RP:Deciphering Lies - Macon's and Kelovath's

From HollowWiki

Part of the Rise of Larket Arc


Summary: Thane Josleen has been a guest/prisoner (tomato/tomahto) for three days, dining each night with the King who tries to convince her of his version of events. Their conversation often ventures to stories of their past, neutral and entertaining stories that slowly make them friendly.

On the third day they visit Kelovath and Josleen’s former home, an estate haunted by the murdered councilwoman Andurla. There, the ghost attacks Macon relentlessly, and Josleen impulsively intervenes in favor of the King’s life.

Macon confesses to Josleen that he did kill Andurla, but everything else he said about Kelovath is true. Josleen has been nursing doubt about Kelovath for days, and one piece of evidence, which only she knows, nags her. She tells Macon that Kelovath ventured alone into the underdark, into House D’Artes, and returned not only alive and unscathed, but in the possession of a legendary, sentient sword. This convinces Josleen at long last that Kelovath has been false, and she breaks. Macon’s rage spurs her into recreating Beyonce’s ‘Hold Up’ music video, but with a fire poker instead of a baseball bat.

Fort Freedom

Josleen has been a ‘guest’ of the King for three full days. Each day Macon suggests that he and Josleen visit her former home to retrieve her things, and each day Josleen offers a paltry excuse not to. In truth, she fears facing the public, for her reputation in Larket on the street is that of a witch or succubus. She also isn’t sure how she’ll react inside a home she had such high hopes for. She remembers carefully choosing every piece of decor, of hosting a few friends and proudly giving them a tour, planning for a fashionable garden, dreams all squashed by one man, and with each day she is less certain who that man is: Macon or Kelovath? Macon’s insistence that they visit the home, together, has aroused Josleen’s suspicion. Surely he is not so invested in seeing her reunited with her material things? She guesses his restless interest in the estate is related to Andurla’s restless spirit, but makes no comment to that end. She means to ask Macon about Andurla at each dinner, but the conversation always starts with Kelovath’s villainy until Josleen can handle it no more, and she changes the subject abruptly to something far away and removed entirely. “You have an interesting accent, where are you from?” “What made you interested in the guard? How long were you a sheriff? What did you like about the job?” “Have you any family here?” Josleen follows up his answers with follow-up questions, earnestly, too, as she is curious about him. She’ll speak of herself when appropriate. She grew up in Xalious, daughter to a celebrated mage academic and author of many non-fiction books Kyl’oriel who Macon may have heard of. Her mother is a bard, as is she. Josleen trained in the Cenril Academy of Music and Arts-- pause for applause. Josleen is an only child, she’s lived in Cenril, Venturil, Chartsend, and Frostmaw besides Xalious, and has served as a nurse in three wars. It’s how she came to be close to Frostmaw and its queen and came to love its people and culture. Josleen has something nice to say about every place she’s lived in, including Larket (beautiful architecture and full of lively arts, brilliant poets). By talking to him about normal things she begins to see him as a normal man, and her guard lowers inch by inch. Their routine reinforces the normalcy of everything, despite that fact that circumstances are not normal. Finally, during their most recent dinner when Macon ask again if Josleen would like to go to her estate the following day, Josleen confesses. “The truth is that I fear being seen in public here. There are many who still believe me to be a villain in all of this. I’m not sure how to correct that falsehood.”


Macon’s mind is plagued with delusions of being able to make amends with the spirit of Andrula, whose murder is still his greatest regret in this entire ordeal, and perhaps his life. Thus his insistence on visiting the home... Convincing Josleen that the man she loves is, in fact, the worst villain Larket has ever seen is slow, persistent work, but The King finds himself looking forward to their dinners together, the thane even finding him at the table early, waiting for her on at least one occasion (but this can easily be explained as a scheduling snafu). His tone changes when she invariably steers the point of conversation towards smalltalk. Not in any way that would betray his disingenuousness about recent events, but in a natural levity that comes with no longer discussing topics of life and death, and kingdoms at war. This allows his love of Larket to shine through all the more and perhaps her even cracks a smile or two when providing answers like “Veratoak.” “My father was in the military.” (maybe not during that one.) and “Almos’ eight years.” He describes justice idyllically and with passion, and reveals this his mother still back home in Veratoak, perhaps not well enough to travel to see her son as a king. He has met Kyl’oriel ‘once. Maybe.’ during his time as a councilman, or at least someone with a similar name, neither one leaving a strong impression on the other, obviously. Macon beams proudly when she praises Larket and sulks slightly when she does the same for Frostmaw. He laments the current state of Cenril and shows little interest in the more western lands. The Death Knight prys and asks why she left all these places if she left all these places she lived if she liked them so. (In one case, at least, he knows the answer.) He recalls a myth (and wonders if she’s ever heard it) about a Larketian bard that became trapped playing a song on a magical instrument that slows time for the user to an infinitesimal crawl. Macon describes his journey to Larket and change in profession, revealing, in a sort of self deprecating way how he came into his fortune here, describing his successful investments as a combination of luck and proper timing rather than the product of any real business acumen. Her concern over public opinion is met with a reassurance only he can give, “I am the king.” and he describes a notice that could be made, parts of it she may not find agreeable, that informs Larketians that she, like them, has been deceived, and that she is now here to broker peace between The Hard City and the mountaintop.


Josleen smiles whenever Macon speaks of Larket. He asks why she left all those cities and she blushes at the truth she would never confess: men. Her choice in home usually follows a man. Later she develops her own affinity for a place, but at the start and at the end, there’s always a man perched in her decision tree. Instead says that she was run out of Venturil during Eboric’s usurpation, which is true. Her choice of words reveal her politics. The official story claims that during a raid by monsters in Venturil, the then-dying king gave the throne to Eboric, but Josleen is one of many conspiracy theorists who believes that account is a lie. Eboric stole the crown, the theory goes. // It would seem she’s long been opinionated on the matter of crowns: in Venturil, Frostmaw, and now Larket. She’s no political initiate and unwittingly she reveals to Macon at various points that her mind is a catalog of anecdota about foreign powers. // Why did she leave Cenril? Too much crime. Frostmaw? Too cold, she whispers conspiratorially close to the king, as if she just confided in Macon a terrible secret. Her flirty gaze deplores him to keep this secret. And Xalious? Too small. She needs a city with arts. // Speaking of which, oh Macon, you poor thing. Here we go. When he mentions the Larket bard legend, Josleen’s eyes light up and she exclaims, “Yes! Did you know…” Cue a 15 minute dissertation of the brilliance and beauty of that legend, and how it has evolved over time. She pantomimes parts of the story, adopts a few voices in places, for she is a natural story teller. The story ends with a rumor. “They say that the bard’s mandolin is not only real, but sealed in a box trapped within a stone block within the Chapel of Cyris. I hope you’d forgive me for saying I’d break open every one of those stones if it meant finding that mandolin.” She flashes him a cheeky grin, then immediately reddens as she feels herself flirting with the enemy king (again). Josleen! She turns back to her food and kills that topic before she gets carried away. // His wealth is duly noted and apprai$$ed. // Macon’s propaganda proves the most insidious note in the song this pied piper king plays to lure Josleen away from Kelovath. Until now her reputation was linked to Kelovath’s. If he was bad, so was she, and the inverse true too. Macon in one fell swoop uncoupled their reputations. She can now truly choose.


Kelovath and Josleen’s Estate

It is late morning on the day Josleen agreed to meet with Macon and travel to her home. Her make-up, hair, and dress match the current fashion of Larketian high society women, hoping to blend in by wearing similar plumage as the other birds. Although she did not dress for Macon specifically, he benefits from a lower-cut collar, as is the fashion of Larket at the moment, lower than anything Josleen has worn so far, anyway. Her nervous gaze flickers through the open door onto the sunny, wintry street. Though she fakes an expression of composure, her gaze is too fixed on the city to be anything but stress. A fort staff member brings her a coat once Macon arrives and greets Josleen. She flashes him a polite smile that doesn’t quite reach her eyes. In the days before she fled Larket, crowds would jeer her and one woman even threw a soiled baby’s blanket on her, a child that died from the plague which the woman believed Josleen was responsible for. ‘No one will try anything if I am with the king,’ she reminds herself more than once.


Macon takes in her opinion on usurpers with a few thoughtful nods, knowing she believes him to be among their ranks. Josleen’s enthusiasm for the Larketian myth is endearing in his opinion and he finds himself idly cleaning his plate of whatever course of the extravagant meal they are on at the time while listening to the lengthy history of the legend. The King pulled in more by her excitement than by the subject matter itself, so much so that he ends up nodding in agreement when she suggests tearing down the Chapel of Cyris to find an (obviously?) fictitious musical instrument. He’s already killed The High Priest after all… For their trip to Andurla’s old home Macon is once again outside of his Nikola-crafted, silver Rage Armor, as he has been for their dinners, but he does carry with him The Rage Axe like a walking staff. Once again a six-pack of Kingsguard will accompany them, though the faces are likely all new to Josleen save for Maureen’s. Just before they are about to set foot out of the fort and into the public eye, Macon, noticing her clear distraction and anxiety, drops a reassuring hand onto her shoulder and casts the bard a sideways glance, “Ready?” What is waiting for her out there now is a far cry from the Larketians that chased her out of town. Sure there are some mumblings, but no rumblings, and certainly nothing is thrown Josleen’s way. Perhaps the ‘notice’ put out by the king was more of a threat, but who knows. During the trip through Larket Macon indulges in his favorite kingly pastime, pointing at specific people in the small crowds lining the marketplaces of the city when they stop to look the group’s way, like they are his best friend. They eat it up. Not too many hate The Rage King in this city.


Josleen looks down at Macon’s hand on her shoulder then up at his face. She doesn’t pull away, and privately notes the contact which is akin to when smitten men stretch arms overhead then let one casually drop around a date at the theater. She suppresses a knowing grin and likes the attention, and this time forgets to reprimand herself for it. During their walk she is endeared by way the king interacts with the public. She recalls Kelovath was always a bit stiff in public. Although Josleen doesn’t notice this consciously, her life has been better over the course of a few days with Macon than it has been for months with Kelovath. Although she does not think in these terms, she feels it, and it colors her view of both men. Suddenly she is struck once again by the fact Macon is actually quite handsome. She leeches off the adoration directed at the king, letting it fill her up a little too even if she isn’t supposed to. A bard can’t resist the adulation of a crowd. The brief moment of joy she feels in public, quite opposite to what she expected, fades as they reach the estate. Inside, a few cupboards and closets remain open haphazardly, and curtains are torn in a heap on the floor from when Hureig ripped out the curtain rod (a mammoth ‘wand’). The decor is a tasteful and eclectic mix of Larketian, Frostmawian and Xaliouian (??) furniture, with a few knick knacks from Cenril and Venturil as well. The estate feels chillier than the winter outside. Although the house is empty, foot steps can be heard pacing upstairs. 1, 2, 3, 4, slow steps, a pause, then a run, then silence. Josleen seems unphased by the ghostly sounds and drifts into the dark hall as if a ghost herself. This place haunts her now, but not because of a spirit, but because of the dream it represents: a future with Kelovath that began to fade the moment Macon played his false notes.


Macon instructs the Kingsguard to wait outside the home, this is a reunion for him alone that perhaps Josleen may interlope into. The bright face he put on for the crowd has dissipated as the bard’s has upon reaching their destination. Once he is inside and hearing the noises from above, The Furious King ducks his head and glances upward like he is trying to fit through a doorway too short for him. As a councilman he has been here before on multiple occasions while it still belonged to his peers, and so the layout is familiar. He notes the signs of a hasty escape from this place, which are not unexpected. The Rage Axe is clutched tightly in both hands while he follows Josleen through the hall. A glance back his way, should it come, won’t reveal fear, but a man uncertain as to what to expect from this haunted house that he has provided the spirit for.


The kitchen smells of the sickly sweet rot of vegetables and fruit, abandoned in a haste. Josleen ignores the kitchen, and the living room too. He things are upstairs, in the bedroom and music room. The stairs creak before she sets foot on them. With one hand on the banister, she looks over her shoulder at Macon and notices his anxiety. “Her spirit is weak. The medium said Andurla struggles to connect with this plane, but tries to because she is angry. Whoever killed her… or why…” She shakes her head ruefully. It’s a thought that completes itself, and Josleen doesn’t even know who she’s alluding to anymore. Who killed Andurla? She doesn’t know anymore. She climbs the stairs, leaving Macon to drift wherever he pleases. Soon, to Macon, the house begins to feel like it is tilting onto one side, though nothing moves. A lopsided vertigo inflicted on him alone, Josleen oblivious, like some weak force tries to bowl him over but cannot.


Macon lets out a gruff sounding noise in acknowledgement of understanding what Josleen has just said to him about Andurla’s spirit. He is preoccupied, looking up at the ceiling again to pinpoint the source of the noises the house is making. He wanders into a room near the back end of the ground floor and the effect of the haunting begins to take hold. He stumbles to his side, slamming the butt of his axe down against the floor and holding onto the handle with both hands. This isn't enough to ground the king against the perceived shift in gravity and he is quickly finding his shoulder loudly ramming into a wall, the force knocking down a mirror or framed picture from it. He manages to stay stationary leaning against that side of the room, but to him it feels more like he is lying down against it. “Andurla…” The King calls out to the Spirit while trying to step up onto the wall, the reality of gravity forcing his feet to slide back down to the floor.


"Is everything alright?!" Josleen calls from upstairs. Andurla suddenly releases Macon so that, if he doesn't catch himself, he'll fall roughly to the floor. A few seconds later a screw rains down on him from above. If he looks up he'll see a third then fourth twist out of their sockets until a medium-sized chandelier is freed from the ceiling and crashes down right over his head. Whether it falls on Macon or not, it crashes loudly. Footsteps race on the second floor again, but this time they're Josleen's. "Macon?!” She calls out as she tries to find him on the ground floor. Suddenly the door to the library, where Macon is, slams shut in Josleen's face and locks. She bangs on the door several times. "Macon, are you alright?" They're at the back of the house, and the estate is large. It's unlikely the guard stationed at the front of the house can hear them.


Outside, the guard is indeed oblivious to the plight of their king inside the home. The youngest of the crew remarks to the rest, in the middle of some argument, “I heard she used a -witch’s power- to turn Crowley insane on the way back from Cenril." Maureen simply rolls her eyes at the rumor and wrinkles her nose at the smell of rotten groceries coming from inside the home that apparently only her senses are keen enough to make out… Inside, Macon is freed from the fake magnetism holding him to the wall and now for a third time looks up, it is indeed the charm, because he sees those screws coming loose, one just barely missing landing in his right eye. He loses his precious axe, or rather he pushes off the heavy thing to send himself diving out of the way of the falling fixture and onto the floor. The King is happy the homeowners didn't spring for the large chandelier because this medium one is just small enough to avoid crippling one of his legs. The former sheriff rolls to a stop against a bookcase, knocking a few hardcovers over onto himself before he pushes himself up to his feet and growls towards the shut door, “M’fine!” The King of Larket stands at his full height and raises his hands up at his sides in a sign of surrender, eyes slowly, cautiously scanning the empty library, “Andurla! M’sorry!” he shouts up towards the ceiling, with his normally steady voice cracking slightly with regret.


Fun facts about the books falling on Macon: Some tomes focus on music, history, and herbal and crystal uses in medicine, but many more books are cheap, gaudy romance novels. On the cover of each of these is a watercolor illustration of a woman, lips parted breathlessly, sheer gauzy fabric and strategically placed hair (often wet, because obviously) just barely covering the good bits. The heroine is always in the embrace of a hyper-trophied buff man with veins bulging (the reader is left to imagine what else bulges, a-hoy hoy). Josleen's guilty pleasure romance novel collection is extensive and cheesy. But that's neither here nor there. The story that matters now is Macon’s, and finally there’s a hole in it. Josleen realizes briefly that she could make her escape now and leave the king to his fate with the ghost. But she won't; she can't. He's presented him as human and kind, and she's too good-hearted to leave him, even if they remain enemies after this--though in truth she hardly feels the bile of animosity at all in his presence. She runs to the foul kitchen to a pantry where she keeps special reagents. She finds the lich's salt and runs back to the door just as Macon cries out to Andurla that he is sorry. That bastard did it. With a fistful of the steel blue sand she turns the knob. The salt dispels low-level ghost enchantments and the lock on the door crackles out of existence. Josleen runs just as a bust of Daedria flies off another bookshelf towards Macon's face at the speed of a dart, and at close range too. Josleen throws a fistful of lich's salt at the bust. As soon as the salt touches the bust it drops mid-air inches away from hitting Macon in the face. If Macon got any salt in his face, it's a small price to pay. It's also harmless to the living. "Macon," she calls to him, eyes narrowed and lips pursed in anger. He lied to her, even if by omission, and while she isn’t surprised, she is disappointed and embarrassed for having believed him at. “I could ward you, but why should I! Why shouldn’t I let her have her revenge! You snake! Telling me it was all Kelovath!” She doesn’t avoid saying his name now. She feels she needs to say it now to reclaim it. “Andurla could end this war by ending you!” says the woman who just stopped a bust from breaking Macon’s face. She’s stretched thin on a tightrope between what she wants to believe (in Kelo), what Macon wants her to believe (in him), and facts presented before her now which confuse her because while she is convinced Macon killed Andurla, the anguish on his face is not lost on Josleen. His regret is palpable and confuses her, tugs on her heart without direction.


Macon finds himself face to face with an ascended being for a split second before Josleen rescues him and the bust of the great bard drops to the ground. He closes his left eye after some of that harmless salt gets stuck in it. Perhaps this will help his cause because it brings about tears which compliment that remorseful look on his face. The King's grey, half-watery stare is fixated on Josleen now as she lays into him. Invoking Kelovath’s name has the same effect it usually does, although it is slightly dulled here, the Death Knight flinches and unconsciously projects his hatred into the room. He doesn't even let the bard finish her threat of letting Andurla finish him off before he confesses, “I killed her!” with a wavering voice, “She was lost.” he continues, bringing them back to the point they were at in this conversation when their carriage crashed. “I went to her to turn her against Kelovath…” this much is actually true, “...but she already knew what he was doing. The Fermin, the stone.” Macon shakes his head, his voice pleading with Josleen to believe him now, and for good reason. Perhaps with this half-truth everything else falls neatly into place, “I hoped to convince her to join me for the good of Larket… I could not. My hand was forced.” Those last few words are directed far more towards the spirit trying to kill him than the Thane, and they drip with truth and regret. With this now the paths of his argument is clear no matter what the spirit does next. Should it stop trying to end his life, his apology is accepted and she sees the light. Should he be attacked further, the ghost is ‘clearly still salty about him foiling her and the paladin’s villainous plot to take control of Larket.’


Josleen shakes her head in tiny, irritated shakes like she just doesn’t know what to believe anymore. His rage seeps into her and she begins to pace in a tight ellipse before him. “How do I know what’s true?” A painting on the wall begins to shake as Andurla tries to dislodge it, but she fails. Josleen’s face is flushed and eyes a little wet from frustration and rage, part of it real and part of it enhanced by Macon’s furious possession. Whenever she gets close to Macon she stares him down, searching the depths of his eyes for his very soul, to see the truth in those gray eyes, but all she sees is more gray and in them reflected a world too complicated to ever have true white or true black. Everything is muddled and stormy, nothing is illuminated. With Kelovath, everything is bright and clear, but is that clarity an illusion? Her hands wring through her long locks and wipe at her face. She rubs her collarbone raw, a nervous tic of hers. The way her gaze darts from phantom to phantom suggests she’s thinking through the arguments for both side. She argues with herself silently, the debate playing on her tense expression. Finally she says, shaking her head as if in disbelief of what she is about to say, “He went to the underdark to ask that drow bitch D’Artes about you.” She stops there, gauging Macon’s reaction before revealing anything else.


Macon glances down towards his fallen axe while Josleen starts to pace around him. The weapon seems useless to him now and a move to gather it up would be pointless, so he remains frozen in place by the bookshelf he slammed into and he locks his grey gaze with the bard’s. His features soften sympathetically when she asks how she can know what the truth is. The King shakes his head as if to say ‘You cannot. ‘ He is momentarily distracted by the rattling painting, taking up a defensive stance in preparation of the artsy projectile that never comes flying his way. The mention of Kelovath’s underground excursion to see Gevurah has the Death Knight tilting his head in confusion and eying Josleen sideways, “The Underdark..?” He is unaware that the Paladin had made another trip down to D’Artes and that shines through in his questioning expression. Even with the knowledge that Macon has about himself and his relation to the High Priestess, this information still seems odd.


Macon‘s obliviousness seems genuine. Her hands fold into a teepee and she buries her nose and mouth in her hands in disbelief. Her head shakes over and over in slow, unbelieving arcs. “No, I can’t believe this…” she says, still referring to the information only she knows. Suddenly, her body stills. She faces Macon with her head bowed into her hands. Her stomach flips and body tingles from the stress of confronting the truth (‘truth’) about Kelovath’s trip to the underdark. “He said he went down there, alone.” She pauses, letting the weight of that word sink in both of them. “To ask the drow about you. He…” Ghotly footsteps race upstairs again, but nothing moves. Chair legs scrape on the wooden floor directly above their ceiling. “When he returned, he had a sword. He says there’s a spirit trapped inside it, and that it belonged to the drow but came to him… saved his life…” Her face twists as she realizes how ridiculous that sounds; how she ridiculous she is for believing that yarn. “Oh gods…” she whines into her palms. She drops slowly onto her knees, legs trembling slightly from the stress of it all. Her face remains hidden in her hands, eyes obscured as well now. Her body is very still, a false calm to hide the heaving sobs that start to gather like a storm deep in her chest. She sniffles loudly and wetly. She’s too embarrassed to look up at Macon, and too heartbroken to fight back the tears, and too angry, too. It’s more than the betrayal that seizes her heart. It’s disorienting to have your worldview and beliefs flipped on their head. She feels light headed and thin, as fragile as blown glass.


Macon stands stunned as Josleen breaks down in front of him. For at least the fifth time he looks up towards the ceiling when the spirit adjusts the feng shui upstairs. When she drops down The King starts to approach her cautiously, the story of Kelovath’s miracle in the Underdark confusing him greatly. He cannot imagine he would have been able to extract the very axe he steps over now from that underground mansion without permission, yet the Paladin claims to have taken something seemingly much more coveted from D’Artes. Is it possible Kelovath -is- lying to Josleen? The thought crosses The Furious King's mind and he shakes it away violently. The answer to that question doesn't matter right now. He stands over her now, his expression hard, as The Death Knight feels some kind of irrational anger towards Kelovath now for the state that, really, Macon himself has put the bard in. That fury pours out of him thanks to the infection of The Rage Stone while he bends slightly at the waist and offers an upturned hand. He doesn't try to discredit the Paladin further. She has already done all the mental legwork for him. “Josleen. Let's ge’out of ‘ere” He sympathetically offers escape from this home built on -lies-! And he would ideally like to leave before furniture starts flying again.


Josleen doesn’t respond right away. The lump in her throat won’t let her speak. She swallows hard several times to try and compose herself. Macon’s fury helps. It refocuses her anguish into anger. She takes his hand and lets him help her up. Her face is soaking wet and red. Ashamed, she avoids his gaze, and her eyes land on a decorative plate depicting Arkhen. It reminds her of Kelovath, and sets the fury within her aflame. She tears away from Macon and charges at the wall, grabs the dish and throws it down on the ground to that it shatters into hundreds of pieces. She then turns to a bookshelf with a few of Kelovath’s books and roughly rips them out onto the floor by the tops of their spines, grunting femininely with each tear. If Macon doesn’t stop her, she’ll destroy the whole room. Her arm sweeps over the credenza and shoves all the knick-knacks onto the ground, including a small clock which she then kicks into the wall. She’s about to grab the fireplace poker…


Macon is likely to go down in the history of Lithrydel with a title resembling ‘The Furious King of Larket’, so who is he to stop Josleen’s rage induced tantrum prematurely. Never taking his eyes off of her when she starts smashing, he kneels to pluck up the empty shell that is The Rage Axe and rises back to his feet. Careful of furious shrapnel from the destructive bard, the former sheriff makes his approach. The clock goes down and gets blasted into the wall, shattering it's face and ceasing the progression of time, at least according to the device. All of this anger is great and all, but geez Jos, enough is “Enough.” The King lets out that single word order just as she raises the poker to swing it down and he grabs hold of her wrist…


Josleen tries to pull out of his grip only once, but his strength makes itself known and she stops as told. Her puffy red stare meets his, but she can’t hold it for long. His glower intimidates her, and she looks downwards, turning her face slightly away from him in submission. When he releases her she drops the poker onto the ground then leaves the room without a word. While Macon was fighting a ghost, Josleen had quickly packed a bag upstairs. She retrieves it now then rejoins Macon on the ground floor. She can’t look at him. It’s too embarrassing. She’s ready to leave when he is. In fact she’s eager too. There’s still a lot of mourning to be done.


Macon allows her to lead the way out, indicating with a nod of his head that she likely doesn't catch since she is avoiding looking his way, that he is ready to go too. He follows only as far as the threshold out into Larket though and hangs back while she steps outside. The Thane of Frostmaw is greeted by the six Kingsguard that accompanied them, flanking the entrance with three stationed on either side, though ‘stationed’ is a bit of a stretch as they have no uniform spacing between them and at least half are leaning their backs against the front wall of the home. It is only when Josleen appears that they fall in line, Maureen and the rest of them taking note of the sorry state the bard is in, but doing nothing more than that. Inside, Macon has his back to the exit now and is speaking to the spirit of his victim, “I -am- sorry, but you were wrong. Watch and I will liff’ Larket up like I said we could ‘ave.” With those defiant final words to Andurla he spins and leaves the home, taking his place beside Josleen as one of the armored Kingsguard moves to take the bag from the Thane. Guests of the crown don't need to carry their own things.