(122-06-10) The Fine Arts and the Feral
The Fine Arts and the Feral
Summary: Lord Clovis puts on a lovely show in Hightower Square; Lady Hellan appears to take issue with basically everything, while Prince Jurian has his eye on just as much.
Date: 10/06/2015
Related: None

Hightower Square - Oldtown

This is a broad cobblestoned square, ringed by grand buildings hewn from stone. A massive fountain, also hewn from the same strong grey stone, stands in its center. It is wrought in the form of the Hightower in miniature. A tiny flame burns at its peak, and crystal waters pour from its base, pouring down the stony pedestal into the mirror-smooth pond below.

Stone benches offer places to sit, vendors cry their many wares, merchants ply their trade, and all around one can see the finely-dressed Oldtown wealthy meandering about. There is a pleasant smell of cooking food in the air, tingeing the ever-present smell of the salt sea, and a hint of perfumes and spices.

To the West, the Hightower street leads away. To the South, the archway to the Beacon Boulevard rises. To the North, with the Watch House standing alongside, is a stretch of street leading to the Beacon Gate and out to the Roseroad beyond. The cobblestone market square is quite clean and fresh, with nary a sign of any beggars, street rats, or grimy peddlers hawking stolen goods. The buildings here are in pristine condition.

It… is happening again. The merry laughter is an early morning treat delivered to the square by the antics surrounding Lord Clovis Tyrell. Today he is dressed in a bright salmon colored tunic that is very nearly more pink than orange in the early morning light. He's got a vibrant purple scarf in his hands and he is encircled by children once again. Unlike yesterday he isn't pawning coppers off on dirty urchins in Oldtown Square. No, today, the young noble is in like company as three or four wealthy younger children stand by watching the animated Tyrell with laughter painted in their smiles. "Just a scarf, right?" He hands the scarf to the youngest girl, nine, she checks it nod and hands the fabric back.

Lord Clovis whips the scarf through the air while at the same time pulling a small orange from his pocket with the free hand. His misdirection is effective and the illusion insists he pulls the orange right out of the empty scarf right in front of their eyes. An awed clapping sounds as he hands the fruit to the same girl.

Into the square and its cheerful display comes the portrait of a cold chill. She arrives from the direction of the Beacon Gate, perhaps the least likely of directions for a lady to be travelling on foot. Were it not for the powerful fur around her collar, the cut of her clothes — plain, but sharply angled, noble — and the wolf's-head pin of House Stark at her throat, this woman might seem as though she has wandered in from poorer streets. Lady Hellan is pale and her expression is wrought in bitter struggle, her eyes sunken darkened beneath their reddened rims; signs of weakness that all serve to mark the strong structure of her face all the more. Her steps are slow — too slow — and reluctantly halt near the center of Hightower Square. She looks at the performing Tyrell as if the display both burns and offends her eyes.

Time for another morning walk. Jurian isn't up quite as early this morning as he was yesterday, but he's doing pretty well for a prince. He seems keen on inspecting the Hightower Square by daylight, since it was nearly packed up last night by the time he got there. He notices Clovis right away and pauses to watch the tricks from a distance. The noble Stark goes unnoticed for the moment.

Lord Clovis Tyrell pays no mind to sour dispositions from the North. Even -if- he spotted her, The Show Must Go On. He gives a mock bow which was more of a flourish of his hand to the children as they cheered. In the gesture the purple fabric simply seems to disappear. They laugh again and with a unabashed grin on his face from the corner of his vision Lord Clovis spots the Prince. He claps once and turns more pointedly back to the children as his humor evaporated some, "That's it for today. I've no more fruit, run along- find your parents." He shoos them in his endearing way and they scatter leaving the scent of sweetly won citrus in their wake.

Hellan brings a hand to her brow, palm flat and facing down to shield the glare of the sky from her view of the performance. Or perhaps it's to shield her view of the performance. It does little either way, at any rate, and she drops her hand at her side, where it falls beneath the overhang of her cloak, which she wears despite the warm weather. She eyes the wealthy children running past with as much annoyance as she might if they were street urchins.

Jurian still doesn't seem to want to be touched by scattering children, but that is perhaps understandable. Even wealthy brats have sticky hands, especially when you're handing out oranges. Jurian looks down long enough to avoid their haphazard paths, then back to the entertainer. "You prefer the company of the children."

Lord Clovis laughs at the Prince out of hand before he seems to catch himself. The nobleman blushes and his eyes find the cobblestones for a fleeting moment in unspoken in apology as he said instead, "Children don't judge." It is rather softly spoken and he adds more surely. "And it a trivial hobby, a past time to keep my hands clever I find games and such don't keep the attention of most adults for long. I never did see the need for bloodshed in most things." Lord Clovis chuckles and shrugs as he jests, "Perhaps I am a child, in that sense." The purple scarf simply appears again and he fiddles with it one handedly from the end of his sleeve where it hung.

Hellan has every intention of whisking right by without interest in Clovis, nor the prince; however, something slows her down, and it's not a sudden fascination with fanciful scarves. There's a sway to her step as she moves forward, and she must catch herself, forging forward as though the act of walking is a greater challenge at the moment than it is for most. Her issue does not prevent her from interjecting upon the conversation as she nears it. "Children are stupider and more easily misled." She speaks the tone of a mumble and nothing else— it's loud enough.

Jurian smiles at the first remark. "Is that a criticism?" His expectant gaze is then drawn aside by Hellan and her remark. He looks curious, then smiles again. "I expect my lady speaks from the experience of having reared them."

"You -must- be good at spotting weakness." Lord Clovis croons in a charming veneer of sarcasm at the Stark woman's interjection. A slick little smile cuts across Lord Clovis' face and he looks from the Prince back to the new arrival. "And I'm certain first hand experience always helps. I simply do my tricks in the square and who do you think always comes around to watch. The children are idle, they linger. The adults rush by to bake bread and collect rents, run houses…" He fades off into a droll monotone that should have said it for the man concerning Responsibility.

Hellan responds to Jurian with a half-hum, half-grunt of confirmation that doesn't seem to harbour any particularly fond memories of child "rearing". It isn't until afterward that she looks at him, seeming to remember only belatedly that he looks like a Targaryen, narrowing her eyes; her gaze seems to go from sharp and discerning to cloudy at a moment's notice; it clouds before she can address him, if indeed it was ever in the cards. Distractedly, she squints at Clovis. "What's the point," she asks, perplexed, more bitter than truly curious. "Do they pay you, the children?"

Jurian looks the woman over while she and the young entertainer talk, noting the cloudy gaze, the sense of unaccustomed weakness in face and posture. He does not remark on these aspects, but he makes no secret of noting each line, each sway, each asymmetry.

"I don't know what they celebrate up North but the laughter of children in the streets is something the people of Dorne find charm in." Lord Clovis Tyrell shrugs and his face suggests he was simply sorry for the big gal but just didn't have the words to make her understand. "Not all points are as obvious as the one at the end of your blade, my Lady." He looked down and away from both of them with a coy expression as he cleared his throat.

"You look like you hail from Dorne as much as I hail from bloody Valyria," Hellan argues for the sake of arguing. Her feet shift, and she steadies her balance. "There is nothing truer than the point of a blade, even in Dorne," she adds responds with clarity. In this moment of sharpness, she turns to eye Jurian suddenly but silently, simply as if to say: I see you, too. The lady bristles beneath the heavy ruff of her cloak.

Jurian smiles at Hellan. "He's a Tyrell," the Targaryen supplies. "Back from a sojurn in Dorne." It's hard to say which of them, if either, he is teasing.

Lord Clovis Tyrell looks to the heavens and with a passing mummer he places the back of his hand to his temple. "Oh, that is going to get old fast." This quipped even before the Prince supplied his explanation. After which he nods to the woman adding, "So you see I am not Dornish but I did live there for ten years… A lovely people." The subtle sneersmile seemed to suggest the unspoken was, 'unlike some.'

"Of course he is." Hellan asides to Jurian as she regards Clovis anew but without surprise, tipping her chin back to do so in order to angle her gaze down upon him. "I see it now, the pretty pretty face with that little nose…" What could be a forward compliment is, without a doubt, rather the opposite coming from the unrepentant Stark lady. "And ah, there we have the Tyrell smile." A faint smile of her own forms, scarce and cool at the corners of her lips.

Jurian smiles as Hellan analyzes the young lord's face, turning his head so that he can follow her description with his eyes. "Mm, it's all quite true. He has a cousin whom he resembles, Ser Loryn."

While some may smile at the appraisal of his face Lord Clovis just flares his nostril slightly and seems to take offense. "And you. You with the manners of a wolf, you must be a Stark." He hits that k hard and looks back over at her using that same smile she so seemed to enjoy. To the Prince who said he looked like Ser Loryn, Clovis turn and nods politely. "Why, thank you Your Highness." He must approve of being compared to his cousin.

And Hellan seems to approve of being pegged as a Stark, for her smile turns more true. "I am that, but it is wolves I married. The insult you're looking for is manners of a bear," she offers, forever a Mormont. A thin sheen of sweat covers her pallor, but she remains determinedly where she is, straightening her shoulders. "Ah, Ser Loryn," she repeats familiarly, a slight mockery of fondness to be found in her tone.

Jurian chuckles quietly. "This one is a little prettier, though," he mentions, then looks down and pulls a clean handkerchief from his belt, offering this silently in Hellan's direction.

"Ah Fair is fair, I wouldn't know bear from a wolf it bit me- all in all too feral for my taste." He has a softly spoken disposition that never gets too riled by the Northwoman's words. This time the Prince's remark doesn't get a thank but a sidelong nod and subtle blush. "Don't let him hear you say that…" Is muttered from the side of his mouth more for comedy than any other likely reason.

"Now there," Hellan starts, gets distracted, blinks heavily and returns to her sharpness of gaze, "is some wisdom on which we can agree." She speaks with a hint of humour that is not entirely bitter, this time — at least toward her present company, if not the absent Tyrell at the expense of the joke. She does not look at Jurian, missing or refusing to take note of the handkerchief.

Jurian laughs again, this time at Clovis's comment rather than Hellan's. "Oh, he noticed," he says lightly. "Why do you think he's making you audition, even with ten years of training and his family's name? Because he's afraid to show favoritism? Bosh. Why should a nobleman who owns his theater have fear of that?" After leaving his hand extended while he talks, he tucks the cloth back in his belt.

"Truly?" Lord Clovis asks of the Prince and there his naivety shines through with earnest. "Jealousy is such a wasted emotion." The young Tyrell imparts both matter of fact and dismissive in the same breath. "He can have his audition. I've never feared the stage. Bears, perhaps. Not the stage." A little wink to the older Stark Lady on the word bears but he doesn't really pay her any mind as it is just a byproduct of his attention seeking nature. Lord Clovis muses to the Prince. "It'll be a pity for him when I have to upstage the poor chap."

"It should be entertaining then should you ever have to perform the Bear and the Maiden Fair," Hellan adds. Her eyes seem on the verge of a roll with all this talk of the stage, but it's the scrap of amusement toward upstaging Loryn that keeps her listening.

Jurian can't help grinning a little at Hellan's comment, but then lets his gaze drift back toward Clovis. "I'm sure it would only push you both to greater achievement."

"I never -have- to perform anywhere." The spoiled Clovis quips to Hellan. "I stand to inherit my father's silk trade in Oldtown throughout parts of Dorne. It is a long running operation. My mother has quite the head for business and has been taking care of things in my father's old age. So I play where I like and perform what I wish…" An entitled little smile can't help but find residence on the Tyrell's scuplted lips. To the Prince in stride, "Nothing like competition though. It is good to have family business to support in my preferred field."

Lady Hellan's dark brows rise and her broad mouth tenses at the corners like she might laugh. "Oh, may my gods and yours forgive me my errant ways in assuming a Tyrell has to do anything his pretty little heart doesn't desire," she says, heavy on sarcasm but low on conviction. She's dismissive; the insult does not have much true vitriol behind it. She shakes her head, which seems to put an ill cast over her face and she turns as if to leave.

Jurian regards Hellan when she turns to go. "My lady?" he says, tone questioning and brows lofted. "Watch your step on the way home." He smiles.

Lord Clovis doesn't say farewell if Lady Hellan is making a silent departure herself. He simply stands nearby and his body is positioned as it usually was when resting- hands clasped near his solar plexus and his feet set in Third Position.

"I know the way, prince," Hellan says, her voice kept controlled just so to prevent from snapping outright — remarkably. She has no goodbye for the men, regardless of their stations; she indeed simply turns to make her way slowly but pridefully along the cobblestones.

Jurian watches the lady go. "Do you know her name?" he asks, though there's no particular reason Clovis should.

Clovis shakes his head at the Prince as Hellan makes her exit. "No," He abides softly with his eyes still on her back, they cut away swiftly back to the Prince. "I just noticed the Wolf on her.." His left hand touches the spot on his own chest where her wolf had been. "And saw her demeanor with a Prince- it was a guess." Lord Clovis nods to the Prince and inhales deeply. "That was a refreshing welcome back to the world." Sarcasm, but an oddly refreshing sort… he wasn't jaded in his observations.

Jurian smiles at the sarcasm. "That is why you should've looked happier to see me," he says.

"I was perfectly pleased to see you." Lord Clovis simpers rather off handedly as he goes on to add, "I just found myself on the defensive before I knew what to say…" If it is an excuse it is not given with any sort of ill will. "And that was no fault of present company. Rest assured."

Jurian considers this, gaze drifting skyward. When it comes back to earth, the prince proposes, "How about something to eat?" He gestures toward the stalls.

The young noble nods to the Prince as he looks over at the food stalls. "That's an inspired idea. All I ate this morning was a piece of fruit."

Unless otherwise stated, the content of this page is licensed under Creative Commons Attribution-ShareAlike 3.0 License