Tristan grimaces, but he's said his piece and more, and the fight leaves with his anger. The emotional expenditure here is bleeding into his physical exhaustion, and he has been overly-thorough in his job of patrolling and scouting for their travelling party. For every mile Constance has ridden, he has ridden three. Blessedly Mort had taken up Tristan's share of setting up camp as he made the perimeter, or else the poor boy couldn't keep on his feet right now.

He thinks about all the luxuries a room affords. A hot bath. A feather-stuffed mattress, if he's exceptionally lucky. A breakfast of eggs-over-easy and cured meats, if his stomach has a say in his dreams. It does, and it rumbles in his ear; when's the last time he's had ice wine? It would be in season, wouldn't it? And posset! Stars above keep his hand, the things he wouldn't do for posset by an open fire.

What the Lady Sauvage has given Tristan is a gift beyond measure: She has given him a deadline for duty, a near moment he must be ready for. That means there must be no training too exhausting, no exercise so strenuous as to fatigue him or risk serious injury. He must conserve and build his strength until that near moment, and be as sharp and as well-rested as it is possible for him to be.

The Lady Sauvage has given him a fortnight's holiday to make merry.

Robena

You've been fit into the role of the finder. The hunting party had already assembled and was in the endeavor of driving the cunning fox to exhaustion with noise and uproar. However, they've lost their prey and so the main goal now is to work with the dogs to pick up the scent. The fox is a cunning villain, though. It will likely have crossed over its own trail and perhaps even climbed a tree and reappeared elsewhere. It may even have found a creek or stream to cross in its flight. You'll need to work closely with the dogs and predict the beast's tricks so that when the scent is confused, you can put them back on it again. Once you've drawn near, the hunting party will take over and you can easily drive the fox into a corner and slay it at bay (foxes not being at all known for their fierceness once caught, you'd get a little nip at worst).

Constance and Tristan

Once you exit the grand hall, an air of oppressiveness lifts. Sir Harold offers you a bow, how ponytail bobbing, and then launches into an introduction as you make your way through candlelit stone corridors with fine tapestry to your rooms. "Sir Harold of Gaunnes, steward and castellan of Castle Sauvage at your service. You'll have to forgive our mistress, she knows herself not long for this world, and the Castle Sauvage is something of a special case if you take my meaning." He seems to think you're in on a secret and pats his coat knowingly as he speaks. "Those of us here, well, we're not the usual sort, to say the least. For my part, I'm not afraid to tell you that I took refuge here after the wars. I never did swear proper fealty to the High King, and if you want my guess, the others here all have some reason of their own why they're not at high court and tournaments. Our lady arrived back only recently, and she was not a frequent visitor before, so it fell to me to keep things in good order here. I couldn't rightly tell you as to the others though, we don't inquire, no not at all."

Presently, he shows you to a lovely suite, perhaps one of the finest in the castle. It opens into a hall that splits into two rooms. There is a central bedroom with its own door and lock, along with a fireplace, a sofa and chair, and a small writing desk. A washbasin and tub sit at the far corner of the room. Outside of that, there is a side bedroom, designed for a footman or servant. The latter is more modest, but still has a fine feather bed, a desk and chair, and its own washbasin, and both rooms have a window looking out over the snow-dappled forest. "I hope the rooms are adequate" Sir Harold adds, looking only a tinge nervous at the judgment as to his stewardship.

It's an odd thing, giving responsibility to a dog. Even a working dog will first look at you like - are you sure? After receiving confirmation, though, they leap to their task with the riotous enthusiasm of having their Good Dog status affirmed so unambiguously. Only the goodest of dogs are trusted with a Quest, let out of eye-sight to sniff and to bark and to chase. The simple joy the dogs emote in response to her giving them her trust strikes Robena as a curious analogue to how much she's enjoyed her recent penances. Service to the right master is a strangely wonderful thing, and no master has been better to her than England herself.

It's to them she entrusts the hunt, and it's to them she provides the credit when the beast is slain. The Mistress of the Hounds will be forced to stand alongside her horse and together they will sigh and roll their eyes as Robena fox-slayer again surrounds herself with the hounds to distribute pets and praise a cynic might suggest was excessive for the task performed.

Everything Sir Harold said is interesting, probably worth interrogating, definitely worth investigating... later.

Tristan jumps and whizzes around the rooms, inspecting everything. He'll have to start to heat water for the tub first, which is to say, immediately. And the bed! When he falls back into it with open arms, it's like being swallowed by a marshmallow! He bounces, laughing. He can read by the fire!

Reading wouldn't normally be such a priority, but he's sore and tired and books are lovely and is there a library, he wonders.

He should probably introduce himself to the place, too, find somewhere quiet to listen to the world...

Tomorrow. Definitely tomorrow. First he most definitely wants that hot bath.

Constance takes the rooms in— more luxury than she’s ever had in her life, certainly. Her own furnishings back home? They’re quite modest. She is a representative of the old faith, not a member of the nobility.

So for his kindness and care, the knight receives a smile as delicate as the snowflake that lands on the back of one’s palm. “Thank you, Sir Harold,” she says. “This is more than I had hoped. May the castle remember your service when we are both departed.”

Behind her, Tristan lets out a little whoop of joy, and Constance exhales through her nostrils in something that is almost, impossibly, laughter.

The bath water takes some time to heat, but the rising steam is a pleasure all its own. Tristan already feels pores thick with dirt and sweat begin to open for the first time in days. His expression softens with his skin.

"I have thought long and hard, these last few minutes, about the best way to prepare you for the trials to come," Tristan intones solemnly. "Arduous test of your mind and spirit that they may be, I feel it's only appropriate we have a big snowball fight, and Mort and I shall gang up on you most ruthlessly. For your sake, of course. The bath should keep warm for that long. Then we must see about fattening you with your favourite sweets, to ready you through this harsh winter, and then we shall find some children to play hide and go seek with, so that they might share with us their knowledge of the best hiding places in the castle. And then I plan to sleep for a thousand years, and wake up early to go watch the sunset, and you're free to join me."

He nods grimly. "Yes. This is a most able plan, I feel. Nothing short of your duty."

Tristan and Constance

For the moment, you are undisturbed. Mort is given a smaller room next to yours and the rest of the inhabitants are about their business. Please continue to plan.

Robena

The task is an arduous one. From the forest trail, the dogs have to backtrack, which forces you into an embarrassing loop around the hunting party in which the knights and servants are all giving you side eye for keeping them still in the chill forest. But the dogs do pick up the scent, and when they do it is a moment of riotous joy. They have a direction! Bark bark bark! They're off like an arrow, straight and true, and you right behind them, and then the entire hunting party with a whoop of joy and the clatter of hooves and harness. It is as though the whole forest were lying in wait behind a bush until just this moment to pounce and now it's a new place, full of life and power. Your heart beats faster and the wind caresses your face with a cool touch as you urge Apricot onward.

The first trick is a simple double back, the dogs cut, turn, circle a series of trees and then come back on themselves, excited yelping as they go in a full circle and look poised to do it again. The trick there is easy enough though, you know the way the beast would go and this is just a short diversion. You find the dog that hesitates on the cutback and, with a sharp whistle, you call him to you and as soon as he gets ahead of the section, he's on the scent and the other dogs have perked up their heads and are again hot on the trail.

The second trick is a bit of a swim. The dogs don't hesitate when they hit the creek (though the frigid water that splashes your heels as you cross sends shivers up your spine). But when they come out the other side, they switch suddenly into confused whines and whimpers and the rest of the hunting party behind you pulls up behind the creek. You have to spend some time searching. The fox must have swum, and downriver is a good guess, but how long? You end up having to dismount and look for signs before finally finding a tuft of fur caught on some low holly leaves and a few trampled berries. You call the dogs again, and again the chase is on.

The last almost breaks you. The dogs, ever eager, lead themselves nearly head first into a wall at least ten feet high. It's not hard to realize what happened: the fox used a low tree to scamper upwards, then jumped to a higher branch, then scrambled it's way up the last bit of shale and was off. What surprises you is the fluffy red and white snout peaking downwards and the high barking laugh from the top of the ridge. "You can't catch me!" it seems to say with those eeee heeee heeee heees! And for a moment, you're really worried. The whole hunting party is going to have to divert around who knows how far to find a trail that the horses can climb and the fox will have enough lead to disappear again. It's cold, the dogs are sweating, and you start to wonder how many clever tricks can you really overcome before dusk?

But, then you remember, if the fox weren't just as exhausted, it would be long gone by now. That it's here, taunting you at all, means you've nearly done the task. You order the dogs to stay, make a gut decision, and sprint east where you find a more gentle incline within five minutes. You're back quickly, the dogs with you, and the hunting party behind. Once you've crested the ridge, the fox's trail is clear, and when you drive it to cliff face, this time it has no trees to climb. The hunters spread out so that there can be no escape, and you allow the dogs to complete their work as they bring the fox at bay. It's over in an instant, the villain defeated, and you find yourself surrounded by hounds clambering all about you.

How do you feel after the day's work? What do you look forward to most when you get to the Castle Sauvage?

At the end of the day, Robena is filled with a deep glow of satisfaction. Before she was Sandsfern's squire she was a forester, and after losing her mistress the first time it was to the wilderness she turned again. It's such a calm pleasure, an eternal stability and an arena where wit, patience and strength can speak their true language. No questions of honour, no buzzing conversations, no foreign protocols or etiquette to struggle with remembering. No hearts to break.

The looming castle weighs upon her as though its foundations ran into her shoulders. This was a return to the world and she could sense it would contain trials more perilous than anything that lurked in this forest. But despite her reservations, Apricot just began picking up speed. That horse knew the shape of dinner on the horizon and she had to admit that she sympathized. She'd passed up three different deer trails to kill this damn fox and if conversation was the price for a meal - as it so often was - then she'd try her best to be presentable.

... Oh that was a good thought. Avoid provoking anyone. It probably wouldn't do well for her penance if she got into a drunken brawl in the castle. She'd have to do her best to resist temptation, Sandfern's habits ran deeper than she'd thought.

"You are ridiculous," Constance gently chides her escort, as above his japes as a stone jutting above the waves. "No. I do not think I will have time for more than one snowball fight, young man." As if she's that much older than him! "I need to know... I need to know her heart. To see it, rather than wondering for the rest of my days why she brought down that axe. Whether she deserves punishment or... mmm. This is still my responsibility. You may tempt me as you may, but do not stand between us."

The air of grim and otherworldly judgment, the sense that she is more an arbiter than a woman, dissolves when Constance finally manages to get herself in the bath. The groan that escapes her lips is blissful, and she melts into the fine wooden tub in much the same way that a stick of butter would. For a moment, she lets herself forget her shame, her knight, and her duty; the simple pleasure of hot water on aching muscles is world enough for her.

Robena

Your entry to Castle Sauvage is perhaps less notable than you would have expected. No grand pronouncements or blaring trumpets. You do not pass through any ethereal barriers into the realm beyond nor pay toll to the fair folk for your travel. Compared to your adventures with Sandsfern and the vast and wild magic that fills the world, is the jubilation of a few hunters and the calm care of tending to their tired animals boring in comparison? Then again, perhaps that is an aspect of your penance too and with your months of travel already, perhaps this feels more like a home away from home.

These things at least may be said of your new abode: The fire in the fireplace is crackles with strength and wards against the cold. The table is of a sturdy wood hewn smooth by artisan hands. The plates and forks are unadorned and sturdy, fine things of quality and ageless design. A fox is worthless save for a little fur once hunted, so your dinner tonight is not so rich as it might be in future. It's somewhere between a soup and a stew made with chicken bone broth and some nameless variation on the root vegetable that would keep through a hundred winters if it stayed cool and dry.

You are seated to the right of Lady Sauvage in a place of honor. Next to you is the dour knight with the raven hair. She still has not introduced herself, and indeed this conversation is the most words you've heard her speak since you joined the group. "I do not see why my lady offers you such kindness" she says, offering no introduction. She waits politely for you to start eating as a guest before she begins her own meal, her eyes hard. "For my part, I think you toil in vain and we waste efforts better spent on preparation for the coming winter. What value was there in the fox today? What worth in leading dogs in circles?"

Tristan and Constance

Now is the time to tell us of your preparations for Robena's arrival. You preceded her by about two weeks. Long enough to gain some comfort with the castle and its inhabitants, not nearly long enough to feel that comfort. Tell us of the time you spent, and how you plan to introduce yourselves to Robena, or keep yourselves scarce until the right time. if there is some knight of the castle or page or servant that you wished to know better, tell us of that too.

Oh, and here she was, the temptress! She who came begging before her with two eyes unshadowed and lips unreddened and requested the makeup of the gauntlet! There were a hundred ways to give the requisite offense here, a hundred ways to transmute this blustering conversation into something far less instantly tedious. Ah, well. If she'd wanted to spend her last days in mortal splendour she'd have turned to banditry rather than the church.

"Perhaps the Saxons come tomorrow," said Robena. "Striking forth on raid, catching us unaware, putting us to the sword and looting the castle's wealth for themselves. If that is to be the case then all your winter preparation will be for naught but the service of evil - and yet there is no twist of fate that can turn my hunt of that fox from a good deed to ill."

Two weeks of worry. Two weeks to think about what might make a knight worthy. Two weeks to think about the death of Pellinore, as keenly as she did in those first terrible days after the brutal killing. The rise and fall of the axe-blow.

It is up to Tristan to say how he kept her from disaster, from spiraling into dark and worried thoughts. But she manages, thanks to him, and she considers how she may test Robena, the Bear Knight. The question, after all, is what Robena learned from that moment: whether she learned the lesson of the axe, deep in her heart.

Perhaps she should leave a trail for Robena that led to her. Perhaps she should let the castle rumor that she was leading Pellinore here, that striking her down would save the knight from her fated confrontation. That way, if Robena failed again, only one person would be at risk; and it was she who misjudged Robena’s mettle first of all.

And yet still she had not made the decision, still had not committed herself to the lure, as she fretted outside the banquet hall that fateful night. Or had she? After all, she wore foxfur on her robe, and the tail was draped around her pale neck. The symbolism was not hard to miss. But when would she gather up the courage to enter?

Tristan's campaign on Constance is a delicate mix of ruthless and gentle, where it needs to be.

Let's start with ruthless.

Take, for instance, Constance's miserable habit of refusing to get out of bed. Lying for an hour staring up at the ceiling, stewing in bad thoughts and self-doubt, before hunger or thirst or bladder forces her from her position. Cajoling, sweet talking and bribing do nothing.

The solution is taken to with the elaborate bloody-mindedness Tristan insists upon everything. An hour to drag his empty tub to the right spot. Two to practice lobbing snowballs until he cannot fail the throw. Another to fill a side table with a small pyramid of pre-made ammunition, as he'll not have a chance once he's in the tub.

The second morning of their arrival in the castle, Constance is roused from bed from a snowball lobbed perfectly at her head, from through the castle window, through her curtains. No easy feat since their rooms are not on the first floor, and there is no direct line of sight.

When she goes to the window, Tristan is starkers in a steaming bath in the snow-thick courtyard outside, keeping a thick layer of bubbles for modesty, already hefting his second shot from his supplies. He waves cheerfully. He has sculpted himself a white bubble beard to stroke thoughtfully. He does so while wiggling his eyebrows.

It is impossible to hide in bed from a man so well-armed and comfortable.

Other weapons in his arsenal involve telling children stories about Constance-daughter-of-giants in the corriders and hallways she's set to pass through, and leaving wondrous ambushes. Hot drinks and a steady supply of sweets for leverage. Outrageous gossip, only some of which even makes a pretense of being true. (Constance! Constance! I just saw Mort unhinge his jaw and eat an entire deer! It just ran straight in and- Look! There he is now! Pretend I saw nothing-) (Constance! Constance! Sir Harold is actually a head-shaped bird, and his 'human' body is just an elaborate puppet! Just you watch, I'll pull it straight off after dinner-) (Constance! Constance! The Lady Sauvage has seventeen toes, and not all of them on her feet! You would not believe how I found out-)

It'd be one thing if it were just compulsive lies, but Tristan seems to have an irrepressible knack for getting the targets in on the joke. Mort found a way to hide a large bone between his cheek and jaw, and pull it out at the right moment. Sir Harold chasing Tristan off at dinner by hooting, and shedding feathers from his scarf as he ran. The Lady Sauvage managed to cast a many-toed silhouette against a wall, in the process of taking her shoes off.

The more elaborate the lie, the more elaborate the means of 'proving it' must be. Oh, nobody actually tries to convince Constance. Nobody breaks kayfabe, but the kayfabe itself is transparent. These jokes are silly, which makes it all the more important that an incredible effort is put into them.

Because that's what's really important here, more than the jokes themselves. Everyone's been talked into being a bit ridiculous for her. It's a theatre with an audience of one.

The subtle are important too. Listening to Constance when she needs to be listened to. Asking questions to keep her talking. Leaving her alone, and respecting that time, for hours - but still checking up with hot drinks every now and again, just to make sure her brooding is necessary and productive, and not a depressive spiral.

Tristan will have to be grim and serious again soon, he's sure. When Robena arrives, it's unlikely that it will be appropriate for him to be anything but. It's why it's so important he has this two weeks to revel with.

And there are so many in the castle worth his interest, in the hours he leaves Constance alone.

Who is Sir Harold? What did he mean about Lady Sauvage? What did he mean when he said the castle is a special case?

Why is the Lady not long for this world? What passion drives the Lady? What does she do for fun, around here?

What about Sir Liana? Where did she learn her poems? Does she have any others? Does she dance?

Tristan also makes time for Mort. He is his staunchest ally in the campaign against Constance's bad mood. What are his own notes, his own strategems and tactics? Where is Mort strong in helping Constance that Tristan is weak? Or vice-versa?

And who is most likely to go and watch the winter sunset with him, at the highest point of the castle, which he does every day?

Robena

The conversation still suddenly. The dark-haired woman next to you does not rise to your claim, but she does rise. Silently, she stands and steps aside. Indeed, you realize that all conversation in the room has ceased. The diners rise and, one and all, stride out the door of the main hall in silence.

You find yourself seated alone at the table, a serving of soup still steaming in front of you, and another bowl, barely touched in the seat next to you.

They leave the door open and there, standing just beyond the hall is an apparition you cannot have thought to see here. Constance, wearing a winter dress and a fox fur, stands at the edge of the hall just beyond the threshold.

Constance

Perhaps this is not what you expected. Or then again, perhaps this is what you had wanted all along. Tell us how you enter in this moment. Tell us of your ethereal stride, of the way that the world cannot quite manage to hold you. Tell us how you already know of Robena’s hunt, and what you say to her after many months.

Tristan

From you, the castle does not hold secrets. Why should it? You are bringing life and joy to a place that was cold and dreary and more empty than full. There are children, but they are few in number, the children of servants and squires. There are only the handful of knights. Sir Harold, Sir Liana, and Sir Hector, the raven-haired lady who never seems to smile. It’s obvious enough that each of them is meant to be kept away from Uther for one reason or another. Harold knew Uther long ago, before he united Britain, and chose not to swear loyalty to the high king. Hector likewise and she seems to begrudge it. Liana too never swore an oath to the king, but she is younger and there is something about her that you can’t place. She seems out of place in this Britain, beautiful, sad, and filled with a wanderlust that will one day carry her past Castle Sauvage. Perhaps that’s why she’s so drawn to you, and you seem to find her always strolling in the gardens near where you were playing or singing.

As for the lady. She is not long for this world because she is tied to Robena’s doom. It became obvious the more you looked upon her. The cold features, the empty eyes, that same set of the brow. Mort was the one who noticed it first, and his discomfort in the lady’s presence might be what made you realize it at last. That what was left of King Pellinore beneath the beast pierced by Robena’s axe would carry out the doom on her behalf. Perhaps it is reassuring that there is a cold regal air to the lady. It must be reassuring that she invited Constance, for surely it would be a cruelty just to invite her to witness an execution. That you, Mort, and Constance are here says that there is more to the matter than an execution.

For now, however, you were asked to wait outside the hall with Mort, to give Constance her space, and you are met instead by the others departing in a grim and unnatural silence. Only when they have passed beyond earshot of the hall, taking you both with them, do they speak. And it is dour Hector who breaks the silence. “She claimed that the goodness of her fox hunt today is more pure than the winter preparations we make for our welfare” Hector says to you, her tone matter of fact. “I still do not see why the lady bothers with all this. The knight will never learn true humility, and what matter her nobility without it?”

She’s looking at you, as if you’d have the answer to such a question, Tristan.

Constance Ním, daughter of the Bristol Avon, looks long upon Sir Robena Coilleghille, the Bear Knight. Her eyes are dark as the fens, and betray just as many secrets. She does not flee through the open portal behind. The candles flicker in their sconces.

When she walks forward, her footfall leaves no sound, but far off there is the crunch of snow. When she pulls the chair back that she may be seated, the merest brush of her fingers sends it groaning and grinding. And when she sits next to Robena Coilleghille, her breath, too, that is silent for all that the knight can see the condensation on her lips.

Then she draws from her trailing sleeve the small, white bone, the yellowing teeth, impossibly already clean. She sets the skull of the fox on her plate, the sockets hollow and delicate, the teeth interlocking.

“Was it helpless when it died?”

She does not need to say too. She does not need to ask Robena if she drove her weapon into the fox’s back with a sickening crunch. She looks down at Robena’s broad, broad hand and does not touch the soup.

Robena, while not the most accomplished knight in the courtly arts, thought that she could sense that something here was amiss.

Should she deflect? Should she explain herself? Everyone had left - did that mean that she had failed some test already? Constance. Was the castle enchanted? Had the soup been poisoned? Was this a ghost or angel sent to judge her at this anointed hour? Had she fucked up the math and miscounted the days, or was this evidence that Pope Gregory's calendar was false? Would it be inappropriate to flirt with Saint Peter's delegate if she was as fair as this? Was she jumping to theories of the supernatural too quickly? Well, she could hardly be blamed for that, considering where failing to take magic into account had landed her.

Perhaps the only thing that her brief flood of increasingly absurd questions told her was that she should not dissemble here, if only because she was unclear who or what she was lying to. And while she didn't know that she was not, even now, under the spell of some powerful demon, perhaps the only strategy she could coherently commit to was pretending that she was not. So she took a breath, touched the sign of the chalice upon her throat, and answered as best she was able.

"Honestly, no," said Robena. "Three times I thought I had the little bastard. Three times it dodged me. The fourth time we were both exhausted and miserable and the hour was late for us both. I might have trembled, he might have bolted, and it is as much providence as my skill that killed the fox."

She looked at the soup again. Xristos, she knew that it'd be inappropriate to start eating soup right now - something even she knew to be inherently unglamourous - but she was really hungry.

"If you want to see helplessness in death, though," she said, "you should have seen the inside of Friar Southy's chicken coop after one of these got in. I'll shed no tears for a fox after seeing that."

Oh Constance. Would that she had that fox's wit, that she might have been able to twist the words into a tale of how she'd grown and changed and repented and still needed to apologize. To find a way to express silent ache and silent tears rather than grunting out some hunting anecdote like the brute she appeared to be, had proven to be. Would that she wore not the ogre's aspect, even now!

It seems strange to Tristan to treat Robena so unfairly, as there were plenty of fair reasons to treat her unkindly. She has many true and nameable faults: Why criticize her beyond the real?

"She said it would be true if the Saxons invade." Tristan corrects Hector. "I think her answer was quite humble. She spoke of doing a small good that cannot be perverted or undone, comparing it to your great good of more obvious worth. A fair answer to your question of what could make such a small thing valuable."

No, that's not enough. A weed must be pulled from its root. Tristan pauses, thinks. "Which is missing the point. You are choosing to forget your own question, and to whittle down her answer until your prior offense is justified. It may be! You likely know her better. But what has she done - what has she been - that offends you so much? Would you have been satisfied by any answer she had to give, if she were the one to give it?"

“That’s right,” Constance says. Agreement! The test has been passed. There can be rejoicing! Let everyone come back in and let the true revels begin! “A creature of violence deserves nothing more. It was a thief and a murderer, sworn to no banner.” She strokes one long and pale finger down the length of the skull.

The clink of her spoon on the bottom of the soup-dish is too loud. She takes a dainty sip, and then sets the spoon back down into the soup.

“You should stay,” she says, still not looking at Robena. “What follows you will come in its own time, whether or not you are indoors and out. Catching the fox is worth a night here, at the very least; and maybe you can win a place at the table again tomorrow with your talents.”

She speaks with an understated authority; did she judge the hunt of the fox? Is this a judgment? Did she, perhaps, advise the lady of this castle on how to receive the mendicant knight? Perhaps it is because Constance is a river-daughter and a descendant of giants. Perhaps it is deeper sorcery.

But if that is the case, can you trust her, Robena? Surely you remember the look of horror emblazoned on her fair face when you sunk your axe deep into the king’s flesh, splitting muscle and splintering bone with one terrible blow. Why would she forgive you? Can she be expected to know what you have done this past year, if you do not tell her?

If she means you ill, if she thinks you a fox yourself, if she has not forgotten the way in which Pellinore crumpled beneath that dolorous blow, then it would be prudent to explain to her, to convince her that you have changed, you have atoned, you are going to make right—

Unless she has already forgiven you, and would look on you with pity and contempt for begging her pardon freely given.

She reveals nothing. So like her. Maddening, even. That she is so willfully reticent on how she truly feels, how she clings to her family’s past grandeur like a protective cloak, walking through the world so self-assured that she is in the right, that she has the right to pass judgment— if she truly is, and is not simply another guest of the castle, that is.

Constance gives away less than looking into the ice and the black waters below. Answer her, then, or challenge her, or plead with her, or shut yourself away and refuse her potential, hidden judgment. The choice, as ever, is yours. It has always been yours, Robena.

“Of course! She ought to have...” Sir Hector starts and pulls up short on her answer, a small blush coloring the center of her cheeks. “Well, no, I suppose she still needs must answer as a knight, I cannot ask her to humble herself so deeply that she would sacrifice her dignity. Hmm. I would have preferred that she offer her gratitude to our lady for inviting her to join the hunt rather than defend her worth to me. She has taken on the vows of the knight penitent, she ought not be so quick to claim that her actions are of worth. Even if I accept that she should retain her dignity as a knight.”

She gives you an appraising look, Tristan. “You are a better judge of character than most knights I have known. Tell me what you think then. Should I give Sir Coilleghille the benefit of the doubt? I will be her hunting partner for the final hunt, if she makes it that far. How much aid should I offer?”

A trait learned from his father - not because he was good at it, but because he said so little, yet expected so much. Listen to what people tell you, because it's always more than what they're saying. 'Leave me alone' too often means 'I want to cry on your shoulder but I dare not make myself more of a burden than I already am'.

"I think," Tristan is achingly slow to say it, keenly aware of how many wrong ways to say this there are, "We owe her more help than she earns - not 'as much as', but more. Kindness begets kindness, and if we scorn her attempts to make good, then why should she try? Most of all..." Tristan looks back towards the banquet hall. "I think it's important we prove to Constance she wasn't wrong to see something in her. Even if Sir Coilleghille is to fail the tasks ahead, Constance deserves that she be failed right this time."

Tristan stretches his arms behind his back, touches his fingers together across his shoulderblades, and thinks some more. He wishes he was there, now, to see what was going on. On the other hand, he's very happy he isn't. "I'm in the dark about so much of this, though. How much do you know about what has to happen?"