It is 1190 in the growing town of Saint Volusien.

The early spring sun have burned away the last of the morning dew from the green grass and tender sprigs of wild thyme in the northern foothills of the Pyrenees. Smells of wool, sweat, dust and savoury meats mingle with sounds of people haggling, laughing and going about their business at the bustling town centre. It is market day and the local merchants, craftsmen and peasants are selling livestock, tools, pots, leather, linen, wool and numerous other things from stalls and carts around the market square.

Raucous laughter, jeers and applause rises from sport events, arranged and spontaneous as people wrestle, walk on stilts, swim in the freezing waters of the Ariége or play la soule on the fields to the west of town.
This message was last updated by the GM at 21:11, Thu 04 Aug 2022.

Ernst, one of the men who earned their keep in Saint Volusien with a steady supply of meat, hide, sinew, bone and antler, had unfortunately burred the blade of his axe on a particularly stubborn round of oak, the hidden knot bending the edge over on itself slightly in a way that would ruin the tool in time if not properly addressed.

The Smith was making good progress however, the heavy stone wheel rattled in its mount as it spun and the wiry, sharp eyed man applied the blade at an angle with his practiced hand to grind down the flaw in little spurts of flying sparks while an apprentice poured a little oil here and there to ease the process along.

Ernst himself stood and watched with concern, his beefy arms folded across his chest, his head slouched forward in concentration. The tool was one of the most valuable things he owned, and the prospect of a chip or a crack would be as tragic as it would be expensive.

He wore a knee length dark green woolen tunic, weathered and faded about the shoulders, and low supple shoes. In this fine weather his ankles were bare and a little dirty from the road. About him he had a mostly empty leather bag slung about his shoulder and a broad belt with a stag handled knife in its plain sheath. The neck of the tunic was loose now, which displayed a broad hairy chest now tanned by the balmy spring days, glimpsed past his full and untrimmed beard.

The apprentice slips and spills oil on the packed dirt floor of the smithy, earning a sharp look of reprimand from the grizzled blacksmith. "Easy now, boy, we need that oil for the templars sword when we've finished with this". The apprentice blushes and steadies his hand.

Roul finishes the grinding with a final sweep and moves over to a coarse leather strop mounted on the shed wall and hones the edge with practiced moves. When finished he cleans the edge with an oiled cloth and hands the axe back to Ernst. "Bring me some decent hide and sinew next time you're around, will you? I need to mend some tools for that putain castle build and I'm all but out," he says.

For all the standing around, the morning had not been without points of interest. Leaving the castle whilst their horses' breath clouded in the air and dew still beaded on the new grass had carried something of the anticipation of the hunt, a keen and keyed-up feeling that had descended with them into town and the midmorning hollers of a settlement not quite forgetting festival.

Never beyond a fingertip reach of his lady, Quin holds the bridle of his dozy Percheron and watches the goings-on of the market with eyes of an undecided green-blue, idly tearing chunks from a fruit-laden bun with his teeth. Aside from grazing a petit déjeuner like a gentle cow - and eventually offering the last bit over to Etienne as the latter cocks a hoof to rest - the young knight looks fairly impressive today: sun that filters down through the buildings and awnings of stalls makes a halo of the edges of his fair hair and everywhere bright rings of chain show forth from his cloak and surcoat, outlining even the wool in brightness.

Quintillian waits, his heavy horse buffering the crowds curious to see Emma de Trencavel and the existence of the sword at his hip discouraging too long gawping at their lady. The distant roar of sport throws up a memory of the first man he'd killed, eight years past: a noise behind him in the singing thrill of the tilt and then the reaction from the crowd that went from joy to a kind of groan.

(...reining around to see his opponent lying like something dropped and dismounting at once, forgetting the moment of victory in the instant pallor of de Grézels' face. Reaching the youth moments after the priest, who went to his knees like a descending crow and signed the cross but whose face said the lad was already gone - had been, upon the instant the fall broke something small within the bones of his neck. Being part-led, part-pushed off the field, not believing.

His father's master-at-arms had survived falling from a castle wall to its courtyard once with two arrows in him; how then could eighteen years of life - two more than his - vanish in a clumsy fall from a slowing horse?

- Did I kill a man for sport? He'd asked his brother.
- The point of the sport is teaching you to kill a man: I'd say you won early. God willed that Francicon be taken from the earth, is all. That and his horse felt him flinch.)

Quin had never felt guilty about it in particular, but his mind sensed some lesson yet to be untangled and hadn't let it go. Sometimes that pale face arose at the sound of crowd noise, at other times the flinch of a horse. It didn't matter, really. Quin consciously untenses back into the moment and watches the merchant interact with their liege with the easy attention of a hawk at rest.
This message was last edited by the player at 02:30, Sun 07 Aug 2022.

The troubadour walks up beside Quintillian. "Your brow is furrowed deep in thought, Mon Seigneur. Please, tell me what might be the reason of that far away gaze," his deep baritone voice doing little to disguise the mild mockery behind his words.

Quin spares the troubadour a glance and a warm, gentle smile like spring daybreak, mildly amused but aware of the exact space between the newcomer and his lady. He looks the fellow over and returns to his watch of the merchant and those milling nearby.

"Just thinking of someone I killed but didn't mean to," he responds, utterly without guile, then cants his head a little to have the troubador's movements in view. "Do you juggle?"

There's no change in tone to indicate whether Quintillian is sharp enough for subtle banter or too dense to tell a patronless troubadour from a petty jongleur: he lets de Bornelh try his luck.

Giraut pauses and considers Quin for a moment, noting his regard for Emma. A hint of a smile graces the corner of the troubadours mouth. "No, I don't juggle. My name is Giraut de Bornelh, troubadour," he bows deeply and flourishes his gaudy cape "and I would like to speak with your mistress, if you'll allow."

OOC: It is not impossible that you would have heard of this troubadour, I think he would have been pretty famous in most circles at this time.

The knight gives a graceful little nod, though a slight grin returns to show that de Bornelh was right in his estimation and Quin won't pretend not to have heard of him now they have the rough measure of each other. The gesture also acknowledges that the troubadour was right about the quarter sharp and efficient violence would come from should he give a first impression as a threat to the lady Trencavel's person.

"When my lady has finished this present business," he agrees, since it seems imminent that she will do just that.

With a smile fall all those around her, whether of her flock or not, and with a cheerful demeanour, the cloth merchant set out her stall in the market.  She had already given a silken garment to Lady de Trenceval because what merchant does not pay voluntary tithes as well as necessary taxes if she wants to succeed.

Most of her stock was wool or linen, more of the latter with Summer emerging soon from the burning blue skies of Occitanie but for the discerning eye, there may be a little Merovian cotton.

In reply to Roul Fabron (msg # 3):

Ernst took the axe and carefully ran a dirty calloused thumb along the blade. It was a bearded axe, much abused by years hewing wood for fires and building traps, but it was solidly made and had weathered beautifully.

"I'll bring you something nice, and don't let me forget it." he agreed with a nod, then shook the man's hand firmly.

He took the tool and carried it up high near the head in one hand as he made his way back out through the market. He seemed like he was moving with a purpose, when a basket of scrap fleece at the cloth merchants stall caught his eye.

He diverted and moved to stand next to Melisande as he set the tool down, greeted the merchant with a "Good morning" and began to inspect the scrap pieces, turning them over his hands and digging a little through the basket for the thicker pieces.

It is nearing midday and the market is quite busy, people of all kinds peruse, haggle and go about their business. The old roman paving in the town center is newly renovated with modern round stones and the wide stone bridge has been finished for but five years now. Where they stand in the middle of the busiest part of the market Ernst, Quin And Melisande can pick up snippets of conversation from the bustle. A group of stoneworkers passing by on their way to the smith talk about the sickness in the and quarry and how it's slowing down deliveries to the castle build. "...I tell you, it must be the food. That cheap..."

A grizzled farmer and her husband standing at a leather worker stall nearby is talking in hushed voices about their neighbours feud. "...what happened to them, they were both so upstanding... ...never been quarrelsome... ...yes, but stealing?" The rest of the conversation is drowned out by the babble as the farmers move away.

Ernst was not normally one to indulge in gossip, but the threat of a thief in community concerned him personally. While most people tended to drift between the fields and their homes, he often had to leave his home and possessions for weeks at a time to build traps, haul supplies, repair trails and handle other business.

An enterprising thief could easily pick up on this, and he might not catch the loss until it was far too late.

He put the fleece back, picked up his axe and drifted towards the leather workers stall to try to learn more, where he nodded to the spare man behind the stall in recognition.

"Quintillian de Sérignac, by the way," the knight adds, once it seems his liege lady might be a few minutes more at her choices. Quin indicates the blue hawk forever falling on the red blazon on his breast and offers a swordless hand across to de Bornelh.

Of local murmurings he takes little particular note, save perhaps to consider mentioning to his lady of the sickness at her sand quarry, in case the quality of food paid for was being stinted on rather than workers simply grumbling. Etienne rumbles quietly beside him and patiently keeps his head at least partway up, one silver ear frequently turned back in case any of the indistinct babble behind him turns out to be wolves or other threatening creatures to be kicked at.

Ernst notices Seigneuresse de Trencavel herself browsing the stalls and her pet knight scowling at passersby, like they weren't already trying to avoid being trampled by his giant horse. As he closes in on the leatherworkers stall he hears a last snippet of the farmers conversation. "...why would both of them blame each other? Gidies mother would be ashamed. Now, my love, let's see if we can get something to repair that harness..." The matron starts to paw through the piles of leather.

Ernst had not been expecting the Seigneuresse, or anybody else of importance, and he backed a few steps out of the lane by habit to get out of the way.

As he did so he realized that he was holding his axe, and in a hurry to make himself seem less threatening, he reversed it, and set the head on the ground where he steadied the bottom of the haft with his off hand.

While he had been in the company of both the Seigneuresse and the Chevalier at various points in the past, almost always during formal hunts, he did not expect them to recall him in particular.

He bowed his head slightly and waited for them to pass.

The gleam of metal and slinking into an alley drew Quin's attention, hawk-sharp until he realises it's one of the household at large and trying to be unobtrusive. The smile that's never far from his youthful features eases back.

"-and yonder is Arnst the Norse of my lady's hunt," he introduces the huntsman, since Giraut is likely seeking to stay with them awhile. He gestures at the rough man in indication, then for Ernst to step forward when he reacts to the approximation of his name.

"Arnst, this fellow says he's Giraut de Bornelh," Quin tells him. The knight seems to think Ernst will find this impressive.

After a solid handshake with the chivalier Giraut has indeed, smoothly if not totally unnoticed, joined the ladys stroll along the market street. He smiles as Quin introduces the hunter although the bow is nowhere as deep nor the flourish as elaborate as before when he greets Ernst. "I am indeed Giraut de Bornelh, troubadour. Well met, master hunter."

"Mi'Lords" Ernst nodded deeply, and a little too briskly, as if the eyes upon him made him a little nervous.

It was always a little nerve wracking to interact with people that could have such a dramatic impact upon his life, and he shifted his weight from side to side.

"Yer most welcome sir" he told Giraut. "We've not had any music about but our own for some time. 'nor stories neither."

The troubadour inclines his head. "Well that's something we will have to change then," he says and casts a furtive glance over at Emma who is still deeply concentrated on the wares being offered. "I was going to offer to sing a cancon or two tonight in the manor, if the Seigneuresse will have me. You are welcome," he offers distractedly, already forgetting who he is speaking to as he watches the lady.

Johann rides up, his eyes slowly taking in the wide variety of people-- merchants, craftsmen and peasants. After all his quiet meditation and his slow progress on the road, the contrast is somewhat overwhelming. Sports, stilts, swimming, la soule... This is a community with a lot of energy-- and they're using it up! Well, why not! Better all this than idle hands and sloth...

The two people who stand out to him the most are what appears to be another knight, and a large bearded man who is obviously formidable in all of the physical arts.

Curiosity leads Johann to approach the young knight. "...Good day," he offers in greeting...

Quin cocks his head to catch the accent on the fellow's Occitan, calm enough to almost make it seem like he's not using his full armoured weight to keep control of his stallion's head. "Good-" a stumble interrupts the greeting but Quin just grins, "-ah, good day."

The heavy gray rumbles and protests at not being able to interact freely with the other horse, snorting that if the animal is trouble, he's ready to meet it. The young knight manages, fairly impressively, to keep the walking wall in check for now. He gestures to a woman nearby whose clothing is beautifully adorned and whose fingers glitter with rings whose jewels likely have names in a family history: all things precious. "Will you dismount, sir? Lady de Trencavel is afoot. Etienne, hush."

This last seems to the horse, but since this visitor is clearly of some importance and far from home he turns and finally interrupts his mistress' picking of linen: "-my lady? Giraut de Bornelh and a foreign knight await your pleasure."

Johann smiles slightly. Gunther (his horse) is trained, but only barely. He dismounts and bows. "Lady de Trencavel," he says. "An honor to meet you."

The Seigneuresse finishes her business and leaves her servants to carry her bounty from the (mainly) cloth stalls. She smiles warmly at Quin and turns to the troubadour and the pious knight. She bows slightly, graciously acknowledging the men daring to approach her in the street. "Well met," she looks to Johann, "you have me at a disadvantage, Sir...?"

Johann bows sincerely. "I am Johann von Fulda, good lady. I have come here to pray before the relics of Volusian of Tours that lie in the saint's church here."

"A pious man indeed." She smiles. "Fulda? That is in the German Kingdom, isn't it? And you're on a pilgrimage? I would say there is quite some story to tell." She turns to Quin. "What do you say, Quintillian, should we invite him to the manor to hear his story?" The tone of her voice could be mocking or completely serious but the winkle in her eyes says she would perhaps enjoy some new company.

She casts a brief look at the troubadour. "Perhaps with some... tunes, as well, if that could be arranged, yes?"
This message was last updated by the player at 20:33, Mon 22 Aug 2022.

Quin gets the look of a hawk presented with something that may or may not be a lure, brows twitching into a slight frown of focus through he does not throw himself after the query immediately. His fingers wind into the bridle a little more firmly.

"I am sure von Fulda has seen many things worth telling of, my lady," he ventures once she has definitely stopped speaking, glancing from his mistress to Johann.

Johann bows his head. "It is a very simple story, in truth, good lady, but I would gladly speak of my journeys whenever you might wish."

"-de Bornelh might also have some tales of the Holy Land," Quin adds into the gentle lull of conversation, glancing over at his fellow knight. "More, at least, than last gathered from my brother's returning comrade: the brother-Hospitallier was loath to speak of much save the feud of practical jests with the nearby Templars, and very little of the landscape or the people."

"Are you but swiftly passing through on the way of Saint James, von Fulda, or will you stay on awhile?" he asks, as much for curiousity as to help his lady plan for visitors without so indelicate a query.

"I am as yet uncertain. I will do as the Lord guides me. I believe he has tasks for me here. More than that, I cannot yet say. It is my hope that I may be sent a sign-- perhaps while I am in prayer, perhaps otherwise."

A gangly boy with tousled blond hair dressed in dusty woolen work clothes and a torn leather apron comes running towards the Seigneuresse, shoving people aside to get through the throng. He looks like one of the mason apprentices and there is panic in his voice as he calls. "The builder! The builder! He... he..." the boy stops a few metres from the assembled party, doubles over with his hands on his knees and takes a couple of deep wheezing breaths before wretching on the cobbles.

Quin had gone from his mild pensive frown to standing between his liege and the unknown runner without any conscious thought, hand on his hilt at the same moment. When the lad collapses into a recognisable if wretched state, he throws a glance to Ernst to suggest the woodsman take the fellow in hand as - ironically - a less intimidating option than himself, and waits for the apprentice's heaving body to let him speak. A simple fall from a height or onto some unfortunate edge was hardly a matter for the Seigneuresse, after all.

He takes a small skin of well-watered wine down from his horse and approaches a step to proffer it to the folded boy and attendant woodsman, never getting too far from his lady. Etienne has his head up now, ears forward.

"What of the builder?" he asks.

The boy gratefully takes the skin and downs a few gulps before he can speak. "The master builder, he... he fell. From the walls. The castle walls. Or pushed? I don't know. The mason told me to fetch someone."

Beside Johann, Gunther's ears perked up at the boy's words (Gunther likes children for some reason-- probably an association from when he was a colt), but figuratively speaking, Johann's ears felt the same way. A fall was a tragedy. Someone being pushed from a castle's walls bore investigation.

He had a feeling that at least one of his new acquaintances would feel the same. He tried to be patient-- this was not his land, and he wanted to seem polite. But...

But what if this was a sign of some sort? He'd just been speaking of one...
This message was last edited by the player at 21:55, Fri 26 Aug 2022.

The slight frown returns as Quin processes that. "Well...well done," he tries, since the lad has made the best of an extrememly vague instruction and actually suceeded after a long run. "Did he die on the spot, or does he need a priest?"

The boy speaks through wheezing breaths and eventually stands up, wiping spittle from his mouth. "I don... I don't know. The mason told me to get someone, they don't know what to do. The seneschal is away. Can you come?"

Johann is eager to go, but he is a visitor here-- he waits to see what the others will say first. (Anyone looking at Johann can easily guess his thoughts, though.)

Quin looks back to his lady for instruction, but looks back and answers the lad so as not to press her into a hurried return. "I am sure the good knight von Fulda will be happy to take you up behind him and be shown to the site of the incident - sir, if you will let-?" he looks to the apprentice for his name, "-guide you and wait for us, my lady and I will be there as soon as we might."

"Arnst, would you seek out a priest for us?" he hesitates, wondering if he should also send for a Perfect in case, but reasons a certainty of saving the man's soul is probably better than an uncertainty that comforts, though something in his mind resists.

Quin gestures Johann on ahead, leading Etienne out of the way, then looks to the Lady Trencavel for instructions.

"I will go with the lad," says Johann, and he goes...

Emma looks troubled and hesitates. Eventually she nods to Quin. "Go, find out what happened and see me at the manor later."

Her knight baulks a little, like a hawk held on a fist that gestures too suddenly. "I will wait upon your readiness, my lady: surely I cannot simply leave you in the marketplace."

Michal had received the knock at his door with surprise, for he was not expecting anyone.
The news of a man having fallen from the castle wall concerned him greatly, though ... and after grabbing his medical bag, he hurried after the youngster who'd been sent for Michal.

Soon enough, the two came to where the fallen, injured man was.

GM Edit: There'll be another IC thread for this coming up soon.
This message was last edited by the GM at 09:49, Mon 29 Aug 2022.

Emma nods, not quite managing to hide the relief from having to walk to the manor all by herself. "Very well, Seigneur de Serignac. Let's go then, I have everything I need for now. Almost." She frowns. "Where is Seigneur de Lyon? He should have the board of chess I ordered by now." She shrugs. "He can catch up."

She adresses Johann. "Seigneur von Fulda, I appreciate your offer. Please see what this is all about. Quintillian and Henri will meet you there shortly."

She gives Ernst no notice but turns and starts to walk away, calling over her shoulder to the troubadour. "Please come to the manor for supper, Monseigneur de Bornelh, we would love to hear some of your songs."
This message was last edited by the player at 21:32, Mon 29 Aug 2022.

[Private to GM: Chevalier/chivalier de Sérignac - le Seigneur, c'est mon père!]
Quin twitches an easy smile as he and the huntsman part ways, guiding his great horse about to follow his lady back to her servants, purchases and steed. He crosses himself and murmurs a brief prayer under his breath for the man who had fallen, then jogs a pace or two to catch up to his liege's speeded steps, speaking of de Lyon:

"He's probably found some sweet burning-wood and is haggling over price," he offers, keeping an eye out for the sworn-lord as market-goers part for the lady and heavy wall of horseflesh both. He follows, keen at heel and ready for command, thinking only a little of what it must be like to spend the last few seconds of one's life alive and wrapped in air, strangely freed from a man's natural habit of contact with the earth.