Caraya doesn't find Vic Ferren at Eagle's Roost, nor The Wine Garden, but at The Black Draught. Easily bypassing the line outside with her sealed message in hand, she asks one of the barkeeps where Vic might be found. Following the pointed finger, Caraya realizes that she needn't have asked -- the Count's young relative does . . . stand out.
Seated all alone at a table meant for four or five patrons, Vic Ferren gazes into the hearth fire, his eyebrows pinched close as he broods. Both hands clasp a large tankard (one of five that are neatly arrayed before him), and his fingers idly spin the container in a circle as thoughts wander. His features are strong, and "clean", one might say -- sandy blonde hair, bright blue eyes, and the lean build of an active man just entering his prime. His clothing and gear are of fine quality, and balance both function and appearance in equal measure. The pommel of his sheathed blade rests in easy reach against the table's edge, and his kite shield is propped against the weapon.
As Caraya moves closer, she is able to take in the heraldry upon the enameled shield -- a black triple-peaked mountain superimposed upon a bright blue field, with a circlet of gold ringing the tallest, center summit . . . and a purple border around the shield's edge. Her steps falter for a split-second as she processes the implications of this imagery, quite different from that of Count Ferren's house. The Lord of the Vale's sigil matches with the black mountain and the blue field, but has a silver circlet around the central spire, and no border at all. The young man before her is making a very clear statement here -- that he is descended from royalty, and that he has the highest of political ambitions.
Taking a breath, Caraya clears her throat and moves next to Vic's seat, proffering the sealed scroll. The young warrior shifts from quiet musings to intense focus in an eyeblink, scanning the girl before him to assess whether she is a threat or not. But as quickly as he notices the wax seal, his stern expression softens to one of smirking self-assurance.
My thanks, young woman. If you would be so kind to wait for my reply, it would be much appreciated.
With smooth motions the parchment is opened, and Vic begins reading. The dancing firelight in the room allows Caraya to read his face clearly as he takes in the words. Shock. Dismay. Unadulterated rage. And, at last, steely resolve.
A complete and undisguised insult. Very well, then.
Vic turns once more to the slightly apprehensive Caraya and smiles, though it does not reach his eyes -- as polite and false as a smile can be. Again, thank you for your patience. And here is my reply: White-knuckled fists rend the parchment in two, and the shredded halves are crushed together in a useless lump. If you will bear this message back to the keep for me, I would count it as a favor. And for your trouble -- Five silver coins are drawn from a belt pouch and placed gently in her hand. I believe you have a party to attend, young woman, Vic comments, nodding toward her ritual waterskin. Once you've finished the Trial, should our paths cross again, I may be able to return that favor. Till then, go safely!
And his gaze returns to the hearth's red-orange glow.
The dismissal, which it obviously is, doesn't rankle overmuch because Caraya knows that her time is short if she wishes to bear Vic's "answer" to the keep and arrive at the feast in timely fashion. With quickened steps, she dashes out of The Black Draught and into the encroaching dusk.