TIMESKIP POST

[reticence]

FAOLAN COURT Shardless; Seelie-sworn TITLE Seelie Marshall's Hound OCCUPATION Bodyguard, Assassin, Spy ABLE TO FAST-TRAVEL Teleportation between the gardens of Caer Glaem & Caer Scima Teleportation in Dorchadas at night Teleportation to Lancelot's side Cleg RESIDENCE IN 2,701 Caer Glaem RESIDENCE IN 2,702 Caer Glaem MAJOR EVENTS HIGHLIGHT Description [ ✖ ] HIGHLIGHT Description [ ✖ ] HIGHLIGHT Description [ ✖ ]

PLANS - Keeping an eye on Lancelot both in Caer Glaem/the White Citadel and on his travels. - His mission for Lancelot to connect with all of the agents stationed in the cities closest to Caer Glaem. - Becoming Spymaster under the direction of the Seelie Marshall should said mission be fulfilled. - Watching over Bridei when Lancelot is not around and making sure that he is safe. - Possibly spreading more positive sentiments towards the Seelie court (or at least positive sentiments towards Lancelot) in the form of ballads. - Upholding his oaths to the best of his ability. SUMMARY OF KNOWN DETAILS TBA TIMELINE OF EVENTS SPRING IN 2,701 (Mar, Apr, May) MARCH - Gwen is happy to see Faolan alive again. Faolan spends most of the month hiding from the cold under Lancelot's charmed blankets with Bridei, and feeling guilty he won't let him light a fire. APRIL - Faolan starts to hear harp-playing everywhere, both in and out of his dreams, and his emotions go off of the charts. He resents harps, and he resents what they mean to him. He would never destroy an instrument in or out of his dreams however so he will be affected the whole month. There are significant interactions with Lancelot and Guinevere during this event. MAY - Faolan accompanies Lancelot on the first of his many Public Relations trips, this time to Parrais. SUMMER IN 2,701 (Jun, Jul, Aug) JUNE - As of the month before, the lockets and the fairy rings do not work, and as such, communication with agents stationed out in cities has become a challenge. Lancelot assigns Faolan the task of traveling to them and communicating in person, since it is easier for him to travel around than most others these days, being shardless. He starts out with Treun, where he participates in the Melee competition of the Tourney and is bested by Connor early in the running. Lancelot is there to soothe his bruised ego. Also at the Tourney he speaks to Aragorn, Lucrezia, and Natasha. He also meets with the agent in Treun before continuing on his mission south to Leathann, where there is no agent stationed, but he spends a while investigating in their stead. JULY - From Leathann Faolan does a massive traveling loop back up to Parrais on his mission for Lancelot to meet with the agent stationed there. And from there he goes on to Doanna for the final stop in his journey, where he discovers that there is some unrest after the hangings that take place there. He speaks to Diarmuid and they exchange information, before he returns to Caer Glaem to share his findings with Lancelot. (All throughout the mission he has been checking in here and there, to let him know that he's alive, and because Bridei misses him.) AUGUST -Faolan accompanies Lancelot to Leathann for more Public Relations on behalf of the Seelie court, and tries desperately not to be in the way during the Festival of Lights. While he's there, he takes some time to investigate this new Oracle (and possibly work on establishing a new agent in the city?). FALL IN 2,701 (Sept, Oct, Nov) SEPTEMBER - Faolan returns with Lancelot to Parrais for more Public Relations touring. OCTOBER - On the 25th of October, the Drabwurld celebrates Samhain once more. Faolan attends, and reminisces about last year with Lancelot. He spends less time brooding than he did last year, and even accepts a few dances, including one with Gwen. NOVEMBER - Faolan spends much of the month on regular duties. When word of the escaped convicts from the prison colony in Leathann reaches Caer Glaem, it makes him uneasy - are any of these people a threat to Caer Glaem itself? WINTER IN 2,701/2,702 (Dec, Jan, Feb) DECEMBER - Having won the Hunt last year, Lancelot will apparently get it into his mind that he doesn't need to take it seriously this year, thereby ending up getting himself cursed into becoming an animal this go around. An otter, to be exact. Faolan must then watch over him, Lady, and Bridei the three of them for the next few days until Lancelot is himself once more. Any gifts he receives for Yule he struggles to return in kind, even if his own gifts by comparison are likely not as fancy or expensive as those that are given to him. JANUARY - Faolan accompanies Lancelot back to Treun once more for more Public Relations touring on behalf of the Seelie court. He checks in with the agent stationed there, and puts out feelers as to what might be going on with the Fortuna family, after the Governor was forced to abdicate his position. (The 26th marks Faolan's return from death, an event that is possibly worth celebrating?) FEBRUARY - Faolan travels with Lancelot back to Leathann again for another Public Relations visit on behalf of the Seelie court. (If he has established an agent in Leathann at this point he will check in with them.) Also during this month, on the 14th, Bridei turns one year old. SPRING IN 2,702 (Mar, Apr) MARCH - Faolan joins Lancelot and all others defending Caer Glaem by decapitating the skeletons of the risen dead, and is largely unsettled by their appearance. APRIL - Fairies start to go missing from Caer Glaem, leaving everyday tasks unfinished. Faolan knows how to make do without them, although it is an inconvenience in certain aspects. This too is concerning, however, and he wonders what it could mean going forward...

( codes by whambam )

Comments

[knightscode]

He laughs, bright and easy -- as if Faolan's words are a terribly funny joke rather than a reminder of something awful -- and draws back finally. He keeps hold of Faolan's hand, he's gripping it so tight he rather feels it would be unwise to let go, and lets his other linger on the man's shoulder.

"Well, you'll have no need to fear a flame while I am close. We will make sure you are not touched by one again." Lancelot takes a breath, lets it out in a slow sigh and studies him a moment longer. "I mean every word I say," he adds, more quietly. "Do not doubt that. I know things have not... been easy, but -- well. They have been easier for having you here. If nothing else, it is a great help to have someone to watch the animals."

He flicks a teasing smile at that, squeezes Faolan's shoulder (a mixture of gentle reassurance and a reminder that yes he is joking) before letting his hand drop from it.

[reticence]

Lancelot's touch lingers, as does the feeling within Faolan. The same feeling as he had, all that time ago, with Ana. Crossing a river, holding her close, singing her a song. That was how it had all begun with her. Faolan and Lancelot have already been through so much more than that. The kidnapping of Lady, the vanquishing of Reynard. The hunting of the Hart. The journey to the Pyrii. Faolan's death. Lancelot had brought him back. They had been through battle together, they had fought the Jabberwock together. Faolan had been nursed and cared for by the other man, Lancelot has shared his quarters with him for the last few months. He has shared with him his past. He has helped watch over Lancelot himself for over four turnings of the moon, and over Bridei for half that long. They have shared so much more than the mere days that he and Ana had known each other, before he'd given away his heart, despite himself. With the similarities between them. With the way that they both believed in him, both want better for him, perhaps better than Faolan should desire himself. He should have known. He should have seen this coming. Its his own fault that he hadn't caught it and quenched this flame before now, when it's far too late for that.

Faolan watches Lancelot smile at him, listening as he laughs, listening as his voice drops soft and low, watching as he smiles at him. Feeling those emotions within him swell and cement themselves in the face of it. In the face of that damned harp music. "I should hope," Faolan counters, as wryly as he can, all things considered, "that in the end I should amount to at least a little more than that..." Not that he minds watching over Lady and Bridei, of course. But his place, he has always felt, is at Lancelot's side, whether it is on a mission, on the battlefield, or in a meeting room. Gods, to hear himself think that now...

[knightscode]

"You are a very good scribe, too."

Lancelot's smile flicks up slightly more into a smirk and he begins to push up to his feet -- tugging Faolan up with him.

"Better?" he prompts softly, not just for the fact that they are standing -- but for how the man is feeling. A little humour is returning to him, at least, but Lancelot well knows how easy it is to suppress things. To smile through pain, hide a feeling. Faolan is so often closed off, reluctant to share much at all, that Lancelot feels he should not let this moment of openness slip past him. Should make sure that he repairs any damage, smooths over any cracks before it passes and Faolan takes to hiding it all once more.

[reticence]

"Yes, well," Faolan retorts, in response to the comment about the scribing, "you can thank my father for that one." And he cuts himself off abruptly. No, it's too much. He's saying too much, he's feeling too much. Where is it all coming from? Why can't he shut it all off as he has done so many times in the past? He prides himself on generally being able to mask any evidence of how or what he feels, even if he has at least stopped lying to himself about not having any emotions at all.

It's just as well that Lancelot is hauling him to his feet and changing the subject. Just as well that Lancelot still has his hand as Faolan clings to him in support for a moment as his bad knee protests being straightened after so long spent sitting on the floor like that. 'Better?', he asks. Well, in some sense of the word, yes. Faolan doesn't feel half as wretched as he did before. And it's all thanks to him. Of course, there's a new confusion, a new turmoil burbling inside of him. And this one, he thinks to himself, is not going to be nearly as easily soothed away.

He takes in a breath, making a noncommittal sort of noise, although after a moment he does nod. "...thank you," he says, softly. "For." For coming out to find him. For his kind words and gentle touch. For caring. For believing in him. For his patience and his generosity and gods. He lets his breath out in a sigh, shrugging slightly. "For insisting on a friendship with a foolish man, I suppose." He has not let go of Lancelot's hand yet, nor has he stepped away. He's not sure he ever wants to, and that's a dangerous feeling.

"Where have you left Bridei?" An attempt to move on. To stop focusing on him. So much for a moment of openness, although if Lancelot presses, Faolan just might say or do anything for him in this moment. Dangerous indeed.

[knightscode]

"Just back in the room, with Lady. He was sleeping when I left, he'll be fine a moment or two."

Lancelot smiles a little uncertainly, aware of the unsteadiness in Faolan. Not just from his leg, either, but from the way he hangs on to Lancelot's hand like a lifeline. From the hint of something in his expression, the way he cuts himself off.

"It's the music, isn't it." He smiles sympathetically, studying Faolan for a reaction. "I hear it too. If... there's anything I might do... we could go for a walk, perhaps. In the bailey. Clear our heads a little."

[reticence]

Faolan grimaces, nodding slightly. "It had to be a harp," he says. It's not just the music, of course, it's much more than that - whether it is because of the music or simply compounded by it he is not sure if he will know until at last it stops and he finds out them. But the music is a good scapegoat, and a good guess on Lancelot's part. He knows how complicated Faolan's relationship with such things are. And he's known him for long enough to understand that moments of such intense emotion are more than just uncomfortable for him. They are draining, awkward. He is not a man like Lancelot himself, in touch with such things, unafraid to show fears and affections. He is in the habit of hiding such things, not putting them on display.

He casts a sideways glance at the other man. On one hand, he doubts that taking a walk with Lancelot will help in any way to clear his head. On the other, he has spent a lot of time indoors of late, and the other choice is to return to the room with him. Their room at the moment, since Faolan - being shardless - has no claim to space in Caer Glaem. "I...would be hard pressed not take up the offer of a breath of fresh air," he responds, slowly.

[knightscode]

A bard. It makes sense, in truth. Many things suddenly make sense. His upset around hearing music, his withdrawal from busier parties where it is played, his own ability with the harp and with words regardless. It all makes sense but in a way it saddens Lancelot too, the way Faolan has rejected this part of himself.

"You took to avoiding music," he prompts on, "to avoid the memories? It is not for lack of skill, I am sure. You still play beautifully."

Yet Faolan has always been a little withdrawn. Perhaps the time for drawing attention to himself has simply passed.

south of Treun:

[wolvering]

Pod has been so busy this summer, traveling different places to bring the animals back to places finally healed from the rot, then trying to get in plenty of herb gathering and visiting the major shrines of the White Hart in between.

Today, she’s just getting on the road back north towards Treun with her pack filled to bursting with herbs, some rare, some not, and one very special acorn from an Ivory Oak. That she will take back to Cothromach soon, to plant in the beginnings of a shrine to the Hart, but first she wants to visit her ferret friends in Treun and stop in to make sure her other friends there are well. And she could just get there in an instant, but then she might miss a chance to find more important plants. So she walks.

And a chance look back down the road shows her someone coming her way, and a little company for herself and Kiga would be welcome, so Pod slows her pace to let the figure catch up, only to beam when she sees who it is.

“Faolan! It’s been some time. Well met!”

[reticence]

Faolan at least knows, heading into Daonna, what to expect when he gets there. The sentiments towards shardbearers have not changed since the last few times he had entered the city - once to question the sorcerers on the nature of the spell on Reynard's heart, the second time to travel in their underground and retrieve a piece of the heart itself. If anything, they have darkened. Whether that is to do with the recent battle, or the destruction made by the Jabberwock, on account of the heavy presence of the Cult of the Fox and their sentiments following Reynard's death - or any combination thereof - he cannot quite be certain. Not without some solid field work in the city first.

Although that is not why he is there. Well. It is not the first objective as to why he is there. His main goal is to liaise with the agent that Lancelot set up within the city. A task that, Faolan is finding as he travels from place to place, is easier said than done. They are referred to as agents for a reason. Underground. Under no circumstances must he reveal why he is there to anyone other than the agent themselves. It puts a rather difficult task on Faolan's head, of course, but he is used to such circumstances. It's refreshing, fitting himself into such a role again. This is what he is good at, what he has spend years perfecting the art of. And he relishes the chance to put those skills to good use.

Lancelot had not given him all that much to go on, in terms of locating these agents, although that, Faolan knows, is understandable. He knows the man as he was when he selected him for the job, not as the persona he has put on to fit into the city itself. A large wall of a man, Lancelot had explained him, a fighter, who goes by the name of Kay. Excellent in hand-to-hand combat, with a soft spot for that large ginger cat that likes to hang about the training grounds back at Caer Glaem.

Faolan has been supplied with the right means to convince the agent to speak to him - the question and answer that Lancelot had established as a form of security should such a thing be necessary, the other man's seal, and what information Lancelot has to share on him. Of course, those things all mean nothing if he cannot locate him in the end. Where would a man like the one Lancelot had described have established himself in the city, Faolan thinks to himself, as he settles down for the first night in the city, housing Ciar, his cleg, in the stables of the most reputable inn he can find within the city - the Sweet Sow, they call it.

It takes him a few days of searching, which is alright in the end. As Faolan spends more and more time out on the streets - easy to blend in and not attract the negative attention of before, now that he is shardless - word spreads like wildfire of the hangings. He keeps an open ear for any gossip that might be useful - gossip is, Faolan has found, more useful than one might think in tracking down leads. One just has to know how and where to look, and as luck would have it, Faolan does. He does not go out of his way to investigate the hangings themselves though, or who is behind them. His main goal is to locate the agent.

And locate him he does. Where would a fighting man spend his time in a city like this? What does any warrior do during times of peace but find another job and bide their time waiting for the next battle to come. So too, as luck would have it, Faolan finds Kay - not in the midst of some inner city brawl, as Lancelot's description of the man may have suggested, but loading a cart full of barrels in the back alley of one of the shadier districts of the city. Barrels that look rather extremely heavy, and that Kay doesn't seem to be having to waste much effort with at all. Faolan isn't sure that he'd be even be able to make one of them budge, let alone lift one.

He's careful in his introduction. Has to be, considering he doesn't want to spook the other man off nor does he want him to call in the cavalry on him. Whatever cavalry that might be - Faolan doesn't know whether the other man might have reinforcements or not. Acts the part of the wayward traveler - which in a way he is. Pretends that he hasn't been in the city before, that he's not much of a city type, him. That he's gotten turned around with all these buildings that all look the same and he'd appreciate being set straight. The man's manner is gruff, but not unkind. He's not about to waste his time on an absent wanderer though, that much is clear. He doesn't rise to the occasion of a conversation, and certainly doesn't do more than point Faolan on his way and set about his business again. So Faolan decides to try the code. If anything, it will just seem like he's out of his wits and the man will ignore him completely, end of story.

"There's just one more thing," Faolan says, lightly, stepping forward to get the other man's attention. Making sure that his hands are free in case he has to reach for any of the knives he has concealed about his person. "Which way does the cockerel face when he cries?"

The man rises to his full height from where he's been stooped, reaching for another barrel, turning to look down on Faolan, his eyes dark and guarded. It's an odd phrase, but not that odd. Still, the man gives his answer. Gives the answer. "Into the rising sun."

Faolan nods, his eyes intently focused on the man's, as he reaches very carefully into the satchel he is carrying, and pulls out a little bag, the contents of which he empties out onto his hand. Lancelot's seal. He holds it out to the man for him to examine, but he knows to be careful what he says aloud, especially in a place like this. "It seems that I'm more lost than I thought. I don't suppose that you could show me somewhere to stay? Your time will be compensated, of course." He closes his hand around the seal, and puts it away in his bag, watching Kay carefully. His big hands clench into fists - it's obvious that he doesn't like not knowing who Faolan is or why he should know such a phrase, why he should have Lancelot's seal on him, but they're not going to be able to cover that until they're out of harm's way.

"Know of a place," he says, gruffly, glancing down at the cart. It's going to make him late for his delivery, stopping like this. "It'll cost you, mind," he adds, pointedly.

Faolan shrugs. "I can pay." Or rather, Lancelot can. He gave him a fair chunk of gold for this and Faolan's been budgeting it well, for reasons such as this. So Kay nods and leaving his cart for the moment, leads Faolan down the road, up another, on such twists and turns that if Faolan didn't know it was for his own security, might have questioned whether the other man was trying to get rid of him. Finally they happened on an alley that, roughly and abruptly, Kay pulled him aside and into.

"State your business and what the hell it is you think you're doing here with that," he says, pressing Faolan into the wall. To any passer-by, Faolan thinks, it may even look like he's being mugged. Well-done on the agent's part, but he hopes it doesn't actually come to that.

"Faolan," he breathes, a hand coming up to rest on the other man's fist in the front of his leathers. "His Hound, as they say. The lockets are useless, you know that as well as I. Short of losing contact, he thought it best to send someone along. And that would be me." He glances towards the mouth of the alley. "You don't have to like me, and you don't have to want me here, but I'm asking you to trust me, and he is as well. It's why he gave me the seal and the code. You can ask him all about it when things are back to normal but for now this is what there is."

Kay frowns at him, his fist tightening. Faolan wonders whether his feet are still touching the ground. "You're not one of them," he says. Them. Shardbearers. Seelie. Faolan's not quite sure which he means, but he shakes his head regardless.

"No, I'm not," he confirms, honestly. "But I've sworn my life to him, for better or worse. Here." He holds his hands up to show that he means no harm, before reaching to tug his shirt aside. The brand of the Seelie court rests there on his skin, above his breastbone, where his shard might have rested, if he'd had one anymore. It would be rather an elaborate step to take, as far as a cover is concerned, so after a moment, Kay's fingers release some of their tension, his eyes some of their hostility as well.

"How'd'you get that, then?" he asks, his eyes flicking from the mark to Faolan's.

"Your queen. Brought me back to life. Don't know what it means but I figure I'm as good as property now." Kay winces slightly, so Faolan sees that as his cue to continue.

"Listen, all I'm looking for is information, for him," Faolan says. "Whatever you can spare. What's been going on in the city recently? What does he need to know about? Anything you would usually report to him, report to me. I'll see that it goes through the proper channels, I swear to it."

Whatever he's said (whether it's the promise or perhaps the part about dying Faolan's not entirely certain) it must have been something right, for after a moment, Kay's setting him on his feet again, with a look of almost embarrassment. "Sorry," he mumbles. "Don't know my own strength at times. You alright?" He goes so far as to straighten the front of Faolan's leathers out for him, where his massive hand had been gripping and pulling at the material.

Faolan has the decency not to gape as he finds himself suddenly fussed over. "I imagine I'll live," he says, wryly.

Appeased that no permanent damage seems to have been done, Kay glances once over his shoulder to make sure that they're alone, before turning back to Faolan. "I'll make it quick," he says, although given what he's seen of the other man's temperament Faolan honestly can't see the man doing anything but. Still, he nods, and crossing his arms across his chest as he leans back against the wall, he settles in to listen.

The Cult of the Fox is training its members in anti-shardbearer techniques, Kay says, which goes along something of the aura of the sentiments hanging about the city, Faolan knows. The Cult is big in the shardhunter circles, and it would seem that the masks that they wear to hide their identity have immense magical power, although Kay doesn't have further details on that subject. He's going to try to infiltrate, perhaps he'll have a better understanding after he does.

Faolan nods, grimly. Infiltrating the Cult of the Fox is a dangerous game, but what other choice is there of understanding them? He only hopes that Kay understands what he's doing. He seems a fit choice for the city, but no man is without his weakness, a fact that Faolan knows all too well. He thanks the other man for his time and efforts, offers him what he hopes will be enough to cover the work that he's lost and then some, and hoists his pack on his back.

"Ah," Faolan says, pausing on his way out. "I don't suppose you'll tell me where I can find you again, should I need you? Look awfully suspicious, chasing every man with a cart down I can find," he continues, before adding, lightly, "and I'm not particularly keen on being tossed about in another alleyway, if it's all the same to you."

As Faolan predicted he would, Kay looks almost abashed at that last comment. He reaches up to run a hand over his short-cropped hair, thinking for a moment, before he gives his response. "Got a room," he says, giving Faolan the address. "Leave a note. Time and a place. Do my best to be there, if I can."

Faolan nods, and having the good sense to know when to excuse himself when a conversation (if one could call it that) has reached its end, does exactly that.

His business in the city is not done, after all, not by a long shot. His ear ever to the ground, he sets off on the way back to the Sweet Sow, only to be waylaid by a familiar face that he had not anticipated seeing here. Diarmuid. Diarmuid who, it would seem, would speak with him, if he has the time. A man's work is never done, Faolan thinks to himself, as he names a time and a place for such an encounter, and does what he can in preparation for it.

He does not regret agreeing to meet with the other man, as luck would have it. Quite the contrary, Diarmuid proves to be almost as informative as the agent Kay himself. These masks, not only are they magical, as Kay had suggested, but the magic on them is such that it masks the very deeds of the wearer as well. Some sort of memory charm, perhaps? Diarmuid suspects it could be shard magic but Faolan is not so certain - the Cult hates shardbearers, why would they use such means when there are other ways of doing magic here in the drabwurld? No, Faolan has something of another theory, especially when the name Martin Maskmaker is shared with him. It may be coincidence, as he says to Diarmuid, but the name is awfully close to that of Damrtin, the sorcerer with a fondness for Reynard and his cause, and whose shop, as Faolan had spotted on an idle pass by, seemed to be closed up. Especially when the idea is presented that the shardbearers that were hung were less than quality people. Something Damrtin had said about Reyard sticks in his head and comes to mind at such a time: Ever stopped to consider that while both hosts of shardbearers are chasing the good Fox from sea to sea that they can't be warring with each other and trammeling yet more good folk underfoot? I pose it to you: another front is precisely what the War seems to need. He wouldn't put it past a man like that to come to the aid of the Cult, in Reynard's absence...

Of course, there is another name that is mentioned as well. That of a woman named Molly, a chandler with a modest storefront on Crann Darach, Diarmuid describes. Alyosha's contact, although he has no more information on that, simply that it was suggested that someone speak to her. Someone native. Another mystery to be solved. Faolan leaves their conversation with quite a lot on his mind, and quite a lot that he'll have to address with their agent again before he leaves the city. At least Kay seemed to have warmed up to him in the end, although it's difficult to tell, with a man like that. Faolan thinks retrospectively he should have mentioned his cat more or something. Ah, well.

So it is the next morning that Faolan finds himself walking by Molly's storefront himself, just in passing, trying to catch what information he might from first glance, before setting to the city to try and find what sort of information he can get about the woman there as well. Why would Alyosha suggest her? What sort of a contact would she be, in reference to the masks and the hangings? What is her opinion on shardbearers? What is said about her that might suggest how she fits into all of this? These questions need answered before Faolan sends himself into the fray. And send himself he will - send a native, Diarmuid had said, and he can't risk Kay in such an unknown. He's shardless, he'll pass. He's going to have to, if he wants whatever it is that Alyosha thinks that she's got to offer...

[fairyfoes]

Molly had an utterly mundane reputation; mother of three with another on the way, Daonna born and bred (like most), a humble woman who practiced a good craft. It was well known that her grandfather had been an ex-shardbearer, a rough-handed lout and a drunkard after the loss of his shard, and had had care of Molly after her own father and mother had been killed in border conflict with Glaschu.

A chime rang as he swung open the door, and from an old counter she smiled, both hands going to the small of her back, pressing, offering more support to her rounded belly.

"New face! Racks just to the right, if you're not lookin' for anythin' in particular. Time-candles are marked with the dye-rings."

[reticence]

Faolan takes the information he can get about the woman in stride, although he has to wonder why it is that Diarmuid was turned on to the woman in the first place. There are only a few reasons that it could be, in the end. She could be a sympathizer, but such things are dangerous in a city like that, and he's fairly certain that word would have gotten out one way or the other if that had been the case (unless she's very good). So there has to be something more. He wishes he had more information. Some kind of key word or phrase to use, as he has with Lancelot's agents, some sort of token that he might be able to pull out and tell her, without using the words, who sent him and why, to skip all this skirting around of the details. But all he has is her name and location in the end, and a little scattering of information about her background. So it seems, he thinks to himself, that he'll have to do this the old-fashioned way.

As the chime rings and Faolan steps forward into the shop, he smiles in response to her greeting, taking her in. Another child on the way indeed. Just what is Alyosha playing at, sending them into her life like this, regardless as to who or what she is?

"As a matter of fact," he says, "I do hope that there's something that you can help me with. I've a friend who suggested I look into this place." He glances around, surveying her wares but also trying to determine if they were alone or not, how private a space it might be, or whether he's going to need to see if he can't get any sort of private consultation elsewhere. "You've come highly recommended, I'll have you know."

[knightscode]

"Then let us walk."

He releases Faolan long enough to dust himself off, places a guiding hand at the small of his back to draw him along and begins to walk them both toward the bailey -- smile a little more easy now. Reassuring, he hopes.

"It will do you good, I have no doubt, and perhaps we can pick up something on the way back for Bridei and Lady. Maybe even ourselves too, we might deserve something."

PERFECT!

[reticence]

Faolan is a seasoned rider, but Ciar, Faolan's cleg, can only handle so much riding, and as they are on their way back to Caer Glaem after their mission is fulfilled, he supposes that he can allow her some time off from flying or carrying him. He is perfectly capable of walking, and it would seem that a certain recent acquisition has not yet acquired the taste for flying, for that matter. Said acquisition is currently tucked in a satchel, which Faolan himself has the honor of carrying, since Ciar isn't quite keen on the idea either.

Bringing up a hand to shield his eyes, Faolan glances down the road to see who it is that might be calling out to him, but there's only one person he knows who might be accompanied by such a creature. He raises his hand in greeting as he approaches.

"And you," he says in return. "I had not expected to see anyone on this stretch of road. Certainly not anyone I knew. Where are you headed?"

[reticence]

Fionn Broin, a painter. Orna Seighin, the curator. Faolan commits these names to memory. Maybe they will be useful, maybe not. Only time will tell. He nods in response to Dorian's words, prompting him on. "Could you tell me of them? These two friends of yours." What sort of people are they, that they would warm to Shardbearers so quickly? What is their background, he wonders?

"The truth is that I have heard whispers of the goings-on in this city," Faolan continues, after that first question, "though I could use a different point of view. I would ask you what you have heard news of recently, that might have caught your attention. No matter how idle. I will listen. I would like to know Parrais, and I would like to know it through your eyes." There. Not giving away his mission, but not untrue either. He regards Dorian, carefully, hoping that it is enough.

[reticence]

[Faolan leans into the hand on his forehead despite himself. The music swells within him, makes him starved for human contact, and though this is perhaps not the touch he has craved, he will take it. He reaches for her hand at her offer despite himself.]

You are wasting your time with me, Guinevere. [He says, although her hand remains clutched in his after he has risen.] Surely you have better things to be doing, than humoring me...

[reticence]

Faolan wonders if he's going to need to elaborate to the other man, but Lancelot seems to be doing fairly well determining his reasoning all on his own. Avoiding music to avoid the memories. Faolan nods in response to the other man's prompting, taking in a deep breath, urging himself to continue on. "I. It reminds me of who I used to be, playing does. Reminds me of what happened to change that. Being around music, it's..."

He trails off, sitting back in his chair, running a hand through his hair, taking a sip of the drink to fortify himself. "I yearn for the harp again, around music like that. But it is not so simple as that." He shrugs slightly. "You flatter me, with such compliments. I have not truly practiced in over ten years. But, with this harp being here, and with the situation being what it is, I thought..." He trails off again, shrugging and glancing up at Lancelot once more, the expression in his eyes at once shuttered and horribly vulnerable.

[reticence]

Faolan tries to keep his breathing steady as the other man's hand settles on his back, as Lancelot steps close to him and begins to guide them along. Contain yourself, he tries to urge himself, although with this whole harp business, with the music continuing to pulse within him, it's difficult. Still, he goes willingly, and if he leans into Lancelot's touch a little more than he might have done otherwise, he can blame that on the stiffness in his knee, he hopes.

Pick up something on the way back for Bridei and Lady, Lancelot suggests, perhaps something for themselves, and Faolan cannot help but tilt his head sideways to glance at the other man. "Perhaps we do," he counters, wondering what exactly Lancelot has in mind.

[depicted]

Dorian listens to what he says, a little unsure about how to approach the question now—there is always so much to say about a place. His eyes turn upwards as he tries to think through what to say.

"Fionn was an artist who I encountered last winter. She is friendly with many of the artists here—in many ways, she is a friendly person. She is who drew me into the circle of artists that the Mayfair often displays. I found Orna through her as well, but not as an artist. Orna often seems to know who the best talents are rising here."

He feels like Orna and Fionn would better be able to explain the city than he can. Rubbing one finger over another, he adds, "I do not know much of gossip, in those terms. In truth, I am most kept abreast of growing trends. But I have heard that competition has been . . . more thin, lately." A frown, and his eyes turn down. "Painting is expensive, and the artists here compete with those in Treun for commissions from Treun's major families. But with the tensions between the elves and vampires, many of the vampire artists in Parrais have suffered their works being destroyed or have been driven out." It is difficult to breathe as he adds, "Some have even lost their lives."

His eyes turn back up to Faolan, and the distress in them is marked. "That is what I mean when I say that competition has 'thinned out.' Many of the elven artists, I think, are pleased; the humans are less overt in expressing it. But all artists need to be commissioned if they are to survive."

[fairyfoes]

She blinked up at him, humming thoughtfully. "Recommended? What for?"

She wasn't alone behind the counter; a somewhat older man, serious-faced, poured steaming wax into metal molds, and from the living space upstairs all could hear the patter of children's feet. To the left were racks and racks and racks of candles.

[reticence]

Faolan's eyes slide over the man before turning back to her. Her husband, he wonders? It would make sense, given the sound of the children upstairs. Such an arrangement designed to keep the family as close as possible to the business. Is it a cover? If it is, it's very good, he has to say.

"Ah, well," he says. "It's. Rather a personal matter. If there's somewhere we could...?" His information - Alyosha's suggestion - did not include the mention of speaking to anyone but Molly herself. If it is a cover, it's possible not even this man should know. He's looking to speak to her in private, if he can. He's hoping such a request makes sense. In such a place as the drabwurld, they should sell candles with little spells in them as well? Charms and such? To help one fall in love or to grant one easier sleep. He's got a cover story, if need be - one not far off the truth, really. The best lies are closest to the truth, after all, he knows that for a fact.

He even goes so far as to look slightly embarrassed to have to request such a thing. Mostly because he is. If he has to use his cover to get them privacy for certain, he's admitting to things that he would rather not have to about himself, certainly not in front of strangers.

[knightscode]

He hums in thought at that, lowers his eyes to Bridei and gently tries to still the little dragon as he wriggles once more.

"You yearn for it," he repeats softly, "yet you deny yourself. It reminds you of the past. Yet... those memories, associations, will never fully leave you if you do not let yourself move on. If... the past, a past you do not wish, is the only memory you have a harp then of course a harp will make you recall it. If you want to enjoy it once more, then the only way is to do so. To make new memories, new associations, to live in the here and now -- not the past. Play here -- I will not begrudge you doing so. Play as much as you wish, Faolan, and perhaps one day... your confidence will return enough to play for others as you once did."

[reticence]

Faolan turns his eyes on the younger man's expression, watching him frown as he speaks, watching him fidget with his hands as he does, sensing his distress and trying to determine as quickly as he can whether he is sincere in this or not. "I have heard of this feud, between the elves and the vampires," he says, although he does not say from whom. Of course, he has heard that the vampires have been hiring agents to commit assassinations in retaliation of these murders as well.

"Are you familiar with these presences in the area?" Faolan asks. He seems to be awfully shaken by the idea of them taking arms against each other, although of course that could just be within his nature. From what Faolan has seen thus far, he seems to be the gentle sort, at least.

[knightscode]

"I could smell them cooking pies in the kitchens," he confides by way of explanation. "Lady begs food from them sweetly enough, I thought we might see if we can do as well ourselves?"

Lancelot smiles playfully, half flicking his attention between the path ahead and Faolan -- letting his hand slip around from his back as they descend the stairwell.

"A little chicken for Bridei, I think. Perhaps some lamb for Lady if they can spare it."

[graciousness]

You must not say that.

[ she leads his arm to take her own ]

There is never a better thing to do than to spend time with a friend. Come now, we will walk.

[ she holds onto his arm very tightly ]

the fresh air would help.

[depicted]

There's a quick shake of the head. "I know some elven artists, but I don't think there are any vampires left." He presses his lips together, trying not to pout. "And I rather suspect Fionn and Orna try to steer me away from anyone who might be trouble."

They're babying him.