(515-03-01) Discomforting Revelations
Summary: Rowan and Amalthea take refuge from the rain and speak with Martyn.
Date: 3/1/515
Related: None
amalthea martyn rowan 


It's March. It's raining. It's cold. No one wants to be outside in this. Least of all a pregnant woman. Thus, Thea is urging Rowan into the Boar's Beard, that the lady might warm herself up and rest her heels. She's not showing much, not yet. Too athletic. But she wears men's garb, as per usual, and it shows a bump, cut as it is for a thinner form. She's scowling. Grumpy. No maternal glow here for the tall once-Dinton. Poor Rowan.

Rowan was still adjusting to the idea that he was going to be a father in less than a year, and Amalthea's growing girth and moodswings! The latter was far more trying than the former. He holds up a wool coat to shield them both from the onslaught of rain as they make their way into the warmth of the tavern, the knight letting his lady in first before shutting the door behind them. He shakes his head furiously to get the rainwater out of his damp hair, which soaks it up like a sponge, peering back at Thea behind a mass of bangs. "I'm sorry, dear. I didn't expect rain…"

Being out in the cold rain may not be the most comfortable, but there's nothing that can't be solved by a seat by the fire. And so, Martyn has found himself one of those spots, with something to drink in his hand. But he's not really paying attention to the drink, just keeping on looking into the flames, as if those hold the secret to everything in life. He hasn't noticed the new arrivals at the tavern, with how intently he's watching the flickering tongues of fire.

Another thing snapping in the tavern is Amalthea. "Well, and why not?" she asks Rowan testily, tossing her wet head in irritation. "Anyone," including herself, "could have seen that the clouds were darker than my mood right now! It's a wonder I even fit through the door, so big is my a-aaa… err, backside, getting." That is a plaintive little wail as Thea casts about for a spot near the fire, and her eyes fall upon Martyn. "Oh, good. Martyn is here. You two can /finally/ put your differences behind you." Determined pregnant woman, coming through.

Rowan sighs as he wrings out the end of his tunic. "I did suggest you stay home…" He protests lamely, already knowing he isn't going to win the argument. On the subject of Thea's butt, he is blissfully silent. His frown deepens as he notices the Baverstock staring broodily into the hearth fire and his wife announces her intent. "Hello, Sir Martyn… fancy seeing you here," he mutters bemusedly.

Staying quiet as he watches the flames, Martyn doesn't reply at once. It takes a few moments before he realizes someone spoke his name, and he shakes his head a little, as if to clear it, and he takes a sip from his drink. "Oh, hello…" Pausing for a few moments as he sees who it is.

Rowan doesn't get an elbow to his gut for the simple fact that no swords were drawn. It's a step in the right direction! Amalthea pulls a blazing bright smile to her lovely lips and aims it down at Martyn by the fire. "Martyn! It's freezing out, and I'm halfway chilled to the bone. Would you mind if we joined you to get warm? Plus, I haven't seen you in an age and we really ought to catch up!" Her dark eyes, golden and green, defy him to say no.

The lord of Wylye didn't seem enthused about the idea of joining the Baverstock knight in his intense fire-watching, but with that look in Amalthea's eyes… he knows better than to verbally protest. Instead he simply seats himself beside the hearth - not exactly near Martyn, but close enough to hopefully please his wife - and folds his arms over his chest. He awaits Martyn's reply to Amalthea.

"Of course not," Martyn replies to the lady, offering her a brief smile, before he glances back to the fire again, very briefly. "You look well," he offers, words kept rather quiet. A brief nod and a half-smile offered to Rowan as well.

"I feel /awful/," Is Amalthea's counter to the mention of how well she looks. "Like a giant cow, ready to be milked," she grouses, signaling to a server with a practiced hand. "How have you been, my dearest friend? Rowan has been busy with…" Thea blinks. "… what have you been busy with, Rowan? Manor things," she says, back to Martyn, looking a little embarrassed, having been out with the horses more often than not.

The frown Rowan wears doesn't seem in danger of fading any time soon. The idea of his wife feeling awful predictably doesn't have a positive effect on him. "If you need to lie down, we can make our way to the inn and I can pay for a room…" He offers, concern lacing his voice. On the up side, his hair was beginning to dry! When his wife inquires about what he's been doing lately, Rowan gives a non-commital shrug. "I've been helping Breaca where I can. We had a good harvest this year and I'm hoping for another."

Martyn pauses as he hears the question about how he has been. "I've been…" Looking a bit thoughtful as he looks back to the flames, before he smiles, "Well enough." Answered a bit too quickly, perhaps? A brief pause, as he hears Rowan's words, and he smiles, a more natural smile now. "I'm glad to hear that," he offers.

Amalthea casts a glance aside to Rowan as if to say, 'You see? He's /glad/!' She summons a smile from the dregs of her pregnant soul, flashing it at her husband. "I'll be fine. Once we get some warm tea and maybe a snack? If horses can do it, so can I," is her reassuring reasoning. There's a glance back to Martyn. "Well enough? That's hardly emphatic. What's wrong, my friend?"

Failed.
Rowan checked his courtesy of 3, he rolled 15.

Rowan leans over towards a passing barmaid and inquires about purchasing a cup of tea and a biscuit as Amalthea prods Martyn into indulging more. The woman looks at him owlishly - who wants tea in a tavern!? - before muttering something which sounds like half-hearted agreement as she flits off. He then returns his attention to the Baverstock and his wife, though the conversation doesn't seem to have progressed much. "I didn't see you in the last Melee…" He vaguely remembers.

"Wrong?" Martyn shakes his head a little. "Nothing's really wrong, I suppose. Just some… adjustments," he replies, offering a brief smile. "Things change, after all." Turning to Rowan again, he offers the man a brief grin. "That might be because I tend to not participate in the melees," he replies, a bit quietly.

Amalthea looks on approvingly at the small chat being made, and the tea and treats being ordered. She interjects with, "Adjustments? What sort of adjustments?" This, of Martyn, and then she places a small hand of pride on Rowan's arm. "Rowan did quite well in the melee, though when he was eliminated it gave me quite the fright. I don't like seeing either of you hurt." It's a cautionary sort of statement.

Rowan is terrible at small talk, but it appears Martyn may even be worse! It was awkward being the facilitator of conversation, for once. He acknowledged Amalthea was doing her best to coax details out of her friend, but for the most part he was uninterested in Martyn's personal life. No, his mind was on more… typical things, for a knight. "Why not? I know you participate in the duels and jousts. Surely you don't find the tournament lifestyle wholly uninteresting." He offers Amalthea a small grin when he senses her pride in him. "Lleu has been in a better mood lately. I think perhaps your care may have something to do with it?" Indeed, Rowan only stayed in as long as he did because he stubbornly stayed on his horse! "But yes, that did hurt quite a bit. And not just to my pride. I think my ears were ringing for a week."

Draining the rest of his drink, Martyn gestures to the servers for one more, before he looks back to Amalthea. "Adjustments of the kind when one ends up… you know…" Nodding in the direction of both of them now. "… getting married," he finally says, shrugging a little, before he looks back to Rowan. "Because in those I can usually get away without being really hurt. With all the unrest that tends to happen, I'd be a fool to get wounded in pretend-combat when I'm needed on the real battlefield."

Success
Amalthea checked her honest of 11, she rolled 9.

Amalthea might have been about to comment on Rowan's horse being better under her care, but then Martyn drops that bomb. The Earl's stablemaster blinks for a long, silent moment. Processing. Her mouth opens, and then it shuts. And opens. And shuts again. And then opens. "You're… married?" To Martyn, as if she can't /quite/ believe her ears, or she just hallucinated.

Failed.
Rowan checked his awareness of 5, he rolled 11. (should be 8 but sheet hasn't been updated yet; still a fail)

Rowan scoffs at Martyn's answer. "Your armor ought to shield you well enough from any serious harm…" The news that Martyn is getting married, or may have already been wedded, doesn't register to him as important or surprising; it is only after seeing Amalthea's reaction to the news does he realize it may warrant some attention. "And… congratulations."

"No, not yet. It will probably happen this spring," Martyn replies, before he shrugs a little. "But it has made me a bit thoughtful, I must admit." He looks over to Rowan again, shrugging a little. "Still, I prefer not participating in them."

"You didn't even tell me you'd met someone," Amalthea replies quietly, the colour in her face a little paler than it was when she and Rowan entered the tavern. "Certainly not someone you would consider marrying." No congratulations is forthcoming. "Who is it?"

Success
Rowan checked his trusting of 10, he rolled 6.

Rowan falls silent now, glancing between Amalthea and Martyn. There was no suspicion in his gaze, but it is clear he was now observing them both. He grunts and absently shifts in his spot.

Martyn shakes his head a little, as he looks back to the flames now. "It… I…" he begins, looking deeper into the flames. "I would if I had. This is what will be done for Baverstock, not for me. Just my duty to do, like risking my life on the battlefield." There's a brief moment of silence, before he looks back to Amalthea.

"I cannot believe that Sir Bryce would force you into a match you did not want," Amalthea replies, chewing on her lip, trying to master the unhappiness lingering in her face. "Would you like me to speak to Lysanor? I'm sure she could persuade him. Who is it? Is she at least a good match?"

Success
Rowan checked his honest of 16, he rolled 2.

The other knight seated at the hearth releases a heavy sigh. "It is not our business what Sir Bryce decides to do with his family; I would advise against attempting to undermine him simply because you don't seem to be in favor of the match." He lifts his head to regard Martyn curiously, now. "Unless, of course, this woman truly is horrifying… then I suggest you be the one to speak with him."

"Well, if it would have to be a match I wanted…" Martyn leaves the rest of that sentence unsaid, as he leans back in his seat again. "What happens will happen. That is simply the way it is." Nodding a bit at Rowan's words, "True." A brief pause as he looks to the fire again at Amalthea's words. "It's one of the Choldertons, Lady Arta."

Critical Success!
Amalthea checked her recognize of 3, she rolled 3.

Success
Rowan checked his recognize of 3, he rolled 1.

BLINK. BLINK BLINK BLINK. One can practically see Amalthea make the connection in her golden-dark eyes. "… Cholderton? A /Pagan/?" One can practically see the blood draining from her features one by one. Even the pointed innuendo of who he would have wanted is glossed over in favor of this. "You're going to marry… a pagan?" One hand goes to her stomach. "I think… I think I might be ill." Must be the baby.

"Ahh…" It sounds like the name is familiar with the lord of Wylye manor. Rowan looks puzzled at Amalthea's reaction. "It is hardly unheard of, especially outside of the mainline relatives. Rhaine's mother was a Cholderton before she died." He knits his brows in slight concern. "If I had known you had such an aversion to pagans I would have told you sooner. Our house is allied with them, however loosely."

"Yes," Martyn finally replies. "It is what it is. Adjustment will be made, and we will all get through it." He goes quiet again, as he glances to the door. "I should be going. There are a few things I need to take care of now." As he gets to his feet, he offers them both a quiet smile. "It was good to see you again, both of you." Waiting for a few more moments, he heads towards the door.

"Pagans are fine," Provided they're not marrying her friends or family. Amalthea soothes her stomach with a fortifying sip of tea, watching while Martyn rises. "Just… the practices are so… distasteful." Good little Christian that she is. The lady summons a pained glance in Martyn's direction before she drops her eyes to her lap, struggling for composure.

Rowan stares at his wife for a long moment, clearly pondering whether or not to add any more, before he ultimately decides just to blame the hysterical nature of pregnant women. There seems to be improvement on at least one front: he's being civil to Martyn! "Be well, Sir Martyn, and good luck." No glaring this time!

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