RP:Peculiar Friend of the Queen

Summary: Queen Hildegarde and a Balgruuf supporter meet in a trial by combat at the colosseum. Thane Josleen arrives late the the nobility box to find her favorite seat taken by a man she does not recognize. He introduces himself as Rogatus from Venturil, old friend of Hildegarde, who is here to help. Josleen finds him strange and distrusts his motives.

While caring for the injured but victorious Queen, Rogatus tries to give Hildegarde water froma vial, which Josleen disrupts for it is queer. Still, the bard can’t quite put her finger on what she finds distasteful (but harmless) about Rogatus.

Hidden Mountaintop Colosseum

Hildegarde was quite accustomed to the role of judge, jury and executioner for it was a role she had adopted in her time as Steward of Frostmaw. Frostmaw’s culture rotated around the rule that many northern cultures adopted, that whomsoever set the sentence would also have to swing the sword. Not only did this rule of thumb permeate Frostmaw, but the deep traditions of justice through battle: the trial by combat. The trial by combat was a long ancient tradition of Frostmaw and one that seemed to settle all disputes. The folk gathered in the arena today were watching one such dispute now between Hildegarde and a hulking behemoth of a giant. He clanged his axe against his shield, bellowing out ‘Balgruuf! Balgruuf King!’ in an effort to goad the dragon. But the dragon would not be goaded. Patiently she waited, patiently she skirted the arena and assessed her opponent for a weakness; for an opening that she could attack but he was well armoured and he was at peak fitness. He would not go down easily. “Face me, craven!” she hissed, “Or are you afraid that the gods do not favour you? That you are on the wrong side of justice?” With a bellow, the giant surged forth.

Rogatus finds himself stuck at some grisly deathmatch. At least he'd been savvy enough to pick up a fur coat and tall fur cap, an outfit warm enough for the climate but still regal enough for his tastes. It's well and good that he'd be able to get a little space to himself too, alone in the nobility box right at the colosseum's interior edge. "Rah rah, Hildegarde!" He calls, eyes never raising from the careful work of his hands. The fellow, is seems, is occupied with his snuffbox; delicately, he unfolds his handkercheif to lay it over his sleeve and daintily, ever so precisely, gingerly grab a pinch of snuff. Turning his eyes skyward, he sniffs once, twice, then carefully stifles a sneeze in the ready handkercheif. "Give him what for!" He calls again, doing his best impression of enthusiasm, blinking rapidly and shaking his head as he folds the tiny box up and tucks the kercheif away.

Josleen arrives at the colosseum late. Since arriving in Frostmaw, it seems she is incapable of punctuality, which is unusual for the Thane. The troubles in Larket weigh on her spirits and pace. When dealing with citizens of the City of War, her thoughts often wander to Kelovath’s predicament. She was writing to the paladin, asking for updates on the situation in the marble city, when she realized belatedly that is was time for Hildegarde’s trial by combat! She only just remembered to slip on her shimmering ice glove as she raced out of her room in the fort and asked a guard for a lift to the colosseum. Hildegarde taunts her opponent as Josleen joins the nobility box only to find her favorite chair taken by a fur-wrapped man whom she does not recognize. She forces a smile as she settles into the vacant seat beside him. Through her periphery she watches him toy with his snuff, a disgusting habit in her opinion. She’d prefer men smoke, if they must indulge at all. She makes a point to cross her legs and drape her gloved hand over her knee right under his nose. The shimmering glove reveals her status as thane, lest he forget it. “Hello, I am Josleen,” she says in a tone as if she expects someone sitting in the nobility box to know her name if not her face. “I don’t believe we’ve met?” Her stomach churns. The mood in the box spoils for reasons she cannot divine. Bad eggs at breakfast? Kelovath’s plight? This stranger? She applauds Hildegarde’s noble ribbing.

Hildegarde has no time to acknowledge the enthusiastic calls of Rogatus! It was time to fight and with the giant surging towards her, she had to act quickly. He was faster than he looked. She thought he would be slow and lumbering, the sprint was unexpected. The Silver dives to the left to avoid the sprinting body, intent on swishing the halberd against the exposed heel of the giant but she was distracted by the movement from the royal box: a glimmer of light from the shiny glove and the movement of a familiar body. It was Josleen, but Hilde had neither the time nor ability to greet her right now. Indeed, so distracted she was, the giant swung his shield out to wallop Hildegarde’s back and send her sprawling against the ground. Scrambling forward, the Silver speedily crawls forward until she can stumble up to her feet and gain some ground away from the giant. It was a stupid hit, one that she shouldn’t have permitted! Mistakes happen, though they were often lethal on the battlefield. The giant has recovered himself, beginning to approach Hildegarde who waits for the right moment. She won’t make the same mistake again. But neither would the giant! Kicking his massive boot at the earth, he casts snow covered sand at the warrior and she howls with pain. Its gotten in her eye and obscured her vision, rendering her temporarily blind. Backpedalling, the Silver waits until her back bumps against the acute slice of rock. The giant has followed her. He swings his axe out at her with lethal intent, but the ‘whoosh’ of motion permits Hildegarde to discern its location and fortunately duck on time to evade the strike. Though only just.

Rogatus spots the glove first, and his eyes follow the arm up to Josleen's face. "How rude of me. You interrupted one of my vulgar distractions." The fellow laughs, and the bright, neat enamel of his teeth form a lively contrast to his sandstone skin and obsidian hair. "I'm Rogatus." He reaches out a hand to shake hers, letting a golden ruby ring glitter likewise (as one somebody to another), but before they can consummate their greeting, there's an awful crash, and his attention is pulled away toward the colosseum floor. "Oh, that ought to smart, wouldn't you think?" The corners of his mouth turn down, and his grin vanishes, watching with a sort of hazy concern as Hildegarde starts getting the sore end of the fight. "This is just for the crowd, isn't it?" Hopefully, he glances behind himself to gauge the reaction in the stands. "A bit of drama to spice things up?" Rogatus throws Josleen a sidelong glance, hoping to catch some sort of confirmation in this.

Josleen chuckles at Rogatus’s self deprecation regarding his use of snuff. “Show me the man free of vice, and I’ll show you a liar,” she quips. His habit seems less offensive in the wake of his acknowledgment. She shakes his hand, notices the ring, but isn’t quite sure what to make of it in terms of the title it confers, if any. Its high value is immediately apparent, however. So he’s rich, alright, but who is he? She’s about to ask just when Hildegarde does down hard. Josleen winces and leans forward onto the edge of her seat. She shakes her head at Rogatus without looking at him, her gaze fixed on the queen and mouth frozen in a worried grimace. “No, Queen Hildegarde isn’t one for theater.” The thane is sorely tempted to do something to aid her closest friend and queen, but knows better than to overstep the rules of a trial by combat. More for her own sake that for Rogatus she adds, “I wouldn’t worry. No warrior is more fierce than she.” Her legs jostle restlessly in place. She shouts in her normal, unaided voice (to avoid accusations of cheating), “Three cheers for the queen!!” The spectators erupt as bidded, save those still foolishly sympathetic to Balgruuf. Hopefully the cheering is enough to rally the silver.

Hildegarde can’t quite calm the worries of her friends, but she can try to end the battle. Though she is blinded and has now sunk awkwardly to her knees, the Silver cries out as she jerks the halberd out sharply: the spear-tip end of the weapon sinking into the unprotected groin of the giant. He howls with pain and moves to swing the axe again towards Hildegarde’s skull, but she twists the weapon and forces him to recoil from the pain which inadvertently drags Hildegarde along with! “Gah!” she exclaims as she is pulled along with the giant, falling face forward to the ground. The giant is wrangling with the halberd, in far too much pain to pull out but hurting by leaving it there too. He is stuck between a rock and a hard place. Perhaps rallied by the cheers, the Silver forces herself up onto her feet with a groan and draws the short-sword that hangs from her hip. Opening her eye just slightly, she catches blurry sight of the giant and takes a moment to catch her breath. “I… I am Hildegarde. Come at me and die,” she tells her foe before closing her eye once again to spare herself from the pain. Indignant at the challenge, the giant lumbers forth with a furious yell and soon picks up speed to once more surge towards the dragon. The halberd sways and swings with each movement. Hildegarde waits with her sword in hand, though she appears to be in the direct path of the now charging giant: the crowd holds baited breath, waiting to see if their Queen will emerge victorious or will be trampled by the giant. Alas, with a ‘swoosh’ and a the familiar sound of shifting ground, the knight has shifted her stance and swung her blade to attack the giant who suddenly falls to the ground with a tremendous ‘thump’. With the fall, the halberd has been pushed through his body and stands tall and bloody. The giant would surely have bled to death, if it weren’t for Hildegarde’s stumbling steps towards his throat and the second swing of her blade.

Rogatus cups a single palm to the side of his mouth, and he gently inclines his head upward, as though it will carry his call any farther. "I say, give it to him, then!" Quickly he clears his throat and settles back into his chair to watch the spectacle play out, sometimes flinching at the more grisly moments. "Oh goodness," Rogatus and reaches out to tap Josleen's elbow. "Is that a fluke," he points at the horrific halberd as it dangles from the adversary's crotch, "or habitual tactic of hers?" Unconsciously, he crosses his legs. Trying not to linger on the topic, he fishes for another. "Quite the northern rowdy-do, what? A typical day of highland fun?" The wet 'schlep' of the emerging halberd is met with cheers at jeers, and for a moment it's much too noisy for Rogatus to go on. There isn't much for him to do but join the applause, which he does reservedly at best.

Josleen is surprised by, but ultimately doesn’t mind being tapped on the elbow, but the dandy’s ringside commentary earns him a cool, unimpressed stare. Is he questioning the integrity Queen Hildegarde’s tactics? Having nothing nice to say, she says nothing at all. Instead, she notices his clenched legs and grins privately to herself. She hides her grin against her palm. As if this man had a chance with the Queen. Hah! The new topic is welcomed, but cut short by the victory. She stands and applauds with the crowd, cheers loudly. The roar from the stands seems infinite, but eventually palms sting and voices tire. The crowd settles down and a priest of Aramoth steps into the ring to declare Hildegarde victor, announce that Aramoth’s justice has been served, etc. Josleen asks her box mate as the priest officiates, “Where are you from, Rogatus?”

Hildegarde having slain the giant withdraws her blade and sheathes the weapon after wiping it against her leg. With a grunt she frees her halberd from his limp body, just as Lisbeth arrives in the arena to take her by the arm and guide her towards the royal box to attend to wounds and to rest. The pair within the box will have a few minutes to chat amongst themselves before Hildegarde arrives.

Rogatus applauds until the very moment he can hear the tumult begin to die off. The priest comes out to speak, but luckily, Josleen rescues him with a diversion. "What, originally? Venturil," he lounges and sighs, "old family ties. I thought it might be good to get away, and then I saw that Frostmaw needed helping hands." The dark fellow's brow furrows gently as Hildegarde is escorted off the field of combat, but he suppresses whatever thought it was to have creased his face. Instead, he goes on. "Hildegarde and I were already acquainted, you see, and it only seemed right to do what I could for her and, of course, her city." All the while he talks, he doesn't make eye contact with Jos. It's as though his deep brown eyes are always seeking for something upon the wind.

Josleen‘s brows lift when Rogatus mentions Venturil. She has history there, but his shifty manner doesn’t inspire disclosure. “Did you serve under King Eboric?” she pries. His inability to--or choice not to--make eye contact unsettles her. His manner is respectable and appropriate, and perhaps he is one of those people who is uncomfortable with eye contact. He wouldn’t be the first such person Josleen has met who prefers to look away. Yet in other instances she felt no unease as she does now.

Hildegarde groans as she enters the royal box, immediately seeking a seat so she might rest. Lisbeth takes the bloodied halberd away to be cleansed and Hildegarde immediately rubs at her eye to relieve the pain. “Might I have some water?” she requested of the pair.

Rogatus is distracted by Hildegarde's arrival and only has time to spare a quick, "barely knew him," before he stands. He looks ready to help the battle battered queen, but Lisbeth seems to have the situation under control. As soon as Hildegarde takes her seat, he follows suit. "Quite the thrill you gave us," Rogatus admits as he reaches into his coat and procures a clear, crystalline phial of water from his coat pocket, conveniently kept, it would appear, for just such an occasion. Convenient, indeed! Those keen in the arcane arts will realize that the water is naught but an illusionists conjuration; however, so long as Hilde herself is fooled, it should be real enough for her needs. "Seems you know how to work a crowd," a quality he respects, "and with no theatrics, Josleen assures me." His smile turns sly, rather as though Rogatus himself is still dubious of this assertion. "Only the raw, visceral brutality of your northern home and," his eyes lift to the gory snows and stones at the colosseum's center, "northern blood."

Barely knowing Eboric is a mark in Rogatus’s favor, as Josleen hates that werebear usurper. Good. She fetches a glass of from a nearby stand without waiting for Hildegarde’s instruction. This isn’t her first trial by combat, the thane knows the routine. She’s at the queen’s side with a glass as Rogatus fumbles in his coat’s hidden pockets. While he bard does not detect magic in Rogatus’s vial, for she has little arcane ability, her suspicions are aroused nonetheless. Who carries around vials of inert water? “What’s this?” she asks, suspecting not a malicious agent by perhaps medicine. Rogatus, though strange, has given her no reason to assume he is treacherous. She takes the vial from the Venturian Candidate and sniffs it to perhaps detect the ingredients in what she expects to be a medicinal tonic.

Rogatus discovers that Jos has beaten him to the punch, or, rather, to the water. Just as he's about to stash his "personal supply", though, that pesky thane snatches the crystaline container from his fingertips. Looking affronted, amused, and forgiving (in rapid succession), Rogatus grins and permits her to examine the illusory container. If she gets anything from the water, it'll only be a faint mineral smell. "Quirk of mine," he explains, lowering his eyes and looking a caught off guard (which, admittedly, he is), "and I suppose it is odd, now that you point it out. Very particular about the quality of my water, you see," the fellow's brow furrows, as though looking for a way to adequately apologize his neurosis to her, "I so rarely find water tolerable," for added effect, he shies away from Hilde and her inferior beverage, "that when I do, I keep some with me."

Josleen fusses at Hildegarde to stop rubbing her eye, she’ll only make it worse. Upon sniffing the vial, the healer doesn’t find the mineral smell to be very suspicious. Hard water smells like minerals, but is potable. She believes him when he says it is nothing more than… tolerable water? She wrinkles her nose slightly. He is the strangest man. Where did he come from? “If you collected such water in a canteen you’d have more to carry with you…” she muses. What a strange conversation. She hands the vial back to Rogatus. “Might as well save it for yourself then, to satisfy that peculiar taste.” As she speaks she fetches clean gauze and alcohol from a cabinet reserved for nobles injured in trials. “Could be a symptom of an illness. It seems you crave water rich in the earth’s nourishment. You may have a deficiency. Have you spoken with a healer about it? Well, one more talented than I. My guess is elementary.” She flashes a small smile then returns her gaze to Hildegarde’s face and sets about cleaning up a scrape. She tut-tuts at the superior wounds. To Hildegarde she says, “When will Balgruuf’s cronies learn that their cause is lost, hm?”

Hildegarde had been far too focused on remaining still and doing as Josleen bade her to contribute to the conversation around her. As the nurse cleans her scrapes, the Silver hisses with pain before opening her now red and incredibly irritated looking eye. “They would rather die than give in,” she said through gritted teeth, “such is their way. They believe their cause is just,” she explains, though she knows she need not justify it. “He nearly had the better of me, too.”

Rogatus wrinkles his nose at the suggestion. "A canteen? You know a cattle trough would carry even more still." Accepting the phial back, he hastily tucks it out of sight and mind. "I haven't, actually. Wouldn't have occurred to me, madame. Nothing serious I hope. With haste, oh naturally. Good heavens." Taking a backseat in the conversation, he observes the interaction between exhausted queen and attentive thane. His eyes sharpen to thoughtful slits, and in the sly moments when he feels safe in stealing a glance, he studies Josleen's ministrations. What of Balgruuf's cronies? "There's one less," he mutters, eyes widening and lips pursing in consideration as he studies the executed giant now being hauled away by orderlies. "Though," he presses the knuckles of his index finger to his lips at the sight of her (thankfully superficial) injuries, "after a tumble like that, I don't think you'd last a week one-at-a-timing them."

Josleen laughs politely at what she assumes is a cattle trough joke. Her spirits have been lifted by her role in discovering Rogatus’s vitamin and mineral deficiency. Another day, another poor sod saved from illness and injury. Saint Josleen. The thane clicks her tongue in mild disagreement with Hildegarde’s assessment of the trial. “You have Aramoth’s favor. Your cause is the just one, and so you cannot fail at trial. Though you can take a few licks…” She frowns slightly at this observation. She agrees with Rogatus’s assessment of the inefficiencies of the one-versus-one trial by combat, though her advice surely deviates from his. “I wonder if we can discover what they are really after. Why did they really back Balgruuf? I doubt it was love for that oaf. They believed they had something to gain under his reign that they do not gain from yours. Perhaps if we can discover it, a compromise would quell their fury. Give them some of what they miss.”

Hildegarde grunted at Josleen’s reasoning. “Whatever the reason, I would hope it be discovered soon lest more blood is shed,” she told the pair. She knew all too well that unless the root of the rebellion was discovered, more would die at the end of her blade or more would be exiled and never permitted to return. “I cannot put off trials forever,” she had already delayed them enough, she could not hold back much longer for fear of angering the families of those loyal to her banner. “I didn’t think you were so taken with the delivery of justice, Rogatus,” she said, though not unkindly. She had meant to say she didn’t think he was all that taken with bloodsports.

Rogatus scrunches one eye shut, for indeed, his advice deviates quite a bit from Josleen's. Still, perhaps for diplomatic reasons, he keeps any dissenting opinions to himself. For now. "Hmm?" Hildegarde's question startles Rogatus from his private thoughts, and his gaze snaps sharply toward her, eyes narrowing in keen accusation before he blinks and seems to find himself again. "You caught me miles away, Hildegarde." Clearing his throat, regaining his composure, he sits up (he'd been slouching!) and drinks in a frosty breath. "It's a way to kill the afternoon, isn't it? Do we do cocktails after? Or," he bites his lower lip and fishes up the appropriate cultural parallel, "is this the part where we all march to the mead hall? I could fancy a mug. A stein. A flagon. Do they entertain, there?"

Josleen, who had been looking at Hildegarde all this time, shifts her gaze to Rogatus when the queen addresses him. The stranger’s sharply narrowed stare, brief as it may be, sets off alarm bells in the bard’s gut. Did she imagine that? What could it mean? “I could do with some mead as well,” she interjects. “Learn a little more about how you two met!” She smiles all teeth like an threatened baboon atRogatus, her stare a little too still.Then more softly to Hildegarde, “Wherever you wish to rest, of course. The drinks can follow us, if you’re not too tired for a little chat. I bring news as well, from Larket, but that can wait.”

Hildegarde was always one who tried not to offend people, so when Rogatus eyes her accusingly and uses her full name, she appears chastened. “Forgive me,” she asks him apologetically, “it was an odd thing to ask, I suppose!” Contextually, it was a bit. Typically, there was nothing after these events save for solemn thought and contemplation but now the Queen was put on the spot. Josleen is eternally Jos-like, practically an angel in the way that she speaks softly and seeks to make sure Hildegarde is comfortable. But Rogatus is the guest here and he has some sort of sway, presumably because Hildegarde wished to be a good host! “Ah, we can return to the fort, if you so wish. I can have a bard perform if you wish to be entertained,” there wasn’t much in Frostmaw in the way of entertainment, lest it be hunting, the bloodsports or song. Yet when Josleen brings up Larket – which is now important to the bard and therefore now somewhat important to Hildegarde – the Silver lets go of her desire to please. “Larket?” the knight blinks at Josleen. “My dearest friend, no, it won’t wait. I’m yours to command.”

Rogatus is completely dismissive of Hilde's apology, and he's right back into no-eye-contact mode. "Nothing to forgive," he assures, "and already forgotten." Plucking up his ivory cane from the ground beside himself, he stands and begins a leisurely strut toward whatever exit seems most proper, then pauses, looking back to the other two. "I'm sure, wherever we find ourselves," he picks up the cane and twirls it to indicate the colosseum around them, "it'll be a step in the right direction."

Josleen hopes Rogatus caught that ‘dearest friend’ and ‘yours to command’ bits in Hildegarde’s speech. “The fort then. A bard would be lovely.” She tolerated Rogatus’s casual dismissal of the colosseum with a cordial smile. “I am curious about you, Rogatus. Perhaps you two can catch me up on how you met, and what it is that you do, Rogatus.” She looks to both of them, before adding primarily for Hildegarde’s benefit, “We can discuss Larket afterwards, and perhaps privately, as the matter is sensitive.” As in, not for Rogatus’s ears.

Hildegarde had looked to Rogatus in the hopes he would accept her apology, but the lack of eye contact forces her into a near childlike position. It is the forgiveness of a parent to a child, the reluctant forgiveness given when a child has done wrong and should have known better. The Silver rises to her feet with a groan – her back aches from the shield strike – and extends her hand as if to steady herself for a moment. “To the fort,” she said with a little smile. “M’lady?” she offers her arm out to Josleen, in part to be polite and in part to help herself. A little friendly comfort might soothe her aches a bit and help with her blurred vision. Yet she oddly does not touch on how she and Rogatus know one another.

Frostmaw Fort

Rogatus nods in similar cordiality to Josleen. "Smashing," he taps his cane on the stone walk, "and we'll see if I measure up. Ha." He even manages to make his eyes twinkle with mirth at the prospect. Said mirth falters when he realizes, ah too late, that Hildegarde is still unsteady from her fight and, by the look of it, could be in need of support. Naturally, the Silver reaches for Josleen. Well, if he can't be an arm to lean on, Rogatus will at least wait until the two have caught up with his meager head start. Now, three abreast, one on either side of the queen, the three can make their way to more comfortable arrangements. All questions (as usual), Rogatus is sure to inquire about the scenery and landmarks as they pass, clear up until they've reached the fort's main hall.

Josleen notices Hildegarde’s odd behavior around Rogatus. Unable to read the queen’s thoughts, all the bard can pick up on are impressions of her internal world, which is bizarre indeed. She furrows her brow and mouths at Hildegarde behind Rogatus’s back, ‘You alright?’ The women follow, Josleen serving as dedicated crutch. Josleen takes turns with Hildegarde answering Rogatus’s questions. She, too, knows the city well. In the main hall, Josleen asks a wait staff for some mead, then asks her companions what they would like. As Hildegarde requests a bard, Josleen asks Rogatus, “So how did you come to know the queen?”

Hildegarde would always choose Josleen over everyone else. She was the one she trusted the most! As Josleen mouths her concern, Hildegarde gestures at her back as if to say she’s a bit sore and nothing more. Taking turns to answer questions, the trio eventually make their way to the fort. Hildegarde sees to arranging a bard and soon sits down upon a cushioned bench. She waves away the offer of mead, however.

Rogatus settles in with the others and soon, to his delight, has a brimming stein of hot, spiced mead. An instant of childlike glee passes over his face, but immediately, he subdues it and leans, looking as aloof as his pleasure will allow as he samples the drink's bouquet. "Heavens, what a civil touch," he comments of the beverage, "I'm impressed." Josleen's question strikes his ears, but he lets it hang suspended in the air as he takes another satisfying whiff, lightly blows to cool the surface, then grasps the glass (pinky out), and he takes a slow sip. "Ahh. We met some years ago. I thought we could make a mutually beneficial arrangement, but it didn't pan out."

Josleen is once again irritated by the way Rogatus refers to everything Frostmawian. His compliment of the mead as ‘civil’ sounds condescending to her ears, as though he were surprised to find civility, gentility, among the giants. Well then. She agrees pointedly, “Yes, I’ve never tested finer mead in any other city.” She sips the mead and settles into a chair alongside Hildegarde. “How’s your back?” she asks the queen. “Shall I call for more cushions?” Then Rogatus at last answers her question as vaguely as possible. “An arrangement? How so? Does this have to do with your trade, which is?” Grill him alive, Jos.

Hildegarde had settled into the plush cushioned bench and, perhaps to her shame, had fallen asleep at some point during the conversation. It wasn’t a case of it being boring or her not being interested! Clearly the fight had taken it out of her and the best thing she could do right now was rest up and recover.

Rogatus takes his time with another sip. "You know, come to think of it, I'm not sure it's ever been the habit of the wealthy to have much of a trade, Josleen. We invest, I suppose, which is really why I'm here. In Hildegarde's more raucous youth," he looks to the queen and discovers, to his surprise, that she is fast asleep. "Ah, well," this development puts Rogatus off his footing. At that moment, the court bard skips in, one of Frostmaw's many elves, who bears a well-tuned lute that, in a bright series of opening chords, further diverts attention from the floundering Rogatus. He is grateful. "This might be my cue." Reaching into his coat yet again, he procures a few silver coins, real ones, and slides them Josleen's way. "Do make sure he gets these, will you? I think I'll see myself to my room. You might want to keep an eye on her, too." He looks to Hildegarde, then back to Josleen with saccharine fondness. "I know how she trusts you. I'm sure she'll be fine with you here." Rogatus straightens up, bows nearly to the floor, tips his hat with a wide flourish (doesn't spill a drop of mead!), and turns sharply on his hill to see himself out.