⁎ * ⁑ ∗ ⁕ Closed .

[amhran]

A bard warlock meets a barbarian warlock.

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[amhran]

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.

[blackliqeur]

"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--"

1/2

[amhran]

Caoimhe listens very intently...

[amhran]

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."

[blackliqeur]

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?"

[amhran]

"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?"

[blackliqeur]

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?"

[amhran]

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."

[blackliqeur]

"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?"

[amhran]

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.

[blackliqeur]

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."

[amhran]

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.

[blackliqeur]

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."