It is a festival week in the small kingdom by the sea; perhaps in honor of the visiting son of the High King, but more likely a festival was coming up anyway, so why not combine occasions. Gruffydd has had to do a certain amount of ducking of apple-cheeked maidens hoping for a glimpse of THE crown prince ('he's so dreamy!'), but for the most part, the visit has gone swimmingly.
     Swimmingly, save for the apparent and persistent - even pernicious - absence of the king and queen's daughter. The queen has seemed tolerant of this; a woman in her early forties by now, she is stout and dark-haired. No one would describe her as beautiful, but her features are tolerant and have a serene warmth to them which transcends ordinary standards of attraction. A woman of both learning and bustling activity, she's had two sons and a daughter by her husband, and seems barely to have slowed down each time.
     "I'm not really the match-making mother," she is telling Gruffydd cheerfully as she leads him past jongleurs. Her husband is a large man, affable-looking and content to leave much of the work of running the kingdom to his wife. He looks more like a blacksmith than a king, and seems to have been shoehorned for the occasion into nicer clothing, which he wears with slightly awkward grace. "But she's convinced herself we're all trying to get rid of her. I blame her brothers - they take after my sister, I'm afraid, and are holy terrors. I've warned them if they keep it up, I might just leave the kingdom to her instead."
     She comes to a halt in the shade of an apple tree, an orchard on one side of the palace grounds. Only a few people have come this far, most of them courting couples who, when they see the queen, let out embarrassed sounds which she ignores. "Run along," she tells them briskly but not unkindly. "Maggie, your father'd skin you if he knew you were here. Enjoy the festival, but for heaven's sake, let's try to avoid needing to put up any banns, hmm?" And she turns back to you, smile as warm and tolerant as the sun. "I apologize, your highness. It must seem a bit dull, compared to what you're used to."

     Off his ship, he is neither veiled nor coated. He is here as ambassador, as the traveling prince, and is therefore arrayed as such. Though from some of the blushing -- including his own -- he sometimes wishes he was wearing the tricorn hat and its accompanying veil.
     He is clothed even as his father was before him, anachronistically -- he is a blend of cultures and time. Modern boots are beneath the leathers he wears, and over this a pull over shirt -- it is, in fact, the thinnest sort of faery mail colored to match the rest of his attire -- and a jacket. The leathers are deepest violet, so much so that they may be thought to be black. The shirt is some blend of indigo and violet, and the outer jacket is plum.
     All to play with the periwinkle of his eyes...
     Years have come and gone and have left him less gangly than even the previous year. Battles with the pirates of the outer fringe have lent him strength and bearing to go with his innate grace. It is easy to see him and think 'Prince'. In but a short time, it will be easy to see him and think 'High King'. He has an easy bearing in his face, that face for which he has his three parents to thank. His mother's coloring, his one father's dimpled smile, and his other father's fineness. Dark hair, wavy as both fathers' are wont to be, is cut short and layered. It is a look that travels well in wind - it doesn't matter which way the breeze blows it. He seems to care not at all about that.
     Prince Gruffydd turns to his hostess as he follows her and he smiles. "No apologies necessary, Queen Anna. On any count. Your kingdom is lovely, and your daughter sounds like a reasonable girl. I would offer to hide, if that would help, but I'm finding that increasingly difficult to do." How like his father he sounds. She hurries, but he barely has to stretch his stride.
     Prince Gruffydd glances back at the king who does his best to keep up. Gruffydd is quite sure that is a daily task for the king. He comes to a halt alongside the queen, his smile slight and only slightly canting at the lovers' disturbance. It is spring, after all.

     She laughs at that, goodnatured as ever - and as capable. "She's my daughter, so I know she's curious about you, your highness. Not that you'd know it to look at her, she takes after her father's people." She casts a ruefully merry glance downwards over herself, then an affectionate one at her husband. Her hair has little flyaway strands that escape a pinned-up braid; she's put on a nice gown in honor of your arrival, but is still, practical. Essentially herself. "My sister's daughters are around here also. If you spot any honey blondes claiming to be my daughter and batting their eyelashes at you, it's bound to be my nieces. I leave it entirely to your discretion, Prince Gruffydd, as to what you do with them."
     She turns to you, hands on her stout hips, looking up at you - she is not small, but she isn't as tall as you. "If you're anything like your father," Anna tells you briskly, "you'd much rather not be led around by the nose and would prefer the opportunity to look around for yourself. I'm going to give you directions, and then I'm taking my husband and leaving you to have at it, your highness. There's jousting at three if you're of a mind to watch or participate; the odds-on favorite is the Red Knight, but a queen's not supposed to follow the bookkeepers' scores, so you don't know that from me." She chuckles. Not much goes on which she doesn't hear about, one way or another. "There's a variety of games and contests being held off to the east area - they aren't rigged, I pay for the prizes out of my household money myself. I'd rather people have a good time, after all. Watch out though for the ones outside the gate; some of them do cheat, though we run them off when we catch them..."
     She points. "On the north side of the castle, just past the orchard, you'll find food vendors. The kitchens have been working overtime - the food isn't free, it's how we make money for the food and clothing for the poor every winter. If anyone doesn't charge you, let me know; they know there's no exceptions. It might not be diplomatic, but diplomacy doesn't fill a belly when it's freezing out. And, of course, if the noise and bustle gets too much for you, feel free to come up to the library, or visit my husband in the stables." She gives another tolerantly affectionate smile. "He usually hides out there, during festival-week."

     "I won't let the bookies know that I know or that you told me," he quietly notes. "But I thank you. You do seem to know the ... discovering mind. I appreciate the directions. Getting lost is half the fun." He removes a compass from his pocket. It is part compass, part watch. "Never fear, your majesty. As for the food," he chuckles at that, "...I would never ask anyone to attempt to feed me for free. If my father and his father before him were not the horns of plenty, I would have eaten them into bankruptcy by now." Like father, and grandfather, like son.
     "Please, both of you, do enjoy your day. I look forward to this evening. And... if I should see any of your nieces I will endeavor very hard not to get engaged. I was told that by my father very implicitly. No cannon fire within shoreline... don't come home married. I don't think he's quite ready for that."
     There is amusement upon his face and held deeply within his eyes. His father no doubt sees this tall and strapping son as a small and precocious boy. No doubt he is frozen at five. And he knows it. "As my grandmother used to tell me, not all bubbles need to be popped at once."
     There is a shared look with your husband. "Wise man, your grace. Save a stall for me. I may well join you if I am pursued by a gaggle of nieces." The image is rather funny. He smiles at it, dimples and all. "Your majesties," the prince bows grandly, doing his diplomatic part not to delay you.

     There is an immediate laugh for that, warm and merry. "Oh, well, if you do meet my daughter and hit it off, I'd at least be willing to consider it." Anna tells you, the corners of her eyes crinkling. "But I'd never marry her off against her will. They tried it with me, ask your father sometime."
     The smile is just as fond for you as for the errant Maggie. She is not a woman who sighs over could-have-beens; she is serene and rooted, a gracious custodian of trust. Her husband, however, now speaks at last, voice deeper than many. "Have her home before midnight." Anna laughs, taking his hand with an affectionate squeeze, and the two depart, leaving you apparently alone in the orchard.

     There is an easy, affable smile as he raises from his bow. "Of course, your grace. Midnight. Not a minute after. Fare thee well for now..."
     And then they're gone...
     A moment of peace. In such ambassadorial journeys, such moments are rare indeed. And so, for a moment, to enjoy the moment, Gruffydd does not rush off headlong into other entertainments. Instead, he lifts his gaze to the boughs of the tree at hand, and reaches up to select a worthy apple.
     The Crown Prince leans against the tree, enjoying its shade even as he takes the first bite of the fruit of its labors.
     He wonders, suddenly, what his fruit might be and what sort of labors he might have time for or need of.
     There is a rustling from overheard, and a dark-haired braid drops down, suspended just above your head and a bit to the side. "I am not marrying you." The voice is both cross and firm; the features, glowing both from exertion and from being suspended upside-down. Grey eyes stare at you in an upside-down scowl, and some leaves drift down. An apple lands on your foot.

     Periwinkle eyes look up even as his teeth sink into the flesh of the apple and he looks astonished, much as the pig with an apple in its mouth on the banquet table also looks astonished.
     Completing his bite, Gruffydd chews and then swallows before speaking, turning to avoid the braid. "May I have the name, at least, of my Never Bride? I do so prefer to be introduced before being summarily dumped."
     He's quite sure that you know who he is.

     The scowl remains for a moment; then disappears as she hoists herself up. There appears to be a minor struggle as half of Birnam Wood rustles and shakes, then falls at your feet complete with girl. "OUCH!" She scrambles to her feet, her dignity rattled, and the glare she gives you defies you to comment on it - or on the apple blossoms sticking out from behind an ear. "I am Maria." No title; just the name, as if the name should be good enough.
     She is not so tall as you, and slender; hints of a curvy figure, not so solid and stout as her mother's but which in a fitted gown would be more than worthy of admiration, long legs and quite a lot of rather bushy black hair that has been ruthlessly pinned into a long braid. Her cheeks remain flushed, though one is smeared with sap. She wears a light brown tunic with white leggings and brown boots, a black belt having a knife in it. Her nails are broken and dirty from climbing trees, despite her being perhaps sixteen or seventeen; her expression is scowling, her mouth quivering with suspicion.
     "You needn't," Maria adds pointedly, folding her arms over her chest, "introduce yourself, highness. I know who YOU are." Hmph. Her chin comes up, rebelliously.

     He twitched to offer you assistance, but before he could move you were already standing and glaring at him. He watches you quivering, indignant, but then he smiles, raising his hands, apple and all. "I haven't come here to abduct you, Maria. I promise. I am under strict instructions not to cause any international incidents." He smiles easily. "I think kidnapping would be right out."
     "Well, for the record, and for the tree," Gruffydd adds blithely, "I am Gruffydd, yes. Is there something about me that you don't like? Or is it just the possibility of you being offered up for a treaty, which by the way hasn't come up and is to be discouraged?"

     She looks you up and down suspiciously, but you fail to loom menacingly, laugh maniacally, or in other ways act as if you might sweep her off her feet, for ravishment or other purposes. "The tree cannot hear you," Maria answers you carefully. She eyes you as if she's perhaps misjudged you (as after all she has), but isn't quite willing to change gears just yet. "There are some who would not care, about diplomatic incident."
     Or diplomacy. Clearly.
     She turns, reaching for the apple which had bounced off your foot, examining it to see how badly bruised it might be. She takes a bite of it; it's a bit early, but ripe enough. "Your father did not like my mother well enough to marry her," she sniffs at you, turning away. "So I am not going to like you enough to marry you. And they cannot get rid of me so easily as that. I have three cousins, each of them sillier than the last, who would be glad for the chance to drip syrup at you. I am not the syrupy sort. Your highness."
     Her braid twitches like an annoyed cat's tail, and she turns back towards you. "Are you saying we are not good enough to treat with?" Grey eyes flash with indignation.

     "Not at all," he says after another bite, another chew, another swallow. "That is the farthest thing from the truth. Actually, my father spoke very fondly of your mother. He still admires her very much. In fact, I believe they may even correspond..."
     He pauses a moment. "I ... do you mean actual syrup? I've always considered myself more a honey man, myself. Though, treacle is fine." Oh no, he's talking food. "I prefer, if I may be completely honest with you, dark chocolate with cinnamon and chilies. It is sweet, not too sweet. With a little bit of a bite." Sort of like you. "But if they're going to give me syrup..." Gruffydd pauses a moment, patting his coat. "I knew I should have brought my spoon..." he murmurs, as if to himself.
     "Now, I'm hungry," he mentions. "Would you like to get something from the food vendors?" He takes another bite of the apple. "Or are you not yet finished being angry? I can wait." He gestures with the half eaten apple. "I have a snack."

     She watches you with her chin up, expression still suspicious. She blushes suddenly, turning her back on you. "You are the sort of man who my aunt talks about when she thinks I can't hear, and tells mother she never had and never will. Mother, I mean. I am sure my aunt has had many." She sniffs, taking another bite of her own apple, then makes a face and chucks it, hard, at a tree. She watches with some satisfaction as it flies apart on impact.
     Maria sneaks a glance sidelong at you - then looks away again. She is blushing again, and looking angry with herself for doing so. "I am not hungry," she answers you with more dignity than one normally manages while that explicit shade of red. "But thank you. Why ARE you here, then? If you say your father and my mother get along so well, I would not think you would need come."

     "I'm on a diplomatic mission -- a tour of allies to be followed by a certain amount of time in the wilderness. My uncle has taken command of many of the wild or chaotic plains, so I'm sure I'll see those as well. But the tour is, one, to visit all those who he cannot see directly himself and, two, for my own edification, of course. A king should know his kingdom, wouldn't you say so? Naturally, because my father respects your Queen mother so, this is one of my first stops. I had to see my grandmother first, of course."
     He does hope you don't hold that against him. Or throw apples at him. "Nice throw, by the way. So...not hungry then." Too bad, his face seems to say. Oh well, he does, as he said, have a snack. Gruffydd continues to eat the apple, but always is polite when speaking - never with a full mouth.
     "So when you're not accusing princes or throwing apples, what is it that you like to do, Maria? Your mother enjoyed sailing and exploration when she was your age. Do you? I'd arrange a visit to my ship, but I don't want you to think I'm trying to abscond your person."

     She listens to you a bit more quietly, or with a little less bristling indignation, at least. "...I would like to see your ship. Mother taught me how to sail. I taught myself how to ruin sails though." She looks at you directly. How will you take that, Mister Prince? And then she looks away again; she is still blushing for no good reason.
     "If you are hungry, I suppose we could go by the tables," Maria continues, stepping away from the tree carefully. She absently tosses her braid back with one hand, as if expecting it to take on life of its own and be in need of immediate correction. "I will take your word for it that you are not trying to abscond with my - with my person."
     She frowns for a moment, the corners of her mouth turning down, but this time, she does not add comment or accusation. The reason for her frown is not voiced. "I suppose that my mother has given you her usual tour, then blindfolded you and spun you about and left you to find your way back?"

     "Your mother informed me that the food vendors are to the north side of the castle, just past this orchard -- that sounds close." He smiles brilliantly then, dimples revealed. "We can get a snack and I would be very pleased to show you The Draigamor. And ... no absconding. Besides, your father, the king, told me on no uncertain terms you are to be home by midnight. I made a promise and I always keep my promises."
     There is no commentary made for your blushing. He's prone to it himself, you see. If he starts talking about it then he'll start doing it, then you'll both faint from too much blood to the face. And he will miss lunch. That will never do.
     He removes his watch-slash-compass and winks. "I never worry about getting lost. Or being late for dinner. So... shall we?" He offers you his arm. "We might as well have a little fun, right? Apart from jousting, what else does the festival have to offer?"

     It is difficult to say if she is disappointed or skeptical. Either way, you get a brief glower. "There is sword-fighting. I wanted to compete this year, but they won't let me." Now there is visible and audible disappointment. "They are afraid that I will get hurt. Mother says I should not be disappointed, as I beat my brothers regularly anyway, but it still strikes me as entirely unfair."
     She has taken your arm at some point during this, her motions brisk and followed by a toss of her hair. Maria watches you sidelong for a moment, then abruptly looks away again in effort to keep you from noticing her noticing you. "You've seen the orchard. That's," she sniffs, "usually a highlight. Not for me. My cousins, though - you're fortunate mother brought you here straightaway!"
     She is leading you towards the festivities. To one side, the various games of chance and skill; to the other side, booths and tables piled high with every imaginable kind of food. "Do you have a food you particularly like?" Maria demands suddenly, coming to a halt. The food is in smelling range. You can see it. But she has stopped.

     "I would have to agree with you. It is unfair." He looks at you between glances, always seeming to know just when to turn. "And of course I mean that from a purely logical standpoint, not a patronizing one." He walks easily, considerate to match his stride to you. His arm is strong - obviously he knows his way around work of some kind. Sailing, no doubt - or so they say. "My sisters can only fight in private. Something about propriety," the way he says that, it's as if he's not quite sure what the word means. He even raises his other hand and makes a motion with it. Whatever that means.
     Gruffydd Rhudd Draig glances this way and that as you and he walk through the festivities. His curiosity gets the better of him a time or two - you have to tug him to get him to turn away from the knife throwing. But he follows, content to walk with you and rather attentively too, when knives aren't glittering mid-air.
     "Your mother has been very kind to me." He smiles in all the lore he's heard about the 'cousins'. Frankly, it's enough to make him want to find them - no matter how horrible, their legend is growing by the minute. "And even you, despite our introduction. I won't tell her, of course," the prince conspires quietly.
     But then you mention the magic topic. Food. And he smells it. "In the winter, I prefer the warm kind. In the summer, I prefer the cool and refreshing. And sweet." And then you stop. Stopping? But there is food nearby. Gruffydd turns to look at you, his eyes expectant for an explanation...

     "You had best not. Mother is hoping you will sweep me off my feet." There is a tempestuous look for the thought. And there are mixed feelings - but she is not admitting to those! She tosses her hair, one hand reaching back to pull the fastenings free irritably. Her hair all but explodes into a stormy mane, glittering where sunlight catches it at odd angles. As you and she are stopped, she takes the opportunity to reclaim her hand, tying the bushy mane back into a single ponytail. Little wisps and stray curls have already escaped to frame her face, ignored by her as she grumbles at it. "...shave it all off..."
     "There." Finished, Maria puts her hands on her hips, eyeing you consideringly. "I know where the best food is - and if you like, I will take you to get some." She is naively unaware of any potential innuendo in her words. "But you must promise to tell and show no one what I show you, or I won't." Her chin comes up, eyes flashing with the threat of it. "And I will never forgive you. Ever! I'll leave you here if you don't want to come with me, of course. Though you'll be on your own when my cousins come looking. What will it be, your highness?" One toe taps impatiently.

     He watches your hair explode outward and wild - it is free, the definition of Liberty, he thinks - and as you try to tame it, he smiles. "Oh, don't shave it," he offers quietly and warmly. "It's beautiful when it is wild and free." And then he blushes, and when he clears his throat - Yes, I realize I am blushing. It is really not my fault. It's an inheritance. - his dimples reveal themselves, which of course does nothing to fade the blush.
     "Food?" he cuts in suddenly, all but laughing at himself. "I like secrets, particularly tasty ones, Maria. I promise, on the very seas themselves, upon whom I depend, that I will never reveal your secret." He folds his hands in a prayer pose and bows as his mother taught him long ago.
     "So," Gruffydd leans in, conspiratorial all over again, "... where is this...cornucopia?"
     You blush, and it gets her started on a blush, even though she isn't entirely sure why she is blushing; she looks around as suspiciously as if she thinks you and she spied upon. In helplessness, she drops her gaze sullenly to her feet until you make your promise. Then, warily, she looks up at you. You are a strange one. I must be careful around you. I feel it. The ground is uneven, around you; it turns too easily to sea...

     And I cannot afford to be out to sea with you...
     "All right." She chooses to ignore the blush, to ignore all symptoms, everything except the promise, even as she is blushing as you lean in. "Follow me. Keep up, and don't lag behind!" She turns, and suddenly, she is running away from you, leaving you to keep up as best you are able. She is nimble, fleet of foot in that flush of youth, legs long and sleek. No one gives much thought to young ones running around; it seems not uncommon, despite the heat of early summer's sun.
     He warned you - did he not? - of the sure-fire chain reaction? He blushes. You blush. He blushes again. But he doesn't seem embarrassed by it. He seems amused by it and resigned to it whenever it happens.
     Maria, be nimble...
     Maria be quick!

     You run and he jogs. He jogs and then smiles. He smiles and then flies. Over your head a peacock in his wild colors streaming flaps its wings to keep up with you. They suits him, those colors: blue, purple and green. And the bird does a fair job of it - touching the grass now and again to launch himself back upwards. It is a kind of bounding, fantastic flight.
     And within your mind, a whisper: I'm really going to need a biscuit after all this flying around.

     People turn, and stare...
     A peacock, of all things...
     Fancy that...
     They turn back to what they are doing soon enough; it is festival, and there are always things to see, things to do. And a peacock fills no bellies (nor any other appetites)...
     There is a startled, wild-eyed look around, and then a blush for the whisper in her mind. "Stop that," Maria hisses. She ducks between buildings, hurtling over some stacked wooden crates. She crouches down behind them for a moment, slowly rising so just her eyes are visible over them. No sign of pursuit. Good.
     She seems satisfied; she turns again, making her way down to the end of the alley. She drags a crate aside, revealing metal rungs descending down below the ground. "Mother would have fits," Maria murmurs, looking self-satisfied. A secret that her mother does not know! She begins climbing down, not waiting for you to decide what you will do. "Father knows, but I don't think he knows that I know..."

     The bird lands with a graceful plop, and up stands a prince with a brush of his arms to settles his sleeves, sleeves that had been wings only moments ago. As you and he stand in the alley, he thinks to himself: I like this girl. But his look is mildly curious as you reveal the metal rungs to a ladder that leads below... somewhere... a lair of food perhaps? A cavern of cornucopia?
     He glances around, Prince Gruffydd does, taking up a strategic position, to hide your disappearance. And he disappears after, but not before he pulls the crate back over his head.
     He knows his way around a secret.
     As he follows you down, one hand bracing his descent, his other hand reaches for his pocket watch/compass. He always knows where he is in both time and distance. It also provides a handy low light. He's very resourceful.
     "I'm not altogether certain that my mother would not also. Hmmm... I wonder what a fit would look like," he wonders it aloud but to himself. You don't know his mother. It is, however, an honest question. He really does wonder.

     Below, there is a dimly lit waterway; stone to either side of running water. Maria looks indifferent to her surroundings - even to the occasional screech of annoyed and territorial rats. She makes her way past iron bars, down into the dank and damp. Things move gradually downwards, and southwards; too much further, and you'll run into the coast. She is surefooted as a cat, and moves with a rapid, bouncing gait. "Shh," she hisses. She pauses, listening.
     From somewhere, very far from here, there's the sound of singing. She nods, satisfied, and alters course...
     Eventually, things slope slightly up - but only slightly. The stonework has grown cruder, here, as well. She ducks around a crevice, squeezing through the opening; just past is a flight of stairs, carved into the rock, leading upwards. She bounces up the stairs, and it opens to a sudden plethora of open sea-caves, all but cut off from the ocean. A few gaps in the far-up roof allow sunlight to filter down; there is the splash of the tide pool, the smell of salt heavy in the air. And there is, too, a wealth of other smells...
     Roasting mutton, chicken coated in honey and spices...
     Sharp cheeses, cooked onto toasted oat-cakes until everything is runny and melty with the slightly bubbling cheddar...
     Lamb stew, rich with potatoes and harvest vegetables...
     Ears of corn, slathered with butter...
     Fat watermelons, split open with an axe, chilled from having been immersed in salt water to add a slight tang to the sweet...
     Apple pie, filled with cinnamon and sugar, with scoops of sherbet to cool it further...
     Jacks of cider and of mead...
     And everywhere, here, there are the people who were not invited to the festival. The sea-folk - nymphs and nereids and tritons, in the tidal pool below, food lowered or passed down by baskets or hands, for those with no ability to form legs or leave the water. The menfolk - the smugglers and less accepted among the fisher-folk, a few women among them for all their rough ways. There is even a centaur, grizzled of flank, drinking stanchion after stanchion of thick, malty beer.
     Maria turns, and gives you a smile filled with brightness and mischief. "I told you I know where the best food is," she brags, then sticks her tongue out at you as she turns to bounce up the dripping wet stairs.
     Her mother would, indeed, have fits, if only she knew where she was... and with who!

     Once the passage became tighter and far more narrow, he had to transform again just to pass through. He is far too large to shimmy through an opening that you yourself only barely squeezed past! The peacock makes a chortled mew and transforms into crown prince again. Which is his main form, one might wonder?
     Now this is my kind of crowd!
     There is a dimpled smile, a full on grin, as he sees the people of the sea and their own feast. "You could coin your very words into golds and get rich on each syllable and vowel. Is that apple pie I smell," he interjects.
     He can take two or more steps for every one of your own and he bounds up the stairs behind you. "So why is it, exactly, that your mother would have a conniption. I can't imagine anyone taking issue with pie eating."
     And he blushes again, despite himself.

     She does not notice your blush; not this time, mercifully. This is not a crowd she wishes her blushes seen in front of. The centaur grins toothily at her - and at you beside her; HE notices your blush, sure enough. "Maria! The princess condescends to be among us once more," he booms. "Oh, stuff it," Maria snaps back pertly. "You can't intimidate me with your big words, Archimedes." She scrambles for a position at the counter while he booms a laugh.
     To you, she asides, "Why, they're all criminals -or almost all of them. Can you imagine? The princess, the only girl-child, here?" She gives you a sly smile, and then Maria reaches for a turkey leg the size of which would win prizes in any farm contest. It is dripping with spices and juices, and she dives into it with the gusto of the impassioned eater.
     A green sprite perches on the counter - it is carved from the cave wall itself - and looks at you impassively, a thoughtful scrutiny in pupilless eyes. It lifts again, landing on the edge of a smuggler's jack of cider. The man laughs and tosses it off with a flick of finger and thumb, resulting in shrill curses. No one is fighting, however; everyone has come together for, it seems, a similar purpose to that of the good townspeople. The only difference seems to be that the games of skill are rougher, and there is a game of dragon poker in one corner.

     "As my uncle Gwilym would say: This is my kind of party." For that matter, toss it a bit more nakedness and Aeron and Bran might sniff around. He's not ...unfamiliar with this sort of affair, with this sort of crowd. Hell, he's related to some of the worst reprobates in the known kingdoms. Such fills the smile of quietude.
     Strange as it is, he fits right in.
     And in quick order, he has a tankard of mead, a cup full of pie, and a mouth full of mutton. (And for the truly quick of eye, a pocket full of oat cakes.) Gruffydd takes up a rock like most would an easy chair, reveling in the quiet of stuffing his face and washing it all down with sweet, cool mead. He dives in no less; he eats like a man who's used to food disappearing as quickly as it arrives.
     "I should think your cousins would be horrified," the crown prince notes with a sidelong grin. "My cousins, on the other hand, will be completely miffed that I didn't bother to call them."
     Come to think of it, he thinks to himself, I should keep such thoughts to myself. Think of them anymore and they're liable to just...appear.
     "I guess that's part of the allure?"

     "I like to go where people won't find me so easily." Maria admits it to you cheekily, perching on a bit of rock which is rough on the edges but the top of which seems to have been polished down for just that use. She focuses on the turkey leg almost to the exclusion of all else, her answers to you distracted now.
     From below, a fiddle is being tuned, and there is raucous laughter from a corner. A round-bodied woman in rough clothes and her hair up under a mobcap smiles and gives you a wink, setting a pitcher of ale within your reach.
     There is something familiar about her...
     Maria fails to notice, looking instead down at the fiddler - a man with scales instead of skin where his hips begin, and a divided tail instead of legs. "My cousins aren't here. Everyone knows who I am, of course, but once they were sure I wasn't going to grass on them, they let me in. Said it made sense that someone in my family'd have the nerve." She blushes a bit. "Well, they didn't say it quite like that."

     "My father said he would take refuge in the libraries. None of the nymphs of my mother's kingdom - no offense," he says generally, to whatever nymphs might have heard that, "...would dare go in there. I suppose we all have our sanctuaries. Mine is the sky. The sky by virtue of the sea." He realizes it sounds a bit odd and a corner of his mouth quirks up - that, too, inherited.
     Gruffydd takes a good swallow of mead, chasing down one of the oat cakes, and he glances in the direction of the musical notes, the tuning of a violin. The wink of a familiar sort of woman... not that he's seen her before. But there's something.
     That's going to naggle at me...
     "No," he smiles, dimples flaring as he looks to his hands and breaks another cake in half. "I suspect not. But that's something, hmm? To be recognized as ...having nerve. A certain bravery. So, is there a particular reason behind your wanting to elude people? Or is it mainly your cousins? Though, I can well imagine with your brothers and cousins, it's likely for a bit of peace and quiet. In my case, I've been so crowded I scarcely pay it any mind."
     As crown prince, he's no doubt swarmed - and not by admirers. The handlers must number in the hundreds. And since birth.

     "My mother takes the library too often. I spend time there, sometimes, but... well, mother always seems to know exactly how to find you if she wants to." Maria sounds a trifle cross about it, in the way only a teenaged girl wanting to escape her parents can. "You saw, how she found me in the orchard. And it's not just me; it's everyone. It's as if - as if being librarian transferred when she became Queen, only instead of always finding books on shelves, it's people she finds."
     She hops up to fling the turkey bone, denuded of all save a few scraps of flesh, into a pile that seems to have been designated for it. A quick glance around, and her eyes light up. "Oh, they're going to play The Lay of the Wanderer! I'll be right back - you don't mind, do you?" She does not wait for your answer; instead, she dashes to the edge of the stone platform, diving off in a perfect swan dive, into the tide pool below. There's a scattering of applause and a rowdy cheer as Maria surfaces, spitting water and laughing.
     Behind you, the woman reappears at your shoulder, leaning forward with a smile. It isn't bawdy in the slightest; it is instead redolent with cheer and amusement and pride.
     "That's my daughter," Queen Anna remarks affectionately. "Always in the middle of things. And how are you enjoying yourself, your highness?"

     The prince turns his head slightly, a smile crossing his expression. "I'm having a lovely afternoon, sweet lady," he does not blow your cover. "She is quite delightful," sotto voce, of course. "And the oat cakes are a revelation. I will have to tell my father what he missed. He will be sad to hear about that." There is a little wink there. He's sly as a fox, no matter how genial he is.
     "No, of course. Nice dive, by the way!" he calls out. "I give it about a seven-and-a-half." He sits back with a swallow of mead, turning his head slightly to speak to someone behind him. "I like how she asks things and then goes ahead and does them anyway. She reminds me of my grandmother, actually. Something in a biscuit?" He offers one of the oat cakes to her, from his very own pocket where it's been kept safe and warm.
     Mission accomplished, he thinks. "I will tell my mother and father that I have found Queen Anne's daughter to be ever the delight that her mother had been upon her visit to the Flowering Tree."

     Queen Anna chuckles, pleased and making no effort to hide it. "She's my daughter, though she doesn't realize it. She's much quicker to anger than I ever was - she gets that from my mother, I'm afraid, and a little bit from her father's people." She accepts the oat cake, beaming maternally in a way which includes not only her daughter but you, the centaur, the whole group. "It's good to see her happy. I thought she might bring you here."
     Below, Maria has swum to the side, laughing up at you and making a throwing motion. Nothing could easily be thrown this high; it is a motion that is pure gesture, high spirits and nothing more. One of the nixies pinches her, and she whirls around, ready to slap the man. The buffeting blow misses, and she almost overbalances.
     "She wouldn't bring you here if she didn't like you," Queen Anna tells you. She eats the oat cake with an absentminded pleasure, then moves to draw back. "She doesn't share her secrets lightly, Prince Gruffydd. Be gentle with her, hm? Broken wings aren't much fun, dear. If you want explanations, come see me in the library after you've brought her home. No hurry, mind." With a wink, she bustles off, a yard wide and serenely pleased with the world.

     He nods to you. It is a simple gesture - one that tells you that he understands, and one that gives you agreement. He will see you in the library after he's brought her home. He's in no rush, mind. "I'm not the sort who breaks and runs, or breaks at all. I simply don't see the fun or challenge in it."
     Now, Aeron and Bran feel differently.
     Finishing the tankard of mead, Gruffydd in his great height stands. He removes the jacket and sets it aside. That alone will be spared. "Look out below!" the prince gives a shout. And he makes an arching dive, quite like a dolphin and with as much natural grace, this prince of seas and waters and stars.
     And just to prove a point he transforms to a dolphin right before he hits the water, coming up clicking, whistling and whirring. A man again as he re-emerges, prince Gruffydd makes a watery bow to the applause of a silkie. "Thank you, thank you, no... thank you."

     Above, Queen Anna silently disappears. If anyone but you has recognized her, they have the good manners not to say so. Her daughter has climbed from the water after hurling a whole watermelon at the nixie's head; she is laughing with a knot of others, gaily oblivious to the way the water has made her clothing transform to clinging sheerness. The nixie is being tended to by a mermaid who behaves in wifely fashion, scolding him roundly while the others laugh.
     Your dive does not go unnoticed, nor does your transformation; it sets off a new round of applause. The Lay of the Wanderer begins to sound out over the water, the sun not yet kissing the rim of the world. It shows every sign of being a truly excellent sort of afternoon.

Posted by rowan at June 15, 2008 06:25 PM