Righting Things (Braeldia) [May 3010]
Nov 6, 2018 16:04:06 GMT -5
Post by Wynfled on Nov 6, 2018 16:04:06 GMT -5
For a moment Wynfled regretted her tongue; she had not mean to lay insult upon the woman, calling her clumsy, and if she would repeat such statements to Lord Eomer, Wynfled had no hope. No hope of what? Well… she simply did not know. She simply wished to be well thought of… there were enough things in Wynfled’s life which did not need be… aired to the public.
“Perhaps I can help you a great deal on your… graces,” she forced out sweetly.
A head cocked to the side to look upon Braeldia, and Wynfled tried not to wrinkle her nose. Social graces. Physical graces. The poor girl needed a great deal of help, though Wynfled realized that her home could be in a constant state of windstorm if she allowed the girl in too often.
The woman clenched her jaw lightly at the speak of training with the sword, a shiver running through her body only exacerbated by the cold water of her clinging dress. “Ugh...” she pulled at the wet fabric stuck to her legs. She did not even know how she was going to walk all the way back to her home dressed like that, and then:
“Oh, Wynnie, what happened?!”
Wynfled gasped as jogging down the street there came the red headed fool of her husband, his russet curls flapping behind him and his clean shaven face set in worry.
“You fell in the river?” he asked, worried. He knew full well that his wife was not one to go swimming.
“Bjarr, speak nothing of it,” Wynfled gave a light snip at her husband, and his mouth closed for a moment before he added thoughtfully. Wynfled’s look warned him that his ought not to become too witty for her state.
“Here, let me take the bucket,” Bjarr stated instead of any more sign of outward worry. He grasped the pail of water in hand his wife released it to him with a heaved sigh, and set to trying to adjust her skirts again. Bjarr glanced toward Braeldia, moving to relieve her of one of her buckets as well.
“Three bu-” Bjarr began.
“One is Lady Agathe’s,” Wynfled hissed, quickening her pace toward their home at the thought of Agathe. Heaven’s, should they be seen like this on the street by anyone else, and if Agathe were to run her mouth. She needed to make herself decent.
“Swiftly, Braeldia!” Wynfled declared, rushing forward down the path with a briskness to her step, her voice almost as one calling after a child.
“Perhaps I can help you a great deal on your… graces,” she forced out sweetly.
A head cocked to the side to look upon Braeldia, and Wynfled tried not to wrinkle her nose. Social graces. Physical graces. The poor girl needed a great deal of help, though Wynfled realized that her home could be in a constant state of windstorm if she allowed the girl in too often.
The woman clenched her jaw lightly at the speak of training with the sword, a shiver running through her body only exacerbated by the cold water of her clinging dress. “Ugh...” she pulled at the wet fabric stuck to her legs. She did not even know how she was going to walk all the way back to her home dressed like that, and then:
“Oh, Wynnie, what happened?!”
Wynfled gasped as jogging down the street there came the red headed fool of her husband, his russet curls flapping behind him and his clean shaven face set in worry.
“You fell in the river?” he asked, worried. He knew full well that his wife was not one to go swimming.
“Bjarr, speak nothing of it,” Wynfled gave a light snip at her husband, and his mouth closed for a moment before he added thoughtfully. Wynfled’s look warned him that his ought not to become too witty for her state.
“Here, let me take the bucket,” Bjarr stated instead of any more sign of outward worry. He grasped the pail of water in hand his wife released it to him with a heaved sigh, and set to trying to adjust her skirts again. Bjarr glanced toward Braeldia, moving to relieve her of one of her buckets as well.
“Three bu-” Bjarr began.
“One is Lady Agathe’s,” Wynfled hissed, quickening her pace toward their home at the thought of Agathe. Heaven’s, should they be seen like this on the street by anyone else, and if Agathe were to run her mouth. She needed to make herself decent.
“Swiftly, Braeldia!” Wynfled declared, rushing forward down the path with a briskness to her step, her voice almost as one calling after a child.