06.20.3013: Setting the Stage
Summary: Anabethe and Devon discuss Nitrim's rehabilitation…and his future.
Date: 20 June 2013
Related: None
Devon Anabethe 


Living Quarters Greatroom — Volkan, Imperius
This room, as the entry to the living quarters of the Khournas family, is about as sumptuous as things get in the Blackspyre. The floor is sheathed in black tile, heated from below by veins of magma running through the tower itself. Deep red carpets have been layered over the tile across most of the expanse of the room, softening footfalls and providing a visual sense of warmth to go along with the physical one. One wall of the greatroom is taken up by a large 'fireplace' where one of the heat-proof transparent tubes filled with lava can be seen pulsing and roiling its way up the tower. Around the other walls are a scattering of drakeskins, paintings of battle and hunt, and shelves of holobooks. Several couches and chairs are gathered in clumps around the room, providing seating for twenty or so with ease. Opposite the lift is a corridor that leads back into the actual living quarters and a private drawing room, with the entrance to the corridor guarded by two men-at-arms at all times.
June 20, 3013

Anabethe has fulfilled her responsibilities for the day, and with a chance to actually relax, for once she's decided not to go out with the Drakes and cause some trouble. Instead, she's lounging on one of the couches, watching recordings of the melee from the last tournament in Landing. "Oh come on!" she exclaims at one point, throwing a pillow through the projection. "That's a shit move, and you should've seen it coming. Knight knows, he telegraphed it all over the place. Dumbass Valen."

Perhaps the Lady Devon Grantham should be a touch more shy about stepping boldly from Nitrim Khournas's rooms, but she isn't. She does so casually, as if she is merely walking through any old door that leads into any old room. She arrives just in time to overhear Anabethe's directed anger at the vidscreen, and she can't help but smile. "It was even worse in person, my Lady," she says lightly as she steps toward the Khournas Heir. "You should have heard the booing, quite emotional."

Anabethe drops back against the couch, grimacing, just as Devon walks out. She arches a brow at the woman, looking from her to Nitrim's room a few times. "Can't say he doesn't have a type," she drawls, reaching up to shake a hand through her hair with a bit of a sigh. "I don't do many tournaments," she admits. "Melee's too much of an individual clusterfuck, don't ride well enough for jousting. But I figure I'm going to be fighting next to most of these people soon, so I might as well see how they fight. Finding everything to your liking here?" she asks.

Devon arches her brow ever so slightly at the first, drawling statement, though it incites a rather amused smile rather than anything insulting. She rolls her shoulders as she steps up to join the woman on the couch, though definitely not crowding her. She rolls her shoulders a bit. "I never have participated. I am not a Knight. My duty is to patch you all up, not apply the wounds myself." She does allow a beat pause after the question however before she casts Nitrim's sister a smile. "Your brother is nearly clean of the poison that is so deep-seeding in his veins, and he is eager to prove himself on the battlefield. He seeks to make his family proud, and I believe through our conversations that he is genuine in his desire." She quirks a brow. "I assume that was what you were asking."

"If that's the question you want to answer," Anabethe agrees with a faint smirk, though she sobers as she looks toward her brother's room. "Thank you," she says more genuinely after a moment. "Though I know better than to believe it's going to be over just because the physical desire is gone. I'm hoping if we're out in the field, it'll keep his mind off of it. And give me plenty of eyes to make sure he's not slipping back into it."

The Grantham glances toawrd the Young Lady of Khournas, her clear blue eyes unfaltering as they remain on the woman. "It may not be, but his will may be enough." She inclines her head in agreement. "Perhaps I, in some ways, understand that the best. When my husband died… all I could do was throw myself into training and battle. I signed up for every skirmish on Ignis, drowned my sorrows into the song of battle. It has its own healing power…"

"It has a way of working the shit out of you until you're too exhausted to do anything but fall asleep," Anabethe summarizes, dry. "Always something to be done. And always someone nearby." She pauses the playback on the tournament, propping her head up in one hand as she looks to the other woman. "Nitrim's smart, and he's determined, and he's the sort of person we're going to need to keep up with the Hostiles. And," she continues, smile quirking again, "I'd miss him."

Devon lifts her brows at the sentiment from the woman, and it draws a soft expression on her face. She inclines her head in agreement. "I agree on all counts, though I imagine he would not believe those words until he heard them from your own lips. He fashions himself as an outsider… though, I do think he is more inside the circle than he believes." She shakes her head a bit. "I was thinking, my Lady… our Houses are allies, we have served each other well. If Ignis had not been a Lash, we would have perhaps been sworn to you instead of the Orelles. My husband's Uncle… Sir Flint… he is in need of a squire…"

Anabethe arches a brow at the suggestion, glancing toward Nitrim's room once more. "He's a little old to squire formally," she says slowly. "And a little unused to taking orders, for that matter. Though I like your Uncle," she muses, leaning into one corner of the couch. "He seems like he knows how to deal with things sensibly, instead of spending all his time worrying about what ought to be done. And distant enough from things that it might be…easier for Nitrim to adjust to."

Devon inclines her head. "Perhaps a bit old, but we are not above oddities in House Grantham," she explains with a bit of a smile. "I have already inquired to Sir Flint if he would be willing to accept Nitrim, and he said that I should ask you. I could perhaps ask your father, but I sensed you would be a far better choice." There is a slight knowing smile that touches her glass-colored eyes.

"I'll have to talk to Nitrim to see if it's something he wants to do," Anabethe says slowly. "But if he's serious about wanting to work on his combat skills, then it seems like a good match to me. Da…might not be thrilled," she admits, rolling her eyes. "Probably have something to say about connections and the like. But if he's ignored Nitrim this long, then he can get over someone else making the decision."

Devon once more expresses agreement with a simple nod of her head. "I will leave it to be decided by House Khournas, of course, my Lady," she says politely before she starts to rise from the couch. "I won't keep you longer, Lady Anabethe… though I should warn you that in the upcoming minute in the match you will probably want to make sure nothing throw-able is in reach." She offers her a knowing smile, before she starts to step away.

Anabethe groans, reaching for a pillow. "Don't be silly," she chuckles despite herself. "Yelling at the holo's an important part of enjoying watching here in the Blackspyre." She brandishes the pillow, then sets it down next to herself. "Thank you, Lady Grantham," she adds. "I appreciate what you're doing for him. And I look forward to fighting with your men."

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