She had not become accustomed yet to Ironclad, though he had made quite a decent effort to accommodate her malcontentment. It was almost enough to make him passable company as they traversed his girlfriend’s home. Or, well, perhaps ‘girlfriend’ was a misinterpretation - Chalice hadn’t tried to figure on it too much. She was acquainted with the ways of men, after all, even if not intimately. So what if there was some queen somewhere who fancied him - he was not the Man of Fire and so he was beyond her notice in such respects. Not below it, strong enough and certainly not too stupid to learn as some of his sort could be, but not designated for it either. Beyond. Outside her attentions.

When he had said their little not-honeymoon was over, that was when the actual tribulations began. She had almost begun to hope that the lively island of jungle and tropics was going to be their home for a significant time. Then, like a recurring nightmare, back they were shipped - back to the dead rock of the Inlet and it’s cursedly familiar climes. The climate was not awful through the summer -- but now that it was fall, she was determinedly back to her usual cold demeanor.

Cold enough to utterly lack any understanding of the herd-at-large or her captors trials.

She stumbles on him, then, looking at the sad and sorry state of him and feeling a twinge of need in her breast to soothe the devastation he attempts to hide. If she had been anyone else, maybe it would have worked. Her position and name, Chalice, meant, however, that she did not miss it and indeed felt it as if it was a weight in her own breast. Her ears flick back, considering if she might overlook his pain or overlook his attempt to hide it when he begins to speak. "How are you doing this beautiful morning? I know the Inlet is no paradise like the Shore can be, but for me it is home. I hope you will one day find it to be home too." He is trying, valiantly, and she does recall the warmth of the other ‘home’ with him with enough fondness not to be able to push aside his emotional wounds.

Nor ignore her own.

"The demesne of the Inlet does not welcome my offerings, Ironclad. Though you are handsome, and another maid might have benefited your earthly purposes - I still must admit to you that who I am and what I am will bear you no fruit other than what pleasure you say you take in looking upon me." This time when she says it, though, there is a tone of sorrow for it - that she cannot feed him better news for his own spirit. "A Chalice must be bound to a Master, Lord Ironclad. No emperor or king can dictate it. Only the demesne itself and the elements that create it - the spirit of this earth rejects what I represent - so wild and cold and hard in comparison to my sunlight, warmth, and bounty. It resents my softer elements and I have never felt a wilder demesne in all my time." Her face turns curious, her eyes flicking to the side as if caught by an errant thought.

"I have pondered if it is because it has exchanged hands so much, that it is perhaps because those who sought control were harder spirits and gave it only orders and not love." She looks back up to him, sunshine catching on it’s own reflection in her coat."But it suits you, if that is worth anything. Lord Bjorn made it feel hungry - restless… not in any way that I would call bad - but intimidating nonetheless. You make it feel only more like stone, firm and stubborn. Also not bad, but it bars itself from me only the more because of it." She tilts her head, smiling awkwardly because she had spoke more than she intended about things he’d know almost nothing about - "You look like a walk might do you some good, if you wanted to join me on mine."