Down and out of Lescatie0.1

After the Countess's overly sharp and poetic speech on the wine her maidservant had just poured for them, John was almost tempted to down it immediately. Instead the man-at-arms turned to Sir Buttner, still bedecked in the remnants of his Lescatie dress. It was slightly tattered but with colors still bright and unmuted. Fitting, given the state of their occupied nation. At a whispered prayer and a nod from his Lord, John downed the large mazer with gusto. The road had been long and good wine was in short supply, especially for the lower classes, who normally drank small beer instead.

A polite but firm throat clearing drew his attention from the maid refilling his cup. The purple girl hadn't needed any prompting, and only met his eyes briefly, like a good serving maid should. He had only started to muse on how her proportions were oddly *exactly* his type when Sir Buttner gave another louder less polite rumble.

With a rushed sip, turning to the vampire Countess, John started giving the spiel. His Lordship preferred not to talk to monsters, no matter how many fancy titles they had. In formal situations of mixed class, servants had to talk to everyone, but Nobles need only answer each other. If it came down to it, talking to one of their own servants was preferred over another's.

"Reckon ya didn't git all ye wanted from the troubles of Lescatie, m'lady. You'll pardon me saying that it inna share for all and alike from your own Ladyship.", said John trying to be as mild as could on such a heart-aching subject.

The slight nod from the Countess was good enough to prompt more from the man-at-arms. The talk of goods and trade continued and the maid had at some subtle cue been appointed to speak for the vampire. So it'd been a bit less of a spiel an more of'a conversation after.

John found it a welcome change from trying to decipher the vampire. Strange creature, such a cold one. She'd barely moved at all, and had only smiled during the discussion of the salvaged fabrics of Lescatie. Aye that'd been a blow to the plans to fund a retaking of Lescatie.

With permission, John had opened a case of the finest of fabrics from home. Sam Tailor'son had known what he was about, liken t'all his line. Goddess bless him, too delicate a lad t'be snatched by a Dark Elf. Poor bastard probably spent his nights crying. A sample of that family's finest had given to the maid and her Countess to examine. What praise he'd spun for the cloth had seemed to fall on deaf ears.

Surprisingly, the maid had agreed with his assessment of the finery, and at a glance and smile from her Countess she'd curtsyed and excused herself. The was little time for John to lament the absence of her charmin' figure, for after less'n a bare minute she was back, her arms full of drapes and bolts of cloth. Her cat-gold eyes glittered as she brought forth samples in display one after another.

Each swatch was a strip of cloth drawn from but still attached to the bolts of cloth she held.

A/N:*Spot-check failed. 404 Blessing not found -- there's no app for that*

Not even the charm of her polite friendly voice could lessen the blows as she spoke of each swath as they examined them.

The verdict had been obvious even for a rough handed Man-At-Arms, thought John. He'd felt one of the Lescatie cloths and one of the Countess's swatches once more, each in turn, just to be sure. His Lordship had compared them earlier, and his scowl showed his opinion clearly.

"...the structure of the weave is quite fine, as you and m'lord may attest. Of the mordant used, it clings strongly, no color bound will fade nor run.",said the maid. Some slight change in the air brought John's attention up from the fabrics he was examining in each hand. He looked up to notice the maid with a jolt. Golden eyes were fixed on his face, her own face was oddly darker, even for her lilac complexion. She held his gaze longer than could be considered polite, before lowering her gaze and taking back the swatch of fabric with a brief nod.

Even the odd interlude with the buxom maid couldn't wash away the empty feeling eating at his gut. Lescatie's best fabrics couldn't hold a candle to the bolts the maid held. Damn little they'd salvaged and to see it bested so easily! Sam was only a tailor's son to be sure, but damn weren't he Lescatiean? Hell, his Lordship had even had the boy horse-whipped for snatchin' vegetables once n'all. Quite a kindness that, as all knew. T'was a light hand towards the tailor for what was normally a hanging offense. Showed his Lordship cared, it did. Even Sam Tailor'son hisself was like to agree, iffn some Dark Elf didn't have him lickin' boots an' shining em with his tears -- or whatever the hells they set their captives to.

"Hmph. Fine fabric you have there.", said Sir Buttner to the Countess. Though his voice was gruff as ever, John could hear a flatness to it. A concession to an acknowledged peer, but it lacked the usual bite of challenge Sir Buttner was known for even when conciliatory or in similar situations. The man-at-arms couldn't blame him. John set about himself for his empty mazer, to wash the ache away, and turned to see the maid. Eyes downcast, she held a filled cup at arms length towards him. Taking it with a nod, he sat next to Sir Buttner, who was near chewin his beard in frustration.

It was only by chance that the man-at-arms noticed the slightly confused look shared by the Countess and her maid. As if things weren't going according to their plans either. Hell if I know why, he thought darkly, as he and his Lordship nursed their food and wine.

"Surely this is not the best showing from the coffers of your land, times being such as they are, correct. The true wealth of a land is hard to display. Insomuch as it is in the works and deeds of men -- Their Songs, Strife, Sweat And Blood. Don't You Agree, Herr Buttner.", said the Countess.

Her speech had gone from her usual impersonal coldness to disturbingly exuberant pretty damn quickly. Not a bit of it sounded like a question, even when it should've. Her eyes were fixed on Sir Buttner, but John swore he could feel the force of her witchery fill the room. Brow covered in sweat, one hand clenched painfully around his belt-dagger, the other twisting his wood and metal cup into uselessness -- John bellowed a warning.

"Ware! M'lord, ware her witch-gaze!", said John.

Eyes glittering in challenge, Sir Buttner's mouth moved soundlessly, no doubt in some prayer to fox her spell. The knight tapped on one of the holy signs embossed on his armor as his lips formed soundless words. After a moment his brow quirked in confusion, and he gave a flippant wave in John's direction. The movement normally meant stand down, but John was still bow-tense -- ready to lay out all comers with whatever came to hand. In this case, a poignard dagger and the twisted wooden and metal remains of a cup.

"Stand down, you superstitious oaf, lest I gut you myself!", barked Sir Buttner. The angry retort was so like the man that John immediately felt at ease. Nae would a witch-hold match the way of a man, how he spoke during danger an' duress. At some point, John had stood. Now he unclenched his hands away from his dagger and the cup-wreckage. The latter was plucked from his fingers by the maid, who'd appeared soundlessly by his side. Both of the Nobles were deliberately not-looking at him. The flushed man-at-arms coughed.

"Err. Beggin' yer pardon, m'lord, yer Ladyship", said John his head bobbing in apology as he sat back down. Feeling a slight brush across his arm, he turned to see the maid. Head bowed, she held out a newly filled mazer of wine. John accepted gratefully, glad that his Lordship now saw fit to engage the Countess in these new high stake games. He sure as hells didn't want to do it.