I'll Lay With You(Closed)

[WeaverofWorlds]

The windswept city of Trondheim was just beginning to awaken when he came into sight of it. The hustle and bustle of the just barely a city proper as the sun began it's daily rise above the horizon came as something of a comfort. Despite the general air of violence that surrounded mercenaries, there was always the occasional bandit party, whether brazen or desperate, who'd tangle with armed travelers in hopes of coming out on top. As much as Dagen made his living off of violence, earning coin for bloodshed, he avoided unnecessary fights whenever possible. Anything else was just asking to draw the wrong kind of attention, or take a blade to the gut without even earning a bit of coin for it. So it was that seeing the city had the men who followed him breathing sighs of relief, muttered conversations beginning behind him. Most would be eager to spend coin on ale, warm beds and warm bodies. All the more so for having made their way through the night, not a time many would be eager to travel the roads.

The message that had been delivered to him had demanded such extreme measures.

He thought on the matter as the small group passed through the gates and entered the city proper. It was necessarily unusual for a letter to be delivered to him, usually another mercenary leader passing along an opportunity when one could read and write. It was a great deal more unusual for a landed noble to be sending him a letter, and one that had urged him to return to Trondheim with all haste. As much as he got one with the local Baron, the man wasn't one to hurry things along. But with rumors of unrest within the duchy, not to mention the shadow of war to the south, maybe the Baron had some concern he'd rather a mercenary handle in his stead. Coin was cheaper than life, at times. Dagen sent his men off to secure lodging and to waste what coin they had on ale and women, even as he began making his way towards the lord's manor. The streets were already filling with people, most of them fishermen, the lifeblood of Trondheim and it's primary trade, substituted by the few farms that dotted the barony. It was by no means the wealthiest city in Severny, but it made do with what it had, and it's people were content with that. A nod was giving to a few people he recognized, having made Trondheim his usual city of rest had lead to him making a few contacts over the years. One such, a man by the name of Bjorn, caught him as he made his way down the main street, gesturing him over with a look of concern on his face.

"Best be careful, Dagen. Been a right mess the past few weeks you been away." The man's tone suggested something more than merely a mess.

"That so? What's the happenings then?"

"Rumors all over, coming from inland. The Duke's been deposed they say, by the steelsmiths."

"People been saying that for years, Bjorn. No call for it to be true now."

"No but-" The man glanced around, in the way that only someone uncomfortable with speaking aloud might, before he leaned into to gruffly whisper. "Saw a horse come through a few nights passed. Near woke the whole street. Fine horse too, with fine rider to boot. Went straight to the Baron, they say, and ever since the lord's manor has been busy as a bee's nest. Word from the servants is there's talk of calling up the levies. If you're to go call at the manor, best tread lightly, friend."

Dagen took the news with a grimace, but nodded a farewell to the man before setting of once again. Calling on the levies could mean only a few things, none of them necessarily good for the common folk. Even the rumors of a levy were something to be wary off, but with the autumn harvest drawing nearer in the coming months, and King calling more and more to war... if a levy was being called, then that meant the War in the South was becoming more than just a looming threat, or rumors of the steelsmiths were mayhap a bit more than just rumor. To the common folk it was a herald of higher taxes and the loss of a good number of menfolk. To a mercenary, it was the siren call of a proper payday, perhaps weeks or even months of coin to look forward too, so long as one survived and chose the proper side in the conflict.

The manor house of Baron Mimir of Trondheim was somewhat lacking given it's name. Though it was certainly larger than any other building in the city, and certainly contained more expense within its walls, it paled in comparison to the proper castles and manors of the higher nobility. All the same, the Baron was a respected man, he saw to the safety of the region, kept taxes low and was generally a proper knight. Few if any among his subjects would speak ill of the man, and even Dagen, a wanderer with not particular loyalty to the man, had defended the Knight-Baron from unkind words among the less reputable crowds. That he had fought and bled beside the knight during the skirmishing between Lysgardr and Ivony years ago had done more than just secure him a somewhat steady patron. So it was as he made his way through the front door that the few servants about this morning accepted his presence with ease, some greeting him as they hurried about their tasks.

To Dagen's eyes, it didn't seem any more busy than it usually was. What was unusual was that, even after arriving, the Baron didn't appear. If anything, after asking after the man and being politely if firmly informed to wait as the Baron was "busy", he found himself waiting for nearly the entire morning. His stomach had nearly driven him to leave in search of food, and perhaps come back later, when the man did finally arrive.

Mimir was a man passed the primes of his youth. Indeed, the years had long since taken their toll, leading to a man more suited to administration than the conducting of war. He'd grown rounder in the belly since his days upon the battlefield, more relaxed in demeanor as well, something the servants and his wife both appreciated. Still, there was the glint of steel in the older man's gaze, one that was only partially warmed by Dagen's presence. If anything, the Baron seemed exhausted, though the smile that reached his face was genuine all the same. He was dressed finely, as to be expected, and somewhat highlighting Dagen's grime covered chainmail and padding. If he were bothered by it, Mimir made no sign of it, instead grasping the mercenary's hand firmly in greeting.

"Dagen! You got my letter! You're earlier than I expected you."

"You said to make all haste. You're not usually someone who says things like that. Or sends me letters, milord."

"Dagen, we've talked before. There's no milord's from you. We've bled together, swords in hand."

"Still, milord. Best I not get used to such things as disrespect."

"Oh, aye..." A great heaving sigh, one of exasperation, and for a moment the knight allowed his exhaustion to show fully. And then it was stowed away, the mask of a noble Baron in place once more. "Probably for the best. I'm sorry for so hasty a summons, and after I'd already asked you to put those bandits down for me. I'll make sure your coin reaches you before you leave. But there's another matter that requires attention, a delicate matter all things considered. Still, it's not my place to say more, only that you'll need to speak for the Hounds. This way, please."

The mere mention of the Hounds had Dagen on edge. While his small band, only twenty strong, were enough to handle a few bandits, when wartime came greater numbers were required. So it was that many of the mercenary bands that called Severny home came together, working alongside one another to ensure survival and proper pay. It had been a few years since all had been gathered, but if he was acting as the voice for the Hounds as a whole... He couldn't help the sudden feeling in his gut, the sudden tightening he'd long associated with a difficult choice to be made in the near future. The full numbers of the Hounds being called upon could mean only that a proper war had broken out somewhere. The Baron led him down a familiar hallway before bidding him wait once more, entering what was normally Mimir's meeting room. That it was the Baron leading him here, and not a servant, and that the Baron was the one doing the introducing...

 

[pink_silk_glove]

The footsteps down the hall drawing nearer could not keep pace with the heavy thumping of her heart and as she discerned the Baron's voice channeled along the stone walls, Greta knew that the guest had finally arrived. The moment was nigh. This simply had to work. After eight weeks of agonizing treachery and betrayal, something had to go her way.

She rose from her seat at the shuttered window and stood at the ready. Her often unruly curls, the color of pine cones, had been tamed and set, then pulled back and pinned with loose tendrils framing her high cheekbones, full soft lips and eyes of wet hazel. Her dress (provided by the good Baron) was a subtle lavender with small purple diamonds dobbied into the weave. The mulberry lacing of the bodice pushed a swell into her modest bust above the square neckline embroidered by the same pattern that adorned the exaggerated trumpet cuffs from which her fine hands extended.

The Baron bade the warrior enter first, on a weary stride and in battle gear it seemed, chafed and hacked, scruffed-faced and with dark hair disheveled from the elements. Even in his armor he appeared lean. Greta had expected a sturdier man more like her father's own knights or the top men-at-arms of the local militias whom they commanded, but it mattered not. She was told that he was more of a facilitator of arms albeit a rather hands-on one, and she herself was not at all so put together when she arrived at Trondheim, a rain-soaked ragged mess indeed. Either way, she felt somewhat overdressed. She breathed in, putting a rise in the soft creamy flesh of her scant bosom, and lifted her chin forthrightly, a flash in her eyes, part determination and part fear, to step forward as the Baron followed in with introductions.

"The Lady Gretchna von Lysgard Stolberg," he stated regally, "I give you Dagen," he bowed, and upon straightening added with a nod, "Blade for hire."

"Pleasure," she greeted him with an expression unmoved from expectant. She curtseyed to Dagen, then the Baron in turn.

"I shall leave you to your business. If you should need for anything I am at your call," said Mimir with a gracious nod, then turned and took his leave, shutting the door. The key rattled in the lock and teh bolt clicked.

"Please," she gestured to several cushioned chairs set in a meticulous arc about the fireplace. "Let us sit." Greta moved to a side table with two goblets and a carafe. "Drink?" she offered.

 

[WeaverofWorlds]

There were many things he'd expected upon entering the room. Some noble lord, come to recruit for the war in the south had been the most likely, or some recently come of age son seeking glory upon the battlefield, a few expendable bodies to tag along. He had not expected what by appearance a noble daughter. The deference the Baron gave her spoke all the more of how important she must be, at the least higher than his usual employer. When she gave him a curtsy, Dagen could only provide a passable bow in return, no doubt awkward and insufficient in her eyes. Even as he did so, Dagen tried to recall any noblewomen he could, and found himself coming up blank. The women among the nobility had precious little to do with mercenaries, and thus little reason for him to concern himself with knowing them from the common farmer's daughter.

He knew the Lysgard though. He knew the Stolberg too, and he remembered the gossip of the two families, one noble and the other merely merchants, coming together through marriage. If she was here, without the grand fan fair that usually accompanied the Lords of Severny...

The rattling lock gave him pause as the Baron retreated from the room, the narrowing of his eyes as he glanced at the door behind him speaking of his sudden suspicion and uncertainty. His hand twitched at his side, rattling the shortblade that hung on his hip, and for just a moment he considered refusing whatever meeting this was and putting Trondheim far behind him. But the Baron had been good to him, and he owed the man this much, so with a deep breath to steady the nerves he turned his attention to the Lady Lysgard Stolberg. He took the offered seat warily, slowly, his eyes watching her carefully.

"If it pleases you, milady."

He was silent as he watched her pour. Silent as he accepted the offered drink, as he waited for the Lady Gretchna to speak. There was little else to do, for he wasn't going to speak out of turn to a daughter of the Duchy, or the wife of a Stolberg.

 

[pink_silk_glove]

The warrior returned a bow rather stiff. His demeanor seemed cautious, cagey even, as the door clunked shut and locked, but did eventually take the seat offered. She herself had already been imbibing enough to calm her nerves. Greta filled the two goblets and handed one to him.

"If the Baron's vouching is not enough," she said and produced a golden amulet engraved with a wreath of lilies upon a shield, the insignia of her House of Lysgard, to prove her identity. She held it in her palm for his inspection for a good moment before moving towards the other end of the arc of chairs and sitting herself. The crackle of the fire was warm and soothing, unlike the salty wind outside that intermittently rattled the shutters with its unpredictably whimsical gusts. Inside was safe, but it was only a matter of time until she'd have to run again, in the coming howl of the winter blow.

"How much do you know about my family's current situation?" she opened the conversation proper. He had to have an idea. It was already at the point where the Guild of Severn Smiths could not contain the secret. Even the daily merchants at the manor had known that something was amiss and were drawing their own conclusions before she had fled some weeks ago. She could only speculate that any delay in a formal declaration might be due to a need to explain her own absence from the Manor Dunsann.

 

[WeaverofWorlds]

He examined the amulet he was presented with more out of courtesy than necessity. He had absolute trust in the Baron, the man wasn't one to lie or deal in underhanded methods. If he said she was of the Lysgards, than she was of the Lysgards. Still, the if there had been any doubt at all it was banished. In Severny at least the crest of House Lysgard was well known, especially to the mercenaries that had fought for them on numerous occasions. Her question, though, caught him off guard. He found himself sipping from the drink he'd been handed, the few moments that took providing him a chance to go over what he did know.

"I know... I know that there are rumors of your father's declining health. I know that your brother was sent south, to partake in the King's war should it come to that. There are rumors of the Stolberg seeking to take control of Severny, but those rumors have been around for years. The Lysgards have always had the loyalty of the Knight-Barons, and what few Counts exist. Beyond that, I couldn't say, milady. The Hounds haven't been called upon by your family for nearly a decade now."

The last border dispute, between Lysgard and the neighboring Havandel. It had been like every other border dispute, the specifics of which Dagen couldn't begin to understand. But steel had been drawn, blood had been shed, and the Lysgard had won. It was the battle that had the Hounds making something of a name for themselves, the battle that had him meeting Mimir, and the battle that he'd earned his dubious honor as the Voice of the Hounds.

"I know you being here is... not a sign of something good, milady."

 

[pink_silk_glove]

Her delicate fingers lifting her goblet to her lips, Greta sipped as the warrior listed all of what he knew. It seemed that she would have to fill him in on much.

"I know you being here is ... not a sign of something good, milady."

"Hardly," she confirmed. A troubled sigh filled her chest as she contemplated where to begin. Then lifting her chin, she faced him forthrightly. "My father has passed," she stated regently. "No doubt your business kept you from the news on three months now, but my younger brother Crispin is the new Duke. However, my husband has betrayed me and taken our house from him while he is posted on the southern frontier. He may declare himself Duke any day," she informed him with a cold resolve, hiding the full depth of emotions amdist the stark reality of her testimony. Greta paused to sip again. "On my father's death bed I had petitioned to my brother to return home. Whether my letters have reached him I know not, yet if I had been aware of my husband's treachery, my message would have read much differently. I fear now that he may easily be killed should he return." She faced the fire as it popped in the ingle, a faint rosiness rising in her cheeks from the wine consumed, although her expression in no way blushing. "So now the circumstances of this meeting may begin to make sense to you. I am in hiding," she spelled out, facing him once more, "from my own husband."

The conversation was nervewracking. The key was to not let that show. She took a moment to gauge him, his countenance, how the man was taking this, with an interest genuine or with a grain of salt. He did not seem suspicious of the wine at least. Greta sipped again, the goblet tipped gracefully to her mouth but her eyes still fixed upon him. She could not afford to appear weak. The obvious desperation of her plight was already more than enough. To portray limp despondence would show her cause as a lost one.

"Emil, my husband, is the son of Willem Stolberg, the Guildmaster of the Smithy, just in case that wasn't clear," she continued. "They have the steel to conquer, and the gold to hold sway. Blood has been shed to quell resistance. Several of my father's loyal knights have been murdered. Others faithful remain silent to keep their throats," she said as she placed her empty goblet down on the stand next to her chair. "When it became clear that I would not comply, I was imprisoned in my chambers," she said, her free hand then subtly gesturing to and fro, animating a recital of a chain of obvious wisdom. "The longer that this all plays out and the firmer Emil's grip, the more expendable I become. It was only a matter of time, still is. Naturally I was smuggled out in the night. My husband seems to be keeping my absence a secret, perhaps as a façade that all is still well within the manor, although I would not speak for him," she shrugged as her eyes wandered to the fire. "For the time being that suits me well as it keeps me alive. 'Tis better to remain a secret until I can have our House retaken," she reasoned. Then she peered at him from beneath her determined brow. "That is where you come in."

 

[WeaverofWorlds]

Her story was concerning. The politics of it escaped him, Dagen was only a mercenary after all, but he knew conflict, he knew war and he knew what her coming to him meant. Everything together, she wanted to fight against the most powerful family in Severny, who'd already claimed the capital, likely had a number of mercenaries in their employ, not to mention whatever nobles had turned upon their former masters, and with the time to strengthen their position. If her words were to be believed, it was likely she wouldn't have the support of anyone save Mimir, and even that would be... lackluster, lest they draw the entirety of Stolberg's wrath down on the town.

So the logical step had been to seek out mercenary soldiers. To seek out the Hounds. He wondered if she even knew who the Hounds were, or if she was just following the Baron's suggestion. He supposed it mattered little either way. What she was proposing was near suicide for any that chose to follower her. She had nothing to her name, the support of a single barony against the wealth of the Smith's Guild, and the foolhardy belief that she'd win. Dagen knew conflict and war, he knew how to pick the winning side as well. Dragging his men into an inevitable loss would only lead to their deaths. But he owed the Baron for looking out for him and his. So he drained the goblet, set it down, and faced the Lady Lysgard with respect she deserved.

"You're asking for us to fight against the Stolberg. A handful of men against the might of a duchy. That'll be near three thousand men, last I heard of the duchies levies. Not to mention the mercenary force that's likely been called upon. Say five thousand, taking account of those that won't come to the Stolberg's call to arms. How do you propose to stand against five thousand men with a single mercenary company? The Hounds are good, but we're not that good. Not to mention payment. Forgive my bluntness, but you aren't exactly swimming in gold... milady."

Nor were the men he had nearly capable of facing five thousand men, even if some were mere peasants with spears. Calling on every Hound, and that was assuming they would answer, would only put them at some five hundred all told. Without gold she couldn't even call on that many, and the Baron almost certainly didn't have the coin for that. He could admit to her that even now he could probably put together some sort of plan, but it would be foolhardy to even try. The Stolberg, if they'd half a mind among them, would simply bring their forces down upon the first signs of rebellion. Better that she preserve her own life, perhaps head south, warn her brother herself. Then he could gather allies, if the House Lysgard still had any, and retake his home from a stronger position. But he could see the look in her eye, she was determined to retake her home, to oust the usurpers. She must have taken the betrayal personally.

Still, he could offer some praise, even if it was unspoken. She was choosing to lie low, a better response than denouncing the Stolberg in the open. That would only tell them where she was, and she'd have been dead within the month. She was prudent then, if a bit lacking in military knowledge. Mayhap she'd some plan he couldn't see, to utilize what little men she could afford. Or maybe she was just highly optimistic, something that had little place on a battlefield where the numbers were so uneven. Or maybe he was mistaken, and pride blinded her to the reality of her situation. Regardless, despite the debts he owed, he couldn't allow the Hounds to get dragged into a war that she'd no doubt lose.

All he could do was listen, and refuse her offer when it finally came.

 

[pink_silk_glove]

"You're asking for us to fight against the Stolberg. A handful of men against the might of a duchy." he waxed on over the numbers and she was about to counter this until he hit the real sticking point, that of compensation. "Not to mention payment. Forgive my bluntness, but you aren't exactly swimming in gold, milady." The notion put a hollow in her chest which she sucked up and gave her ready response.

"I have more than enough wealth to pay you," Greta said resolutely. "I just do not have access to that wealth, access that victory would provide." His goblet was empty. She rose and crossed to the side table to fetch the flask and refill the both of them. "I fully understand and would not expect that you would work purely on such speculation. I have not much to pay up front I am afraid, but we also don't have to do this all at once," she posed as she returned to her seat, lowering herself gracefully into her chair without taking her eyes from him. He wasn't giving off much of a tone other than mildly unimpressed, but he had neither dismissed her at all.

"Is an all out battle necessary, or perhaps something more subversive would do?" she raised an eyebrow. "Mimir is not my only supporter. There are many who only fall in line due to convenience or fear. A positive show of force would win them back to our side, a small victory to gain a foothold, which I may be able to afford today," she offered. "Then I would have more means." Greta kept her eye on the soldier still as she sipped anew.

"First we need options," she continued. "From this we can devise a plan, and then we can agree on a price."

 

[WeaverofWorlds]

He was rubbing at the bridge of his nose before she'd even finished speaking. She was promising gold, hinging on victory. While not unfamiliar situation to be in, that was hardly a factor when it also hinged upon him being alive to collect. Hells below, it hinged on any of the mercenary company behind alive to collect. That she was proposing multiple payments instead was at the least a bit more believable, but even then it would merely multiply the danger. Victory after victory, and each teetering on the knife's edge of defeat. But at her mention of subversion, of subterfuge, Dagen couldn't help the wheels that began turning.

Could victory exist? He was no general, and even among the Hounds there were better minds to think of such things. But years of combat left him some measure of experience, and in terms of small scale combat, of skirmishes and raids, he could organize a decent plan of action. If subtly was what she was after then perhaps... He drained the refilled goblet, not pausing for any sense of manners but desperate to quiet the plan slowly forming. Instead, he hoped, prayed even, that he wasn't going to be foolhardy enough to even consider accepting this job on behalf of the Hounds. Even then, he was speaking before he could fully stop himself.

"I... could think of a few ways one could go about it, if one were willing to sacrifice one's honor." And it would be she who would be sacrificing her honor if they went about this. The reputation of a mercenary was won in blood, and the Hound's would only rise or fall by victory or defeat. Noble honor was hardly expected of them. "But you'd still need more men than I have. Either Gunhild or Draken, though both would be ideal if you've the gold to manage it, unlikely as that is. Strike at vulnerable targets... it's almost harvest season as well..."

"But no." He shook himself from his thoughts, rising to his feet an silently cursing that he'd even let the thought of attempting what she asked come into his mind. "You've not the coin to call the Hounds to war, milady, a war that you will likely lose. Rally your brother and what allies you can, then come for your duchy if the King allows. Perhaps then the Hounds will be with House Lysgard on the battlefield once more, but I can't ask the others to lead their men into a war upon the promises of a fallen noble. The Stolbergs have Severny, I think it best if you accept that if all you've to offer are hopes of victory and the coin you'd gain from it. We'd need more than that to spend our lives for you."

 

[pink_silk_glove]

The mercenary's mannerisms seemed troubled and Greta sensed rejection until he spoke.

"I ... could think of a few ways one could go about it, if one were willing to sacrifice one's honor."

A renewed hope rose in her chest, swelling her modest lumps in the prim tightness of her bodice as he contemplated the means.

"But no."

It was hardly a dismissal. He was just weighing the pluses and minuses.

"The Stolbergs have Severny, I think it best if you accept that if all you've to offer are hopes of victory and the coin you'd gain from it. We'd need more than that to spend our lives for you."

Greta would not accept that the Stolbergs had Severny, in the way that they had stolen it. She never would. She appraised him as he contemplated the matter, his generally tousled appearance, hair wind-whipped and unkempt, his long limbs forming a frame for the chain mail that subtly tinked with his movements. He seemed a practical man, capable through his experiences.

"I assure you that whatever we do will hold more honor than my husband," she countered. The goblets were empty and so was the flask, but there was more. "And I have written to King Jurgen," she explained. "He has concerns heavier. Severny is not much more than a trifle at this time," she said as she moved to the side table where the King's return correspondence lay, it's royal seal broken, the ink in his own regal hand telling his indifference yet she would let Dagen believe that it was his blessing instead. "He has left it to me," she said, showing the next bottle beside the letter on the table. Cocking her eyebrow to offer, Greta lifted it. "I can give more than gold," she began. "I can give you land, livestock, title," she listed, her voice lilting upwards at the end of each reward as she stepped to his empty goblet and uncorked the bottle. "A Barony for you, Knighthoods for your select officers," s continued to enhance her potential bid while gauging him with expectant eyes as she approached with enticing feminine steps, the hem of her dress gracing the stone floor, and tipped the wine flask in her delicate right hand to the rim of his cup in her left. She stood close, tempting.

 

[WeaverofWorlds]

Land, titles and riches. It was things that a lot of people wanted, a lot of mercenary's hoped for even. Dagen couldn't truthfully say that such promises weren't tempting, and he could count not a small number of others in the Hound's who would be similarly tempted. But just the same, the problem of promises struck hollow. She was offering riches in exchange for victory, titles in exchange for glory won on the field of battle. Yet still, the enemy they faced was near insurmountable, an almost impossibility of victory. What could five hundred hope to accomplish against the numbers set against them?

Even in the face of those doubts he found himself pausing, watching the woman who would be his employer pace across the room. Wariness had given way to the two goblets of wine he'd drunk, letting his eye wander a bit more than his normally wary mind would allow. He could see her, the way she was stepping across the floor, the fabric of her dress sliding across the floor with a whisper of cloth, the sudden stepping just a bit closer than was normal. Something in him warned that this wasn't normal behavior for a noblewoman, another bit of him told the first to kindly shut up. But filling of his cup with a third helping of wine was an invitation, a moment to think her words with a moment of clarity.

She was bargaining as well as any merchant or lord. He had to give her credit for that.

But for all that she offered, it stuck still upon the matter of victory. Everything hinged upon it, and without the assurances of some chance of victory, it would be difficult to convince anyone to go to war. They could be a thorn in their enemy's side, they could needle and ambush and strike. But without true victory, against an enemy who's men and coin far outstripped their own- HER own... Gods above and devils below, he was already starting to think in terms of them. That was bad.

"For all that you offer, I would fight with you. But my fellows would not, and there is little reason for me to convince them otherwise. I am sorry, Lady Lysgard," He chose her maiden name, since she seemed disinterested in aligning herself with the Stolberg, "but lest you have something that would change anything further, you offer promises only possible through an unlikely victory. If your determination is only enough to take such things, then King's blessing or not, you face failure and death, when fleeing remains your best route... By your leave, milady, I'd best be on my way."

He placed the full cup of wine upon a side table, gave a small bow, then stepped towards the door, fist raised to pound upon the door in what he hoped would be a signal to open it. There was little else to discuss, now, and Dagen could recognize his own bleeding heart would get him into trouble if he didn't leave right now, lest he promise his support to a woman who was very clearly grasping at anything that could give her some edge in the coming conflict.

 

[pink_silk_glove]

"For all that you offer, I would fight with you."

The mercenary was courteous in listing his reasons, and Greta appreciated that. It was his life for her cause after all. Still, the hollowness in her chest obliged. It was unfortunate that Dagen was simply not seeing the tide turning with smaller victories. Instead he had tunnel vision for one felt swoop. He himself had mentioned Barons Gunhild and Draken. She had spoken with the latter just the week before right in that very room and the Baron had assured her that the only thing keeping him and Gunhild from her side publicly was a lack of solidarity amongst her allies and inevitably the fear of defeat. Certainly a show of force and a small victory would bring them around and even the score.

"By your leave, milady, I'd best be on my way."

Even the goblet filled, he set aside and moved for the door. Her approach wasn't working. It was too realistic, too subtle, too bland. He would not hear her out.

"Wait," she hushed fervidly as his fist poised to summon the key. A gust of the salty gale rattled the shutters to fill the silence. Greta swallowed and inhaled, gathering her nerves and letting the wine flow in her blood. Subtly, she moistened her lips. It was her last card to play.

Slowly, she stepped forward, an understated rock in her pelvis as she stopped before striding again. Continuing, she stepped with a deliberate rhythm, drawing closer until she was within arm's reach. Greta took him in, his weathered face, his strewn locks and drawn chin. She pictured his body beneath his armors, rangy, perhaps sculpted, perhaps scarred, and imagined how it might be like atop her, if that was what it would take. What would her honor matter? At some point all of the truth would emerge across the land and make her a scorned woman, a rejected wife. She had no honor left to lose, but to gain what was right. Her eyes narrowed, soft and wet.

"I'll lay with you," she proposed.

 

[WeaverofWorlds]

His hand had been poised to slam against the wood, the leather and chain of his arm jingling with the movement, when her words cut through the room. His fist had halted mere inches from completing its task, the words not quite registering for those few scant moments. Then it was the half turn, his attention returning to the noble, to the WOMAN, who had entreated his aid with offers of coin, land and title. Now she offered something both more and less, something far more personal than mere words. Still, for all that it was personal, Dagen couldn't quite bring himself to believe the offer had truly been given, at least until he took in her gaze, the way she held herself.

Gretchna von Lysgard Stolberg would do what she must, whatever was required, to see her resolution to its end.

His fist dropped to his side then, a deep breath that was let out as a sigh of exasperation. He knew, of course he knew, that to side with her would be near suicide, would be asking his men to follow him into a surely doomed endeavor. Yet for all that he found he couldn't bring himself to refuse her. Not now that she'd chosen to use herself in her own offer. If she had the resolve for that... perhaps, just maybe, she'd have the strength to see this through to its end, and strength enough to rally those who remained loyal. Still, his silence stretched into minutes as he looked not at her but at the implications of joining his men to her name, until finally...

"Land for the men of the Hounds. Knighthoods to those who earn them, myself included. I've no wish for the headache of a noble title. Gold to be paid to the men, the amount worthy of the tasks they are to perform, payable half up front, and half when our work is done. As for the last..."

He considered letting it go, truly he did. But her offer had drawn his attention passed the shield of her nobility, eyes to the subtle hints of her feminine form within her dress. As much as he might have some inkling of talking to nobles, he was still a mercenary and still a man. A chance with a woman like her, so far above the reach of a common man, was a chance that could hardly be passed up even as he felt the subtle guilt of even thinking of it. But guilt or not, he knew his answer before he'd even begun to consider it.

"Invite me, Lady Lysgard, when you feel I've done enough to earn your... favor..." He was struggling a bit with the wording, he wasn't sure how to nobles went about discussing such things, but he supposed she'd understand. anyhow.

"Is this agreeable to you, milady? Do the Hounds fight for House Lysgard once more?"

 

[pink_silk_glove]

His knocking fist paused mid air and eventually fell harmlessly away. As it did, she could not help her chest from visibly heaving in relief. Dagen's expression may have carried dismay, but the negotiations were still on, and at this point they'd gone farther than with any other. He listed his demands, land, knighthoods and gold. The land was easy enough, the titles even easier. The gold would depend on how much of it that the tasks were deemed worthy of. She was confident of full payment upon victory, but was still unsure about the half up front. She would have to make it happen, sell assets, call favors. His eyes took her in, her chest, her waist. He was appraising her body, thinking of bedding her, imagining every curve of her flesh. Prefatorily, her bones considered whether he would be tender or rough. The thought shook her somewhat but Greta was committed.

"Invite me, Lady Lysgard, when you feel I've done enough to earn your ... favor. Is this agreeable to you, milady? Do the Hounds fight for House Lysgard once more?"

"Most agreeable," she said softly. If he left now to collect her body later he might have changed his mind. Fearing the contract so close-at-hand slipping away, she spoke. "But do not leave so briskly," she said as she stepped closer once more, within a breath's reach. "There is much for plans and estimations forthwith," she hushed. "Half preceeding ... and half following." Then her soft fingers tugged gently at the ribbon of her bodice. "Although I suppose that I could give not half of myself," she blushed solemnly, her chin dipping in modesty. Greta's breast was slight but she would make the most of it. The end of the ribbon popped loose and the tension eased to allow her breasts to shape freely within the fabric.

 

[WeaverofWorlds]

She was both intimidating and enticing as she stepped closer, practically pressing herself against him but for the scant inches that separated them. He had nowhere to retreat, back to the door, the rattle of chainmail and blade evidence of the slight shifting of his body to meet her's. His eyes flicked to the slight movements of her hand, watched as the ribbon was tugged loose. He felt himself lick his own dry lips, almost detached from it in a strange sort of way as the woman before him flushed prettily, as her face dipped away from his, as the fabric of her dress loosened, somehow more suggestive than any common whore among the brothels and taverns he frequented when the mood struck him.

Whether she realized it or not, she had his full attention, any thought to retreat from the room vanishing swiftly.

"No, I suppose... I suppose you couldn't..."

He found himself in a strange position. He had accepted her contract, essentially binding himself and the Hounds to her cause and thusly making her their employer. Yet part of the payment was her body, a selfish and frankly selfish form of payment that he'd accepted. It left the relationship between the two a muddled mess, the dynamic ill defined. Desire warred with what passed for professionalism and honor, even as he felt his breathing quicken and his own heart hammering in his chest. Surely... surely she wouldn't offer herself so easily, without a thing done in her service? Or perhaps she thought him likely to leave, to renege on a deal struck. A slight flicker of annoyance, even sell-swords had their pride, but he couldn't bring himself to voice the complaint. Not with the scent of her, some fancy perfume no doubt, filled his senses and left him bewildered.

 

[pink_silk_glove]

The cutting wind rattled the shutters once more and the fire popped and flourished. His mail clinked and tinked with the slightest of his movements, armor made of metals that the smithy would have in abundance. Dagen's eyes took in her chest, measuring it, estimating it perhaps as a ground to be won, a conquest. They assessed its worth of taking, the risk involved.

"No, I suppose. I suppose you couldn't."

She stood terribly close as she awaited the warrior's elaboration, his next step. Still, he moved not. Greta knew what men wanted, flesh, softness, willingness, but she was not well versed in giving it. She had offered, showed the wares, but he was not taking. Her eyes flitted in a moment of hesitation, her lips quivered. Then she huffed softly and straightened herself, shoulders back, posture restored.

"Well then," she began. "What is our schedule? To fix an amount of gold, a plan must be sketched to calculate the expenses, not?" Placing her palm, delicate fingers, upon the door, she posed to him, eyes shimmering in the shadows. "Perhaps you consult your Hounds first, or do we draw something up right here on the table?" she gestured with her other hand to the heavy sideboard ornately crafted by the window. Her lace cuff swayed from her ivory wrist, her bodice remained loose, all with invite.

 

[WeaverofWorlds]

Surely she was doing as she did on purpose. One moment, offering of herself, the next, straight backed and purposeful, seemingly interested in mundane matters of coin and payment.. Or maybe he'd just missed some hidden meaning, lost within words and actions. Yet still she remained close, almost uncomfortably so, the smell of her perfumes continuing to befuddle logic and leave him uncertain. It was almost mocking in it's simplicity, she uncaring of the position she'd put herself in, unconcerned with the threat he might pose to her. The thought had him stir from his inaction, finally pushed into action if only to break the strange mask of poise that hung on the frame of his employer.

Dagen had little to go on but the fumblings of village girls or the touch of whores. If there was some manner the nobility went about making their intentions known, he couldn't speak to it, and honestly it doubtlessly wouldn't have suited him either way. He resorted then, to what he knew, the rough ways of a mercenary and hired sword. At least that might cease this muddled game, resolve the confusion that grasped at his thoughts. His movements were sudden, closing the scant distance between them easily, bending slightly even as a hand came up to grasp roughly at her waist and pull her up towards him. His lips crashed into hers in what could only be called a kiss by the most generous of souls, so rough was the action, brief as it was. Some part of him screamed alarms, that this was hardly the way to treat an employer, but the deal had been struck, and she offered of herself in some grand manner he couldn't grasp at fully.

Anything more would be difficult, the chainmail and leather and padding that covered his form making further actions unlikely. While he could work himself free of course, he'd long practice at it, it would be time consuming and hardly an appealing sight to wait for. With a bit of help the process was faster, though how'd he ask her help was another obstacle. Did he treat her as his employer at this moment, as the woman who offered herself in payment? Another hesitated moment of confusion, then the decision was made. He tried to put his usual steel into his voice, though to his ear he could hear the uncertainty even as he spoke gruffly.

"Help me out of this mail."

 

[pink_silk_glove]

He was staying, but the details of his intentions she was still in the process of discerning when he gathered her body and pulled it against his own. Greta swallowed quickly. The heavy metal of his armor pressed her with a weight that she did not expect. He was much taller and so his gruff embrace had lightened her feet for his lips to find hers. His mouth was rough and stubbled as it bristled on her skin and indulged in the moist of her soft lips.

"Help me out of this mail."

Greta's eyes scanned his face for a clue but he seemed to assume that she knew how. It was happening. She would honor the bargain. Although she had resigned to do it and even had long accepted that she might have to, the moment at hand caused her blood to rush. She set to it, tentatively taking his tunic by the shoulders and lifting and the weight of the chains swayed about him in her grasp. The armor shifted on his body but not only its bulk but the upward extension of her arms made it impossible. He was just too tall.

"Perhaps you should sit," she blushed and offered him a chair.

 

[WeaverofWorlds]

It was an oversight of his, he supposed. He had assumed, coming from a Lord's family, and being around warriors and knights, that she'd have some idea of how it all worked. Maybe even something of his time with the women he was used to was bleeding into his assumptions. It wouldn't be right of him to believe her the same as anyone else. She wasn't some lowborn. She was a Lysgard, a noble lady, and doubtlessly she'd not have been expected to learn the ways of arms and armor.

He huffed in annoyance, though it was directed at himself, and rather than immediately sit himself on the offered chair he worked the chain shirt himself. It was a bit more difficult on his own, but not impossible. The metal rattled and clinked as it's rings were pulled up and over his head, deposited haphazardly upon the floor with a heavy thud. The mercenary in him rebelled against that, one's equipment was the lifeblood of a warrior, but there wasn't a proper place to store it in the room, and certainly nowhere easy. That left only the leather beneath, cinched tight to mold to his body in order to provide some additional protection while sacrificing as little mobility as possible. Another thing he could remove on his own, given time, but this was much easier with a little help.

It was only then that he finally sat, made it easier for the Lady Lysgard to reach whatever and wherever she needed. It wasn't altogether strange to have a woman help him out of his armor. It was very strange for it to be a noble lady. He was only a mercenary after all. He couldn't bring himself to speak further, fearful perhaps of saying the wrong with, of letting words break whatever tenuous state the pair found themselves in. Perhaps she'd change her mind, perhaps she should change her mind, find some other promise to give.

 

[pink_silk_glove]

Off came his mail, clanking and chinking rather heavily to the floor. With a gruff expression, Dagen found the chair and relieved his bones. He sat in his leathers, creased and worn. Greta, feeling inadequate in her service so far, set to the task of unwrapping him. She tugged at the straps at his flank and unbuckled him, the sweaty warmth of his chest exposed. Leaning over him, her small breasts wiggled and tussled in their loosened bodice and strands of ringletted hair fell at her neck.

Oddly, the act of undressing actually calmed her nerves somewhat. It was a distraction from her intentions, not that she was at all unwilling, but just the profundity of the first time using her body in such a way.

With her small hands, she palmed his collar, but before moving to his chest she paused to take in the markings. She'd never really seen the receipts of warfare up close. His pecs were defined but not heavy and carried a scrape or two, but what stood out were the two wounds, pinkish and shinier than the rest of his flesh. One was below his right nipple, the other near the base of his left lung - punctures if she were to guess. They were long since healed. Catching herself dwelling, she continued on with a blush of shame for gawking, even if her arresting was subtle. Her hands smoothed down the front of him, through the light swath upon his sternum to caress his abs before working outwards to the edges until his padded leathers parted from his shoulders. She peered at him sheepishly in a moment of indecision.

 

[WeaverofWorlds]

He let her tug at the straps and buckles that held the inner leathers in place, felt them pull free under her grasp. He wasn't so blind as to not notice her initial clumsy attempts give way to something calmer, more sure of herself. He'd no way to tell, truly, what the reasons for that might be, but he waited patiently as the leather was loosened from his frame, eventually exposing his torso to the naked air. Some small measure of self consciousness, the recognition that he was probably far from what she was used to, but it was quashed under the steady assurance that she had chosen her path forward.

Perhaps it was the attention he was paying her, but Dagen noted her slight pause, his gaze following her own to the marks that marred his skin. Old scars, wounds earned on the field of battle. Some called such things badges of honor. He thought of them as symbols of just how close he'd come to death. Both had resulted in days of fever, clinging to life by a thread, seen to by men who barely knew enough about medicine to manage making foul smelling concoction and pastes. He's managed to survive all the same. Just another mercenary among many, and one of those fortunate to survive just a little longer.

He was shaken from his small reverie by another pause in her movements, catching her gaze falling on him. She seemed almost uncertain, though he couldn't tell if it was because she was second guessing her decision or seeking some sort of direction regarding what to do next. He decided to help a little, leaning down in his seat to begin working on the straps that held his toughed leather boots in place. If she were to take over, he would allow it, if not, he'd have them off soon enough.

 

[pink_silk_glove]

Greta was taken aback somewhat as he leaned forward, but regained calm when he reached down to unwrap his boots. As he undid one, she fluffed out her skirts and lowered to her knees to coax the other from the end of his leg. His feet were sweaty with only a slight rankness that feet can have. They were pale and long with a fairly high arch. A couple of toes were bent and a nail or two were cracked.

Deciding to get on with it, she raised herself up on her knees, her modest bosom shifting loosely above his lap, and unstrapped his belt. His leather breeches loosened and she tugged at the waist, peering up at him for help to lift his bottom from the seat.