midnightsnacc | ⁎ * ⁑ ∗ ⁕ Closed .

Many times, his mother would tell him stories of traveling with his father with all the romantic appeal of a great epic. They were tales that would leave him shaking with excitement until he slept and longing to grow up so he could try his hand at it. His mind changed quickly with the reality of it. He'd endure a lifetime of teasing for it but he cried the first time he left the walls to visit family, hating the cart and the way it would jump and shake with each uneven piece of the road which, as it turned out, was most of them. It had been an afternoon's ride and nothing more but he still found as a grown man that he had no interest in leaving. Not in the slightest.

Since then, he'd encountered more terrifying things than bumps in the road and fell prey to his own hubris. Kathryn needed him for something. The sweetest thing in the world--if she needed something done then her brother would move mountains for her! There was nothing he wouldn't do for the girl who always came to his rescue.

Truly, he loathed the sound of the words replaying in his head with each bump in that cart. It was a lavish, expensive thing but it still suffered the same limitations as a rickety thing one could buy off the side of an inn. A month and a half of that to have a handful of chats with a man he'd never met and just leave? It was an absurd proposition but she assured him that he wouldn't take their letters. He needed a member of House Locke to finalize his deal and would accept nothing less than a write prepared in person.

'You know contracts, Sammy! Even if I took the time to story, I couldn't make the trip with my schedule! Oh, Liz and Reggie? Well, Reginald would certainly be convinced to make a terrifically catastrophic deal and Elizabeth is just too young to help. She's not quite ready to handle what you can. Besides, Sammy, you're quite the warrior now... or, is that sword you're carrying now just for show? Are you worried you'll be ambushed on the road?

Honestly, you've the money to hire guards. What's all the fuss over?'

He found himself at the bridge to Baldur's gate. It was immensely long, ivory, ornate, and built over a long-dried river. There were people coming and going and carts passing to and from the city. A city that survived so many damning catastrophes and wars looked down upon him and he felt sick to his stomach. His fine suit had been ruined. His shoes were worn down so much that they were mostly just decorations for his toes and there were spots of dried blood and mud covering his shirt that made him look more like a corpse than much else. The only thing about him that looked to be clean was the claymore he'd hung over his back.

His caravan was raided. His guards were slaughtered. His gold was taken. By all rights, he should have died with the rest of them but he was blessed by a god who shared his love through a closed fist. Samuel Locke had been one of his favorite children and had made certain that he would survive to find Baldur's Gate but, while he was willing to share his fury with the man, Bane had not blessed him with the funds needed to get a room at the inn. Heading to the Upper District, he found himself brought to a cell by the Flaming Fist for trespass despite knocking politely at the front door. Visiting a prison cell for the third time in his life, he was informed there were no charges to keep him held and he was thrown out onto the street. Half-starved and utterly lost, he parked himself on a stone bench. Music touched his ears. Stringed instruments, singing, jolly-making--it was all rising up in a cacophony just in the next district: Little Calimshan.

As he found himself in the middle of a lavish, thriving market he tried to focus on any one fixture and found it impossible. There was too much noise and the smells were far too distracting. Food and joy. He remembered Trip told him what it was like--begging. He wasn't so proud that he wouldn't do it. He could survive the stain on his noble name if it meant he could eat whatever they were serving at that cart that had the tremendously long line but... no one would give him even a single copper when he asked. Too eloquent, perhaps. Too much of a story. The beggars he passed all simply held their hands out and occasionally got a coin for their pains but he was saying too much, wasn't he? Announcing his name and family and his hardships while people were passing? He tried to think of a way to seem even more wretched than he felt and hadn't once considered the expensive magic sword hung on his shoulders.

Not even once.

"Copper, please? Please? You made eye contact with me, sir! I know you saw me! Please? I haven't eaten in days! The roads were hard and I'm no hunter--!"

The sounds of song were joyous, and the occasion warranting the ceremonious festivities were of a past time to the Tuatha de alone. None, to anyone else but they and those who knew of the 'truth' when it came to the waxing of the moon. Now with it gone, the moon, there was joyous occasion to be had. With their time here at Baldur's gate, the Tuatha de had reason to play, sing, and dance their night away.

There within the Tuatha de was a woman named Caoimhe. The Elven woman, was there on this day. Tasked to help her two sisters, and others with their performances. Telling long tales of stories forgotten, and of heroes whose names were no more. They gripped the hearts and souls of all those who knew the famous Tuatha de. The elven foresters who live with as one with the sea. Strange as they are, they were regaled simply because they knew of songs and tales none else knew. Then they left with them, only to return once ever several decades at a time.

Here they were now, singing and causing joy throughout all of Little Calimshan!

Caragh, one of Caoimhe's sisters. Sang so beautifully, the way her cool expression gave off. Was that of someone who seemed as if she would devour your soul, and cared little for your existence. As if she were a fiend, wrapped in sheep's wool. She held the voice of an angel, that seemed most divine and raptured even the attention of priests that had happen to hear of her voice. So moved they were to tears, when she sung to them songs of old that were long forgotten, and in languages that were too.

Maeve on the other hand, danced for hours. The sort of stamina that beguiled all who saw her. She did not look exhausted despite how long it is she continued her dance in full. The Blade Singer, impressed nobleman and woo'd the hearts of many innocent maidens. Who were without yearnings of women, until their eyes were captured by hers. Truly, a siren in her own right, as she continued on for hours til the end of her ceremonious dance -

Then there was Caoimhe, quiet and in the back playing the instruments needed for both the beautiful singer and beguiling dancer to preform. She played for them, and did not deter away from the beauty that each performer needed from their instrumented partner. The way Caoimhe's own soul channeled into each of the songs, that were indeed felt by her sisters.

Truly, the three were a set that could not, nor should not, ever be separated.

However Caoimhe was a curious girl, and she often found herself excitedly exploring when they entered the cities. The Tuatha de rarely ever entered into cities or Kingdoms, and in the event they had. The Elven woman found herself tirelessly walking about, finding things to get herself into. Letting her bag become empty, but then full again with unnecessary trinkets.

On this day Caragh lost sight of her, and Caoimhe was one to empty her pockets too for beggars when they need anything. Or, which is what she is about to be prompted to do - ask them to join their caravan. As her people welcome all who wish to live with them, even if it was just for the day. As a nomadic tribe with no set boundaries or hospitalities, that lived by the love the Siren taught them to give to all. They didn't exactly keep any strangers away, and instead welcomed them.

So was she about to do, standing before the man, "Ah."

Her voice is soft, and she is uncertain. Hands tremble as they fall upon her chest, "Are you hungry? Do you wish to eat, then?"

Eyes most peculiar look down at him, their blue colors seem to swirl about, and glimmer. As if there within her eyes contained the ocean, and in their reflection had been the night sky, "I... I am from the Tuatha de - we .. You could come eat with us if you would like?"

Throughout the day, he'd grown accustomed to the canvas of music lying over his head. He was far more accustomed to simple, sharp strings and the cackling howls that came with drunken livery than notes that could tell stories by themselves. Even if he hadn't understood the history and the depth of it, the Tuatha's music still felt like it had a world of encouragement to keep his head up--even if it was only to keep listening.

Even with time, the scores of songs and the warmth of the ones carrying them on the air failed to truly pierce him.

Oh, there it was! His favorite feeling came back as if on its endless schedule, insisting he paid it more mind than performances that promised the illusion of joy rather than the reality of it. He wouldn't be able to enjoy the world the same way they could by sharing what made them unique. He wouldn't eat that night with those who would defend him and keep him dear. They were beautiful and he wasn't and, if he wanted to eat, then there was likely a tavern close enough that would welcome him for wearing a blade. He'd earn his meal through joy's sworn enemy.

Manua would have played his tiny violin and laughed for the hours it took for Samuel to understand what he was good for.

His voice fell, no longer caring to pry and goad a soul with his pleas once the Torchwood's weight pressed more firmly into his shoulder. For a fleeting moment, his dull azure eyes hardened with the determination to bury his weakness. It ended so swiftly that he could only wonder where in the world it went.

Caoimhe spoke to him and, stupidly, he met her eyes with the sort of stunned stillness that came with being caught perched atop a counter with sweets in hand and mother's permission nowhere to be found. There was worry in her eyes and, from above him, her hair made a fine halo against the sun's bloody drip over the edges of Calimshan's bowl. He heard the words she shared with him but he hadn't a clue what to do with them. She was someone who was blindingly radiant with all the kindness in the world and she was offering him a seat for dinner.

He should have known better. Manua would scoff and insist he was going to get fleeced for what he was worth and that an offer that good could only be a disaster in the making.]

I... Pardon me, miss, but that--thank you?

Radiant she were, with hair hue like corals you would find beneath the ocean seas and eyes that continued to swirl with said ocean within them, "I have yet to do anything, please."

Caoimhe then levels herself, knees pressed against her chest while she looks up at him at, tempting to read the expressions along his face. Wondering idly, if perhaps he was sickly or unwell. Moreover, maybe that with what seemed to be his clothing in disarray, and stains of blood all along him. That he was someone truly needing of help, rather then a murderer someone with more sense of them, may have thought of the other. Instead this was, Caoimhe, a comely woman who had a love for people no matter the manner of which they chose to be.

"Do you mind?" Caoimhe offers her hands and moves them closer to him, "Might I clean you quickly? It may help, it is not a bath but this spell can clean the dirt from your cloth. Then maybe, we can see to it. That we get you something to eat, and a warm bath to alleviate any aches you might feel?"

That she lacked hesitation in coming down to his level was overwhelming. He had almost been ready to stand and do his utmost to bow but Caoimhe kept him rooted with her eyes alone. Swirling blue, she was unfairly pretty and almost as a shield, he lifted a hand to half cover his face as if refusing to let her waste her thoughts on the details of him. He wasn't usually so wretched. Once, there was a man with a dignified, handsome quality beneath it all. Dark hair clung to his cheek, he badly missed his combs and oils and soft towels.

When she reached for him, he nearly scratched his cheek from the weight of his fingers' grip. A sewer's fingers? A weaver? No, a musician. They looked graceful as if to match her perfectly.

"Please," There were scars adorning his knuckles, light blossoms where it would have most hurt someone to be struck. He pressed his other hand to the grit of the sandy walkway beneath them and began pushing himself up to stand. To make it easier and, just as much, to make certain this angel wouldn't dirty herself with him too much. "It would be a relief to be clean again."

"Of course, this is the least that... Someone like me do..." As she says this, Caoimhe follows him up to stand. Her hands then glimmer a slight color and warm winds pick up around them. The smell of summer, and ocean waves crashing against the shores of a beach seem to flow around them. With only but a moment after, gentle sparkles and a cleanliness that was not there before. Finds Sam, leaving him far cleaner with her having cast prestidigitation. As she talks, she seems to do it a few more times just to ensure that he can be as clean as he would like, "I am surprised you did not already join us? Many of the beggars come to stay with the Tuatha de during this time."

The thought is spoken out loud, but then maybe, as her eyes wander with focus around his body. Thinking his clothes did not match anything from Baldur's gate, "...Did you perchance - are you just newly arrived?"

Edited (it ate my word) 2023-09-16 03:35 (UTC)

"The Tuatha de," He repeated after Caoimhe without question, testing his pronunciation with a nervous little smile touching his cheeks. Beautiful as she was, he felt the urge to at least touch up the state of those clothes a little more to prove a thing or two. Rolling up his sleeves, Sam tried to avoid looking overly grim until he felt something important come to mind only after she'd saved him a few pains. Come to think of it, he had heard of the Tuatha but his father pronounced it quite incorrectly. It took a few moments more for him to understand and, with that, he found himself swallowing--nervous.

The Tuatha were charming and brilliant people who could turn a quiet little town into a place of reverie and delight and he was a wretched man whose mere presence would have dirtied the image by association.

"Miss, I think the world would be better off with more of you. Thank you. Thank you," Although shaky, he got through his words, his head bowed in gratitude. "I..."

Memories of the past two weeks were sure to come back slowly but he'd already understood that the ambush itself hadn't been the only time he'd swung his sword since then. Grimacing, he shook those thoughts free and ran fingers through his hair, straining to make it a smile once more. "...Yes. I've recently arrived. I've come on business and, unfortunately, as the remaining survivor of my caravan, I'm not a particularly skilled beggar."

"Yes," Caoimhe responds in tandem to the testing of his pronunciation. Repeating the name softly, thereafter, only once more. To make certain he knew, that he delivered the name of her people correctly, "Tuatha de Muirenn."

The full name of the clan, the people who worshiped the old gods who were from the seas. The elven woman was pleased and proud to be one of those members, despite their treatment of her. Caoimhe was no more then a disappointment to them, someone who appeared from the seas rather miraculously. With no parent to account for. Raised by their festering hope and obsession of having been gifted a child from their God. Yet as she grew, Caoimhe did naught but show no promise of power that they looked for. No relevance of importance, and constantly found herself crying or frightened by the world. Found herself getting lost into troubles, wanting to save people and monsters that her people felt, were not worth saving.

'The world would be better off with more of you.'

Caoimhe had watched him, patient and comely. Humbled by her new found companion. Someone who she intended to help, and bring back to her people. So that he could join them for festivities and eat his stomach full. His words leave from his lips so casually, but for Caoimhe she finds time stills itself for a moment. As the weight of these words grip her, and leave her without the ability to move on from it.

It sits like a weight that is placed into the ocean, sinking deep under immediately. Slipping past into depths where the value of what he says, can not be found. The sea is her emotions, her feelings, and it is a complicated thing despite how simple she bears her feelings. Caoimhe cannot fathom the understanding of what he just said. The weight of his words are lost on her, sunk deep in to the depths - unable to be retained, unable to be seen, gone all the same.

What did it mean? - what he said, and she almost wants to reach out to him and ask him to say it again. The meaning of his words are lost on her, but she tries with a glimmer in her eyes. Thinking on it long, without realizing she had been standing there staring off into the distance

"Um... Are you.. Okay?" Caoimhe asks gently, attempting to let herself come back. Having felt as if in that moment, her soul had escaped from her body, and she was still in bit of a daze.

"Tuatha de Muirenn..." As if he'd been ecstatic to hear it, he repeated after her. She was one of them, wasn't she? He wanted to guess what she played but, even if he could guess she had the skills of a musician, he wasn't so skilled that he'd know what her trade truly was and which one she called hers. Even so, as he felt the slightest pride for repeating after her in a more satisfying cadence, Sam grew still. Caoimhe had grown quiet for a moment, puzzled.

He hadn't thought what he said would mean quite so much to her--at best, hoping it would just be something kind to say that he could thank his father for. There were so many beautiful things written in those stories that he always thought it would be a dream to emulate even a small part of it. He always thought it was strange for the villain of the story to say such a kind thing to the twins when he was driven from the valley but, with time and age, he understood what the bitter old man meant by it. He hadn't doubted Caoimhe's generosity when she offered it so easily despite his own experiences--ones in which a kind, outreached hand could have simply been a feint to distract from the dagger clutched in the other. He couldn't detect an ounce of that evil in her when she reached out.

However, the brief state of her quiet left him briefly discomforted. In retrospect, it had been a hot day in Baldur's Gate. With her fair complexion, the sun itself could have been the distraction even if it was in the midst of setting. Could the heat have caught up with her? Puzzled, he held out a hand for her--hesitant.

"I'm not, no. I really would appreciate a chance to clean up and I could just as well use a razor and a mirror but," His smile, hesitant, turned easily into a little frown. "Are you? Is it the heat?"

A panicked thought came across him and he looked more stricken for it.

"Is it--do I smell? I've been walking for days and days--oh, gods, I'm absolutely foul, aren't I?"

"N-No you did nothing wrong... Y-You are fine." Caoimhe insists with some urgency, coming close rather suddenly and collecting his hands in her own. The charitableness of his kindness was not loss on her, but she was frightened that he would find himself at fault for her own doubtfulness, "Will you come then? I am to return by dusk less Maeve or Caragh become upset and send for me."

Her own hands still hold his, and she is mildly aware of how strong they feel when she holds them. So much so, that her own eyes become drawn to them, and she looks at each one with a quirked brow, "You have strong hands, are you a fighter?"

It almost slips from her mind the comment that he made, with her interest peaked now that her mind bubbles over with fantasies. Thinking long about all the sort of things he could have done as an adventurer, or even perhaps a knight of some sort. So like the stories that she reads when she has spare time, or shares with other travelers. Its here that her expression changes into that of one wholly excited, gripping fast at the hands she held tightly. Though comparably, her strength is nothing like his own.

Of course if they escape from her, his hands, she will grip them again. Excitedly, seemingly bouncing slightly on her heels as she comes a bit closer to him, "Oh if you are, you must know so many stories?!"

Edited 2023-09-17 16:52 (UTC)

"Ah, then, we should hur..." There was certainly a script to his thoughts. It was well-drafted, heavily revised, and prepared for scrutiny. Caoimhe wouldn't let him get past the introduction of sound itself and instead, took his hands as if to shackle him to the ground. It was a wonder that a man who could boast that he'd left Jarlaxle himself a scar to remember couldn't find the strength to take his hands away from her.

He'd seen eyes that earnest in the newer missionaries who came to Waterdeep, full of hope that they could clean the streets up and turn around a world of corruption. It was a beautiful expression to behold and yet he couldn't focus on it for fear that he'd completely spoil it. She was eager to hear something that would change her perspective of the world and reform it into something new and beautiful. He wore the same look any time his parents told him of the past and what they'd done in their travels.

"Y-Yes? S-Somewhat, I am--" What was he, really? He'd been told that he fought with a savage's strength and the grace of a gymnast but he'd never witnessed it for himself. His morning exercises were simple enough but he couldn't recall ever practicing the forms of a knight that his mother would.

The weight of reality bore on his shoulders. His stories--were they even worth telling? Brutality, cruelty, and greed were the markers of Bane and his followers. Even if he hadn't willingly offered himself up, he was still a Hand.

"I--" An idea. Change the perspective of the character. The real heroes. If he could get by with stories then there was no saying any of it had to be from his own perspective! "I may know a few?"

A hand, her hand again - finds itself pressing against cloth and then against his firm chest, "Then you must come! Come, let us go at once!"

Caoimhe has no strength, but she has all the strength in the world she needs to take a beggar man she knows nothing of, clothed in strange expensive but dirty clothing, and drag him along into a world he knows nothing of. Experiences await him, and what transformations may come of it - Caoimhe is only excited to gift to him. So is her way, as someone from the Tuatha de Muiren. Of one who regales and finds their heart with the Patron deity of Emer, the God of Skies and Warm Winds.

Delicate hands grip what is his, and she tugs him with all her strength. Which is a gentle and most guiding tug.

"It is a time to shed your stories, and dance with song! If you do, all the sins and dwellings that lay deep in your heart that are burdened by whatever dark sins lay there - like the moon when it crescents before us." As if the Moon were burdened always with sins that are unspoken, encompassed by what consumes it as it tries to be whole again. "Such feelings will leave from you, and the Beast will not come to beckon you into its shadows. Come, we love adventurers! It is your ilk of stories we sing of, and keep always to teach others things that they need not do, and things, that they can learn from."

Her earnest words are strange, should be, to anyone who hears them and knows nothing of her Gods or ways, "Oh! Of course, I simply know that those who adventure are full of such burdens. We see them in plenty, you are not alone in your plights. That is why we welcome you, and your stories, that is why I insist that you come!"

She is full of vigor, attempting to tug him towards her and further away from the center city. As if implying they were leaving, farther away from the festivities of song and joy, that could be heard there. However, Caoimhe, was bringing him to her people - to her home. To the outside walls where the most, fun is to be had. A secret place, it would feel like, into a world unlike anything he has ever seen before.

In his father's book, the twins would sing along and dance with the Tuatha de Muiren, captivated with the rest of the village by the excitement and joy they brought with them. He'd read those chapters, hopeful that he'd meet one of them someday when he'd grown brave enough to venture outside of Waterdeep's walls. If they were the true tapestry of stories he heard they were then he would have loved to hear stories from them.

A man grown, through and through, Samuel expected his childhood fantasies to be colored by far too much optimism. Had he met one of the Tuatha, then he would be greeted by the stark reality of people. No one could be as gallant and kind as a knight from a book or as wise and steadfast as the sage who advised him.

She plied him with such speech that he didn't think to remember the stairways and alleys she'd spiritedly guided him through. She brought with her the cadence of a singer and the temper of a light-hearted poet and he forgot every landmark from the market to the outer walls. He wondered if it would be alright, to tell the truth, and to refuse to keep distance between himself and it but one thing stopped him. It was much less his ego and his self-aggrandizing thoughts and more the one quality he was willing to spare of who he was. Slowing down, he gave Caoimhe a gentle tug of her wrist, urging her to stop. No matter his height or the intimidating mountain of a frame he had, he had an incredible capacity for delicacy.

"Wait, miss, first--" He would deal with reality, first. Holding his other arm up so she'd have somewhere to stop if she didn't slow herself in time, being met with his almost eternally sorrowful expression. Caoimhe--people like her were exceptionally rare to meet out in a busy city such as Baldur's Gate. There was no telling whether or not the Tuatha would think the same as she did. "--my name is Samuel Locke of Waterdeep's House Locke. I completely lack the standing of a knight and hero so I understand it would be reckless to bring me along without knowing my name."

"The? Samuel Locke?" Caoimhe squeaks almost a bit too loudly that heads seem to turn and look them both over, "He who gave his whole heart and soul to the people of W-Waterdeep!? Tell me that is not true. T-to think you were left at the streets too, s-struggling in full! How unfortunate... That... That you were found the way that you were, how had no one else seen you? It is fate, truly, the warm winds led me here to you, and the God Emer would see to it that you are full of hope and fortune. It is okay, it is not reckless. It is fate of course, nothing less than of that."

Caoimhe's eyes are full of such life and fervor, they glimmer and sparkle seeming to exude a light of their own. It is true that Elvish woodsmen can see in the dark. It is not so abnormal that they glimmer in an odd way, but Caoimhe's eyes would mark anyone as strange if they peered into them now. The swirls of ocean waves with them, the gentle glisten of admiration and excitement. She was living a life of fantasy and trying her best to keep her nerves straight.

She seems to look over sharing her name - still.

"Pardon?"

He looked as if the wind had been hammered out of him. The lady, possessing strength he couldn't overcome, snapped his legs out from beneath and left him quite breathless. What sad thoughts he kept to himself when he was peeling the wax from an expensive bottle late in the night couldn't hold a candle to the cascade of emotions she thrust upon him. Compassion, he could withstand, but the way she'd repeated his name was too much to stomach. His hand half-covered his face, trying his utmost to set it aside.

Rumors. She'd heard strange rumors, hadn't she? Manua must have kept his loose flips flapping at the Portal and made trouble for him. Wait. Trouble? What would Manua gain from spreading lies that he'd done something so selfless for Waterdeep?

"I'm not sure you've been told the right stories," While he may have stumbled over his words otherwise, Samuel found it all too easy to be forthright with Caoimhe in one regard. The depth and weight of her gaze showed their disparity. Who she was--she was someone who would have better embodied whichever stories she heard of him. "I wonder if Manua's been running his mouth but I'm... I don't think I'm deserving of that divine image you've described. Please--I'm only barely a warrior and hardly a man to admire. Not as much as he is."

"Stories do change as time carries them with the winds, worry not. I am certain the man from hailed these stories, surely is one worthy of any praise. As are your friends that went along with your journey." Caoimhe nods her head promptly, hands clamping together and resting down in front of her waist. She is eager to move forward, but hesitant with the other's uncertainties riding along their nerves. The elven woman is careful, and adamant that he is comfortable at least to continue going with her, "Will you come then?"

While he wanted to deny it further, a small part of him insisted it wouldn't be so bad to accept her perspective for a short while. Knowing he wasn't the type to embellish or tell tall stories, Sam slowly lowered his shoulders, sighing as if to release a little burden so he wouldn't disappoint.

Besides--no one would really believe he was actually a man of esteem. He could be handsome and brilliant from time to time but such things required a morning's preparation and a few drinks to even everything else out.

"I'd love to complain that you're being too kind but I believe I need quite a lot of it right now," Following her once again, his voice came a little sheepishly--realizing something a little late. "You haven't given me your name, though, miss."

"Ah yes!" Caoimhe blinks a bit, finding herself absolutely amused but appalled all the same by her failure of simple pleasantries, "I get most excited when I meet new people and are invested in their own worth I forget to share my own name more often the not. My name is Caoimhe, daughter of Eithne!"

She attempts to give the other a Kingdom-taught curtsey, moving to hold a bit of the dress from her layered cloth and bend herself over just enough, to give him a proper greeting, "With all said and done, let us go! It is almost dusk, and it is time for dinner. I would love for you to have a warm meal, and maybe even have time to bathe and enjoy your evening full of song."

Caoimhe. Spell it out. How would she sign her name on a bank note? 'Caoimhe a Eithne'? 'Caoimhe de Eithne'? There were at least a dozen more variations depending on the region and he--

Oh, he'd been staring at her. His dopy little smile bled away to be replaced by a moment's panic, with him clearing his throat and moving hair from his eyes in a hurry to try and replace it with a much more confident grin. Not only was she pretty and entrancing her hasty curtsey was absolutely charming. It was difficult to put into words but he knew how nobles could use their affectations and manners as a way to put down others. He'd seen 'sarcastic curtsies' before.

"Thank you for your hospitality, Miss Caoimhe," He moved to bow halfway, blinking stupidly when his left sleeve split completely at the shoulder, falling off of him when he looked to inspect it. "...Ah. Would it be alright if I had that bath first?"

"Of course, when we settle down by Kingdoms we create our own public baths. For those who are discomforted and not used to such ways, the inns by the gates let those who wish to use their baths as they see fit." Caoimhe explains, offering them a continued gentle smile that glimmered with a tone of prosperity to it. She does not think it strange or unsettling that his expression wavered, rather let himself be in his own skin and moved forward only when she felt they were ready to move on. She guides him, onwards and seems to make eye contact with a few other members of her clan as they walk through the Kingdom.

It was easy to pick them out, robed in many layers that were decorated in elaborate cloths, "Oh this way, what sort of foods do you like? We enjoy our spices and stock up when we can during our times in the Kingdom."

A cold shudder ran through him. It would be rude to turn down her offer and defer to the inn, wouldn't it? That would be the epitome of poor manners to turn down an offer from someone who had kind things to say of him--someone who would offer food and hospitality on a whim. Shakily, he gave her a polite nod of understanding even if his whole face had become flush with worry. He'd muster the courage and not be kicked out like the last time--!

"I think..." At the very least, he felt a touch of relief. Spice? It certainly fit that part of the book, at least. There had been a funny chapter thrown in the middle where the twins swore they were breathing fire when they ate cooking from the Tuatha. His father liked to tell him that it fit cooking from Amn--thinking they must have enjoyed spices from the same nation. "Something spicy would comfort me a great deal. Honestly, I've heard of the Tuatha de Muirenn before though... I expect my knowledge is rather second--... perhaps third-hand. Your people were in a book my father wrote and I worry his pronunciation might have been a touch off."

"Truly?" They walk within the streets the boarders of the wall in the distance, they would be at the gates soon enough, "I know we are mentioned in many texts, but it always warms my heart to here this. We value the words spoken from one to another far more then that of what is often written in books... But that is just our pride and way, we know there are orders that exist who make certain the histories are not forgotten and scribed away formally."

Caoimhe thinks that is so unique, and interesting... Books that keep moments of history forever, it enamored her but she adored the strength of her people and their ability to memorize stories and keep their knowledge vast, "How long will you be staying here then? Are you to return to your home anytime soon?"

"It's beautiful, sharing stories that way. I loved imagining what it would be like to sit in a big crowd and feel everyone's excitement accompanying mine."

It was fantastical and different. He could compare it to the musical performances played in Waterdeep's many public squares but the closest thing they could get to such a thing would be the theater--which was something else entirely. Actors playing their parts had different insights as to what the characters' motivations were but a storyteller could be consistent. All parts were theirs to tell.

Inwardly, he knew it was an indulgence. When he thought of stories, he loved the possibility of sharing them but that was the word that wavered the most in mind. Sharing. Dabbling in writing, he found he was just as enamored by putting his name on paper. His signature. At the beginning and end of the book, the author signed their name to claim ownership of what was laid before the reader and it was by their grace that everyone was allowed to take part in it. The number of times he'd stolen his father's parchment just to see his own name written in ink--

The thought became distant with the passing moments, his brow lifting curiously as Caoimhe pressed him gently. Curious about a stranger's business? It was fair enough and she was pretty enough that he wouldn't mind a bit of prying in the slightest. For the past few days, he hadn't thought about why he persisted and pushed himself so much to arrive at Baldur's Gate. Kathryn asked him, so there was no need to think of anything else, was there?

"I'm not sure," Truthfully, he didn't know. Not without speaking with House Dagath. Glibly, he replied without caring for the honesty he laid bare. Eyes drifting back to hers, he stood with Caoimhe at the front, utterly nonchalant. "I made arrangements with the inn--so, if I were to be killed on the road then there would be plans to run things. I'll need money to return."

"Yes of course." The elven woman agrees but finds herself frowning slightly by what he says next.

"I see.. Perhaps if you speak to some of the inn hands they may have work for you? There is always work to be had, if you would like too... I could speak to Maeve, to see if they have anything they need done." Caoimhe offers, then realizes that perhaps he would not know who is Maeve, "Maeve, she is ... Going to be the next Matriarch after her mother. It is unusual and not always that a Matriach is found so young, but she is the crowning jewel of the Tuatha de. Truly one who can do it all!"

There is nothing but genuine pride in her voice, as she speaks on her sisterly figure, "If there is something to be done within our Caravan, I am sure she can find something and pay you handsomely. You look strong to boot! Are Bison are large, and some times the men are without want to take heed and clean their hoofs."

Indeed, the Bison's she speaks of are large - as tall as mammoths but sturdy and less aggressive than their sizeable counterparts. Unlike Mamoths the bison could treck over large mountains and keep up with the travels of her people. Over the vast amount of centuries that had past, the Tuatha de domesticated them. Inevitably using them as large pack animals, but also hoisting small places that could be used as homes within, "If there is anything I can do, do let me know."

"She must be quite the leader," At that, he felt comfortable smiling. The matriarch. He remembered loving the Tuatha's matriarch in the book as a comforting soul who was harsh one moment and loving the next so that no one would swindle her family. Torchwood had certainly tried, after all. For a moment, he wanted to ask more about Maeve out of curiosity to compare her literary equivalent but he'd been stopped as he saw a bison passing further past the way into the Tuatha's carts and housing. Sam seemed to still, not realizing precisely how large a bison had really been.

"Would you like a list of my ski--my..." Somewhat breathless, he found he was looking between Caoimhe and the great pack beasts with wide eyes. "They're quite large, aren't they?"

"...Are they friendly, Caoimhe?"

"Oh, they quite are. These ones have been domesticated over the centuries by us. You should meet Midna, though she is with the packs and we tend to keep them away from the tents until it is time to move on."Caoimhe nods her head, the bob of hair dancing about with her taught movements,"'Less they crush the tents and everything within our new home."

Caoimhe seems to begin giggling gently at her last statement, "Before we go elsewhere, and I show you more. You must meet the elder, she will look you over and give you the clan's blessing. So that you can comfortably enjoy yourself here, then if you would like... Ah - yes bath! I can grab a few items so that you can enjoy your rightly, afterward all the meanwhile. Does this sound good, Samuel?"

"Ah, then I suppose..." Crush their tents? Sam whirled partway, looking from the Bison he'd been drifting closer to just in time to see Caoimhe's smile. He felt his ears warm up somewhat when realizing he'd been teased a little and they only grew warmer when he found himself lingering a little long on how pretty she looked in the midst of it.

He was so distracted that he completely missed what she'd been saying. When he finally came back from his thousand-year journey, he blinked stupidly and simply nodded with a dreamy smile. Caoimhe--whatever she suggested would be fine, right?

"Oh. Yes. That sounds perfect, love."

Love, Caoimhe looks at him for a moment. Paused, falling into a dazed state, "I am unfamiliar with that way of phrasing. Is that a phrase you say in the Kingdoms?"

That is to say - Caoimhe recalls it being used, but only between two lovers in the books that she has read, or during moments of intimacy with those of her people. As they express adoration to one another, never to her of course... Hearing it used rather suddenly, after having just met him. Towards herself, of all people made her feel ever quizzical behind the meaning of it.

"Um," Stunned briefly into silence, Caoimhe had left Sam with the pitiful weight of clarification burdening his shoulders. His lips parted as he tried to ease himself through his words, lowering his hands so he could wring them together with immense, damning regret. He made the mistake of growing comfortable around her, hadn't he? Bonnie wouldn't bat a lash when he called her that for all her meanness but Caoimhe was already someone different.

Worried that she was frightened, he hurriedly apologized in a tumble of words.

"MyapologiesIbelievethecorrectintonationisisismuchloosersothatitsoundsquitealotmorelikeLUVthanLOVE!S-S-Seehowitsoundsabitmorelike'loaf'than'love'whenIsayitlikethat?"

When he finally breathed once more, Sam realized the knuckles of his fists were white with effort and settled--not calmly but reserved as if he were in a stay of execution. As if he hadn't dug himself deep enough, he kept explaining himself. Caoimhe might have had different opinions of it but her thought process wasn't so far that he couldn't spot where she'd gone even with his lapses in attentiveness.

"...It's a colloquialism in some parts of Waterdeep. It's like calling someone 'darling' but... I find that one a bit more intimate--"

Edited 2023-09-27 03:19 (UTC)

Caoimhe listens very intently...

Then she seems to giggle rather brightly, the way he acts confuses her but does not scare her, "I-I am so sorry, I did not mean to upset you, friend. I am just unused to such a phrase being used towards me is all. Thank you for letting me understand the way you hold your words."

With that she seemed to reach out and place her hands over his fists, the way they grew white concerned her, "Please do not be so tense, you have nothing to fear."

He'd been gaping. Had he truly fallen apart like that so swiftly? More than he already had on the road? For only a moment more, Sam worried he'd hit a truly low point but she put an end to it--even if only for a little while. there was something strangely comforting about the realization that he'd already been there and Caoimhe had already reached for him, earnest in how she offered him peace.

Her hands, covering his. She was so much smaller than he was and there was still a promise of protection. From the moment he laid eyes on her, he was completely smitten. A nymph, a fairy or an angel? From where had this woman come from that she could spare him his own breath while stealing it away?

Clearing his throat, he straightened his back and put his hand over Caoimhe's, gently, to assure he that he'd recovered his wits. A nervous, casual attempt at flattery came next as he reminded himself that there was nothing truly given in the world. The sight of the the rings on her hand lent to a moment's paranoia and he felt the weight of defeat on his shoulders. Hells, why would he assume he had a chance to be friendly when she'd met him in rags and filth?

"No, perish the thought, I should be more careful. If I'm overly familiar, it'd make your husband upset, wouldn't it?"

"Husband?" Voice complacent and most undeterred by what it is he said. It was posed as a question, almost interested in this revelation - not embarrassed or ashamed. Simply conflicted and confused by what he said. As if what he spoke about, was simply clothes on one's back or a strand of hair that was wrong.

"No, I do not have a husband." Caoimhe's head cants slightly to one side, her eyes do not leave him. The brightly coral-red strands of hair, decorate her features hiding her brows beneath her bangs. The perplexed look on her expression is almost childlike in nature. Her attention though is on his hands, and she finds the weight of them moving up on her own, to be a welcomed warmth.

His hands are so heavy and strong, that she cannot help but continue to be mesmerized by them. Regardless she finds her attention and speaks gently, "Ah, we were supposed to meet the Elder... Are you okay to meet them now?"

Not married? The light that came to his eyes when he heard it spread through him for a moment. In only that short span of time, he grew stronger--more assured. This lady, this Miss Caoimhe, she was the very portrait of the one the moment he met her and she wasn't betrothed? She'd held his gaze the whole time, not shying from the question but still not dangling anything more than innocent interest. Was it that puzzling a question? He wasn't going mad, certainly?

Madder?

"Ah," But, more importantly, she asked a question. Without thinking, he'd given her hand the slightest squeeze--as if excitement were buried beneath him and threatening to build up into a mountain in only a single breath. A question! Her eyes were so beautiful and full of beauty that he was beginning to admonish himself all the more for the state of his clothes and for the effort she was to put in for his sake. A QUESTION!!

"I," He began, only remembering what she'd asked when he realized she'd been quite fixated on him in that time. "I, yes, I should be alright."

"...What about a boyfriend, though? Do you have a lover?"

The press of questions into her personal affairs made Caoimhe begin to turtle in on herself, as insecurities were becoming laid bare, "N-No... I have never been courted before."

She pulls her hands from his own, and nervously takes to pools of her red hair, to press them behind the long length of her elven one. Exposing the earrings that decorated them and how they grew slightly red from feeling embarrassed by what he asked. Caoimhe moves towards the tents of where her Caravan was established. The sound of music playing still filling the air from all sorts of musical instruments, she looks behind her back towards him and gently waves him over, "Well come this way then, once you have met the Elder. You are welcome to use anything that we have to share."

"Oh," Soft, almost inaudible, there couldn't have been a moment prior to in which his expression was so clearly written and open. Relief, excitement, trepidation, all mixed together to mold into a thought--that he was fortunate to have met her then and there and just as unfortunate to realize he was at his absolute worst. It was the bastard child of misfortune, rearing its head to call for him.

"I can't, for the life of me, understand why not," Only, he couldn't pursue the thought further once she led him further. He stilled, walking stiffly with every effort to hide the holes in his shirt and the flop of his broken shoe as if he were late to a job interview he'd fought and bled for. The firm had tough ones, hadn't they?

Finding his nerve wiggle away from him again, Sam cracked a smile without a lick of confidence as he failed to key in on Caoimhe's flush and hesitance at every turn.

"I--I can wait for now. Er, I feel I should ask--is there anything I ought to know when I speak to your Elder?"

The tent before them sat taut and decorated immensely. The soft fumes of what could only be medicines, herbs, and lavished spices mixed seem to dance about from the cut-out at its peak. They were a dark green, beautiful in its seeming velvet color. Laced with furs that decorated the entrance, and woven braids of threads that clung to every notch. A staple of the Tuatha De - their rope and weave works. Something often compared in poetry to that of pulling magic of the weave itself, instilling its beauty in threads that weave together.

In the back, there is a Large Bison the size of a large Mammoth, seemingly attached to the tent before them. With a halter along its back, and its body lid against the bare ground. With its head peeking from the side, breathing out a warm breath of air that whirls past them. He rests and sleeps - almost as if he is hibernating for the time being.

"Mother Ingrid, is her name - b-but she will introduce herself to you... Just give me a moment to announce your entrance." In which she means, vouch for him, "Stay there, yes?"

Is her gentle question, leaving him with a soft smile and a lasting gaze. One that lingers along his expression, thinking about the interaction they had had just moments before - and what it meant. Shyly, she looks away and then enters into the tent. With the sound of wooden chimes clattering against one another. It takes a moment, enough for him to gather his anxieties or plain thoughts before she pops back out and says, "You may come in now."

The demeanor Caoimhe wears seems to be far different from before as if she were but a child who had been freshly scolded. Trying extra hard to be proper, and making amends for habits that were improper moments before.

Within the tent it is as elaborate as the outside had been - but far more decorated. With instruments of all types, wooden statues depicting their culture, and beautiful threads held upon the walls of the tent like they were trophies to be shown. One group of items, in particular, may grab his eyes, several Ivory flutes and other assorted wind instruments displayed on what seems to be a weapons rack. They are all finely made, and seem to be the pride of the elder women settled before them.

Now, when Elven people grow old they do not age physically in any way. Instead, she looks no older than 30 in human years, but the eyes she has cast towards them. Speak volumes, of the age she seems to retain. A light brown color, and locks of wavy hair that touched along the floors around her.

Two women also sit at either side of who can only be Mother Ingrid, they never speak or move and are dressed less elaborately than herself. These are, women in waiting, guided by the Elder Mother who teaches them her ways so they too can lead as she does. They swear themselves a century of silence, and will never speak for this century - only learn. Absorb. Watch.

"Mother Ingrid, this is the man I spoke of. He is of great misfortune, and I would see it that we the Tuatha de, could help him." She bows her head and raises either side of her arms. Splaying each of her fingers out as if she were a bird, and her arms were wings. This movement quickly ended as she settled once again upright.

The grand mansion of the Locke mansion wasn't the largest in Waterdeep at all but it boasted dozens of rooms with draperies made drab with the slow bleed of paint through thick canvas and linens that were stiff with starch, washed more times than they were slept in. His steps fell softly, respectfully, as if the tent floor he'd stepped foot on had been hand-crafted and arranged the same as one might decorate a stage with props meaningfully chosen from the story its play had been built from. Caoimhe's introduction offered him relief before he'd stepped in but once he was past the entrance, he felt like he'd well and truly been in someone's home. Busily, he found the inner hem of his coat to keep his fingers attached, saving him the terror of knocking something over.

Statues, tapestries, crafting materials, instruments and tinctures that were all owned by a skilled hand which were more worth to their owner than half the rooms in his parents' estate simply because they were likely put to use. The cost of the spool was measured in copper but the seamstress wanted it back from the tree because it was hers. He apologized and fretted and climbed despite his fear for falling because she was certain to make something wonderful with it--something worth more in gold.

He worried over knocking things over the whole time while, in the back of his mind, he took Mother Ingrid in. She seemed young by the look of her but experience had sharpened his instincts to a razor's point. Gazing into the eyes of brilliant wizards, intrepid adventurers, wizened politicians, fierce judges and soulless monsters, Samuel had become a creature of instinct. When he felt he was being appraised by Ingrid and by her women in waiting, he seemed to grow still. His chest and shoulders raised, stiffened despite the frays in his coat and shirt. Caoimhe's repairs had done well to save the state of his clothing but it still looked as if he'd worn it ragged but it was only a small piece of him.

There might have been something in his recognition of Caoimhe's gesture that raised his guard. Some semblance of formality and respect that reminded him of how he should introduce himself, as if urged him to raise his guard, becoming a noble scion once more. Beneath the obfuscation of his suit and the injuries he earned in his travelers, deeper still there was noble upbringing in his posture. At his core, even deeper than all of that, was his understanding of how to speak with someone who commanded authority.

To Ingrid, he inclined his head.

"Mother Ingrid. I'm Samuel Locke, second heir to House Locke of Waterdeep," Said not with pride or with the fluff of a puffed-up aristocrat, Samuel spoke with simple certainty. "I'll repay you in any way I can for home and hearth."

Though, there was one thread he had to cling to. His sense for obfuscation ended when it came to appearances, so he saw little sense in trying to ply anyone at all with pleasantries as Manua might.

"Caoimhe has been exceptionally kind to me but I do also have business here. Do you have parchment and ink? I must pen a letter as soon as I can so my family doesn't come to believe I've been assassinated."

Eye calculating the measure of every footstep he makes. There is a note in the nodding of her head, as she ushers Samuel toward the cushion on the floor right in front of her. A cascade of organized cushions, fastened together with woven cloths spread along the floor around them. There is no fire to stoke any heat given, but it is warm within this tent regardless.

"I know of your House name, and see your demeanor. The gait of a man well raised on material means. Yet eyes that sweep across shadows, and a lowered head almost too obedient." Her voice is quaint, quiet, gentle, and singsong in a way, "You may have this."

Her own hands motion into the palms of the woman beside her, and they quickly move with swiftness to gather the materials requested by him, "You may request a courier if you would like, we send someone fast - swift even... I would ask you to add into your letter, that you are being housed and under the care of the Tuatha De."

Ingrid states, a heavy desire for political weight. Though, for them, it is merely enough that their name is known - and they wish nothing else otherwise for it, "Caoimhe can share her tent with you since she is the one who brought you here."

If Samuel looks or takes note of Caoimhe - who, by this point, has settled into a spot. Looking towards Ingrid and giving a wide-eyed look. There is something that surprises her in what the other says, but her face relaxes thereafter.

"That said, you should know. The people here may know of your name, but even if they do. They will not care for it, and to stay within Caoimhe's tent. Will invite a sort of - - " Ingrid pinches her chin, with her thumb and forefinger as if attempting to word this correctly. A few words come out in elvish until she finally says,"Judgement; I would offer elsewhere but every tent here is full, and seeing as you came in here looking as you do. I doubt it will bother you much, to stay with her."

Implying that his current messy and disgusting look, means that Samuel won't care if other people look down on him. As was is her educated assumption.

As this was stated, the materials requested were given to him. Placed gently within his hands, the woman in question then glides away back to her seated position.

There had been no expectation in mind for the kind of greeting he deserved--not at first. It might have been a small wonder that he refrained from assuming the worst, too enraptured by the realization that he was in a place that lived in his mind as something fantastic and warm, the home of a community that could be placed near anywhere and stay as strong as if they were rooted in cement. The romance of it was overwhelming but, with all the practice afforded by near endless conflict with cruel and nasty people, he felt the true meaning of the word 'levity'.

A chipper smile creased its way into his cheeks with Ingrid's proposal, coming to understand her approach easily enough. It was easy enough to dismiss his nervous fretfulness as simple naivete but there was a distinct sharpness to him when it came to matters of reputation. The nature of popularity was fickle and reputation was sure to lull beneath its waves, ready to surface no matter the damage battering it. The Tuatha had, in The Valley of Cold Dew, been judged harshly for their ways as travelers. It was a xenophobic mentality he was too familiar with in Waterdeep--a place one should have considered to be a bastion of welcome attitudes towards cultures. Her offer, quite similar to the ones he penned on the daily, was met with a manner of excitement for the moment he'd lay hands on quill and parchment once again.

That rich smile was extended to Caoimhe for the sake of gratitude, his attention quite misplaced after Ingrid's less gratifying assumptions. As it were, he hadn't thought twice about the implication extended along with her charity, especially once he felt the weight of his favorite tools given. When he came to realize what her utterly undisguised and concise explanation truly meant, then he would settle into a well of anxiety and panic for her unfortunate fate.

"It's quite alright, I assure you. I'm a quiet sleeper and quite agreeable with one's needs for privacy," The distant expression of affection made for the quill given was one made from absence. Time on the road and time on his feet deprived him of his daily exercises. His journal was woefully empty for a span of days and that distance had its effect on him. Already, he was thinking of blessings to heap upon Caoimhe for her kindheartedness and for the wisdom Ingrid displayed for seeing through him with exceptional clarity. That she cared so much for her camp as to take him in and to be certain as to not waste his qualities was the sign of one who cared much for her family. His family would see straight through his beloved praise of Caoimhe for what it was in near under a minute.

"I'll have nothing but wonderful things to say about you all! Really, my father would jump straight out of his seat to know I've been so fortunate to meet you and make every demand that I be on my best behavior. I'll include a writ with my name to ensure the proper funds are included as well--," Though, there was a pause in him for the moment he set down the inkwell safely, leaving the feather poised at its mouth. He'd caught himself before he even thought of reaching for it but realized it would be terrifying for him to draw his sword in the middle of such a welcoming place. "Speaking of which! Would it be acceptable if I were to scribe this letter with my sword on lap? I rarely have good, flat surfaces available when I pen letters these days and I've gotten too used to using it as my substitute."

⁎ * ⁑ ∗ ⁕ Closed .

It's Been a Month

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