Robyn, an artful archeress, 2 House Velenosa Guards arrive, following Ophelia.

Scribble, a Delicate Social Butterfly, 1 Inquisition Confessors, 1 Bisland pride guards leave, following Delilah.

The show must go on. The King's Own do not back down from any challenge, so nor does Solange. The Whisper is settled underneath the large tent that has been erected in light of the change in weather, clad in cableknit aeterna that bravely reveals one shoulder and leggings. She is supervising servants, drinks, and any guests that may arrive, though, to be fair, many are deterred by the weather. She has a smile on her lips, despite everything.

Alizarin, an ethereal bard, 2 Redrain Guards arrive, following Nuala.

Waldemai ducks under the tent and signals. "Toddy here," he says.

Solange brings the toddy to Waldemai herself, a warm smile growing on her lips as she greets, "Welcome, messere. I am glad that you can join us today."

The weather outside is ... grim. Miserable, sickly green snow falling from the sky hardly counts as anything pretty. Now come around in a tenebrous set of armor accented by bright celestial green, and Nuala might be walking carefully for so many reasons. Possibly fear of blame. Her heavy cloak falls around her in a wave, her cowl covering her face. Mostly. She goes right for the white tent, frowning down at her boots with a pensive air.

There are only one hundred members of the King's Own, so it's rare to see too many in one place unless the King is nearby. But tonight, there's nearly a dozen of the knights standing ready with sleds.

Dame Eleanor Allenatore, the Lord Commander of the King's Own, is here as well. She's standing under the tent like any other sane person and frowning out. "This is not as fun as it was when the snow was a normal color," she says with a little sigh. But then she turns at the sound of Solange greeting guests, ready with a bright smile. "Good evening!"

Solange is overheard praising King's own: The backbone of our Compact, and not recognized nearly as much as they should even when they have kept our hope alive through trying times.

Waldemai takes the toddy and drains a third of it. "That's strong enough all right...But yes, I could use some training. Got to get away from the forge every so often." Of course, the best thing about being a smith with a forge is that one need never be cold.

"The Lord Commander can certainly help you with that," murmurs Solange, her smile twitching on her lips. "After all, she keeps all of the King's Own in order." She gestures with a wave of her fingers to Eleanor. "Lord Commander Eleanor Allenatore, have you met Messere--?" She doesn't actually know the name, trailing off. But she leaves them to get acquainted as she approaches Nuala, greeting her, "Welcome. Can I get you something warm to drink?"

Reedy, a King's Own aide arrives, following Corban.

A dozen knights make an impressive spectacle. One Nuala has to stop and admire for a moment, though plainly making an attempt not to draw attention doing so. Easy with the cowl she pushes back some to be viewed. The tent shields her from the worst of the storm, a welcome affair by any standard of the imagination. Her shoulders roll, that heavy leather cloak drawn tighter. "It should still be fun," says the Redrain. Her muddied accent does not hint at being northern. With a deep breath unbothered by the cool temperature, her shadow of a smile unfolds. Pretty, reserved and tinged by uneasiness, it belongs to a winter bloom. "Thank you," a reply for Solange. "I can get you a drink instead. Less risk to your aeterna."

"A mulled cider then, if you will," murmurs Solange graciously, her lips holding a smile for Nuala. She will join her in moving to the drinks table, even as she continues the conversation. "It is brave of you to join us today. Not many people have, obviously." A pause, before she introduces, "Solange Whisper, at your service."

"Have you tried carrying barrels of water?" Eleanor asks Waldemai with a crooked grin as she draws up beside Solange. "I would be happy to give you any advice or pointers. I'm Dame Eleanor," she adds, inclining her head toward Solange and her introduction.

Given that Silver Swords are trained to be perceptive, the knight that Nuala was admiring does seem to have noticed. But other than a slight twitch of the lips, there's no reaction.

Corban is overheard praising King's own.

Eleanor is overheard praising King's own.

Waldemai inserts, "Waldemai Isenhu, master smith, Dame Eleanor. Barrels, no I haven't tried." He IS a smith after all. "Buckets, for quenching pieces after shaping. Although normally I'd just get some snow." He looks out from unde rthe tent. "But not this year's snow."

Clink, clank. Clink, clank. Sir Corban Telmar is -- well. He is late. But then again, he knew he would be late, somehow. "Lord Commander," he says, coming up to a salute. "I am sorry. Just a little trouble at the at the Palace guard rotation. It just --" Corban makes a little gesture with his hand, as if to try to explain somehow but explaining very little at all. "Anyway. How goes it so far?"

"Mulled cider," says Nuala. She repeats the request with infinite ease and walks over to the table to select the drinks. Deft and easy movements convey a mechanical grace about her. No excess present. "Fear gives strength to negative emotions. I would rather laugh and enjoy good company." She pours out mulled cider in two cups, offering Solange the first. It is again with that same unconscious awareness. She does, after all, carry a sword. "Like a Whisper. Solange." The name floats around, tasted like the drink waiting to reach her lips. "I'm Nuala. Sword-dancer, occasional adventurous traveler." She nods to Eleanor, and repeats, "Dame Eleanor. Thank you for the welcome, for this."

"No," Eleanor answers Waldemai, turning to survey the snow still falling beyond the edges of the tent. When she turns back again, her smile has returned. "Well. Until we know more about how to help, we may as well take our minds off things." Corban's arrival, telegraphed by his clanking, draws her attention. "Oh, it's fine," she says, waving away his explanation. "Quiet, as you might expect," she answers with a lift of her eyebrows. "But that just means it's more intimate and we can get to know each other!"

"Sword-dancer and occasional adventurer sounds much more interesting of company," replies Solange lightly, accepting the drink with a nod of thanks and lifting it to her lips for a sip. Her amber gaze slides to Corban and Eleanor as the former arrives, before returning to Nuala. "It is a pleasure to meet you. I will have to remember your name, for you are exactly the type of person I need to surround myself." She nods, repeating in a toast, "To laughter and good company."

"Yes, well, as you might imagine. But, as you say, all a chance to get to know each other better." Corban goes to fetch himself a hot cider. A very hot cider. He at least manages to get himself a feel for it in his fingers before nodding to those here. "Princess Nuala. A please to see you. And Smith Waldemai? A pleasure."

Waldemai nods and lifts what remains (dregs) of his toddy. "Sir Corban," he says, and tells the others, "I've won many a silver betting on Sir Corban's skills in the arenas."

Solange drops floor length cloak of brilliant aeterna lined with silver-white fox fur.

Confessor Imori, Confessor Warren arrive, following Tikva.

"Welcome, Nuala," Eleanor says with a smile. "Glad you decided to brave the... snow." Sure, we'll call it snow. When Corban follows this up by addressing her as Princess, Eleanor looks stricken. "Oh, Your Highness. I'm sorry, I wasn't aware of your title." She presses a hand over her heart. "It's a pleasure to meet you, /Princess/ Nuala. Have you been sledding before? In better conditions, I imagine."

Slowly, Nuala raises her mulled cider. She drinks a sip after giving her salutation. For all barbarian princesses have a terrible reputation about such things, her manners are proving themselves outstanding. Like avoiding her actual title until Corban outs her. Oh well, no escape. The weight ofher duskstone eyes measures the knights and back to Solange. "I shall aim to be easily found." It helps to be the color of snow in complexion and midnight in garments. "The joy of an event like this. I'll take my chances with the snow." Her nose wrinkles at the title. "Please. Nuala. I do not feel worthy of the title, not at the moment."


**********************************************************************
That sense of dread has continued to grow as the day wears on. By the afternoon, the whole city feels as though it's under pressure, just waiting for an outlet; it's enough to drive more than a few to the taverns to drink away their worries and fears, while others seek out the shrines and Godsworn for reassurance. It feels as though the entire city is a pile of tinder waiting to spark.

And then comes a moment when it all comes to a head: for just an instant, everyone within the walls of Arx has a sense of terror, of anguish. It feels as though the world is coming to an end, as though their very /essence/ is being consumed by something...

And then it passes, and with it the pressure, the mounting sense of dread, the feeling of deja vu. Like a cool wind blowing through the streets after a hot day, a sense of relief and respite sweeps over those within the city walls.

Then, suddenly, there's a horrendously loud sound from the Heroes Home as a huge, jagged crack shoots through the clock tower, showering bits of stone and masonry into the square below. People stare upwards in dismay... and then begin to run in terror as the upper half of the tower begins to tilt forward, its shadow growing on the ground below.

It hangs in the air for an impossible moment, as though it were giving time for those below to make their escape -- and then, as the square empties, it simply collapses in an enormous shower of stone, dust, and twisted metal. Its destruction can be felt throughout the city, like a gong rung within the /souls/ of those within the walls.

And then, as the dust begins to settle, people realize the snow has stopped falling. And a cold rain begins to pour from the sky, washing away the diseased snow. A melancholy feel hangs in the air now, an emptiness.

A sense that something vital has been /lost/, and the Dream itself weeps.
**********************************************************************


Corban seems a bit confused when Nuala says she is not worthy of the title. "I am not sure it is a title one earns, Nuala, so much as one is born with." Puzzlement is in the First Captain's voice. "Nonetheless." He then smiles at Waldemai. "Well, I assure you. I did it not spar for coin. But I am glad I can bring some joy to you." He chuckles. "Has anyone actually done a trip on the snow yet?" he wonders.

Brenlin, Aide-de-Camp arrives, following Miranda.

Jared, an overworked-looking, nervous Apprentice Whisper arrives, following Bliss.

Jared, an overworked-looking, nervous Apprentice Whisper leaves, following Bliss.

Jacinthe, 1 Templar Knight guards arrive, following Sina.

Jacinthe, 1 Templar Knight guards leave, following Sina.

Even as Corban asks, as if tempting fate more on this party-- That mounting sense of dread crescendos into a sense of terror, passing by only to be replaced with the crack in the air, as from nearby the clock tower of Heroes Home pitches forward and then collapses, reverberating even on the judgement green. Solange turns, looking towards the clock tower with a gasp, her fingers lifting to cover her lips.

En route to join the party-- all be it a little late, mayhap -- Tikva pauses on the verge of the Judgment Green in a long sweep of her dark coat. Her hand lifts to curl over her chest, where a scarf closely winds around her throat, her brow pulled down. She stands arrested for a moment, like a hound sighting pray, staring towards the tower.

Miranda arrives at the training event, aka sledding, but her hood is over her head and scarf about her. Her attention seems elsewhere... to the tower collapsing. She watches with a bit of horror, surprise even. Then the rain begins to fall and she holds her hand out, as if making sure it's really rain and watches it splash on her glove-clad hand. A glances about a moment, to see if the King's Own are truly training, or did they cancel? Are they still training? She looks, mostly, very confused.

All the madness comes tumbling down as Nuala spins to that sick motion, that awful crack of terror. Bleak horror washes over her face and empties out any sensible revelry or mirth. It sends her halfway to her knees when the groaning noise of a structure breaking to pieces. Hands clap over her ears. The princess forces herself not to bend, not to fall. Old habit. Her eyes follow Solange's fingers. Snow to rain. Fear to shock. It's all written there in the wide stare of someone who might be very far away in that moment.

Waldemai's hand goes to the hammer he wears tucked into his belt.

When Solange turns and places her hand on her lips, Corban moves to stand slightly in front of her, as if to somehow defend her from a falling clock tower a whole ward away. His hand reaches back to touch her hip, to stabilize and reassure her. It may be more for him than for her. His eyes are wide behind his barbute.

Corban checked composure at difficulty 15, rolling 3 higher.

Eleanor's fingers are left bone white from the strength with which she balls them into fists at her sides. There's the sense her breath has been caught entirely, until her stillness breaks and she lets it out in a rush. "The Hundred -" She turns quickly, seeking Corban. "Did they get out?" She takes a few stuttering steps in the tower's direction.

Solange sways back into Corban, into the steadiness of his presence, subconsciously, even as her gold-flecked gaze slides to the Lord Commander. "I am sorry. I'm so sorry," she says, words catching on a hint of a cry. She has no smile now. "I should have cancelled. I knew-- I knew something was wrong, but." But then Eleanor is asking the important questions, and she looks to Corban as well, before sliding away and murmuring things to the servants. They bring Tikva and Nuala then Waldemai glasses of pure, warm scotch.


**********************************************************************
As the city recovers from the strange events of the day, those who climb atop the walls to survey the city soon notice something very odd to the northeast: a castle has appeared, seemingly out of nowhere, in the forest outside of town. And though the delicate spires of this building can be seen from the city walls, protruding well above the trees, those curious few who venture into the Forest in hopes of exploring this strange new building find only an immensely tall wall with no visible joins or masonry, and no door to be found. Even walking entirely around the castle uncovers no visible means of entry whatsoever... only that smooth, unbroken wall.
**********************************************************************


"Were they in there?" A very far away look, a very distant voice. It comes out flat and Nuala probably never hears the odd effect. She does not sway upon her feet, joints still tighter than they should be. Her knees straighten like someone made of metal rather than bone and flesh. Not a moment passes. Her gaze is fixed on the structure lost from the skyline.

"It's courage to carry on in the face of possible disaster," Tikva says. She takes the drink but without even appearing to really notice she's holding it, walking towards the others with her gaze flicking back and forth to the tower. "I think it's admirable that you carried on."

Eleanor's expression softens when it turns toward Solange. She steps up and reaches out to press a warm hand over the Whisper's shoulder. "You couldn't have known," she assures. "Besides, I agreed we should forge ahead." Tikva's comment draws her attenion, and even a subdued smile. "Princess Tikva is right." She darts her gaze back to Corban as Solange moves away. "I have to assume they would've abandoned the Tower once everyone was out." The tension at her eyes suggests she's holding herself back from just going to MAKE SURE.

Miranda just, sort of, stares a bit, silent. She looks about, noting Corban in his armor. She seems... at a loss, really. No words, no actions at the moment. She glances to the others, then back to the empty spot where the Tower fell. She slowly turns, then and departs the way she came, sort of the way someone might if absolutely confused or lost.

Relief is exhaled out as Solange nods to Eleanor, her fingers lifting to press back against the woman's hand at her shoulder. "Thank you, your highness," she offers to Tikva warmly, tipping her chin. "Though, I suppose-- there will be no chance of sledding now. Even if anyone were still in the mood to party."

Brenlin, Aide-de-Camp leaves, following Miranda.

Nuala numbly sets the cider aside. She moves with a mechanical state of affairs, mind detached from body. "How do we help?" This question to Eleanor. Corban. The sky. The dry cough clears her throat. Swaying on her feet, she forces her back straight. "I can seek my cousin. The High Lord's forces might be enough."

Renard, an austere man in black-and-white livery arrives, following Gaston.

"I don't know," says Corban, quietly, looking at Eleanor. But Reedy is here, and Corban points at him and points out. This, it seems, is all that the older man, the former Telmarch aide needs to know. He rushes off through the snow, to seek the answer. But he then looks at the others, taking a deep breath. "Well. Quite the evening." He seems unsure what else to say.

A dutiful Valardin aide, Quiet, a Valardin champion arrive, following Katarina.

A dutiful Valardin aide, Quiet, a Valardin champion leave, following Katarina.

Eleanor doesn't look relaxed, precisely, but perhaps reassured as Reedy departs. Enough to turn back toward the small group gathered. "King's Own knights guard the Tower," she explains with a nod at Nuala. "The offer is very appreciated, but they're all smart. There's no reason they would've stayed in an empty, crumbling building." PROBABLY. "Yes." Her laugh is short but genuine. "Well. I guess we still have hot drinks. And, I don't know, I can make the knights carry impressively heavy things around for you, if you'd like." The knights of the Hundred are, in fact, still here. Though they're giving the tower worried looks from time to time.

Solange's smile gets plastered back on her face as she considers Eleanor's offer, before she counter suggests, "Or! Perhaps, have the knights pull anyone that wishes to sled down the hill. After all, Sir Corban has promised me a sled ride and I would not mind watching that." She slides a look to Corban, gold-flecked eyes sparkling with amusement, before she takes a challenging step outside of the tent, letting the new rain wash over her, aeterna and all.

Nuala is left staring numbly off to the side. She watches with those vast matte eyes dominating her face. Care makes victims of youth. Hers is all the more pronounced in its own quiet horror off to the side. Hands at her sides stay balled up. Any evidence of a reaction is scoured clean. How does someone react to the rain falling? To a volcanic eruption? "Impressively heavy things." A thought, a word. "The rubble? Rebuild?"

Waldemai is no knight, but, "I'll pull, too, if it's okay. It'll help keep me warm." And distracted.

"But are we not here to train as the knights train?" Tikva asks with a bright laugh. "Should we not aid the knights who serve our King and Compact? Surely the Peers of the Realm should not shy from showing the quality of their muscles by pulling a sled."

From the distance comes the sound of overlapping heavy plate clanking and clanging, perhaps muffled by the downpour, and then the towering Marquis of Cloudspine is charging onto the Green, gold-flecked eyes wide and staring through the T-slit of his barbute helm and fur-mantled cloak flapping wildly out behind him, appropriately dramatic. A rather severe-looking man with a large scar, Renard, is chasing after him and struggling valiantly to keep up, clutching his own heavy wool cloak close around him, though his lord's long legs are eating the ground up beneath them despite the weight of all that rubicund.

"NUALA! /Gods,/ NUA--" Oh. The big man stumbles to a halt with a clatter as he encounters the group, apparently unharmed and in the middle of sledding. "Thank the gods," He breathes, breath steaming out in big, panting billows. "You are...all okay?" A beat, and he shuffles awkwardly as his servant catches up to him. Renard eyes the group, and then the Marquis, and mutters, "...the family is going to get quite the laugh out of this, m'lord."

"You can pull me if you want," Eleanor offers Tikva magnanamously. "I think it would be an abuse of my power to make my knights do it, but if you're OFFERING..." She quirks up a playful smile.

"Right!" Tikva turns to look over at the sleds with a slight squint. How do you pull a sled. She's not a sled dog. Is this intuitive?

There are straps on the sled! The ones that would be used to pull it /up/ the hill, mind, but.

"Well!" says Corban, doing his best to rally and throw himself into the event with the danger to the Silver Swords still hanging over them, as Reedy goes to take an assessment of things. He gestures towards the sled and then to Solange. "Shall you, dear Whisper? We will see if I can train as the King's Own do."

"Shall we have a race?" Tikva asks. "A race of-- wait. This is maybe a dumb idea," she confesses, as she approaches the sled and tries to figure out how to hitch the straps to her arms. She has an archer's strength, which is not exactly like an ox's. This is probably one of the least princessly things she has done in the past 3 years.

Waldemai waits as the teams get sorted out.

The shout of her name startles Nuala out of whatever stupor she's with. Not much habit there. The people running around a sled have not quite interrupted her. But her hand is already falling to the hilt of her sword with the other on her back a seared scarlet shade compared to the white. No, it would not be a suitable thing to train as the King's Own do by stabbing someone reflexively. She is already considering movement, falling into a stance in the rain. This is not a good thing. Habit snaps her back onto the defensive. Violent blinking knocks her sideways. Takes a while. "I didn't drown." Real threat of drowning in the middle of a square. "I.. They're racing." A lame wave of her hand.

Eleanor is already jumping onto the sled Tikva has appropriated and settling down with crossed legs. "Why?" she asks, face tilted up to the princess. "The snow was poisoned, and a Tower fell down, and there's not really a damn thing any of us can do about it right this moment, so." She waves her hand as if to say, 'proceed!'. "Pull me faster than Corban."

Solange tips her chin, a look sliding to Tikva as she exhales a laugh. "I would not mind making a race of it. I'm sure Sir Corban won't even blame my weight if we lose," she teases. She shivers as she steps into the sled, taking her seat with all the grace of a Whisper, as she looks to Corban expectantly.

It is then that Reedy rushes up to Eleanor and Corban, out of breath, like he ran the whole way from the Judgment Green to the Hall of Heroes and then back. He salutes, his chest heaving. "Lord Commander. Sir Corban." He pants. He's not a knight, Reedy is not. "All present and accounted for. All of the Hundred. No one was seriously hurt, in fact."

Corban's eyes light up at that report. A genuine happiness he has not had since the crack of the Tower.

Gaston is not one for standing around like a fool, despite surely looking a great one at the moment. He glances at the activity with the sleds, people struggling valiantly to return to semblance of normality despite the explosion, and his heaving chest finally starts to slow. His eyes find Nuala's, and he approaches her slowly, taking in her stance, her words. He's murmuring something to her as he gets closer, hands raised slightly to show they are empty despite being armored. Renard is watching the rest of the group as well, though dutifully he falls into step behind his lord and clears his throat to give them at least some small amount of privacy.

Waldemai raises his whiskey glass. "Praise to all the gods for that."

Nuala drops her hand from the hilt of her sword, still terribly surprised and easy to set to jumping. She shakes her head. "I cannot meaningfully contribute to games." She sounds just a little too old, too empty. Her hand is extended, wooden, elbow rigid. "Let's go."

"That is a great relief," Tikva says with firm warmth in her voice, even as she stands there hitched to the sled like a sled dog. She runs her hand back through the bright fluff of her hair, and smiles a wide, sunshine smile, back over her shoulder at Eleanor and then over to Corban.

Tikva is overheard praising King's own: May all the gods bless the Hundred.

Nuala is overheard praising King's own: Resolute in the best of ways.

Solange picks up floor length cloak of brilliant aeterna lined with silver-white fox fur.

Gaston is only too glad to grasp her hand, eyes tight with worry as he takes in the state of her, and he bows to all in attendance before leading her off the Green, armor faintly clanking and a bemused Renard in tow. "Thank the gods none perished, it's the one relief this evening," He calls over his shoulder. "My apologies for the interruption!"

Alizarin, an ethereal bard, 2 Redrain Guards leave, following Nuala.

Renard, an austere man in black-and-white livery, Nuala leave, following Gaston.

Solange tips her chin, relief washing over gold-flecked eyes once again. "I am glad no one was injured. The clocktower did seem to-- pause, in a way. As if to give people time," she comments, musing softly.

Eleanor's hands wrap around the rope where it joins with her sled and her shoulders wiggle with anticipation that's made a touch wild by the relief from the news brought by Reedy. "What are the rules of this race?"

Dandy, the red fox, 1 Templar Knight guards arrive, following Etienne.

Kit, the grey fox, Primus, First of Monique's Assistants, 1 Greenmarch Guard, Tertius, Third of Monique's Assistants, Quartus, Fourth of Monique's Assistants, Etienne arrive, following Monique.

Dandy, the red fox, 1 Templar Knight guards leave, following Etienne.

Kit, the grey fox, Primus, First of Monique's Assistants, 1 Greenmarch Guard, Tertius, Third of Monique's Assistants, Quartus, Fourth of Monique's Assistants, Etienne leave, following Monique.

"Aren't the rules -- get down to the bottom first?" asks Corban as he goes to grab the strap on the sled in front of him, looking back over his shoulder at Solange. Perhaps she knows more rules than that! He, apparently, takes this the easy way. His feet shift this way and that, getting ready to make a break for it.

"On three," Tikva says. She holds up three fingers. "One, two, three!" she counts them off, and then hurtles forward down the hill, trying not to-- trip over her own feet and send them careening to certain doom and broken legs and stuff.

Tikva checked strength + athletics at difficulty 15, rolling 33 higher.

Corban checked strength + athletics at difficulty 15, rolling 43 higher.

Eleanor checked dexterity + athletics at difficulty 15, rolling 38 higher.

"Wait, wait wait, no one called it!" Solange calls out, but she is quick to realize they haven't started. She urges Corban: "Go, go!"

Solange checked dexterity + athletics at difficulty 15, rolling 4 lower.

ZOOM. Eleanor clings to the sled, shifting her bodyweight as they careen downhill. There's a shriek of delight about halfway down that she will absolutely blame on one of the innocent Silver Swords watching from the top. Only once they've stopped does she look up and over her shoulder. "Did we win?"

Waldemai applauds the racers as they trundle down the hill.

Look, everything is muddy and it is still pouring, and Corban must have yanked a /little/ too hard. Solange tries to cling to the sled, but she doesn't manage it. Not even halfway down the hill, she tumbles out, rolling another few feet down the muddy, icy hill in her new aeterna outfit. But when she sits up, wiping mud from her face, it is with breathless laughter.

Corban, it might be said, is quite eager for the race. And for the game. Perhaps TOO eager. And so he bolts for the top, rushing, tugging Solange behind him. Somewhere around the halfway mark, he really hits his stride, gets his second wind. Why, it's like this sled is so light that Solange is. Not. On. It. Any -- oh. He reaches the top before Tikva and Eleanor, but just in time to look back down the hill and the Whisper he left behind. "Solange!" he calls out, climbing down the hill, to help her up.

Tikva clatters to the finish, clearly in second place but rather delighted not to have pitched and rolled and broken her legs. She cheers, throwing her arms in the air. "No one loses!" This is-- that is the opposite of what happened.

"Does that mean we win?" Eleanor asks hopefully. The opposite of losing is winning, ergo. She scrambles up to her feet and, still riding high on that 'my people didn't die' adreneline, throws her arms around Tikva in an exuberant hug. "Excellent work, Your Highness." She steps back, all sunshine. "You clearly don't need any King's Own training."

"I'm fine," Solange promises. Covered in mud with maybe a bruise or two, but fine! She takes Corban's hand, letting him help her to her feet, before she smears her muddy hand against his jaw briefly. "Though, I could use a bath. And some wine." With that, she turns and moves to join Eleanor and Tikva at the finish 'line', smiling brightly at them. "Well done! Apparently, I /could/ use some. But then, what would I ever need it for?"

Tikva tips her head back and up, closing her eyes for a long moment as the sweet, sad rain falls over her face. Her smile as she turns her damp gaze back to the others is warm, and wistful, and she says, "We probably all could use a bath and some wine. I mean, now and again."

Corban leans in and murmurs something to Solange and then shakes his head at her. "I am sure we all could after this," he says, looking up at the sky and the rain that comes down. "But this was a pleasant distraction from all of the -- other things going on. Well done, Lord Commander. Your Highness. You bested us quite fair and square."

"A bath does sound lovely." Eleanor waves a hand up the hill. "Everyone should go take one of the bottles home with them and do just that." She turns her sunshine smile on Solange as she approaches. "If I were your patron," she says with a self-delighted smile, "you'd have no need for it at all." Then there's a snort of indignance at Corban's comment. "You got there first. You can't say we won just because I'm your boss."

Solange's lips curve into a smile, brushing another muddy hand across Corban's shoulder before she murmurs something back. Then she straightens, clearing her throat. She laughs for Eleanor's quip, tipping her chin, before she counters, "He got there first /without me/. He left me behind! Surely, that means he can't win."

"I'm sure no victory is true without one's partner," Tikva says with the bright flash of a grin. "But a drink and a bath really do sound delightful. We could get in out of this wet."

Tikva is overheard praising Solange: It is a mark of courage to carry on with a bright heart, despite all, and I am delighted to have come to your party.

Eleanor reaches out to take the sled's rope from Tikva's hand. "C'mon," she says, starting to tromp off through the mud to the covered cart waiting to take them back up the hill. "Someone ought to enjoy these at least once. And then we can go home and drink in our bathtubs."

"I hope you do not mind if I borrow your Sir Corban to escort me home, Lord Commander?" questions Solange, perhaps considering that bath and wine sooner rather than later. She joins them in moving to the cart, however, with her own things to wrap up at the top of the hill.

Corban does his bit to help out as well, moving the things that need moving. "Yes, I can see you home, Whisper Solange, if you like. My, what terrible weather and odd things going on. But a drink and a bath sounds like a good way to forget all of it."