Sitting Room

Sitting Room
Summary: Guildsmaster Abrahm D'Armaz speaks with his daughter Myrana in the sitting room of their fine Laketown estate.
Date: October 6th
Related: None
Players:
Myrana Gauvain 

Room Name
Room description
October 6, 1329

(NPC Guildmaster Abrahm D'Armaz run by Gauvain)

In front of a roaring fireplace kenneled in by an ironwork grate twisted artfully into the form of crouching lions, there is a red armchair where Abrahm likes to sit and watch the golden flames lick up through the lion's jaws and flash through the almond holes of their empty eyes. Coals settle with subdued cracks of the logs ashing over and splitting with the heat, and atop the mantle overhead a crystal decanter of brandy stands with a handful of faceted glasses on a silver tray.

Myrana comes in through the west door and passes in front of the window, silhouetted against the cold autumn light where it streams in through the wide glass bay between thick curtains, feet padding almost silently over the thick red-and-gold carpet. Her cloak sweeps behind her, muffling the sound of her passage, and she glances at the chair as she goes, meaning to slip through and move past into the kitchens. It is late in the day, with the sun setting and the memory of her little nephews harrangueing the tattoo'd knight on the riverbank still fresh in her mind. There are, in fact, still seeds from the rushes in her hair from when Erikkndl walked through the tall grasses on the way home and climbed up a slippery bank, crashing them through the reeds.

The Guild Master sat in a chair near the hearth. In his lap, a nice velvet topped blanket, and a cat. In one hand a glass, have filled with expensive, fine brandy is swirled absently. The other hand gently caresses the top of the cat's head, causing the fluffy feline to purr loudly.

This purring, combined with the crackle of the fire, creates a steady thrummm POP thrumm to the room. As Myrana attempts to move through the room, Abrahm says softly, firmly, and in a commanding tone, "Daughter." It is not the tone of somebody who is used to being disobeyed. He lifts the brandy, sniffs it as he swirls it one more time. Then sips the drink, savoring the alchohol as it courses through his system.

Myrana halts, halfway across the thick woven rug.

Unbidden, a traitorous jolt of reluctance jumps through her.

Frowning at it, Myrana turns and approaches her father before the fire, wondering a little at herself. Why would she fear to go sit with her father by the hearth? When she reaches the edge of his chair she smiles, blue eyes flicking down to the happy cat. "Good evening Father," she says, lifting the decanter from the mantle with a slight clink of the crystal as she turns with it in her hands and pours a few more drops into her father's glass, dark hair hanging down out of her hood. A twitch goes up in the corner of her lips at the huge motor sound of the cat. "You look comfortable," she tells it.

The cat gives no answer, as she is thoroughly scritched by the probing, well practiced fingers of the Guild Master. The man himself, looks over his daugher as he takes another sip off the Brandy. He sets the glass aside and finishes his apraisal of the woman before him. "You are certainly turning into a woman grown. Much like your mother, four protect her." He is silent for a moment. "Tell me about the reeds you were running through." He looks back into the fire. "And why."

Myrana pauses… then sits upon an embroidered divan near the foot of the chair. The fire warms the left side of her as she looks up at her father, composing what she will say for a long moment before she speaks. It's a habit that sometimes is mistaken for slow-mindedness, when really it is a practice drilled into her for want of accuracy and the death of unneccessary repetition. When she speaks, it is with her hands folded in her lap and her skirts spread to one side, the hood of her cloak still up as it has been for two hours of riding.

"I was with Jacom and Rald," she says, smiling without quite meaning to as she thinks of her two young nephews. "They were fishing by the river."

The firelight picks out the details of the mountain lion design in the disc of one earring which hangs like a bright eye in the dark fall of her hair within the hood. "A knight came down and wanted to speak to me. I'd met him before—" She glances to the side evasively, eyes flashing slightly with annoyance before she reminds herself to look back up at Abrahm. "He came to apologize for something he did, and to tell me he'd be leaving soon. And that he would like to call on me for tea when he came back."

Myrana frowns slightly, and seems to count to three. "He was heading north toward Griffin Point with Prince Samwell. His majesty is conducting an inspection of several territories along the border."

The comment of "call on me" causes Abrahm to turn and look at Myrana carefully. He listens to her little report as he watches the woman carefully. Judging her tone, her mannerisms, and her general skin tone. If she flushes, blushes, anything out of Myrana's norm.

He continues to pet the cat, who is thoroughly enjoying this little exchange. "This is good information. This Knight." He stops petting the cat. Leaving his hand on the cat's head. "Who is he? How close is he to the Prince of Taniford?"

Myrana does look a little uncomfortable as her father asks about the knight again, and swallows, cheeks colouring slightly. "Ser Gauvain Tarris. I've only met him twice— Markys was with me the first time. He has a daughter about my age. I don't know anything other than that." She looks up at her father earnestly. "I didn't see the prince, but he was a southron by his complexion and speech. The way he spoke of his majesty seemed the manner of a loyal man."

"Good. Loyal men who wish to call on a pretty face tend to blab." Abrahm says evenly. "By all accounts this Tarris has a fondness for maids. Especially pretty ones." He taps a finger on teh cat's head. Who appears to enjoy the rythmic tapping and resumes purring.

The man is silent for a moment, his eyes narrowed as he gazes into the fire. The look pretty much says it all; 'You are NOT dismissed, I am thinking'. When Abrahm does finally speak it is a darker tone. Clealry one he reserves for matters of parenting, though he speaks of bussiness. "This knight. I do not like his …. reputation. He is a Noble, but even if he is aiming for you he aims too high. However we can use him." He begins to pet the cat again in earnest. "He may call on you." He says finally. "Flirt. Tease. Enjoy yourself." He gives her a look that says, 'Don't enjoy yourself too much.' Then he continues. "Get him to divulge what he knows of the Southron Prince. What he plans on doing. His military movements. The strength. Anything. Everything if you can."

Myrana purses her lips— the precursor to arguement— but she swallows it with difficulty and looks down at her hands. A twitch goes down one hand, but she keeps her frustration at these paternal orders marvelously contained for her youth. Flatter and tease a man twice her age? The idea appalls her and it shows on her pale face despite how firmly she pins her lips. In a soft tone she suggests: "Father, I doubt a loyal knight will tell someone he barely knows military secrets… But of course, I will do what you ask of me." She looks up through her bangs, and the look borders on pleading, curiosity forcing its way upward for all of her self-control. That one thing is the defining force of her character, and what makes her such a good resource, in truth, but it has its downsides; "What would you do with knowledge like that, father? Your ships are already where they need to be for the control of trade— unless—"

The old man is silent as Myrana works things through. "What I do is what I do daughter." He says without any emotion seeping into his words. "The bussiness must continue, and the trade must flow. Even if the either one of the royal blood decide to start stabbing each other again." Abrahm snorts and picks up the Brandy, taking a small sip.

The brandy is swirled in the glass as he holds it in his hand carefully. "The Corsair War was close to shutting down the family business. We can't let these squabbling children drive us back again." He snorts. "War. Nothing but a bunch of puffed up popinjays trying to decide who has the bigger sword sheathed in their pants." He HA's, and the cat looks at him perterbed that her owner would DARE be so loud. But there is pettings. So she remains indifferent.

Myrana lets out a breath she wasn't aware she'd been holding and rises to her feet, smoothing her skirts with a hand as she does so. She is beginning to look very much like her mother, much as Markys does. But with her it's more poignant, more immediate in the way she quirks her lips in embarrassment at her dad's crass humor, and it's almost written over her head in big metaphorical letters 'swords go on your belt, dad, jeez'.

"You're going to give my cat a nervous condition," she says, and leans forward to kiss his forehead. "If you want me to be friendly with Ser Tarris I don't mind; he is very courteous, even if he looks like he was mauled by a bear and left with his face on sideways. I'm sure he's not as terrible as he looks… He embarrassed me into giving him a favor, which no-body has ever asked me for before," she points a mildly reproachful look at her father, as if to say 'because your three sons scare away every boy my age'. "So please do something about Markys? He thinks everyone is a highwayman, even little old men with gout and rheumy eyes. I'm going to push him off the bridge if he gives me one more talk about not smiling at people I don't know!"

Abrahm looks Myrana up and down and actually raises an eyebrow. "A favor?" He leans forward. "What did you give this courteous Knight who embarassed you?"

"Just a necklace," says Myrana. "I wasn't wearing any ribbons or… Oh, my hankerchief was dirty, so that would have been rude. I didn't know what to use, nobody's ever asked me. He said he'd bring it back." She purses her lips and looks at the fireplace. "I hope he does, that was my favourite choker."

"Your…. Choker?" Abrahm says as he looks Myrana over. His eyes lingering on the neck to see if he could perhaps will the Choker to be there. He takes in a deep breath and let sit out in that way that only fathers can.

"Daughter. That… Is an impressive favor." Abrahm says finally. He continues to look at her neck. "Keep your chaparone around you." He looks up into Myrana's eyes. "At. All. Times. Are we understood?"

Myrana blinks. "Er… Yes. Yes father, I promise," she says, taken back but not really clear on why Abrahm has gotten so dreadfully serious again. She's sure she's missed something, but between youthful inexperience and her own eagerness to do right by her family and make him proud of her, she doesn't ask. This, she gets the feeling, is the sort of thing a mother is supposed to teach her daughter about, and so none of her brothers or her father thought to remedy the gap in her education. "I'll stay with Markys and Sylvia, whichever is with me." A little anxiously now, she shrugs her cloak up, pulling the clasp away from her throat, which it has begun to tug at now that her horse's flank isn't bearing the weight of most of the heavy fabric. "May I go?"

The Man takes a long pull off his brandy before he nods to his Daughter. "Yes. You may go." He says simply. His hand returns to petting the cat and he returns to peering into the depths of the fire. The steady thrummm pop thrummm returns to the room.

Myrana curtseys mutely and then heads away through the sitting room and into other parts of the house, making for her own room and glad to be done with that rather unsettling exchange. Even so, her father's orders are law to her, and she knows its not the last she'll hear of it, should Tarris return alive from his travels with the Prince.

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