The Spirit is Willing

[Glenn]

On this occasion, he read the letter twice. That was usually not a good sign. It was a rare sign. Burnie was almost always quick to respond the moment that his eyes finish scanning what had been sent to him. Lately though, he was consulting Benedict between almost each and every letter, but even then, rarely did he have to stop and reread like this. "There's no pleasing her." Was this to the bird? Was this to himself? Was this to the heavens above? It came suddenly, for it seemed like he might start a third reading. "Did I try to please her before? I think I didn't." Still no indication in look or directed incantation towards just who he was speaking to.

It was only when Benedict was very much likely about to speak in return that Burnie turned to him and cut him off. "It's important to be deliberate about this, to be scientific. She may have a point. I may be particularly frustrating in this particular moment. It may not be because I am trying to please her. That's an important distinction. It may be because i am so naturally unable to please her that I am actually making the overt attempt in the first place. Trying instead of being, that sort of thing; contrived instead of natural." He covered one eye with a palm and leaned upon it, looking down to the letter again with his other eye, that in and of itself a contrived motion since it was the wrong eye at the wrong angle and given the tilt of his head, he could only make out about a quarter of it. It didn't help.

"Which doesn't mean there's any pleasing her in the first place. It is clear, though she doesn't directly say it, that she would like me to find an endeavor of my own, independent of her, so that I can then meet her on more equal footing and participate in the endeavors that do have to do with her." With an exhale he sat back up. "That's perfectly fair in its own way. If I'm going to conspire with her, then better I do it as a partner who can bring something to the table than a needy supplicant that is trying to find purpose in it. And she is rightfully aggravated that I have deferred some other questions in the name of said purpose. I could well explain to her that the one, being those answers, are impossible to derive without the other, being some sort of purposeful action, but that wouldn't satisfy her either and all three of us well know it."

With a groan, an actual, vocal, verbal groan (one that he would hope the raven might have good enough sense not to mimic later), Burnie reclined back into his seat as much as the hardy, sturdy, well-made, unyielding thing might allow, which wasn't much. "This isn't going well. Here's the plan, then. I start to do the things she's already asked of me. I take steps to enact what we are discussing here. A market fair. You help me. As we move forward with this, the very first sign of anything, a problem, a mystery, an injustice, anything at all of any worth at all, we jump at it and deal with it in parallel. This is Myrken. Something will come up. We simply have to make something of ourselves on independent footing while continuing to engage with her. There's no other way around it."

[Niabh]

The raven, having no idea how long it took to read a letter once, much less twice, was unsuspecting right up until the moment Glenn started venting, or what passed for venting with Glenn. The Tuatha had only two modes of expression: high-flown poesy or the unyielding stone face they put on for those who deserved nothing of them. Glenn often seemed a baffling combination of both.

"I feel like I been answering a lot of questions with 'she's Queen' but she is Queen. She's used to telling people what to do and they do it. I don't feel like she's told you what to do, ever. Not in the sense of ordering you about. If anything, she usually just complains you never listen to her." Rather cheerfully complaining, for the most part, the way she might complain about a stray rainstorm spoiling her plans, although sometimes she seemed sad about it. "If all she's askin' you to do is go out and find some business that ain't her, that seems pretty reasonable, all things told. As far as direct orders from a Niall goes, 'get a life' is better than 'put on a blindfold and spend your life on a skerry challenging all comers to a riddling contest,' or something ridiculous."

Glenn seemed aggravated, which infected the raven with aggravation. He had a few valid complaints of his own, such as being expected to have opinions on conversations where he had no idea what anyone was talking about. "Have you been trying to please her? Is pleasin' her even what you want? Would it make anything easier? She likes it when you push back at her. She's stubborn. You're stubborn. It's a lot of stubbornness. She just has more time to do it."

A market. In Myrken. That was an idea to quell a raven's confidence. Markets were loud and obvious, clashing with the Lady's usual mode of tinkering behind the scenes and leaving her plans to run of their own accord, then stepping in and quietly reaping the benefits. At a market, the screwing-over of people took place right under their noses, as part of the fun, with everyone conscious of the peril and doing their best to stay one step ahead of a wily merchant or a hard-nosed customer. One thing the raven had learned about the tultharian was that, in general, they did not find anything to do with money funny. The raven had a stone lobbed at him once for rescuing a shiny silver coin from a tavern's front steps, when any reasonable person would accept that he'd found it fair and square. No, they really didn't find it funny at all.

Cautiously he ventured, "What sort of market we talkin' about here?"

[Glenn]

"You're right." Somehow it was more unnerving when Glenn agreed with him, especially when Benedict couldn't tell exactly what part he was agreeing with. Attached to the agreement was a slight chuckle which didn't help matters in the least. "She's pushing me, challenging me. I suggested to her the exact opposite, that we go small and careful, utilize trusted merchants to carefully curated moneyed parties. She comes back with the idea of a market fair, and then she glamours up the idea in a humble little bow, the idea that it was all part of boring, unsatisfying practical solutions." His head reclined softly, the top of his chair coming to support the back of his skull. "I imagine she can't help herself, like a feline batting prey about. If I simply go for it, she'll have me pulling out my hair but we both get what we ask for. In the trouble that she causes she might even get more of what she wants on top."

There were court politics at play, egos on her own end to deal with, even other than his own. There was a kernel of not just truth in her words, but of the most direct truth; he was sure of it. It's just that it wasn't the best truth, the most all encompassing truth.

Stillness gave way to suddenness. He was into his papers. There was a system of organization. It made sense to him and only him. Rhaena might have understood it at one point, but then she had access to the inner workings of his mind and was the better organized of the two of them anyway. Still, he had many papers and it did not take long for him to find what he was looking for.

"I have not been entirely without correspondence or connection," He held the letter up to Benedict. "Moirin Brennan." It had not been that long since the letter had arrived, not in the grand scheme of things. He had been hesitating with his response, for things had taken an early turn that he had not fully anticipated and the questions asked to him were quite large. "Let me read this to you and then I'll respond to her first."

[Niabh]

Even the raven shut up at the name of the High Bard. He listened with attentiveness bordering on reverence, and with increasing curiosity over what Glenn--Glenn, of all people--must have written first to her to get such a response. At the very least, it didn't sound like he'd pissed her off. But the High Bard was unassailable in her status, and he imagined that if she were truly pissed, she wouldn't have responded at all.

"I'm not sure you know what you have in your hand, there, wanker," he said when Glenn had concluded, his tone suitably impressed. "I mean, there she is. That's the great lady. That's kind of what the baird do. They know things. You've met Ainrid?" Of course he knew Ainrid; the woman had neatly picked apart the seams in his mind at one point, if such violation could be called an introduction. "She's the Lady's bard because she knows everything about the Nialls. Literally. Everything. Everything they've ever done, every person ever born to the family, all the stories about them, their history, all the way back to the First Days, so when a new Niall popped up after they thought the line had died, she was the only one to choose. They all pick one thing to learn about and they spend the rest of their lives trying to learn everything there is to know about it, and the High Bard...she knows everything about everything."

The explanation dispelled a little of the awe. He gave a brisk shake, dust swirling off his neck. "Did you write to the High Bard because you wanted to know about glamourie, then? Or is it...are you just trying to understand her?"

[Glenn]

It wasn't that Glenn wanted to keep things from Benedict. It's not even that he meant to. It just happened because of his own haste, his own need to get ink on paper, his need to push things forward, to push the words out of his head. Having a filter, an accomplice, even just a friend could slow all that down. With the high bard, however, he had meant to be slow. It hadn't been that long a delay considering, not really. She was busy. He was not busy but she had no reason to think he wasn't. It had been just a few letters between himself and Fionn since Moirin Brennan had responded to him. Still, she had asked large questions and he wanted to get his answers correct, or at least precise. That, in and of itself, provided him the luxury to speak with Benedict now, at yet another precipice that may not have been dangerous to the Tuatha (though the raven was indicating that even they would have caution), but that was incredibly perilous for him. The encounter with Ainrid had made him wary, even without the context now provided.

Still, he exhaled, leaned back in his chair once again, smiled too. Yes, he smiled, though it was a wry thing, a tug up at his lips that was as weary as anything else. "I wished to speak with a bard. The one in the dream gave me her name. Many things are possible. Maybe he knew exactly what he was doing. Maybe he knew her long ago and he was but a memory and he did not think I would be corresponding so far above station. Maybe he just thought she would be eager to hear from me as a distraction from everything else." None of that answered Benedict's question though. So often, when Glenn dissembled, it was because he did not have an answer. "I wished to speak with a bard," he instead repeated. "I have for a while. The one that made the most sense also makes no sense at all, so I went to the only other option presented to me. There's the benefit of neutrality here too. It's not like I'm talking to the bard of a rival house. I'm talking to one above it all, even if she can see right through my own professed neutrality already."

The question still wasn't answered, which likely did not surprise the bird but it did tug on Burnie, and even upon his smile. "As to why. I won't say that I want to know everything, Benedict. It's probably not true. It's dangerous even if it was. That way leads to madness (for we have heard the stories). But I do want to know much about many things. We are so close to her, our her, that sometimes we lose sight of what even to ask," and wasn't it congenial of Glenn Burnie to make that statement so inclusive and collaborative "With that in mind, know that I will limit my questions so that I do directly ask about her. Everything but that. Much of the point of this now is to have a foothold in her world, for she and it interest me and I would like to offer something of value for our conversations, common ground, without it being entirely reliant upon her." His eyes glanced down to the page before him. "In truth, I get the sense already that if I am not aggressive in defining my own interests and inquiries, the High Bard will herself dominate all topics anyway."

[Niabh]

No one tells ravens things. No one explains matters of state or status to them; they do not gather at the feet of the baird to learn their histories and lore. No one expects them to know anything more than how to perform their own set duties. They are not scholars, but living in such close proximity to the Tuatha, and being by nature curious and clever, they pick up a remarkable hodgepodge of scattered facts, which they put together in imperfect wholes, and they are largely unconcerned by gaps and contradictions. Sometimes he assumed that the Lady had told Glenn everything, after so long in correspondence, and sometimes he fetched up hard against the knowledge that Glenn knew less than he did.

"Bard's gonner be as curious about you as you are about them, I reckon. She'll pick you apart. I know you. You don't like that." For Glenn represented a source of knowledge that the baird did not have ready access to, and what bard could resist that? The real question was what would happen if Glenn remained as stubborn and recalcitrant as was his wont. Would she try to pry him open, and what means would she use to do so? The Lady had tried prying, and become frustrated. But the Lady did not have the infinite patience and expertise of a bard. "You're used to dealing with the Lady. I've seen you shrug her off. I don't think the baird--the High Bard--is gonner be so easily put off. What do you mean, dominate the topic? Isn't that why you wrote to her to begin with?"

[Glenn]

"I'll try to balance conversational wryness with direct answers to direct questions then," it was good advice. This was already a very different experience than Ainrid. Ainrid had come in with purpose, not that Glenn had known it at the time, and things had broken down quite quickly. That never had a inkling of hope to begin with. This was nothing but hope, with possibilities created in the purest way possible, through the existence of two people with no ulterior motives. It threatened a lack of focus, or a focus that was entirely too one-sided. "And then balance that with me asking her direct questions in return." And with that, he put his head down and began to write.