with a touch of tragedy.

Despite her great claims of supporting those who needed protection or preferring such sports that did not demand sacrifice, Gwendolen had always admired the jousts. Though an Elarion and thus expected to remain demure and modest in the stands that stood above huffing horses and nervous boys, the Lady of Moira Castle had been known (once or twice) to holler and stand at the very edge of the wooden fence, cheering on her favourite champions whilst praying for their victories first. Though she’d feel fear if Tristan was to enroll, the illicit desire in such a proposition coloured her eyes, her mouth twitching into a half-smile.

“I would be your steadfast defender, but I’m always your biggest fan at the tourneys… Wear my colours, Tristan, and I will have the whole court in uproar,” Gwendolen grinned, lifting a hand to tap at his nose with an outstretched index finger. Only then did she settle, nursing their proximity as one did something dear, Gwendolen looked across the room with a non-committal eye. Tristan and Gwendolen were second born together, intertwined with the hope of both being more and being ignored by the parents who put their older siblings over such great strain. Looking at him from the corner of her eye, Gwendolen put her hand over his for a moment, pressing the pulse of her wrist to the knot of his own. 

Gwendolen’s smile quickly grew into an open laugh, leaving her all a-fluster as her cheeks reddened to the shade of beetroot. Only then did she pick a hand to try and cover her features, splaying her fingers across her nose in the fool-hearted effort that left her wordless. It was this in which she lived for, a desire for the happy cluster the two could be when intertwined like two reeds in the spreading rivers.

“Perhaps you ought to do just that, champion my name for all to see,” she teased back, wrinkling her nose as she watched him turn his face from her in some less discreet manner, before she forced herself to anchor her mood to the sober nature of her body instead. It would not do to be so out of sorts, indeed she sought Tristan’s words of wisdom, and though her affection for such a dear friend blossomed bigger and bigger with each passing day, the seriousness in which Gwendolen faced her future hopes and dreams outweighed almost everything. Almost.

Twirling her fork between her slender fingers, Firuze considered. "Hm." She clicked her tongue. "I think not." A syrupy smile bled across her face, thick and cloying. "Nothing compares to an artist's mystery. However," she gestured towards her companion. "It's so sweet how concerned you are with your lessers. Unquestionably a woman of the people."

Firuze gambled with footmen and grooms, flirted with cooks' apprentices and scullions, and once almost eloped with a man of such low morals that an Altinsoy knight had to drag her back across the pommel of his saddle. She was terrible, yes, and uncorrigible, certainly, but equally so. However, she would always commit to the role her audience demanded. Even if only for a few laughs.

So, she hoped that Firuze offered something more exciting than small talk.

Her nose wrinkled in amusement as she countered her suggestion, the smallest flicker of an entertained smile tugging at the corner of her lips before she forced it back into a neutral stance of disinterest – before, as was perhaps her task all along, she fell back into annoyance. It was not a hidden secret that Gwendolen liked to think of the people, and so this title bestowed upon her seemed like an elbow in the side or a finger poked into the back. Just when they could have gotten along with one another, too!

“Me? The last I heard you were well acquitted with your own household staff. The same can be said of yourself, two women of the people indeed,” Gwendolen bartered, the fold between her nose growing pronounced as she tried to remember what had been said of Firuze at the breakfast table before falling flat with dismay. No, there wasn’t really all that much to go on since Gwendolen rarely partook in the gossip shared between the castles.

“I will pass along your praise nonetheless, I am sure he will beam with pride!”

The press of the exalted lady's lips and the disapproval of her stare had been their constant third when in the company of one another. Firuze had always thought Gwendolen a pretty but particularly dull bauble in her father's collection. Still, Firuze had plucked less admirable flowers.

The second daughter perked up and beamed a radiant smile at her newest amusement. "Oh, it's delicious, Gwendolen. A succulent Morkhulian meal." Firuze speared a couple of peas and devoured the small morsels with gusto. "Many years since I've had such an exemplary vegetable."

She waved her fork in the direction of her tablemate. "My compliments to your cook. They should be knighted."

“I didn’t know that you were so invested in the modest pea, Firuze,” she poked and prodded, leaning back into her chair to watch her peer, pressing her tongue into the wall of her cheek, before the other could gesture the pointy end of her fork towards Gwendolen instead. With a smile that was neither sincere or really mocking – confused, rather, and perhaps impressed that this young lady would think to mention the household staff at all. 

“Oh? Would you like to meet him?”

Gwendolen laughed aloud despite herself, though she had grown up desperate to remain coy and unreadable, it seemed that every thought and feeling seeped from her pores, exposing her truths as if she had tattooed them into her skin for all to read. Or at the very least, this was how she acted when in the presence of Tristan himself, unravelling from the inside-out, Gwendolen pressed her fingers to his cheek, pushing his head aside with a grin that stretched from ear to ear. 

“Ah, that’s where you were! Head bent, invisible to mine eye, what a cheek to hide from your most loyal friend,”[/b] she teased, narrowing her eyes towards him, falling back onto a sober tongue as he waxed lyrical of what the two were made off. So, she breathed deep, shaking her head and relaxing her posture to slouch a little in her seat, refusing the sculptured pose that her dear lady mother would have preferred to see her in. 

location: kelindorr quarters

Gwendolen’s role was to socialise with anyone of any worth - in a blaze of passing faces all blending into one another, the young lady of Moira Castle was passed from group to group, sharing words of well wishes and good manners as she tried her best to differentiate one identity from the many. She would have preferred the tranquility of her rooms paired with her scratch of a quill or the training grounds where she could spar with men who had much more important things to be doing. Alas, what choice did she have? When quoting her support for her brother’s position as heir or dressing strangers with her glittering praises, Gwendolen was forced to toe the line.

“What did you envision?” She asked, without waiting for an answer as she found herself by her old friend’s side, settling as one would when wrapped in a favourite blanket. Twisting a free hand around the other’s wrist, Gwendolen looked aside, rubbing at his pulse points with the silk of gloved fingertips. For no matter that they gave one another the room to be what they were, there remained ungodly hesitation and insecurity. For her adoration for Tristan spilled over her heights like trickling honey, the extra so damned much that she couldn’t have been sure what to do with it. Breathing deeply, she turned her head back to her friend, removing her hand to lay it against her lap instead.