Lady Vera of Beit-Orane (v_eritas) wrote in caeleste, @ 2010-10-23 09:50:00 |
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Entry tags: | close to home, eithne savastian, nieve beit sad'r, npc, vera of beit-orane |
A Dark Matter [ Nieve, Eithne ]
All three of them sat on a thin plain bench, shoulder to shoulder, looking out at the tent before them through a curtain. It was an uncomfortable way to sit. The fabric had been visible when Eithne asked Faxril where they were wanted, but Vera had no idea he'd kept two armed guards behind here. Her brother explained, in the simplest way he could, that he rarely trusted anyone. Mages in Trone had been paid enough to make a fabric that seemed sheer on one side and solid on the other. Faxril asked them to sit and let the two guards stand in front of them, just in case.
There was no backing to the bench. Vera could not move her elbows, stuck between Eithne and Nieve as she was, and it took a great deal of effort not to slouch. Waiting for the flaps of the tent to open and allow her father entry only added tension to the line of her shoulders. That they were seated in such a way to have a view of the room meant Faxril wanted them to see what was going on, as much as hear it. Maps that had been on display were changed out for completely different ones, to hide his intentions for his men from the High Lord. If Faxril did not even trust his Army to Eistocene, then what would happen if Eragos and the rest were seen? What would happen if the High Lord discovered where they were riding?
Vera frowned when Eithne shifted in her seat again and restrained herself from nudging her. Couldn't she just keep still... Every time Eithne bumped into Vera, Vera accidentally nudged Nieve.
This is ridiculous, she thought, curling her fingers into fists against her lap. She fought the urge to stand and be done with Faxril's concern.
At that moment, the flaps of the tent opened and Vera focused her attention back on Faxril's back, rather than the urge to step on Eithne's toes. Two men in red hoods entered and she knew them to be Red Swords, but not like those that Vera recognized in the Lord's Manor. These were men with more ornate weaponry and old markings on their cloaks that distinguished them from all others. They were the trusted of the High Lord; his two hands in battle, should it come to that and should he allow it. One could not see their faces under their hoods, but Vera found their hands hard to miss. Each came to rest on a weapon.
"Will you see him?" one of the men asked.
"I will see the High Lord," Faxril said. "If he states his business in my camp."
"Since when do I need a reason to visit the camp of my son?"
The voice came from beyond the tent's entrance. The man who entered after had an inch or so on Faxril. His graying head of black hair was untouched by the rain and his cloak covered what rankings he wore at his breast. High Lord Gavrie was known for the severity of his expressions; high lighted by the sharp cheekbones he had and the unmovable dark eyes he regarded the world with. His face did not hold weariness or restraint; rather his expression was enigmatic. He might have been handsome, once, if not for the ugliness of his soul and how harshly he was judged in Vera's eye.
She could not sit any more rigidly. Yet the stiffness of her back did not feel as if it were enough to compensate for the unease she felt, having her friends in the same vicinity as her father.
"Am I not overseer of the Southern Tower as well? Should I not have interest in where our navy is placed?"
"That is my duty," Faxril said. He clenched his jaw for a moment. "And my concern."