Legend of Ransera

Lord Geralt hardly seemed pleased.

In fact, he seemed entirely displeased. His expression darkened, and Foma found himself staring into the eye of a storm that might just very well smash him against the rocky shores of the lord's disappointment. There was no where to run nor hide. There was nothing he could do or say to return the words, the information, he'd given and given willingly. Though he was well aware not giving the information or even veiling it with half truths would have mostly likely elicited a similar, if not worse, reaction, he couldn't help but feel as though he'd gravely misstepped.

For the briefest of moments, as Geralt hand moved, Foma wondered if he were going to be struck across the face for his unintentional deception. He even flinched, but was glad to see his nervous reflex went unnoticed as the hand settled over the lord's eyes. The sight that followed released Foma from his fretful state, though anxiety still tightly bundled itself in the pit of his stomach. Weariness was far more preferable to rage.

What came next was no storm but a gentle, though chilly, breeze.

"Outer, your lordship," he corrected, uncertain where things might go from there.

His face flushed with embarrassment as the lord apologized to him, and though he opened his mouth to protest, he just as quickly bit and held his tongue. Whether he believed himself worthy of such things or not, it was certainly not his place to reprimand the lord for doing as he pleased; even if he disagreed.

Those with nothing had nothing to lose. Everything in his life had been gained, from nothing to something. It was far, far more to be born with everything and have those things taken away, wrenched and torn and bloody. As far as Foma was concerned, it was Lord Geralt who suffered. A man born into power, into puppetry, and still the world deprived him of what was rightfully his.

Sad indeed.

The moment Geralt rose to step forward, Foma stood as well as it would have been impolite to remain seated. Upon his feet, it was now very clear just exactly how much larger the lord was than he. He towered over Foma, truly the strength and stature of a mountain after all. It was impossible not to feel intimidated, to want to shrink away, but he imagined such a display would be seen as rude rather than appropriate, so he nervously fiddled with the stems of the bouquet in his hands instead.

But what followed left Foma speechless for very different reasons.

His dark eyes widened and fingers stilled, nearly dropping the bouquet altogether. His fear was forgotten in the wake of pure and unadulterated shock, and for a few seconds, it was almost as Foma hadn't actually understood what Lord Geralt had offered. But astonishment quickly turned to a furrowed brow, certainly not the expression the lord expected.

"Undeserving," he echoed, gaze falling from the other man's face, staring instead through the strong chest that blocked his vision of anything else but not really seeing it. "My father believes as much."

The offer was everything he'd ever dreamed of as a child; absolution and elevation, a name and title, a reward for his efforts. He'd longed for one of the noble caste to find merit in him, to reach down and lift him up. But he wasn't a child any longer.

"You may... think me a fool." There was laughter in his voice, quiet though it was, as he raised his gaze to me the lord's once again, finding his neck craning with the effort. "Any other of my station might pounce upon such a generous bequeathal, and generous it is indeed, your lordship." But... "But I'm afraid I must decline."

He'd expected there to be that cold chill of instant regret the words passed through his lips, but to his surprise, it was entirely absent. The lack of it showed clearly in his eyes; there was only confidence, kind warmth, genuine appreciation, and the faintest hint of concern. "It is as you said; you do not not know me, your lordship. You do not know my family nor the reason for their fall from grace, and I am loathe to be the mistake your lordship makes to find yourself once again at the mercy of the Kindred's displeasure."

There was no telling, of course, what those great and shadowy creatures might think. Perhaps it would be nothing but... perhaps not.

"I am deserving of more, but not at the cost of your lordship's comfort, nor anyone else's for that matter," he continued, speaking softly. "Were I to accept such an overwhelmingly generous offer, I might gain title, but I would lose what little respect I've earned myself." Minimal as it was, it was his own. "When I earn my title, your lordship, it will be through the merit of my works and not merely upon my quality of character."

He smiled then, warm and wide, "But please know that I have never received nor denied so astonishing a gift before, and I thank you wholeheartedly for the offer."

It did occur to him that rejection might be met with something not nearly as soft as the lord's generous offer, but Foma imagined the man only had something to lose should he accept and nothing if he refused.

Of all the things Foma had considered, he'd not thought to wonder whether he as now had any affect upon the lord. The moment Lord Geralt reminded him of what it meant for a lord to speak with, let alone gift, a nameless, his own smile immediately disappeared, replaced with both sudden realization and his fair share of worry. "Oh! I-" he stammered, more so out of his own sighted surprise than any sense left in his head. "I didn't-"

But the lord continued, and Foma quickly shut his own flapping jaw.

It was all sensible, a late explanation for what was offered after the fact of it; something Foma should have and would have known had he not poured every spare moment of his time into his own self-betterment which had very little to do with the ruling classes. Surely the good lord believed whatever concerns he'd expressed about accepting such an offer were empty platitudes born of pride.

Rhetoric or not, he still responded with a quiet, "Of course."

As the other man, the greater man, returned to his seat, Foma set the bouquet he'd been given upon the other bench. He gazed at it for a moment, well aware he was layering refusal upon refusal and very much pressing his own dwindling luck, but the lord spoke sense and Foma wanted nothing more than to cause as little issue for the man than he'd done already. A beautiful bouquet in the hands of a visiting apprentice from Nivenhain was surely not the wisest thing to be seen carrying around if he did not want to bring attention to his meeting with the lord of the manor.

He couldn't, of course, accept the man's offer, even if it was presented again. The whims of men were fleeting and those of the Kindred even more so. While he was well aware no work of his own would ever draw him up to such heights as the lord offered him, neither would the merit of his work allow him to crash quite so far. It was the shifting of winds that Foma feared most, placing his fate in the hands of the other when it had been so deeply engrained in him to hold the reigns himself.

A golden opportunity dashed against the cold stone ground of his rationality.

"As you wish, your lordship."

He bowed low. When he rose, he lingered for a moment, staring at the lord as one might a regal painting. His dark eyes didn't seek the others' out, merely gazed with a soft sort of sadness that could have easily been regret if he'd felt it. His mouth opened but no words came out. With a sigh through his nose, he nodded one last time and exited the little garden within a garden.

Not more than a minute of walking later, and a mousey haired woman who looked as though she hadn't slept a wink in several days very nearly barreled into him. "Oh!" Her voice and words were as much of a flurry as her person seemed to be. "You're Master Wagner's boy from Nivenhain, are you not?"

"I-"

"I could tell from the trim of your tabard," she signed, rifling through a messy stack of papers tucked into the crook of her arm. "That and you look just as Silke described you," she muttered.

Caught off guard, thoughts still reeling from the wholly surreal interaction he'd just been released of, Foma was only able to manger a meagre, "I am he, yes."

"Good, good," the woman murmured, thumbing through her files before letting out a breathy, weary, "Ah!" The document was rustled free and promptly handed to him. "Take this, follow the trail until in branches and take the left path. Third door down on the right once you reach the bailey's wall, and ask for Mister Hoffman. He finally has the master's package all prepared and ready for pickup. Just make certain he signs off on this form before he files it away."

And just like that, he was off once again.

XP: 8/8
Magic? No.

Lore:
Politics: Noble Marriages
Politics: The Houses of the East End
Politics: Tactful Rejections
Politics: Maintaining Tradition in Noble Matters

Comment: You are entitled to 6 more skill lores. If you decide you wish to receive the rest, please get in touch with me.


XP: 8/8
Magic? No.

Lore: None requested. If you change your mind, please get in touch with me.