A visitor to Darkenhold

[Farsiris]

Siris was brought into this household by Syl Duquesne as a past acquaintance; while she never says much about herself, she has become a constant, a familiar -- predictable for her orderliness and shrewdness. She is too proper for a great many things. Listening through a door is not one of those things; being nosy is a part of keeping up with where everyone is at -- being nosy keeps mischief at a minimum.

So, she makes herself aware of laughter and the peculiar way that swords sing when they meet together, by briefly pressing her ear against the door. The ward waits for a time, and when her graceful hand descends for the handle in a gesture of impatience --

-- the door is flung wide before she can reach it.

"I despise intrusion," is Siris' way of acknowledging the fact that she should apologise without actually apologising. "There is a guest."

Before this news prompts interest, she raises a hand: "It is not your guest."

As her hand descends to span open her book, she continues with a lifted brow.

" 'Could you please tell Miss Randall that she has a visitor? And, if Miss Carnath-Emory is on the premesis, it would be nice if you did not mention it to her,' " quotes Siris from her infuriatingly thorough records. "That was the suspicious nature of his greeting. I searched his name to see if he has been a visitor before this morning, and he has not. His name is not familiar to me."

"Dias Coyne."

Sharp eyes lift from the closing book as she speaks the name, to catch whatever expression recognition may prompt upon the features of the swordswoman and her student.

[Carnath-Emory]

One expects a certain quiet, verbal precision of Siris.
One expects a vigorous curiosity of Glenn Burnie.
Of Ariane, when her sister is returned and Dias Coyne comes a-calling...

Well. One need only look so far as Coyne's own cautions to see what ought to be expected of her.

This stretch of news is heard by an audience ordinarily given to clear-eyed calm, and this moment is no exception to that rule at all, until the point is reached at which those cautions are voiced. She has turned in the midst of it to beckon Glenn Burnie towards them, has stepped forward a fraction -- but it's withn the name of Dias Coyne hanging in the air between them all that she finally turns away.

It's a brief departure. It lasts for precisely as long as it takes to strap matched katars low at her thighs, and free the schiavona from its sheath.

"Where is he?"

As she shoulders her way sidelong through that doorway, a twist of the fingers inviting Glenn Burnie to follow, if he has the stomach for it.

"Has he seen her yet? Have they spoken?"

And she is hardly waiting for those replies, although there's time enough to speak them still -- but quickly, Siris, quickly, for she's long-legged and has some haste in her that the morning's work has not siphoned away. Some quiet cold urgency, for these are eyes like stone, and a voice not much kinder, when it murmurs:

"Ty styervo ebannoye, Dias Coyne. Raz'yoba ty ... i tut zhe poluchil pizdy!"

[Glenn]

Dias...

Dias...

No, there was no sign of recognition on the face of Glenn Burnie at all. It is a possibility that Ariane mentioned the name to him once, but if so, it was a long time ago and he did not ask quite enough questions to remember it. As that seems unlikely, knowing Glenn, she probably did not mention it.

There IS a great deal of recognition for her temperament, however. Maybe training can be interrupted right now. That was fine, yes. Maybe he was about to see a quite graphic demonstration of how to use a sword. He was NOT about to get in Ariane's way, not at Darkenhold, not when she was most certainly herself. No, he would just stay out of the way.

[Quincy]

There is really, even now, no evidence to the contrary; but since his arrival a vague dread has hung on her sky-line. It has formed of perfect words, of the memory of just such fleeting, imperceptible signs in the past-- on certain stainless morning, that before night there would be rain.

This secret dread is so great that she seeks to postpone certainty. Perhaps he is unaware of his own sickness; perhaps it shall become apparent at a later time. There is no need for forgiveness, for he's not made a single promise that's gone awry. There is, however, a need to pocket away a little bit of room for doubt. Equally, there is no need for Dias to be made aware of this heart-pocket.

There is an odd smile for a small, captured hand - its fingers more familiar with forming calculated, crushing fists than careful, caring touches.

"Just making sure .. "

[Tebrin]

Dias was a slacker. He worked hard at his craft, but when it came to this relationship, he had been lazy. Thoughtless. He cared for Quincy, when he was present he was good to her - but he left without too much concern for her, and though he felt bad, he figured... she understood. Right? And maybe she did. But that did not make it RIGHT. And, so, he could not have possibly blamed her for doubting, for knowing that somehow, someway, he must disappear again.

If he could make it beyond a month, it would be a start.

But when Dias promised, he kept it. Except for when he had promised to kill Mikhail - the man had promptly disappeared. Somewhere in his mind, the minstrel liked to imagine he had slain himself for fear of the challenge. It wasn't true. But Dias enjoyed the thought.

"I have come and I have gone, each time taking for granted that all would be well when I returned. It will not happen again. And it should not have happened to begin with. I owe you no small debt, dearest Quincy, for your absolute, undying patience..." A quality not typically associated with the spritely young girl, non? "...And I will make absolutely certain you do not regret it."

Left hand cupped her cheek gently, lips sought to gently caress hers, before he simply held her near once more. "I have been meaning to ask you, but for the far more numerous and important matters I had need to speak of... what, ah... what IS this place?"

[Farsiris]

In the beginning, Siris allows herself to believe that her judgement call has been made in error. It is something that she is prepared to cope with, and if the opportunity were to present itself a second time, she would repeat the same error and err on the side of caution.

Basing an assumption around the reading of Ariane Carnath-Emory's guarded features, she learns soon after, is her only real error in this whole thing.

The doorway is wisely vacated for the passage of girl-shaped anger and boy-shaped curiosity.

"They stand together in the library, and I doubt that he has been silent for all this time."

It is either a result of disliking doors left ajar or a desire to remain distant from the climax of this swiftly-come reunion, but Siris lags behind to shut the training room door and adjust her spectacles.

[Carnath-Emory]

It is not a name that she'd mentioned to Glenn Burnie at any point, and perhaps he grasps some of the reason for that now. It is written into the clean lines of her, it is spoken very clearly by the fluid grace of her stride, the clarity of tight-drawn features.

A backwards glance is allowed towards Siris, and little more than that; a glance, a curt incline of the head. Words play no part in this yet, except that one might derive a certain gratitude from that nod, a silent appreciation for Siris' .. thoughtfulness.

They make swift work of the corridors, she and her student, and it is a quick transition from places made for physical pursuits to one designed other things entirely. Here are plastered walls, richly painted, here some stretch of rug beneath the boots, and Glenn Burnie will find familiarity in the doors before which they pause at last. This is far from his first visit to Darkenhold's library.

"It is no threat," she is explaining quietly then, murmured back across one shoulder. And that is all the explanation he's to receive for now, it seems, for her free hand is pushing those doors wide, and she is through immediately, so that a doorway of laquered darkwood must make a very fine frame for a swordswoman whose features are pale with fury.

[Glenn]

It was only a matter of weeks ago that Glenn put his neck on the line to stop Seth Bloodmoon from killing someone in the midst of the Dagger. Seth had not been himself and the last thing Glenn had wanted was his friend to end up on the wrong end of a noose.

This situation was very different. For one, it was Ariane. She was certainly herself. Their relationship was not necessarily that of equals. Just as importantly, they were in Darkenhold and legality was... skewed here when it came to the rest of Myrken.

No, he was not about to get in her way if she decided to great the newcomer sword first. In fact, if she asked Glenn to hold the man while she kicked him repeatedly in the skull, that might just might be his responsibility as a good student.

[Quincy]

He says a great deal to eradicate her secret fears. She listens to him; her brow is a muddle of fine lines. Her small cheek is warm in his hand. While his words do render feelings of speechlessness, she does feel that it is necessary to respond in some manner; her gratitude is blushing, is awkward.

"Thank you, Dias."

And then he poses a most excellent question: What is this place? What are these great stretches of hallway, these warm rooms, that winding stair -- this star-shaped glass? What is the meaning of it? What does it mean? Who?

Quincy springs backward and lofts her hands in wiggle-fingered menace; she utters the word in a growling exclamation, for it seems like a thing that should have at least a little bit of gravity.

"Darkenhold!"

During this moment -- at which point Quincy is standing back and snarling Darkenhold! at Dias -- the library's doors strike inward to permit three bodies.

For a moment, Quincy dumbly stands there with her hands in the air; she is initially oblivious to an extremely naked sword and cross expression, as she is thrilled, in that instance, to have a sudden flood of visitors -- enough for a small welcoming party. Her belated concern may be a great inconvenience to Dias.

[Tebrin]

Dias leaned down to grace her forehead with his lips, thumb stroking a gentle line against smooth skin. The man knew how to talk - it was one of his gifts, and it helped him immensely. He nodded silently, content with silence, HAPPY with silence... for silence meant there were no tears, there was no yelling.

The utterance of Darkenhold's name must surely have struck the man dumbfounded, for eyes widened, soft lips parted in an expression of disbelief, a low whistle emitted, then... and he began to inquire further. But the door opened. A sinking feeling overtook him. Oh, Quincy, I have found your dragon...

The minstrel rolled his shoulders for a moment, before turning to face his newly-proclaimed beloved's rather IRATE sister. He was not as distracted, as NAIVE even, as Quincy. Of course the sword was the first thing he noted, and a brow lofted in disbelief, even in quiet SCORN for Ariane. He understood her temper. Why else would he have avoided her? But to draw steel upon him? That was low, even for a swordswoman.

"Hello, Miss Carnath-Emory," he offered in soft tones, glancing to her new sweetheart - at least, he assumed that Glenn must have been, for they were both sweating, and had clearly been rolling about in the dust. A cut or two here and there merely confirmed suspicions about the nature of Ariane's relationships. He offered Glenn a charming smile and a brief bow, "m'Lord." And then over their shoulders, towards Siris, towards whom he simply shakes his head. Cad.

But his attention returned to the most important member of that party - Ariane, and by a landslide. "I owe you every explanation as to why you should even tolerate my constant leaving, disappointing your sister each and every time just as intensely as she is pleased for my eventual returns. I do." He began diplomatically, then, and what else could be expected from him? Left hand lofted, indicated the blade, then. "But let us not kid each other, Ariane; I shan't do it at bladepoint, and you should know not to -draw- that unless you intend to -use- it. And, contrary to the legendary nature of your temper and your prowess in battle, I do not believe for an instant you intend to run me through." It was rather logical, really. You have every right to be pissed, but put the sword away, because you look silly. Maybe she would be furious that Dias was not FRIGHTENED. Maybe she would respect that he did not cower in the face of her anger like many did. Maybe she would think him foolish for it - Glenn most certainly might.

The truth was, Ariane, that you liked him. And that Dias KNEW you liked him. Frankly, the feeling was mutual. And that was why you would HEAR what he had to say. Even if you bloodied his nose before it - or, frankly, after it. But a sword? You had no intentions of killing him. Thoughts, perhaps. But true intent? Dias doubted it. And it was not arrogance which held him proud - far from it. It was humility that bound him to his apologies, to his explanations, to his remorse. And it was confidence that he would not make a liar of himself.

[Glenn]

No, he did not quite think Ariane would kill the man in cold blood. He did not seem like he would put up a great deal of a fight and that wasn't quite her style.

She might lob off an arm for good measure, however.

Cheeky bastard. Generally, Glenn appreciated it, but there was a thing as too much of it, especially when it went along with entirely too much self-awareness.

He would likely follow the usual path when it comes to newcomers. He would let Ariane shape his opinion. It didn't often get him into trouble.

Well... not TOO often, so long as magic wasn't involved.

[Carnath-Emory]

Enough for a small welcoming party. And one of them's peeling away from the rest of the group, one of them is striding for Dias Coyne with something like momentum, some measure of real intent.

Was that scorn that she'd glimpsed in his eyes? Was that a flicker of something else? Very briefly, like a transition between one moment of the next... But whatever it might have been, it has done nothing to slow her approach, nothing at all to dispell the snap of her gaze between one face and the other, between sister and sister's suitor, as if the nature of this reunion could be gleaned from nothing else but the posture of them each, by the length of space between his boots and hers. By the set of lips and eyes, and whatever she discerns from these things must surely be favourable, for at some point very near them she's flung the schiavona aside, gently discarded it onto carpeted floor.

But then, she'd intended that from the beginning.

"You owe me nothing at all," she's answering him now, and slowing very little, advancing very steadily. "Except that here you are again, and I think you remember the words we spoke the last time. I think you mean me to break the promise I spoke you then."

It goes without saying, really -- doesn't it? And so does this, which he must have reckoned as inevitable: this sudden burst of violence, this palm swept sharp and blisteringly-swift for his cheek.

"I'd thought better of you," she's breathing in that moment, quiet and low and fervent. And twisting back about then she turns a narrow shoulder towards him, gives him the whole of her side as she moves some distance from his, and lets hang there the demand that her words had implied:

Prove that I was right to.

[Quincy]

If he has not already suspected it, Dias is to learn a thing: this thing is that Quincy's first allegiance is to her sister. This particular allegiance extends itself to instances like these. She'll not put herself between Ariane's hand and any man's face: not a stranger's, not the man that she is paid to guard, not her brother's, and not her lover's. Dias may wonder what would've happened if she'd not thrown aside that sword. If he imagines the worst case scenario, he may well be on the right track.

Quincy drops her hands and silently observes this fast approach, this eruption of swift, stinging violence; her own face, previously dumb with play, is now drawn tight and grave.

He's yet to look to her for rescue; hopefully, he will never think of it -- for Ariane's approval is a matter of extreme interest to Quincy.

[Farsiris]

"Oh dear," utters Siris, who has flanked Glenn near the doorway; she adjusts her spectacles to better observe this spectacle.

While she is not in the business of drama and eavesdropping, she is in the business of knowing who is and who is not to be inside of these walls.

[Tebrin]

The other figures in the room were ignored - stranger Glenn, rat-fink Farsiris, even lovely Quincy. He was focused on the swordswoman.

Dias' head snapped to the side, but he did not give her the satisfaction of wincing, or rubbing at the reddening skin. And he did not look to Quincy for help - later, it may come to bother him that she did not even seem upset. If he knew that she may have let Ariane SLAY him without so much as a finger lifted in his defense? He would have likely renegged upon his promise right then and there. For the sake of their relationship, one would hope that fact never came to light.

But in this instance, particularly, it did not bother Dias. Of course Ariane was upset. Quincy likely knew WHY Ariane was upset. It was justified. Dias had only himself to blame. "Do you feel better?" He asked casually - he hoped so, because otherwise it really was a useless gesture.

"I know why you are livid, Ariane, and I deserve it. I do not intend to leave again - so, hopefully, you shall not be forced to escalate your violence." This said with quiet mirth, though no smile touched his lips. "You are a woman of your word. And I am a man of mine. There is a reason why I never made this promise before." The rest went unsaid - it was significant, of course, that he was making it NOW. This was a man who meant what he said - Ariane may recall this from their first meetings, long ago. For as flighty as Dias had proven, he had always kept his word. And he had never once even seemed to entertain the idea of staying permanently.

"But I shall not be leaving again, Miss Carnath-Emory. And it is regrettable that it took me years to realize... well, that is a conversation for another time entirely. I am staying, so long as I am welcome." He crouched, then, retrieved the schianova gently by its blade, and offered Ariane its handle. One forceful thrust of the arm would've easily run him through. Fortunately, Ariane was not MURDEROUS.

"You dropped this?"