It had been a shallow sort of interest that had first drawn Michel’s eye, he would not deny it, before curiosity over her mask and the relative simplicity of her dress had paved the way into speculations. But of course — a ward explained it all. He had once been one himself, in a fashion, though luckily he had never been Michel de Chalons, borrowed mask notwithstanding. Under different circumstances — had the story about how he had been brought into the estate from the Chantry where his deceased parents left him actually been true — he supposed he might still have felt marginal, shy, like a burden on his benefactors. Was that the feeling that influenced her almost apologetic introduction?
❝ It is a pleasure to meet you, Lady Colombe. ❞
She was still standing, which likely meant she was waiting for an invitation to take a seat next to him rather than boldly assuming. Michel doubted that one from him counted for much, guest though he was, but he made a small, offering gesture nonetheless — if she wished to stay, then she could stay. Being alone in a ballroom with no one to talk to was one thing when you had a duty to attend to, but he had no such constraints now; it would be a long and dull night if he tried to keep to himself, and not necessarily safer in regards to his reputation.
Ah, but speaking of that.
He had enough pride left that he refused to look away while giving an introduction of his own, but it was still quiet.
❝ Michel de Chevin. I am at your service. ❞ Easier to drop the surname altogether and be simply Michel, but here he was demonstrably not the common foot soldier he had pretended to be on the highway; and besides, Marquis Fabien had likely already shared the truth of his name with half the court by now. Given the way rumors travelled, those who had not been personally informed would know sooner or later that the disgraced champion of the empress had come to Serault. It made the evasion an unnecessary and vain one.
Speaking more would deny her the opportunity to give commentary, however, and after making the slightest incline of his shoulders to approximate a bow, Michel straightened once again. ❝ … Forgive that I cannot return a full bow, my lady. I would try, but I think it best that I do not attempt it in this state — the healers will come and have my head if I exert myself. ❞
@bariolee / @hartofglass
Colombe smiled at him, carmine lips tied into a small, sweet bow. She took the offered seat, settling herself with such care that no line of her gown fell wrinkled, no drape of fabric lay bunched or crushed. It was a skill many ladies acquired, of course; the demands of fashion were harsh ones. A practiced eye might see more in her grace than merely that, however; she reminded herself to take care not to flaunt it, at least until the sharp edges of his wariness had been worn to smoothness by her careful polishing.
She searched his face with open interest; they had already met, of course, though Michel did not know it. Then, she had seen a man confronted by an open threat. Though her blades had not been drawn, she had in and of herself represented the danger to his life, imminent as it might well have been. It took but a moment to draw and throw a blade, for one trained to it as she had been. Empty hands were not safety.
And while that night she had seen him set to defend himself, watched the way he set his feet, the way he reasoned through the situation, the stark openness with which he had chosen to engage with her verbally, now she saw wariness of a very different sort altogether.
He spoke to her quietly, if politely enough, she noted. The introduction was not precisely grudgingly given, but it was half-swallowed by the surrounding noise of the rising ball. He had been watching the ebb and flow of the court around him before her approach; she had seen him notice her, in fact, while she still spoke quietly with Ser Thierry. And Michel was watching her still, now that she was closer at hand… though she noted that his eyes drifted rather lower than her face more than once. Ah, a man who knew what he liked; she could use that. While his eyes were on her bosom, he’d be less likely to see her blades.
In the near distance, Colombe noted the approaching bulk of the jocular Baron de Fleuve; she did not react, nor show that she had seen him coming at all, but kept her attention fixed upon the pretty chevalier.
❝ Oh! ❞ she exclaimed merrily, clasping her hands together in front of her chest in a girlish gesture. ❝ But no, I cannot forgive such a shocking lapse of manners! ❞ Her eyes twinkled behind her mask, shining with her mirth. ❝ You shall have to find a way to make up for your transgression, Michel de Chevin. Particularly since you are at my service. ❞
She tapped a manicured nail at her lips carefully. ❝ I believe I have the perfect way. You must tell me a story to entertain me. It seems to me only fair! ❞
@hartofglass @servesorlais
Most in Serault would have claimed, and not entirely without reason, that the Baron Jacques de Fleuve had a soft spot for Fabien, perhaps a sentiment that had blossomed because he had acted, for the better or the worse, as a paternal figure for both siblings when the late Marquise’s husband had passed away --- although another type of rumour, the type that found fertile ground in taverns and fields amongst similary raunchy comments, claimed that the affection had more solid roots than that, more sordid, and more directly linked to a link of blood that was not at all about abstract feelings of parenthood.
Fabien had never had any occasion to confirm certain rumours about his mother and the Baron, nor, in all honesty, did he have any desire to do so, but of one thing he could be entirely certain: both his mother and the Baron had hair that was brown like chestnuts and tree bark, and Fabien’s own curls were as blond as his father’s had ever been.
Perhaps, however, some of that closeness during his childhood, was what influenced some of Fabien’s tolerance --- for the hunts, for a personality that was as large as the frame, and for the occasional cruelties, which he rebuffed but did not punish, at the very least not as he would have had the Baron been any other man uder his rule.
He watched Monsieur de Fleuve out of the corner of his eye as they both moved through the hall, each in their own direction, Fabien minding the moods of his court, and the talks that passed from mouth to mouth, the smiles flashed to one another from newly regained masks, and the Baron seemingly not minding at all.
The man aimed at reaching Serault’s new guest, who was guest only by virtue of Fabien’s own choice to call him such.
« If the young man has a story to tell », the Baron interjected, buoyant and avuncular, still a few steps away from the couple, « then I’d very much like to hear it too. » His small dark eyes fixated on Michel with a sharpness that betrayed a far keener intellect than some gave him credit for. « So, not a poacher after all, mh? » He glanced at Colombe. « He looks much better this evening than he did in the woods. Pity for the leg, though. »
@servesorlais @bariolee
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