(121-03-18) A Dangerous Place to Be Dornish
A Dangerous Place to Be Dornish
Summary: In which Emilia is unsure whether to fear for her life, and speaks to Laurent on the subject.
Date: 03/18/2014
Related: None
Players:
Emilia..Laurent..

Laurent can be found in the sitting room of his suite, hunched over a desk. There are two books spread before him, and a stack of papers to hand, which appear to be letters. He frowns at the papers, frozen in place for the moment. He has a quill in one hand and a goblet of wine in the other, but doesn't look like he has used either one in a while. A fire burns in the hearth, its light showing that he is alone in the suite.

Emilia has been searching, though not well, and with a final word from a servant has been directed to the suite. With a knock upon the door she will press through, stepping to the sitting room, knocking on a wall there as she sees the man she's been looking for hunched over the desk, "Ser Laurent, have you a moment?"

Laurent's dark eyes go to the door, and his heavy brow lifts at the sight of her in the doorway. "Lady Emilia," he says, not quite a question, but only barely shy of it. "Of course." He hesitates over the books a moment, considering whether to glare at them while he talks, but in the end he closes both and stands. A ledger, it looks like, and a journal. The latter is opened to a short list, though it's impossible to make out the details from the doorway. He waves toward a small group of chairs near the hearth, and moves to slouch heavily into one of them.

Emilia's steps draw her closer, quick eyes catching sight of the ledger and book, though her attention is stolen by the waving hand as it gestures to the chairs. Hesitantly she'll move to sit, crossing the distance and settling back, skirts of her dress sorted out as she sits up straight, hands on her knees, "I'm sorry to bother you during such busy times but ..I was told of the attack." Swallowing she will glance to the fire now, breathe held, "I promise you, as I did my husband, I sent /nothing/ to them, I've not spoken to them in /years/, I ..had no word, they sent nothing to do me in warning, anything. I am /not/ a Blackmont." Her words are carried quickly as if afraid they might be stricken from her, "I am an Oakheart. Through and through. If I could aid in riding of them myself I would, I assure you."

Laurent listens to her words, his eyes narrowing as they rush out. Already beady, those dark eyes are mere skeptical slits by the time she's finished, but he nods. "You're the Blackrood's wife," he growls, "That's enough for me. I reckon if you were false, he'd kill you himself, wouldn't he?" Ever tactful, the Thorn. "How much have you heard? You reckon it was Blackmont, then?"

"I thought he was going to do as much." The woman admits, quite a pale yellow, all of this having been quite rough on her, "I don't know, I only know what my husband has told me and /he/ is sure it was them, questioned me if I had received any word, anything, of them warning me perhaps ahead of time." Her voice quavers with each word, still not sure of her own safety within these walls, "But if there is a way for me to …find out, I would be willing, to prove myself true to my husband and you. I swear it."

Laurent's eye remains critical, and his tone sour, though his words might be some small comfort. "You've no need to prove anything to me," he says with a curt shake of his head. "You're Ser Quillian's wife, and so long as that's true I'll raise my sword 'gainst any man who means you harm. Your innocence or guilt in it, to my mind, is for your husband to decide."

A soft exhale fetters out from her lips, some tiny relief found, though not much, "If there is a chance I /can/ help, Ser Laurent, I would do it in a heart beat." A pause, the inside of her lip bitten as she grips the arms of the chair now with a lift up of slender hands, "I have been told to not leave these walls, is it truly that bad out there?"

"It's bad," Laurent agrees, his tone black. "If you've been told, it were by a wiser man than me. I'd listen." His broad shoulders rise and fall in a shrug, and he gestures toward the desk, almost an afterthought. "Wine?" There's a flagon there, and extra goblets. "I can't see how you could help, in truth. Not unless you can kill Dornishmen. That's how this is to end."

So it will be again as it was in the first days of her acquisition and arrival. Shaking a little she'll nod, rising up to go and fetch the wine and goblets, needing to move for a moment, antsy, "I am not sure either, in all honesty. I'd offer myself up as bait, but I know my husband would not allow as much and to be honest, the ruse would not last long as I'd wish to rip out their throats." Stated with a hiss as she grabs the flagon of wine, pouring two glasses, both brought back, one handed to Laurent, the other brought to her lips immediately as she settles back down, "It is madness."

Laurent looks surprised when she pours for him as well, but takes it readily, with a nod of thanks. He, too, takes a quick gulp before he answers. "We'll see it through, one way or another," he says confidently, the words slightly muffled as he wipes a bit of wine from his lips with the back of one hand. "In the meantime, you'll not have any trouble from me or my cousins. Nor our staff." His dark eyes are steady on hers as he adds, "If you do, you're to come straight to me, Lady. I'll not stand for it."

Emilia's bottom lip curls beneath her top teeth, her glass stared at and liquid swirled around a moment or three, "You'll ensure my husband doesn't do anything stupid, as well, to risk himself?" There is a tone of pleading there in her tone, they both know Quill well enough to know that he is not exactly a subdued man, "I will, Ser Laurent, thank you, but I've not received anything that should cause me worry in these walls. I believe everyone is of the belief I was a part of this, that I would be thoroughly lifeless this moment." Dryly stated, her eyes closing. Thank the Gods her husband is who he is and of the disposition he is or she'd be pooched, no doubt.

"I think we both know very well," Laurent says grimly, "That I can't do anything of the sort. Quill's a man of his own mind, with a head as hard as the Smith's anvil." He shrugs, pausing to sip at the wine again, then adds, "And if he's dead, I suppose I will be too. So I'll be in no place to chastise him, will I?"

"I can hope for some intervention." Emilia will reply, still dry, a sigh escaping her as she takes another drink of wine, lips pursing a bit, "No, but then who will I chastise if you're both dead? Who's next on the rung, I'll have you tell me so I can ensure it's done in your stead."

"Gods," Laurent says, rolling his eyes toward the ceiling — not in dismissal, but in thought. "Joss Flowers, I suppose? He's a fair enough choice, and he has a thin skin. So don't go easy on him. He needs toughening up." Another short slurp of wine and he adds a touch of black humor. "I'll be dead though, so it will hardly matter to me, will it?"

"Well it should, since if you and my husband die I will fashion matching goblets in the same style as my fathers skull out of his and yours and you three will spend an eternity upon a shelf, brought out for only the most joyous of occasions." Emilia breathes out all in one quick sentence, inhaling in then before she rises up, nodding, "Thank you for speaking with me, Ser Laurent, I should leave you back to your work which looked most serious."

"I've always enjoyed a feast," Laurent says, rising when she does, "And I won't be using the damned thing." He lifts one hand to rap the knuckles on his thick forehead. "I'd never refuse you, Lady Emilia. Call on us again. My lady wife would be glad to meet you, I think." And that is apparently what passes for a goodbye from the Thorn, because he turns and walks back to the desk, draining his wine as he goes.

With that said Emilia will stride out after finishing off her wine, setting the empty goblet out, before vroom.

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