Nar 19, 228: "You Have A Big Day Tomorrow..."

"You Have A Big Day Tomorrow…"
Summary: The Crown Prince has an unexpected honor for a wounded pikeman.
OOC Date: 22/07/2013 (OOC)
Related: None
Tyrel Ciarrah Symon 
Crown Prince's Office — Darfield Castle
A man's room. This spacious room is graced with a gorgeous view of the ocean. Three tall windows, topped with gorgeous stained glass look out over the harbour to east, and the ocean below. Dominating it is a truly massive, oaken desk, topped with assorted bits of small statuary and objects of art. The desk is ornately carved with an elegant vine pattern. Behind it is a rather grandiose throne of a chair, carved in a somewhat gothic style. What isn't wood is covered in black leather secured by silver studs. In front of the desk is a cluster of smaller black-leather chairs. The hardwood floor is covered in a thick purple rug with silver trim. A few silver candelabras spaced about the room in addition to a few wrought-iron wall sconces provide plenty of light. The walls are paneled two thirds of the way up the wall with a dark cherry wood. From there on up they are painted purple, and about a foot from the ceiling is silver stenciling. On one side of the room, a bookshelf lines the wall, from floor to ceiling. The shelf is filled with books from all across Daeren. A door leads to a private room for the Prince.
Nar 19, 228

Standing near the window, looking out over the Sea of Darfield, is Prince Tyrel. He is wearing casual clothing consisting of a white linen shirt, partly unbuttoned, and a pair of black leather breeches. He holds in his hand, a goblet of wine. Also standing in the room is Sir Roane Leask, a Knight of the Rioga and a very respected man in Darfield, along with Prince Tyrel's new bride, Ciarrah Kilgour. Tyrel is talking with them about the tournament tomorrow, as they watch Aberdeen ships sailing into port. "I don't know if I should compete. I know you are getting tired of watching me win tournament after tournament." Tyrel teases the other man. Then the knock on the door comes. Tyrel turns to look, shouting, "Come in!" On his desk, there are various books, opened to different pages discussing strategy and warfare.

With a nod at something said by one of the guards outside, Symon waits for a moment to be led in, not expecting an announcement for a soldier. Wearing most of his repaired field armor but sans any sign of weaponry, a quick glance is shot around the office, and several steps taken towards the couple, before he stops and sinks down to one knee. With his gaze cast down, his throat is cleared, then in a deeper voice, "Your Highness. The Captain said you specifically asked for me. Pikeman Symon Farrow, m'Lord. Ah, and M'lady." While he still cradles the bandaged arm in against his side, it doesn't seem to be slowing him down too terribly much anymore.

With a bit of a cooler demeanor but only marginally so, Ciarrah remains at the window, looking out. As her husband mentions winning everything, she gives him an indulgent smile. "You being in it brings the others something to strive for. Who can truly be a winner without winning against the best?" Hearing the knock, she turns to face it, but stays where she was, a glass of wine in her hand as she watches the other man enter, offering him a brief nod, and a wisp of a smile.

Tyrel raises a brow at the man, then a glance is tossed to Roane. He looks back at the soldier appraisingly, before taking a step toward him. He reaches for the man's elbow, lifting him up from his bow. "Rise." He says simply. Once the man is back on his feet, he motions for him to have a seat, "Please. Sit." He smiles at him, before moving over toward the sideboard, "Wine? Mead?" He asks, "Which do you prefer?" He motions again, this time to the beverages for the man to survey the selection. He seems in a good mood, his lips constantly in a grin. A glance is given to Ciarrah, along with a wink.

Symon takes a moment to straighten back up, murmuring a soft thank you for the assistance. The chair is eyed for a second, and whatever internal debate going on in his head only lasts a for a few seconds longer, as he takes a step forward towards it, reaching out with his good hand, "Thank you, Your Highness. Mead would be wonderful." There's a bit of hesitation as he sits down, looking slightly at unease when he finally asks, "The Captain didn't explain what you wanted to see me for, sir. Just, ahem…'get my arse to the Prince's Offices.'"

Even yet, Ciarrah remains at the window, though her back is towards the view while her gaze settles on the Prince and the soldier. Roane is such a commonplace appearance wherever the Prince is, that she sometimes overlooks him. Catching the wink, her own expression mirrors his before she takes a sip of her wine.

Tyrel stares at Ciarrah for several moments, before breaking his attention back toward the Soldier. He nods once, "Mead it is!" He then turns and pours some mead into a fancy silver cup, with intricate engravings carved in the side. He turns back toward the soldier, and sits on the edge of the desk right in front of him. He holds the mead out toward him, making no comment of the reason he is here - or the foul language in front of his precious bride. Instead, he simply sits there with a smile on his face, "How are you healing, my friend?" He looks toward his arm, then back to his eyes, appraising the man for only a moment. Roane moves to take a seat, remaining silent.

At least for his part, the slight seems to have skipped past Symon's realization, for the look escapes him at the moment. When the cup is offered, he's already rising out of the chair to offer a bow of his head as it is accepted, "Thank you, your Highness. I'd like to get back to practice soon, but the Lady Ruxton came by last night and told me I should give it another day or two. I think the rest of the unit will be back up to strength in another week, m'Lord. The smiths repaired armor and weaponry quickly." Finally, he shoots a glance, just for a second, over at Ciarrah, before tearing his eyes away and sitting back down.

When Tyrel stares at her, Ciarrah waits until he has poured the mead before she walks over to stand at his side, gently touching the pads of her fingers on his shoulder and offering him a reassuring smile. Once he has seated himself, she slips down into a chair also.

Tyrel looks over to Ciarrah with a smile, as she touches his shoulder. He reaches up with a hand, and holds it on her hand for a moment, before looking back to the soldier. He lifts his goblet to his lips, taking a healthy drink, before setting it on the desk next to himself. "I heard how you handled yourself at Blackbarrow. How you held a flanking position, protecting the Rioga." He looks across to Roane, who nods to confirm Tyrels words. The Prince then looks back to Symon, "Is it true, that you held a hill against all odds, outnumbered two… maybe three to one?" He raises a brow, leaning forward abit in anticipation of his answer.

That does seem to necessitate a long drink from the cup, and a glance over to Roane when the Prince looks that way. A seond of quiet pervades while he considers, then slightly shakes his head, "I don't think anyone was counting, m'lord. That's what we do for the army: hold the line and stop the charge, and your Highness and the Lords fighting with you did seem to drive them into a frenzy. They wanted past rather horribly." He even manages a small smile at the comment, a glance at the Princess again, then he refocuses his attention on Tyrel, "When the Knight fell, we couldn't hear your voice and some of the men were wounded and starting to falter. I saw a better place we could dig in and defend…and father always said I was a bit of a loudmouth."

As soon as his hand takes hers, Ciarrah smiles in response but does remain seated at his side until he drinks most of his wine. Only then does she rise and walk over to the sideboard to refill his goblet, unobtrusively allowing the conversation to go on around her.

Tyrel continues sitting on the desk, crossing his arms over his chest as he listens to the man speak. He then purses his lips, pinching them with his fingers in thought, before pointing at him. "But…" he pauses a moment to study the man, "How did you know to take the hill? What made you think that hill would be easier to defend?" He glances to Roane, who is watching the soldier intently. He was at the bottom of that hill, and was more than likely saved by Symon. "Did you read a tactical book?" He asks the man, curiosity in his voice.

Symon stops for a second, the mead forgotten about when the question is asked. Small hints of surprise color Symon's expression, while he sits up a little straighter, "A book? No, your Highness. I am a blacksmith's son…there was never much time or call for books. No, sir, the hill had rougher approaches, and, well…you saw them sir, you were there. The footsoldiers surging forward like so much surf, and I knew what we could do against a charge. Where we were standing was mostly in the clear, they could just run up on us, and they were going to wear us down. But twenty feet forward and they'd have to be coming uphill at us from almost every angle, so long as you held the center, and well…if you fell, your Highness, there were more serious things to worry about. We picked a line and I had three of us stand with me at the end to keep them from rounding the flank." He pauses there for a second, thinking, then shakes his head, "I remember catching a couple of hits to the face after that, and the rest is a little blurry, m'lord."

After pouring Tyrel more wine, she replaces it back on the sideboard, though it seems the soldier still had some left as far as she could tell so she refills her own while there and returns to stand behind her husband as the soldier talks about his maneuvers that had helped to keep the war efforts ending as they had, with them winning. Placing her goblet aside, she places a hand on her husbands shoulder once more, gently trailing her fingers over the neck hem of his clothing.

Cold chills shoot up his spine and goosebumps rise on his skin as Ciarrah touches him. His eyes close a moment, then open as he tries to focus on the words of the soldier. Though, as the man talks, he leans forward, intent on his explanation. When the man stops, he nods, "I see." He stands, taking his goblet with him as he turns toward Ciarrah. He leans over, kissing her on the cheek, before turning toward the window, gazing at the sea for a moment. After a brief moment, he looks back to Symon. He studies him once more. "Tommorrow, you will be knighted." He lets that sink in for only a moment before continuing, "You will join the Rioga that you helped to save." He moves back toward his desk, taking a drink of his wine now as he awaits a reaction.

Symon is quiet for a moment, watching Tyrel rise and kiss his wife and start for the window, trying to read any concern or displeasure the story could have fostered. Well, then he makes that announcement. He blinks once, then glanes over at Roane, as if he could read something off of the other man's face, but just as quickly returns his attention to Tyrel, "Your Highness?" It would appear there was going to be more following that, but this time he at least remembered his company before engaging the mouth. Instead, the cup is set down and he rises up to his feet, "Did you say the Rioga, m'lord? That is…I" He stops again, then apparently chooses silence as the better reaction while the rest of it attempts to register. His gaze falls to Tyrel's feet, and a more reverent tone creeps into his voice, "You honor me far more than I deserve, m'lord. I am here to serve however you request of me."

Tyrel grins a bit at his words and reaction, tossing his own glance toward Roance, then to Ciarrah. He moves over, taking Ciarrah's hand in his own, kissing the knuckles gently, before giving her yet another wink. He then looks back to the soldier, shaking his head, "No, you honor us, by fighting for kingdom and the eight." He moves over to Symon, his hand clasping him on the shoulder, "One of those who came in as a healer was actually our smithy. He took your measurements. You will have a new set of steel plate armor ready in the morning. You shall wear it to the ceremony, which shall be before the tournament tomorrow." A grin is given now, "Now, you know the rites. You need a bath." His grin turns into a devilish smirk, and a laugh escapes his mouth. He reaches for his wine, then raises it in the air, "To Simon Farrow! Knight of the Rioga!" Sir Leask also joins in the salute and toast.

Symon glanes down at himself as Tyrel talks about armor and a bath, as if he just became pointedly aware of how woefully underdressed he was for such things. And while the bound arm is still crooked in against his side, he doesn't seem to be favoring it as much as he was when he first stepped into the offices, though the lance of color that has crept up the sides of his neck and into his cheeks when he gets smirked at is certainly a new thing, "A very thorough one, your Highness. I will not disappoint you." His voice trails off when the rest join the Prince in with his cheer, his eyes darting around at the other faces present while the color across his face darkens a shade or two further.

Tyrel takes a healthy swig of his wine, then moves back over to Symon, "Your quarters have been prepared, just down the hall. My guard will take you there. A bath has been drawn, and your pure white linens are ready. You do understand the rites, don't you?" He asks in a curious tone, a brow raised at the man. After the question, he moves back to sit next to Ciarrah, watching the soldier curiously.

Symon glances over at the guards for a second when the Prince speaks of them, nodding slowly when he's asked about the rites, "I think everyone in my unit knows about them, your highness. One of the men has a son that serves as a squire. It will be a bit different doing them, myself, though." He takes in a deep breath, steadying himself for a second, then says in a lower voice, "I will follow his lead then, your Highness. Saying 'thank you', sounds very ungrateful, considering, but I seem to be at a loss for any other words. Is there anything else you require of me this evening?" Apparently he's going to have to try to get to sleep after this. Ahahahahahaha…

Tyrel shakes his head, standing once more, and patting the man on the shoulder, "You have done enough. You have fought valiantly, and you have defended the kingdom. Get some sleep. Tomorrow is a big day." He gives a grin, "If you need help, send for Sir Leask." He glances to the Rioga, then back, "He is your brother now." The Knight in the corner raises his glass once more, offering a smile, as if to say 'yep!'

As the words are passed back and forth between the two, Ciarrah offers the soldier an encouraging smile when he seems to be without words. Finally, as the meeting seems to be drawing to a close, she rises and replaces her now empty wine goblet on the sideboard. "Congratulations, Sir Symon." Using the title he will be gaining tomorrow. Her eyes though seek and find her husband and the smile she gives him says more than any words ever could.

Symon offers a lower bow to the couple when they both address him, taking in a deep breath when he straightens back up, "Your Highnesses. I am honored more than I can express. By your leave." A step or two is taken back to excuse himself, before he turns to seek one of those Knights out with his eyes, lowering his head in acknowledgement as he approaches the guard that seems to be prepared to lead him off to new accommodations. Yes, the brain is melting down a little, but he's keeping it to himself and containing…at least until he gets to a room alone.

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