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 Posted: Wed Feb 22, 2012 8:04 pm
Tuesday has her own pony. Naturally. She is her father's daughter and she learned to ride early, and she sits with easy expertise on the back of her little dapple-grey, arrayed in her finest riding attire with her golden-brown hair (just a few shades lighter than Taym's) twined with ribbon and made into neat sausage curls that brush her plump cheeks. She inherited more than his ease around horses--she has his eyes, all dark and framed with long lashes like his, and his fine straight nose and pointed chin and high cheekbones, although the latter are well-hidden beneath baby fat and dimples.
She does not ride behind her father, but beside him, and given the nature of their party this means that they are a bit of a tight squeeze in the shady, tree-lined avenue leading up to the Dahlby estate.
There is, first of all, the dog: he is black and white, squat, with a rolling sort of gait. He is the sort of dog that is fought in pits, and indeed he has many scars, although these are uniformly old and faded. It would not occur to Taym to leave him at home.
And there is also the deer, a gangly, nervous-eyed doe who seems still quite young, with dainty uneasy feet and fanning ears. She continually glances, as if for reassurance, at Taym.
He is seated on a spotted mule of unusually-fine conformation, and he slouches in the saddle easily until Tuesday clears her throat and he straightens without being told, rising creakily into perfect posture. He has finally gotten his hair cut, eschewing the ponytail he'd had overseas, leaving his curly dark hair in slight disarray, as is everything else about him: the poorly-executed shave, the loosening of his damned cravat--an affectation he was all too glad to discard overseas and all too dismayed to take back up--and the deep circles under his red-shot eyes.
"No catching frogs today," he comments. His throat is rough from years of abuse.
"Not today, Papa," agrees his daughter, tranquil as ever. She is much better at compartmentalizing the wildly disparate halves of her life than Taym is. She is every bit the lady today although she was up late with him the night before catching moths and comparing trophies with him, barefoot in her nightgown and muddy with her hair already rolled up in rag-curls.
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Posted: Wed Feb 22, 2012 8:41 pm
The scene they ride up on is probably not as Abbey would prefer; instead of the girls seated elegantly on their horses, ready to prance out down the path and into what passed for a forest on their grounds, the three of them are still working on getting the beasts ready to go. Jennie, at least, mostly has her mount -- a fine chestnut beast -- ready to go, and stands at her side with fingers curled around the reins. Claire, however, is a problem. Her own horse, a fine-boned palomino, has tossed her head and wiggled away, and Claire [girly girl that she is] has danced away, too afraid to take charge.
It means the visitors ride up just as Abbey, hissing between her teeth, wades in to grab the loose leather and draw the horse back around for the young girl. They won't be able to hear the words, but they'll read the quiet mix of scolding and lesson in the murmur of her tone and her body language. In black on black, with just a blossom of blue around her shoulders, her back is very straight and her head tipped so that the braid tumbles down her shoulders.
She presses reins into Claire's hands and works to lever the young girl into the saddle, while several house servants look on in nervous discomfort. This is not, after all, her job.
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Posted: Mon Jun 25, 2012 8:33 pm
((Transcription from Email)) Rejam The pair wait patient and silent, afraid of startling the pony perhaps, while Abbey brings it under control and helps the girl into the saddle. Tuesday is discreetly attempting to get Jennie’s eye and deliver a wave and Taym is watching the governess with renewed interest, his head tipped back and cocked to the side appraisingly. Maple, as if imitating the nervous pony, dances a bit and snorts and flicks her ears. Abbey may or may not be expecting Taym. Surely she may well be expecting “Tuesday’s father” if the messenger dispatched this morning was timely, but his presence was certainly not planned beforehand, and certainly unless she has heard the gossip—and she may well have, as the Thompsons’ staff are chatty and in the wonderful position of living with a family prone to doing things that make a good story—she may not be expecting the demure, well-mannered little girl with the honey-colored curls to be the product of this trembling-handed, bloodshot wreck of a man. Even if he does sit very well in the saddle. His saddle on which is hung a very strange hat, with a broad brim. It looks to be made of leather and perhaps at this point of dust, seeing as it’s ground into the very fabric of it. When the situation looks to be under control, Taym clears his throat and Tuesday, unable to resist, waves her hand in little crunches, very ladylike, at her friends. When Taym grins his teeth are very straight, but they are yellow and seem too big for his mouth, giving him an unsettlingly lupine expression. The better to eat you with, my dear. “I apologize for any inconvenience my decision to accompany my daughter may have put you to,” he calls out, in his usual manner of skipping introductions. He draws up slightly nearer, dog to one side and deer to the other, and adds more quietly, so quietly she might not even hear him, “--you handled that pony very well.” and be blue Jennie has the bright-eyes to spot her friend right away, and her own wave comes with a reckless flash of a grin, decisively less ladylike. But she is not terribly ladylike as it is; without Taym's watchful eye, the pair might well have disappeared into the woods to where Jennie only a couple days ago found a rabbit-hole. Long abandoned, it is still interesting, and she knows Tuesday would appreciate that. A shame their chaperones will put an end to that. Abbey turns as the girl mounts, startled by the sound of Taym's voice, and somehow her back goes straighter and her shoulders more taught. One look at him makes it that much worse, and she is quiet for a moment as she tries to decide if she should fetch a third to travel with them on their afternoon exploits. If there were less to do around the house, perhaps... "I'm not very well afraid of it, is why." The words come out before she can think and then she pauses, looks him over, trying to decide if she should amend a 'sir' onto there. Abbey is not a gossip, and while whispers might have passed her over, she has made it a point to ignore them. Perhaps she thinks herself too good for them. As such, she has no idea what Taym's status might be, only his position as Tuesday's father.... And the deer. Blue eyes skit sideways onto Maple and the sight of the deer makes her rude, whether she will or no. They widen briefly, making her look younger than she is, and then lift off into the woods, where her own gangling Guardian will likely join them on their ride. All she can think is that it's a good thing Eliza's not here. The girl would see the pair of Chosen and decide this was True Love, the ties that bind two strangers together, and Abbey can't deal with that right now. Instead, she clicks back into focus at last to dip a careful curtsy, brief and stiff and efficient, to Taym. "Ah. I apologize for the delay. Hello, Tuesday, and, ah..." Hung up again. Lord or Sir? And what is his name? She goes quiet, staring up at Taym. Rejam “Just Obadiah is fine,” he says. His grin, already broad, had widened slightly at her impulsive answer and even more so at the hanging silence where an honorific might go. Tuesday clears her throat, faintly embarrassed at his lack of formality, and he amends: “Although I suppose Mr. Thompson is as well.” His pride when she glances at the deer is obvious. He may as well have puffed out his chest. As it is he merely rolls his shoulders, tips his chin in acknowledgement. Silly b*****d apparently thinks she’s never seen one up close, which, granted, is a rational assumption to make given that he doesn’t keep tabs on local gossip and Tuesday has been none-too-forthcoming, relishing a prank—especially a prank against her father. He makes a little gesture that moves his daughter forward, nudging her pony towards Jennie’s and immediately pointing her chin at her father, simultaneously embarrassed and proud to be seen with him. And then, unable to resist herself despite how rude it is, she points at the dog and beams. The dog obligingly rises onto his hindlegs, well-trained to charm, and Taym, ever the gentleman, nods to the girls and reaches his fingers to his brow and fumbles for a moment, apparently looking to tip the hat that isn’t there. It is possible that the movement is faked for their amusement and entirely possible that it is not. Tuesday giggles. “These must be the ladies Dahlby,” he acknowledges. A flicker of concentration darts over his face, vanishes in an instant. “Darling adolescents, handsomely led by you. The Thompsons have a high opinion of your work with your charges, Miss Goodwin.” So that, at least, he came prepared for. and be blue Abbey is not a giggler, herself. As the girls laugh and gather -- Claire mostly just watching with wide eyes and clinging to her horse, as if she's uncomfortable astride -- she looks over the dog and Taym again. Finally she neatly mounts her own steed: a pony with shaggy hair around its neck, it is more sturdy than elegant, and tall Abbey should look awkward seated on it. she doesn't. She settles, looks to the girls, and then primly turns to lead the way down the path again, directing her charges to follow with a neat little gesture. "Mr. Thomson then." There is a pause, a beat, and the next question comes with a flicker of something chiding. If he had a governess of his own, he'd recognize the thoughtless touch of scolding behind her tone. He has been rude. "And your Guardian?" Behind them is another burst of laughter as Jennie looks aside to the dog. Abbey's head only halfway turns to look. Rejam The grin resurfaces. He is impressed that she has asked. “Remiss of me, I apologize. This is Maple. My able, pretty little echo. You must be well-versed in the stories.” Maple’s eyes drift to Abbey, nervous; her ears flatten back and she dances uneasily. Tuesday suppresses a giggle at her father’s apparent ignorance as his mule falls into step, then leans over to whisper into Jennie’s ear, unafraid of leaning right out of her precarious side-saddle and beaming encouragingly at Claire. and be blue Jennie's voice joins Tuesday, a deeper rumble of laughter, a hand over his mouth, and for just a moment Abbey smiles as well. Her own girls are well enough acquainted with Verdain; they'd helped feed the faun now and then, had smuggled him inside on several occasions, both with and without Abbey's permission and supervision. Of course, Claire watches Maple with big, wide, impressed eyes, quiet instead of amused. She is, after all, a very pretty doe. "Tuesday never mentioned." They turn the corner from the main path onto a less groomed stretch of road; rougher earth beneath their feet and branches turning inward over their heads. It is rugged, here, natural, and between the trunks there is just a glimpse of gold as Verdain lifts his head to look them over. His eyes are bright and curious. Abbey's smile lingers for a bit longer, then fades down as she realizes he can see it. She clears her throat. "I've never met another." Rejam Whatever Taym was going to say about Tuesday’s secretive nature fades away unspoken when he sees the buck. He has the good sense to close his mouth, and finally reports, drily: “She never mentioned that, either.” Tuesday’s giggles escalate. Maple seems, to put it bluntly, stunned; she has drawn up to a full halt and seems fully prepared to flee like a wild deer would, leaping fences and vanishing into the growth. But she stops with her neck straight and her ears turned forward and her feet planted and trembling, and Taym lays a hand on her neck. The mule is eyeing Verdain mistrustfully and Taym almost unthinkingly soothes its shifting without any visible effort. “Turnabout being fair play, Miss Goodwin, I must request an introduction.” His voice is different now. Still impressed, but not any longer as one is impressed at a bit of pretty horsemanship or eye-catching hair. Impressed on a more profound level. Something nags him that this woman has been plucked out as he has and yet lives the life of a servant, however respected and ranked. and be blue The young buck is something of Maple's opposite, perhaps; he stares at them for a moment, blue eyes wide, and then he kicks into motion, leaping through the greenery with exactly the kind of enthusiasm one might expect from a wild deer. In this case, though, it is not away from them but toward them, and Abbey hisses out a warning noise. It is probably more her own concern, conveyed through to him, than the noise itself that gets him to slow down and approach at a more leisurely pace. She doesn't want him to spook the horses. "This is Verdain, and most likely Tuesday kept him from you because I've asked her not to tell." This is probably not actually the reason, but perhaps it feeds into things; Abbey tips her head to peer down at the buck as he slides in next to her, neck stretched so he can study the strangers with fascinated eyes. Utterly unafraid. So unafraid that it is, in fact, a bit stupid. And it makes Abbey sigh. "It is a proper young lady who is willing to keep certain things quiet." She reaches out, very briefly, to settle a hand against Verdain's neck. He looks up at her, immediately. Rejam As far as Taym’s animals go, Abbey’s fears seem to be largely misplaced—Tuesday’s stoic pony barely reacts to the commotion, and the mule, despite snorting angrily, is firmly under his rider’s control. The dog merely sits down—perhaps anticipating the command—but Maple reacts abruptly. She yanks back away from the sudden movement, whuffing in alarm and rising fully onto her hindlegs before she dances back, yanking herself away from Taym’s hand but not, luckily, away from his urgent mental attempts to soothe her. They barely register. She is clearly spooked. Tuesday glances nervously at Claire as Taym responds as though the entire incident had not happened. “Very excellent riders deserve a noble equal,” he observes. Oh well, close enough—he can’t possibly know any better. “I’m glad to hear my daughter’s good with a secret. She gets it from me,” he adds, with a confidential grin that invites Abbey to tell him whatever she could ever possibly want to. Right here. Or, you know, whenever is more… convenient. Maple snorts and shakes her head like a filly, gazing reproachfully at Verdain with golden eyes so wide the whites show. And then Taym, having a happy thought and realizing that Maple is nowhere near Claire’s nervous pony and thus unlikely to cause trouble, does the best he can to convey a suggestion. She takes it, wholeheartedly. Leaping away suddenly, Maple darts away down the path between the trees, tail up in full-flag alarm, and Taym casts a despairing glance at Abbey that doesn’t seem faked at all. Tuesday gapes from the back of her pony and reaches for Jennie’s arm. and be blue Verdain's eyes brighten the second Maple kicks into motion, and like that he is gone from beneath Abbey's hand, only too happy to take off like lightning. It's obvious that he suffers from an excess of energy. Unlike Abbey, he's not content to sit quietly and absently to talk, to ride at a sedate pace. Left to his own devices, they would be traveling, exploring, always moving. Jennie shoots Tuesday a bright look at the touch, and suddenly grins. She shifts on her horse, from her ladylike perch to something much less so. Not the first time she's riden a horse astride, and as she kicks off after the deer, Abbey makes a soft noise, prepares to scold her, but the girls are already gone, with poor Claire whining and trotting along in their wake. She huffs out a sharp breath as she looks aside to Taym. She doesn't say 'I'm not stupid, you know', but she certainly thinks it. "Well? Are you going to follow, Mr. Thomson?" Rejam “A man of lesser self-assurance might take offense at the implication that he would leave his daughter to the dangers of the tangled weald,” he replies, feigning insult, “But luckily self-assurance is not a virtue I am lacking. Quite the opposite, I’ve been told.” He kicks the mule onward, but he does it half-heartedly, and it barely breaks into a lazy canter, the dog rising to trot at its heels. “My apologies. Maple’s always been a little… tremulous? Very bashful. I see that your companion does not suffer from the same shortcoming.” The grin returns. It never seems to be absent for long. “The governess with her fabled Guardian, by day at the lessons and by night riding the moors on the hunt for wolves. Do you carry a sword? It’s a pretty story.” and be blue "Don't -- " Abbey has the start of some statement on the tip of her tongue, something imperious and furious and entirely inappropriate for a governess to let loose. And then he is pulling away, enough that she has to shift on her own horse to take off after him, not exactly delicate where she sits perched. When she catches up and opens her mouth again, she has toned it down considerably, working on something more bland. Controlling her tone. The fury is mostly swallowed. "I would rather no one know about this, if possible. They would make assumptions." Assumptions like riding with the wolves. Like running around with a sword. She doesn't say this. "All the more so because he is so wild." Rejam Genuine surprise is enough to make the thin veneer drop away. He has never been good at maintaining it, anyway. “I know you didn’t choose it, but how can you not be proud? When I came out of the Wardwood I wanted a damned parade—I get the feeling you wouldn’t even want a raised glass.” and be blue A quick look is shot his way, and Abbey again considers her words. She tries not to speak before she thinks, and perhaps this is a habit born out of experience: her first reactions always too-quick, too-sharp. Sometimes too cruel. Always inappropriate. So she blows out a breath and is quite and then shoots him a square look. "I do not own this property. I do not want strangers coming up to interrupt our lessons or put strain on Lord Dahlby's hospitality. I don't want to excite or confuse the girls." Ahead of them, the girls do seem rather excited, but there's only so much she can do. Her mouth tightens at the corner. "I don't have the liberty of spare time for a parade." Rejam Taym laughs—perhaps not the most appropriate response, but it is the sort of startled laugh born of surprise, not ridicule. It is a laugh that somehow sounds impressed, and it quickly degrades into a cough. “I have always heard that some people are happier the more rigid their confines, but it’s not a preference I can understand. I saw a horse once—it had spent its entire life turning a millstone, walking in a circle—and they put it out into a pasture when it had done its due, and instead of running it found a tree and it walked in circles around it, day in, day out. Verdant rolling hills and spring breezes and the horse kept working. Fresh snowfall and a snap in the air and the horse kept working.” Shaking his head, Taym coughs again and reaches into a breast pocket for a cigar, then thinks better of it and replaces it. “Aren’t you afraid of becoming that?” It’s a forward question, but the girls are out of earshot of his rough, quiet voice, and Taym is a forward person. “Maybe the Wardwood tried to tell you something when they gave you a wild animal as a companion.” His brow furrows. The implication by extension of what it was trying to tell Taym when it offered him timid, reluctant Maple has apparently just occurred to him. and be blue The look she gives him is decisively disapproving: brows low and mouth still pinched and, in the distance, Verdain has slowed at least a bit, head lifted and turned to look back toward the girls. It will give them opportunity to gain some ground, and also to give Maple some space to breathe. To relax. Abbey shakes herself out, trying not to focus on the exhilaration her Guardian gives off. "You heard a story from someone who heard it from someone else and heard it from someone else and your choice was to base your life's philosophy on something that could be entirely false?" At least her tone stays bland, is untouched by sarcasm or mockery -- for the moment. The words do enough for that on her own. "No. It's not something I worry about. Just as I'm not worried about the possibility of a bear coming in through my window." Rejam “I’ve heard stories about that too,” he answers easily. “Anyway, a good story’s a good story, doesn’t matter where it came from. Wasn’t too long ago people would have pointed at Verdain and Maple and said they were fiction, as well.” He hasn’t really let Maple out of his thoughts; in all this time she has been more enjoying the run and the space and the solitude than she has been afraid. Nervousness is creeping back in as it becomes obvious that the chase is slowing, however, and in response she has drawn to a halt a safe distance from the girls and from Verdain, with a hoof uplifted and trembling and her ears up, her eyes wide. But she will not run, not without Taym’s approval. “I apologize for making presumptions on your character,” he says. He is slipping back into his feeble attempts at formality, but it will be impossible now for his eccentric brand of propriety to fully veil the blunt, wolfish person he is. He’s already let the mask slip. “I think there’s some sort of clichéd proverb about variety and spices that applies here. Clearly, in any case, the girls are benefiting from your adherence to the laws of society and the limits of propriety.” He gestures at Verdain—and by extension, at the giggling, happy girls and their dancing ponies, at their red cheeks and bright eyes. “After all, look how happy they are.” and be blue She makes a sound: it is the start, certainly, of a proper and dismissive answer, something stiff and distracted and formal. Something that passes her through and dies in her mouth, emerging as a thoughtful noise and a slight relaxation around the edges of her mouth. He has been honest with her, and while honesty isn't always appropriate, the truth is that Abbey does appreciate it. She enjoys it, usually, and encourages it, almost always. So she will return in kind. "There is value to stories." However, she does sound reluctant about it, at least a bit. Her eyes shoot sideways onto him, then back to Verdain, who prances in place and then approaches the halted girls with his head high. Unafraid of them. "But there is also value to understanding which are true and which are not." A breath, a hesitation, as a year or so ago, she likely would have placed Guardians in the 'false'. But that didn't really apply. Then, she might have been right to. "...and drawing the line between appreciating them and falling prey to them." Rejam Maple begins taking stiff-legged steps back towards Taym, cutting an uneasy berth around Verdain, and Tuesday turns in her saddle to look at her father, face flushed and grinning. “I think in this case we couldn’t help but fall prey,” he says. “Apparently the stories in the Wardwood have sharper claws than we can defend against.” and be blue "But, at the same time, we must be wary." She is quicker this time, looking at Verdain instead of him, fingers loose around her reins now. No more tension, but her brows are pulled together, still thoughtful. It makes her look that much more prim. "Just because some stories are true doesn't mean they all are." Finally, her eyes flash back onto him, an eyebrow raised. "Or we might spend our days in helpless fear of what else might be in the woods." Rejam “I don’t like to speculate, but I think it is entirely possible that the idea,” offers Taym, quiet, to avoid the girls hearing, “is that we are no longer helpless.” The thought is obviously troubling—profoundly terrifying, really—and so he does not dwell on it. “Now that that little adventure has ended,” he continues more loudly, reaching out to smooth Maple’s nose, “maybe we can enjoy a sedate ride?” and be blue "A sedate ride sounds like just what we need." Abbey doesn't sniff, at least, doesn't redouble or back up her certainty that there is a line between myth and fact, that her own skepticism drives away any possibility of worry. In short, she doesn't lie, for at heart there is a kindling of doubt, that she blames largely on her Guardian.... "Perhaps you could recite some of your favorite poetry, and we can proceed at a simple walk?" Her tone is mild, careful, and it makes Verdain heave out an understanding sigh, sides expanding as he trots over to join them. Abbey pauses just one moment, then turns a mild look on Taym. "Appropriate poetry, if you would."
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