[PRP] Return to Palisade [Talbot x Macaire]

[phoenix kiss]

[ OOC Note: This RP happens directly after the events in this solo.]

The meeting had gone on entirely too long; the point of the visit, to visit his mother, had never been achieved. Lady Talbot had remained in her solar, working on her lacework, and try as he might Talbot could not get a word in edgewise to excuse himself. Richard kept him trapped in the library, offering him a snifter of brandy and keeping his dark eyes always trained on Cesambre. There was little enough room in the sitting area of the library for the Guardian to do more than fan her ears and shift her weight, looking nervously between Richard and her Chosen to the door; if she were a more forthright Guardian, she might have taken Talbot's coat in her teeth and pulled. But they are not free to go; the more nervous Cesambre becomes, the sharper the beginnings of the headache behind Talbot's eyes. He leaves his father eventually by begging his pardon and not so much leaving as escaping.

Talbot is a man well into his fourth year of life. It does not seem fit that he should quail from his father's presence, but Richard Talbot is no mere presence. And, he thinks, the words 'we have much to talk about' had carried with them a sort of foreboding. Glancing up to the sky, which is porcelain blue and the clouds as perfect as though they had been painted on, he sighs; he has been in the manor house for nearly four hours. The sky is so bright the glance hurts, and he grunts, reaching to adjust his neckcloth. The motion is arrested halfway through and becomes a long caress down Cesambre's neck. The Guardian blinks up at him and butts him in the ribs with her nose: a gesture that says I understand.

Talbot decides not to ride back to Palisade; instead, he takes a carriage that happily carries him back to the city proper for half the fare it would have ordinarily cost: Cesambre, loping gracefully beside the carriage itself, acts as discount. He wonders idly if it is Maeve's influence, and her posters, that have earned him this respect. It is certainly not his reputation as a sea captain. That is fading.

It brings him to the Pig and Whistle Inn on the outskirts of Palisade, near his flat. He is a known face there, of course; there are no raised eyebrows at his Guardian. He stops the carriage half a block down and climbs out, looking around the streets as evening begins to think about setting in. Overhead, a sign swings noisily in the breeze: a pig, pocked and worn by the sun and wind. Perhaps it is time for dinner -- and another snifter of brandy. Or three. Cesambre decides for him by putting her head against the small of his back and pushing him towards the dark wood doors of the inn.

He is in no mood to talk about his Guardian (or Guardians in general, or being Chosen, or any of Maeve's hogwash), but such is Cesambre's nature that even his most forbidding expressions do nothing but set off the loveliness of the doe that steps beside him. All he truly wishes to do is eat, and then perhaps bring food elsewhere, so others -- Elias -- might eat as well.  

[LoveByLetters]

Life has turned strangely since Macaire left his home town of Skibbereen and came to Sunderland, in ways neither he nor any he knows might have predicted. 'Tis true as told his ma swore to blood and whiskey he'd succeed, and his pa swore he'd muck up by thinking too much about something, but there'd been no one who'd talked about entire beliefs being uprooted and tossed at his feet like so many broken baubles. He'd not yet reached a major city before he met a Guardian -- and promptly dismissed it as little more than a well-trained circus animal. He'd managed, with great effort, to find a job that would have made his ma beam with pride -- guarding a jewel merchant's shop while the good man conducted his business. He had a flat of his own, above another shop, and the jewel merchant had helped him buy new clothes so that he looked ever more impressive.

And just when he thought he'd climbed to the top of the world it had all tumbled down with a speed that astonished him: first the dream, then the haunting trip out to Wardwood, then a totem he'd tried (and failed) to forget about, then a little bundle of madness that has more energy than an entire pack of puppies combined. He's been putting away money to send back home to his ma and pa, and Cadence has already gone through half of that in flowers.

But most of all, what haunts him is why the Guardians might be appearing: as a fighting man it strikes him that there must be a reason behind it, and that worries him.

When Talbot enters he may and may not notice that the Inn has a new occupant: by the fireplace there is a large round basket, such as might be used for a dog. Instead of a dog there is a gangly little Guardian buck all curled up, his nose stuck up under his own bottom, sleeping peacefully despite the murmur of voices and the clatter of plates around him. Beside his basket, to one side of the fireplace, there is also a big round bundle wrapped up in an old blanket, and Talbot of all people stands a good chance of recognizing the contents: a practice sword and a fighting dummy. Draped over one side of the basket there is also what looks like a tiny saddle, though it's certainly not made to hold anyone; the buckles and pockets suggest it's meant to hold things instead.

Even if Talbot would ignore the little Guardian, he will not be ignored: shortly after Cesambre enters, the little Guardian will lift his head drowsily, blinking -- and then lock his gaze on her with sleepy interest. His tail starts to flutter back and forth, and he picks himself up out of his basket, weaving through the patrons in a familiar way (at times stopping for a scratch or a pet) to step daintily up to her and sniff a careful greeting. He adores grown up Guardians, but he got a n** for his last greeting, so he knows he must be careful.  

[phoenix kiss]

The tiny fawn does not make it to Talbot -- who watches interestedly, dark eyes brooding over his glass of brandy. Instead, it is intercepted by a graceful, long-legged creature: Cesambre, who dips her tawny head to sniff gently at the other Guardian, and then turns away to regard the inn at large with her large, pale eyes. Cesambre is as self-contained as Cadence is not. Eventually, seemingly assured that all is well within the Inn, she fans her ears out at the fawn and then folds her legs to sit. Perhaps she is seeking to teach by example. If Cadence still chooses to gambol around and act like a puppy, she gives him a look of such earnest longsuffering that he may be compelled to behave just to stop that look.

Talbot, watching with interest, sets the brandy snifter down; the liquid gleams darkly in the glass, for as bright as the evening remains outside, in here the light is dim and golden. If Cadence looks up to him, the Chosen tips his head, studying him with dark eyes. He must look a forbidding sort: his hair pulled back, a streak of grey at the temple; high cheekbones, a mouth set in a line, and gleaming dark eyes -- not to mention the slightly old-fashioned coat and neckcloth he wears.

When he speaks, however, his voice is not as cold as one might assume: it is quiet, and well-bred, and, in spite of itself, interested: "Who do you belong to?"

LoveByLetters

tag!

 

[LoveByLetters]

phoenix kiss

When Cesambre's head dips to sniff at him, the little Guardian can hardly contain his excitement. His tail flips back and forth so hard his entire back end wiggles, and he stretches to the fullest extent to sniff after her. When she settles down, he apparently does not realize that he is suppose to follow her example; he takes this as leave to sniff her all over, starting with her face, moving to her ears, then her neck, all the while acting like she's made him the happiest creature in all the world. The look she gives him pauses him only for a moment: he squeaks at her, sounding like a much younger fawn, and edges tentatively closer.

The only thing that stops him from trying to snuggle -- which she may not appreciate -- is Talbot. He looks up and then gives a surprised little snort, for he is a terribly serious looking fellow. But Cadence has yet to meet a person that he doesn't like, so he leans over to sniff at Talbot instead, going so far as to put his delicate little head into his lap. Wonderful as Cesambre is, she doesn't have fingers to scratch, which makes Talbot a much preferable companion.

The door darkens as a new patron enters: taller even than Talbot, he seems at first the sort to start trouble wherever he goes. Tall, well-built, and obviously an Aireland native, it's not difficult to picture him drinking the day away and picking fights in far seedier taverns. But the moment his eyes adjust, his first glance is not for the bar or the tavern servers .. but to the fireplace, fixing on the empty basket there. Rather than frown or express anger or frustration, the big man only sighs as if this was only to be expected: he casts his gaze out over the other patrons, clearly trying to find which of them his fawn might have befriended.  

[phoenix kiss]

The man is clearly looking around for his Guardian: Talbot realizes this with a start, though the motion must still filter through the brandy he has been enjoying. Maeve was right. The Chosen are everywhere. It is a sobering thought indeed, he thinks; he takes another swallow of the brandy, feeling it burn through him. Cesambre blinks mildly up at him, an unspoken question, and he sets the glass down before rising. Approval filters through his mind as he does so.

Not once has he pet the fawn. He looked down at it before the Chosen walked in, but he has not stroked its head or obliged it. Talbot is remarkably self-disciplined, and beyond that, Cesambre would likely not take kindly to her Chosen fawning - ha! - over another Guardian. Even if it is like a gangly puppy.

"He is over here," a voice says as Macaire walks in. If the man stops to look, he will see Talbot gesture idly -- as self-possessed as any noble -- to the fawn nearly clambering into his lap. Beside him stands another Guardian, ears fanned out and large pale eyes fixed on Macaire. A moment later the doe shakes her head and looks away, satisfied with whatever judgement she has come to.

"Would you care for some brandy?" Talbot asks. "You appear to need it." He speaks before he can stop himself, driven by some instinct (not his first one, certainly) to connect with other Chosen.  

[LoveByLetters]

The voice draws him, and he holds for a moment, taken by Talbot's carefully put together appearance. He wouldn't place no gold on it, but he'd swear he were a military man of some sort, even though he don't wear anything like a uniform. Just something about him: how he sits so steady and straight-backed, his smooth confidence -- with a small shake of his head, Macaire picks his way across the tavern. When he sees Cesambre, he will stumble just a little, startled to find yet another, and plain as the hills there is a look across his face that mirrors Talbot's own thoughts: the Chosen are everywhere. Like Talbot, he does not find it comforting.

So it is with a more sober look then is his usual that he approaches, standing awkwardly to one side before bobbing his head in acceptance of the other man's offer. He takes his own seat carefully, being tall enough that he has to take care not to knock his knees about. "Aye. Beg yer pardon for me lad. 'e thinks he going to perish of loneliness, he do." There is a subtle tension singing through Macaire as he sits, now close enough to examine Talbot with a keener eye, and all of the sudden his heart is pounding. He ain't supposed to be here at all -- the merchant had a good sale, gave him a half day unexpectedly -- but now he wonders if he shouldn't leave out an offering for the small gods to thank them for their timely intervention. Here, finally, is the sort of man he's always pictured as being a Warden like the old songs: here, finally, is someone who will understand his fear.

"Me name's Macaire," he offers with gruff politeness. "Me shameless little bugger there be Cadence." At the sound of his name the little fawn finally leaves off begging Talbot for caresses he isn't going to get, then does a little dance in a circle, delighted to be spoken of. He bounces over to his Chosen, shoving his little head into Macaire's calloused hands for a caress that he will get.  

[phoenix kiss]

Talbot himself is hardly a Warden. If the old songs are to be believed, no Warden ever shirked their duty for anything -- much less a ship that floats out in the harbor, its crew given leave for weeks now. Talbot's eyes flick to Cesambre, who pretends not to notice that he is treading down old familiar paths again. The Guardian merely flicks an ear.

"Will Talbot," he says, extending a hand -- two of the fingers are half the length they should be, an accident with rope and hawsers accounting for their length. "My Guardian is Cesambre." And then, as his dark eyes flick up, "How long have you been Chosen?"  

[LoveByLetters]

Soldier or sailor, thinks Macaire, as they shake hands: his own are quite calloused and rough, accounting both for the weapons he's learned to use and the many days he's spent out of doors. Though a carpenter or a farmer might earn similar injuries, he don't have the ways or the speech of a tradesman. What is for Macaire a confirmation of a guess makes him relax and tense at the same time: it is a relief because he will not have to watch his words as carefully, since anyone accustomed to being around soldiers is unlikely to flinch at plain talk. But it is also exciting, since this is all along the kind of person he's wanted to ask questions of -- surely this kind of man knows what they face and how to face it.

"Oh, oi'd say a month gone now, maire or less. Hain't reckoned exactly, account of me lad not giving me much sleep. How long ye had the honor?" There is a peculiar inflection on the word 'honor' as he asks the question, for now that he has Cadence in his life he would never, ever give the fawn up .. but at the same time, there's a part of him that wonders if it's really as much of a gift as he thinks.  

[phoenix kiss]

Talbot is not as dark as a soldier or sailor might be: it's only the hands, the bearing, and, if he'd been wearing it, the coat that gives him away. The one he wears now is a few months' past being fashionable, but that's neither here nor there. Talbot encompasses 'military' in the same way that some men might immediately be labeled as 'drunk' or 'thief.'

He watches Macaire with a mild expression as the man answers his question, his dark eyes unreadable -- in truth, he's just trying to sift through Macaire's broad Airelund accent. At the end he spreads his hands and then turns the motion into picking up his brandy snifter. "A little over a year. Cesambre is a Guardian grown, of course; yours will follow suit, and then hopefully you will not have a full grown buck begging at your table." One side of his mouth pulls up.

"There is support, however, if you need it." The smile slowly fades. "I am sure you are aware of the Swan."

The Swan: a house of ill repute, and the most successful one. Lately posters have appeared all over Palisade, depicting a rearing Guardian and its gallant Chosen, instructing those so honored to inquire therein.  

[LoveByLetters]

Though Macaire has no idea of Talbot's birth or his rank, even the vague awareness that this man is probably cultured enough to be higher up in the ranks does not bother him. The mere fact of his background means he is less likely to judge a man for speaking too plainly, or speaking with the rounded accent of another land. He can be comfortable talking to Talbot about their shared "problem" in a way he has not been comfortable with anyone else he's asked questions of.

The side comment about Cadence's growth prompts a sheepish look, as if he knows he ought to work at getting Cadence to behave properly .. but that does not mean he's going to stop scratching his lad's ears, oh no! Cadence is a blissful lump leaning against his legs, head in Macaire's lap, his peeping finally faded to sighs of contentment.

Talbot's change of topic -- or at least, to Macaire that is what mention of the Swan seems to be -- puzzles the other man, a confusion plain on his face. "Aye," he says, as if he's not quite sure why Talbot (of all people; the man looks like he hasn't been laid in a decade) would bring up a whorehouse. "B'ain't got the coin fer that one, tell ye true."  

[phoenix kiss]

Talbot grins -- which on his face is quite striking -- and then sets his glass down. He wonders, inwardly, just what the hell he is doing, acting as Maeve's talent scout. The thought causes the corners of his mouth to tremble upwards again. This is all so ridiculous that he cannot quite make sense of it, and so he continues: "Neither have I," which is a lie, but he goes on: "You are Chosen. Maeve, the proprietress of the Swan, is seeking out all of the Chosen, from all over Sunderland. It could be that she could give you some advice on what to do now that you have been Chosen. The wolves are coming, she says."  

[LoveByLetters]

"Them pictures be true? Oi thought it were a .. a show, loike at a market faire?" He's clearly baffled by the idea that anybody involved with a whorehouse, no matter how nice, would be involved with the Guardians. No doubt he's picturing some doe-eyed lass astride one, perhaps with delusions of grandeur, though it'd be no less likely than some of the wee children he's seen. But as he thinks it over, wondering if Talbot really could be the sort of person to steer him wrong, he re-plays something that was said and his attention latches onto four little words that no one else has yet believed but him. Talbot will see something change in his expression, a blank-eyed look of shock, slowly overtaken with an emotion surprising like relief.

" .. this Lady, she knows, dae she? Small gods be -- hah! Oi dian't know whuther tae praise nor damn them! B'ain't found another soul what's been trabled by the thought .. but oi dain't want to see it, ye ken? Some of them, m'lad, some of them be such wee little things, all hope and glory and trust, and oi swear tae ye oi would take it away from they, if oi knew how." This last is muttered as he glances down to Cadence, rubbing his ears absently -- almost for his own comfort, as if he knows that he could no more take their Guardians than he would let anyone take Cadence from him. But there is in Macaire's voice something which Talbot himself may not expect: belief.

It isn't a joke to him. It isn't a game. With every fiber of his being, he believes that the wolves are coming.  

[phoenix kiss]

"Maeve will be rather happy to meet you," says Talbot, in a voice that is both musing and bitter. Bitterness is Talbot's usual fare these days: bitterness at his family, the wolves, the Guardians, and himself. He watches Macaire's expression; his own is rather cold. But it is not unfriendly, just closed-off. He takes another sip of brandy, steeling himself.

"She does know. She alone out of the Chosen, I believe, holds to the old ways. And that is all you two will have in common. She wishes for more Chosen to fight the wolves. For more Chosen, in general."

"Shall I escort you to the Swan?" For all that Maeve might see in Talbot a potential commander of this venture, the way he asks the question is curiously flat.  

[LoveByLetters]

Yes! say Macaire's eyes, suddenly so full of yes-ness that it looks as if they may soon spill into a full-bodied shout: but something holds him, something in Talbot's tone. He sits very still for a moment, the yes-ness leaking out of him like a seive, taking with it his energy and his hope. If this man, who embodies in many ways almost an ideal to Macaire, is bitter and unbelieving --

" .. ye donae believe," he sits perfectly still, the only movement being the broad rounding of each careful word. There are layers to the short statement, layers of uncertainty and concern, for if Talbot does not believe, then what right has he to do so?  

[phoenix kiss]

"I believe in the wolves," says Talbot, and his eyes glitter in the dim light of the tavern: curious timing, though it must be because someone has walked in front of one of the sconces on the wall, or the candle that sits between them gutters for a moment. "I believe they are coming. I do not believe we will be able to fight them."