(121-03-19) Of An Age
Of An Age
Summary: Hellan speaks to Maera about young Genevra's intent to fight.
Date: Date of play (19/03/2014)
Related: To Fight Like a Woman
Players:
Hellan..Maera..

Lady Hellan drifts through the manse like a ghost who doesn't know where it is or why it's trapped in this world. For all her bold, intelligent presence when she speaks or looks someone in the eye, she is a quiet presence here in her temporary home, sometimes hardly seeming to be around at all; sometimes hardly seeming to be present when she is around, especially of late. Pale and bleary-eyed, she drifts. Down a corridor, down the stairs to the main hall where there may be surer sounds of life. Her fingers are smudged with ink.

In contrast to Hellan, Lady Mormont always seems to be busy. She returns to the Manse accompanied by the man she calls The Wulrus dressed in her practice armor with Longclaw strapped to her back. She grabs up missives waiting at her desk, and breaks the seal on them while she reaches for bread. "Aunt Hellan…" She greets, eyes lifting up from her letters to look over the woman.

Hellan glances up through an automatic, ingrained instinct and life minutely strengthens her gaze when she focuses on Maera. "Maera," she greets, her fondness distant but present. After her eyes drop and she finds herelf studying the armour on her niece's body that she repeats, "Maera," as though she's just now remembered something she meant to tell her. Quite the case. She moves closer, blinking against her clinging daze. "I meant to speak to you." About… something… ah; it alights in her eyes, "About Genevra."

Maera sits the letters and bread down on the table, and comes forward to put a gentle hand on Hellan's elbow. "Genevra? Ah, I hope nothing is amiss?" She begins to guide the older woman towards the chairs near the hearth.

"Well." Hellan's dark brows lift in nearly cynical consideration over what may or may not be amiss where her daughter is concerned, but it is short-lived. She eases toward the hearth upon being guided, but is stiff to the touch. "She has much to learn of the world." A small measure of effort sinks into her voice as she does, into a chair. "But she is intent on being a warrior. She would have fit in better at home, on Bear Island, than as a lady in a great house. I told her that if she is to learn to fight, she will do so like a Mormont."

"Girls that age are all muddled up." Maera says, and then she lets out a sigh, "Ulyka left the house. We had a…ah, a quarrel. She didn't like me doing something that really has no effect on her. So, I thought I'd let her stay out for a bit." There's a pause, "Genevra can be taught how we do things on the Island." She nods once to this, "She's a bit old to be beginning, but it's never too late."

Hellan frowns over the news of Ulyka; it's possible she hadn't even noticed the girl wasn't around. She wets her lips and leans further back against the chair, her brow pressed downward. "Yes," she agrees. "I have had a time explaining to her that she does not have to pretend to be a boy to be strong. She looks outward for education, to all these… knights running around the Reach, yet here she is, not realizing how lucky she is to be in the company of Lady Mormont." After her irritation with her daughter fades — at least, fades enough — Hellan smiles to her niece, the expression small but enough to crinkle her eyes. "I would appreciate your help in teaching the girl. I don't want you to spend too much time on her, I know you are busy, and she is a handful."

"I would spend the morning training Ulyka. Now I will spend that time on Genevra. When Ulyka returns they shall have a sparring partner, and perhaps Ulyka will have something to guide and ground her." Maera frowns at this last bit, "Has she had any formal training at all?"

"Not formal, as such." Hellan's throat tightens visibly after the fact. "She has coerced informal training from whomever would listen to her, of that I am certain." Her hands fold upon her lap, the top pressing into the bottom. It is there she looks. "She had different expectations placed upon her at Winterfell," she adds, straight and plain yet reluctant, at the edges. A fact; an excuse.

"Well…." Maera says with a slow exhale. She leans back in her chair to stretch languidly, "We will have our work cut out for us. Who knows what bad habits she's picked up in the past?"

Hellan's gaze might hold a soft tinge of regret as it rises, but it's squared away, her features hardening to their normal strong edges. She, too, exhales slowly. "We have Mormont blood on our side," she says without the positivity that should entail. "And she is very…" She looks into the hearth until a proper word forms. "…eager." Understatement.

"She'll do well for herself." Maera says with a stern nod of her head at this declaration. "She is Mormont and Stark. The blood of the first men runs in the girl's veins. She is strong, and hearty, and she will do well for herself. You've nothing to worry about."

"Mmm," Hellan murmurs low. Agreement, thought, whatever her opinion, it remains in her throat. She runs the back of a finger over her mouth, catches a glimpse of an ink smear and thinks better. It draws her out of her stare into the hearth, if barely. "She will be pleased." The woman sounds dull, distant; perhaps prone to another daze.

"Hopefully she will never need what I teach her, but I think it's better that she does know." Maera asserts this with a quick, faint smile before she stands up from the chair. "I'll see to her tomorrow morning." She promises with a nod before she turns to walk back up the stairs.

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