She had ridden hard enough that when she got down from her horse, she felt as though her thighs were blocks of wood. Impossible as it seemed to move, she managed to walk (and this she did with stubborn pride) over to one of the picnic blankets where other ladies sat and join them. Some of them mentioned her riding skill with a marveled, "Lady, you rode as fast and as hard as a man! You must have had tremendous tutors as a child."

Others added their opinions a bit tersely with a short refrain of, "Riding as such isn't suitable for a lady. What if she had passed the king even on accident? What if the horse had slipped from under her?"

To the women so angered at her riding, Niamh rewarded them with a cold, almost frosty, look even as she picked a meat pie and bit into it without blowing on it first. One lady, who had watched Niamh do so, put her hand to her mouth in surprise, waiting for the scream that would erupt when Niamh realized just how hot the food was.

If she was disappointed at Niamh's slighty pained expression that was quickly hid, she didn't show it. Meanwhile, on the inside, Niamh was, actually, screaming. The meat inside the pie and all it's juices were so hot it felt as though it burned her tongue. Mentally, she flailed and kicked though outwardly she looked as calm as ever, her dark eyes roaming.

The meat and it's juice finally managed itself to be swallowed and Niamh hastily reached for a drink of wine. The liquid seemed frosty and soothing in comparison and the lady McNamara managed to drink more than a few swallows before she put it down. Listening to the ladies' chattering, Niamh spied Lady Argyle moving out of the circle and being met by a gentlemen. Lord Darien Lawley, it seemed.

Eyes narrowed, Niamh watched the two disappear, at different times, and then returned to the conversation though her eyes constantly moved to survey those around her. Finally, she saw him, the person she had been looking for this whole time. The General Laurent.

Standing and fixing her skirts, the meat pie was left forgotten upon the blanket as she made her way across the assorted picnics to greet the general. After reading some papers of wars and their tactics and strategies, Niamh was eager to talk to the man and get a grasp of his character. This eagerness didn't show in her body movements but rather, in the dark irises that matched her pupils so readily. Within their depths, a flame seemed to emerge, bright and bold and daring.

"Excuse me, milord," Niamh said and curtsied to befit a man of his station before standing back up again. Her eyes, as usual, didn't leave his as she spoke or curtsied, but remained latched on his own. "I wanted to congratulate you on your killing of the great stag. It was a great honor, I suspect, for you."

The general watched as the nobles sprawled across the ground and moved in and out of the trees, a patchwork of color on a green field. Most sat on the ground, talking or eating or some combination of the two. Indeed quite a spread had been laid out by the servants while the more privileged were out galloping through the woods after the stag. The animal certainly had a lot of fight in it, providing a more enjoyable chase than Laurent would have assumed. He was glad that he had been roused from his study and forced to join the hunters, the hunt proved much more enjoyable than a day of study in a dim room. Especially since he had been the one to kill the beast. While the general didn't consider himself sadistic nor did he send men to battle with great pleasure he found it immensely rewarding to come out on top in a competition with not only nature but with other humans as well. And today the general had certainly come out on top.

Laurent stood with his back to a tree as he cut out nearly perfect slices from an apple. While the general knew very little of horticulture he was nearly sure that the apple was out of season but it still tasted fresh and juice sprayed with each incision of his dagger. No doubt the king had spared no expenses to feed the nobles. The same amount of coin could have undoubtedly feed the same number of soldiers for a month, if not longer. But the general knew such extravagances were needed and expected to subdue the nobles, but the price never rested well with him. But such matters of politics were not the generals area of expertise by any measure. Besides Laurent clandestinely enjoyed being pampered as much as the next person. He would just complain about it more.

The general took a sip from his wine skin, something he had only done a few times that day, as he continued to watch the assemblage take place. The wine was warm and strong, not at all suited for the warm day. A cool carafe of water or something sweet would be more pleasing for most but the general saw nothing offensive in his drink. He also saw nothing offensive about the young women approaching him either.

She was small even for a woman and the general was at least a head taller than her. The young lady looked no older than nineteen and was rather slightly built. All in all she had a rather unintimidating appearance.
But her eyes seemed to make up some of the ferocity the rest of her lacked. They were almost completely black and showed unexpected intensity, especially in such a petite girl. The eyes looked liked they belonged in the face of a Baskar warrior rather than the unassuming noble woman.

Laurent greeted her curtsy with a bow and tried to put a name to her face as he again stood straight. He might have seen her around the keep before, or perhaps somewhere at the hunt. That's when the general remembered seeing her race close behind the front runners. So the girl was a skilled rider, perhaps she would not be as dull as so many young noblewomen seemed. "Thank you, it was certainly was. It was very kind of his majesty for giving me the opportunity to do so. Were you close enough to see the end?" He didn't want to use the word kill for fear of upsetting the woman. After all she was part of the gentler sex.

This close to him, she studied his countence as best as possible. He wasn't too much taller than her, a surprise since most people were tall enough that she had to tilt her head back at an uncomfortable degree. His face seemed marked randomly with scars (she wondered if it was from barbarians) and rather than being built with massive amounts of muscle as most soldiers and generals wear, she found him more on the lean side so that he might sit lighter upon a horse.

All this met with approval in her eyes those it didn't quite register on her face as she watched him speak with her. Niamh noted his way of skirting around the word "kill." Amused, Niamh found a small smile twitch into her lips and the light in her eyes flared a moment until it resumed it's strange brightness in such a dark frame.

"Indeed, I was, General," she replied, "It was quite exciting for a sheltered lady such as myself to behold the true majesty of the hunt. Though, to be honest, I enjoyed the chase more than the actual acquiring of the stag. All that blood..." She made a face and then explained, "Blood itself doesn't bother me but the sound that the stag made upon the strike. That...was disturbing. I don't think I was quite prepared for what was to come."

She surveyed the area around them with her dark eyes before she asked, "Tell me, what was your favorite part of the hunt, general? Mine was the chase if only because it meant I could ride at my leisure with my father glaring behind me." The small smile that had fled from her features previously returned again but this time it was full and flavored with outright humor. She found her father's frustration to be amusing if only because it had always given her a sense of pleasure to do something that got under his skin. The fact remained that father and daughter never got along. She wasn't bowing to his whims, and he wasn't willing to give up.

The fact that Anrai wasn't happy with his daughter's almost blatant disrespect for his orders was obvious to everyone at the picnic. He glared at her, refused to speak with her and, when asked about her, changed the subject completely or allowed just a cursory comment on her unruly behavior. Perhaps it was, to him, unruly, but to Niamh it was a small taste of freedom that gave her hunger for a life with neither husband nor father holding anything over her.

And one day, she reaffirmed, I'll have it.

"Oh, I'm sorry," she said, suddenly remembering that though she knew who he was, he had no idea about her, "I forgot to say that I am Lady Niamh McNamara. It's a honor, milord, truly." Her manner hardly seemed subdued in the least. Instead, all she appeared to be was much more proud of the fact of who she was and the fact that she was a woman that had the chance to speak with great men. It was what she wanted, though she wished also for that which would make sure she never had to be looked down upon for the fact she could never make a life by herself as well.

The general was uneasy with the fact that the girl had been in attendance at the end of the hunt. Of course he was proud of his accomplishment as any man would be. Perhaps slightly more proud than the average man. The stag was certainly a worthy prize but the message the king had sent with granting the general the finale blow was almost as satisfying. Now the king would lose face if he went back on his plans for war, and Aedan was not one who liked to be made a fool of. Countless times in history declarations of war had been written in blood, this time the only difference was the type of blood. If all went well soon deer's blood wouldn't be the only testament to war.

While Laurent would have favored peace over war the constant raids by the Baskar had shown how much they valued peace. He had no intention of letting raids go unpunished. Once the general left for the border with the prince he would send a message to the Baskar if the raids continued. For every dead Thiasian one of the barbarians would be slain and another captured. Perhaps they could be used as bait, luring a would be rescue party into a narrow valley where the Thiasians would be waiting to strike. In regular circumstances such actions might make his stomach curdle, but the Baskar demanded a fight and a fight they would receive.

"I tried to make its end as silent and humane as possible but unfortunately it did put up some fight. If the sight offended you so perhaps you shouldn't wittiness the end of the hunt in the future, most finales are needlessly violent." He tried to make his last remark sound more caring and concerned than condescending. It was by no means the girls fault that she was not used to such spectacles of violence and it was understandable she found it upsetting. Many young children grew up with a romantic view of death only to have it shattered by reality. All to often Laurent had witnessed this awakening take place on the field of battle. But the truth was that the general had regarded the stags death as remarkably clean, which either spoke of the girls lack of experience or his over abundance of it.

The general had to chuckle at the girl's remarks, she certainly seemed clever enough. "Would you think terribly ill of me if I told you it was the end? Not necessarily the violent part but just the feeling of accomplishment and the influx of energy, not to mention the relaxation afterwards." In emphasis of his last statement The general sliced another piece from his apple, skewered it on the end of his knife and then did the same to another.

He bowed his head slightly as the girl introduced herself formally. He found himself respecting the girl more and more after every interaction. She was honest, held herself with pride, had at least some wit and spoke well. If the king's hands weren't tied behind his back in his marriage with the Scalian noble the general would have to have suggested Lady Niamh McNamara as a person of interest. But with the ever changing landscape of politics perhaps some twist of fate would remove the girl the general knew little of and allow room for his new acquaintance. With that in mind he held the apple laden dagger out to the young lady "Apple?"

She nodded in understanding when he told her about the sense of accomplishment and the burst of energy from it. She herself was searching for the same thing and could only imagine, after a great race to find the stag as that that the man before her had felt on the apex of the world to have such a fulfillment. "I do understand," she said during her nod, "I hope to feel that feeling myself once more. I used to get it constantly, when I had my tutors still and my lessons. I get it whenever I finish an epic poem or a massive book. Sometimes," she laughed at this, "I even get it when I finish a scrap of needlepoint for those occasions are rare indeed for someone like me. I have no patience for it, I admit." Her cheeks colored slightly at the admission. How womanly would that make her seem? She thought not very much but the general might find it more admirable, perhaps more respectful, that she was being entirely honest with him.

She did hate needlework for a fact. It took too much time, too little effort, and the results weren't even that great once achieved. Niamh had never felt any glory from finishing a tiny sampler even if her mother exclaimed over how pretty and tiny her stitches were.

As if it mattered in the grand scheme of things.

"I suppose then that from now on I shall run behind the king but, when hearing the stag so close, drop behind so as not to find further horror awaiting me," she said, her black eyes sparkling as she spoke. Would she do that later? Maybe, perhaps. She couldn't see herself backing away from it after following so close but Siobhan could decide that she didn't want to see it either and back off. "To be honest, I'm not sure if I can. To come so close to the end of something and not reach it. I think it might tear me up inside," she admitted.

At the sight of the apple being offered to her, she took it gently from his grasp, being sure to grab the handle instead of the blade as some ignorant ladies might. "You know," she said, playfully, "in some countries, giving a woman an apple, especially a green one, is a sign of love. Be careful who you give your apples to, general. You might find yourself swamped with new admirers. Not myself, of course, I realize it is simply food in this context, but some other silly lady, full of strange dreams of marrying a man of war." There was laughter in her voice, though she did not break out into her bold laugh in the least. But it swam through her words, a fish in a fast current, present for certain if you knew that it was there.

"So tell me," she began, "what will you do once the war is over? Are you returning home or shall you stay beside the king and tend to that which he calls you?" Her curiosity was killing her, certain as if the general were driving a knife between her ribs.

Laurent was glad the girl hadn't branded him a monster on his admittance to enjoying his blood lust. If she had ran off he wasn't sure he would have been able to blame her. Anyone who could find a positive emotion when ending the life of such a noble creature might deserve being called a monster. The general was aware of how other people regarded violence, he would have to be deaf to not be aware. Every once in a while an idealist at court would approach him and tell him the error in his ways. These petitions were some of the few he actually listened to although his answer was always the same. While the fact that the dissolution of the Thiasian military would spell doom for the nation at large, whether at the hands of the barbarians or the Scalians is irrelevant, was always a sound reason for continuing his profession the general was not entirely confident that he would be happy without an army to command, a battle to fight, or an enemy to kill. Such a thought did little to assure him that he was not the monster radicals made people like him out to be.

"Ah, a reader are you? It's always terribly refreshing to find someone so young interested in literature. I truly regret I rarely have time to read these days." By these days he was referring to the last five years of his life. The military life left little room for hobbies and pastimes, especially if one was as devoted as the general. Laurent had learned to turn his expected military duties into new hobbies and pastimes. He wrote strategy with the same enjoyment some might show when playing an instrument. He ordered men around with the kind of relaxation some might get from gardening. He had the same feeling of accomplishment when carrying out a successful campaign that others got from solving a riddle or a puzzle. All in all Laurent had replaced pleasure with work and did his best to get whatever happiness he could out of it.

"I can hardly blame you. If I was expected to do any thing with a needle I'd most likely prick my fingers till I stained the fabric." What he didn't mention was that he knew how the cloth would feel having a needle pushed through it. More than once a barbarian had cut a hole in the general's skin, a hole that was stitched up like it was old furniture, ripped here and there but still salvageable. The furniture probably didn't feel the needle though.

"Well you most do what you must, but perhaps if you know what to expect the sight of it won't be so shocking. You could always look away at the last second before the blow. You may even get used to the sight after enough times." Laurent, having never had any problems with gore before, did his best to be helpful but he could hardly begin to put himself in her shoes. Perhaps she would be best asking someone more faint of heart.

"Then I should be careful who I share my meals with shouldn't I?" The general answered with the same light tone. "I'd imagine in those countries that apple farmers must have a great many sweethearts." He joked with the girl as he himself had a piece of the fruit. "I'll never understand why anyone respectable lady would want to wed to a man gone for long times and always returning home with scars. But perhaps there is something I'm missing."

Now the general became more serious as the conversation turned to a heavier topic, although it still stayed as light as expected. "After the war I will stay in the service of king Aedan until I am no longer needed. Perhaps depending on when that is I will go to Scalia and ply my trade there." Truth be told Laurent had given many hours of though into what he would do after the war. Managing an army for the sake of it had no appeal to him and if the Baskar stayed subjugated his military skills would no longer be needed. While the poets and free thinkers of court would celebrate an end to war all it would mean for Laurent would be unemployment.

"A reader I am," she replied, a hint of pride in her voice. Her chin lifted slightly above normal, underlining her natural joy in being one of the few women able to read, write, and enjoy it as well. She was reminded of her sister Aoife then. Aoife who hated reading and failed their lessons only to succeed in all matters of beautifying herself. It was girls like Aoife that made Niamh unhappy to be a woman. If men assumed that all women were only interested in sewing, gossip, and fashion, they were in for a rude awakening upon meeting Lady Niamh. She simply wasn't the type and was far more interested in other things.

"I daresay, my tutors almost wished to murder me for all my curiosity on the subject. It wasn't my fault they never gave me all the information I wanted. Tell me, general, what books do you read? Have you ever read..." she paused, trying to think of the title of the novella even though she could see the whole plot playing out in her mind right then and there. "'The Night the Stars Turned Black'?" She smiled, pleased that she had remembered when she had read it but three years ago in a moment of intense boredom. It was nothing that a little book with elegant script and beautiful, flowing words couldn't fix. The poetry was witty, enlightening, and lovely. Ever since she had read it, she kept a copy of it with her. Although, granted, she hadn't had time to look at it since then. It lay now within her rooms at the Keep, underneath her pillow where none would find it but she. It was one of many books that she kept with her at all times and it was one that she meant to lend to the prince. Swordplay, romance, adventure, humor and, of course, a battle of good against evil all in one tiny book, written in prose poetry. It was an epic that lasted her days of delicious thought and imagining. She wondered now if she was the only one here to have tasted that succulent fruit of knowledge and partaken in it joyfully.

She laughed at the thought of the general attempted to embroider anything. The mere thought of a man bent over a frail needle when he was obviously not so frail himself amused her deeply and her eyes lit up at the idea. "Indeed!" she said, undercurrents of laughter in her voice, "It is a sight I would pay to see, milord, perhaps you could do that when the battles are over! Sew for the masses! A more humorous sight it would be were we both to sit before them, nursing our poor battered fingers to health and sporting spotted clothes with the most tedious embroidery upon it. Why, we'd be rich in but a month's time from the amount of customers and money we'd get from paying people to see us. My father would be one of the spectactors, no doubt." She looked out over the crowd to see her father almost a hundred feet away or so. He was staring at her with shock and horror as she spoke to the general without fear. What was she doing? Was she trying to ruin all their hard wrought plans? By God, the girl was being sure she would never marry at this rate! What a burden upon his family! What had he done against Christ and God to warrant such an impetuous girl child?

"I shall have to grow used to it then," she answered about the hunt and blood sport. "I refuse to back from the end just because I feel queasy, milord. That is not, if I remember correctly, how battles are fought and won. I refuse to lose." There was something in her voice, a hint of steel, that warned anyone listening that it was true. Despite her tiny frame that seemed almost frail with it's deathly pale skin, Niamh's eyes were fire and showed her inner strength in a way her physical body could not. Mentally, she was just as fit as the man before her who was trained to strengthen whatever part of him he could. She would prove it if she had to as well.

Taking hint from his attempt at humor, she smiled again, pleased that he was playing along with her statement on green apples and green hearts. "Yes, I fear you shall. And farmers are perhaps the wealthiest people when it comes to love. I fear it is those who hold monetary wealth...now those are people who barely ever marry for love and if they do, it is a great shock to both those who are now married and those looking out on the marriage. Can you imagine a king who actually loves his wife? I have never heard of one in all of Christendom, milord, and if he does love her truly, it is after she has proven her mettle in childbirth by producing a child of similiar gender to himself and even then...love is not certain and I fear it never shall be."

She looked at him as he spoke of how a woman could ever want him. For once, the curiosity died and certainty seemed to sink into the depths of her black eyes. "Milord, if I may be so bold, it may be that those women like men of action. Men who are gone long enough that it feels as though they are not married at all and are free as birds instead. Perhaps it is because they are truly attracted to you and will fight off any despair when it comes to possibly not seeing you again. Instead, they instill themselves with hope, bright and true as any ray of sunshine. These women are stronger than anyone knows for they find light in darkness, strength in weakness. They bring themselves unguarded to those who must always be on guard." She was so grave as she spoke this that one could only assume she was saying it as a fact. In truth, it was mere speculation for she had never really thought of it before. At this point, she could but assume the reasons why. Suddenly, she smiled, "Or maybe they just like the sight of scars, proof of their husband's valiant deeds on the battlefield! I suspect there must be some pride in being a soldier or a general's wife."

Her smile almost made her breathtaking. Almost made her beautiful instead of merely pretty. And then whatever element that nearly made her beautiful died out and she went back to being simply Niamh again, speculating on soldiers' wives and their thoughts.

"You'll become a mercenary then?" she asked, frowning. "It seems...Should not the king provide for you somehow? That you might stay here? You are proving your loyalty unto death through this. Despite your rank, you are just as susceptable to enemy arrows and blades. He knows this and I'm sure he will reward you upon your safe return from the battle field." For a moment, she looked calm and confident. "And you will come back. Of that I have no doubt. You're too good a man and too faithful a servant of the king to not do so."

"You could always go to politics. Think of the many warrior kings of the past that have become just plain kings upon attaining victory. If you have such an ability to plan strategies for years on end for victory and the ability to lead men so easily even under the most stressful of situations, it would seem to me that the realm of politics would be an easy task for you. You might protect the king politically against his enemies. Or would politics be boring for you?" She was curious again. If anything, she was a cat waiting to be killed. It was simply a matter of time, it seemed, before her quest for anwers found her cold and lifeless.