Talk to Cynthia

You pause for a few moments and wonder what that odd sound might be, then realization dawns on you and you bite back a slight grin. You've heard those kinds of noises many times before at the Coven; you have even been the cause of a few yourself. Briefly, a thought springs into your mind that you might take a quick peek, but you quickly shove that impropriety aside. The people making those noises down the way would probably like their privacy. And you like to think you're at least a little better than a peeping tom.

You shake your head and lightly tap at the door beside you. You hear a faint rustling of motion and a moment later the ramshackle door opens to reveal Sist... Initiate, you correct yourself, Cynthia. She's clearly startled to see you, wide-eyed and with her mouth agape. "Y-your Grace!" She stammers with a hasty shake of her head. "W-what are you doing here?"

"I-" you stop and are **** to consider your answer. Just what are you doing here? You came to see her, that much is true, but why? She regards you expectantly, curious herself no doubt. "There was some... unpleasantness earlier at court." You finally answer, "I was afra- I came hoping that your first experience there didn't affect you negatively."

Initially, she looks to be both confused and startled, and you wonder why. Then it dawns on you that the only time she's ever heard your voice would be in court. Now here, without your incantation, your voice is its normal baritone as opposed to the pounding thunder it was earlier, it's no wonder she's somewhat taken aback. You grant her a controlled yet reassuring half-smile and she seems to settle down somewhat. Unfortunately, it's readily apparent that her displeasure with you over this mornings proceedings at court isn't going to be dissuaded by a simple smile.

"I am fine Your Grace." Her voice does a terrible job of hiding its venom, and you doubt she even thought to try. "Court was... illuminating." For a moment, you contemplate the idea that you sorely misjudged this young woman. Although you'd only met twice. For a total of, perhaps, three minutes. She seems to have far more fire in her than you initially reasoned. However, just as the thought crosses your mind it is immediately swept away as the young woman's eyes widen in shock. It would seem she only now realizes who she's addressing.

Cynthia's chin drops to her chest in what would be a futile attempt to avoid your scolding glare... if you gave her one. "I-I'm sorry Your Grace. I don't know what came over me."

You let her apology hang in the air and wait for her head to rise and her eyes to meet yours. When they do, you grant her an unfazed expression of indifference and continue to stand silently until the awkwardness becomes almost too much for her to bear. Then, as she opens her mouth to speak, you purposefully interrupt, "May I come in?"

She's clearly flustered by your presence and interruption, and this time it's easy for you to fight back your grin. Your actions are an old prank that you learned at the Coven, often played on new arrivals or those so accustomed to a strict societal hierarchy that they would never speak 'out-of-turn'. It was frequently used against you when you first arrived, older students would keep you off balance and laugh at you as you stumbled and fumbled; a child trying to learn how to act appropriately in a new place. You had grown up expecting to be the next duke, but there you weren't. You were simply a new apprentice who had to be taught the way of things.

Eventually you had come to play the game yourself on younger students, chuckling with your friends and the newer apprentices' responses. "It's a rite of passage Gracie." your friend Lucius had explained once, "Everyone goes through it, helps break new arrivals of their old life. Here you're not a merchant, or a farmer, or a blacksmith, or a sculptor, or a lord. Here, you're a mage. Nothing more, nothing less. Here, we're all the same."

But playing the prank against the young initiate now doesn't spark your amusement. It merely serves to dampen your spirits. Here you're not a mage, here you're 'The Duke of the Frostpeaks'.

Such childish behavior is beneath you.

Cynthia bows her head and opens the door wide, "Of course Your Grace, please come in." But you can tell does so more out of respect for your position rather than any desire to adhere to your request.

You step inside and cast a glance around the room, taking in her living quarters. The floor is soil, packed down tightly and trampled so often that it has become hard and almost clay. But the dirt still sticks to your feet, and you'll track it out of the room when you leave. The walls are stone and mortar without decoration or style; there is a barred window opposite the door that serves as the room's only lighting. In one corner there stands a ramshackle cot and bits of straw jut out from underneath an old bed-sheet. Partially hidden under the bed is a chamber pot, and though you can see that it is empty the old rotten odor of the room, probably impossible to remove, would cause you to think otherwise.

In another corner, a desk made of what seems to be damp wood struggles to hold upright under its own weight. Upon the desk, in the center, a book is proudly displayed; The Sacred Word the title reads and you know from your education that this is the religious tome of The Order of Holy Light. Towards the top of the desk there resides a small candle, unlit, and off the the side there is some parchment as well as a quill and an ink cup. In front of the desk there is a tall stool, too large to allow its occupant to use the workstation comfortably; forcing its user to bend forward at an awkward angle. Completing the furnishings, an armoire, as ragged as everything else, resides at the foot of the bed.

You shake your head in dismay, there are some rooms in your dungeon that are more luxurious than this.

With a light sigh you sit down and settle onto the bedspread. For a moment, you fear that the thing will collapse under your weight, the croaking sounds of the old berth are so bad. But the groaning object eventually quiets, and the young woman regards you with an expression that is both nervous and expectant.

"You did not belong in court today." you begin after a long silence and fight back a grimace as you see the girl wince at, what she must have perceived as, your admonishment. You hold up your hand indicating her to stop and shake your head before you explain. "That fault is not yours. It resides with Father Landon. He sent you there to represent your order, without educating you in the popper decorum."

She's quiet to your ears, and you watch her for a while after you finish and try to judge whether or not she's absorbing what you're saying. Her arms are crossed over her modest chest and her brow is furrowed. Her eyes meet yours and there's a spark of thought behind them; what about however, you cannot say. If you were to do this in public you would need to be stern, with a harsh tone and burning words. You would have to reduce her to tears, and make an example out of her so that everyone would see her mistake and never make the same one again. But then again, you would never have this discussion with someone of lower status publicly. Lord Endwin would speak to the right people, and they would take care of the matter; and that was likely to happen anyway, if it hadn't already.

She'd get her berating later from someone else; but something gnaws at your gut, and you feel the need to explain yourself to her. Why? A strange thought whispers through your mind, 'I don't want her to think less of me.' That shouldn't matter, she's a lowly initiate, an unimportant commoner; you are a Duke!

But somehow it does.

"You... spoke out of turn," You say with a soft voice, which you are pleased to see is at least accepted better than a colder one, "and instructed me to do something."

"I only tried to give you a better alternative!" Cynthia quickly interrupts, which you should not have allowed but let slide.

You're silent for a moment and fix her with a gentle stare that lets her know she should not have done that. It's when her eyes flash with understanding, and she shrinks away from you that you continue, still speaking softly, "You didn't advise, you didn't propose, you didn't offer" you explain "You told, you instructed. As though I was making a mistake, as though I was the one who had erred."

You pause and let that sink in, allowing her to remember her words earlier in the day. Embarrassment washes over her combined with fright and you concede something to ease her, "Were I not the duke I would tell you that your advice and opinion are both welcome and desired. Were I not the duke I would tell you that you're not wrong to think the way that you do. Were I not the duke I would tell you that your solution is a good one for any noble in the king's realm."

Her posture changes then, she regards you differently. She's far less hostile, and there's a sweetness in her face that you find terribly wonderful. It lifts your spirits and you can't quite resist a small smile for an instant. She regards you with a look that tells you she may yet forgive you, and perhaps more. But you remove the smile from your lips and take a breath.

"But I am the duke." You conclude "And as such I can tell you none of these things."

You stand then and release her bed from the burden of holding up your powerful frame. Thankfully, Cynthia's stance hasn't change and you note with no small degree of pleasure that her estimation of you seems to have been increased.

"I... I understand Your Grace." She says with a slight curtsy and bow of her head "Thank you for taking the time to come and... explain my mistake. I shall work to be worthy of my place should I be there in the future."

With a cautious step, you close the distance between the two of you. You raise your hand to the underside of her chin and gently press up with your finger, instructing her to look up and meet your eyes. This close together you can see she's close to trembling, but not from fear. Her beautiful eyes look up at you with something akin to adoration, and her breath is held in anticipation.

In that moment you feel as though she wants you to do something.