#salmon-duchy-lands-aka-alaska

The Falcon's Roost is but one building in the fay village of Glitterdwell, and not exactly one of great esteem. Here, even the stuffiest duke may bend elbows with squires if they so choose. While Wilders, as ever, keep it lively, there is a serene granddame present too. Like all sidhe she is lovely, time has marked her, but only where she allowed, even if one were to look on just her mortal guise, sons of adam and daughters of eve would mutter apprecitively "How does she look so good in her fifties?" ... they would be wrong, of course. Not about her looks, but about her age, for she is decades older than that. Freeholds have been kind to her, but then, they should be. She saved more than one balefire in her life.

She looks over the letter in her free hand as she sips with the other, noting the information on a certain young wilder troll of the house who has knighthood. She arches a brow twice as she reviews some of the deeds this young woman did on her own, and in aiding others and yes with the help of others. If you knew this Grandame, you would recognize the significance of that reaction for a raised eyebrow from her would be much the same as a muttered "Holy shit" from a less controlled individual.

Why she almost allows herself a pleased smile, but then the wilders about her would get curious, and no doubt try to question her, and frankly while the boon must be exercised from time to time, even she realizes it can get a bit tedious when curiosity becomes an accidental inquisition.

She puts the drink down, and writes a letter on her own, making sure that the stables have a spare stall reserved just in case.

As for this promising knight who has already become something of a minor legend? She will not be overly pampered should she come. Something in the Grandame's bones tells her Dame Dagmar would not want that. Pampering is found in one's personal hold. Here, in Glitterdwell? They train better falcons and that means hard winds, hard steel, and hard choices.

Not that she isn't fond of the wilders who even now are fluffing in a corner over some imagined insult that would be settled in five minutes if they'd listen to each other. She finishes the letter, and prepares to unleash a dictum to have them take it outside if it should fall to that.

Was I ever this hot blooded and foolish? She asks herself, but some part of her memory refuses to shade the past in pleasant pink and answers all too honestly No , Darling, you were so much worse.

And a slight smile slips there after all.