[Laiudanama]

Trystan stumbled a few steps after Saeryn as she suddenly took off towards the kitchen, and from behind her could see her neck reddening in apparent embarasment. As they reached the kitchen and the Lady began bustling around, putting the kettle on, Trystan grinned and leant back against one of the work surfaces, an apparently relaxed position.

"You are not a friend of this Degas, my Lady?" he asked, his smile audible in his voice. Saeryn did not turn immediately, then replied slowly, "I'm not sure I would say that exactly. He is my brother, Trystan."

The smile vanished from the boy's face and he felt his cheeks redden in embarasment. You idiot, Trys... "I...I'm sorry, I didn't realise..." he stammered in reply.

Saeryn looked over her shoulder at him, giving a small smile, then turned around fully, shaking her head and grinning. "Calm down, Trystan, I will not bite your head off," she laughed. Trystan smiled back bashfully, feeling relieved and a little foolish. Her eyes twinkling, Saeryn looked carefully at him and, taking advantage of the light-heartedness of the moment, got to the point. "My brother aside, what brings you to Eorling Mead Hall anyway? You are not from around these parts, I suppose?"

Trystan wasn't taken in for an instant: he wasn't easily enough distracted by a pretty face not to realise that she was weighing him up carefully with her eyes and coming to gods only know what conclusions. He was a mess, after all: torn breeches, battered and worn boots, a loose shirt and dark jerkin that had certainly seen better days. He crossed his arms across his chest in a self-conscious and rather futile gesture. "What, was it my enchanting Gondorian charm..." he struck a knightly pose, "...or maybe just the accent?"

Saeryn laughed, with him rather than at him, and the thief took advantage of the moment to alter the conversation in a rather less dangerous direction. "Would I be right in guessing you too are from rather more Southerly parts?"