(514-08-05) Tender Mercies
Summary: Idris is the worse for wear from medicine, and is left to the tender care of the Willcotts — and then thankfully Rowan and Amalthea.
Date: August 5, 514
Related: None directly.
idris cailin morlois elsane amalthea rowan 

Standing at the Farmer's Quarter, and looking positively miserable for whatever reason, is Idris. He has a bottle of what appears to be some concoction made by a herbalist in one hand, uncorked and half-drank. His eyes seem a little hazy as he reclines against the wall of the Wainwright's Inn, perhaps supporting himself there to get his bearings.

It's a goofy grin that Cailin wears when she walks near the Inn, looking over a parchment in her hand turning it one way, then the other, upright then upside down then sideways. At her side, a younger, darker version of the lady rolls her eyes and points out something on the paper. "Like that, Cailin," the younger girl giggles. Cailin nudges her, "I know, I was just playing with you." The younger girl is clearly disbelieving, "Uh huh, sure you did. I'm going to go find Geyr, you go do whatever it is you were doing." Without giving Cailin a chance to respond, the younger of the two darts off, laughter her only parting sound. With a long-suffering sigh, that doesn't sound at all serious, she walks with the parchment towards the Inn, stopping just short of the inn when she notices the Bodenham. "You look terribly unhappy." But did Cailin have to look so amused by that? Yes. Yes she did.

Cailin checked her read of 3, she rolled 12.

"I know, it's… well, pain. A lot of it." Idris replies to Cailin, tucking the potion, or whatever the hell it is that the herbalist gave him the other day, into his leather bag. He glances around, trying to find his squire, Gwyn, but the little twerp is nowhere to be found. "Likely gone to the Cony and trying to pick up a barmaid after her long day's work, the little twerp," he says, which might not have any sense at all to the Steeple Langford lady who is talking to him right now. "I am Sir Idris de Bodenham," he introduces himself, once he remembers that his father, Elisedd, would have likely frowned at his seeming lack of manners. He flashes Cailin a smile, which might count for warm enough, all in all, as he makes a vaguely clumsy knightly salute with his now free hand.

It's wonderful to get away from family, even if the excuse is several wagon-loads of dead Saxons and almost as many dead knights, soldiers, and townspeople of southern and central Salisbury. And even if you have to bring along your pinch-faced wife. Morlois might suspect that the latter point was because the rest of his family disliked her just as much as he did, but sadly, there is no proof. Willcotts are too polite to express anything like that. At least in public. And so not only is Morlois accompanied by Elsane, but he actually has her on his arm, as if they could stand one another. It's easier to find cheaper goods in the Farmer's Quarter, and for now, the family stipend is light, and so they start there before moving on to more expensive stalls. Still, the near-giant does not seem pleased with the situation, plucking at some fabric at one stand, and then moving on. He waits until he is out of earshot, and then rumbles, "Cheap. Tawdry." 'Like you,' he thinks, but does not say. "I suppose we will have to stay at the Inn, with the castle so full of refugee knights." Those too incompetent to escape wounds, in his eyes. He gestures to the mousy, near-silent squire trailing behind them like a lost puppy, "Move our things to the Inn." The man's voice is something felt as much as heard, building up from low within his barrel chest.

Pinch-faced, indeed, and looking slightly sour by the fact that her hand is just barely touching the arm of her husband as he 'guides' her through the market, Elsane follows silently beside Morlois. Her light gaze glides over the wares blankly as they move from stall to stall, seeing but not noticing the vivid displays of goods. Hers is not to purchase but to merely enjoy the fact that she is somewhere that isn't the damnable northern exile, as temporary as the trip to Sarum may be. When Morlois pauses to finger a fold of fabric, her lips twitch just briefly as if to admire it; his words cut at her, obviously intentionally, but she merely lifts her chin as if in agreement. "An inn?" she inquires, and she lets slip a tone of disapproval from that tightly controlled exterior. A small sigh follows and she holds up her free hand in a brief gesture of resignation as Morlois orders his squire to relocate their things. "Please check for bugs."

"Pain," Cailin echoes his confession, a troubled look clouding her eyes as they brush over him searching for immediate wounds that would stand out. Not missing the movement of where he tucks the potion, she tsks with another playful smile, "If you have something for it, perhaps you should take it?" A pointed look towards his pouch where he had placed it. The statement, random as it seems, only serves to deepen her amusement. "Sir Idris de Bodenham, I am Lady Cailin de Steeple Langford, delighted to meet you," she says cheerfully, responding to the offered smile from the Bodenham. Overhearing some of the other conversation, her eyes flicker over them, a quiet, respectful nod offered, but her attention is mostly on Idris.

Idris checked his con of 15, he rolled 17.

"I did," Idris replies, "and it made me sleepy, but the pain isn't quite gon—" Whatever the Bodenham was about to say is slurred off, as the milk of the poppy hits him hard. Hard enough that it dulls his senses and he swoons before leaning back against the wall again, his eyes half-lidded, clouded even more than before. When he does focus on Cailin again, it's to hear her introduction, but he might be drifting in and out of consciousness as it goes. "Nice to meet you too, Lady Cailin." He offers her a smile, but he's too clumsy to offer a hand for a proper courtly greeting so he ends up fighting his now skewed sense of balance to not topple the Steeple Langford instead. Morlois and Elsane seem like a distant, approaching figure, but it might be the randomness of the potion he's just imbibed that prompts him to greet them with a salute and a shout: "Hello!"

The squire has been shown the back of Morlois' hand often enough that he looks to the big knight, waiting for a nod from the rough-featured man before he bobs a bow to Elsane, "Yes M'Lady." And then he's off like a shot. Willcotts do not tolerate slackers, or at least this Willcott doesn't. "You would rather we march up to the front gate of the keep and demand rooms? I think that would be taken rather poorly, given that we didn't shed blood for the defense." Spotting the two by the front of the inn, he studies them for a moment, and then spreads a slow, welcoming smile onto his lips. He has just opened his mouth in order to greet them when Idris shouts a greeting. This causes him to blink, and he arches a brow before greeting them, "Sir, My'Lady. Are you drunk?" There is a hint of amusement in his voice, although it does not reach his dark eyes under their heavy brows.

"Oh.." Cailin looks a little dumbfounded when his voice slurs off. "Whoa, whoa." A hand lifts of its own accord and she places it firmly on his shoulder in an attempt to help and steady him. Concern brings a slight puckering of her brow but she remains with the hand there to assist him if possible, the parchment in her other hand forgotten. "Should we get you into a room in the Inn? I could possibly help, I know some remedies for things, but mostly battle field wounds and not long term care." The salute and shout bring her attention once more to the couple and she does not immediately recognize either from visual alone. "Sir, my lady." Echoing the greeting. "I think he is not drunk, but if you would be kind enough to assist me in helping him to a room, it would be greatly appreciated. Or at least to a table inside?" Whatever the Bodenham would agree to. The four are all just outside the Inn, Idris not looking as if he feels too well.

"No," Elsane replies rather curtly to Morlois, and she purses her lips into a line so thin that they almost disappear entirely. She cuts her gaze toward him, and if looks could throw daggers, hers would have cast a couple right into his throat. Instead, she merely clears hers as they approach the two, but allows her husband to do the speaking. His inquiry has her blinking rapidly, however, and scanning Idris from head to toe to re-evaluate her previous premature assessment. Wounded? Drunk? She's not entirely sure herself. Her expression relaxes marginally so that she may offer Cailin a faint smile and polite bob of her head, but when the request for assistance is put forth, she merely pulls her hand away from her husband's arm as if retracting it from a hot log and clasps them together in front of her. Let him lend his bulky, ungainly strength to the task; it is his only purpose on this green earth. "Of course, dear lady," she replies, practically volunteering Morlois on the spot. "Do you know this man?"

Fresh from the smithy and bearing a satchel bulging and heavy-hanging comes Amalthea, the tall Dinton paying more attention to the weight of the bag than the crowd in the market. That is, of course, until someone shouts out. Her dark eyes swing around, scanning the area, brows creasing together like two arrows shot at one another. Recognition lights in her eyes for both Cailin and Idris, though not the other two, and nothing registers of their plight just yet. Still, she heads in that direction amiably enough. "Lady Cailin. Sir Idris."

Thus steadied by Cailin, Idris brings a hand to his eyes, as though attempting to clear his sight for a moment. Everything seems very clouded when you're under the influence. It doesn't quite register to him yet that he's greeted Morlois and Elsane, though when he notices there's in fact a pretty big shadow towering over him, with a blonde on his arm, he homes in on the latter first, flashing her a bright smile as he intones, "My Lady," which fades very quickly when her husband asks whether he's drunk. "Sir. Drunk? No, no," Oops, he smashes his bad shoulder into the wall and a jolt of dulled pain courses through him for a moment. He wrinkles his nose, reaching to touch Cailin's shoulder with his hand, perhaps to steady himself. To his credit, he doesn't squeeze the poor lady's arm. Amalthea's entrance has him turning his head to regard her for a moment, and he nearly swims straight into the ground in an attempt to nod to her; but he places his weight on his ankles, so it serves as a counterbalance, just in time to prevent falling on the other people nearby.

Idris checked his con of 15, he rolled 7.

Morlois has survived physical daggers before, although not to the throat. And he certainly has felt the metaphorical daggers of his wife's curdled gaze often enough. "Which means an inn, my dear." The emphasis on the utterly false term of endearment is accompanied by a little smile that seems polite on the surface. He studies the other knight, looking down to the fancy sword, then back up to his pale features. He nods to Cailin briefly, reaching out to get a hand under Idris' arm, lowering his voice into a dull rumble intended for the knight's ears alone… although it is lightly audible to those close by as well, because he is not an entirely quiet man, "Show some backbone before the ladies, Sir. Put your weight on my arm and one foot before the other." Looking up to the others, he adds in a more audible tone, "Into the inn, I think." The newcomer gets a brief look, and then he gestures toward the front door of the inn, "I think you're right, M'Lady… Cailin, is it? A table may be best for our friend here." The smile on the man's rough features is not a natural look, but he manages it without irony, for all that his eyes are still calculating, studying those present for advantage.

For her part in the matter, Elsane all but ignores her husband and instead busies herself with clearing the path from the wall to the entrance of the inn. She offers Cailin a gentle smile, one that looks far more natural on her face than on Morlois', and leads the way toward the door. She pauses as she passes by Amalthea, glancing over the tomboyish looking lady with apparent interest considering the woman seems to know the pair. "The knight - Sir Idris, did you say? - appears to be under the weather, my lady. We are assisting him inside, if you would like to come along." With that, she heads to the Wainwright and ushers some farmers out of the way by the door with an imperious flap of her pale hands and something that sounds rather like a 'shoo, shoo!' She braces her palms against the door and shoves it open, checking that the immediate entry is clear, and gestures for the others to follow. "There is a table open, m'lords and m'ladies."

Amalthea checked her awareness of 10, she rolled 4.

There is a small group gathered in front of the Wainwright, looking as if they might be on their way into the inn. Amalthea is among them, looking to the others, two of whom she is familiar, two of whom she is not. Her gaze remains longest on sir Idris, after something said by Elsane. "He looks drugged," she murmurs, half-sigh, half-worry. She glances around. "Is his sister Lady Bronwen around, per chance?" She stretches upon tip-toe, trying to see over the crowd of the market. "I do not know that an inn would be good, unless it has cold water and a place he might be induced to vomit. A stream and some grass might be more cleanly."

Sir Rowan de Wylye strolls into the Farmer's Quarter leading a gray horse pulling a wagon of goods behind them. The commotion in front of the Wainwright inevitably draws his attention and he halts, intending to watch from some distance before he decides how to respond to it. His eyes find Amalthea and his interest is clearly piqued, but he's still simply observing. For now.

Sobering is a slow, painful process, when it comes to such substances, but sometimes one has moments of absolute clarity where they do not need to make a fool of themselves. Even if one underestimated the effects of milk of the poppy and drank half a bottle on impulse, because the pain of their shoulder just wouldn't go away. The presence of Morlois taking hold under his arm, as he whispers, sobers Idris somewhat, and the knight of Bodenham does as indicated, without many complaints. It could also just be that he stared at the Willcott's face and saw something terrifying. The Bodenham nods, however, willing to cooperate before the substance he's put in his stomach gets the better of him once again. There's an apologetic smile to Cailin, before his attention falls on Amalthea, briefly. "It'll be alright," he tells the other knight, "just put me on the table, I think I am about to," pass out.

Morlois haul-walks the incapacitated Bodenham into the inn, "I'm sure that this locale is used to men nearly incapacitated by drink." Is that scorn or amusement in the big man's low voice? Sometimes, it is difficult to tell. At least his 'patient' is not going to give him any trouble. Morlois knows that look, or at least what he assumes that look is, and it pleases him. More than it should, really. Sweeping past his wife, he nods once to her, walking Idris to the cleared table and setting him down in one of the chairs. "He's upright. I'm sure he'll be sufficiently safe." He looks about, then steps around to hold out a chair for his wife, smirking down at her as he does, "Charming location indeed. I think that your earlier inquiry may have been a solid one." Look, something he disdains more than Elsane! It would be a miracle, but the strength of his disdain is… strong.

"Lady Amalthea," the knight answers back with a faint smile, feeling his mood lift, and he finally approaches the Dinton lady as the rest of the group retreats into the inn. With a horse in tow, it was unlikely he would follow in right away. "Are you well? Is something amiss with Sir Idris?" He could deduce as much, but he inquires anyway.

With her duty done, it appears Elsane is banished to a seat at the table. She stares at Morlois for a moment before finally perching on the edge of the chosen chair and folding her hands in her lap primly. Her steady, pale gaze focuses on the unconscious Idris as her husband lowers him into a seat in the corner and drapes the man over the surface of the table so he may sleep it off in the company of like-minded drunks, but after a moment even this is no longer very interesting. With a barely repressed sigh, she glances about the inn with a faint air of distaste and watches as the others pile in afterward in a motley assortment of fresh-faced merriment and companionship. "Is he drunk?" she finally inquires quietly of her husband, turning her head toward Morlois although her gaze does not quite move to meet his.

Amalthea ducks her chestnut head to Rowan as he approaches, hiding the spread of her smile, the dimple of her cheeks. "I am well, Sir, save for this load of horseshoes I must hoist back to the stables from the smithy. Sir Idris appeared to be drugged, though I know not from what. I have seen such things only a handful of times, enough to know the signs without the direct cause. I was going to go in and make sure he is all right. Would you care to join me, sir? I have a page waiting over yonder," she gestures her chin to the edge of the marketplace, "who could take your horse and cart to the stables or any place else you might wish."

Rowan's gaze shifts to the heavy bag burdening Amalthea as she explains. "Ah, I see. Do you need help?" The news of Idris being drugged has him knitting his brows together in slight concern. "That's unnerving. Has his family been informed yet?" Brown eyes lift again to regard the page with a hint of curiosity and he turns toward the young man, tugging at the reins in looped in his grasp. "That would be appreciated; I was headed that way, but since you are apparently here…"

Morlois pushes in Elsane's seat once she has settled onto it, the push perhaps just a little harder than it needs to be. The squire comes scurrying over to Morlois and Elsane's side, standing silently behind them. The bearded man looks over from Idris to Elsane, arching one dark brow, "I don't know. Perhaps you could smell his breath, dear wife." Morlois starts to scowl around for the squire, and the mousy little youth sidles forward so that he is in the knight's sightline, "There you are. Fetch us wine. Something drinkable, damn it, nothing vile and vinegary." The squire mumbles a moment, then bows his head and skitters off, stopping two steps away to bow his head to Elsane as well and then complete his flight.

Elsane dips her head under the guise of checking to be sure the table is wiped clean and not laden with the sticky leftovers of its previous occupant; in truth she is rolling her eyes at her husband, but he needn't know it right now. One fingertip swipes the tabletop, and she seems pleased enough with its relative state of cleanliness. She casts a dubious glance toward Idris, but the knight falls into a light snore and doesn't seem in danger of suddenly expiring before her very eyes. "When are we leaving Sarum?" When am I going to get away from you? "And have you any idea if you're going to be tasked with chasing down Saxons?" Is there the chance that you will die and I will be a merry widow?

"If you would not mind my horseshoes in your cart," It's not innuendo, even, "then Alfonse can take the horse and cart, along with my burden." A long arm lifts, and the lady signals the page who responds with enough alacrity to have him across the market and to the inn in the space of several breaths. Given his orders, he will sketch and bow and leave Amalthea turning back to her betrothed with a lifted brow inquiring silently if he has anything to add.

Rowan nods to Amalthea. "You can use it," he says as he moves to help load the heavy bag of horsehoes into the cart. He also quietly thanks the page before offering his arm to the Dinton lady. "Shall we venture forward, m'lady? It seems you are concerned over Sir Idris's health, but I can't promise I can offer much help myself."

Morlois knows that his shrewish wife is rolling her eyes at him. And it rakes at the coals of his deep-seeded hatred, stoking them for all that his dark eyes merely flash. "When our business is done." Do you really want to go back to that nest of puppies just waiting to piss themselves? "And when I have discharged my duty to the Earl." After I've buttered up the Earl and further convinced him of the worthlessness of my idiot brother. "I can only hope that I have a chance to prove myself to the Earl." The sooner that I get a chance to work out my aggressions, the safer those close to me are. "But you don't need to worry about me. You can rest your pretty little head safely." Suck it.

Elsane checked her deceitful of 16, she rolled 2.

"Mm." The reply is dismissive, and yet it speaks volumes of how Elsane feels about all of her husband's aforementioned replies. Luckily she is saved from having to elaborate upon any of the thoughts by the timely arrival of the squire with the wine. The young man sets out a cup for both the knight and his wife and then taking up his station behind Morlois. The young Willcott woman takes up her drink without further comment and sniffs at her; her nose wrinkles a bit and she sips, but finding it to not be the worst tasting swill in Sarum, lengthens the sip to an entire gulp. Anything to not have to sustain conversation overmuch with Morlois. But despite the general din of others around them eating, drinking and talking, the silence at their table is nearly oppressive. "I will always worry about you, husband, even when you try so gallantly to assuage my fears. Saxons are nothing to take so lightly."

Thea accepts Rowan's arm gratefull, flashing a smile as bright as lightning. "I probably cannot either, but I will feel better if I can tell his sister, Lady Bronwen, that I kept an eye on him until he sobered up." The Dinton turns her steps, matched to his, into the Inn. "I do not know the couple who assisted him inside. Perhaps you will."

The knight of Wylye seems charmed by his betrothed's bright smile and he can't help but grin back. "I suppose the least we can do is stand vigil so he doesn't get robbed," he muses as the couple steps into the Wainwright. His eyes alight upon Idris's familiar but limp form, then upon the couple lobbing sarcastic barbs at each other nearby. He arches a brow, but the uncertain glance he shoots aside to Amalthea suggests he doesn't know who they are. "Merry met. I trust all is well with the Bodenham thus far?"

Morlois settles back into his chair with nary a glance at the unconscious knight he was apparently guarding. The squire offers up the wine to his knight so that he does not have to lean forward to get it, and Morlois takes a sip, considering it as the poor young man cringes in anticipation. But the rough-featured knight's reaction is an unintentional mirror of his wife's, in that he wrinkles his nose, then swallows, accepting the drink. His dark eyes turn over toward his wife at his words, and some scathing retort rises to his lips… and then they have company. Conscious company, even. The big man rumbles slowly to his feet, looking down to the… sleeping?… knight at the end of the table, "Bodenham, is it? I heard only a first name, Sir Idris. He's still breathing though. I think alcohol or something of the sort." The Pagan greeting gets no obvious response from Morlois. He may attend church, but the merits of others are weighed more on what they can provide for him, not on what they worship.

Elsane checked her craft of 15, she rolled 11.

The diminutive fair counterpart to her husband's hulking presence, Elsane remains seated at the table, thus rendered even smaller when Morlois rises up to greet Rowan and Amalthea. She is forced to lean to one side to peer around his side to view the two side-by-side, and while she can admire that they make a pretty picture even in the common room of the disreputable inn, she has the presence of mind to keep this to herself. Instead, she allows the men to discuss as they will the state of the unconscious knight who snorts loudly and smacks his lips before shifting in his seat and resuming his unrepentant snore. Raising her eyebrows, Elsane lifts her cup to her lips and casts a curious look to Amalthea while she sips her wine. She is, perhaps, not the most conversational of sorts, but being as she is tied to the side of brute, perhaps special dispensation can be granted.

Still, she tries. "Drink, perhaps, or medication of some sort? I heard the lady who was with him originally mention that he was quite injured. It doesn't take a trained eye to see from here that he's had wounds tended to, so one can only imagine." Elsane pauses and sniffs the air, and then offers the pretty couple a single-shoulder shrug. "Milk of the poppy, most likely, considering his behavior, and he doesn't reek of drink."

Amalthea smiles pleasantly at the married duo, though she doesn't echo Rowan's greeting, but one of her own. "Good day, sir, lady. I would introduce you to sir Idris de Bodenham, since he is unfortunately unable to introduce himself." The Dinton nods her chin then to Elsane. "Certainly, drugged. I ought to send someone to search out his sister… yet I just sent the castle page away. Shortsighted of me. Might we join you so I can keep an eye on him? I feel I owe his family that much." She sounds apologetic for asking.

Rowan has to look almost straight upward to regard Morlois and his lumbering height. Not the first giant he's come across, but there was something gruff and a little intimidating about his mannerisms. "That's good. He's the only young Bodenham I've met, truth be told." Amalthea takes care of the full introduction! The smaller man moves to inspect Idris more closely, but not close enough to invade the other knight's personal space. He sniffs the air around him as well and the results of his investigation seem to agree with Elsane's conclusion. "Yes, that's not ale or wine, though I do know he carries it with him. It may be a mixture of both." A beat as he considers Amalthea's words about the page, his eyes skimming Idris's visible but presumably treated wounds. "I can go fetch him again, if need be."

Morlois gestures to seats at the table opposite himself and Elsane, remaining standing until at least Amalthea has seated herself. He watches the inspection of the insensate man, then nods slowly, "Morlois le Rouge. My wife, Elsane de Willcott." Dark eyes flicker over to that worthy, consideration working behind them, "Bodenham, you say? A staunch house to the south. I'll send my squire. Tell him where to find the man's sister, and he'll run along." Looking over his shoulder, he confirms, "Won't you, boy?" The little squire nods his head quickly, "yessir." The response is a bare squeak, but it comes quickly. Very quickly indeed. Settling back into his seat, he takes a sip of his wine, "You're welcome to join us, although I'm sure my dear wife has somewhere better to be." Is that a dismissal? Or a sardonic assumption of her disdain for his presence? Or perhaps just concern for whatever schedule his partner in matrimony is looking to keep. Probably not the latter.

Elsane does not respond immediately, and instead knocks back the rest of her cup of wine instead in three gulps. With a sigh, she sets the cup on the table with a firm thump and pushes back her chair, and the sound is a jarring scrape of wood against rush-strewn dirt. "Actually, if your squire is to fetch the knight's sister, then I will have to see about the other errands in order to keep you on schedule, Sir Morlois," she replies rather pragmatically, offering the faintest of apologetic smiles to Amalthea and Rowan as she rises up from her chair. She inhales sharply to suck in her gut in order to squeeze behind her husband to make her way out from behind the table. "Sir, my lady. I apologize for being unable to stay longer, but I am sure my husband will provide more than enough pleasant company in the interim. Do be sure Sir Idris is well provided for." One hand rests lightly on Morlois' shoulder in a brief gesture of reassurance, as she murmurs to him, "I will be back before supper." And with that, she turns to head for the door and back out to the market.

Amalthea checked her awareness of 10, she rolled 7.

Amalthea watches the subtle interplay between Morlois and Elsane with a keen eye. It's a subtle watchfulness, the quick dart of her eye and the study of each word, and the undercurrents. When Elsane rises to leave, the Dinton almost breaks the facade of oblivion, lips tugging down ever so minutely before being replaced with a plaster-perfect smile. "Thank you sir, my lady. Pleasant evening. The Lady Bronwen is oft found in," and she lists several of the places she has seen the lady, plus the last known location of the camps outside of town. "I have been remiss," she muses, turning back to Morlois. "I am Lady Amalthea de Dinton. Might I also introduce my betrothed, Sir Rowan de Wylye?"

Rowan's brows lift slightly at Morlois's comments, but sure enough Elsane quiety excuses herself. The knight bows his head politely towards her as she leaves before turning his attention back to her husband. Moving to pull out a chair for Amalthea to sit in, suspecting Morlois didn't wish to remain standing for much longer, he lets Amalthea introduce him. "Pleased to meet your acquaintance, Sir Morlois. Give our apologies to Lady Elsane for not introducing ourselves sooner."

Morlois looks over to the hand on his shoulder for a moment, then nods at his wife's words, gesturing demonstrably toward her, "Always something important," the words may have just the slightest hint of sardonic weight behind it, "to do." His squire bobs his head at Amalthea's words, then takes off across the room to the door. Two steps outside of the door and the young man is at a dead run. The return introductions draw a companionable nod, the man's rough-hewn, common features splitting with a grin that still does not touch his dark gaze, "Pleasure. Dintons and Wylyes, two more well-respected families." Or, you know, he's flattering them. "Congratulations on your upcoming marriage, and I'll be sure to pass those apologies along." No, he won't. Gesturing down to Idris once more, he asks, "How do you know the Bodenham then?"

"I met him first during the wedding tournament, and then met his sister shortly after," Amalthea explains, folding her long frame down upon the seat with a grateful smile to Rowan. She turns back to Morlois, still assessing, likely silently judging. "Lady Bronwen is a dear friend of one of my cousins. It is commendable, sir," Thea offers, trying to figure out if the motive was in earnest, " for you to help the man thusly, without even knowing him."

Rowan seats himself smoothly in the chair next to Amalthea. His attention briefly turns to the bar itself, but he mentally decides against ordering a drink for himself at the moment. The conversation is currently his focus. "Thank you," answers in reply to the given congratulations. "I dueled Sir Idris during the wedding tournament. He trounced me quite soundly," he admits with the faintest hint of a frown on his lips. "I hear he went on to be the eventual victor of the event. Justly earned, I'd say. I do not know his sister yet." His lips purse thoughtfully. "I do not recall seeing you on the field, Sir Morlois. Will you attend the next tournament?"

Morlois nods his understanding at the explanation, taking a sip of his wine, and then a heavier one, "Garrison, Sir Rowan. My family is known for their loyalty to the Lord Knights of Up Avon, and so we are frequently graced," it's not really 'scorn' or 'derision' that enters his voice at the word, merely a dry sort of bitter humor, "with garrison duty when something important's going on." He smiles at Amalthea's compliment, "Thank you, M'Lady," he rumbles, "if we don't help the unknown, how can they become known?" And how can we benefit from their thanks. Rowan gets a wave of one ham-hock-sized hand toward the unconscious knight, "Well, something has felled him for now, so apparently he isn't invincible." Downing the last of his cup of wine and grimacing slightly, he grunts softly to himself, "I should be going on up to the keep though. My dear brother's compliments won't take themselves up to the Earl." Again, the 'dear' has that dry lash to it, although his smile never falters. "Since you know the man, or his family, would you mind terribly watching after Sir Idris?"

"If he does not rouse soon," Amalthea replies, after listening to Morlois and his gripe against being the fallboy during events, "I will happily have him transported to the Earl's stables and allow him to sleep it off there. Should he worsen, I can send for a healer. Will you stay with me, sir Rowan, or do you have an elsewhere you must be? Again," to Morlois, "I thank you, sir, and I am sure sir Idris will be glad of your sentiment when he returns to himself."

"Ah, I see," the Wylye utters as he peers at the Bodenham again. "Aye, I wonder what gave him a beating. I suppose Saxons would be the most likely culprit. I'm glad he still lives." His experience with Saxons has been strangely limited, but he did know they were awfully bigger than he was! He blinks twice at Morlois, but nods at his request, also looking to Amalthea. "I will stay and see him tended to with Lady Amalthea. I have nowhere urgent I need to be. Farewell, Sir Morlois."

Morlois nods to Amalthea, "Maybe I'll look in on him after I'm done." Make sure he's properly thankful. Rowan's mention of the Saxons has Morlois chuckling, a low, rich sound at odds with his rough appearance, a dark sort of amusement, "Saxons. I've never quite understood why everyone is so wary of them. They're not that big." Says the man who might be mistaken for a tree on a dark night. Still, he pushes himself up to his feet, nodding to each in turn, "A pleasure to meet you both. Go with God." There is definitely some amusement to the parting benediction, but it mostly gathers around his eyes, leaving his rumbling voice to be pious and proper. And then he departs, already running through just what he means to say to the Earl to cast his brother in the worst possible light, and himself in the best.

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