Evening light starts to fade away, surrounding the castle in the dusky damp that is Wales in the fall. The gardens have fewer passers by going around their foot paths as a rule. And the castle itself is closed for visitors proper. None of these elements, however, seem to have kept Gwendolyn Meyrick at bay today, for she arrived near morning light and has been painting away in various locations in the garden and on the grounds throughout the day. Only briefly stopping to change locations, have her boxed lunch, and switch out pages on her easel.
     But, with the light faded enough that she is no longer able to continue on the piece she was engaged in, she is forced to pack up her paints and pens and begin to return home for the evening. First it seems she is going to stop at the castle itself and drop in something on the residents there, though. Knocking politely on the door and glancing around the eaves at the carvings and architecture as she waits.

     How do his evenings go...
     (which is nothing like: how does his garden grow, different poem...)
     First, there's the obligatory bowing to the mighty power of Mithras' curse, he shuts his eyes right at the first pink of sunrise. Then he sleeps like the dead, only he isn't dead, he just can't move -- most often he dreams and rides a bloody horse on the plains of Tir Na Nog and beats back the nine-headed-chaos beasts that dwell in That Other Universe. And then he wakes up to a beautiful woman from Scandinavia with copper hair and pink chiffon just as soon as the sun sets. Upon the very minute that the yellow star sinks below the horizon, sending the Western Hemisphere all pinking and bronze. As evening's light is fading away, he's finished with the ritual shower, the tripping over the dogs, the cursing in colorful Welsh, and dressing in a smart outfit laid out the night before by a woman who knows better.
     When the door knocks, all that sounds after is the scritch and scratch of corgi toenails, the tromping of eight paws, and the hell-raising caterwaul of Bwci and Rhyddid.
     In the Autumn, the staff gets cut in half, some on extended leave until Christmas, when they're needed again to tend all the relatives of Llywelyn, Herbert and Clive. Right now, though? It's him, Sandrine, two corgies, a handful of kitchen and room staff and two very tired gardeners. "I got it!" comes the bellow in Welsh, followed by a jog of Welshman's feet.
     When the door opens, out looks Davydd ap Owain, called Llywelyn, lord of the manor, red-faced from running downstairs from his room, down the long hall, past the yipping dogs, nearly tripping again, dressed very smartly in a thin black jumper made just for him over grey woolen trousers. "Oh... hey..." he says, a smile tilting as he recognizes the artist again. "Shh! Boyos," he rumbles at the dogs. "Go somewhere, lads... hello," he says to Wendy again with a great exhales.

     There's a brilliant smile of her own when the dogs are heard scratching on the other side of the door, and in fact the young woman sets down some of her this day more considerable baggage to lean down and play scratching back with them on the other side. Which makes for awkwardness when the door is opened by the man of the house.
     Laughing lightly at the near topple forward she takes and the onset of the corgies, she manages to get out, "Cyflychwyr," before standing up again. Evening indeed. Still bedecked in her motley coloured wool cap, she's added a slicker to the ensemble today which doesn't quite cover up the fact that despite the number of hues to select from, her jumper still doesn't quite make a 'match' to the hat. But, on the other hand, she seems warm enough despite being outside all day.
     "Hope I'm not interrupting, I just wanted to drop off something while I was up here."

     He's a gentleman, so a hand came out to steady her, but in the end wasn't required. Fiery eyebrows cock up, a look of genuine surprise and then Davydd smiles, "Bah, no... not at all. What's to interrupt. It's Wales," he chuckles at that notion, then opens the door wider, "...come into the hall at least, looks a bit misty..." He pauses, looking over and past you and whistling shrilly to the corgies. "Do your business, lads, and stop muckin' about. They've been impossible today. You'd think it was spring. I'm not sure we're all going to live through the winter," he winks.
     Davydd steps out of the way to let you in, holding the door open as he does so. The entry hall is wide, not particularly warm (marble's hell to heat and the space is enormous). But what it lacks in actual warmth it makes up for in that same congeniality of before. It's a home, this.
     "So, what's it?" the thing you have to drop off. Shoulder's given to the door and his arms fold against his chest, partially to keep in the warmth.

     Baggage is collected once again and brought inside the door, though not far. "Well, never know." Glancing around briefly again Wendy smiles, "Thanks." A hand goes up to tug on the hat and another tucks in a curl before she hunches down a bit to open up the portfolio she brought with her this time, which is a new addition to the last.
     "I finished that bit of the garden, so I thought I'd pop it in." She turns through a couple of pages, which seem to be the total of the contents of the well-used leather. Most likely just the day's projects.
     "Oh, and some cards. I filched a set from the tea room on my way out." Since she's their originator, she doesn't seem to feel too bad about that, certainly. "Here we are."
      She pulls out a substantial piece of heavy water colour paper, a little larger than 28 x 43 cm with it's rough edges making the measurements uneven. Offering it over to the lord of the manor after standing up again, she moves to get the cards out of a pocket.
     The composition of the piece is beautiful even in its mortal guise. More of the castle than of the garden, the pen and ink sketches in a lined contrast to the watercolor that covers it in a blurry mottle of shades. Stone grey, the remaining greens that fight the oncoming winter, the plants which haven't quite managed to be so stalwart, all made beautiful and lively on the page.
     To fae eyes, however...
     The image is alive. Flowers bloom in the subtle turns of the colours, glowing as a translucent layer over the surface. The castle glows, imbued with life and magic. One could imagine it spiraling majestically over and above the edge of the mind's eye as it views the page. Paths twinkle off to more potential beauty. It is, in a word, Arcadia.
     But Wendy doesn't seem to know it.

     Green eyes peep up past the edge of the paper as he holds it before him. Red eyebrows cock up, both at once -- he can only sometimes do one at a time, and usually only does so when Lowe is around to see it -- and Davydd murrs, "Nice work," with the trilling R's and rolling consonants and vowels that is Welsh.
      "So," he starts out, "...where did you learn to .... do this, art, I mean." Yeah, that's it, art. Not the fact that the ruddy art is alive, mind you. "It's really very ...lovely. You seem to be able to...capture the spirit of a place." Davydd looks up from the picture to the artist again.
     Who are you, really?
     "I'd like to pay you something for it, I mean... I know about hospitality and all, but... it's ...really very lovely." And really very real. As it appears in the world. A world. One of them. The Oak King doesn't look like he's going to take no for an answer. "And for the cards, too."

     "Thanks." Wendy says with a smile to the remarks on her work. Though she does seem to notice that there's an oddness about the appraisal, though genuine.
     "Practice, mostly. I've always been sketching things. My mother says one day I was scribbling with waxes and the next day I'd drawn a picture of the cat." She shrugs a bit, "I just... draw. Can't seem to do anything but sometimes."
     She arches an eyebrow, "Really, you needn't, I do one for everyone whose places I draw. So they have one for their own. Yours is a little larger than some, but since I'm doing more, it only seemed to balance."
     "Likewise you should've seen what I came up with after those scones your lady made up. Boggled me."

     His lips twitch with a secretive smile. Scones made with the touch of inspiration, with honey as the conduit of such energy, can do that. God knows, they do it to him. Davydd's attention drifts from the picture to the artist and he nods. Those are terms he can accept. "That's more than reasonable. It'll have an honored spot at Powis Castle," second castle to the right, as he calls it.
     "Maybe one day you'll bring by the scone-inspired drawings," he laughs out. "I'd like to see that. And I'm sure it would tickle her to know her honey cakes had such effect." Twinkling Welsh eyes glimmer with another wink. Winks and quick smiles seem to be his thing.
     Davydd cranes his neck to look past you again and to the dogs in the yard. Very suspiciously quiet they're being! You can see he doesn't trust it.

     She nods at the mention of bringing up the sconer drawings, "One of them isn't done yet, which is odd in itself. Normally I finish up in a sit." She hands over the cards that she fished out of the other pocket of her portfolio before leaning down to zip it closed again.
     Bound with a ribbon, these aren't anywhere near as lively as the original in your hands, but as prints instead of paintings, that might be expected. They still have a definitive glow about them, though it's not defined into any kind of second picture any longer.
     She arches her eyebrows at the glance to the door, listening to the silence herself, "That sounds like no good. I'm bundled, I could go have a look for them?"

     Davydd looks to you, a smirk and a shot of a glance outside, as if expecting them around the corner any minute. "Hopefully it means they're piddling and not digging," he seems to dismiss the idea of going out after them.
     He takes the cards with one hand, holding the picture in his other. Finally, he chuckles, "I don't have enough pockets or hands. Come on, we'll go to the next room." At the next lift of a whistle, loud and commanding, two jolly fat corgies trot in, all smiles and sweet innocence. Right.
     With a nudge of his shoulders, Davydd sends the oak door to a solid close and he gestures over toward the hall leading to the gallery again. "These are very good too. Everything you do... well... that I've seen... seems to... have an energy about it." He looks at you. "Did anyone ever tell you that?" He pauses conversation to look between the cards and the picture as he heads up the couple of marble steps to the gallery's floor.

     Red and white marble tile trade steps in alternating patterns and colors, dancing, musical. They cut in, waltz like to the view of the gardens. A row of windows give a bird's eye view of the terraces and the classical sprawl beyond.
     It is less hall and more sitting room. There are several upholstered benches that line the garden-side wall and likewise a chaise lounge or two. The walls are painted a very rich red, with golden creamy trim that catches each particle of light and breathes warmth.
     Two mahogany doors lead to the grand ballroom, former barracks of a Medieval stronghold. To the south side of the room, steps lead downward to the front hall, and just to the east of that, tucked away and quite nearly hidden is a red door, leading outside.

     "A lot of people say they look like fairy tale pictures." Wendy says easily as she picks up her bits to bring them through to the gallery, setting the things down once again in the room next to the chair she took before. Once her hands are free she reaches over to give each of the dogs a good scratch on the head.
     "I've always thought that was mostly because of the subjects. I never do as well on other things as I do on castles. Or old houses. Things with life in them. Some more than others, yours seems to be quite... congenial that way." She says with some thought. "Sometimes they just end up coming across as quaint. Which has its place too, I think."
     There are five cards in the batch along with their appropriate envelopes. The topmost one being what is most likely, if you haven't seen it before, Dienfwr. More a ruin even than Lowe's next door, the tower is open and eroded nearly into the ground in places and without any roofs remaining, though there's enough left that the dark under layers hold dark shadows within the towers and arches. The technique isn't anywhere as polished, and the if studied, it's obvious that the energy isn't as focussed. Even the original is most likely more like the watercolor it seems on the surface.

     Davydd glances up from your work, careful with the cards, setting them down one by one but out of reach of the dogs. The corgies show their true colors when you sit, they become laptops, curling at your feet. Their master takes a stride or two in thought then spins about, looking at you again, smiling warmly, widely.
     "You seem to have quite an affinity for The Old Girl," meaning Powis Castle, a glance above, as if to the towers. "Maybe I'm just biased," Davydd rolls out, "...but it's the best one of the batch. Thank you. And... I'm glad you find it congenial. It's become a real home." With the right woman's touch.
     Just like I've become more congenial with the right woman's touch. Huh. Interesting, that.
     "Dienfwr's seen better days," he continues in a rumbling purr of a voice, "...but it's still a grand old thing. As all once grand things are. They retain that, even in ruins. Sometimes... a stone's dignity lingers on..." He comes back to you, setting the pictures aside. His hands go into his trouser pockets. "And they do look like fairy tale pictures," a chuckle. "But... there's nothing whatsoever the matter with that. A little fairy tale makes life go down a bit more smoothly. What was that line? A spoonful of sugar?" Davydd smiles, and he goes damn near golden with it. "So how much longer will you linger," how's that for a rhyme! "...in Welshpool...?" using the modern, familiar.

     She reaches down to give them another pat as they settle next to her in the chair, "Thanks. I've always been fascinated with mine." Not like it's on the National History list or anything. Dienfwyr's hers, it seems, despite the fact that it's uninhabitable. "My mother tells people she thinks I was Queen of Gwynedd." Fancy that with a name like Gwendolyn. "Every chance I got I'd run off and hide in the rocks. Da was always saying he was afraid I'd fall in a well or sommat. Never did though." She shrugs slightly and smiles, not seeming all that concerned about it herself.
     "So maybe it's why I like all of them. Some are more vibrant than others really, even with that though."

     She reaches down to give them another pat as they settle next to her in the chair, "Thanks. I've always been fascinated with mine." Not like it's on the National History list or anything. Dienfwyr's hers, it seems, despite the fact that it's uninhabitable. "My mother tells people she thinks I was Queen of Gwynedd." Fancy that with a name like Gwendolyn. "Every chance I got I'd run off and hide in the rocks. Da was always saying he was afraid I'd fall in a well or sommat. Never did though." She shrugs slightly and smiles, not seeming all that concerned about it herself.
     "So maybe it's why I like all of them. Some are more vibrant than others really, even with that though." She tucks some wayward curls back behind her ears again absently, "They tell you stories if you let them. You just have to listen. Well, show's more like."
     "You're attached to yours, that's important. It's one of the things that makes them sing, really. Not like you try and own it just for owning's sake. You seem like you care for each other." Lords tending their own gardens with their dogs, for example, perhaps.

     One of the last free princes of Gwynedd smiles when you say that. Princes of Gwynedd, kings of Wales. "The queens of Gwynedd are rather legendary, so they say." His certainly was. "There was a spanish queen long ago. They say the dark-haired of our nation have her to thank." Like you. "I can believe it. You, bonding with a place. I think it's a part of the Welsh soul, to find itself in the land, and the heart in its castles. I was born in Gwynedd." That accounts for his size, perhaps. The north countrymen being taller than the southern, and while he's not tall when put against Americans, English or Germans, he's not short by any means and is a relative giant in Cardiff.
     Eyes crinkle at the corners as you mention the stories of castles. "I am glad Powis sings, she's been lucky to have a lot of families care for her over the years." It's not all because of him. He'll not take the credit for it. "So, you're a storychaser," he grins. "And have you found anything interesting in your work, any stories in particular that you'd like to share?"

     Wendy tugs a little at a handkerchief knotted around her hand, scratching under the back, really, absently as she considers. "Well, I don't know that they're quite so concrete as all that. Just images."
     She reaches down with the clear hand and gives one of the corgies a scratch behind the ear to pass the sentiment around, thinking about it. "I get images sometimes? Princes and princesses. Trolls and dragons. My mum says I used to draw them all the time, especially from Dienfwyr. But they never strung together quite right." Her hand comes back up to sit in her lap and she glances over to the painting of Powis, tilting her head, "Or moods. Here has a happy feel to it. Over the hill," being Lowe's most likely, "It's... well. Sad. Kind of like a prison. But majestic." Too bad she's not going over there any time soon. Nope.

     "There's no light without shadow, summer without winter," so the Oak King says as he heads into his autumn full on. The time of shrinking sunlight. While this makes it convenient on the curse, it plays hell with his disposition. "I'm a bit partial to dragons, myself. And well... being of Gwynedd, you would be too. The land of Snowdon, where the red dragon and the white dragon fought in the time of Arthur." A pause. "And all that," he rumbles. Old stories.
     His hands come out of his pockets and he gives the sleeve of his sweater a tug. He has dragons of his own. Lovely work. Vibrant, almost like they're living. In another realm, perhaps they do. In another realm, a land lies waiting for its summer. Its been a long winter, nearly a thousand years...
     Davydd hides the tattoo with a shake of his arm and his hands promptly return to his pockets. You have... something about you, daughter of Cymru. "The old keep is like a knotted, old tree. Hard to look at sometimes, like it might turn into something else on y' .. a dragon maybe," Davydd murmurs. "But...when the right light hits it, even that old pile of stones can look a wonder. Sometimes you have to look for the shadow, the moss, the dankness to find the cool river you're searching for." A pause and then he grins. "Ah," Davydd exhales, "...my welsh is showing..."

     Wendy smiles at that anyway, nodding, "She used to be magnificent. It's a shame nobody took care of her like this one." Maybe Lowe's tower has more in common with her Deinfwyr than she'd like to admit. "It used to have high battlements, even though they've fallen now. And other towers. Lowe said his family's been there for generations, I can't understand why they wouldn't look after it better."
     At least hers has the excuse of war and abandonment to explain its state. That itself perhaps seems to be one of the things that sets her off about the strange man over the hill.
     "There's a cave under it. You can tell by the limestone coming out of the ground." She says it as though somebody's going to try and argue and tell her it's not there, "So it should have its own well. It was probably a strong fortification when it was built." And not as open to attack.
     She sighs a little and shrugs, "I don't know. It's none of my business anyway."

     He beams a little when he looks to the young woman. "It's alright to love old things," Davydd's mouth holds a wayward smile at that. "But," a sigh, "... you know... there were a lot of keeps in Britain, in Cymru, and families ran out of money to support them. I don't blame him for that, necessarily. Or," he grins, "...maybe the Old Heap suits him as it is." Davydd laughs a golden laugh and settles down finally, sitting next to the drawings.
     Dark green eyes give way to studying, and then he looks back to you. "Thank you for sharing them with me. You ... sure you want to part with them? I live in Powis, afterall... I can see it whenever I want..." He'll not deprive you, if you wish to keep it for yourself.
     Magic though it is...
     A glance to it again, and then another glance to you.

     She smiles and shakes her head, "I'll have others. The series isn't finished yet. I'm thinking of doing a view from farther back. Maybe on one of the other hills looking up. If I end up doing my book they'll be the ones that go in. And it should be here anyway."
     "And the cards aren't anything special. I've got more at home. I should do some new ones, though. They aren't as good as they could be." She tugs at the tie on the kerchief a little again. "Oh, and, um..." She frowns a little and wrinkles her nose slightly, "Sorry about the flower bed. I think it should be alright."

     Lowe and his duty to his castle don't, however, get a direct response. The impression could be that she's taking it as a polite defense from a friend and not wanting to cause trouble.

     Hmm? Oh...
     Davydd stares at you for a moment, a long moment -- or maybe it just seems long for all the intensity of the inspection. While no damage could be seen by those simply wandering the grounds, or even by the gardeners actually, he saw it. And he promptly corrected it.
     Good as new...
     "I was rather curious as to what caused it." A pause. "You saw it..." Like you see these drawings. "You are a most unusual woman. Most passed by the beds without a second glance..." Most. But not you. "I take it ...there's a story behind that too..."

     The young woman fidgets with her hand again. It's convenient under the stare and it is, apparently slightly bothersome for whatever reason. She looks up, at least, rather than focussing on the dogs at her feet. Which would be more convenient. And, well, distracting.
     "Nothing exciting..." Since she doesn't quite get exactly what it was herself. "Oh, Lowe came by to see you. I meant to mention. He was bringing swords. I don't exactly know why." She tilts her head to the side, "Or maybe he was just bringing over swords and not coming to see you. Anyway. You should ask him, it's probably his fault."

     A fiery set of eyebrows open outward-like above a set of appraising green eyes. "I suppose I shall. I wonder what the swords were in aid of. They're hardly practical things these days," Davydd grins. "Shovels, now there's a practical tool for you." His study lightens on you and he leans in with a smile. "It's alright, miss, no harm done really."
     There's a moment of pause and a slant of a grin. "And... I think I shall talk to Lowe..."

     "Righto." She smiles. Having successfully passed off the blame and burden of explanation on that one now, she hides her hand in the side of the chair a little. "I'm sure he was just trying to help in his own way."
     Whatever is her obsession with mentioning him again anyway. Much less defending him. He's the one causing the trouble.
     "But, thanks for letting me do the paintings. I should get on the road home, I'll probably be back in a couple weeks. It'll be easier to see over the hill when the trees are bare again. Weather not withstanding." Sometimes things get tricky when the freezes start. Fogs of ice and lovely things such as that would probably keep day trips up from the forest to a minimum. And make painting at least uncomfortable if not impossible.
     "If I don't see you, Happy Christmas." She starts to stand up, patting the dogs before disturbing them again.

     Davydd stands as you do and the smile is easy, congenial, warm. "Oh, aye... and Merry Yule to you too, Wendy. You're welcome to come by any time. Next time, maybe we'll split a plate of scones..." Those scones.
     He will naturally walk you to the door, a proper lord he is. He gives a whistle to the dogs, "Ho.. lads... go to your beds now..." They troddle off, Rhyddid and Bwci, both looking back to the Oak King and the faerie girl and grinning.
     Dogs always know...

Posted by rowan at November 24, 2003 07:47 PM