'Twas a lovely autumn day, as it nearly always seemed to be in the Sapphire Realm. Couples and small groups of courtiers were milling about everywhere, the name of Princess Isabella on each of their minds and lips. They shuffled through Norshire, though the gardens, even occasionally through the countryside, gossip being traded left and right. A single man, however, lingered near the river, another Emerald lady on his mind.

With his brow heavily furrowed and his strong arms crossed over his chest, Lord Westley presented quite the brooding figure. He was clothed in his brown outfit, and for once was missing his lute. His eyes were focused unseeingly into the water, as images of a certain courtesan who he had run across only twice danced past his mind's eye. Why could he not rid himself of these thoughts of this...this witch? Thank goodness he didn't share his mother's faith. He'd be burning her at the stake the very next day if he did, he was sure. Instead, this woman simply confounded him with her power over him. He wasn't sure of a single night that he hadn't dreamt of her ever since he had run across her in Norshire. Their encounter at the masquerade has simply intensified his dreams, making them all the more detailed. Each stopped at one choice moment, right as she whispered his name in ecstasy.

But how was he to stop these dreams, he had wondered the night before when he had woken in a cold sweat in a rather uncomfortable situation? How was he to get this woman out of his system when he didn't even know her name? He had sworn never to contact her again, but by God, if he was to be tempted like this every single night for the rest of his life, maybe he needed to do something. And so, a sinister plot had began, one that he had slowly been working through as the day had gone by, even has he had risen that morning from the rest of his sleepless night. The only question was, how was he to proceed? He needed some sort of sign...

Rowland's face was deep in thought all that afternoon, the brisk air moving across the Kingdom as a plague runs through a city. He was in a very temperamental situation with the Princess of the Sapphire Realm, and he knew it. Thankfully, everybody else didn't know it, but it was only a matter of time. Too many courtiers had loose tongues, ready to flap open and piece things together. It would only be a matter of time before people did conclude that he and Anna were lovers, and wanted to marry. It was more than that, though, they wanted to do it with the King's good graces. That, most unfortunately, would not be an easy feat seeing as he was just pushed into marrying a woman he found undesirable for his kingdom. Rowland did not believe that the King would let Anna off of her duty so easily, for he did not have the same comfort.

A quick decision came about that his chambers were no proper place to think through something as haughty as his relationship with Anna. No, they required large, open skies and clean air. Not a badly-lit room that was cold, cold as his heart. Quick words were exchanged with his manservant, who came to the understanding that if he were to get a rose then lay it on the table, not a word said. Something that only he, Anna, and her lady's maid knew was that that red rose signaled Rowland's safety to come to her privy chambers. Edwin, his most trusted manservant, did not even know this. Too risky.

Exiting his chambers into a large, stone corridor, he made his way to an exit of the palace. Rowland craved air, sun, a cool wind to soothe the heat on his skin. The desire for Anna, the passion in the bottommost place of his heart. Quite literally, he was sick for his lover. Maneuvering around groups of chit-chatting courtiers, he made his way outside of the palace. To freedom, to liberation! Stuffy air was not here, nor were prejudices. All was left behind, all was left to remain. Rowland could be a man out here, stripped of his sinful acts and titles as an Earl. It was then, as he was moving towards nothing yet still some location in his mind, he took notice of another man. A man that, alarmingly, had the same look he had just had upon his own. Rowland was not a man to prejudge, especially based off of tentative emotions, but his intuition suggested otherwise.

"My lord," Rowland said, his quizzical expression turning into one of familiarity. "I do hold cause to wonder why you're gazing so intently into the river. It may be impermissible to ask, but I do so just the same." It was a warm greeting, one that was not meant to be brazen but could be taken as just the same. Rowland did have a tendency to greet others with an unintended superiority, regardless of his efforts. "It is a beautiful day, though," he spoke, his voice misting over as his stormy gray eyes did, forming a mental image of his lover on his consciousness. Love was a tricky thing.

A bastardly thing.

Already Westley had been going over plans in his mind repeatedly. Little details were popping up here and there, making perfect sense in his mind. The great plan, however, had not been fully formed. No doubt it would be horrendously difficult to form a plan that would be completely fool-proof, a plan to get this woman out of his mind and his dreams once and for all. He didn't know how long he had to plan, however, before he went positively insane with lust for this woman that he did not even know the name of, though she seemed to know his quite well. Another detail flicked into his head, and he mentally decided to count how much money he had once he returned to his room in the castle. It would no doubt be a very valuable asset.

Quite unexpected, he suddenly heard a voice to his side. His head snapped to look at the intruder of his thoughts, dark eyes narrowing ever so slightly, but widening back to their normal width when he recognized the man as the well-known Earl Rowland Ingling. If he had heard about the man once from tittering females gossipping excitedly in the halls, he had heard about him a million times. Then again, the man deserved to be gossipped about. He was certainly the handsome one, and no doubt charming if his title and favor with the royal family was to be trusted. Westley regarded the man with his common expression of neutrality and apathy, though for once, his eyes were refusing to sparkle. They were as dead as could be.

"Forgive me, my grace, for giving you cause to wonder, and therefore distracting you from the day." Westley drawled, looking back at the river as well. He moved his arms from his chest, instead placing a hand on his hip as the other dangled by his side. "I confess my worries have to do with the fairer sex. I would not wish to bother you with such a thing." There, it wasn't exactly a lie, was it? Not that it would matter, as it was. When it came to lying, it felt to him as if he had no conscience. Many years of doing just that to his mother had led it to become almost deliciously easy.

Deciding that he should, perhaps, introduce himself, his eyes flickered back to the Earl. He paused for only another moment before turning to him and giving a slight bow, his hand tapping his hat lightly as he did so. "Lord Westley Ryland, at your service, though your name proceeds you quite well." He looked back at the river then, not caring much for manners at this moment. He had too many things to plan out.

Rowland's eyebrows rose, a smile playing it's way across his face. This. . .Lord Westley had heard of him, then? It was becoming a common thing, for his appearence and name to be known before he showed anybody either fact. Rowland was not sure if he liked it, the gossip mongers adding him into their mixes, but the facts of life were ones that had to be dealt with. He was sleeping with the Princess, and certain things would not go unnoticed. Those certain things, naturally, were injected into the stream of gossip keeping Norshire's foundation strong. Gossip was based on truth, lies were based on gossip, the middleman was most unattractive.

"You gave me no more cause to worry then the heretics spreading their heresies," Rowland said, the glint pushing away the mist to reveal clear, stormy gray eyes. The same eyes that stared upon the man before him. Rowland, at this point in time, feared nothing of the heretics out there. The chancellor was smiting any attempts of a real rebellion, a real reformation, leaving way for the True Faith to reign supreme. Their heresies worried him none. This Lord Westley was a handsome chap, with features darker than his own but no less attractive. Many a lady delighted him in, or at least they would given the chance. The afternoon was turning out to prove only one was in his mind, not all of the supposed ones Rowland assumed of. "The fairer sex, as you put it, do tend to cause the most worries in the heart of a man, do they not?" Rowland asked, referring to both the assumed situation Westley was having as well as the one he himself was. The smile still played out on his face, giving way to relatively straight and white teeth, for the times. "I should hope the fairer sex is not clouding your better judgment, my Lord Westley?" He knew all too well of feeling like a marionette under a masters control, dancing and moving at the will of the one loving him. Anna had that control over him, but he did not mind. Rowland relished it.

Regardless of how well Lord Westley knew his name, out of sheer politeness he gave it to him. "Earl Rowland of Cromley, also at your bidding, if any bidding may be done," he said, implying the man's apparent situation, seemingly related to Rowland's issue as well. A bit of doubt and worry, however, slipped itself into Rowland's being as Lord Westley spoke, saying that his name proceeds himself quite well. "Surely you don't believe the loose tongues our Court is filled with, Lord Westley?" Rowland asked, hoping indeed that more bits of gossip had gotten out that Rowland did not yet hear. He feared it would only be a matter of time before the Royal Guard was coming to imprison him in the Tower, to be executed on the Green soon after. Only a matter of time. . .

At the Earl's words, Westley looked over at him once again with a lifted brow, the tell-tale wrinkles slipping across his forehead to age him considerably. It was obviously a common facial expression for him, as the wrinkles were fairly deep, but he still managed to look relatively neutral. "Ah, those heretics...you would be surprised of how many linger in our fair realm already." The words were spoken with an air of mystery as he tilted his head ever so slightly to the right. "Witches, you know, looming about our landscape." While part of him was quite serious about one woman in particular ensnaring his senses, his eyes still glimmered with a hint of humor. He trusted that His Grace would catch it, as he seemed to be a man with a fairly good sense of humor.

His words about women made him release a rather ungraceful snort as he looked back at the river. "I cannot think of a single thing done in the history of humanity that did not center around gaining the affections of the fairer sex, My Grace." Indeed, all of the wars in the world, the minor scuffles, the duels, anything, even if it seemed at first for power or money, he was confident began over a female. He shook his head quickly, his dark curls following suit. "No, they are clouding my judgment quite well, I'm afraid. I think they take classes on doing just such a thing." His tone was dry as an image of that blasted woman swam before his mind's eye, distracting him from the man by his side once again.

There was a sense of worry in His Grace's words, Westley thought. His eyebrow lifted one again, and he turned his head to look at Earl Rowland rather quizzically. "It seems to me that the majority of those loose tongues are attached to a brain with the majority of their information correct." He paused, turning his body to face the man as well. "Do you not take their words into stock, then, My Grace?"

Rowland's smirk evident as he took a few steps closer to Westley, a good-sized yard in between them. Now, as he thought through the situation, he began to understand what Westley's dilemma was. Piecing it together, his jests were now seeming to fit together and form a story, a story that was written on this Lord's face and torturing his heart. For these moments, Rowland did not even consider his own issues, being quite intrigued by Lord Westley's own. Merely nodding to the man's statement of heretics, the smile upon his face widened in acceptance of the humor. Knowing quite well what the Lord meant, Rowland slowly became aware of the gravity of the situation. It was beginning to sound eerily similar to the ensnarements of his lover, Anna.

Lord Westley was very right. Any disagreement's base spark was undoubtedly a woman. Pitiful, though it was, it made sense. They served a man's every need, whether it be to pleasure, give sons, or perhaps be companionable. "Indeed, women do have more control over worldly affairs then they think, let alone us mighty and strong lords," Rowland agreed, the bit at the end making himself chuckle. He was well aware of the male domination in the known countries of the world, and in the same way he took it for life everyday. Women did not rise up against their 'oppressors.' Of course, for generations they'd been raised to obey their overlord, and eventually their husband. It was the way of life, and little room for change ever became available.

More humor, Rowland thought, as the Lord continued on to jest of women taking classes on ensnaring senses and the like. A humorous thought, though of course completely preposterous. "They do seem overly skilled," Rowland chuckled, suddenly adding on, "but it is not a class they take, they learn it from their mothers." Every mother that has daughters naturally scheme to get their daughter a good marriage, the most coverage. It made sense that such a daughter would absorb those same actions and a vicious chain thus enacted. "What troubles you so?" Rowland asked, his voice low and deep. It was his feeble attempt at soothing, but the obvious emotional pain was enough to make even Rowland flinch.

His face became much more grave as the situation continued on. He hated the fact his name was on gossipers lips, spreading around the bits of knowledge that could easily be pieced together. Rowland damned them all to hell, mucking the situation he and Anna were in to nothing more than an dispassionate fling. Resenting the thought, he replied, "The brain they may or may not be attached to is as corrupted as the people that spread such falsehoods." His face was rather red, mainly in frustration, but a hint of a blush was there. The last thing he wanted was his passionate love public. "I do not care to pay attention to gossip, concerning me or not. If I want to know a piece of news, I beseech the person of whom it is about. Only they can tell the truth, and even then. . . ." Looking into the river, he damned the situation to hell. May it rot there, and only his love sustain him. Only his love.