Lord Baringer, I Presume?

[Foma Kozlov]

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?"

[Geralt]

"Your Lordship, Lady Volkher awaits you in the lounge," said Lyrene, his family's chosen chancellor of East End diplomatic affairs. She was a woman constantly hawking over him -- and him specifically -- as the man who so profoundly dashed the expectations of his parents.

"What does she want?" he asked. "I'm busy."

"She -- she wishes to inform you of the beauty, and virginity, of her daughter, Helena. While she is aware that you already possess two heirs, if anything were to... occur to you, she notes the current threats facing your House; the risk of the Baringer's elimination as a legacy." He was surprised at the woman's openness in speaking. It was a sore spot that she prodded. Not too long ago, one of his young cousins had been taken from the market by a frenzied mob and was subsequently torn apart on the streets. The brutality had not been detested; instead, the fallibility of that young Lord became a rallying cry for more disruption, and every day that disruption appeared to escalate.

He admitted that his House was dying. They had few members left. Many of those that had been born to them had been married off to Galbrecht's or even Alderset's, and so they had lost their name and inheritance. His father would soon need to offer traditionally Baringer titles to the Argent, creating Margraves as a temporary solution to their plight.

"With the rebels' sentiment still at large, Your Lordship, we will need allies to stand with us in solidarity. House Volkher is one such considerable ally, and you remain unmarried," she reminded him.

Geralt nodded. "No," he replied. "House Volkher is not strong enough. Their wealth largely comes from Hollow-operated farming estates near Rostock. They could not be further from the fray, and do not offer us enough Hollows or Knights from their holdings. Besides -- the Volkhers are despised by the Koltoskans, are they not? Let us not isolate the one secure base that we have."

"Very well then," the woman answered. "If that is your response, I shall inform your mother. But such a flat rejection will be seen as an insult to House Volkher's honor -- it will create enmity. You must at least schedule a time to meet their daughter, so that when your rejection is offered officially, you may shroud it with the pretext of lacking chemistry. You have heard all of this before, yes? So what date should I offer Lady Volkher?"

Geralt pressed his lips together and sighed. "The twenty eighth," he replied, and waved Lyrene away. The woman nodded, courteously bowed, and removed herself from his presence. Geralt frowned. He wasn't particularly fixated on the idea of marrying for romantic or interpersonal reasons whatsoever. The candidates that had been offered to him, though, were unexceptional. Not a single Count's son or daughter, despite his position as the heir of their liege. The Baringer's influence was waning; their vassals did not want to commit to them the way they once did.

He prepared himself for a visit to the garden. In typical Baringer fashion, he would need to select an assortment of flowers to offer Helena Volkher on their first meeting, even if he intended to reject her. Their meeting - likely a castle tour - was over a week's worth of time away, but he had little else to do of late. His sons were both attending a military academy in Lienburg, and taking administrative lessons from his mother, Aveline. The Knighthood had little to offer him but the occasional day in the field, as Baringer was not hotly at war with its neighbors, protected by the Graaf Mountains.

The only thing the Argents truly did these days was slaughter revolutionary peasants, and the Lord of House Baringer could not be seen directly involved in that. Issuing the order was not the same as delivering the sentence.

He moved through the castle. As it was always warm in the major Baringer estates, their members tended to dress like one would in Searing in a far more hospitable climate. He wore a maroon colored satin vest with a somewhat open chest, revealing his Argent-like physique. His legs donned satin slacks, black in color, that suited his shape fairly accurately and wrapped closely around his ankles. He wore suede shoes that were open at the top, appearing not too dissimilar from a commoner's typical flats. His fingers were adorned with a few rings, one being the extravagant signet of House Baringer, while his neck carried a single golden chain that ran down to the skin beneath his collarbones.

Geralt lumbered much like one would expect him to, but he carried himself with the poise traditional of Rien Nobility. He smiled as he greeted each courtier, nodded to each bowing servant, drawing nearer to the bailey. Once arriving in the impressive botanical plaza, he immediately shot through the more public sector of the so-called 'preserve' and towards the wisteria. Geralt had played this game many times over. He knew that it was tradition for the House courting a prospective marriage to hear of his immediate descent into the bailey, of his careful consideration of each flower... and to hear of him plucking them individually and guiding them across the hall on the eve prior to their meeting.

The Peacock Flower, the signature flora of House Baringer, was offered to those whom he accepted a proposition from. It was in the wisteria that they were concentrated, though he did not even catch them in his peripheral as he entered the circular area around the pond.

Instead, Geralt leaned over the stone basin surrounding the water and shook his head, dreading the coming of another uncomfortable and undesirable date. Unlike with the peasantry, he could not even gratify himself with the body of unpleasant company, lest he create the conditions for another civil war. His parents had no courage. Had he ruled the East End, he thought, he could have forced these troubles to recede into history. He wondered of his next actions. He did not need to begin by forging stronger alliances for House Baringer, just yet, but rather alliances of his own.

As he contemplated his possible next steps, however, his moment of quiet deviousness was interrupted by an unfamiliar voice. It sounded peasant.

Geralt turned to face him, and immediately scanned him overtly with his gaze. With his current bearings, he did not belong in the Estate. Clearly he must've known who he was speaking to, and the man had to wonder how he'd even gotten into the wisteria without an Argent attaching themselves to him.

He frowned. There was a possibility that this was a revolutionary, come to kill him. He had heard of similar invasions into their other castles, often followed by the wounding of one of his kin, and a mass hysteria. But of his relatives, he was the least endangered by a lone assailant. Or so he thought.

Still, the man was young-looking. And he did not appear to be from Gothenburg. He noted, even in his brief introductory words, that his accent wasn't familiar. It wasn't Koltoskan or East Ender, and not really Niven, either. The possibility that he was from Outer Nivenhain did not even cross his mind, as the Lord's mind rarely waded into such squalor. Still, he did not appear particularly offensive or dangerous. Geralt's narrowed, glaring stare appeared to settle into a neutral calm. He fakely smiled.

"No, you are not," he replied. A lie, though he supposed the interruption may have been a positive if anything. It was not safe to indulge such treasonous thoughts. "Though I wonder if you are aware to whom you are speaking to. I am Lord Geralt of House Baringer, Heir to the Perennial Overgrowth. I am not adverse to our communication, but I do advise you to bow and title me respectfully. Your Lordship will suffice."

[Foma Kozlov]

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."

[Geralt]

It required practice in deception greater than what he had, to hide his obvious bemusement at the supposed Lustrian's errant fumbling. He was part-way towards falling upon the floor, punishing himself for what Geralt supposed he took as irreverence. But, the Lord did not particularly mind. If anything, as fruitless as it would certainly be, their interaction would offer him a welcome distraction. Though in general, tiring was an apt descriptor to such jumbled and worried introductions.

Your Lordship, he eventually, properly addressed him, with relative deference applied to the words. The Baron nodded, eyeing him as he rose. He was short and thin. Below average height for a Rien man, though he supposed the man's size suited his boyish complexion and... seemingly meek demeanor. He wasn't particularly gaunt or lanky, but average and unspectacular in build. He wasn't an Argent. That was typical. But given their vast difference in size, his second evaluation caused for him to wonder why he'd ever been worried at the man's sudden intrusion into the bailey. It was his paranoia, he supposed; a thing he'd been afflicted with often, of late.

Throughout the younger man's continued blundering, Geralt listened with a stoic expression and an intensive, peerless stare that did not subside for longer than a momentary blink. He was offering the man his complete attention, though Foma would likely wonder whether it was out of respect or judgment; Geralt did not seem particularly impressed by him, after all.

A fool's tongue in a dullard's mouth.

The Kathar faintly grinned. He was at least well-worded with his self-deprecation. Foma sounded like too many other noble lasses as Geralt pretended to court them, constantly embarrassed and unnerved, and certain to point it out. He noticed that Foma was observing him as keenly as the other way around, only Geralt did not feel particularly threatened by the observation. It made sense for a man of little experience with the Celebrant class to be curious, to admire every detail and wonder of what he could not immediately see. The Baringer made no particular attempt to dissuade him from his continued stare, though as he finally introduced himself, his words managed to pique Geralt's interest.

Foma Kozlov. An interesting name. It didn't sound incredibly Rien; Geralt wondered of his origin.

"Are you Koltoskan?" he asked, directing his view to the man's complexion and hair. He did not look too distant from the people of the southern valley, his stature typical of theirs. The name wasn't perfectly suitable, but it carried a sort of vague similarity to some of theirs.

The visitor further explained himself. Lamprecht Wagner. Geralt's brow rose and he continued to listen. Foma searched his person frantically, seeking to produce a writ, one that he quickly found. He clarified that he had been asked to stay here, meaning whoever had directed the young man hadn't been aware of Geralt's presence in the bailey. If he had been his mother or father, the person who had sent him would have certainly been removed from their position. If the rebellion had been any more widespread, Geralt would have likely done the same.

"Well, Kos," he finally began to respond, "I do not know who Lamprecht Wagner is. He likely deals with the staff of the estate, who -- also likely -- send affiliated requests and invoices to my uncle, who is Count of Dresden. As such, I have no particular relation to this... endeavor of yours. Were I to be involved, I would gladly undergo negotiations or... whatever your master may wish. But I am not involved." Even the Nobility was mired in bureaucracy, and Geralt did not wish to veer too far from his own obligations. He was Baron of Valenbrech, and his residence in Gothenburg was solely for high diplomatic affairs.

"You are welcome to join me, however." Geralt gestured towards the bench, content to allow him his seat, whenever he so wished. "Though I warn you, your company here is rather dull: I will be peering at flowers while you sit." Though tempted to explain to Foma the purpose for his dalliance, he supposed it would not be wise to share his distaste for House Volkher to a stranger, whatever his class or distance from East End affairs.

"Would you like any?" he asked, smirking. "They're all available to you, save for the Peacock-looking ones. Those are reserved solely for the shrill warden or waif who will be sent to torment me for the remainder of my life." Geralt chuckled briefly beneath his breath, and turned his back to Foma in order to look upon the colors arranged before him.

[Foma Kozlov]

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."

[Geralt]

Geralt laughed as the other man expressed just how quickly his heart had been beating; it was humorous because it was direct, and honest. The Lord had very little of that to contend with, and he was almost surprised to see it offered by a peasant. Though... his experiences with the poorest of Riens often displayed a level of authenticity that his peers lacked. Once he managed to wade past the fearful exhilaration and worship.

Foma was most entertaining. He was well-spoken, again, despite lacking in the political experiences necessary to form adequate rhetoric. He was easily flustered thus far, yet incredibly brave. He posed Geralt question after question, not receding in the blatancy of his intrigue. He questioned Geralt's offer of flowers, though the Lord was uncertain of what to make of his question. Was it coy, or did he wonder if there was some greater plot at hand behind the curtain of Geralt's benign offer? He couldn't imagine what flowers were meant to inspire in him. Perhaps appreciation. Some weaved romantic context into their forms, though Geralt did not need to court a commoner. They were as receptive to flowers as they were to commands.

"It is neither," he flatly replied. "There is no meaning nor etiquette. The flowers offered are a gift to a stranger, who I think might appreciate them. I would not even say the offer is particularly kind; there are many of these, and I am free to do with them as I wish. I wish to bequeath them upon you, purely arbitrarily. I believe that is sufficient, yes?" he faintly smiled, the shift in his expression weaving into the corners of his lips. Geralt began to pick an assortment for Foma, all of the flowers unique to Lorien. One was a blue rose-like flower with small buds ascending from its vine along the length, tipped with the beginnings of blue petals, though none of them would ever bloom.

Another was a shimmering peach-colored flower with what looked somewhat like a closed umbrella for a head. Then, a white flower with the thin elegance of a crane, and a purple one with a scent strangely soothing, one that appeared to generate a similar sensation to intaking fresh wintry air. Geralt brought all of them together and enclosed them within his palm, before wrapping a ribbon he'd picked from one of the stone corners around their stalks. Tied together, they formed a small bouquet, all of them fresh and beautiful. The assortment of their scents was highly complimentary, a sort of assembled art unique to the Baringers.

He offered them to Foma. From the look upon his face, however, he was not expecting refusal.

"Your questions have been disregarded," he stated to the other, the Lord's lips curling bemusedly. Though he had already answered them, he was glad to move past any sort of implication, though he was still uncertain as to what Foma might have been getting at. It did not really matter.

But the questions truly did not relent. He now inquired as to Geralt's future 'tormentors', or rather, the possibility of one being worthwhile. Someone who could serve his house and heart, though such notions were often idealistic. The common man did not really know what went on behind the scenes. From what Geralt was aware, even Claudia and Luther were largely tied together by mutual ideology, rather than love. Cailan and Catherine despised one another, and his own parents... well. They loved one another once. Perhaps they still did.

Foma continued. Geralt was curious as to his interest in the particular subject. He certainly could have been a spy, though if he was, he was oddly direct. The Baron examined him once again, and tried to imagine his reasons for maintaining such a compelling interest in Geralt's private affairs. He supposed curiosity was certainly a possibility, especially given that Geralt had made it fairly clearly to him that indulging his queries was not beneath him. Many Riens were curious of what they did not know. Many asked. Few asked Lords of high station directly, though he was certain many wished to.

He began to wonder what class the other was from, truly. Lustrian made the most sense, but Lustrians were largely taught to be reserved and to take orders and little else. They were meek in the presence of Lords and overtly deferential, taught to be due to their influence over Hollows and Lorianum, the backbone of their Kingdom. Had they questioned too much, or formed their own distinctive ideologies, they were certainly a threat.

But it hadn't gotten that far. This all still pertained to romance, which was - supposedly - a harmless topic. Particularly given that he was not asked about the more unattractive suitors, but the ones he would have preferred.

Of course, though, he had to ask... if only to terrorize the other: "Are you intending to be a suitor of mine, Mister Kozlov?" Geralt teased. With a sly deviance to his gaze, he turned back to the flowers and offered the other an honest answer to his wonders.

"I was interested in Matthias Alderset," he admitted. "He is the Duke of the West End, and we are not even a season apart in age. Normally, marrying a Lord of greater prominence would be a concern of mine, but even if I were to lose my title, I still have two legitimate heirs of the Baringer name. My eldest son, Latham, would become Duke of the East End and whatever child we had through surrogacy would be Duke of the West. It was an excellent proposition; he is rather studious and attractive, and the few times I've seen him we got along well. Strangely, however, he has vehemently rejected all applications by my family, and does not provide reasoning for doing so."

He supposed that was probably not common knowledge, but most of the Nobility in the East End already knew. A few peasants mutually carrying the knowledge would not be particularly threatening.

"There are also the Revenlow daughters, and the prince himself. I fancy them. Of course, Franz will likely be married to some Florent runt and his sisters to the various Counts of Nivenhain and Breven. My family is not fond of allying with Revenlow, regardless, as they believe it will upset our relations with Galbrecht and Alderset. As Galbrecht is necessary for our continued survival, truth be told, we cannot endanger ourselves with betrayal against them. And besides -- my mother, who despises the royals, would never forgive me. It would cause a rift in our House not easily mended."

And so, as he had made clear, his options in regards to desirable partners were limited. There was, of course, one more concern that he would have neglected to address only a few years ago, though now he had come to terms with it.

"There is also the fact that I am a Kathar Avialae. Not only does that make me particularly unsettling to any Noble suitor, as the Kindred may co-opt my mind at any moment, but the fact that they punitively tore my wings from my back acts as a sort of mark of shame, threatening any House that aligns with me with public scrutiny by religious vassals. As you can see, Foma, I am a surprisingly unattractive prospect for marriage. As unfortunate as it is, that is where we are."

[Foma Kozlov]

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.

[Geralt]

Foma was . . . perhaps not an individual he could discard all too easily. Though he wore the adornment of a peasant, he spoke much like a courtier, prepared utterly to deal with the momentary thoughts and grievances of a Baringer Lord. He was quick on his feet, insightful, and though he spoke in at least one platitude, Geralt did not find any of his words particularly objectionable. Instead, he valued them. Too often did the man think of what he had lost early on -- but he still had a great number of advantages to his name. He was a Lord, and in this land, the Lord if one discounted his father. He was a soldier with considerable potential; he held two heirs to his name already and had the luxury of choosing his partner in marriage, even if Lady Aveline shrieked at every denial of every worthy groom or bride.

Geralt hadn't given up, despite all of the many setbacks of late. It was good to see another person come to understand that, even though he may have merely been speaking for the purpose of gaining Geralt's favor. The Baron supposed that he had managed to achieve that goal, if a goal it had truly been.

"I appreciate your insight, Kos. Foma. Though I cannot deny the strange circumstance of our meeting, I do not despise your presence." He rested his fingertips along the edges of the ivory-colored rectangular planter before him and exhaled. The Lord-Knight turned slightly to face the other man, their eyes meeting long enough for the Lord to attempt to grasp at the other's thoughts. Whatever... reservations he might have had.

"Whatever little value you believe you can bring to me, I would not mind the prospect of your continued company. You see, though I may indeed be my greatest ally, it is not always harmful to lend trust to others than just oneself, so long as that trust is well-gauged and limited. You are a peasant, yes, but you're well spoken and keen on learning. Observant. Humble. You appear not to carry ties to the rest of the Celebrant, which is valuable to me. I am trying to build my own base of resources, human and otherwise, away from the sole arbitration of my Lord father and mother. You may find that I can change your life for the better. I would assume that I can."

Geralt frowned, and shortly afterwards his gaze returned to the flowers and the wall behind them, once again pulled from the smaller frame of the Nameless man. He rolled his shoulders and relaxed the tension in his back, lowering his elbows to sink somewhat beneath the height of his palms. The stress, and tension, were obvious in the man particularly through his thin and mostly form-fitting attire. He made a conscious effort to appear more collected than he truly was.

"Tell me about yourself, Foma. We have spoken almost entirely about me."

Perhaps it was likely that he didn't care. Whatever the case, he gave the other man his opportunity. If only to estimate his worth more acutely.

"What is your class? Lustrian? What Duchy do you hail from? I do not recognize your accent; are you perhaps from Skaven, on the West End? I have heard they look and sound... somewhat different to the rest of us. Strange names, too, some of them." Geralt paused for a moment, relaxing his line of questioning, or wishing to. The man determined that he should be transparent. "Your... inexplicable origins continue to prove a point of contention to my more generous side. I have never been able to trust a man that I could not adequately place. You do not appear all too keen in delivering information about you to me, yourself. Why is that?"

The paranoia in him was perhaps evident in that moment, though he judged his own reasoning to be valid as any. Particularly in the times they lived.

[Foma Kozlov]

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."

[Geralt]

A Nameless. The word was designed to bring forth ire and superstition in men; to have them wonder of the integrity of such a holder, perhaps to revel in their superiority over them. He had always wondered if the Nameless were more than just a method of long-term punishment for treasonous souls and blasphemers, but also a method of placation for Lorien's lower class. Something to feel prideful of; that there are those less fortunate than them, that they can cast their dark shadows of pride upon. Of course, even for Geralt, there was the immediate welling feeling of disgust. He could not deny it. It did not show on his expression, largely due to his surprise at the revelation, but internally there was a feeling of almost... nausea within him. A Nameless was a terrible thing, a rat within a gutter. The filth of Lorien's society.

What followed after was confusion and curiosity. How had Foma managed to become so well-spoken? How had he managed to acquire the clothes of a Lustrian? He supposed... his master, Lamprecht, as he called him. Yes. Geralt wondered how a Lustrian master treated a Nameless -- they were often held in similar regard to the Hollows. Lorien had no need for living slaves, but certainly a Nameless was not considerably far above one. He wondered if they could be bought and sold. Doubtful, though he imagined the practice likely did occur in some smaller settlements, away from the eye of the wider public.

His disgust became... pity. What a sad life, it was, built from nothing but the sins of one's forebears; sins one could not be held remotely accountable for. The Nobility were not quick to judge men Nameless, it was most often the Kindred and their Omen collaborators. Celebrant, all the same. How terrible it was that those in the absolute upper echelons of society were given the power to send others beneath even the lowest. As if they understood what suffering and shame they would inflict upon them. As if they had lived it themselves.

Geralt frowned, and shook his head. Perhaps to Foma, it would appear as if he were judging him. As the initial surprise faded, his complexion was mired in a look of anger and disappointment. Surely that would have invoked insecurity in the other, worry of what danger he had unleashed from his confession; Geralt knew that it would be so.

But he covered his eyes and the bridge of his nose with one palm, and exhaled again, squeezing the skin over his temples with his index finger and thumb.

"That is sad," he said. For a moment, that was all that he said, until he lifted his open palm away from his face and peered at the other man wholly, their eyes extending in meeting. "You live in Lower Nivenhain, then?" Or Outer. Lower was significantly worse, though, and where most of Nivenhain's Nameless resided. He couldn't imagine him coming from there, though... no amount of education was able to wipe off the grime of that upbringing. He had heard one of their accents before, their tone; it was pure unintelligible savagery. Most of them could not even write.

Foma spoke of trust, and of lessons. Yes . . . his life must've had many lessons, Geralt thought. And little reason to trust, well, anyone. The Nameless were exploited at every given opportunity. They barely had legal rights or protections; many regions did not even consider the Rien-born ones citizens. Gothenburg was one place where they were treated... with a modicum of respect, if only due to their large Koltoskan population, many of whom still bore the title, having not been naturalized.

"My apologies, Kos," he said. "For my expression of . . . displeasure. It was not because of who you are, but rather, of what you have been deprived. I know that it may surprise you to hear of a Celebrant offering you sympathy, but I give it wholeheartedly. I am a Kathar Avialae, one whose wings were torn from his back by... them, when I was very young. For the deeds of my parents, in fact. I had to learn to live with feelings of scorn and inadequacy, from others and myself. But even then I had the privilege of a Celebrant, the stature and strength of a mountain, and the inheritance of an entire Duchy to be proud of. I have not suffered nearly so much as you."

He shook his head, and stepped forward, nearer to the other. This moment, he intended to be meaningful.

"As a Celebrant, however, I have the authority to ascribe better fortunes to you than what you have known. I said earlier that I believed I could change your life for the better, and I can. While none can return my wings, Barons like myself are offered the ability to revoke Nameless status, and move those afflicted by it to a modest class of their choosing, Savant or Lustrian. With the civil war, however, I worry that my offering may not hold the same weight in Nivenhain as it does here. So why not join me, in the East End? I can make you a Lustrian, if you so wish, and in exchange for your service I will provide you with employment and varied amenities. I know we have not known one another for long, but that does not diminish the respectable nature of your person. You are undeserving of such mockery. Allow me to expunge it."