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In the Minority
Apriciele Square This square spreads across the eastern bank of the Rive Mirvil, across from the River Palace, affording a panoramic view of its splendors. Perhaps in recognition of that splendor, and the need to remind the populace of true power, the Cathderal of the Sun dominates the eastern edge of Apriciele Square, a symbol of the glory of the god Orien and the earthly works raised to honor him. The square itself is wide and mostly evenly paved, and maintains the city's oldest marketplace, a haven for street vendors and craftsman, and the occasional performer. It remains lit throughout the night by the priests of Orien, who keep lamps burning as part of their duty to the God. Stone bridges cross the river to the island of the palace, and a wide street descends to the river docks, where one may hire a boatman to travel to the Cecidia district. As the hills rise away from the riverside, they become dotted with the estates of the nobility.
----------------------- IC Time and Weather in Avanne ------------------------
Time of Day : Evening
--------------------------------------------------------------------------------------- The last sounds of the Cathedral bells hangs in the murky evening air, as if held up by the rain that falls in a constant cold sheet over the city. Orienite faithful depart the church after the end of the evening services. Some travel in groups, chatting as they hurry off to someplace dry and warm while others walk alone, lost in their thoughts or simply bearing the desire to be separated from a crowd. The tall woman in the dark blue cloak is one of those. For a moment her pale visage turns skyward, allowing the raindrops to touch her face before she pulls up her deep cowl, covering her head and shading her face. She tucks a large sun disk into the bodice of her gown and pats it for reassurance before stepping away from the shadow of the Cathedral of the Sun. Rain. It's been raining since he got here...and there are complaints that the northern areas are cold! Wrapping up in his simple, wool cloak, Tibault also looks to the skies as if trying to gauge just how long the rain will last. Of course, as he takes his attention off of the people exiting the church, he gets jostled, pushed further out in the rain. That only puts him in the way of others exiting the Cathedral...he might as well be a fish trying to swim upstream now. There are also a number of people in Apriciele Square that have not been attending services. There are, after all, a number of shops here that remain open even at this hour, with the constant light provided by the lamps maintained by the Orienite priests. A man exits one of these shops, which bears no sign to indicate its wares. He carries a leather-wrapped bundle beneath his arm and casts a look upward, grimacing at the rain that continues to fall. He stands beneath the awning over the shop door for a moment, fussing with package and cloak. The tall woman, now cloaked against the foul weather, is hastily pushed aside by a pair of young boys of obviously low birth. Melisse's dark eyes glare a the pair of laughing children as they hurry past, oblivious to their offence. She doesn't call out to them but only sniffs disdainfully in their direction and turns around, nearly colliding with the young man fighting his way upstream, as it were. "Perhaps you should try going this way," she murmurs to him in a voice as cool as the weather as she points in the direction the majority of people are moving. Yet, there are some attendees who are late in filing out of the Cathedral, decked in stone and glass. One of those is a stocky man, draped in a heavy fur lined cloak. Behind him stand two slimmer gentleman who obviously serve him in some fashion, whether guards or pages it is easy to discern due to the thick winter clothing. Their leader currently is gripping the hand of another noble, and a deep seated laugh is falling from his lips. Every so often, his glance chances the winter weather, and his joviality becomes forced. Coppery red hair, darkened by the rain, is pushed out of the youth's eyes as he looks to the woman who just spoke to him, "Yes, it would, but my Inn is over there." Pointing in a diagonal, he indicates one of the side streets before his cheeks flush a clashing pink and he adds a belated, "My Lady..." The crowd exiting the Cathedral is certainly worth notice. Six months, a year ago, Alain would have been among them. His hood now raised to keep the spattering rain from his head, he begins across the square headed in a vaguely northern fashion -- the direction of the Old City. It puts him amidst the worshippers, but he seems content for the moment to simply meander through, rather than push his way forcefully, taking his time to study faces. Melisse doesn't look at the young man with anything but a haughty disdain which is slowly growing into a annoyance. A few others Orienites who slip past her offer brief words of farewell, but she ignores them, for the most part. "Then perhaps you should wait until the faithful have departed, rather than appearing uncouth and pushing against them." She glances at his wet hair. "It isn't as if you could possibly get any wetter, is it?" "I was in the Cathedral too...m'Lady..." is Tibault's immediate retort. "Am I less faithful because I don't choose to flaunt it?" There goes his tongue again. He had been warned that one day it would get him into trouble, and now he's mouthing off a noble. "And I wouldn't push if anyone else watched where they were going...and the water won't kill me," unless he catches pneumonia from the cold. But apparently he's willing to take that risk as he lifts his chin stubbornly to await the Lady's response. Durand, for his part, has barely noticed the rude behavior of the young man, or the offense of Melisse. His attention is firmly upon a fellow member of the Mirvil court, the current Count de Soncerre, a cousin of his. His loud laugh does seem to form a strong background noise to any conversation around him. As he speaks to his cousin, the stocky man gestures for an Orienite priest to accompany him, just on the bounds of the rain. "And if you paid attention, you would note that you are speaking to a noblewoman, and should mind your manners a bit more closely," says Alain, coming up behind Tibault and nodding a greeting -- admittedly, a neutral one -- to Melisse. Melisse looks horrified at the young man's fiery retort. Her eyes nearly bulge from their sockets as she looks him over. "I never," she gasps with a fluttering hand raised to her chest. "You impudent little worm," Melisse hisses, the fluttering of her hand stops as she raises it to the height of her shoulder and swings, with every intention of striking the offending youth across the jaw with her open palm. Alain's voice is only barely heard as her hand charges toward its intended target. Turning at the new voice...Tibault's retort is cut off by the stinging slap across his jaw. A hand is brought up, clean, if calloused from labor that nobles have never seen, and pressed briefly against his jaw. Nostrils flare, hazel eyes blaze...but more of an explosion is checked...for he is surrounded by nobles who would care less if he was beaten to death. A bow is given...someone taught him the gesture well, for the movements are fluid and almost graceful, "Your servant gratefully accepts any tokens of affections m'Lady bestows." It's a miracle his voice doesn't crack. That gathers Durand's attention, and probably that of everyone else nearby. In other words, the Duke merely joins the rest of the gathered nobles who would gladly see a commoner beaten to death if entirely necessary. Behind him, his cousin and the priest both have the same surprised expression on his face, followed by amused expectation. Alain murmurs, "And that's what it will gain you." While his voice carries some vague tone of regret, he does nothing to stand up for the commoner beyond not actively trying to escalate the confrontation. For whatever reason draws her near, the Duchess of Chaveaux and associated guards, attendants, and sycophants approach en masse. On foot as has been her habit of late, Joanna is holding quiet discourse with a lady in waiting when the commotion - and the ringing slap which accompanied it - lures her attention closer. Familiar countenances also encourage her to nod to her guard captain as she, in the center of a box of armed men, heads for the others...Alain's side, most specifically, at least for now. Melisse quickly drops her hand and cradles it with her other hand, an obvious sign that it likely hurt her as much as it did the youth. Her tight lips and narrow eyes do their best to hide whatever pain she feels. "You have little experience with women, or you delight in twisted pleasures if you believe that to be in any way some sign of affection." Melisse's voice is tight and sharply restrained as she thrusts out her narrow chin and looks down, disgusted, at the red-haired youth. "It was irony, m'Lady..." is murmured softly by the commoner, his hazel eyes glancing at the crowd the confrontation has gathered. A crowd of nobles. His jaw is rubbed once more before he straightens to his full height, waiting to see what will come next. More of a beating? Or will he be dismissed? Tibault glances at Alain for a moment, before he looks back to the woman who slapped him. Well? Durand is /also/ allowing his eyes to fall among all of the assembled nobles, and the one offensive commoner. Any enjoyment that he may be gathering from the public embarrassment of an enemy, the look that should be expected, is not obvious. His body even tilts slightly, as if to intervene, until he sees that the Duchess de Chaveaux has made her presence known. Reaching over, he grabs the arm of his cousin, whose face has gone red in anger at the treatment of a noble lady. There is a clatter of boot heels on the stones of the square, and at the outskirts of the gathering crowd, voices stern and cool are heard. Soon, a trio of men in the uniform of the city guard find their way toward the disturbance. The leader of the patrol, a craggy-faced man with a drooping eye, asks calmly, "What has occurred here?" Alain moves around toward Joanna and leans over to say something quietly to her. As the guard appears, he steps back even further, though he remains within sight. He did, after all, witness the disturbance. Joanna crooks her head a bit to attend to what Alain wishes to say, but her dark irises are fixed on Tibault. It takes no genius to put together evidence and assume what has happened, though confirmation is not far away if someone answers the patrol's leader. The few commoners that might be found in the square quickly hurry on to other destinations lest another noble decide that another of their ranks requires a punishment of some sort. Melisse takes a momentary survey of those around her, but doesn't over smiles or any other form of greeting. There is barely acknowledgement in her eyes for most, though she does present the Duchess with a stiff bow. Only then does she straighten and address the city guards in much the same tone with which she spoke to Tibault. "This youth saw fit to speak with me as if I was some commoner. Rather than simply abide by a simple request he saw fit to be insulting and rude. I felt it necessary to teach the boy some manners, not that I believe it helped." She glances sideways to Tibault, daring him to speak up. "I will see to the boy's punishment if the city guard would be kind enough to pass him to my household." Again a brief pause as she looks Tibault over. "Unless he wants to be forgotten in a dank cell." Joanna nods in greeting to the Countess as she watches impassively, though she leans near Alain to speak softly in his ear. He's been able to talk himself out of trouble before, but he's never run into City guards...score one for the Nobility this time. Bowing his head, perhaps in submission, but more likely so that the other nobles don't see his resentful expression, Tibault remains silent. He would love to defend himself, but he is, as he was warned, in the minority. The guardsman studies Melisse expressionlessly for a moment before glancing to the other nobles in turn, eyebrows raised to see if anyone else has an interpretation of the matter. He does not, however, voice any objection to the Countess' suggestion. Of course he wouldn't. The guardsman has no urge to put himself into prison with the foolish churl. Lifting his cloak to warm his ears, the Duke of Mirvil steps forward to address the guard. "You do not need to look any further, kind Sir. The Lady declared what had happened, and has made demands upon this fool. It is your duty to ensure her orders are obeyed, is it not?" That the mere suggestion, if unspoken, that her story would need to be supported has seemed to upset Durand. With that, the Duke looks to his cousin, and braves the rainy night. He does not bid anyone good evening but the Orienite priest that he had spoken too, earlier. After all, those sworn to Chaveaux probably feel better now that he has taken his entourage back to his suites. The guardsman bows to Durand, turning toward Melisse then. "If you wish to take custody of the... boy," he says, glancing once more at Tibault, "then there is nothing more to be done here." He lifts a hand to his two companions, who turn to leave. As the head of the patrol passes Tibault, he adds, "Keep a civil tongue in your head next time, boy." And then the guards are gone. Joanna's gaze follows Durand's departure, lips thinning a bit, before she again looks to Tibault and Melisse, expectantly so. Melisse waits for the guards' departure before turning her attention back to the young man. While not triumphant, her expression is one of satisfaction. "Well?" she asks Tibault expectantly. "Strange, your tongue was loose only moments ago, but not you find sense enough to still it. Have you anything to say? I can send for the guards again if you think my company to be too unpleasant." Boy? He's not a boy? Lifting his head as if to argue such, Tibault opens his mouth but shuts it once more. He's not stupid...even though he might not always think before he acts...or speaks. As Melisse speaks to him, his gaze moves to her, his head remaining high, "You're making me a slave then?" Alain snorts loudly, "Don't be foolish. There are no slaves in Avanne." The rest of the crowd has begun to dissipate now that the interesting part seems to be over. A sidelong glance is tendered to Alain from the Duchess, who otherwise seems content to be an observer. Her guards are, however, attentive in case they are required by the Countess. Melisse can only smile, as Alain has beaten her to a response. Her tone grows less icy, and while not friendly, it is no longer threatening. "Of course I'll not make you a slave. I'll simply see to it that you pay for your insulting behavior and perhaps learn a lesson in the process. Orien only knows that other nobles are far less forgiving than I am." She smiles a smile that doesn't reach her eyes. "Does He?" is murmured as Tibault glances to the other nobles, moving back to their business. His cloak is almost soaked through, and pulling it tighter about his shoulders doesn't add any extra warmth. So he's to be an indentured servant. This is not the picture his mother painted of the Nobles of this City. Joanna remarks to Melisse, gently, "My lady, mayhaps you and the guards may find a place where this young man may commence in his obligations to you before a chill relieves him of the burden of life." Melisse turns her attention to her the Duchess and almost instantly her expression changes. The woman Melisse address is of a higher rank and the countess is well aware of that fact. "Of course, Duchess," Melisse agrees rather easily, even offering a small smile with her nod. "I would hate to find myself paying for any medical expenses that would prolong his burden. Come." While the majority of her comments are directed to Joanna, the last word is coupled with an expressionless glance toward Tibault. Hazel eyes slide to the young...Duchess as she speaks. Tibault doesn't know whether to be thankful that she made the suggestion, or derisive because she is yet another noble who didn't seem to understand that he didn't really do anything. "What about my things...m'Lady?" he adds the title in what is not quite a respectful tone. "Pardon me for the intrusion, my lady," Joanna murmurs to Melisse, "but I should further suggest to this young man that if he were a savvy fellow he may note that here lies an opportunity to learn better manners *and* perchance improve his lot in life rather than expressing bitterness than he has been accused of surly behavior toward a noblewoman. Such I would suggest, that is, were I you, my Lady Countess." Again Melisse smiles to the Duchess and inclines her head out of respect and agreement. "I do not believe I could have spoken it any better than you, Duchess." Her dark eyes look back to Tibault to see if he has taken Joanna's advice. "We will stop and gather your items," she casually adds to the young man. "I trust you are honorable enough not to seek an opportunity to escape? The guards are adept enough to eventually find you and they will not be so kind the second time they have to deal with you." A heavy sigh escapes the young man, but he shakes his head, "No, m'Lady. I won't try to escape." It's not really worth it. Besides, some of what the Duchess said actually piques Tibault's interest. He might actually -wish- to learn the better manners...not that he is entirely lacking in them, but things are done much different within the nobility...he knows that much. "I don't have much...just a satchel and my bow." His statement is punctuated by a sneeze. "I shall leave you both to it, then," says Joanna with a faint smile as she nods to her entourage; they move away together, duchess and guards and ladies in waiting, in the direction Alain recently took. Melisse drops a curtsey to the departing Duchess and quickly turns a stern eye to her newest household member. "I suggest you begin learning now, and bow," the Countess says in a sharp whisper, meant for Tibault's ears. Bow. Right. Glancing at the Countess, Tibault settles his weight for a bow, as he is instructed...as he has been instructed to do so from his early childhood. He just tends to forget who he should be bowing to as commoners where he is from don't tend to do so to each other.
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