"You look determined, my Lord," Verdant noted with reverence. "Is there sothing you wish to achieve?"
"Only the bare minimum," Oliver said, falling into the role of the leader, soone distant from himself. He found that it helped to have Jorah just as nervous as he. If the others needed him, then he could be strong for them. Summoning strength for his own purposes was harder to do.
rely lifting his boot up to take the first step was harder than confronting his first Hobgoblin. Each step that followed was as painful as the days spent recovering from that deep wound he'd had to his leg. When he finally reached out to pound the knocker of a dragon, it brought with it as much trepidation as it would have to have confronted a real golden dragon itself.
Three strikes, and then he drew back to wait. Before he could even pull his hand away, the door was open, as though waiting right there for the second that he knocked. It brought to mind a mory of Judas, and how he always seed to hang right by Greeves' door, ready to pull it open.
The attendant that greeted them was far different to Judas though, for one, there was the obvious size difference – this was a ek-looking girl, about half his size, with none of his burly fra, and with glasses sitting on the end of the nose. The second most obvious thing was their mannerisms.
Judas was gruff, whereas this girl was refined – a refinent that extended far beyond Oliver's own, a refinent that one wouldn't expect from a yellow shirt. She'd clearly been trained well for her job of attending royalty.
"Good evening, Ser Patrick," she said, though her voice bore no semblance of true greeting. Those were rely words that she'd recited many tis before. "I see that you've brought two retainers with you. Very well. Arrangents will be made to accommodate them."
"You did not expect them?" Oliver asked, more for the sake of making conversation than anything else.
The girl looked down at him with the aid of the extra height that the step up into the room offered her. "I did not presu to expect anyone. It is not my role," she said. "You may enter when you are ready. Lancelot has arrived to escort you."
She glanced off towards soone beyond the door, soone they could not yet see until he presented himself.
"Good evening," Lancelot said coolly, as he stood at the door. His own outfit mirrored theirs, with the sword at his waist. Only, he had a golden jacket with coat tails that extended down towards the ground, and a ruffled blue shirt underneath it, with almost as much jewellery as Verdant wore.
Oliver had a vague recollection of him from the night before. A handso man was what he rembered. And that black hair, and almost feminine face, with well-oiled curls that shone, and a princely manner about his bearing.
Verdant bowed when he saw the man. "Good evening, Lord Swiftrider."
"Ah, young Idris," Lancelot greeted him. "I would have thought I would have been calling you Lord yourself by now. I was ever so disappointed when I heard that you'd taken the priesthood… and more disappointed still, in account of your recent choices. But I do rejoice the fact that you are still with us – when I heard of your shipwreck, I grieved for you like a brother."
"I have no doubt," Verdant said, maintaining his smile expertly, though Oliver could sense his anger. "You have always been a kind and generous person, even towards your lessers. It is a sha that so many years have passed since we last spoke like this. I should have co to greet you sooner."
"Indeed, you should have," Lancelot said. "Co. You were early, but now you are on ti. We will not leave Her Highness waiting."
He turned to leave, barely glancing in Oliver's direction. He seed to expect that they would follow. Oliver shared a look with Verdant, seeing the anger behind the man's blue eyes. It did much to lt his own nervousness. He stepped in, onto the tiled floor of the entranceway, and was greeted by an almost entirely different world.
These walls bore no hint of the stonework underneath. They were smooth, and painted white, with wooden panels halfway up, and many little doors that lead off into different rooms on the floor. These were far lighter doors than Oliver was accustod to seeing. Sothing about them seed to indicate the fact that this was a woman's residence – or at least, now it was.
That, and the abundance of flowers. There seed to be a pot of them blooming on every table, despite the season.
As they left the hallway, proceeding deeper into the main floor – which as it happened felt more like a house, more like Lombard's house, if anything – they heard music coming from off to the right. The gentle sound of a string instrunt. Lancelot led them in the opposite direction.
Attendants bowed as they passed – there were more of them there than Oliver would have ever expected. He had been on the floor for less than a minute, and he'd already seen more than a handful, each of them moving with delicate refinent, the picture of calm, as they carried out their duties.
Lancelot led them into a drawing room, where one wall was entirely made of glass, with a glass door leading out onto a wide balcony to accompany it. There were curtains to either side, which were completely drawn then, leaving bare the dark night sky, and the flickerings of stars as they attempted to shine through the clouds.
And there in the centre of the room was the danger – there sat Asabel Pendragon, as perfectly poised as a tiger, as she delicately sipped tea from a small teacup, sitting gently upright on her flowery sofa.
More attendants dotted the room. Another handful. More than a few of them were guards, or so it seed, from the swords at their hip. But they could not hide their yellow shirts – they were of the sa rank as Jorah, even if they were serving royalty.
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