Quoted By:
<span class="mu-s"><span class="mu-b">Winner:</span></span> No, it's the Earl who is early.
<span class="mu-s"><span class="mu-r">2 + 17 = 19 General Diplomacy</span></span>
"You're early," you correct the Earl. Perhaps it is the weariness of the road, but you have little patience for niceties if the first thing out of the Earl's mouth is a criticism of your punctuality. Not when you returned <span class="mu-i">early</span> to give yourself the time to prepare a proper greeting for him. You cross your arms beneath your breasts while your homecoming smile fades into a weary frown. Your tone of voice raises eyebrows all around, with Olanna turning a most ghastly shade of pale. "We did not expect you until noon, Lord Lavendel. Which, last I checked the clock, is just a bit over an hour frown now."
As if to punctuate your statement, the churchbells of St. Garance ring the eleventh hour of the day.
Earl Lavendel gives a rueful chuckle. His wizened, wrinkled face cracks into a smile like a stone in winter's icy chill as he admits, "So it would seem. You know, most folk would have just gone along with what I said without pushing back. They see a man who has the king's ear, and <span class="mu-i">feel</span> that he must be right before they even have a chance to think. Did you know that we do that? Our minds feel our emotions faster than we can think, staining every decision we make with how we <span class="mu-i">feel</span> about it before we can process the facts. When you understand how it all works... well, there are always folk like you. You have little patience for such tricks, don't you?"
Something about the way the Earl speaks grates upon your nerves. You don't know if it's his tone of voice, which feels like rancid oil sliding across your body. Or perhaps it's what he has to say, how his cold analysis of the human heart offends you on some deeply personal level. Whatever it is, you refuse to snap at him, as you suspect that's what the Earl wants. Instead, you breathe as René taught you, and calmly tell him, "Quite right. I could never make it as a politician."
His eyes like burnished goldteel snap to the rise and fall of your chest. They are not the lecherous eyes of an old pervert and womanizer, but filled with the same sort of curiosity you saw on Damien's face as he examined your curse mark. "And you breathe like a <span class="mu-i">khemist</span>. No wonder Charles squirreled you away onto the borderlands! He didn't want anyone poaching his keenest sword."
You level an unamused look at the wizened old Earl. "I would ask you not speak ill of my liege lord, my good Earl."
"Bah, that's just how the world is, my dear baroness," the Earl tries to wave away your irritation with platitudes, but they work on you no more than his little baselining trick. When he realizes that, he lets out sigh. It doesn't not come with an apology, but at least he explains that, "I meant nothing ill by it. The Prince of Sunflowers made a very wise move in securing the vassalage of a knight whose mental fortitude is a match for her physical prowess, would have been a better way to put it."
