Feast at Giask - Part III
It took Nicholas a moment to catch his bearings. So many words, gestures and smells all continued to assail him at once, unabated by notions of tact and timing. After the moment passed, his focus found its mark: Aldrakar Renodin was gesturing him - them - forward. Sir Benedict and Sir William no longer held his attention; it would be unwise to turn his focus away from the man seated upon the throne. With his goblet, of which he had only drunk two mouthfuls of, set aside onto the tray of a passing servant, Nicholas moved into a smooth stride toward Aldrakar. Though clad in the luxurious silks of an aristocratic, his gait yet remained in much the fashion of a professional soldier; efficient and forthright. The knight had little movement or thought to spare for flamboyance - though his cloak did much of the job for him.
As he approached, any discomfort began to fade. It had been the build-up causing him nerves, overthinking his expectations for the gathering. Without sparing a glance to the many courtiers and aristocrats arrayed in the Great Hall - many of whom eyed the Knight of Poryatown himself with envy - Nicholas quickly arrived to place himself within the King's presence. It was then he acknowledged the presence of Sir Matthew - the gallant, glory hound who had called for so many of his fellow knights. He was much less than Nicholas pictured; there was no impressive warrior-to-be. In his place was a youth, more courtier than knight. A boy making pretend that he was a man; Nicholas knew the type. Perhaps this was the way of things in capital. He had not the experience to judge for certain.
Regardless, upon approaching Aldrakar, Nicholas took his place after Sir Benedict and fell to one knee. He drew his sword - a decorative heirloom, inlaid with gleaming silver - and held it before him, his gesture of fealty. The knight looked up, directing his blue-grey eyes to make contact with the monarch's. At close inspection for Aldrakar to view, Nicholas appeared to be swiftly on his way to becoming more man than boy; broad-shouldered, strong-jawed and with any softness of boyhood melted away through the trials of sword and steel. His hair, a dark-brown, was kept in the comfortable middle-ground of style and practicality. In the short breath before speech, he took in his liege; now this was an impressive man. Much as he had imagined him to be, opposing the relative disappointment of Sir Matthew. With all the rigid, military discipline he had come to find comfort in, he addressed the King with the utmost respect:
"My king, I am Sir Nicholas Archival, Knight of Poryatown. I am humbly at your service, and thank you for your most generous invitation to this feast. My sword is yours."Service, respect, fealty. These he had been readied for. These he knew. Courtly etiquette would come in time to follow, no doubt.
