(121-04-07) Moving Mountains
Moving Mountains
Summary: Who is it that would come all the way from the mountains of Flint to see Lady Hellan?
Date: 07/04/14
Related: None

Sailmaker's Manse

This modest stone manse is well appointed, with three levels, each about thirty feet square.

The lowest includes a main hall with a massive stone fireplace, and an exit into the stable. There are no windows facing the wynd, but an arched door and wide windows give a view of a walled garden in the back. The back garden wall is the wall of a house the next alley over, and its windows and those of the surrounding residences might offer a view of the garden, but no access.

The floors above house several chambers of varying sizes, a few with fireplaces joining the single big chimney.


Leather and metal slide and rustle together as Lady Hellan stands in the main hall of the Sailmaker's Manse, Oldtown home of the Lady Mormont, fixing a belt of chainmail links around her waist. Instead of a noble lady's gown, she's donned a dress — black, black as a bear — that only reaches the knee with practical taut leather trousers underneath and worn boots. Her dark hair's swept back away from her face, and in the firelight it's harsher for it, her cheekbones razors. The fireplace crackles loudly, fighting off the damp. A battle-axe and a blunted sword sit on the sturdy wooden table in front of her; meant for meals, but this is just as well in a Mormont household, isn't it. If her daughter spotted her now … but she doesn't; it's one of the moments that she's found herself alone, save for the rare servant; the tromping about the manse is minimal this afternoon. Every one of Hellan's movements is filled with a certain determined bitterness.

The front door's opening and closings, likely wouldn't register as much here. With whatever breeze these Southerners are used to, it's scratched at the door and closed all the same. Except not. A lone servant in lowly spun clothing will arrive to the room in which Hellan has made her stand, before quiet words are issued in softer strains. The poor girl, trying to explain whom the visitor is without much disturbance-before hurrying with the last line o getting something strong to drink. Should the lady turn, she'd find him easy.

Like a skeleton of a wolf, or wolfhound-the man lingers in the doorway, halfway between hall and entry. His wiry frame leaned against the sturdy wood beam, and his dress much more spartan than what he's encountered here. And as girl passes there's a sound of leather slipping a loop and the scratch of buckle-before weighty enough weapon is passed to her with the quiet request of: " 'ang her up.." Quietly this lone man eyes the woman-much like a bast come upon someone in the dead of wood, trying to suss out whether he should amble along his path or go back from whence he came. Dingy hand up to scratch at his own facial hair before he finally takes a step in.

"Hellan Stark." greets Roane.

Hellan has little patience for the servant, only beginning to pay her mind when she realizes the visitor is for her; at first, she expects it to be her husband, returned for his family; the reality of the visitor does not strike her until she turns. A slow turn of her shoulder — a sharply defined square in her dress, her rigid noble stance. The turn of her head is secondary, slower still, but her eyes precisely, exactingly leveled on the man the second they hit. Shock startles her, but only flares in those eyes, seeming darker than their icy grey in the shadows of the hall; the rest of her is stark still. With weapons so close at hand, she might look a threat.

"What," her voice is bold and finely spoken as ever, but something hoarse bothers her throat, disoriented beneath her defenses. " — are you doing here?"

It is not a sight he has not seen before, but it is clearly a sight not seen in some time. There's a bit of a rasp to his throat when he offers a chuckle, and there tries another step forward. Though, given the sudden bit of speech he holds. Roane there careful of his surroundings and of the weapons close at hand, have him hesitating long enough to give further pause to skirting back out like a ghost conjured by speaking names. No..No husband, but likely something as close or worse to have stumble in with the wind.

"You." he says without motion. "I came here for you..or t' find you. This is where he said you'd be." A grimace there as he looks over his shoulder. "I don't know these lands well."

"You came here for me." The woman's words are sharp and incredulous, as though she means to mock him for his stupidity. He steps back, she finds motion and steps forward, one hand dragging along the heavy table's edge, finding its corner; that's where she stops, staring at Roane. Her gaze is a good deal more searching and wondering than her black-and-white words put forth. Hellan's distinctly sculpted mouth opens on a shift of her jaw that would have her speak. It takes her a moment.

"He," she repeats. This is where he said she'd be. "He told you where I was, but did not come himself," Hellan gleans; now, the harshness has shifted toward her absent, faraway lord husband. She swallows. It's stiff, her pale skin as armour. "Is it of your own volition that you've come, then," her fingertips trail off the table, "or do you have some news from the North?"

"Should I repeat it, or can you not comprehend words?" His response is a bark, though it lacks bitterness. The Northman's own response a product of his culture and his own standing. As for himself Roan remains where he is, eyes trailign to where her hand rests before he is looking back up there. A squint and narrowing of eyes, but the Flint doesn't move nor does much more emotion come from him. He waits for an answer, but it seems that whatever bit there is enough to get him by.

"Gidion." he states as if the obvious needed to be aired. "I'd not heard from you in some time, so I stalked to Winterfell to see what came of you." he adds, as if further explanation would be needed. "And yes, he did." all plain and easily spoke before he is now coming fully intot he room and there his own brand of ownership given-like that territory claimed. "It is of my own volition-and with some news. Nothing terribly urgent." a screwing up of his face there. "He is still alive-though I don't know his fate. Nor does he. Cregan apparently knows." meaning Gidion's decisions and fate. "Nothing else of what binds keep us." meaning a missing man-he would be a man now would he?

Hellan watches him closely, her jaw tightening as she recognizes the way in which he moves. Claiming territory. It is not his. Her head casts down, weighted by thought over the news. Acceptance, sadness, disappointment? She gives away nothing. Her cheeks seem to hollow, sucked in, the bones above seeming all the more defined, strong. As her head rises, she steps closer, only a few feet from her unexpected visitor. On the way to looking him in the eye, she studies his face. Her voice goes down a notch. "This is a long way to come, Roane Flint of House Flint of the Moutains." The statement may be obvious, but beneath her straightforwardness is something less so; the questioning. It is a long way to come. For her.

It is indeed a long way to come. Something he has mulled over since his coming here. In fact he's been rightly chewing on that for some time. A swallow there before he is looking back up, and his steps bring him to her. But he doesn't reach out for her, or anything of that nature. Instead he is looking to the weapons on the table-his hand moving for the axe. A hitch of his breath, before he eases out a sigh and turns to stare. And stare he does, right back at her. "A long ride and even longer walk." Which should show som depth to where he went or why. Still he doesn't answer further. There are no tear stained declarations. just the admission it was a long way to come. "Should I go?" and head back up North seems the silent question from Roane Flint, but it is asked all the same. "Otherwise. I should stay." Regardless if he is overtly liked-or not.

A few seconds of silence pass, in which the slender muscles of Hellan's neck are at war, tensing against each other and relaxing. It is hardly a show of emotion; rather, it keeps a show of emotion at bay. "You should not stay," she answers. "Here. It would not be right. And we— … I do not wish to impose upon Maera; this is her home. You will stay the night to rest from your journey, and on the morrow you'll find somewhere to stay." A soft crease bothers her between her brows, some distant cousin of regret; a glimmer in her gaze again, the searching. "I don't expect you to find the Reach to your liking."

The war is noted, and ever like any other Northman worth his salt, it's met with stoic lines on his face-where the only emotion rippling is contained to his eyes and what looks are given the Stark woman. "I didn't come here for fancy knights, or posh shit." he growls soft-which in and of itself can be a sign to something that only the lady would glean. "If you want, I can go back." That is the question there-whether his trek down here was in vain or not. And so he turns and stares right not, not hiding much from whatever the searcher is looking for. "But, I will find a place t' stay after the night. And I'll wait t' figure your answer."

Roane's summation of the Reach brings a flicker of a smile to Hellan, though it is wry at the corners. It softens as if she's forgotten it was there, as she listens to him, and then reverts to a stern line. "What decision is it of mine," she challenges, though not as bold as the Mormont turned Stark is capable. "You're a free man." Her shoulders push back, and she turns to walk along the table, briefly and idly skimming over the pattern on the handle of her axe. Her hand jumps as if burned and moves to the blunted sword. "Whatever I lord over you," her back is turned as she speaks, "I do not control where you place your feet or rest your head."

"No you do not." Roane replies. "And I am free in so much that I committ no crimes." he adds before looking back to her. "But I have a lord, and I do his bidding." likewise to say without speaking he has a lady and would honor her word. "Perhaps I should ask you this, and speak plainly to me. Would I be a burden to you here?" Not meaning Maera's house as much as he means to other things. A glance is given the axe and then back over to her as he reaches for the axe. "Did He give this you?" A subtle enough question without probing.

"He did." Lady Hellan's head turns in profile, her eyes pointed down to the weapons on the table, half-mast. She has the stern look of deep thought about her, but then, she rarely does not. "I had a mind to spar, or destroy a mark at the tourney grounds." A faraway thought now, and the words are distant themselves, filling space while she thinks. Stalls. She does not look toward Roane. "You're not a burden."

"Then you should use it. Regardless of what he has done to your name or honor. This is your weapon." he adds there in a brief brilliant flash of verbosity for the Flint. And then he looks back over to her. "I'll see to my horse-but I will come skulking round your door." At whatever time that would be. And there Roane falls silent for a bit. "When I asked him…" he adds his hand trialing along the table. "He said it was good for me to go for you. Whatever that is worth." A shrug, and like that he is slinking to the shadow. See to his own beast before cleaning up himself.

"I … will have a servant prepare you a room upstairs," Hellan says to Roane — rather, to the shadows, as she looks over her shoulder. More curt and distanced words than 'skulking around your room'. As the mountain man disappears, she hefts the axe off the table, considering the weapon; considering its weight.

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