by Carnath-Emory » Wed Nov 28, 2012 3:46 am
She is in some way official: know it from the insignia, if not a garb which owes more to the winter's chill than any sense of formality. And does this man distinguish between Militia, Constabulary and Committee? Quite possibly not, and what's settled down upon this stool has no intention whatever of remedying that lack. Certainly not when his tone sours a little - that tavern, after all, how disreputable; for all that she halfway agrees the swordswoman cannot prevent this small, small curl of a smile. "Doubtless," she murmurs, in answer to the tavern or the difficulties or perhaps simply both.
Waldemar, the man says, which means nothing. Mill, the man says, and then she realises."The new one. Built up amongst the hills, yes?" Significantly refurbished half a year ago and still the topic of some talk amongst certain of the Militia; the sort of talk that would've faded into disinterest by now, except that the creeping winter leaves men increasingly indoors and increasingly idle. With little but mugs and bowls to fill their hands they fill their thoughts instead, and with all sorts of fancies, and more than once it had infected the morning recess between one drill and another...
Imagine, though, young Cherny walking all the way to the tavern from that. Just imagine.
It's a wonder this is the first time he's been hurt.
It's a wonder this man's bowed to her, as well, courteous little gesture that this was. Something in his manner, in his carriage; he is infinitely more the landowner than the farmer, and this is something more than she might have anticipated from him. Still: "Ariane Emory." Marshall? The title seems unnecessary, redundant. Much like stirring from her seat, and she abstains from both. "As for the boy - better wounded than murdered, mn?" The stablehand. Jason, if he'd been not nearly so sturdy; if there'd been no physician right there. "But there is no better place for his care than this, and as you see - " a nod towards quieting Constables - "our villain's not likely to have a second chance at hi - "
A pale-eyed glance cuts back towards the corridor, even as two of those Constables move to intercept the sudden approach of furious violence. And while the swordswoman speaks not a word, it's clear that she slightly leans upon this stool; with a boot-toe caught against the open door's edge, and quietly curious eyes.