Legend of Ransera

Frost 20, 119

As excited as he'd been to board the train that would ferry him and hundreds of others off to East End, the novelty had simmered down from fascination into common expectation: the massive metal beast moved the world around them, but they remained as they might have upon any cobbled street of stone. There had been shifts and jitters, but Foma had soon realized that while the contraption itself was well worthy of the time and sweat and blood that was the cost of its creation, once applied, it was little more than phenomena.

Such realizations, however, didn't curb his careful investigation of anything within that wasn't directly refused to him.

By the time the train stilled in Gothenburg's station, Foma had scoured every inch of the passenger's cabins he'd been allowed into. He'd studied the manner in which the hundreds of chairs had been bolted to the floor, the frames and clasps of the hundreds of windows, the careful construction of wood and metal and even stone that made up the carriages themselves. He'd examined the coupling links that kept the cars together, stared down at the spark-spewing tracks upon which the train carried itself, and even tried to climb atop the carriages themselves, only to be shouted down by a particularly irate mail guard who then confined him to his seat for the remainder of the journey.

That same mail guard eyed him suspiciously, even as Foma exited the train, eyes brightly searching the cold and bitter wonder East End's Gothenburg. "Have a pleasant stay, sir," the man muttered far less enthusiastically than he'd done for most everyone else.

But Foma didn't hear him. He was far too wrapped up in the odd contrast of the familiarity of Rien architecture hand in hand with a far different atmosphere. It was like being in Nivenhain only... not. To explain it to himself or others, he couldn't find the words nor, really, the feelings either. It was strange. Not unpleasant, but strange.

While Mister Wagner had sent him as his representative to procure a shipment of especially exquisite Dragonshards, it had been Kriemhilde who had made certain Foma would be prepared to receive them. She'd "borrowed" her brothers' clothes, insisting he dress like a lustrian to avoid the trouble of having to explain why Lambrecht Wagner would send a slovenly Nameless to collect something so precious. She'd also given him a neatly scrawled list that contained the expected contents of the shipment itself, along with an address, and a personal note that reminded him he was there to represent the Master and to act accordingly.

She'd also provided him a sealed writ of identification explaining the situation should there be need of it, but had told him it shouldn't be needed, as they'd already confirmed one Mister Foma Kozlov would arriving to transport the package within the next handful of days.

Always better to be prepared though, just in case.

So, dressed in an appropriately sumptuous collection of furs, embroidered silks, and warming layers, Foma slipped a gloved hand into vest's pocket and double checked the address for what was certainly the hundredth time. Perhaps more.

The Baringers, or more correctly, House Baringer, had long since been one of Mister Wagner's steady, though limited, suppliers. Most of what his business required was bought in Nivenhain's markets and through their private traders, but there were certain things he simply wouldn't settle for anything less than directly from the hands of the nobles themselves. So he paid the extra fees, hired the extra set of hands, and procured for himself the precious metals and gems needed for his more exquisite contraptions.

This, however, was the first time he'd sent Foma. Usually, Mister Wagner hired out help. It was more expensive, but lustrians and manual labor had always been more trouble than it was worth. Foma, however, held no such reservations. When Mister Wagner had asked him to arrange a meeting with one of the Argent guards to go and fetch something for him from Gothenburg, Foma had volunteered himself: both to save money and in a bid to see more than the very small slice of Lorien he'd been raised in.

While not hard pressed for coins, Mister Wagner preferred to keep them in his pockets rather than doling them out like candy. So he'd agreed, and Foma had been sent off.

He'd heard of the wild lands to the east of Nivenhain, where the people were bears and beasts of men, roaming through the wilds, running beneath the shadows of the Kindred, more creature than character to their barbaric natures. But what he saw, much to his mild disappointment, was men and woman much the same as could be found back home. Some taller, some shorter, but, ultimately, Rien.

He knew he shouldn't have been surprised. As he tread over carefully cobbled streets and gazed at the grandiose architecture of the churches and buildings the stretched out into the east, he felt, more or less, right at home. There was a sort of deeper chill in the air that made it impossible to feel truly comfortable; a sensation of eyes watching or silent whispers drifting just out of earshot. It was unnerving but only in the most subtle of senses, a sort of subliminal realization that here, especially here, the great, dark winged shadows of Lorien were ever present.

As Kriemhilde's letter directed him, Foma kept away from the western end of the city. The longer and farther he delved into the east, the more splendid everything became. Shops and storefronts, fountains and public statues, even the churches themselves were elevated from elegant to sublime. The people too seemed to change, their clothes becoming more and more garish with embroideries of real gold and silver, long sweeping furs, and voices growing louder, more confident, daring even. It was as if, at some point unbeknownst to him, he'd stepped over the threshold from Gothenburg into Gothenburg.

Delectable scents drifted through the crisp, frosty air with every refined restaurant he passed. Tailors and outfitters dotted the blocks, windows filled with gorgeous dresses and handsome suits. There was laughter and chatter, music and song, and soon? There was the Baringer's estate.

It was a massive castle, towers and walls and the house's crest of gold and blue and purple all regally reaching towards the sky, a gem that shone bright and indelibly beautiful even among such exquisite neighbors. But the castle proper wasn't his destination. He was neither lord nor to call upon one, and so rather than waltzing through the front gate as a small trickle of those both entering and leaving could be seen doing in various states of conversation and silence, Foma came to a halt beside one of the servants' doors, as indicated in Kriemhilda's letter.

He knocked three times in quick succession before giving his name and reason for arrival. After a minute or two, the door opened, and he was allowed entrance.

The room itself was warm, almost uncomfortably so, and filled with plants of all different shapes and sizes and colors; a nursery for the castle's main garden. His eyes roamed the curious, verdant sight, but Kriemhilde's reminder that he was not there on pleasure but as a representative kept his hands hanging loosely at his side rather than thumbing each and every specimen he crossed. For now, anyway.

"You'll need to pass through the bailey anyhow," the middle aged woman who'd allowed him inside in the first place nodded towards a heavy door on the opposite side of the stuffy, life-filled room. "Straight down that corridor, no detours, and wait by the wisteria."

"The-" Clearly the expression of uncertainty on his face was more than enough.

"Wisteria. It's a large flowered tree. Like purple snowfall." The woman raised a brow and shook her head, not offering any further botanical instruction. "You'll know it when you see it."

"Very well. Thank you, miss."

"Not finished, sir," the woman called out as Foma paused just before opening the door. "You'll be waiting for a good while. They've not yet gotten everything your master requested. Take your time and enjoy the garden, but don't wander off too far."

"I see," he nodded, a polite smile on his lips. "I will do as you say, miss."

"Mhm," the woman replied, returning to her work as Foma exited out into the corridor.

There were several doors to his left, all which he ignored even if his curiosity tugged at his focus. Instead he made his way into the castle's impressive bailey, though the word hardly did it justice. It was a garden, but a garden unlike anything he'd seen before. The temperature was almost sweltering beneath his many layers, and he felt small trickles of sweat already trailing down the sides of his face.

There were trees and bushes and hedges and flowers for as far as he could see. For a time, he wandered through the labyrinthine garden, eyeing the many colors, enjoying the many scents, and, on occasion, curiously testing out the more fascinating looking textures with a poke or prod. Eventually, he found the tree the woman had directed him towards.

It was elegant, beautiful, and more so a soft lavender than true purple. There were a pair of stone benches neatly around about a small, still pond at the wisteria's base, a wonderful little pocket of reflection and peace and-

A man.

Not just a man but a man.

He was almost twice Foma's size in both height and width, muscular enough he might have eaten Foma for a midday snack if there were nothing else. It gave him pause, both out of an instinctual sense of self-preservation and a more proper desire not to interrupt. But, after a lingering minute of uncertainty, Foma decided to press forward. There were two benches, after all, and he had been specifically directed to wait there.

So, with confidence that didn't quite reach his wary eyes, he stepped off of the path and into the little garden within a garden, a soft smile on his lips and gentle sheen of sweat upon his brow. "Good day, sir. I hope I'm not interrupting?"

The very moment the pleasant but peasant words left his mouth, Foma took notice of more than just the massive beast before him. The clothes, the rings, the bearing... he had made a mistake. Not merely a mistake but a mistake; the sort of thing that found young men with no heads attached to their bodies given inclement weather of the mind. Fortunately for him, it seemed the Good Lord was of a brighter predilection, at least for the moment.

Already ruddy from the heat, his face flushed several shades darker as he very nearly bit his tongue to hold it from interrupting the man who was revealed to him as not only a lord of House Baringer but its very heir. The shock was clear on his face, and while his clothes were very much of a lustrian caste, his reaction painted him quite clearly something else entirely.

"Y-your Lordship!" His bow was quick, sloppy, an almost curtsy given his utterly scrambled thoughts. Fumbling with both hand and foot, Foma floundered for a second or two more before clearing his throat. He paused, straightened his posture, took a deep breath, and, while he was fully aware one's first impression was given the term "first" for a reason, he tried again.

A deeper, proper bow. A sweep of the hand. Careful and precise enunciation as Miss Holzknecht had taught him. "Your Lordship."

When he rose, though still flushed, he was much more in command of himself. He remained where he'd paused, his confidence having since dwindled to only its barest bones for fear of offending through sheer meekness. Though there were two benches and he'd been asked to wait there, the circumstances had most definitely shifted into something quite different from before.

And all of it with a simple title. How very strange it all was. It might even have been laughable, had he been on the other end. Or, maybe, merely tiresome.

"Your Lordship is most gracious in not taking offense to my... bullheaded blunder."

You are there as a representative of Master Wagner. Don't do anything stupid. It was all a bit late for that now though, wasn't it?

"I spoke without thought; a fool's tongue in a dullard's mouth," he continued, doing his very best to keep his eyes level with the lord's but not directly staring into them. It was difficult given his attention was continually being pulled towards the man's finery in some cruel, self-deprecating joke in which he was the punchline of his own carelessness.

And the more he spoke, the more he doubted the lord even cared.

"And now it runs as if I've sprung a leak."

He drew in another, deep breath hands at his side, uncertain what to do with them. Never in his life had he ever directly addressed one of the greater lords. Nor one of the lesser ones. He'd seem them, here and there, in passing and surrounded by argents and knights and hollows and vassals. They were always such grand things, decked in finery and sumptuous wonders. So very clearly more than the common man by sheer worth of what they wore.

But this Lord Geralt?

He looked far more as if it should have been him tucked away in armor, an argent wall of steel and will to protect and served with sword and shield, not pen and paper as a celebrant. In a way, Foma felt a little cheated now that his initial shock had worn away. It wasn't a fair game. Why was the lord of the estate without an escort? Why was he dressed in so causal a manner? Why-

Then it dawned upon Foma that he was a guest in Lord Geralt's home.

In his own home, Foma often chose not to wear anything at all. It helped to save on how often he needed to launder his clothes. In a way, Lord Geralt was similar, dressed well but out of season, something better fit for the warmer days of searing. It wasn't that the game was unfair, it was that the rules had changed wholly unbeknownst to him.

A second revelation then: a lord had given him his name and he'd yet to return with his own. He could have kicked himself and almost did; it wasn't as if he could have played the fool any better if he'd tried.

"It is all out of order, your lordship, but my name is Foma Kozlov." He hesitated for a moment, uncertainty flickering on the edges of his composure. "I bear no title myself, but most people call me 'Kos'. I've merely come at the request of my master, Lamprecht Wagner?" His voice rose as if in question, but he didn't pause in his explanation. "He sent me to collect a package-"

Fumbling in his pockets, nervous hands searched for the sealed writ.

"I have a- a letter... somewhere... and I only disturbed you because I was asked to wait in this very place, but I- ah, here... no... and I-" Searching fingers found parchment at last, and soon it was freed of his pockets and in Foma's hands. "And I wonder... even after all of... ehrm... this-" He waved his hand in a general gesture to the whole of himself. "-if I might... join you? Just until the package is ready, of course. I'm... I'm not quite sure where else to go where I might be found."

Koltoskan. While he admittedly knew little of cultures outside of his won, he'd heard of the East End's veritably charitable welcoming of the southern people into the fold of Lorien's Named. Even still, he couldn't help but feel something akin to shame at being mistaken for one. An old habit that carried with it some semblance of his father's never ending wails.

"N-not Koltoskan, your lordship. Though I do understand my family's name is... uncommon." Entirely uncommon given what status is truly implied.

But whatever Lord Geralt's mind on the matter, he was invited to stay nonetheless, and that did much to improve Foma's confused and flustered mood. "Dull?" he echoed, genuine laughter whispering at the edge of the word as he carefully but deliberately made his way around the pond to join the lord. "I haven't felt my heart beat faster in all my life, your lordship. I believe dull company may be... exactly what I'm in need of."

Though the lord was terrifying in his own right, the talk of flowers and even the casual offering of them seemed oddly gentle. It was like a mountain whispering: strength and power apparent but with no need for it came something quieter and something softer. The very idea of receiving a Baringer's flower of any kind was nearly enough to strike any other man dumb, but Foma's tongue always found itself loosened in stressful situations.

Speech was his security, even if it only ever made things worse.

"Is there meaning in such an offer, your lordship?" Curiosity beat out apprehension as he took his seat on the bench opposite his sudden host, dark eyes brightly peering first at the lord himself then at the verdant little world around them, lingering on the five petaled, elegantly tailed flowers indicated as the only ones he couldn't have. "Or merely the expectation of... etiquette?"

He seemed to hear himself only after he'd spoken. His face flushed again, and he quickly shook his head. "Not that I suspect you of- of anything or-" He sighed, eyes lingering shut for an extra second or two. When he opened them he was calmer if not even more clearly embarrassed by his continual blunders. "Kindly disregard such questions, your lordship. Your flowers are decadent and far too prized of things to be found in the hands of someone like me. I find it very difficult to forget a place I've never had the practice of knowing."

All he ever did with those he spoke to was ask questions both appropriate and not so much. He'd never stopped to consider what he might say to an actual lord because he'd never even dreamed of meeting one. Not so early in his own personal career, at any rate.

"This would be shrieking tormentor you speak of," he continued, half because he wished to push what mess of a conversation there was between them into something other than the rather impertinent questions he'd just asked and half because he was genuinely curious. "Is there no hope of finding someone who is beneficial both to your lordship's house and heart?"

Even he, Nameless son that he was, knew full well that Rien rarely married for love. His own parents very nearly hated one another; a marriage of convenience and upward mobility as far as his mother was concerned, however marginal. But it was difficult for him to comprehend that nobility might really and truly be much the same: purely alliances with no hope of connection in anyway. They were rich and powerful... that even they might not be able to pair themselves with someone who was desirable to both their family's well-being and their own proclivities sounded almost absurd.

Almost.

"If I may be so bold," he continued, hands folded neatly on his lap as his gaze slowly moved over the varied and beautiful plant-life. "Surely your lordship has suitors to rival the many blooms and blossoms of this very garden. There must be someone agreeable to you who might not punish you for the remainder of your life, as your lordship says."

Refusal now absolutely off the table, Foma received the small but exquisite bouquet with wide eyes. His fingers brushed against the lord's, but he hardly noticed, taken as he was with the flowers themselves. He was no stranger to the flora of Lorien, especially after joining Master Wagner's workshop and spending far more time among the upper echelon of the country's working class, but never before had he ever held such a collection of them his in own two hands.

True, to the Lord Baringer, they were his to do with as he pleased, little more than scraps of cloth to a tailor or metal shavings to a blacksmith. To Foma, however, they were something tender and delicate and intricately beautiful. Not only that, they were no doubt worth more than the entirety of his personal belongings. The gift then, however fleeting, was carefully held, like gossamer threads of gold, as he examined them with fascinated eyes, more so taken by how very appeasing the arrangement was and marveling at how readily the lord had collected them, almost without thought but surely not given how well each bloom suited the other.

"I- thank you, your lordship," he murmured, smile genuine and bright in spite of himself and every blunder he'd made thus far.

Dark eyes lightened with unabashed pleasure blinked in surprise at the lord's next question, but reflex got the better of sense. Light, merry laughter burst forth from him, filling the space between them with his whole-hearted mirth. "Not in even my most wildest of fantasies, your lordship," he grinned, bouquet now neatly arranged in his lap. "I have, quite literally, nothing to offer you, but I do appreciate your sense of humor." His smile softened as his gaze lingered on the other man. "It's more so I've never spoken with a man of your standing, and I confess... I am at a loss of how I should proceed. You seemed afflicted with thoughts I thought perhaps you might find agreeable to share, that is all."

And share he did.

A commoner of lowest birth, Foma knew very little of the families Lord Geralt named. They were familiar in that he knew the names themselves, but there were no faces to attach to them nor quite the weight they might should have carried. Fortunately most were paired with explanation enough he could place them and glean at least a little bit of the intrigue. He'd never been a gossip nor particularly prone towards interest in the courts and their deadly games, but it was difficult not to find at least some interest when face to face with one of the players.

Sons and heirs, rejections of offers, and fancies met with sensibilities and reasons why things simply couldn't be... it was all very organized. And very sad. Not that Foma pitied the lord, the other man was entirely above such things, surely, but he couldn't help but find his smile fading for a gentler frown, a slight dip in the corners of his mouth as he listened, absently stroking a fragrant purple petal with the side of his thumb. Certainly there were a plethora of options, but there seemed to be an equal or even greater number of obstacles, some more impossible to navigate than others.

"I see..." he murmured.

But there was more than just his prospective partners offered, and Foma's eyes clouded with confusion and sparked with that same almost hungry curiosity. A Kathar Avialae; a wingless winged one. That alone was enough to still Foma's thoughtful petting of his bouquet. Human as he was and far more fascinated with Hollows than even his own race, he knew little of the others beyond their general appearance. An Avialae without wings, however, was a terrible novelty, no matter how striking the man they left behind.

And yet it was, perhaps, the single point of commonality between them.

He well understood what it was like to be a creature fallen from the grace of their whispering, fluttering pantheon. He himself have never even heard one of their voices, too close to earth, a worm upon its belly, unworthy of their attention. While Lord Geralt surely felt such things far keener than he and far more viscerally, Foma at least understood what it was like to find one's value wholly diminished by the whim of Lorien's shadows.

Even still, it was no excuse to settle. The lord was a lord, after all.

"Bleak indeed," Foma agreed, brow now furrowed in thought. "But you are still a lord and an heir no less. Your beauty and strength remain even in the wake of what was stripped from you. More than that," he added, "You have yet to resign yourself, or so it seems. You may not, perhaps, possess all that you would like, but I would think you, at least, possess all that you need to chart a course into fairer weather."

As he said it, he realized that he, perhaps, was most likely speaking out of turn.

"That is-" he caught himself, uncertain now. "That is to say... when the world is against you, you are your greatest ally." And to accept anything less than what he wanted, what he expected, was a mistake, but he at least managed to hold his tongue before that too spilled out.

Lord Geralt's praise was neatly and properly curbed by the reminder that a single "not" was all that separated Foma from despised. Thus, though his smile in reply was in earnest, he couldn't help but find himself as nervous as before, perhaps even more so. His thumb returned to the flower's petal, stroking slowly and silently searching for the calm all still and stalky life seemed to so readily possess, as if he might draw it up into himself.

There was no escape from that searching gaze as the lord settled his attention squarely upon him. It was alarmingly similar to Miss Holzknecht's own glower, if not a bit softer, and he was well aware that while he was indeed and counter to the lord's expectations a Rien, his ability to conceal his emotions was so very often thwarted by his natural inclination towards honesty, whether spoken or not.

So what the lord saw, what Foma showed him not out of ploy nor plan, was a simple but curious commoner in waters far deeper than any he'd tread before. A young stranger who knew he should have kept his mouth shut and left the brooding lord alone but had risked everything, however meager that everything might have been, purely in pursuit of slaking curiosity.

And not a hint of regret. Nervousness, yes. Despite Foma's efforts, such expression could not be wholly removed from his eyes, but it wasn't a fear of being discovered or found out. It was pure and unbridled anxiety of the weak in the face of the powerful. Expected, even if it were a little pathetic. Then again, who among the common class wasn't without proper instruction?

Then the lord spoke again, and Foma was released. He unbuttoned the uppermost clasps around his neck, sweat now both from the heat and his own nervousness under scrutiny. For the lord, whether Foma found the Baringer appeasing to his tastes or not, it mattered little. For Foma, however, the slightest misstep might see him in chains, handless, or worse. That difference made it very difficult to be anything but uncomfortable when given the lord's full attention, though the continued praise was, at least, reassuring that his hands might stay in their rightful place upon his wrists.

All in all, it was now Foma's turn to wonder if the lord were not propositioning him now. The thought drew a soft smile to his lips as he listened, but listen was all he did. Lord Geralt, as much as he'd just praised him, wasn't about to do anything so foolish as to wed a nameless dressed up in a lustrian's old garments. The deception was still deception, even if it had not been intended for anything more than an easier passage through the streets of the good lord's city; and the time to address it was at last upon him.

Laughter again, though this time softer. He laughed not at the lord's confusion but at how very tangled and strange and peculiar everything had become in so short a time. Perhaps this very reason was why so many Rien were so infatuated with the ruling class. It was almost thrilling, though might have been more so had it not been his own personal life entangled in the mess as well.

"If that is the impression I have given you, your lordship, that I am loathe to part with answers for your questions about me, I sincerely apologize," he began, smile now softening as his eyes took note of the change in the lord's posture. It was a welcome attempt at appearing a bit less terrifying, something he very much appreciated. "I've been told on numerous accounts I ask far too many questions; such a habit leaves precious little room for self disclosure."

Thumb since stilled, Foma gathered up the bouquet into his hands once more, absently and tenderly rolling the thin green stalks between his fingers as he continued. "I fear whatever trust you might have extended me might fade for the light I am to cast upon myself, but I would remind your lordship it was never my intent to meet with you. Though-" the gradual turning of the bouquet stopped as his dark eyes twinkled with amusement "-I admit while you might not despise my company, I find your own to be quite fascinating."

"Now to answers, however disappointing they might be." There was no disparagement in his tone; in fact, he spoke with that continued smile, comfortable but warning. This was no celebrant nor lustrian before the lord, but he held no shame over it, only expressed caution to the lord who would no doubt find such revelations unfortunate at best; and he did hope for the best.

"I am of the nameless, your lordship. My father and his father and his father's father-" the bouquet shifted to his left hand while his right gestured in loose, vague circles "-all men of Lorien and all the same as I. My mother, however, is a foreigner and the source of my, as you say, strange name; though she is, perhaps, more Rien than my father ever was or will be."

"And I have arrived from the west of here but not quite so far as Skaven. My family has long since resided on the outskirts of Nivenhain. Perhaps," his brow furrowed in thought, "That is why you have a difficult time placing me, your lordship? I fear my accent is largely attributed to having had to learn to speak... ehrm... properly at an older age than most; and from my mother who had to do much the same."

"My dress is borrowed, though only in the spirit of efficiency. Fewer questions are posed to a young man who seems as though he might belong rather than one who most certainly doesn't. A deception, I assure you, that was concocted and approved by my superiors. Though, if your lordship is displeased, I do bear the blame of enacting such plans myself."

"So," he concluded, "It was not so much my intent to hide things from you as it was more so they were already obscured to begin with, and a lack of a reasonable segue to clarity." As soon as he said that, however, he frowned. "Which... I suppose is an excuse." Those dark eyes settled on Lord Geralt's once again, soft and thoughtful, contemplating what the man had said before.

When he spoke again, it was quieter, almost a mutter. "And perhaps a lesson that trust be not freely given to anyone at all, as few things are ever rarely what they seem." Remembering himself and who he spoke to, his gaze focused and smile tightened nervously, "A lesson for myself with circumstance as instructor, of course. I have no intention of irreverently claiming to be your teacher, your lordship."