[Kransha]

Osric was, as usually, pleasantly surprised by the sudden, but delightful appearance of Maercwen at the table he’d forded his way to with his nephew trailing behind. With a youthful spark in his eye, he looked up at her and bowed his head politely. “And it is good to see you, Lady Maercwen.” Slowly, his eyes still twinkling in a more ominous, but devilish fashion, Osric’s white-haired head turned to Sigurd. He prompted the youth to stand and make the proper acknowledgements with a curt and concealed gesture, waving his wrinkled hand beneath the armored hanging’s of its sleeve, but allowing the gesture to remain unnoticed by all but Sigurd himself, who glanced at it begrudgingly. “Allow me to introduce you to my nephew, Sigurd, son of Sigmund.”

Sigurd obeyed, with less than his usual reluctance. He stood from his chair almost swiftly enough to send it up from the floor, standing just a short length taller than Maercwen, and bowed, his head remaining up as he overlooked the girl, puzzling for a moment before he rose to his full height (which, incidentally, was not very great at all), and spoke softly and humbly. “Hello…umm…” he paused, his voice flickering in his throat as he stumbled for the name he’d just heard, which had gone unrecorded, “what was that name again?”

“Maercwen,” she replied, curtsying prettily, with her familiar vivacious dignity which caused Osric to grin and Sigurd to smile openly, “but many simply call me Mae.”

“I see…” again, Sigurd’s voice got no farther than a rumbling noise in his throat as he considered. At last, staggered words managed to empty out, though they had not been properly premeditated, “that is…a very nice name.” His eyes seemed immobile, fixed somewhat rudely on Maercwen’s picturesque face. If his mind had not been temporarily clouded by other thoughts, he might’ve been gratified that she didn’t comment about how rude his slack-jawed staring was. He felt, at the moment, a feeling he was surprisingly used to, and accustomed to, and was not remotely startled by its occurrence of sudden uprising, but the fact that this pang was commonplace had gone from him as he tried in vain to blink.

Osric had been awaiting the statement, or it seemed that he had, and coughed very loudly, a gruff noise which very much distracted his young nephew. Sigurd’s legs tried to propel him sideways to face his uncle, but his upper half remained staunchly in place. Osric continued, though, catching his nephew’s attention more fully. “Sigurd,” he began, his conservative voice bordering on a reasonless urgency, “maybe you should try to locate Aylwen or Bethberry. I'm sure there are many here who you would be happy to meet and speak with.”

“I don’t know their faces as well as you, uncle.” Replied Sigurd calmly, his eyes narrowing as he spoke, “Perhaps Maercwen…” he paused again, shooting a nervous glance back at her, “Mae, could escort me to them, since I do not know the grounds well. That would give you a chance to rest here.” He turned back to her, keeping an exact half of his gaze on his uncle, who looked, for some reason which probably didn’t escape him, like he did not approve of the situation. Finally, after what seemed like a longer time than it was, Osric took a deep breath and spoke. “If Maercwen agrees, though she may have other business to attend to in the inn. In the case that she cannot, you could do the task yourself.”

“Yes, yes, right.” Sigurd stuttered weakly, turning back to Maercwen with a very mild, near unnoticeable tint of red lingering idly beneath his blue eyes, “I have been told you know this inn well, at least by my uncle here, who is usually honest. Would you be so kind as to give me a brief tour?”