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(( Bloomingtide 9:33 - Misthaven, early morning - Constance Theirin ))
Misthaven was certainly living up to its name on the morning of the teyrna’s arrival.
It was early enough that the sun’s rays had not had a chance to thin the mist and fog that shrouded the town. Primary structures--like Quinton’s own estate--seemed almost to float above the ground, their foundations and supports almost completely obscured. The air was unseasonably crisp and cool, a light breeze carrying with it the scent of freshly-hewn lumber.
There was danger in it. Perhaps that was why Quinton allowed himself a small amount of sentimentality when it came to his bannorn. That and the pride he had invested to help it flourish. But what had once been a shroud under which the settlement could be attacked was now a way for him to see without being easily seen; to know the facets of his land that others might find difficult to navigate, so that he might better use it against them.
In truth there was little need for it this day. The challenge in welcoming Constance Yorath to his home rested largely in navigating conversation and politics, and no amount of dubious weather was going to help him manage such a feat. Instead he dressed in his finest doublet and buckskin breeches that were met at the calf with high boots to better protect his clothing from the wet ground.
His horse had been readied for him, and rather than wait to receive his guest, he rode the short distance to the town’s border--just to the north gate, where the Brecilian met the edge of the settlement--with impeccable timing. The teyrna’s entourage was in view, just as his men had said it would be by this point.
Guiding his horse to the side of the well-worn road, Quinton halted beside the carriage. “Good morning, Your Grace, and welcome to Misthaven. If you will permit me, I thought I might escort you and your men into the town proper. The visibility is a touch poor today.”
Misthaven was certainly living up to its name on the morning of the teyrna’s arrival.
It was early enough that the sun’s rays had not had a chance to thin the mist and fog that shrouded the town. Primary structures--like Quinton’s own estate--seemed almost to float above the ground, their foundations and supports almost completely obscured. The air was unseasonably crisp and cool, a light breeze carrying with it the scent of freshly-hewn lumber.
There was danger in it. Perhaps that was why Quinton allowed himself a small amount of sentimentality when it came to his bannorn. That and the pride he had invested to help it flourish. But what had once been a shroud under which the settlement could be attacked was now a way for him to see without being easily seen; to know the facets of his land that others might find difficult to navigate, so that he might better use it against them.
In truth there was little need for it this day. The challenge in welcoming Constance Yorath to his home rested largely in navigating conversation and politics, and no amount of dubious weather was going to help him manage such a feat. Instead he dressed in his finest doublet and buckskin breeches that were met at the calf with high boots to better protect his clothing from the wet ground.
His horse had been readied for him, and rather than wait to receive his guest, he rode the short distance to the town’s border--just to the north gate, where the Brecilian met the edge of the settlement--with impeccable timing. The teyrna’s entourage was in view, just as his men had said it would be by this point.
Guiding his horse to the side of the well-worn road, Quinton halted beside the carriage. “Good morning, Your Grace, and welcome to Misthaven. If you will permit me, I thought I might escort you and your men into the town proper. The visibility is a touch poor today.”