by pleasure.
I would not care for glory or gold,
Nor other earthbound treasure.

Her enchanting ways, her sparkling wit,
Weave fascination about her.
Arawn and Don grant the fair maiden be mine alone,
I cannot live without her."

The old song comes off her lips as she sets her task towards its apex, pounding the stone down with a touch more vigor than before. It rolls back and forth among the sap-rich flowers, the depression in the trunk acting as a bowl for the thick miasma. The crushed blooms leave petals stuck to her hands and forearms, the faint traces of the woad tattoos worn for Carlion still visible like veins traveling up towards her elbows. "No secret. Do you believe all women come fresh and perfect into the morn, a magical transformation after the dusk? The sun does not immediately straighten their hair and smooth their skin without a little assistance, except for the rarest enchantments. Already stories pass the Queen is one such strange and otherworldly presence." Her eyes glitter, amused. "Though I say we all have our own powers and gifts to that extent. And perhaps I wish to wash your hair and see you cleaned up after rolling about in the hay and soil with your kin, like a pack of puppies."

The song she sang was most appropriate to him, at least until he interrupted, and he will have to remember to have her sing it again, perhaps in his arms one night. At the mention of what he believes, a bemused smile touches his lips as he offers a shrug, perhaps that is indeed what he, and other men, believe of the fairer sex. At least those that do have a wonderful scent clinging to them and their beauty continuously well kept, a secret magic that only the ladies know of. When she mentions cleaning /him/ up, Elrick releases a laugh as he shakes his head, "Well, we are, in way, like a pack of puppies. Never to grow up and act our proper age. But yes, there was a bit of a roll in the hay and dirt, but that was not unexpected. Or undeserved." There is a pause before he looks at her with a calmer demeanor, "Thank you, I know it must have been difficult for you to be forced to hold your tongue, with my cousin earlier. I am indeed lucky to have a wife with such wit and patience."

Eirian's voice is not as pure and pristine as a bard's, but achieves in earnestness something true to the lyrical nature of their people. It is said of Cambrians that every last one has a songbird's voice, so how might the poor Cymri compare? She sits back on her feet, setting aside the rock in a pile of crushed and bruised petals, a brute among the ruined field. Foam lathers over her fingers to the knuckles and she scoops up a cloud, blowing bubbles lightly his way. "We would benefit more from a bit of rendered fat from the fire to truly make this magnificent, but I had not thought to make the request of anyone." Hesitant for a moment, her lips tighten to a white line and she clears her throat. "Truly I would ask for naught as yet. Lest the debt be held against you and my uncle refuses for some ungodly reason to pay my portion." So she buries her hands again in the saponin infusion, crushing and working the last juices from the ruined pulp of the flowers by physical exertion alone. If that were a human, they might be receiving an almost painful massage and probably scored multiple times over by her nails.

"Your lord cousin defends his honour and house's repute. It speaks well for Laverstock. He will not cower or be turned by simple emotions," she allows. "Though I caution you. My lord uncle has deep patience, but brooks no arrogance or fools towards him, a veteran of the battlefield. I hope Lord Laverstock has sense enough to show willingness to compromise, for intractibility is something Uncle Roaman despises in all of us."

"My cousin did not throw me out of the House, Eirian, and you are my wife, so that means you are part of our House." Even if they need to wait for the meeting between Roaman and Trystan to complete, Elrick considers her part of his House now. "All you need is but ask, even if it is to me and I will retrieve what you need." When the subject shifts to the head of House Laverstock though, the younger knight merely nods his head as if that was truth since Elrick had met the older cousin, "He wears a heavy mantle, Lord Trystan, as duty weighs heavy on his shoulders. Something that is luckily not required of me, though we can see that one must take care, as we are not complete freed of such chains." Theirs only a thin loop around their ankles at worst, a gentle reminder that they are still nobles. "I am sure compromise is what my cousin's intentions are, at this point, he wants to make sure that no offense was taken. Once that is cleared, then perhaps negotiations may begin, though I pray that your Uncle will not take this situation and bend it fully to his advantage. As you say, compromise." There is pride with the Laverstock, his cousin is not foolish but as Eirian said, no push over, one that would not allow any to take advantage of.

"I still approach the matter cautiously until matters are settled." In other words, limit the burdens imposed upon another. Eirian looks over the knight approaching her, measuring his pace and any minute imperfections not present before he entered the tender and loving of the Laverstock wolves. Her in-laws, no less. "I know all too well the costs placed upon him. Certes, Lord Laverstock comports himself as one would wish their liege lord to. We have too many examples when the mettle does not exist. A failing, perhaps, that the circumstances forging the father lacked for the son? I am not sure." The eternal question of inheritance lingers in her voice there, not something to be solved in a night by a young woman damp to the knees in a simple tunic. "My uncle would be sorely tested to consider turning the tables, given his fondness. Though should he seek to use me as a lynchpin to his own ambitions, I will not enable him." Her shoulders twitch slightly backwards and she straightens up a little, leaving off on the production of a shampoo from the soapwort flowers. Glancing about for a kind of container and finding none, she curls her soapy finger towards him. "In you go. I can do this well enough from here, and you can simply lie on the log with your head hanging over the edge, if you like?"

When Eirian displays caution, Elrick can't blame her but in fact supports her decision, knowing that though their bond to each other is strong, right now the connection to family is incredibly fragile. Trystan was right, he broke trust to his cousin and his family with his own selfishness, a selfishness he would commit yet again if given the choice, all for the lady that is with him right now. Such is the result when the barbed arrow of live is inflicted upon the heart, a projectile that once imbedded, has not way of withdrawing without tearing the heart itself. "Perhaps when we visit your home, Eirian, you would wish to speak to your Uncle first? Or do you wish for us to present ourselves as a united front like we did here with my cousin?"

When she looks around and finds not what she seeks, instead pointing at him, Elrick's expression appears to balk for a moment. "Me?" She wishes to have him smell of delicate flowers! "I… can help you find a container if you wish? Perhaps a small ceramic vial or vessel?"

A half-submerged oak log lies in the river, the great length still rooted somewhat in the earth. Eirian sits about halfway along it. Placid water warms in the summer sun, far stiller to the protected side of the tree than its current-facing face. Dry leaves litter the sloping bank down to the Bourne, summer warming the forest in its full green flowering. The maiden's hands are buried in a heap of foaming residue, a stained rock large enough to crush a man's skull if wielded properly beside her on the log. Small petals stain her forearms and wrists, speaking to her activities of slaying flower faeries, drowning will-o-wisps or some other murderous, feminine preoccupation. Elrick stands a few feet away on dry land, back to the trail meandering down from the manor towards the riverfront. All the better then for those behind, for the alarmed expression he wears is hidden from any approaching.

Eros knew no kindness when he set his gilded missiles to his bow. The silver might have eased his target, but for the golden, there is no respite. Even now the stories of Logres abound in knights known to ride in a rosy fugue from one end of the land to another, slaying golden stags and performing ridiculous quests to win an indifferent amor's attention. How different can they be, flesh-and-blood proof to the slaying force of love's aim?

The young woman continues kneading the floral pulp, then flicks her wrists free of the fragrant foam. It smells of cloves and fruit, weakened somewhat by earthen traces. Delicate flowers they are not, to be beaten entirely to a pulp that way. "Short of his private summons, I have no reason to ride ahead. We are one, Elrick, and should be seen that way." The statement made, she rotates on the log, tucking her knees higher to accomplish the turn. Her dripping tunic clings to her ankles, and she submerges her feet back in the warm water. "A container? That would require you to head back inside. I would not ask you to make the trip back on my account."

After receiving the Laverstock Way treatment by his cousins after bringing home a surprise bride, Elrick had made his way down to the river in search of Eirian and now may have regretted finding her. His expression is indeed alarmed right now, even if he doesn't know it. Instead of accepting the young lady's kind invitation to having his hair tended to, as to not waste the soapy concoction that she had crushed and mixed up, the young Laverstock is looking to find a container for her, willing to run back to the manor to find a ceramic vessel, or perhaps to hide. The subject on their visit to Burcombe lands is completely behind him now as he tries to find an escape, "The trip back to the manor is no big issue Eirian, I insist. No need to waste any of the efforts you have applied to those plants and flowers."

Hark, what light beyond yonder path doth break? Why, tis the east and Padrig is the sun, for he beareth one wooden pail with which he may rescue his panicked cousin or doom him forever. The young man is whistling a jaunty tune under his breath as he saunters carefully down the slightly rocky path toward the riverfront, not yet aware - or perhaps choosing to be unaware for the moment - of his cousin and his cousin's bride. The pail swings merrily at his right side, and his left hand toys with a coil of freshly woven rope. It isn't until his foot dislodges a rock that tumbles down past Elrick that the young man looks up to spot his cousin and catches with the shifting breeze the tail-end of their conversation, and one corner of his mouth turns up in a knowing half-grin. "Wasting a trip for what, Rick?" he inquires, letting the bucket dangle in a lazy, semi-hypnotic swing from two fingers as he glances between his cousin and Eirian. "Good day, Lady Eirian. You look quite lovely all covered in pulverized flowers, doesn't she, coz? Delicate and deadly all at once. Were you wanting this?"

The serene moon is not sick and green, not her even fairer maid placed upon the log raises her pale face to the entrant son of Laverstock descending from the east. Eirian speaks but she says nothing, the mirth coalesced in the wintry livery of countenance too bold for a sound to pass her closed lips. Spying the bucket hung from its fat cord of rope, she shifts upon the thick oak log. Petals stripped off delicate wrists and forearms land back amid the foaming pile, the suds diminishing by the minute as the contents settle back into a thick liquid.

Such a combination of manliness surely undoes her composure. The pallor of her cheek would shame marble, the narrow span of her throat working against the swoon threatening to topple the newlywed girl. A slight shake of her head does nothing to dispel the inherent weakness, or putting both soap-strewn hands in front of her mouth. No blush touches her skin. Shoulders tremble, and she bites back the desired comments to see what transpires.

The sound of the tumbling rock coming down the path towards the manor has Elrick quickly turning around, the look of alarm and perhaps even a touch of fear on his face before he quickly replaces it with an impassive mask. "Paddy… I was just thinking of heading back to the manor to see if there is a small, empty vial or container for her to put that… stuff in. Flowery stuff. For the hair." At the mention of Eirian being the destroyer of flowers, the married cousin can only smirk and shake his head. "Of course, Paddy, the good with the bad, right?"

Oh, yes, does Padrig see the visitation of Queen Mab upon Eirian, for he gazes at her for the expanse of a single heartbeat before turning his attention fully upon Elrick; his cousin becomes the bearer of his focus for the remainder. "Hmm? Of course, the good with the bad. I am sure it is the maidenly thing to do, after all, and we would not appreciate them for any less than full desire to please. Will this serve the purpose, do you think, or is it more the blunt man's tool to the fair lady's craft?" He pauses for a moment and glances sidelong to Eirian. "Or was the intention to wash your hair, coz, and did I blunder into a lovers' meeting? If so, I beg a thousand pardons. I will fetch my water and be away in but a moment, and you are free to resume. I promise I will not speak a word. I will just hint that Arian should sniff your hair."

Comporting herself after a few moments, Eirian clasps her hands over her girdle. Straightening spine gives her height anew, the queenly poise not in the least weakened by crossing her bare ankles. A desultory kick stirs the water into mercurial eddies and drags the woad-dyed bliaut into draped motion, another echo of motion in the otherwise still figure. She channels the evil of the gods, though, their instrument and mouthpiece on the lesson of egos. "It is not for the lady to complain about the maintenance state of a man's tool, lest she give terrible offense to his honour." Sweeping her gaze aside to alight upon Elrick and his many mercurial expressions, she pauses before rendering a smile. Impassivity will take a jab or two to see whether it ruptures, or was a flimsy excuse in the first place, against all expectations. "You leave me with no reason for complaint, though I might require your assistance to gather everything. I wasn't anticipating such abundance and it is far too slippery for me to handle alone."

When Padrig guesses at what he has interrupted, there is a scowl on Elrick's face as he shakes his head, "The lady offered because there was too much that was made, and no, your pail will not serve any purpose, Paddy. It surely won't fit in her pack." When Eirian stirs though and speaks, this causes her newly wed husband to blink, then snerk at her words, most likely the innuendo spoken purposefully. "Then it may be best for me to head back to the manorhouse to retrieve the proper vessel, Eirian." He then glances towards Padrig, adding, "I am sure my cousin, Paddy, can behave himself in my absence as there is a lady present, yes?"

"Boy, isn't that ironic, eh?" That voice belongs to Lainn, who's currently dressed in his training garb, since as usual, he's the one training the militia, and he's always doing that when he's not otherwise preoccupied, strolls up. "My brother, Elrick, telling my cousin that he has to behave himself. Isn't that just the pot calling the fucking kettle black, right?" And because it's Lainn, it's always hard to tell if he's poking fun or being viciously cruel. If anyone has seem him interact with his sister, it's always so very hard to tell.

Padrig stares blankly at Elrick for a moment before rolling his eyes in the most exaggerated fashion. "I suppose I could be persuaded to be conduct myself in a gentlemanly manner, nevermind that the lady has absolutely no say in the matter at all," he replies in a voice dripping with sarcasm while sketching his cousin the most courtly of bows he can manage. When he straightens, he reaches up to run his fingers through his tousled hair before gesturing toward the manor with one hand. "Surely I can be the one to fetch this, er, article, and you can stay to, ah, help Lady Eirian retrieve the, um, abundantly slippery…oh bollocks."

For once the young whoremonger is finding himself a bit red in the cheeks, and at the most inopportune time, too. He casts a dark glare at Lainn. "Let it drop. We've knocked it about enough for now."

Back to the soapwort, and the bruised petals. Eirian scoops up the remainders of the flowers and looses them upon the river, letting the Bourne carry away the damaged remnants of spring and summer. "Please permit me time to arrange myself 'ere I return to the land." Washing her hands off in the water, she then worries herself about getting back on land, a somewhat arduous trial given she sits upon an oak log and lacks shoes; no telling where those might be, though likely not terribly far. Her bliaut is soaked several inches above the hem, though otherwise remarkably serviceable, and she only lifts the long gown to smoothe the transition off the tree and back up the bank. If anyone's sensibilities are hurt by seeing ankle, too bad. She proves utterly capable of getting to the end without a helping hand, and only a little wobbly at that. A delicate inclination of her head serves in place of a curtsey. "Sir Laverstock, merry met. Sir Elrick and Sir Padrig, I thank either of you forced to go on an errand, but I can manage myself." See Eirian. See Eirian offer an opportunity to vacate the premises so they can be a pile of puppies again.

Well shit, Lainn is home now, and Elrick knows that his older brother would be doubly displeased that he missed the opportunity to join in on the Laverstock way, which was the judgement that Trystan had decided upon the guilty member. A hand comes up not to wave his older brother off but to run it through his hair, as he has no real retort for what the older Laverstock has said, since he was right. "I have no excuses, Lainn, I fucked up." He may have fucked up for what he believes is the right reasons and would choose to fuck up again if given the chance to do over, but the younger brother is not grasping at excuses, willing to stand up for his decision. When Eirian begins to make her way off of the fallen truck, Elrick almost moves to assist but seeing she is more than capable, he remains rooted where he is, perhaps waiting for Lainn's personal judgement on his younger sibling. When she offers to excuse herself, there is a slight nod as if he understands what she intends.

"That's true. You can't cure stupidily. We've already learned that once. And I've alerady gotten my knuckles dusted on his chin. Why settle for another, tempting as it might be." Eirian is flat-out ignored. He'll have no association with her and as far as he's concerned, he doesn't recognize whatever they did Amsbury. But he's said that previously and has made zero attempts to hide that fact from anyone. And he strides up infront of Elrick. "You know, of all of us, all of us that're /left/," because they've lost a couple siblings in the war, "I assumed it would be me or Arian that would be the fuckups. That's my title and you don't get to take that away from me." The look on his face is hard to read, like he's debating hitting Elrick or not. "I expected /better/ from you. I expected you /not/ to be the screwup I am. Thank the gods mother has passed on because you have any idea how /she'd/ react to all this? I'm so fucking disappointed in you." There's a snort through his nostril. "So what's it going to be? I beat the tar out of you, as if you'd learn anything from it? No, of course you won't, because I know what we're like. We do idiotic things, but nothing quite like this. Nothing where we end up hurting family as a whole. So no, I'm not going to hit you, you can just live with the fucking guilt of your actions. ANd maybe one day, you'll forgive yourself." He takes a step back, turning in a circle, making a gesture with the arms. "But good on you, Elrick! You beat the system, you married who you wanted to! Now you can fuck like rabbits all day long and not feel awkward about it afterwards. Good job!" The smile on his face is clearly one of malice. "Just really hope you're pround of reprecussions."

Padrig offers a half-bow to Eirian in acknowledgment but shakes his head. "I'm on an errand of my own, in any case," he announces, needlessly hefting the empty bucket before edging away along the side of the river to a shallow spot where he can stoop to collect his own water. He cocks his head and listens to Lainn's tirade at half-attention while wary of letting stray bits and bobs float into the bucket. When it is full, he hefts it up and slings the rope about his shoulders, mostly to alleviate having to carry the full weight in one hand.

He trudges back up toward the path and offers Eirian another nod on his way, one to Elrick, and one to Lainn. It is not in his interest to interfere having already spoken his mind, but he offers a wordless opinion by way of a quiet snort. "Good day to you all," he mutters quietly before wandering back toward the house.

Quarrelsome big brothers are the stuff of legend and Shakespearean tragedies. Eirian treks across the bank, looping behind her husband to a simple cairn of fallen branches swept by ample leaves from autumns come and gone. The colourful brown wave broken in a patchwork against the overhanging trees makes a fine place for squirrels, as if any would come this close to the Boure. There she takes care to kneel, reaching into the undergrowth to procure two or three objects; first, her leather shoes, then her purse. She hooks the latter onto her girdle using a practiced ease, twisted cords worked through looped latches. Sitting back on the ground, she slips her feet into the shoes, drawing on the laces until tight. Lainn ignores her and she does nothing insofar to draw his ire more than exist, breathe and stand under the same sun.

Then again, she picks up on a refrain of some old, archaic tune forgotten for the most part in southern Britain. Perhaps they might remember the full meaning north of the wall, in those dark lands where Brythonic languages reflexively rejected Latin influences from the Roman barbarians to the far south. Just a verse or two, but when she is quite done, she gets to her feet and brushes her hands down her skirt. "My lord." Only one person here fits the bill there. "I trust you shall. Though the outcome will take some time yet before it is revealed."

The tirade that is being thrown at him by Lainn is similar to the one that Trystan had done earlier today, so Elrick listens without interruption once, just like he did when his cousin said his piece. When his older brother is finished, the young speaks with a rather passive expression, whatever he feels tucked behind a mask. "When I made my decision, brother, I knew there would be shock and disappointment. Justified anger and a possible taint to my name. We have but one life, and the Saxon's visit to Sarum, our own venture to Sussex, they were a harsh reminder of that. You've known, ever seen we've grown up together, the choices I've made was because in my mind, it feels right. Luckily, father taught me properly in the ways of the knight, so my choices thus far have been what most considers right. This time, it clashes with what is tradition, where sons and daughters are thrown about like pawns. That is not my path."

There is a pause as Elrick sees in his peripheral vision that Eirian is now moving about collecting her items. He will not involve her as this is his own battle with his own brother, one amongst many fought over the years though never on a matter this serious. "I have already told our cousin that if my decision will cause any major conflict with House Burcombe, he can dismiss me from House Laverstock, strip me of my name. I will not defy his decision as I know my decision would have certain reprecussions. I will bear the disappointments, the anger, the results of my actions myself. But one thing I will hold onto is my own pride, and a pawn is not something I will be. For anyone. Lord Trystan will be accompanying myself and Lady Eirian to her home, to speak with Lord Roaman, to see this incident at an end." A very selfish claim indeed.

"So proud, aren't. So self-righteous and justified. So goddamn noble of you." Lainn shakes his head. "Why, makes you wonder why we don't just throw our hands into the air and just say 'fuck it!'. Because that's what you've done. Because you want to be the trendsetter, and this is going to be the hill in which you die on, is it? Well, be it far from me to hold you back from you martyrdom. But you know, what would /we/ know? Us lowly pawns locked in on tradition and whatnot. We /clearly/ don't see the air as clearly you do, Elrick. Do regale me on how things are supposed to be because apparently you're so wise and sage-like. Go ahead, I'm waiting."

"So basically, you're looking down on me, your siblings, your parents, your family, because we're all these little peices of on a gameboard, and you've had the brilliant notion to toss the game board aside. Guess what, Elrick? YOu're not the first idiot with a hard cock to feel that way, to have the brilliant flash of insight just because you got your pecker wet. 'This /must/ be the way. I'm sooooo much better than this!'. Good for you, brother, you've only just figured out something we all know. The difference between you and I is that we care and respect our own families than to go and spit in our faces. And that's exactly what you've done. And worst part about is? You're /proud/ of it. So you know what, go and have your fairybook marriage with your golden vagina, may your children be blessed to not have to think about where their next meal is coming from, but hey, at least they won't be /pawns/."

Critical Success!
Eirian checked her Folklore of 10, she rolled 10.

DAAA NAAAAA. DA NAAAAAAA. Thankfully, organs haven't been invented yet or Miruan might be accompanied by ominous music, flapping bats and possibly a cat in a cape*. And in truth, pawns are important to a game.

Miruan has a book under her arm and her knitting gear in a small woven bag, too. There's a snowshoe point cat with tremendously blue eyes following her (not bats). The two seem to be exploring a bit, curious and— and then she stumbles upon this.

She's tempted to pull a Homer and disappear back into any nearby vegetation, but instead, approaches cautiously. Strangely, she doesn't seem to blink much, analyzing with her gaze. If gazes showed effects, Miruan would have lasered the hell out of everyone by now. "…" The cat and her just stare for a moment, until the cat farts.

"Caer!" She hisses at the cat.

*No peasants were BADLY harmed in dressing the cat.

Eirian might as well be a ghost in the background, a sound in the trees for all the impact she holds in the moment. She returns to Elrick's side and touches him on the arm. Her words are soft, intended mostly for him, though not entirely lost for those around her. Whispering is not something she does in public. "By the High King's own edicts our marriage is legitimate. We are considered at the very least a second-degree union within the laws and customs of Logres, Cambria, Cumbria, Cornwall, and the five kingdoms of Ireland. Even among the Picti, it would stand. You could make a compelling argument for a first-degree union on the issue of property. Yes, we did not execute our transactions ideally, though they were fully legal. Said laws and traditions are preserved from before even the Roman invasion." And Julius Caesar and Claudius wept. "Do not accept a burden that you defy the notions of all Logres or the Cymric people, for that would be neither true nor supported by the long body of law. Surely there are scholars better suited to I who write such custom down and men advising the high lords of the land on the business, but I've heard my share all the same. Whether Lord Roaman pays my marriage price is a matter for Lord Laverstock, but not a dispute of the high court."

She shifts her stance then to take to the path, towards a cat breaking wind and a hiss in its direction. Behold, another woman, one more pragmatic on some stages than the Burcombe girl herself.

There is a slight shake of head from Elrick as he hears his brother's answer, looking away for a moment as he considers how to answer, how to explain so that Lainn would understand. In the end, he realizes that his older brother won't, at least not right now, not when he is this heated. Perhaps not ever. "If you believe that this is all that it was, then that is your choice, brother. If you think, for a second, that I care not for you, or Ari, or anyone in our family, then you surely have forgotten when we fought the Saxons together at Sussex. If I only thought about myself, why would I put myself in harms way to ride with my brother, my sister, and my cousin into hostile lands, knowing their warriors are returning?" There his smirk returns, he won't speak of disappointment of his own brother disregarding all they have done in the past, as Elrick is the one in the wrong this time but he does say, "I will always be loyal to my family, if you doubt that, then that is something you will have to come to come to terms with in your own time, Lainn. I know that our paths are not the same, and I will continue down mine, to achieve what I can for our House, and also for my wife."

When Eirian approaches, Elrick only realizes she is next to him by that gentle touch of hers, and the words she speaks. He does not tell her to stop or stay silent, knowing that her knowledge of tradition from books and literary sources is far superior than himself and his brother's, which may also inflame Lainn's temper. She is his wife and if she wishes to add to the conversation, he would not stop her.

Only when he had finished his last words does Elrick notice that two more have joined their little gathering down by the river Bourne next to their manor, Miruan and her cat standing at the path leading up to the manor house. For a moment, the younger Laverstock blinks at the lady, having no idea at who she is. A quick glance is directed at Eirian to see if she is perhaps a Burcombe lady that have come, then at Lainn, unsure how to address the new arrival.

"Oh will you shut your damn mouth. You've caused enough discord." Lainn snarls at Eirian, the first sign that he actually acknowledges her exsistence. "Get off your high horse, Elrick, I'm tired you acting so fucking pious. Have your marriage and your perfect little life. But as far as I'm concerned, she will never be Laverstock, and at this point, the sooner Trystan banishes you, the happier I'll feel. So incase you haven't gotten the idea in your heads, I'll make it simple for you and your little strange fey wife: you can both go fuck yourself. Which you've probably been doing plenty of. Goodbye, Sir Elrick. Enjoy whatever life you have. I don't want any of it." Fuming, enraged past the point of negotiation, he turns on his heel, storming off in the direction of the manor. Miruan is given a momentary glance, but that's not enough to stop him.

Miruan is silent. Unblinking. It's a bit eerie, when she's quiet like that. As if she might just swoop down gargoyle style and carry someone off. Her cat stares, too. She listens, her eyebrows lift. She pauses. "I suspect I have come by at a poor time. Sir Lainn?" She asks, being a bit formal in company. She doesn't seem to be Another Burcombe. "I apologize. I am Lady Miruan de Winterborne Gunnet." She curtseys neatly.

"… I suspect I should go after him, as I've no rope." Ahem. She will follow Lainn.

Eirian checked her Forgiving of 10, she rolled 11.
Eirian checked her Vengeful of 10, she rolled 13.

"Lady Winterbourne Gunnet, merry met. No apology necessary, and Mother Don keep you safe." Eirian sketches a reflexive curtsey, graceful only by requirement of long practice. Her knees dip and she offers a translucent smile. "Eirian." It's an offhanded thing she says, so much as in the way she bows. Three syllables cleave precisely against her soft voice. Then invisible hands loose the small arrow in the direct of their whim, firing her parallel the Bourne which so recently sought to claim her to dance with the ladies of the water and the meanded. The path along the water is more of an imaginary line than anything in return, one clearly she can see or envision. Her bliaut does surprisingly little to slow her down, and if it comes to it, she skims right through the shallows on pointed toes, springing from step to step until her stamina fails or energy bleeds away.

Hearing Lainn's words, Elrick's expression actually hardens, his gaze narrowing at his brother. "To hear you say those words, Lainn, I am the one that is truly disappointed. One could easily feel your words spoken out of envy. Feel free to speak to Lord Trystan about this, but once negotations with House Burcombe are complete, she will be recognized as part of the family." Watching the back of his brother as the other man storms off, the younger Laverstock turns his gaze back to the lady and when she introduces herself, he realizes who she is. A respectful incline of head is offered to Miruan, "The apology should be from us, Lady Miruan. Welcome to Laverstock, it is unfortunate that you had to witness that, but as you can see, passion runs high in this family, especially when it comes to family. I am Sir Elrick de Laverstock, honored." When the Winterbourne guest speaks of following Lainn, Elrick can only nod his head in agreement. It appearse this is where they will part ways for now as Eirian heads off down the river, which is where he will follow, ableit at a much slower pace.

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