Now that Audrey has stepped into the Third Decade, cultivation takes on a radically different shape. Rather than simply learning to convert Fervour into Zeal—and strengthening the soul towards that goal—Audrey now must make a temple of her being. Materials, infused with Zeal and high in quality, must be accepted into her soul so that she might construct a home for the Holy Spirit.
Her family should send her a minor stipend for her birthday, which will go far in acquiring materials of high enough quality in sufficient amounts.
Huh, when was the last time she thought about her family?
A frown tugs at the corners of Audrey's mouth, the wind tousling her hair as she rests elbows against a balcony. Down below, on the ancient Roman-paved streets of Warwick, the teaming mortal masses go about their every-day. Children carry groceries as their parents barter for fractions of pennies. Craftsmen trade wargear for wealth with the ever-present, world-trotting mercenaries seeking fame and fortune in the conflicts between Norse and Anglo-Saxon. Hammers strike metal in the Warwick mint, the first of two in Warwickshire.
Even so far away from Charmouth, the day-to-day lives of the mortals is just about the same here as it was back home. Of course, there is one major difference between Warwick and Charmouth; here the banner of the Waerings flutters from every terrace and tower, here the only Eotenslaga is her.
The groan of a creaking door rips Audrey from her thoughts as a round-cheeked face blinks in shock and surprise. Gilbert of Loxwale freezes in the doorway, the dark steps leading into the blacksmith's shop below silhouetting his small and slight frame perfectly.
"O-oh," Gilbert manages to stutter out as his fingers knit themselves into nervous knots. A slight wince crosses his face as he brushes against some tender spot on his hands, "sorry, I didn't know you'd be here." He pauses for a moment before making to back out, "S-sorry for bothering you."
Audrey blinks and purses her lips, brows digging a shallow trench on her forehead. "Whatever are you apologising for?" Internally, Audrey allows herself a pat on the back for nailing her mother's style of speech; all proper and precise and grown-up.
"Oh, well," Gilbert struggles down a swallow as he seems to wilt in on himself, "I-I was just wanting to, well, do a little, um," he rubs at the back of his neck, "people watching?"
"People watching?" Audrey hums to herself before nodding, "Makes sense, this is a spot well-suited for it."
"Yeah," Gilbert nods quickly, seemingly finding his footing, as he repeats Audrey's words back to her, "it's a really good spot!"
Truer words have never been spoken. A private little balcony above a storefront owned by a skilled blacksmith—the same smith who maintains Audrey's wargear—there are few spots in the entire town more equipped to watch people go about their business.
Silence falls as the spark of upbeat tempo in Gilbert's stance fails to catch. He crumples back inwards, shoulders falling forwards as he slouches and struggles to make eye-contact.
Audrey frowns, which summons a wince from her companion. There's something wrong with Gilbert. A nervous boy he may be, but this is a new level far beyond the anxiety he's displayed before.
"Well," Audrey says as she turns back to her lean, "don't mind me."
Gilbert hastens to her side, only to freeze as something falls from his clothes. Spiralling through the air is a lightly-charred and leather-bound book. But, rather than the pristine pieces of parchment decorating Audrey's abode, the dirt-stained pages are torn and crumpled while the covers are scoured and beaten, the indent of a boot-clad foot pressed into the leather. The spine looks like it might fall apart at any moment, much in the same way Gilbert's spine trembles as his gaze darts from Audrey to his book.
Bending over, Audrey scoops up the book as she gently holds it between her hands. Carefully opening the worn covers, the contents of the book make itself known. The pages are slightly scorched at the corners, though quick action saved more than it failed. Though smeared by rough handling, the skill used in these charcoal sketches still shines through like sun rays through a cloudy sky.
A quick glance at Gilbert's fingers—stained with flecks of charcoal and smelling slightly of smoke—confirms Audrey's suspicions. This is Gilbert's sketchbook and someone tried to destroy it; multiple times, in fact, if the age of the foot-imprint and the recency of the smoke-smell is anything to go by.
This cannot continue.
"Gilbert," Audrey begins with slow, careful words as Gilbert gulps, "who did this to your book?"
"N-nobody!" Gilbert hastens to answer, his words nothing but lies. "I-it just, um, fell into a f-fire!"
Audrey blinks, once, long and slowly, before answering with flat words and an even flatter stare, "Gilbert, does your Knight know about this?"
Gilbert freezes, his teeth clamping shut as his eyes widen in fear, "Y-you can't tell him! P-please, please, you can't. Promise you won't, a-and I'll tell you!"
Audrey frowns as she considers Gilbert's words. Her gut conjures up a memory of a hostile stare; she's pretty damn sure she knows who did it. She doesn't need to promise Gilbert anything.
However, it would surely damage her relationship with Gilbert if she went over his head like that.
What does Audrey do?
[ ] Promise Gilbert to keep this a secret
[ ] Withhold the promise
0~0~0
AN: And so begins some Fun.
