[center][h2]Estelle[/h2][/center]

“Is something the matter, [i]Monseigneur[/i]?”

Lord Leandre Dubois, son of Valerian Dubois, heir of the Crestwalk barony, staunch ally of King Wilmgard—her friend—pursed his lips. It was the closest he got to a pout without actually expressing it, and Estelle smiled to see it. With her eyes locked on him he fidgeted, then finally removed his helmet. All of a sudden he was less of a soldier-lord and more of a man, the curve of his jaw and nose less angular and more soft. His hair was a mess of brown curls, his fair brow furrowed over troubled green eyes.

“I did not want to leave you bearing my concerns on top of everything else, Estelle. Yet here I am,  another weight on your shoulders. There is wisdom in Father's decision, I am aware, but it does not make the loss any easier.”

Estelle smiled and shook her head, breaking the distance between them until she was looking up into his youthful face. “Do not call it a loss, [i]Monseigneur[/i]. An absence, perhaps. You know I have served your family with all my heart, and my heart remains forever in my homeland. The only difference now is that my heart must grow to encompass The League of Arcadia.”

Leandre smiled a little in return, crossing his arms over his breastplate. Like every one of his soldiers, he was gilded with the family crest—a field of blue with a golden barrulet and a gryphon engraved in front of both. “I do not question your loyalty in serving elsewhere and you know this. I... I simply do not like this notion of placing you under the protection of another man. Do the Devarons honor those who serve them as Father and his children have? Does he have the foresight of a wise man who provides for his people in times of famine? Does he have the strength of a soldier to be the shield of his people when bandits rise? Does he have the guile of a merchant to foster the prosperity of his people? Does he—”

“[i]Je ne sais pas[/i]; that is why I am going, [i]non[/i]? I am serving to help, not to be protected or provided for. Our [i]Monseigneur[/i] Valerian will know how well he can trust [i]Monseigneur[/i] Devaron and the competency of the League soon enough.”

“[i]Oui[/i].” Leandre raised a hand to rub at his forehead and sighed. “Just... did it have to be you? I would that he might have sent one of my knights instead.”

Estelle snorted, the hint of a smile at her lips. “[i]N'importe quoi[/i], I do things your knights cannot and that is why I go!”

“I did not mean—ah...” Leandre threw his hand up, where it landed unceremoniously at his side a moment later. “I do not question your competency, I...”

“Just say it, then. You have wanted to before I left, [i]non[/i]?”

Leandre blinked, a slight blush to his cheeks as he averted his face. “It would not be appropriate.”

“Then I should go.” 

Estelle managed to turn and move about two feet before his hand clamped around her arm. The grip was firmer than he must have meant it to be, his motions tense and jerky in his armor. Her head moved to face him and everything she expected was there—frustration, shame, affection. For a moment between them, silence. Finally, he leaned down, the warmth of his lips touching her forehead.

“Be safe, [i]Ma Cherie[/i].” 

*	*	*

And now here she was, among strangers who felt familiar. Faces were different, but most of them had that bearing—a confident stride and a genial air of unity. She didn't introduce herself so much as blend in as servants did, materializing at just the right moment as if by magic. Setting camp only sounded easy, but for every soldier there had to be a bed roll, for each group of bed rolls a tent, and for each tent of soldiers a meal to accompany their appetite. Horses needed feed, fire needed fuel, equipment needed maintenance, and everything had to be accounted for.

She was good at that sort of thing, appearing quietly to help service dinner and get tents pitched. Some troublemaker had already caused a stir by firing an arrow in the midst of soldiers eating their food. She'd seen a shock of white hair flee the scene and had 'tsked,' noting that there were already going to be reports of misbehavior finding their way to Prince Devaron. His task was no small one, bringing men and women of very different countries into one unit. An act of desperation, perhaps, or the beginning of a truly unified Arcadian league? 

As she made her way to the bonfire meeting among others, she couldn't help but feel a bit out of place. Leandre may have been right about sending a knight—many present were armored or otherwise armed, each with some look of experience. By contrast, she had only her uniform. The lacy headband stuck out from her blonde curls like a hot, glowing brand; she was no soldier, but a creature of finesse and caretaking. Whereas others were accompanied by the clink of blades and armor, she had a frilly black skirt swiveling around her legs. Her only claim to competency on the battlefield was the symbol attached to the front of her choker—the mark of House Dubois and its specialized servants.

Prince Devaron, a manakete veteran, an Archanean outlaw—the rumors of a diverse group truly hadn't been wrong. She made note of each name and silently debated whether or not she ought to introduce herself. It had never been in her nature to leap into the spotlight and she couldn't be sure anyone would care about having a maid in their numbers. Ultimately, however, she was a representative of House Dubois and decided she ought to represent the noble name with pride.

“[i]Bonjour[/i], comrades. [i]Monseigneur[/i] Devaron, [i]Monsieur[/i] Myno, [i]Monsieur[/i] Taka, and all others whom I have the pleasure of greeting tonight, I am honored to make your acquaintance.” Her tone was heavy with accent, but chime-like as she stepped forward and offered a small curtsy. “By the order of [i]Monseigneur[/i] Dubois, I am here to serve your every need. Besides the general duties of a servant, I am also trained to heal the wounded and to defend others from magic wielding foes. I look forward to our fellowship as we serve the League.”