When the day had come at last, at long dreaded last, Elisabeth could not have truthfully said she was surprised. Her father and his addictions to the card, the horse, and the bottle had become more and more careless with his money--what of it there was. She had watched him drink and gamble and squander what precious little savings he had, and had met his admission of complete bankruptcy with a defeated dip of the head.

She could remember still the way his voice had sounded, so full of hopelessness and shame. "Ts'all gone. I los' ever'thing..." The roughened sound of his normally clear baritone--made harsh from a lack of sleep and the aftereffects of an overindulgence of alcohol had weighed on her shoulders like stones.

And she'd done as dutiful as she could. Swallowed what little pride she'd had left after watching her father ruin himself and knocked on the door of the Lord Blaine Charlwood, the richest man in the town. A loan large enough to cover her father's debts that was not to be entrusted to ol' Man Braddock's loose fingers. In return, her service. Five years of it.

She'd been afraid at first. Elisabeth was not a fool; she knew the stories of what happened to young girls signed to work. And Lord Charlwood was a rich topic of gossip besides. Strange man, the whispers said, even a dangerous one. The rumors were wild. Werewolf, sorcerer. If regular men took advantage of similar situations, what would one such as Lord Charlwood do?

But she'd soon learned better. He had shown her nothing but fairness. Even, perhaps, affection. It was hard for Elisabeth to tell, even now, but she didn't think it a flight of fancy to consider him affectionate. In fact, she rather enjoyed her position. She slept in the servants' quarters, but oh it was a joy to care for Master Charlwood's manor. His home was large and comfortable, but not ostentatious.

Elisabeth now lingered in the doorway of his Lordship's study, smiling a little as she watched the firelight glimmer over his gorgeous fair hair. "Master? Noakes is wonderin' if you'll be comin' down the the dining room, or if you'd like me to bring you a tray," she spoke at last, anticipating the answer.

OOC: If there's anything you want changed, don't hesitate to thwack me. I was thinking we could do a little of their interacting and whatnot before she gets sick...

The master of the manor had heard very much the same tales as Elisabeth, both those of himself as well as those of the young woman, her father, and his losses. The latter a tale with which many had become familiar with indeed, especially the wrong sorts; the sorts that had loaned Braddock coin, or perhaps even more insidious, the sorts that gazed upon his daughter, the same kind with gazes that lingered longer than was proper, indeed some that were plainly shown to know absolutely nothing of propriety at all.

Lord Charlwood had heard the story long before the young woman had ever appeared at his door and yet truth be told. When she had come seeking her loan, he'd been forced to consider it, to look into her eyes and see the helplessness before he’d agreed.

Perhaps some of the things they said about the lord were true. No, surely not the tales of sorcerer, indeed even more prosterous ‘Werewolf’ perhaps he did own a wolf’s skin, but then that was a tale never told, a tale older than most lives lived. And there wasn’t and had never been any magic in that piece of victory remembered.

No, indeed most of the tales about the lord were so preposterous that they simply brought a smile to his lips. Chief and favorite among these was his gathering of young virgins to sacrifice…surely there were those in doubt of the use of young virgins…and as he’d joked before, the use was less often magical than a masculine counter part would let on. Much less magical.

But all jokes aside, all tales aside, the Lord Charlwood was perhaps a bit of what they said he was. Perhaps he was heartless. Perhaps he was cold as a winter’s snow, frigid of eyes and rigid of manner. But among those things was he not without mercy, without kindness, and it was Elisabeth herself that had reminded him of just that. And in returned he had promised to be all those things in return and so he was, at least to the best of his ability.

He’d heard her before she’d ever moved into the doorway, well perhaps heard was the wrong word, he’d sensed her. Known of her and her question, yet he did not look up until she had spoken, until the almost musical tones of her voice caressed the air between them. And even then, indeed even then his movement was slight and slow, he considered the book clasped loosely in his cream colored hands and then the crackling sound and dancing light of the fire as it spread thin across him. Indeed touching him with warmth he did not fully feel.

“Tell Noakes that won’t be necessary…” He said slipping his book closed without a sound. “I find myself not particularly hungry this eve, just tea. A warm drink is all I require.”

Lord Charlwood fell silent then, indeed he’d fallen thoughtful then. The whispered words of tea made him consider a very different drink…one that he would not give into, least around his servants.

It was as she’d expected. For a man of the size and breadth as he, Charlwood ate little. Noakes had said more than once, however, that there was often food missing from the pantry, which led to the thinking that he simply didn’t care to eat in the company of others—even if the others were only his servants. An oddity, to be sure, but some were like that, she supposed.

“Yes, master,” Elisabeth replied politely, turning from the doorway. She wanted to glance back over her shoulder or linger, but it wouldn’t be proper. Instead she made her way through the dark hall to the kitchen. She loved Charlwood Manor. Though by far the largest house in the village, it was small for a lord, which made it seem all the friendlier. As fitting for a man of his station, it was well-appointed and well-furnished.

Everything seemed to be bathed in firelight. The drapes and the comfortable chairs, the rugs and the wood, it all seemed to have a warm golden glow. Step inside from the biting outdoors and you had the sense of immediate warmth. And, of all the rooms, the kitchen in particular was Elisabeth’s favorite room. It too had that golden glow. Elisabeth kept the walls scrubbed clean, a task she knew Noakes was delighted to have someone else do, and the floors well swept.

Stepping in now, Elisabeth paused to let the warm, salty scent of chicken wash over her. It came from a great kettle over the low, simmering cooking fire. That was another reason Elisabeth loved the kitchen—in the winter, at least—it was almost always the warmest room in the house from the constant fire. As she stepped in, Mrs. Noakes looked up from her kettle while Mr. Noakes gave a nod and returned to his soup.

“Master Charlwood said that a tray’d not be necess’ry. All he’d like is a cuppa tea.” At that, Noakes gave a short ‘tuh’ but bustled about getting the pot on.

The plump, cozy-faced woman gave what was supposed to be a stern glare at the girl. “He’ll have his tea, then. But you tell him he’s t’ eat some of this soup, now. Needs a hot, filling soup, yes he does. Else he’ll get this consumption tha’s been goin’ round. The cold weather, it makes it worse, you hear? A good hot soup warms you from th’ inside, keeps that consumption away.”

Elisabeth gave a mock start. “D’you hones’ly expect me to speak to him that way?”

“Tuh! You know by now he’s no ogre, girl.”

Shaking her head, Elisabeth took the tray Noakes handed her. The tea leaves would steep while she took it back to Charlwood. “So you say. But I see that I’ve been given the duty of lecturin’, while you are safe and comfortable here. Tuh, indeed.”

The trip back was as short as the trip to, with Elisabeth inhaling the steam from the tea. Balancing the tray on one hand, she gave a short knock before entering. “Here y’are, Master,” she said, setting the tray on the small wooden table near the side of the chair. Heading for the door, she turned back and, with a light smile, added, “And I’m t’ tell you t’ eat some of Noakes’s soup. She’s in a flutter thinkin’ you’ll get this consumption going ‘round.”

The master of the house took his offered tea in hand; the cup looked much smaller suddenly, clasped and rolled as it was between to large palms. The warmth of it was soothing, seeping into Charlwood’s skin despite his lack of reaction, indeed despite the fact that the warmth should have been much more, should have went deep into his skin and muscle instead of the light flutter it was just outside the flesh, just far away that like the harsh cold, the man didn’t really feel it. And yet he did, at least a memory of what it had been like and it was perhaps this that had him rising it to his lips, taking a slow sip, just a little actually swallowed, but enough as not to seem abnormal.

“Thank you, Elisabeth.” He replied to her statement then, the tea swallowed, despite the almost metallic taste that registered on the master’s tongue.

And at her second statement, surprisingly enough, the master of the house smiled in return. Charlwood’s voice had become a hefty chuckle, a large sound for a large man, he’d heard some whisper, but it was also a smoothed sound, indeed like strong spirits mellowed by time and damp darkness under the earth.

“Mrs. Noakes said that did she?” He asked with a wry expression, clearly more amused than affronted. “Then tell Mrs. Noakes that while I appreciate and value her thoughtfulness, my people are a rather hardy lot…it’ll take far more than any consumption to over come the master of this house.”

Charlwood looked thoughtful then.

“However if she insists, and if you’re hungry Elisabeth, you can have my portion.”

"Welcome, m'lord," Elisabeth replied, enough bounce in her voice to be called cheerful. She watched as he rolled the cup between his big hands, unable to stop the glance at her own. They were dry and rough, from all these fires and the cold, dry air, but narrow and small as well. And nicked with old scars and burns from countless chores.

The pretty little teacup might have looked small and delicate in Charlwood's grip, but Elisabeth thought it looked better there.

It pleased her that he laughed. Such a rich sound; so deep and warm. No, Elisabeth thought to herself, not an ogre at all. If he laughed more often, she sometimes thought she might just get foxed on the very sound.

"I may just do that, master. Noakes does make a superlative soup." And on that note, she bid him goodnight.

OOC: Hope you don't mind me skipping ahead a bit...
When the sunrise came, Elisabeth was already up to greet it. The feeble rays felt good on her cold skin as she brought a load of small twigs and branches in to get the cooking coals back to flame. She did this several times, until the little scraps caught and burst into life.

Then there were the logs and larger branches to bring in. And after that she did some polishing and sweeping and scrubbing--the kitchen being the main event there. The dishes also had to be washed once Elisabeth, the Mr. and Mrs. Noakes, and John the stablehand had breakfasted. After that, it was the laundry.

All in all, breakfast not being counted, her first break came when a visitor came to the door after noon had already passed. Curious, as she didn't recall Charlwood having any appointments for the day, Elisabeth went to answer. (Charlwood Manor, being small, lacked a butler for that.)

She found herself face to face with Arthur Woodrow. If Lord Charlwood was the wealthiest man in the town, Woodrow certainly ran a close second. He was not a noble, however, but a merchant. Elisabeth only new him only in appearance; he'd commissioned her father for cabinets. Politely, she welcomed him in.

"Lord Charlwood around?" Woodrow asked bluntly, stepping in before Elisabeth had the chance to invite him.

She didn't like the way his eyes skated over her. "If you'd like to wait, I will see if I can find him for you," she said politely, leading towards the drawing room. "Would you like something to drink?"

"Madeira," he replied in the same curt manner, taking one of the seats by the fire. Elisbeth brought him a bottle and a glass on a tray, before setting out to search for Charlwood.

((OOC: Not at all…))

As it was, the lord of Charlwood manor was not much for the daylight hours. Indeed it had been said before that if any man walked less frequently amongst the suns rays, then it was the lord.

But then considering the man’s cream hued skin and light hair and eyes, indeed because of a sort of gentle beauty that should have been at odds with so large a man and yet managed only to be that much more grandiose because of it, it was because of those things that Charlwood’s practices, were indulged, indeed very few worried about them at all. After all it was a practice, practiced both by royals or those well off enough to imagine themselves royals, all over the country, a preservation of beauty some called it.

After all fair skin was the current style, so no one drew suspicion at the lord’s practice of sleeping most the day, only to handle his affairs under the stars.

And it was like most other days in that regard, Charlwood slept; a deep sleep that usually only broke at the dusk. But this day, he couldn’t say why, the master awoke early. Indeed he awoke almost instantly knowing that someone was in his home beyond his good and industrious servants.

Sitting up in his bed, the lord’s eyes slightly narrowed.

What did Arthur Woodrow want of him, or more importantly his servants, that he’d come in daylight hours, something Charlwood had strictly labeled his dealing against.

Elisabeth would freely admit that she would no more wish to confront an ill mood of Charlwood’s than she would Arthur Woodrow’s offense should she return to him with the news that her master was not taking visitors. Woodrow would see it as an affront and would respond as such—with his infamous temper. As Woodrow was not a noble, he often took offense at the slightest of snubs, well aware that his merchant status had low standing despite his wealth.

Knowing that much about him, Elisabeth made her way through the house despite misgivings on the wisdom of possibly interrupting her master’s rest. Though Charlwood was a fair man, he was also a stern one and not being disturbed while he slept was something he was very firm on.

This accounted for Elisabeth’s tentativeness as she knocked lightly upon his chamber door. She would knock no louder. If his lordship was awake, he would hear her; if he was not, she wouldn’t be the one to rouse him.

Charlwood's eyes narrowed at the knock at his door, not so much at its presence, after all he’d known the moment Elisabeth had gone on the move, headed for his personal chambers, indeed knowing so he’d even managed to slip on a pair of tan britches and a simple tunic of white cloth, he was still barefooted by the time he’d slipped back into his bed, but he was no longer nude and so it was no longer the inappropriate action that the times would have made it as he spoke simply and pertly.

“Enter Elisabeth,” He said, slipping the covers back into place over his lap as he turned ambiguous azure eyes in the direction of the door as he sat up more fully in his bed awaiting her presence and her news.

The bed for its part was large, to support a large sleeper no doubt, but as far as the fare of lords and nobles went it was surprisingly tame, surprisingly humble and mundane. It had been worked of rosewood, the wood no doubt more expensive than the bed’s creation or design; after all it was simple with a headboard and missing a footboard with twin post standing in at its stead at the bed’s bottom.

All of these were cut simply, square for the head, rounded for the posts, supporting a large goose down mattress made more luxurious only by a haven of pillows, sheets, and furs. But of course the main attraction was the scent. The scent of the rosewood was strong even with the passage of time, it smelled deep and earthy, one of nature’s natural perfumes. And yet it seemed to suit the man that lay at the center of the mostly otherwise Spartan room.

His expression was neutral, mostly for Elisabeth’s sake. He didn’t want her to think him angry, though annoyed, he after all wasn’t angry. Besides, his annoyance had a much different source than his busy and industrious servants.

It never failed to amaze her, the way Charlwood always knew who was at the door. Whether it was Noakes or John, if someone knocked at a closed door, Charlwood always called by name. Just another one of the fascinating things about him, Elisabeth supposed. There were oddities as well, but one couldn't deny they were intriguing as well.

Quietly, she slipped inside, wiping her hands on her apron for lack of anything better to do with them. She hadn't been in her master's bedchamber very often. At least, not while he too was inside. Elisabeth had tidied on innumberable occasions by herself. With him unmarried and her a worker in his home, she wasn't entirely sure it was proper to be in with him. But she had been invited.

The first thing she noticed, as always, was the scent. The rosewood, which she of course recognized, being the daughter of a carpenter, was still strong and made her think of her father's shed where he'd worked. Good memories, the scent of sawdust and raw wood.

And of course there was Charlwood's own scent. It too was rich and almost wild.

"It's Arthur Woodrow, master, he wants to see you. I left him in the drawing room to wait." Elisabeth had no idea what the merchant wanted. It was not her place to ask.

Charlwood nodded, his pale blond tresses bobbing at the gesture. Usually he would have had them restrained, but he’d had little mind of it when he’d gotten ready from Elisabeth’s arrival, indeed he’d had only thoughts for the attire that was so stressed upon. Once upon a time he wouldn’t have bothered, indeed those about him rather servants or slaves, and especially his fellows and paramours wouldn’t have cared one bit.

But in this time, in this place, amongst these people, propriety seemed almost paramount and was as unmovable and resolute as the earth on which a man set heel and toe. Strange things to put such effort into, Charlwood thought, and not for the first time but since it was something that effort was put into by commoner and noble alike, it was something he must also put effort into. Something he dared not shun. And so he was dressed, and he stood almost instantly at Elisabeth’s statement.

“Arthur Woodrow?” The master said then, thoughtfully, more for Elisabeth’s benefit than his own.

After all, knowing of the servants at the door was already revealing too much of himself he realized then, and having done it without thought or cause. This, however was exactly the opposite. It made him seem more human, more mortal, he realized as if he didn’t instantly know of the guest and his business. But the lord was hardly patient at his uninvited guest, so he moved toward Elisabeth then, hair bouncing at his shoulders with every graceful step.

“Ah, yes, the merchant…” He said then, suddenly remembering, though he’d known all along. His expression not exactly pleased by his faux discovery.

Still, he granted the newest amongst his servants a gentle smile. After all this wasn’t her fault, nor any of her doing. If anything she was the victim, after all the lord knew well of the merchant’s temperament and conduct as well. And simply put, he would have none of them here. Within Charlwood manor, he would show the lowliest of dogs the respect deserved them, let alone the lord’s many servants.

“Thank you, very much Elisabeth.” He regarded her then, with his smile. “I’m hardly at my best, but I’m not one to leave our guest waiting or alone…”

Charlwood would let the young woman make what she would of that, but he gestured for her to lead the way and followed, his bare feet making barely a sound with each step through his home.

One must not forget that Elisabeth, a female and child of a carpenter, had no education of which to speak. Having said such, she attributed many of her master’s oddities to his nature; his oddities were just that. She might find it amusing that he seemed to know things he oughtn’t be able to, such as who was on the other side of a closed door, but she would think very little of it beyond that. It was simply part of Blaine Charlwood and nothing more. If she had to say, she would simply say it was his sharp memory-perhaps he was able to detect some small difference in the way they knocked.

And so it puzzled her slightly that he seemed unable to place Woodrow for a moment. But even that small puzzlement was rinsed away once he had.

Following his directions, Elisabeth led the way back to the drawing room, dipping her head respectfully to the merchant. "Mr. Woodrow, Lord Charlwood."

Arthur glanced up from where he'd been studying the workmanship of the fireplace mantel. Once more his eyes lingered over the servant slightly longer than was normal. He had dark, narrow eyes and his gaze was the same, dark and probing. But there was a grudging respect in them once they flickered to the girl's master and he bowed his head. "I'm sorry to come unannounced, my lord. I was hoping to discuss business." He sent Elisabeth a final look, this one dismissive rather than appraising.

She moved to exit, but hesitated, her brown eyes moving to her master in silent inquiry as to whether or not he wished for her to leave.

Even in simple garb or perhaps because of it, the lord of Charlwood manor made for an intimidating sight. Despite his noble upbringing he was a man with the look of one often accustomed to physical labor, in his tunic shirt, his arms were bare, pale like most of him, they were nonetheless large and thickly muscled, they held the look of labor man’s arms or a black smith’s. It seemed a fare assumption that the man would be terribly strong; if a bit at odds in appearance to most of his social class, but if asked about his physic the master would always excuse it away with the demands of his father in his early life.

When he was younger, his father wanted him to know all of the aspects of a lord’s duties and such sent him into the fields, out into the world of those he’d soon lord over, indeed there even seemed a touch of nostalgia about the master’s voice when he talked of such things, but then that was something politely enough ignored.

After all Charlwood would not have been the first noble with an improper love of the lesser classes, though of course his was perhaps much more chaste and less problematic than most. Indeed by default it endeared him to the upper classes, after all if he were eccentric, despite the bevy of rumors surrounding him, he was at least a more sedate eccentric than most.

Paring Charlwood’s physic with a man that was tall in stature and effortlessly graceful, ah yes, it was easy to see how he might be intimidating. However when he was barely even noticed for the first few moments of his ‘meeting’ with Arthur Woodrow, it was enough to draw Charlwood’s ire. Not that he was so important that he should always be acknowledged, no, that was hardly in the man’s character, no matter what role he took up.

But it drew ire if only because of how strictly some took the lessons of propriety and Woodrow seemed to hold them in rather low regard, in favor of his focus on Elisabeth. A focus that until the lord had learned his servant’s wishes; he was not in favor of. Especially knowing the man’s reputation and an understanding of the coffers at his command…the world was not so different that wealth could not get one out of many a situation. And it was for that reason alone that Charlwood found it better to exercise caution around those that he knew could just as easily be a source of trouble as they could benefit.

That was the reason he took Woodrow’s acknowledgement with a grain of salt and gave the man a brief if welcoming nod of his head as he moved forward and sat down opposite him.

The lord looked to Elisabeth thinking that Mr. Woodrow was taking far too many liberties for his liking, but finally he nodded, even as he gave her a soft smile.

“Thank you, Elisabeth for fetching me in so timely a manner. You may take your leave.”

He turned back to Woodrow then.

“Excuse me for the wait, I was in bed and at least had to gather myself with your unexpected presence Woodrow.”

The look he gave then; wasn’t exactly pointed, but it was enough to say that the other should have a good reason for being here.

“So, what kind of business were you hoping to discuss?”

Arthur Woodrow and Blaine Charlwood could hardly have been any more unlike each other, physically speaking. Where Charlwood was tall and muscular, Woodrow was shorter and slight. Charlwood too had light hair and pale eyes, Woodrow's hair was mud-brown and his eyes oddly lightless.

And while Charlwood's strength gave off the impression of nobility and a temper that might be terrible if roused, Woodrow, it seemed, would be the type to smile at your face and stab you from behind. His temper would be no less great, but it would be hidden--like a snake's perhaps.

Woodrow ignored the girl as she bowed her head respectfully, scurrying from the room as quietly and unnoticeably as a well-trained mouse. Such was the mark of a good servant, of course. They did their work without being seen or heard.

The merchant's lip barely resisted curling as Charlwood attributed his delay to bed. Nobles. Spent their lives asleep or running down the foxes. Never had to do a day's honest work for all their wealth and property. Instead, Woodrow nodded and said, "Of course. Not a problem, my lord."

He leaned forward slightly. "I must say again that I apologize for coming unanounced. I am aware of your policy on visitors. But I must leave for London this very evening and hoped to do some business with you 'fore I leave." The merchant's accent was thick, distorting his words slightly despite his very proper English. "First, I recently acquired several mares and was hoping to breed them to your stallion, Fortune's Favor."

Charlwood had long ago become accustomed to the duality of men. After all it had been quite a while now since the mind gift had come to him, since he’d come to understand that he was not just hearing men speak, but also hearing the words of their hearts and minds. At first it had been disorienting, if only because it made for an echo with some people or rather their words became an echo to their minds. It was like hearing every message twice, but he’d had to learn to be careful of answering questions before they were asked, and yet as strange as it had started off. The lord’s skill had also proved invaluable during his life; he had come to be able to pick friend from enemy without fail, he’d even learned the shrewder points of dealing, but in the end he had taken to simply restricting such a gift.

It was a gift to pilfer a man’s soul of knowledge and dreams; it was a gift that the lord had learned to limit so much as he could manage. And yet awareness came with the gift as well, and it was this awareness that had urged Charlwood to disregard his self-imposed rules. Or rather to at least put them aside, for looking at Woodrow was enough to know that the man was trouble and no doubt trouble of the worst sort.

And trouble he was, at least to Charlwood’s sensibilities. The man’s temperament was that of a viper, indeed a venomous and cold blooded thing. Charlwood knew a bit of cold blood himself, but his eyes threatened to narrow at the man’s consideration of Elisabeth. His mouse analogy did not sit well with the lord’s own thought of serpents upon the man’s behalf. And what’s more the gazes he held upon her were even less appreciated.
It was true Elisabeth worked as his servant, but she was hardly an animal or a slave. Indeed the lord of the house most often found her pleasant in spite of herself, indeed sometimes because of herself. She was smart and industrious, all one might ask in a servant. And besides the lord cared very little of classes, no characters interested him so much more.

Indeed it was a marker of the merchant’s that his thoughts moved in so negative a direction. Again the lord had to still his emotions, this one however was in direct counter point to the anger he’d felt. This time it was amusement that danced just behind his eyes…running the foxes indeed…

However when the other spoke, Charlwood allowed his smile to break, it crested his lips and made his ivory features suddenly much more inviting than they had been.

“I’m glad you are so accommodating…” He said by way of reply, his smile amused, though with enough skill Charlwood made it seem almost cordial in the same instant.

He nodded then as the man continued.

“It is fine.” He said, completely the gracious lord. And then he nodded again. “That’s fine or rather it is as long as you allow my stableman to check over your mares, he’ll also set a gracious price as our stud fee. You’ll find him quite adept, indeed if you’d given the servants your wishes they would have gotten him for you.”

That last was said, not completely neutrally. It was a subtle jab, indeed a barb if you will. But then again if Woodrow had not been too arrogant to talk to the very people set to run the lord’s household…well let us simply say the man had it coming.

If Arthur could have heard Charlwood's thoughts in turn, he would have only been more disgusted with the noble. It was common knowledge that God had set down the different classes for a reason. The peasants, from which the servants came, were rightfully the lowest; meant to serve the nobility, clergy, and the wealthy.

Of course, as a merchant, Woodrow himself ranked nearly lower than the peasantry. He made up for it by succeeding financially. Wealth was a great equalizer. It would only be a matter of time before he acquired a title. Lord Arthur Woodrow... it had a bit of a ring to it.

He hardly kept for bristling at the lord's offhand comment about Charlwood's stableman examining the mares. Had he not paid top dollar for the best grooms? Woodrow would never have trusted a horse from one of those bloody Irish traders without having a qualified servant examine the animal first. "Naturally, you'd want to examine them. I can bring them here the day I return from London."

Woodrow seemed to miss the slight dig at the end of Charlwood's words.

"That was Braddock's girl, no?" he asked, knowing very well it was Braddock's daughter. "I was hoping to discuss a bit of business on that as well. Her father's fallen back into debt." Woodrow didn't mention that he held the carpenter's IOUs, but it was evident enough. "And I seem to be lacking a qualified housemaid. Mine's come up ill. I know the girl's papers come due to you shortly enough. I was hoping you'd consent to sell them to me early."

It said something about the merchant that he would discuss horses before servants. It said more that he neglected to mention why his housekeeper had come up ill--which in and of itself was an interesting way to put it. The girl'd tried to rid herself of the baby she was carrying.

Arrogance was a deadly poison. It was a great killer of men’s souls. Always had been, perhaps always would be. And if Charlwood felt anything beyond contempt for the merchant and his dealings, indeed the very values he held dear, that thing would have been pity.

For all that the man had acquired, for all he possessed, there was very little behind it. Very little substance, that of which men, and not always especially great ones for that matter, were made of. But in truth such was also the makings of great men, men that had changed the world, be it for ill or good, there was something in any of the individuals that found true purchase and true power…

Lord Arthur Woodrow would be as empty as Arthur Woodrow. But of course that was none of Charlwood’s business. Or at least so he told himself. Instead he simply pushed aside any further amusement he might feel at the man’s undisciplined mind, and he nodded then at Woodrow’s “concession” to allow him to examine the mares.

“We have a deal then.” The lord said, finalizing that particular contract.

Then the man had to once again work to keep his eyes from narrowing as he noted the other’s interest in Elisabeth once more.

“Indeed it was,” The lord granted, playing along with the merchant’s game. Of course that little tidbit was all he offered, and he kept his face carefully neutral as he listened to the other man’s proposal. In a word, well the emotions it drew up in Charlwood could not be expressed in a word; indeed they were better not discussed at all. If the lord had felt pity, it was gone now, replaced by a rage rather similar to that of a storm on the far off horizon. There were warning signs, but things were much too far off for the threats of thunder and lightning.

“I’m afraid that won’t be possible,” Charlwood was careful to make his voice just so, just regrettable enough that it seemed genuine. And he lied as best as he could with his eyes as well. “Elisabeth and I have an agreement, more so than her papers. You see she asked that I pay her father’s debts in exchange for her invaluable services. That was a promise between her and I. One I would be loathed to go back upon. After all if a man of the gentry cannot support his word, then whomever can…”

Charlwood’s ambiguous blue eyes locked on the merchant’s dark ones then.

“So if her father has accrued new debts they are my responsibility. And besides my good fellow, the girl really is invaluable. She’s good with the rest of the staff, indeed they love her, and she is quick in her tasks and makes one of the best cups of tea I’ve ever tasted. In short I’d have a riot of my household if I tried to be rid of her and besides we are close…”
That last was a lie, one that might not be proper, but one that the lord knew the merchant could understand better than any of the other excuses he had gotten. Plus it also laid a claim, a claim that lord Charlwood felt very keenly, especially knowing as Woodrow did, what had become of his housemaid. Hardly a maid any longer, once the merchant was through.

Woodrow's lips tightened slightly, then relaxed. He'd wanted the girl to begin with, when her father had first fallen into debt. But she'd gone to Charlwood and he'd made do with another. With Braddock falling back into his old habits, Caroline's... illness, and the knowledge that the girl's papers would be soon coming due, the merchant had hoped to buy the girl off the noble.

Well. No matter. It was all business to him. Women were like mares. They existed to bear a man strong heirs and simply attend to matters of household in the meantime. Except a woman couldn't have a wager laid upon her or win her master a purse.

"Close, are you?" the merchant asked, his eyebrows lifting slightly. A claim laid, indeed. The girl was a fine enough one in appearance, but she was the daughter of a carpenter. Risky of Charlwood to voice a "closeness" with the girl. "Well, you must be very lucky, having such a good servant."

He stood. "I'll have a man bring the vowels by when I return from London, as well as the mares." Woodrow didn't trust his men enough to send one while he was away. The man'd likely skim a pound or two off the payment and think his master wouldn't notice.

His mouth twisted into a slight smile as he held out a hand. "Been a pleasure."

Charlwood didn’t say more, indeed it annoyed him that he’d had to besmirch his servant’s virtue as it was, but of course the lord of the house saw that as a necessary evil, rather like Woodrow’s continued presence on the mortal coil. But of course the lord did not voice these thoughts, most assuredly the last. It might have caused a stir, a stir that even a noble couldn’t recover from. Indeed the merchant class was rather notoriously single minded when it came to one of their own, at least where they could lay a noble lord at fault. Wealth did many things for men and enough of it could even usurp a power structure…the lord wondered when England would discover this anew? Soon perhaps, indeed probably soon.

History tended to repeat itself and quite often, probably much to the chagrin of later generations. At least the lord hoped it would be chagrin. Perhaps one day the past would guide the future rather than falling into obscurity, perhaps one day.

The Lord Blaine Charlwood met Arthur Woodrow’s gaze then, his eyes were carefully neutral, but his smile was such that it would have seemed completely and utterly genuine. It was a nice mask to hide behind. And Charlwood wasn’t one to care much of risks, even the ones that might come of dallying with a carpenter’s daughter. Though of course nobles were known for not telling the lesser classes all their moves, indeed when it came down to it, what Charlwood had said was not such a risk at all.

“I am very lucky.” The lord said effortlessly, arrogantly.

It wasn’t a tone he much used, but it was one expected of nobles and one that subtly reminded Woodrow of the current power structure.

The lord nodded then.

“Agreed.” He said, with an easy air, the air of a deal formalized.

Charlwood then tried his best to ignore the man’s crippling mistrust, after all when things were done between them Charlwood would have to send him formal papers on the breeding and as such the warrant price would be a part of it.

No one but a fool would skim off the top with papers telling exactly how much was paid.

But then of course Charlwood didn’t doubt that Woodrow would fondly doubt the intellect of his fellow man as easily as he doubted their integrity. A sad man.

Charlwood took his hand then.

“It has been…interesting, good sir.” He said, thankfully ending their time together.

Woodrow nodded slightly. Interesting indeed, he thought to himself, grasping Charlwood's much larger hand and giving it a brisk shake. "Yes. Good. I'll show myself out." And he did just that, giving a short bow before heading towards the door.

The good noble and the little mouse of a servant. It was like a comedy. Perhaps he could use that, the merchant thought to himself. He wasn't sure how, yet, but the opportunity would present itself.

Woodrow was a hoarder of information as well as money.

OOC: Once again, I fast-forward. A couple of weeks okay?

It was a day like any other. Elisabeth was, as usual, up before the sun. The usual chores demanded her attention: hauling water, getting the fires going again, sweeping, and dusting. But she didn't go about them with her usual energy. She felt tired, unreasonably tired, as if her arms didn't want to work and her legs were made of the wood she was gathering.

And she had a cough.

Elisabeth bent to pick up a few sticks, small ones to feed the embers, and immediately starting coughing. It was a deep, pronounced cough, one that almost made her overbalance. Lifting a hand, she covered her mouth, eyes watering with the force of the sudden attack.

Her fingers were stained with blood.

She stared at them, not quite comprehending where they'd come from. The girl didn't have much time to ponder, however, for she fell into another fit, sagging against the woodpile for support. Her vision became strange, as if she were looking through a pane of ice.

And she never even felt it when she crashed to the ground.

Jonathan Rheingold sighed softly as he set the mares in their stable, those nags. He’d only been able to force himself to take two, they weren’t worth the feed to raise them or at least that was his personal opinion of the matter. Looking at them, they were pretty enough; one was a deep chocolate color with large splashes of cream upon its flanks and hooves, the other an impressive gold that faded to brown the closer you got from the shoulders to the earth, but pretty or not, Woodrow’s mares had no spirit whatsoever.

The stableman had met plow pullers with more heart, and while docile might work for some things, docile didn’t do well on the race track and it probably didn’t do so well for ol’ Fortune's Favor either.

The wide shouldered and barrel chested man was probably the Charlwood’s horse’s biggest fan. Having taken him from little more than a colt, Jon had worked diligently to keep him health and strong, thankful throughout for his master’s support in nearly all things. And as such, Rheingold had worked tirelessly and still did at the master’s whim.

That Stallion was one of the most beautiful animals that Rheingold had ever laid eyes upon, indeed he was a thing of beauty, that mean spirited, temperamental bastard. He was as likely to bite you as crap on your new pair of boots, but never was there so fine a beast, a beast that ran so well, even if he wasn’t completely broken, indeed probably never would be. Ol’ Favor was as wild as those mustangs you hear about in the papers of the former colonies…but he was damn fine.

Leaving the stables behind, the man knocked his boots on the back door to the kitchen, a loose gathering of straw and other thicker things fell and he opened the door, complete with a ribald smile for either Mrs. Noakes or Elisabeth whom usually got ready the morning fare.

“Good morn…” He began, but for the sudden vision of Elisabeth upon the ground.
Dropping to his knees, the stableman cradled the girl’s head even as he asked.

“What’s wrong with ya lass?”

A shout then,

“Noakes, where are ya?”

Elisabeth's eyes fluttered, trying hard to focus. She'd heard... something. She couldn't tell what. It had sounded as if coming from far away, or as if someone was trying to speak over a white, rushing noise. Like grain spilling from a sack. Her brown eyes narrowed, but Jonathon's face grew and shrunk sickeningly fast.

She knew him, didn't she? She should know... she thought... what was she doing here? There was wood, and she was supposed to be fetching the wood.

Cherry. For the deep, rich color. It had to be dry, that was important. It couldn't take the varnish if it was too wet. Also, the drier the wood, the better the color. Any wood could take on that beautiful glow once it was sanded, as long as it had been treated correctly.

Her eyes flickered once more, then rolled back again, insensible. Elisabeth's cheeks were flushed, her breath coming much too fast. And, beneath the feverish blush, she was pale as linen.

Noakes came rushing in, alerted by Rheingold's booming call. "Wha' in the--" she began, annoyed. The cook broke off at the sight of the girl on the floor. Aghast, the plump woman knelt, pressing the back of her hand to Elisabeth's forehead. She pulled back almost immediately; the girl's skin was broiling hot. "Lor' almighty," Noakes mumbled, "she's hot as fire."

Her befuddlement didn't last long, however. "Pick 'er up! Up! Get her to a bed," she ordered the stableman, apron flapping as she rushed to the kitchen for rags and water.

Rheingold had no reply but to obey the cook’s orders. He was a big man or rather at least a hardy one. Wide though the shoulders and torso, the stable’s work had made for more than enough strength to lift the young woman as if she weighed little to nothing. Rheingold had no thought for the illness, only haste. He moved quickly into the house, his boots leaving more than enough of a path that anyone could have followed.

Then when he was in the house proper he moved the girl easily to the servant’s quarters or at least he very well might have, if not for the presence that was suddenly in front of him.

Ol’ Charlwood was up; his blue eyes looked much the same as burning whisky, hot and potent.

“This way,” He said simply. The stableman must have hesitated, because Charlwood gave a stern expression that could burn firewood.

“My bed is closer,” He gave by way of belated explanation, and the stableman nodded, even if he was surprised. Though not so surprised, Elisabeth was a pretty enough little thing, but then again knowing Charlwood it was hardly beneath him to offer his bed to any of his servant staff with a consumption. It was one of the reasons Rheingold like the man to no end. He was much more action than words.

Rheingold obeyed then, sitting Elisabeth on Charlwood’s big soft bed. He stepped back then, waiting for Noakes.

Noakes came bustling, there really was no other word for, into the bedroom, a little surprised that they were in his Lordship's chamber. But this really wasn't the time to be worrying about that, was it then? She held a tray with some rags and a basin of cool water.

Grabbing one of the rags, she flapped it at Rheingold. "Out. Out, wait outside the door," she ordered, glancing at Charlwood as if she wanted to tell him the same thing, but still not sure enough of herself to do so. After a brief hesitation, the cook turned her back, dipping one of the rags in the water.

Elisabeth muttered something, her eyes flickering again.

"Shh. You be quiet," Noakes said, somehow saying it soothingly, and laid the cool rag on the girl's forehead. Obediently, it seemed, the girl fell quiet again. With a surprising deftness, Noakes's plump fingers undid the ties of Elisabeth's apron. Turning her on her side, Noakes just as quickly worked at the buttons on the back of the girl's dress, stripping off the long-sleeved garment to reveal the shift beneath.

Hesitating only a second, she stripped that off too, baring Elisabeth completely. Then she snatched up more rags and dipped them in the water, laying the cool, damp cloths across Elisabeth's stomach and thighs and, for modesty, her breasts.

The girl began coughing again, the deep, rattling hacking. Noakes held a rag to Elisabeth's mouth and when she pulled it back, it was flecked with blood. The cook's fading green eyes glanced up, seeking out Charlwood.

The stableman did as ordered; he exited and didn’t turn back. Worried, he still wasn’t one to stand about in uselessness. Indeed that would only compound his worry he knew, so retracing his steps, he disappeared outside once again, and there was something in the stables to garner his attentions.

Despite the cook’s orders to the stableman, indeed despite her glance that he felt intently, the lord of the house made no move to leave or even look at the woman glancing his way unsurely. Instead Charlwood stepped back out of her way, concern painting his eloquent features into a melancholy portrait. Still beautiful but troubled, like the sky before a storm finally shatters the peace, placid blue shifting to storm gray; this was the lord’s face.

Charlwood was a silent observer then, that was until he made a fuss of turning his back, truth was he was normally soundless no matter what he did, but the noise was for the cook’s benefit. It allowed her to know it was ‘safe’ to work. Modesty must be preserved after all. Such a thought annoyed the lord to no end. These people and their little insanities, Elisabeth’s life was much more important than a thought of virtue, but of course Charlwood said none of this. Indeed he said nothing, instead his mind slipped silently into that of his servant.

He breathed deep at the discomfort that was almost instantly his to share, he breathed deep, as if through fluid, and yet while he didn’t need breath, the lord knew the same could not be said of his servant. She was ill, terribly so. He did all within his power to make her comfortable, to take away the pain, the feel of sickness.

And yet when he felt her eyes upon him, the lord of the manor met Noakes’s gaze.

“Yes, Missus?” He replied, surprisingly evenly.

Elisabeth was far removed from the situation, from the crisis. Where she was, it was... empty and heaving. It was like being trapped far below the surface of a boiling sea. Drowning, coughing, tumbling over and over in that burning wet world.

She barely felt the cool rags Noakes laid over her body. Nor did she feel the grind as she fell into another gasping fit of coughing. Elisabeth was lost. She saw nothing, her eyes would open wide but they were blind. Her body twisted weakly on the bed, her hands curling as she tried to claw her way to the surface of the strange ocean.

But why? Why was she trying? Did she really want to leave here, where here might be? Her fists curled weakly, then relaxed; Elisabeth sank down beneath another dark, suffocating swell.

Her breath rasped.

Noakes looked at Charlwood, the bloody kerchief still in her hand. "M'lord, she needs a doctor. I cannah do mo' for her," the cook said, even then taking up some of the cloths and soaking them in water again. Noakes knew how to treat the small fevers, the irritating coughs, but not this.

Charlwood nodded and was in motion even before he'd completed the gesture. His wide gait carried him to the room door and he opened it a moment later. As much as the lord would have like to spot a servant, he did not, and that was enough to make his rage crest like an ocean wave before it shatters itself on the pointed rocks of the shore.

Swallowing the emotion, Charlwood reentered his room and threw on his cloak and hat, remembering his boots at the last moment.

"I'll get the physician and return shortly." The lord said then, and before the words had even faded, he was gone, already little more than a shadow as he left his manor and lands behind in a wash of silver moonlight, gray shadows, and pitch colored night as it began fading into dawn.

On foot Charlwood was better than even the most fleet footed of stallions, he needed neither lamp nor candlewick, and he seemed little more than a shadow as he raced toward the physician’s home. When finally he reached it, he was all but invisible. He rapped on the thick oak door. Rapped and rapped, until finally the door swung open.

“Come to Charlwood Manor immediately,” The lord said in a barrowed voice not his own, his face was hidden by his cloak, but already he could feel the coming of the sun.

“Hurry, the lord will make it worth your while.”

These were his last words and again he was in motion, again he was hurried, but this time at the price of his own continued survival. When finally he reached his room again, the lord was at the other end of exhaustion. The run had taken nothing from him, but the sun was taking all.

“He’ll be here soon, Noakes.” The lord said, out of breath, collapsing to sitting on the floor soon after.

"Yes, m'lord," Noakes said, her cozy face etched with lines of worry. She watched as he threw on dark cloak and a hat, as he thrust his feet into boots. She blinked a little at the speed at which he departed, then turned back to the girl, anxiously flicking thumbnail against finger.

The cook remembered the day the girl'd joined the servants of Charlwood Manor. Noakes remembered because she'd known that Lord Charlwood had no particular need for new hands at that time. She and Mr. Noakes did most of the household work, with her husband a fair hand at minor woodworking and the like. And the stables were well overseen by Rheingold and the other stablehands.

So why, the woman could remember wondering, would Charlwood take on another? Not that she minded the girl, not a lick. From her first day Elisabeth was quiet and quick and had a good, strong back. The girl had mucked out stables with as much agreeableness as she brewed a pot of tea. But the story'd crept to Noakes's ears, though the girl and her father tried to keep it close.

After she found out about Braddock's debt, well, Noakes didn't wonder any more. Charlwood could be gruff, but he was a right man.

Elisabeth's eyes opened, but they were bright with fever. And when she spoke her words were lost in her painful rasp.

Bending over the girl, Noakes gently laid a new cloth on Elisabeth's sweaty forehead. "Now, di'nt I tell you to hush? Shush now and close your eyes, nothin' here to see," the woman scolded, her hand stroking across the girl's cheek.

It was a minute before Elisabeth complied.

Noakes whirled as Charlwood entered again, out of breath and his hair windswept. She nodded, then frowned. "Don't wear yourself out too bad, m'lord. Weak in body, you'd be a like to catch this too. Go on, go lay down and take yourself a breath. I can han'le the dokkor."

((I hope you don’t mind that I fast forward a little, if so just tell me Rommy.))

For a long moment, Charlwood just looked at Noakes. It wasn’t exactly an angry look, or even one of incrediality that the woman had spoken to him as such. Indeed those might have been the ‘normal’ response of a noble. But as it was, Charlwood was hardly normal when it came to his so called peers, and when it came to the missus before him, anger had never been a reaction. No, Mrs. Noakes was wise in her own way, caring and kind. She’d always served the lord well as a cook and in general at her husband’s side in the up keep and daily running of the manor. There were few people the lord trusted as he trusted his cook and with good reason, she always ment well, always did well, and now was no exception.

Except. Charlwood had no desire to retire for the day, he wanted to fight the day’s pull as long as he could, assure that everything went smoothely and pleasantly, or at least as pleasant as possible for poor Elisabeth. But even as he stood, giving Noakes a neutral look, he could feel his strength leaving, being sapped by the rising of the sun.

Already it was a struggle to keep his wits about him, his eyes opened, his legs felt like flimsy tember, and the lord knew it was only by sear force of will that he did not sway upon his feet. If he showed weakness, the cook might insist that he see the doctor as well, and that the lord could not allow. So in the end, he finally relented, nodding as he spoke.

“As you say missus,” He gave a curt nod of agreement then. “However don’t let the doctor spare a single expense, tell him that I shall cover it all.”

With that said, Charlwood bid her farewell and slipped away and into his day light reprieve. He did not awake again until the setting of that day’s sun. But the moment the world slipped into darkness, the lord arose from sleep fit for the dead. He could feel the thirst keenly this night, but shoved it aside, heading for his room and Elisabeth’s sick bed.

OOC: Not a problem at all. I've done it a couple of times myself, so I'm good.

Lord Charlwood had an imposing gaze, it was true, even when there was neither ice nor heat behind it. Still, Noakes managed to meet it squarely, the knowledge that her master was a fair one giving her confidence. More, she knew she was right. A fine mess it'd be if he too slipped under the grip of this sickness.

She nodded approvingly as he stood, managing the task without a waver even though he looked exhausted. And she nodded again as he clipped off a few last instructions before heading to a bed, reluctance written on every line of his frame. "Of course, m'lord," Noakes replied demurely, the picture of proper reservation now that he was going to go and rest.

Watching him carefully as he left, she turned back to the girl when she was satisfied, once more dipping cloth into shallow basin. It was the most she could do to try to get this fever down. The rag was dropped at once as the cook heard the pound of fist on door, which meant that the doctor had arrived. Noakes hurried to the bedroom door, opening it as her husband ushered the doctor in.

She was still sitting next to Elisabeth's bed when Charlwood entered, looking drawn but better after getting some rest. Noakes's eyes were shadowed with dark circles as she looked up at him, unsurprised to see him, it seemed. "The doctor left some medicine to give 'er whenevah she wakes." Gently, she touched the white bandages around Elisabeth's arm. "He said tha' 'er humors was out of balance and that was why she was coughin' up the blood. Cut 'er with a silver knife."

When Charlwood opened the door, he was almost drowned by the sticky sweetness of copper, iron, and hemogloben. Of course it would be decades yet before he understood any of this from more of a stand point than a slight educational fancy he held for medicine and most knowledge in general. Still whatever you called it or its components, the smell of blood forced Charlwood to pause. Not just because of its unexpectedness or the hunger that welled up dark and deep like a massive shadow just underneath the ocean’s surface. No. What caught Charlwood most sharply was the scent of sickness, the scent of death.

It was a dark and opressive thing. Cold and slick on the back of the toungue. The lord had become rather intimate with it during his extended life or lack there of. Desite Noakes, despite the doctor and whatever he’d told the cook, the lord knew instantly that Elisabeth was dying. It was a smell caught in his lungs, a taint tasted on his lips, and it was suddenly something that he knew he could not bely.

At some point Charlwood realized that he’d come to care for the girl, come to care for her well being and that of her family. While not a fan of her father’s gambling debts, Charlwood had come to pay a great many of them in return for the girl’s services to his house, and between the two, Elisabeth and wealth, Charlwood had been exponentially more pleased with the former.

Meeting the Cook’s gaze, Charlwood advanced into the room with a curt nod by way of greeting.

“Mrs. Noakes,” He addressed the cook decidedly formally. “Would you allow me some time alone with the girl please?” His voice was a question, his eyes were not. Commanding was an understatement.

It was well “known” to those that cared to turn an ear, that the lord Charlwood was a magician of sorts. The lord wasn’t sure how these rumors had started. Indeed some of them were just down right baffling; Werewolves? But it was on these rumors that the lord banked.

“I’ve a prayer I want to say over her.” The lord explained. “It should ward off strife, the evil eye, a great many things indeed…”

On closer inspection, Noakes's eyes were not simply shadowed. They were dull. The doctor's words had not been encouraging. He'd said that the girl's case was mature and that Elisabeth had probably been hiding the symptoms for some time now. And he'd said there really wasn't that much any one of them could do, save pray and hope that the medicine would have some effect.

In short, he'd said the girl was going to die. The cook's heart was heavy at that. Elisabeth was a good sort. She had a sweet nature. Not perfect, of course. Lord knew nobody was. But not nearly imperfect enough to die.

There was nothing to be done for it, however.

"Yes, Lord Charlwood," Noakes replied quietly, mimicking his use of formal appellation. She nodded silently at his explanation, suddenly looking older than she really was. Which is to say, ancient. "I do hope it helps, m'lord." Standing, Noakes brushed lightly at a lock of Elisabeth's hair, red and vibrant against the girl's pale face.

"And I'll pray too."

((Cheese-factor: *is ratcheted to nauseating levels*))

((Heh, it's not that bad.))

Charlwood nodded and stood in silence until finally the cook had taken her leave. Once that was done, he began to pace, back and forth, back and forth, his ambiguously blue eyes cutting through the shadows as if they didn’t even exist, taking in the vision of Elisabeth’s fitfully slumbering form. Pausing a moment he touched her mind with his own, he took her pain and curved it away. The young woman couldn’t feel herself dying then, but that was just what she was doing. Dying.

Charlwood had experienced death before, indeed he’d experienced many of its glaring faces. The lord had seen many a sight in his time; he’d seen wars and accidents leave entire clans crying for lost generations. He had seen famine, ravage the worlds. He had even lost friends and confidants to old age. But also as he saw now, he’d also seen many plagues.

The lives of mortals were precious and fragile things. As waning as glass. Shattered by the first casting of stone or the howl of strong wind. So very delicate things, things the lord had grown to appreciate just as his master had always instructed him and yet, here he was once again. Once again another was to die and meet death’s eternal embrace. Charlwood, no, Sergei knew he could stop it and yet even so he found himself asking if he should.

Was it enough that he cared, was it enough that her father would be lost without her, that all the household would mourn her passing?

Truly it didn’t seem so and yet, why, why oh why did he wish to do it so?

Before he knew it, he was hovering over her like some sort of ghoul ready to prey upon her immortal soul.

A strange thought that…

Yet it was not enough to change what came next, no, even Sergei’s own mental protests did not stop what came next.

Throwing towels from her body, indeed drawing up the nude form of the girl from the bed and into his arms, Sergei then slipped onto the bed himself, sitting and cradling the life that seemed far too fragile now against the steel solid strength of his warrior’s arms.

Still holding her he leaned into her body, his lips inches from her ear, from her throat.

“If you were awake, Elisabeth what would you have of me?”

And yet as he knew, no answer came and then his lips dipped, kissing her throat in a move so tender it spoke of a lover’s fondness. A moment later the lord’s lips parted and he began to drink as his fangs slipped into yielding flesh and the taste of life flooded his lips, flooded way down deep into the very core of his being.

Warmth and life, both were his for oh so very long. He held her carefully, was as gentle with her as he could manage with the ecstasy coursing its way through his very bones, but he did not stop as he would normally. Instead he drank her down, slow and carefully until the first waning of her heart. It was then he pulled away, bit into his own wrist and began the process of slipping his scarlet gift between her plush lips.

In time he knew she’d waken, in time she would drink, and Sergei could only wonder if he’d done the right thing and more importantly, why he’d done it?

It was a strange thing, to sit on the ledge that was life while your feet dangled over into that long fall that was death. Even sleeping, Elisabeth was aware that she was dying. Or, perhaps 'aware' is not the correct word. At some level, she knew.

And this ledge was painful. It was painful to draw breath after shallow breath into lungs that ached as if burned. That pain spread from her core outward, leaving none of her body untouched. To be alive was agony, but the fear of death was a terror more base than any instinct.

Elisabeth was caught between the two. The sickness that crawled through her body and her own losing effort to beat it back fought a war inside her. She would lose, eventually, but until then the pain would only build. And so her mind did what it could and she slid into that restless sleep. When she dreamed, she dreamed of many an odd thing. Her father. The horses her master had agreed to breed. The different woods and how they looked.

And sometimes her master. When she saw him, he was at a distance. He wavered like a vision did at a length and when she drew near he would flicker into nothingness. He never looked at her. Perhaps he would if she called to him, but she could not, even in her dreams, draw the breath.

Then, slowly, the pain began to trickle away. It didn't leave completely, but it numbed as flesh numbed when touched to ice. She didn't feel his arms around her, didn't feel the cloths or sheets as they slid from her and left her naked. But she felt, in some way, as his fangs pierced her throat and the blood, the poisoned blood, began to drain from her form.

She felt herself float, higher and higher, and she knew the pain was left behind. If this was dying, Elisabeth found death itself more kind than the sickness that called it.

She didn't taste the blood that washed between her lips, but the effects were felt. A long fall, a spreading chill. Was she dying or was she simply falling? Would she be in this long tumble forever, growing colder and colder with every inch?

Her body jerked, powerfully, a gasp torn from her throat.

Sergei closed his eyes, carefully, oh so carefully he supported her form. He pulled her close against the broadness of his chest, allowing her head to rest slightly against the swell of his abdomen, all the while he slipped into her mind, saw and felt the changes begin within her. It was hard, harder than Sergei remembered. Though at so many years, it was true that his own change was barely more than a flash of sensations, indeed Sergei wasn’t sure he had been completely conscious throughout most of his change and yet no doubt Elisabeth’s was that much harder.

After all Sergei had been strong and powerful, a warrior of the wolfshirts, a man of the all father, those that battled without cease. They had been called many things throughout their existence and many more long after.

Still Sergei knew even for one such as he, the process hadn’t been completely pleasant and so he did as he was sure his master must have done. He held the young girl in his arms softly, carefully, protectively as the last traces of her mortal life gave way and the first vestiges of her life to come skittered through her.

As her body jerked, the jerks grew stronger. Strong enough that Sergei knew the strength for what it was becoming.

Leaning down, he pressed a subtle kiss to her forehead.

“Shhhh, be still my child. Settle yourself in the blood. Soon the pain will be gone, soon you’ll awake and be without illness. Be strong for me. And then I shall feed you, just be strong.”

He continued holding her then, whispering to her, soothing her, deep down a part of him truly hoped he’d done the right thing by her.

Hard indeed.

Elisabeth shuddered again, unaware of Blaine's--Sergei's--arms supporting her. Her entire body was wracked with the convulsions and thrashed violently. Every muscle in her body seemed to tighten and release, her back arching sharply.

It was an unnatural thing, this change. It dug greedy claws into her, ripping back what she had been to replace it with what she would become. Elisabeth's organs, stomach and liver and intestines, melted away, unneeded now. By means sorcerous or demonic, new connections were made where none had ever meant to be.

Blood frothed at her mouth.

Her master's words penetrated that dark, cold plain, but Elisabeth could not heed them. There was a terror standing at the edge of this unknown akin to the one she had felt looking into the depths of death itself. And so she fought the changes. Her very humanity was being stripped away.

But her body was weakened. Slowly, her clenched muscles began to relax, too exhausted to fight any longer. Slowly, she slipped into something like sleep and the changes marched unimpeded.

When her eyes opened again, they were red and wide. And confused.

Sergei held her, sad that is was the best he could do. Through her mind he could feel the changes, even measure their progress, something he hadn’t been aware he could do until he had already done it subconsciously. Still knowing wasn’t the same as being able to affect change and in that department Sergei was useless.

So, useless, he simply held her and waited. He whispered to her, cooed encouragements and promises of an end to the pain. And before long those promises would be fulfilled. Before long Elisabeth would no longer be mortal, before long she would have to take those first critical steps in finding the path she might very well walk for all eternity.

Perhaps in some ways the man that had taken the name Charlwood was a sorcerer and a demon, perhaps the gift he gave was not a gift but a curse. Or indeed perhaps it was both. But whatever it might be, it was given, there was no turning back and no hesitation any longer within the ancient vampire’s soul.

And so it was that he was ready when finally Elisabeth’s eyes opened. For a moment he considered their color, then he took her hand in his, pressing a soft kiss against its expanse, crimson tears slipping down his pale cheeks.

“So you are finally awake. Can you speak, child? Tell me how you feel?”

Elisabeth's eyes flickered, moving with rapid, unsteady darts--like a mouse's might when cornered. They finally landed on her master's face, staying there as if grabbing for the familiar and hanging on. She saw his mouth move, but it seemed to take a long time for his words to reach her ears.

"Am I... broken?" she whispered at last. Her voice, surprisingly, was smooth. Quiet, but smooth. The coughing... whatever damage it had done had been undone.

Tears trickled down his face. So strange, so strange to see a man like Charlwood cry. Her eyes, those eerie red eyes, focused again, on the tears. They were... red? Unconsciously, Elisabeth's fingers curled on Charlwood's shirt, holding fast to the linen as a child might. "I thought I broke..."

Hadn't she?

But she felt--different. She didn't feel weak, not that crushing weakness that had settled on her heavy enough, it seemed, to crack her very bones. There was a lingering ache, a sort of reminder of pain that she'd had. Her mouth moved again, the words becoming stronger, "What happened?"

His tears continued to flow, they traced the swell of his cheeks, the well sculpted lines of his jaw and finally trickled down to splash unseen upon the fabric below. Charlwood, no Sergei’s tears were both tears of sadness and of joy. She was alive. For that he was glad. She was forever changed, for that he would eternally morn. Mortality is a wonderful thing, no matter how benevolent, how beautiful and wondrous the immortal, there is a loss that comes with mortality’s disappearance. And it was a loss that went much deep, much farther than the loss of the sun or the sudden and fierce knowledge of the blood need.

It is perhaps the difference between a snowflake made of ice and one crafted in glass by the hands of man. Delicate and beautiful both, there is still something lost in translation. And so it was now.

Leaning forward, the lord pressed a chaste kiss to Elisabeth’s forehead.

“No, child. You are not broken.”

He took her hand then, carefully, lightly in his own. For a moment he held it, then he smiled. It was a careful and limited sort of emotion. It was obvious the lord was considering a way to explain things, a way that his fledgling might comprehend.

Then finally he said.

“You were sick Elisabeth, deathly sick. Now you are well. Once you were mortal. Now you are timeless. I had no other choice. I do not know if you will hate me in time, but my heart bled for you, and now you will live. Live to take care of your foolish father, live to do all that you might ever wish. Indeed you shall probably live until you wish it otherwise. And I promise to be with you until you wish for me no longer…”

A frown creased Elisabeth's face as she tried to remember... tried to remember, something of what had happened. The last she could recall was thinking of the wood that needed to be brought in--for the cooking fire. And then coughing, but it was hazy, as if a skim of smoke had settled over her memories.

Her fingers tightened on Charlwood's as he pressed his lips to her forehead. "You saved me," Elisabeth murmured quietly. And, though she wondered, she found she didn't care how he'd done it, only that he had. It didn't matter to her if he truly was a sorcerer, a belief she had long ago rejected. Through whatever means, he had saved her life.

Everything else was secondary.

"I will never hate you, my lord," she said, one hand moving to touch his golden hair. "How could I? You have given life to me again..." Elisabeth trailed off, her face contorting suddenly as a hunger, a powerful and unfamiliar one, abruptly rose within her.

"That I have." Sergei found himself saying. "I have saved your life; but like most things in the world of men and beasts...my dearest one, such a thing comes with a price. Sometimes the price is lean; other times bloated, this one however simply is. Harsh and inescapable."

What else could the lord say; this was it. This was the simple truth. The truth of what he'd done. There was a price to be paid for the gifts that he enjoyed, that in time they both might enjoy. There was debt in living with perpetual longevity through the decades and centuries...even as they stretched ever longer still into stalwart millennia. There was a price to be paid, a price to be paid in the coin of life and struggle, a price to be paid in blood.


At her sudden contortion, Sergei took the hand in the spun gold of his hair. He held it for a moment; knowing those first shocks of hunger were more pain than pang, much more different than any earthly hunger could boast.

“We shall see, in time…” He muttered then, more to himself than the woman. Time would reveal if she would grow to hate him. Hate him for the thieving of her humanity. But for now, for now they needed to get her dressed. Afterward they would go to the worst of neighborhoods. The spawning grounds of fiends and killers, of monsters and evildoers of all description.

It was there they would hunt; and there Elisabeth would make a decision. Either her prey would live or die. It would be her first and thus the pattern established now might very well follow her all the remaining and possibly innumerable days of her life.

Placing her delicately and solely upon the bed, Sergei moved to the door then. Opening it, he asked that someone bring him clothes for the young woman and quickly. Likewise he said nothing of her condition, nor would he until she had fed and they both rested well for the day until the next night. What had happened drained them both; the totality of strength would only come with time.