Neither of these arguments particularly move him. McCoy gets an eyebrow with respect to his subtle quip, and Shonagon receives a patient, resigned sigh.
"Then we are at an impasse. You said you were not interested in getting "mixed you" in this matters, but it appears you cannot be extricated from them."
He sits back against his chair, examining them both carefully.
The silver rims blink out in the darkness. The back of a hand brushes his cheek and pushes under his chin, but this hand still grips the handle of whatever sharp thing was pressed against Hei's throat.
The woman says something that sounds like "noon unit en..." in the tone of a low groan.
The hand disappears. The woman's fingers squirm out of Hei's hand. Depending on Hei's fortitude, this may leave him with a feeling of loneliness or even fatigue, but no longer panic.
"Ask Joffrey," says a voice that seems surprisingly far down the hallway. A distant pinprick of light shines; it's impossible to tell how far away it is.
He's... drained. What did she do...? Nevermind. Hei tightens his jaw against the feeling and detaches himself from the wall, but he can't seem to recall his earlier anger.
Still, he draws himself up, shoulders tight. Looking like a challenge is half the fight. It takes a moment to recall who Joffrey is.
"The--" What is the word. "--wizard?"
In his head. Which means-- he's found him? Them? Is the woman his accomplice or Joffrey's? He recalls the swiftness and lethality of the purple flames, and realizes he's not doubting her statement at all.
But it is enough to give him some of his ire back, and with it, some of his sharpness.
He surveys her for a moment, and then asks the only question that seems pertinent.
She sounds annoyed. The corridor stretches on and it's clear from the occasional eclipse of the light at the far end that she's moving away from him, down its length, to whatever unknowable destination lies ahead.
The soft powdery earthy scent of mold surrounds them, the narrow tunnel makes all conversation echo.
He scowls after her, but-- Starting a fight is pointless, and wherever she's leading him, it... doesn't really matter. It stopped mattering the moment he trusted her against his instincts.
He'll deal with it when they get there.
That doesn't mean he has to like her or whatever she's doing. He follows her in icy silence. It's better this way anyway; familiar, almost comfortingly so. This unsteady ground is what he's used to.
This scream comes from a guard who, unfortunately, witnessed Cludig's escape act. Nervous guards begin to search the corridor for torches!
The blonde guard bolts anxiously up the stairs. Between the lawless brat and the disappearing witch, this situation is getting WELL out of hand and it's time to call in the mages...
Cludig quickly surfaces on the other side of the bars at the blond's words.
"My name is Cludig and-" She's cut off as she hears the stomping of returning guards. With a gurgling apology she dives back into her watery hidey-hole.
...Though the blonde guard stumbles back down the steps with Herpys and another mage-guard, it must be said that their overall air is "subdued."
In fact, they look positively put out.
"OY PRISONERS." The blonde bellows (her name is Bethesda by the way.)
"ORDERS FROM TOPSIDE, yer gonna make a visit to an important personage. That is IF you're behaved...."
She gets out her keys to unlock the cell door, and everyone involved glares angrily at various puddles throughout the room - no longer certain which one holds a witch.
Thus are all the Outlanders accounted for - and quite a din they raise now with their questions and contentions. Joffrey seems to take this in the manner of a man who has counted them all and made some determination with respect to their number and quality.
He addresses them all at once in the slightly high-handed manner of princes.
"My friends, this is a very strange series of events, and I cannot help but discern the hand of fate in its workings. The more I think on it the more certain I become that you, and you alone, are capable of rescuing both king and kingdom from the growing threat.
"But I cannot ask you to make such a decision lightly, or quickly. If you will indulge me, I will lay out a dinner for you, and we may speak of these things at leisure. Will you stay?"
As smooth as this speech is, as graceful his smile, there is nonetheless a tightness in the corners of Joffrey's eyes, and Varrå watches him with keen focus despite her sloppy posture. Sensitive souls might deduce that this matter is indeed serious.
Call him paranoid, but he very much doubts there is an option to leave. They'll pay for that dinner, and for the hospitality, no doubt. But it's still hospitality, and dinner, and information of some sort, and he suspects that's a far superior alternative to whatever 'not staying' entails.
Which is, he's guessing, what Joffrey intends. Hei glances at Varrå again, and then shrugs.
The tension leaves his shoulders at the same moment as the inordinately loud sound of his stomach growling permeates the room. He smiles, sheepishly, and reaches up to rub the back of his head.
"I... I'd be honoured to." He swallows, then adds, hastily. "Your Highness."
"Sure!", he responds, shrugging. The thought of food and heroism with total strangers sounded like the plot of one of the books he'd checked out from the Garden library.
Well she didn't have many options on where to go as it was. Plus a meal sounded good to her empty belly. She never did get to eat that prison meal. Really it was in her best interests to agree, the man could fry people on a whim.
"A-alright, your uh Royalness." That was a human title right? For royalty? Oh and you bow right? or nod. Her attempt to do so only slaps more water onto the floor.
"...I am grateful. Please, allow me to make some arrangements."
He evinces sincere relief as he descends upon the guards at the door. These guards scatter posthaste; Joffrey returns to the center of the room and selects a seat near Varrå. They trade a few words in the interim, though both have the time and attention to field questions.
Dinner is served right in the parlor. Servants come in bearing a large low table which they set between the couches and chairs. Another one brings a white cloth, which he snaps over the surface, and a third and fourth bring porcelain and silver and napkins to set place. Glasses follow, then a flower arrangement.
The presentation is casual, if thorough. Wine, beer, and cold water arrive in hefty pitchers. The dinner dishes are arrayed in buffet service upon the sideboard. An enormous joint of roast beef is there, piping hot and already carved, and a whole salmon that had been broiled over salt; and platters of asparagus, roasted root vegetables, broiled tomatoes; and a great tureen of turtle soup, and another of potatoes au gratin (although it has another name here, potatoes and cheese are a literally universal constant.) There are baskets of rolls and cups of butter and strawberries and salt and pepper and everything else necessary for a civilized meal al fresco.
The prince allows some time for everyone to tuck in and get themselves settled into seats or what they will.
The last several months of traveling have been ample time for Shonagon to acclimate herself to the knife and fork. She helps herself carefully to salmon and vegetables (she's tempted by the beef, and hesitates in front of it for a heartbeat before moving on), stopping before the potatoes au gratin. She's never seen either of the ingredients before.
"May I ask what this is?" She indicates the dish in question.
Neither of those words have any meaning to her. Shonagon frowns. She needs both hands to manage her plate and utensils as she serves herself, so she's finally sacrificed propriety and tucked her fan up her sleeve.
"A potato?" she repeats, the syllables turning to a flat staccato in her mouth. "Cheese? I've never heard of such things."
He hesitates, just a moment, before answering (frankly, he's not very pleased with the proposal business, but alienating her isn't going to help, either.)
"It's a root," he finally explains. "It's very... filling."
It's a surprisingly neat affair, given how quickly and how much he's consuming. But it soon emerges without doubt that he is fully capable of eating his own weight in food, possibly several times over.
He's not just eating, of course; he listens keenly to the conversation in the room, however much he appears to concentrate on the buffet.
Cludig pokes and sniffs and is generally all but feeling up the dishes laid out. She recognizes most of the fare, but the preparation is all wrong! Fish is best when it's wriggling, and turtle soup when it's suffered a bit first. But best not to insult their cuisine. She grabs a bit of everything as not to seem rude, and eats between dish inspections. She completely forgoes cutlery and wanders amongst the still deciding diners.
Wow, this is a fancy buffet.. I guess they already knew we'd say yes, cause this had to take forever to cook up.
He gets a little of everything to start with, as well as piles strawberries on to the vegetables, and plops down next in the seat next to Sei, as she's the most familiar face.
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Shonagon & Bones (or really just Shonagon)
"Then we are at an impasse. You said you were not interested in getting "mixed you" in this matters, but it appears you cannot be extricated from them."
He sits back against his chair, examining them both carefully.
"Something will have to be done."
Re: Shonagon & Bones (or really just Shonagon)
"And when you say that," she murmurs, "do you mean that something will have to be done about me, or by me?"
Neither option appeals to her.
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"I wonder. Any ideas, my lady?"
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"Surely my lord isn't trying to goad me into volunteering my services to his kingdom?"
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Hei-kun
The woman says something that sounds like "noon unit en..." in the tone of a low groan.
The hand disappears. The woman's fingers squirm out of Hei's hand. Depending on Hei's fortitude, this may leave him with a feeling of loneliness or even fatigue, but no longer panic.
"Ask Joffrey," says a voice that seems surprisingly far down the hallway. A distant pinprick of light shines; it's impossible to tell how far away it is.
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Still, he draws himself up, shoulders tight. Looking like a challenge is half the fight. It takes a moment to recall who Joffrey is.
"The--" What is the word. "--wizard?"
In his head. Which means-- he's found him? Them? Is the woman his accomplice or Joffrey's? He recalls the swiftness and lethality of the purple flames, and realizes he's not doubting her statement at all.
But it is enough to give him some of his ire back, and with it, some of his sharpness.
He surveys her for a moment, and then asks the only question that seems pertinent.
"Am I going to?" Ask him, that is.
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She sounds annoyed. The corridor stretches on and it's clear from the occasional eclipse of the light at the far end that she's moving away from him, down its length, to whatever unknowable destination lies ahead.
The soft powdery earthy scent of mold surrounds them, the narrow tunnel makes all conversation echo.
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He'll deal with it when they get there.
That doesn't mean he has to like her or whatever she's doing. He follows her in icy silence. It's better this way anyway; familiar, almost comfortingly so. This unsteady ground is what he's used to.
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Zell & Cludig
This scream comes from a guard who, unfortunately, witnessed Cludig's escape act. Nervous guards begin to search the corridor for torches!
The blonde guard bolts anxiously up the stairs. Between the lawless brat and the disappearing witch, this situation is getting WELL out of hand and it's time to call in the mages...
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Well shit. He felt like a fish in a barrel.
Re: Zell & Cludig
"My name is Cludig and-" She's cut off as she hears the stomping of returning guards. With a gurgling apology she dives back into her watery hidey-hole.
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In fact, they look positively put out.
"OY PRISONERS." The blonde bellows (her name is Bethesda by the way.)
"ORDERS FROM TOPSIDE, yer gonna make a visit to an important personage. That is IF you're behaved...."
She gets out her keys to unlock the cell door, and everyone involved glares angrily at various puddles throughout the room - no longer certain which one holds a witch.
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He addresses them all at once in the slightly high-handed manner of princes.
"My friends, this is a very strange series of events, and I cannot help but discern the hand of fate in its workings. The more I think on it the more certain I become that you, and you alone, are capable of rescuing both king and kingdom from the growing threat.
"But I cannot ask you to make such a decision lightly, or quickly. If you will indulge me, I will lay out a dinner for you, and we may speak of these things at leisure. Will you stay?"
As smooth as this speech is, as graceful his smile, there is nonetheless a tightness in the corners of Joffrey's eyes, and Varrå watches him with keen focus despite her sloppy posture. Sensitive souls might deduce that this matter is indeed serious.
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"I would not refuse to hear you out, at least."
And she won't refuse a meal, either.
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Which is, he's guessing, what Joffrey intends. Hei glances at Varrå again, and then shrugs.
The tension leaves his shoulders at the same moment as the inordinately loud sound of his stomach growling permeates the room. He smiles, sheepishly, and reaches up to rub the back of his head.
"I... I'd be honoured to." He swallows, then adds, hastily. "Your Highness."
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This is going to be AWESOME, he thought.
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"A-alright, your uh Royalness." That was a human title right? For royalty? Oh and you bow right? or nod. Her attempt to do so only slaps more water onto the floor.
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He evinces sincere relief as he descends upon the guards at the door. These guards scatter posthaste; Joffrey returns to the center of the room and selects a seat near Varrå. They trade a few words in the interim, though both have the time and attention to field questions.
Dinner is served right in the parlor. Servants come in bearing a large low table which they set between the couches and chairs. Another one brings a white cloth, which he snaps over the surface, and a third and fourth bring porcelain and silver and napkins to set place. Glasses follow, then a flower arrangement.
The presentation is casual, if thorough. Wine, beer, and cold water arrive in hefty pitchers. The dinner dishes are arrayed in buffet service upon the sideboard. An enormous joint of roast beef is there, piping hot and already carved, and a whole salmon that had been broiled over salt; and platters of asparagus, roasted root vegetables, broiled tomatoes; and a great tureen of turtle soup, and another of potatoes au gratin (although it has another name here, potatoes and cheese are a literally universal constant.) There are baskets of rolls and cups of butter and strawberries and salt and pepper and everything else necessary for a civilized meal al fresco.
The prince allows some time for everyone to tuck in and get themselves settled into seats or what they will.
(Free for all, group munchies and conversation!)
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"May I ask what this is?" She indicates the dish in question.
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"A potato?" she repeats, the syllables turning to a flat staccato in her mouth. "Cheese? I've never heard of such things."
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"It's a root," he finally explains. "It's very... filling."
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It's a surprisingly neat affair, given how quickly and how much he's consuming. But it soon emerges without doubt that he is fully capable of eating his own weight in food, possibly several times over.
He's not just eating, of course; he listens keenly to the conversation in the room, however much he appears to concentrate on the buffet.
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He gets a little of everything to start with, as well as piles strawberries on to the vegetables, and plops down next in the seat next to Sei, as she's the most familiar face.