NationStates Jolt Archive

OOC: For clarity, this is open to any who should like to involve themselves in it.


Zsófia’s childhood had been a lonely, loveless matter, her own family apparently showing little interest in her affairs or doings. In plaintive solitude she had spent her youth, and in her elaborate daydreams she had made her lifelong friends. On rainy days she would lose herself in her home’s vast libraries, voraciously devouring volume after musty volume of classical literature, and when the weather permitted it she was left free by her servants to roam alone in the local countryside, wading through vast fields of sweet-smelling flowers or cavorting blithely amongst the willowy trees. Concerning her parents, the most striking impression that Zsófia still retained was of their absence. Indeed, it was only very rarely that the household ever met, for most of Zsófia’s days were spent far away from Castle Ceúressëa, at distant boarding schools.

Of her father, Zsófia now remembered very little. Absent through most of her childhood, he had resided mostly in Naèräth, a near-complete stranger. Visits home were infrequent and joyless affairs, and her father had never tarried overlong - oftentimes returning from the country on the very next train. When on the rare occasion her father had visited Zsófia at school, it was only for the briefest of moments and to convey the most meaningless of formal pleasantries. ‘Good day’, ‘goodbye’, ‘study hard’ and ‘don’t misbehave’, these were the empty platitudes that her father had left Zsófia with.

Her mother Zsófia could remember more clearly - a languid, silent figure that had haunted the darkened rooms of Castle Ceúressëa. Tall, pale, and with beautiful eyes that expressed the most extreme lassitude, Zsófia’s mother had died of nervous exhaustion towards the end of her adolescence. Occasionally, when she would return home from school during the holidays, Zsófia might catch her mother watching her quietly from afar, a vacant look in her eyes and heartbreakingly dolorous smile upon her lips. Such chance glimpses were rare, however, and always promptly thereafter would her mother withdraw into the brooding silence of her darkened apartments, where her solitude was always undisturbed.

Family dinners, at least insofar as she could recall them, were dour and unpleasant occasions. Owing to her mother’s nervous condition, the vast, gloomy dinning hall of Castle Ceúressëa was brightened only by the flickering glow of innumerable shaded candelabra – for her mother frequently complained that direct light brought about in her the most terrible fits. Shrouded, then, in semi-darkness, the family would dine in the near silence of gently clicking cutlery, the mother and father exchanging a few trite words, the child saying nothing at all.

Zsófia’s father would, in the end, be struck down by some obscure illness when the noblewoman was still only a young lady. At nineteen years of age, therefore, Zsófia had finally found herself the last, lonely remnant of a near-extinct, Xirniumite noble house.

OOC: What roles can people play in this?

OOC: Nevermind, I thought of something. This rp sounds interesting.

It was a brisk day, a cloudy day. The road was an empty one, few travelers traveled it these days. The trees were shedding their leaves as a gust of wind picked them off of the branches, carrying them off into the distance. The old fences lined the road, with trees next to them, the fields empty. A man walked down the road, his boots worn for many a mile. His cap, a hand me down from his father. His coat was gray, not of best quality and a scarf wrapped around his neck, tattered. He carried a bag which was slung over his shoulder, containing what he had in life. The young man wasn't rich, nor gifted, nor priveledged. The outdoors were what he knew and loved. His family were farmers, tenants of the land. When the young man cam of age he was sent out to find a job, his parents not wanting him to work the fields like them. So, off he departed, he bothered not to look back, for nothing was left for him back there. The road ahead didn't offer much, but it was better than nothing. Though, he walked with an air of pride and managed to stay light, despite what life throws at him. many saw him as kind hearted, and a jokster; however, he had a serious side. He heard of a mansion, belonging to a noble family which was in dire need of repair. He was a jack of all trades sort and believed it to be a job which needed his hand. So, he walked down that road with a purpose. He knew nothing of the occupants, except that they were rich, owners of the surrounding land. Finally, after some miles he stumbled down a hill and saw the mansion from afar. He was correct, the mansion did need repair and he was just the man to lend his services. Cautiously, he approached the mansion, it seemed forboding but he pressed on nontheless. The young man made it to the door, grasping one of the heavy door handles and banged it against the door. The deep sound echoed throughout the mansion.

The Present Day

Castle Ceúressëa, country residence of Margravine Zsófia Varyä Făvârin-Sevrâthíl
Northwest Xirnium, near Angâmar Forest

Set high upon the summit of a precipitous hill, the margravine’s manor house was an imposing, fifteenth century mediaeval castle of elaborately beautiful construction and timeless grandeur. If one could but, for a moment, ignore the nearby presence of romantic hamlets and idyllic villages, then one might almost have fancied that this solitary structure had appeared direct from the pages of some sensational Gothic novel. In the past Castle Ceúressëa had been the country seat of one of the largest and most powerful noble families of the Xirniumite aristocracy. Today, with the members of House Vesänyär having all but died out, it remained a breathtaking (if lonely) place, steeped in age-old history and legendary tales.

Originally built with both military considerations and aesthetics in mind, Castle Ceúressëa was a lavish stronghold complete with walled courtyards, indoor gardens, spires, towers and corner turrets. From its ornamental ramparts, one could just glimpse the foreboding edges of the dark and majestic Angâmar Forest in the distance. The manor house itself was surrounded by pleasant, spacious gardens that were crossed by a canal constructed in the early seventeenth century. In days now long gone by, Castle Ceúressëa had often been used by the nobles of House Vesänyär for grouse shooting on the local moors.

Needless to say, to lose oneself within the labyrinthine corridors of the manor house was an easy enough thing to do. The vast, fine art collections that Castle Ceúressëa was home to, however, meant that such an experience would not be an unpleasant one. In exploring the lonely manor house’s myriad passageways, one could not help but form a vivid impression of whom precisely the nobles of House Vesänyär may have been. In portrait after splendid portrait, forbidding faces challenged one’s presence at every turn, frozen in all the stillness of death and all the beauty of life. Resolute campaigners in polished cuirasses or cunning schemers in starched ruffs all fixed the viewer with that same, accusatory stare. In portraits, too, one could witness the ruinous effects that generation after generation of incestuous inbreeding had wrought upon the ancient house. Pallid complexions and drawn features all bore mute testimony to a family that, through centuries of wallowing self-indulgence, had reduced itself to all but a single scion.

Félicien had for several years now been in the employ of House Vesänyär - as one of the margravine’s security personnel at Castle Ceúressëa. A fairly tall, handsome young gentleman with sharp, aquiline features, Félicien valued his current job whilst, all the same, considering it only a temporary undertaking. The pay was, after all, quite generous for that of a security guard, and in any case Félicien found that he had come to quite like the alpine scenery. Here in the tranquillity of the countryside, amidst the heavy scent of lilac and the rich odour of roses, he fancied to himself that he might finally find the inspiration needed to complete that novel which he had for so long desired to write.

Now it was winter, however, and the castle’s grounds were covered in white snow. Although today’s weather was quite mild for this time of the year, it was cold enough that Félicien’s breath turned to steam in the chill air, and that he had to wear a long, thick overcoat and fine, wollen scarf as a ward against the icy breeze. To make matters worse, the tranquillity of the margravine’s castle grounds had apparently been disturbed. An unknown individual, or so he was being informed over his earpiece, had been spotted approaching the manor house, and it was Félicien’s task (as the nearest member of the security staff) to make his way down the path to intercept him. The seneschal had certainly not notified the castle’s security personnel to expect any visitors around this time, and from his appearance the lone individual was assumed to be trespassing upon the margravine’s grounds.

‘Bloody foreign tourists…’ Félicien muttered under his breath upon seeing the man, for the strange interloper was certainly not a Xirniumite. In fact, with his ridiculous-looking rucksack and worn boots, the foreigner seemed suspiciously like a common vagabond.

No Xirniumite would ever present him or herself in so shabby a manner.

‘Castle Ceúressëa is open to the public every year during the second weekend of April,’ announced the security guard condescendingly, his voice expressing unmistakably bored indifference and tinged by that unique, continental European accent peculiar to the people of Xirnium. Félicien idly hoped that the scruffy tourist at least spoke either English or French, as these were the only two languages that he had a fluent command of.

‘The castle’s grounds and deer park are open in the spring, on certain days between the fifth of April and the twentieth of May,’ continued the security guard. In order to save time later, Félicien had already removed a notepad from within the pocket of his overcoat, and was busily recording within it various details of this trespass incident.

‘If you like, I would be happy to accompany you off private property...’ indicated Félicien, adjusting his glasses with only the slightest impatience.

The young man felt a bit...uncomfortable in the presence of this man who stood before him. His manner seemed unfriendly for the lack of a better word. The wind whipped up and smacked the man across his body, forcing a shiver which he fought hard to hold back. His family were immigrants, searching for a better life in this country; however, life was little better for them. This harsh man intimidated the young man but he brushed it off and stood tall, not willing to be backed away by some snob.
"Sir..I heard that a job of groundskeeper or something of that nature was needed" he began to say, with a slight Slavic accent. "This place does seem to be in a need of a fixin'. I'm just the man for the job. The name is Atticus Konovski, I'm an able man of many trades and a hard worker as well"

Bump

Félicien could not help but look behind himself, at the vast, decoratively crenellated mass of masonry and stonework that was Castle Ceúressëa; and at the well-sculpted and carefully cultivated gardens (with their neat rows of wind-bent beeches) that surrounded it.

This scruffy peasant is going to “fix” it? he thought incredulously.

‘I’m afraid it does not appear that the any job interviews are being conducted today…’ mused Félicien, who made a show of carefully studying his detailed schedule, brow furrowed thoughtfully. Of course, Félicien did not bother to inquire as to whether the stranger had an appointment - the Xirniumite knew that he didn’t. ‘If you would like to leave your curriculum vitae with me, I’m sure that the seneschal will take a look at it,’ offered the security guard as he idly folded the schedule and pushed his glasses further up the bridge of his nose.

Zsófia herself now rarely visited Castle Ceúressëa. For the margravine, her noble family’s manor house was a place that held neither pleasant memories nor fond regrets. The task had fallen therefore to Thérèse, the chief steward, major-domo and principal administrator of Zsófia’s noble household, to manage Castle Ceúressëa’s various affairs. As Zsófia’s seneschal, it was for Thérèse to know the size and needs of House Vesänyär’s holdings, to ensure that her lady’s businesses were well-managed and profitable, and to maintain and expand the margravine’s assets.

‘Now, if you would please be so kind…’ spoke Félicien with affected politness, tugging at his scarf in a vain attempt to better shield himself from the cold. It was evident that the Xirniumite was conveying a dismissal of him.

Damien rode at a steady pace down an old, winding road. The route took him through vast open countryside and dense woodland alike, interspersed with handsome little villages. It was as if the entire place had been taken from the pages of time and laid out before him. Though charming and beautiful as the scenery may be, Damien only seemed to incorporate the chill of the day's air into himself. In the beauty of a much older time, he saw only a heavyness, a weight to the land that seemed to drag everything down. And him with it. He scowled at the empty road.

This is supposed to be honorable? Passed from estate to estate like some stray mongeral?

He shook his head and spurred his horse, which seemed to have fallen asleep while walking. A nobleman's cloak was drawn about him to protect against the light chill, emblazened with the Gaelic crest. He was a young man still, not yet 26, and this journey bestowed honor upon his family. It was a time-honoured custom in Gaeltach that he could not deny.

Ahead, the spires of an old Gothic castle swept up from the landscape. His blue eyes fixed on the sight with a mixture of awe and foreboding. He was not due to see the young noblewoman until dinner that evening, but had apparantly made better time than expected. Shifting slightly in the saddle, he straightened. It was beneath him to be seen riding up to the castle road-weary.

Atticus tipped his cap up slightly and tried to think for a moment. He may not have had an appointment but he had heard of a need for some extra help. The young poor man had traveled many miles on foot. Now, weary,cold, and hungry he stood there, feet throbbing but he did not wince from it, instead he stood tall. Atticus would not let himself be beliddled by some pompus ass who thought he was superior. Atticus simply smiled
"Well...is there any need for extra pair of hands? I can do whatever task be given to me, sir" he replied. The young man worked as an apprentice as a blacksmith, dabbled in carpentry, and several other things. He always had a quest for knowledge and a million questions. He taught himself how to read through several old tattered books he ''liberated'' here and there. He enjoyed working because there was not much else to do in his life.

Mid January, 1984

Castle Ceúressëa, country residence of Lady Zsófia Varyä Făvârin-Sevrâthíl
Northwest Xirnium, near Angâmar Forest

Zsófia frowned petulantly as she pulled at one of the long, jewelled pins that fastened her picture hat securely to her hair, fiddling with it incessantly. Her servants had only just informed the lovely noblewoman that the guest whom she was to have dinned with this evening had arrived earlier than anticipated - unexpected and on horseback. Already quite nervous at the prospect of receiving at her home a strange nobleman from an exotic foreign country, Zsófia’s anxiety had only been further exacerbated by this sudden, entirely unwelcome alteration to her day’s plans.

The lonely mistress of the manor house was a tall, willowy young lady in her early twenties. Full of youthful ardour and with an unaffected air of modest grace about herself, she might well have been described by some as quite attractive. Zsófia’s, however, was a rather dolorous kind of beauty. Her lips were incandescent and painted a shade of coral, her figure sylphlike. Slightly tousled hair (its strands long, raven-coloured and lustrous) escaped from under a broad-brimmed hat that was decorated with a pretty ribbon and plumes.

Most striking of all, however, was Zsófia’s extremely pallid complexion, a delicate shade of milky-blue. Together with her strange, curiously scintillating eyes, whose smoky greyness was made even darker by the thick lashes that bordered them, it was the margravine’s sickly paleness that most immediately defined her appearance.

Pulling on perfumed gloves, the noblewoman stood and sighed forlornly to her mirror. Zsófia wore a sumptuous chiffon couture dress decorated with elegant flounces and lace, its bodice close-fitting and narrow. The trained skirt was tight-fitting and had a hem that trailed for some length along the ground, its luxurious fabrics protected from dust by a ruffled petticoat. Zsófia did not overly adorn herself with jewellery, although she had chosen to sport a sparkling pair of sapphire earrings and a splendid cabochon brooch. Like her signet ring, the latter had been an heirloom of the noblewoman’s ancient house from time immemorial, passed down from generation to generation by the successive heads of House Vesänyär. It had been her mother’s, and now it was hers; Zsófia occasionally wondered if there would be anyone to inherit it after she were gone.

Unlike her mother, Zsófia’s father had never been a noble; through his blood there had flown not one drop of true patrician blood. One of Xirnium’s nouveau riche, his place within the haut monde had been through virtue of his wealth, and not his birth. As a successful speculator in the world of finance, Zsófia’s father had made immense fortunes and innumerable contacts, many of them abroad. After his death, the margravine had inherited her father’s enterprises, and had added them to the fabulous wealth and holdings of House Vesänyär. It was with respect to one of these endeavours, a joint undertaking between Zsófia’s companies and those of a noble family in Gaeltach, that Damien was to vist Castle Ceúressëa.

Deciding that she was not really in an irritated mood, Zsófia slowly descended a magnificent, fantastically sweeping stairway, its wide marble steps richly carpeted and set with ornamentally carved balusters and great vases of lovely flowers. As she reached the bottom, a footman announced the arrival of the Gaelic noble. Glancing briefly in a gilt-framed mirror, Zsófia was horrified by her skin’s deadly paleness, imagining that it must look to Damien as though her whole body had been drained of its blood.


The Present Day

Castle Ceúressëa, country residence of Lady Zsófia Varyä Făvârin-Sevrâthíl
Northwest Xirnium, near Angâmar Forest

Félicien did his best to conceal his incredulity, although such was by no means easy. This man had come to Castle Ceúressëa, sans resumé, letter of recommendation, or even the knowledge of what job precisely he would be applying for, and expected to at once find gainful employment with the House of Vesänyär.

‘I’m afraid that I cannot assist you with that. I’m sure, however, that if you leave your name, address and contact details,’ explained Félicien, ‘someone shall get in touch with you as soon as a suitable position becomes available.’

In truth, the security guard merely wanted rid of the vagrant as soon as possible, and without any fuss. If this could be done by humouring the man, all the better.

‘Now I didn’t catch your name…’

"My name is Atticus...Atticus Konovski, sir" Atticus replied, feeling a bit uncertain of what to do next. "And yours?" he asked, looking the man dead in his eyes. This was all frustrating, it was clear that the man was trying to put hikm down, make him feel worthless but he would not faulter and stood there.
"Are you sure there is no odd job that I can do? An extra hand would help to lighten the burden of the already existing staff's duties."

The security guard turned pointedly away from the man’s stare, busying himself by fastidiously cleaning his glasses with a fine handkerchief.

‘I’m afraid that I couldn’t tell you, Mr Konovski, as it is not my task here to manage personnel administration and job allocation,’ explained Félicien, the corners of his lips curling into an amused smile. It seemed to the Xirniumite that this encounter was beginning to assume something of a rather ridiculous quality.

With a light flourish the security guard scribbled Atticus’ name on his notepad, and then promptly returned both it and his pen to within his overcoat.

‘I shall really have to insist that you leave these grounds now, sir.’

Atticus smirked as his glance went to the ground and back up to the man. This was all becoming ridiculous, he sensed what this man was getting at. Just because he was not born with a silver spoon in his mouth, he must be worthless. Atticus imagined his fist connecting with the guards face but quickly dismissed that thought.
"May I speak with the person who allocates jobs?" he asked, then he added "Because I highly doubt that piece of paper will make it to him"

He was a bit road weary when the castle guards finally greeted him, but dared not let it show. He dismounted casually, straightening his long cloak and knee-high riding boots before advancing on the estate. Breifly, he wondered what to expect.

Does it really matter? You're stuck here for the time being, like it or not.

With a sigh, he composed himself and advanced on the magnificent old wooden door. He had to admit the old place certainly had a style and an eloquence to it. One could certainly get used to the opulence of it.

As a stable hand led away his horse, a footman escorted him to the door and another opened it at his approach, announcing him formally.

"Prince Damien of the House of Kearney, of the Gaelic Gentry."

Inwardly he sighed. It was all a formality - this he understood, but so tedious. Damien carried himself formally as someone held the door. The excess of his rich hunter green cloak was gathered over his left arm. His riding boots gleamed with polish, over a formal pair of breeches. He was ushered inside without delay just as the lady of the house was descending a breathtakingly ornate staircase. She was pale as the winter moon, and Damien was briefly taken aback by the sight. What had he expected? Certainly not this. She wasn't the beauty of his dreams, but he suddenly found himself thinking this duty wasn't perhaps all bad. In the formal style of the Gaelic nobles, he bowed low from the waist.

"M'lady.. I am Damien Kearney of Gaeltach. I apologize for arriving earlier than expected.. the journey was easier than I had anticipated."

Mid January, 1984

Castle Ceúressëa, country residence of Lady Zsófia Varyä Făvârin-Sevrâthíl
Northwest Xirnium, near Angâmar Forest

The noblewoman made a vague gesture, waving an attentuated, wan hand dismissively.

‘You’ve no need to apologise at all, milord. Your early arrival is in fact a delightful surprise,’ explained Zsófia, her slight apprehension betrayed only by the self-conscious use of a sing-song cadence. ‘I am most pleased to meet you.’

Zsófia graciously offered Damien a slender hand to kiss. The pale lady seemed very grave, both dignified and distant, but not unfriendly. Although she held herself very straight, her eyes smiled warmly. Unnoticed behind the hostess and her foreign guest, hall porters quickly conveyed the Gaelic lord’s portmanteaux and valises up to the room where he would be staying, vanishing quietly down an empty corridor. Now empty save for the presence of Lady Făvârin-Sevrâthíl and Prince Damien, the impressive entrance hall reverted to its much more familiar air of haughty gloom.

The margravine’s strange and smoky eyes fixed Damien with an unsettling gaze of keen, sharp observation. Although she possessed an impressive command of countenance, a restrained animation played over Zsófia’s face - wavering between her shinning eyes, so prone to wateriness, and the barely noticeable smile that curved her pinkish-red lips. In lieu of her more characteristic glasses, the noblewoman had today experimented with wearing a pair of contact lenses, and this too revealed much about her hidden thoughts.

‘Of course, you must be weary from your trip,’ exclaimed Zsófia suddenly, eager to bridge the awkward silence. A nervous smile had broken out across her lips, and a light blush suffused her fair cheeks. ‘Pray follow me and I shall show you to your room at once,’ she declared, taking his arm before Damien had even the chance to respond. Turning with a light, resolute step, Zsófia led the way, her heels clicking.

The two walked briskly along the south-west wing of the lonely castle, down an arcaded passage that was flanked by brilliant, crimson porphyry columns (elaborately twisted, so that the very building itself seem to come alive with movement) and lovely baroque, marbled caryatides, their feminine beauty both flawlessly exquisite and other-worldly. The warm, blood-red light of the dying sun, which projected its intricate fires across the partially clouded skies, streamed inside from many closed and frosted casements. Zsófia, unused as she was to company, spoke ceaselessly. She commented idly on the weather, complaining about how early the winter seemed to have come this year.

‘I daresay that the furnaces are kept burning day and night, and yet to no avail. I am forever shivering from the cold,’ Zsófia explained as they turned a corner and climbed the last staircase. ‘Here, feel my hand,’ the noblewoman added, sliping off a scented glove and holding out her palm. The noblewoman’s flesh was icy to the touch, as deathly cold as an entombed corpse’s.

The corridor they now walked down was as silent as the grave, pervaded by that same lonely greyness that hung oppressively over the rest of the manor house. Finally reaching the door to a suite of large, lavishly-furnished chambers, the Xirniumite paused uncertainly.

‘Doubtless you shall want to bathe and to rest, and to change from those uncomfortable riding clothes into more fitting atire,’ she indicated, her voice curiously shaded with an apologetic tone, ‘so I shall leave you alone until dinner. If you should require anything, just touch the bell and someone will come.’


The Present Day

Castle Ceúressëa, country residence of Lady Zsófia Varyä Făvârin-Sevrâthíl
Northwest Xirnium, near Angâmar Forest

‘Absolutely not,’ scoffed Félicien, whose good humour had been taxed to the limit by this annoying little man. ‘I simply cannot allow you on to the castle’s grounds without a prior appointment.’

Félicien really had tried his best to be as polite as possible to the gentleman, but it now seemed to him that politeness was simply wasted on some people. The security guard frowned as he considered his next sentence, which turned out be a flimsily-veiled threat.

‘Of course if you’d rather, Mr Konovski, we can always have the police come down here and kindly escort you off the premises. Whilst they are at it, mayhap they might also be so thoughtful as to examine the validity of your working visa?’ added Félicien, with a deliciously cruel smile.

Evening dinner at Castle Ceúressëa was a lavish, extravagantly self-indulgent affair, and the margravine’s table was as decadently splendid as one could reasonably have hoped for. Nonetheless, a remarkably sombre air seemed to prevail over the occasion, an impression that seemed only heightened by the flickering tapers of numerous ornate candelabra, which shed an eerie chartreuse light over the table. Absent were the laughter, classical poetry, music, and witty repartee that were said to grace many of the other great tables of the Xirniumite aristocracy. In their place was substituted a sense of uncomfortable loneliness, as though the very room itself had not known merry company for many a cheerless age.

Zsófia’s ancient family had, by tradition, always received on Thursdays, yet try as she might the noblewoman could not remember a time when the appearance of a guest at House Vesänyär’s gloomy castle had constituted anything but the very rarest of occurrences. Such an established state of affairs had certainly not changed greatly since her parents’ deaths, and the margravine’s vast table was occupied tonight only by a tiny handful of personages, who had so far eaten mainly in awkward silence.

The manor house’s dining room was intended to emphasise vastness and grandeur, making lavish use of exotic marbles and fine plasterwork. A carved gilt pendant chandelier hung from the ceiling, and elaborately cut and framed looking glasses adorned the walls. Windows were smothered with fanciful, dark-coloured draperies, laden with delicate cords, braid and tassels. A white damask cloth covered the oval table, which was laid with polished silver utensils, beautiful glazed crockery, shining crystal carafes and goblets, and starched napkins folded into the shape of water lilies. The dining table was conspicuously opulent, made of rare woods and veneers with silver mountings, whilst the high-backed seigneurial chairs that surrounded it were beautifully upholstered with velvet and richly decorated with gilded silver.

The banquet itself was luxuriously decadent - a masterpiece of culinary excellence and elegant style. Zsófia’s guests enjoyed the choicest of delicacies, and were served varied and splendid dishes such as turbot in hollandaise sauce, tournedos topped by foie gras and truffles, and a creamy veal potage with asparagus tips. From delicately engraved glasses, the company drank the finest wines of Vardímëlde.

Rather lovely in a swirling confection of crimson, Zsófia sat lonely at the head of the table, a position that she had occupied since the death of her mother. Resisting the inclination to allow her mind to wander, Zsófia selected a particularly small, elaborately decorated, glazed médaillon of lobster with her slender fork, nibbling its edge uncertainly. An extremely fastidious eater, the pallid noblewoman had barely touched her food tonight. In truth, Zsófia was much too nervous to eat.

Truth be told, Damien found the entire affair a touch overwhelming. The estate seemed to function in whirlwinds of activity, punctuated by more lethargic and grandiose events. At his arrival, he'd been whisked off suddenly to his quarters, barely able to hold polite conversation with the Lady for want of wit. His mind had been reeling all afternoon just taking it all in. The blur of the day's events left him with but a few moments of clarity. He recalled the icy feel of her flesh, something almost skittish in her eyes. She had reminded him then cuirously of a young colt he had once owned, torn too young from its mother. Yet she carried herself with a grace and authority which belied anything he may have supposed about her state of mind.

And now the dinner... Was nothing in this place less than grand? It was all so foreign. Surely this estate must be grander than even that of the Gaeltach Sovereigness. The attention to detail and scale of decoration was almost dizzying. His own people had preferred somewhat more austere conditions. But slowly, he was adjusting.

Taking the fine silver in hand, he had sampled nearly all of the fare. Each he found pleasing, and several unfamiliar dishes surprized him entirely. Conversation, however, had been lacking. Damien wondered briefly if it wasn't perhaps the custom, but then noticed the Lady had barely touched her meal. Setting down his utensils gently, he sipped at the wine and smiled graciously to his hostess.

"Your staff here possesses unmatched culinary skill, if you don't mind my saying. I am somewhat unaccustomed to quite this calibre of meal."

The compliment was intended to ease her into conversation. Perhaps even smooth the tiny lines of tension appearing on her pale face.

Damien’s handsome smile had quite an effect on the highly strung noblewoman, and she immediately found the evening rather more pleasant than she had thought it before. Zsófia permitted the smallest of nervous smiles to dance fleetingly across her coral coloured lips, and the effect on her previously somewhat drawn appearance was entirely remarkable. No one who had been graced by her charming little smile could ever call the pale young lady plain.

Before the nobleman’s reassuring compliment, Zsófia had been silently fretting that perhaps her guest had not really enjoying himself, and her pretty features had darkened somewhat with nervous worry. Now the margravine dared hope that there might not even be one ounce of truth to her silly misgivings, despite the awkward silence of the night; and an almost tremulous, shining vibrancy now animated her smoky eyes, so that flecks of silver appeared to glow ardently in their depths. Perhaps it was only the flickering tapers of the candelabra, Damien could not truly tell.

‘I’m most pleased to see that you’ve found it all so agreeable,’ replied the margravine, nervously touching at one of the silky petals of a sweet, scarlet camellia that she had picked herself from Castle Ceúressëa’s splendid conservatory and now wore in her sable-coloured hair. Zsófia never wore flowers, and so she wasn’t quite sure that she had got it exactly right. ‘Doubtless our head chef will be overjoyed by your high praise. He does so love it when he has an audience for whom he can showcase his rather remarkable art.’

The noblewoman smiled again, more self-consciously this time. Perhaps she had said rather too much. The Gaelic nobleman did not want to hear about how rarely guests came to Castle Ceúressëa, about how loneliness pervaded its gloomy corridors. At Zsófia’s request, the table was soon cleared by several servants and a variety of wonderfully decadent desserts served, including a delightful, fancy sponge cake soaked in rum-flavoured syrup, lovely charlotte puddings filled with thick apricot and apple purées, and fresh, nectarine and mango-flavoured ice creams covered with sugary meringue.

‘I am given to understand, Prince Damien,that this is your very first time in Xirnium?’ asked Zsófia, casting wide the net of conversation with inexpert awkwardness.

"Aye, and it would be."

Was there a slight edge of bitterness to his voice? He smiled through his thoughts, wondering if perhaps the lady was truly not aware of his reasons for being here. If she was, it was a special flavor of cruelty she possessed. And if it was indeed the latter, he was determined not to let her get to him. This was supposed to be a pleasant affair, afterall. He wouldn't want to disgrace his family and country.

"Lovely country, I dare say. Parts of the ride were nearly as green as me own homeland, but the terrain here is far more interesting."

As he spoke, he eyed the desserts, selecting the spongcake to try first. The taste was delightful, and he couldn't help but smile to himself around a spoonful. He had not failed to notice that the Lady seemed nervous. The blush which occassionally touched her cheek seemed to belie any sense of malice, and he allowed himself to step down from the ledge of mental vigilance.

"Your family has been here for quite some time, I understand?"

The margravine narrowed her eyes slightly at the peculiar tone of Damien’s response, peering carefully at the Gaelic noble over the rim of her tall-stemmed wineglass. Like virtually everything else in Castle Ceúressëa, Zsófia’s goblet was of exquisitely fine quality, decorated with delicate engravings in gold leaf laminated between two pieces of crystal glass. As she took from her wineglass the daintiest of sips, a small worm of doubt gnawed at the noblewoman, and she began to wonder if her guest might not be entirely pleased at being here. Zsófia certainly hoped that it wasn’t due to anything that she might had done.

Zsófia’s concerns, however, were allayed somewhat as the gentleman spoke on. She also had to admit to herself that Damien’s strange manner of speaking, so very different from the affectedly pleasant cadences of the Xirniumite beau monde, was really quite refreshing (and even a little charming).

‘Your family has been here for quite some time, I understand?’

‘You might say so, milord,’ Zsófia indicated in reply to Damien’s inquiry. ‘The structure here was built by one of my predecessors, Margrave Vanâdien Arandërthon, for his wife back in 1487, but it didn’t actually become my family’s main country seat until the late sixteenth century. In fact I am the eighteenth head of House Vesänyär to reside at Castle Ceúressëa,’ explained the noblewoman, curiously without any discernable hint of pride.

All of a sudden Zsófia seemed to blush self-consciously. ‘But I’m sure that you don't want to hear all the tiresome details,’ she mumbled quickly. The noblewoman seemed slightly embarrassed and wanted to change the subject.

"1487.. all this grandeur? You put me to shame, my Lady."

He had been smiling as she spoke about her family history, actually enjoying the lesson. In the old Gaelic culture, family lines were very important. The stronger one's connection to royal or noble blood, and the farther one's family extended back into the mists of time, the better standing they would recieve in the present. True, families had fallen in and out of power as the feudal structure changed somewhat, and the nature of local cheifs evolved, but it was still that tie which lent power and weight to the family. In present times, they had lesser impact as nearly everyone could claim nobility at some point or another, but the "true" lines still managed to carry all the power in the country.

"Jaysus, in the 15th century, the finest of us still lived in stone raths with dirt floors, but the finest thatch for roofing."

He winked then and picked at a partially forgotten remnant of sponge cake. He was debating whether or not to pursue the real meat of his concerns. Deciding now was as good a time as any, Damien braced himself to breech the topic. He'd danced around it enough and risked offending the Lady if he didn't at least clear a few things up.

"Tell me, your Grace... do you fully understand why I am here?"