#oscarlet

Who: Oscarlet (NPC, seen previously here); overheard: Danyell Dwynwen, Maximiloix Voilinaut; mentioned: Danny Harold, Etraux (NPC)

What: Oscarlet takes a smoke break. 

Where: Bentbranch, Central Shroud

When: During the Bentbranch Stables Starlight party

Content: smoking (tobacco)

Written for MAHI prompt words: down, smirk

"Need some air," Oscarlet muttered, fishing his pipe out of its pouch. An unsteady nod or two was the only response: his fellow stablehands were well into their cups. Despite the music -- which was merry enough, even Oscarlet could admit -- the floor had stayed empty, even a bell and a half into the party. 

So much the better, he thought. Still, an unwelcome wash of bitterness lapped at his ankles, propelling him through the back door.

He packed his pipe with a scowl. Leaning under the awning, he stamped his feet - scattering the ashes already there into the gravel - and huddled into his scarf, the better to hide from the biting wind.

He had just finished tamping down a second plug when scattered applause echoed into the still night. That damnable bard must have finished his set. 

After a time, voices drifted from the other side of the tavern - one clear and youthful, the other a low, measured growl. It took Oscarlet a while to place the accents -- Coerthan, he thought -- but whoever they were, there was friction under the polite tones. 

Oscarlet told himself that it was boredom that drove him to sidle over to the corner of the building and let the wind carry the words to him. 

"--fight this battle alone, then I will leave you with information that will help you do so. If that is the part I am to play, then so be it." 

Oscarlet waited through the pregnant silence that followed.

The low voice continued: "Danny is a wildling, plain and simple." 

More conversation, muffled despite Oscarlet's straining ears, but then the wind calmed--

"I see no reason not to stay by him," came the clear-voiced reply, all conviction. 

The bard. A feeling like snowmelt sliding down the back of his shirt froze Oscarlet mid-puff, his pulse pounding. What in the Matron's name---? 

Consorting with Wildlings? But then, it all made a terrible kind of sense. 

Fear evaporated and congealed again into anger, sharp as a spearpoint. With shaking fingers, Oscarlet tapped out his pipe and stowed it. 

The Hearers would hear him out about this. They had to. And if they would not...?