Log:Swearing In Neirin

Swearing In Neirin
"I don't want to track snow in."
Participants Neirin and Ashe	2017.12.15 Ashe swears Neirin into the Freehold.
Location The Wayhouse
Ashe had been at the Wayhouse for a few hours. Seems like she's got something else to do this evening so it's an earlier schedule today. The Monarch doesn't look very monarchy except for the crown on her head. Otherwise she's dressed in jeans, boots and a black t-shirt with the words 'The Jedi Must End...' printed in bold red letters against black. Someone's seen Star Wars already. She's currently seated with Maxwell and sipping on her coffee, "I really want a Porg." she tells him. It's probably a good thing that the guy who comes in the moment after Ashe's comment did come in after it, or there might have been a terrible impression of River Song in the offing. As it is, the unshaven and somewhat slovenly fellow who stomps snow off his boots outside in the mudroom but doesn't actually take them off looks cranky enough anyway. It's possible he's a lovely person and his face just froze that way. Possible. He takes off the hat jammed on his head, and there are-- oh, there are Ears. They are pointed, but they're not prettily pointed in the High Elf way or in the cute pixie way or in the logical Spock way, they're pointed high and long and back like some kind of RPG miner fairy from the 90s. "Hey. You're Ashe Whelan, then?" he asks when he sees her, not coming in any further lest he leave melting puddles in his footsteps. That's not an upper crust English accent, but it's also not so far in the gutter to be a comic relief English accent. "Crown gives you away. Been told to look for you if I want to pledge to the freehold. Know it's a death pledge, did some readin', got told the laws, want to pledge. I'm Robin Collier, Lord Neirin of Echoes if you want me to be stuffy." Ashe turns her head when the cold spot happens and there's a wave to the newcomer. "Good afternoon." she calls. Then there's a bit of a nod to him, "Yes, I'm Ashe." she nods to that. Then she straightens up a bit as he explains his business, "Good that you talked to someone. Do you prefer to be called Robin, Neirin, Lord Neirin?" she asks him as she motions him to a spot to sit. "Depends on context," is the slightly unhelpful answer, but as he's looking at the chair, then at his wet boots, he's considering the merits of sitting versus pissing off the people who have to mop up. "Ta, but I'll track in melting snow," he finally decides, looking faintly uncomfortable. "Don't want to take me boots off. Answer quickest to Collier. Neirin's if I'm writing for the Freehold, but I'll answer to it-- bit silly to call me Lord Anything. Robin's all right if you're deciding we're to be mates from here in." "I've tracked in melting snow as well. I'll help clean up." Ashe states with that stitched smile of hers. She doesn't seem to mind. "We'll figure out what to call you." she tells him as she sits back in her chair. She reaches up to bat the stray lock of grey hair back into place. "So you've been read the laws, know it's a death pledge. Anything else you'd like to speak on before doing the pledge?" she asks him as she looks to him. Still the man hesitates, holding his hat, but-- she wants him to sit. So in tracks the melting snow, and the smell of a damp coat belonging to a smoker, and fainter but present, the scents of Scotch and bow rosin and coal smoke and iron. He sits. "Neirin'll do," he says dryly. "Nothin' I need to ask, only wanted to get the pledge done with before going to the Wild Roses Market tonight. One thing you might find to be of use: I'm a lot of things, and one of 'em's a blacksmith. Finishing setting up shop in Fort Brunsett, specialise in cold iron. Can make hand-forged. Prefer to sell to them as what ain't a privateer or loyalist, but I hear there's a lot of folk hereabouts that ain't Freehold-sworn..." Ashe gives a nod when he finally sits down and a bit of a smile, "Nice to meet you, Neirin." she tells him. "If you take commissions I'll have to see about having my husband an axe made. He's in need of a new one." she admits. "And the Market is not the happiest place as of late, so do be careful when you go out there." she warns. Mainly because he's new. Then she sits forward a little bit, "When you're ready, repeat after me." she states. "I pledge my time, my talents and my fealty to Fate's Harvest." "I swear that I no longer serve the Fae, nor will I while this promise stands; that while I am under its protection I will obey the principles and bylaws of the Fate's Harvest Freehold as ratified by Monarch and Council, in return for the support and safety they provide." "May I perish in exile, should I be forsworn." "Oh, ta, maybe I'll see if anyone else is going; don't have to go tonight..." the man says, starting out thanking Ashe and then devolving into sort of thinking out loud, before she brings his attention back to the task at hand-- and then he's riveted, clearly paying the closest of attention, committing the words to memory before repeating them. And his voice, when he does repeat them, has the resonant rolling cant of a tradition-trained storyteller or bard, every word spoken with weight and respect: "I pledge my time, my talents and my fealty to Fate's Harvest. I swear that I no longer serve the Fae, nor will I while this promise stands; that while I am under its protection I will obey the principles and bylaws of the Fate's Harvest Freehold as ratified by Monarch and Council, in return for the support and safety they provide. May I perish in exile should I be forsworn." "One of our members has a stall there. He probably will be there. His name is Cassian." Ashe offers to him. Then she quiets to let her do the pledge. Once he's spoken the words there's a smile that twitches up and she nods to him. He can feel it settle over his shoulders. There's a small pin offered over to him, "Welcome to Fate's Harvest, Neirin. I'm sorry that you'll have to reup when Winter takes over in a about a week, but I'm happy to pledge people until then." she admits. Cassian. Another thing Neirin commits to memory: someone he can trust to at least not sell him out at the Market, given Market rules and the Freehold's laws. As he feels the weight of the pledge settle, the Thusser actually gives Ashe a grin-- it's the nicest expression that's been on his face the whole time, and it takes years off, transfiguring his dour and awkward person into a bright-eyed and mischief-filled creator of beautiful things. He takes the pin and affixes it to the lapel of his bulky coat. "Thank you," he says, giving Ashe the full words with relish, as if enjoying the ability to do so. "And it's fine, Whelan, just fine. I don't mind pledging again. Just didn't want to go without the safety net, right?" And then he stands, offering his callused hand. "Good to meet you, good to join you, Ashe Whelan." Ashe gives a nod to that, "Not a bad idea to go out there with a safety net, so I understand that." she tells him. Then she stands when he does. She takes the offered hand and shakes it, "It was good to meet you, Neirin. I look forward to having you around the Freehold." she tells him. "Be safe in your travels this evening." she offers.