News To Die For!

The door to the Chamberlain\'s office has been left open. Inside, hunched over the desk of the Chamberlain sitting in one of the chairs afforded for guests is Lady Gweneth. With quill and ink, she writes, her parchment sitting between two bundles of writings just delivered. None else are in the office, certainly not the Chamberlain herself. The smell of tea fills the room.

Winter is the Knight-Marshall\'s herald, a cool gust of wind preceding him to the doorway of the Chamberlain\'s office. A breastplace lies strapped to the man\'s chest, a longsword hangs at his hip. He smells of soot, and his face and hands are blackened by ash. Stepping through the doorframe, he removes his breastplate and sets it on the ground. Similarly, his longsword is discarded.

The sound is not unnoticed as Gweneth visibly jump, \"Oh, my lord, Calardan, you startled me.\" She gathers his mood and raises her hands, \"No, no, I am allowed in here during the duration of the Tournament,\" she explains, \"It is quite all right, I assure you,\" she says, offering a disarming smile.

Dispossessed of his weapon, Calardan is armed with naught but a wooden demeanor. Life and death, such precious things and even this hard man might break as he raises his eyes from the ground to look at Gweneth\'s smile.

\"Daughter,\" he says perilously, \"Look upon me with no such fondness.\"

\"No, I assure you, all is well. This, in fact, was my mother\'s office for some number of years.\" Gweneth\'s hand runs over the surface of the desk, \"She had this commissioned for it. Thirty odd years later and it is still here.\" But slowly, recognition dawns on her, and her smile does fade. Her mind races behind her eyes, \"Master Lominzil and Lady Farielle were charged with some crime? Is that it?\"

\"Gweneth,\" says Calardan, daring a name so fragile. He names her and yet she remains, so the Knight-Marshall continues. \"It is your mother...\"

Fourteen some years have divided this Knight from watching the eyes of the dying, watching as the life fades from them and this is a man inured to violence and death, or a man who has learned to accept them.

Yet still he hesitates before plunging ahead.

\"She has been slain.\"

A scoff, \"What?\" A shake of the head, unbelieving, \"That cannot be,\" she declares. \"She is to the north, at our Estates.\"

\"It is another. Certainly. I promise you it. Where was the body found? A sea?\"

Calardan answers stiffly, \"Tirith Cobas. Amidst the burning wreckage.\"

\"Corsairs, say your servants.\"

That is the number it takes Gweneth to cross the distance between her and the Marhsall. A hand is raised and slaps across his cheek, near all her strength behind it.

\"This joke is done, hir,\" she says, lips tight, jaw clenched. Though already her eyes grow glassy.

The Marshall\'s head is twisted aside, the force of the blow knocking it so. \"Your hand,\" he says, his eyes still not back to the fore, his voice forlorn. \"The devastation is upon you now too, my lady. I had hoped to prevent that.\"

Gweneth chokes a cough, her straight lips faltering with trembles. She motions to strike again, but her strength leaves her and she collapses into the man, clutching to not slip to the floor.

\"No....\" is all she can muster between caught breaths.

The Knight-Marshall rights himself before the threat of Gweneth\'s daughter is upon him again. With sad eyes, two weeping willows, he braces her fall.

\"My lady,\" he begins to say, but what words are there for such grief?

There are no sobs from the young girl, nor shudders of pain... only the lethargy of grief. Then life comes to her hands, then her arms. Another cough, caught in her throat, her neck tilting back to look up at the Marshall - steely red eyes look up at him, tears staining her cheeks.

She stands.

Deep breaths rise in her chest, lips pursing together to control her emotions.

A cracked voice sounds, \"All are dead?\"

\"No, my lady,\" says Calardan, wrapping his hands uncomfortably at his back after the momentary collapse. \"There were survivors. Your uncle will speak to them and see to your mother\'s body. He has assumed his titles past and intends to ensure such an atrocity happens not again,\" continues the Knight-Marshall.

\"Already my Knights call for the opportunity to strike out in vengeance.\"

\"Uncle...\"

Gweneth considers, eyes falling to the floor, \"Yes,\" her voice stronger, \"He may... may seek his revenge. As you may.\" A breath, \"I have little to do with such things.\"

\"But my family must be provided for.\" A whimper escapes her lips but she sniffs and bites it back.

\"I will not,\" shakes the head of the Knight-Marshall. \"Your uncle may go with his bannermen and those who would hear his call. But those who swords are sworn to the Prince, they will not go.\" Here he pauses in consideration.

Before rejoining with, \"You will need to find a suitor but until then, I shall have the crown see to you and your interests,\" sternly.

\"In return, I ask that you appoint me your voice in the coming Conclave.\"

\"My ends are peace, my lady,\" says Calardan, \"I wish to be relieved of my service in a time where there is no need for an army, and no need for a marshall. I wish to watch my daughters grow old, and see their mother well.\"

\"Is this your voice? For it is the one that will be needed.\"

\"My voice...\" Gweneth turns, retracing her steps back to the desk, \"My voice will be what it has been taught to be - the right voice. It will speak not the words that need be said, but must be said,\" though they could be read as hubris, Gweneth\'s tone is matter of fact and egoless, if not also heavy with other emotions beyond sorrow.

She takes up the quill she was working with and begins to clean its tip, \"My family will hear me for I will speak without hidden meanings or agendas. Not my uncles, nor my mothers, nor yours.\"

She then wipes around the ink pot, setting the quill near it, \"Do not take offense to it. Your voice is not Bragollach. It casts no sound in places such that you wish to speak.\"

Calardan protests not the young woman\'s words, saying only, \"As my lady wishes,\" before moving to gather up his breastplate and longsword.

He motions to the desk, a pouch having been sometime placed upon it.

\"My condolences,\" says Calardan, before walking out of the room.

Gweneth says naught to the departing Knight, glancing briefly to the purse before following him and closing the door behind him.