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."