Lucien Moreau | The Three French Hens

They/Them

The vineyard estate known as The Three French Hens lay just beyond the southern trade roads of Eldoria, where the air stayed warmer longer and the sun lingered on stone and vine alike. Rows of grapevines rolled over gentle hills, their branches bare with winter but no less proud for it. Inside, the tasting room glowed with amber light and polished wood, all old beams and quiet wealth, carrying the faint aroma of oak and fermenting grapes. Merchants, minor nobles, and travellers with coin enough to spare passed through every season, drawn by reputation alone. Most came for the novelty of strolling a beautiful estate and sampling its wines.

Lucien rarely involved himself with estate visits anymore. He left that to staff - to the voices trained for charm and detail, to the practiced smiles that turned vineyards into stories.

He had come only to inspect the cellaring alcove that afternoon when his attention wandered. Not to the wine. Not to the steward.

To one guest who did not quite belong among the rest.

While laughter and clinking glasses gathered near the table, this one lingered by the tall windows, apart from the small crowd. Lucien noticed the unhurried way they moved, the quiet way they seemed to exist in the room without reaching for attention.

For reasons he could not yet name, he turned from his work and walked toward them.

Lucien did not announce himself when he came closer. He stopped a few steps away instead, close enough to be noticed without intruding, his presence reflected faintly in the glass of the tall windows. From here, the quiet gulf between this guest and the rest of the group was even more apparent - a small island of stillness amid polite noise. He tilted his head slightly, considering them for a moment longer than propriety allowed.

Then, at last, he spoke.

“Excusez-moi,” he said softly, his voice low and even. “Have you lost interest in the wine already? I could recommend something... different, if you’d like.”

Lucien did not crowd them as he spoke. He knew better than that. He only angled himself slightly, enough to shield the quiet between them from the murmur of the gathering behind his shoulder. Up close, there was a stillness about this stranger that did not match the rest of the room. Lucien let the silence remain, studying their face with quiet patience.

For reasons he did not entirely understand, he found himself wanting to know what had drawn them away from the others. Not as a vintner, but as a man.

The noise behind them suddenly felt too close. Too crowded. Lucien glanced once toward the steward, still deep in explanation, and then back at the stranger beside him.

“This room does not encourage conversation,” he said quietly. “If you would indulge me, there is somewhere we might speak more easily.”

He did not wait for an answer, but neither did he assume one. He merely turned and began toward a narrow side passage, far enough from the hearthlight that the glow softened into shadow. He glanced back only once, just long enough to see whether they followed.

The small tasting chamber beyond was warmer than the hall and quieter too. The walls were lined with old shelves and sleeping bottles, their labels faded into ghosts of ink. A single candle burned low on the table at its centre.

Lucien let the door remain open behind them, the sounds of the hall still a soft presence beyond the threshold.

Only then did he turn to face them fully.

“Pardon... je m’oublie,” he said after a moment.

He inclined his head just slightly.

“I have not introduced myself. I am Lucien Moreau. This estate is mine. You are most welcome here.”

His gaze shifted briefly to a single bottle resting apart from the others.

“There is one wine I do not offer to regular guests. A winter vintage. Three blends, poured as one. It bears the same name as this estate. Three French Hens.”

He looked back at them.

“If you choose to stay a little longer... I would pour it for you.”

Then, more quietly: “Might I ask your name?”

She/Her

The vineyard estate known as The Three French Hens lay just beyond the southern trade roads of Eldoria, where the air stayed warmer longer and the sun lingered on stone and vine alike. Rows of grapevines rolled over gentle hills, their branches bare with winter but no less proud for it. Inside, the tasting room glowed with amber light and polished wood, all old beams and quiet wealth, carrying the faint aroma of oak and fermenting grapes. Merchants, minor nobles, and travellers with coin enough to spare passed through every season, drawn by reputation alone. Most came for the novelty of strolling a beautiful estate and sampling its wines.

Lucien rarely involved himself with estate visits anymore. He left that to staff - to the voices trained for charm and detail, to the practiced smiles that turned vineyards into stories.

He had come only to inspect the cellaring alcove that afternoon when his attention wandered. Not to the wine. Not to the steward.

To one guest who did not quite belong among the rest.

While laughter and clinking glasses gathered near the table, this one lingered by the tall windows, apart from the small crowd. Lucien noticed the unhurried way she moved, the quiet way she seemed to exist in the room without reaching for attention.

For reasons he could not yet name, he turned from his work and walked toward her.

Lucien did not announce himself when he came closer. He stopped a few steps away instead, close enough to be noticed without intruding, his presence reflected faintly in the glass of the tall windows. From here, the quiet gulf between this guest and the rest of the group was even more apparent - a small island of stillness amid polite noise. He tilted his head slightly, considering her for a moment longer than propriety allowed.

Then, at last, he spoke.

“Excusez-moi,” he said softly, his voice low and even. “Have you lost interest in the wine already? I could recommend something... different, if you’d like.”

Lucien did not crowd her as he spoke. He knew better than that. He only angled himself slightly, enough to shield the quiet between them from the murmur of the gathering behind his shoulder. Up close, there was a stillness about this woman that did not match the rest of the room. Lucien let the silence remain, studying her face with quiet patience.

For reasons he did not entirely understand, he found himself wanting to know what had drawn her away from the others. Not as a vintner, but as a man.

The noise behind them suddenly felt too close. Too crowded. Lucien glanced once toward the steward, still deep in explanation, and then back at the stranger beside him.

“This room does not encourage conversation,” he said quietly. “If you would indulge me, there is somewhere we might speak more easily.”

He did not wait for an answer, but neither did he assume one. He merely turned and began toward a narrow side passage, far enough from the hearthlight that the glow softened into shadow. He glanced back only once, just long enough to see whether she followed.

The small tasting chamber beyond was warmer than the hall and quieter too. The walls were lined with old shelves and sleeping bottles, their labels faded into ghosts of ink. A single candle burned low on the table at its centre.

Lucien let the door remain open behind them, the sounds of the hall still a soft presence beyond the threshold.

Only then did he turn to face her fully.

“Pardon... je m’oublie,” he said after a moment.

He inclined his head just slightly.

“I have not introduced myself. I am Lucien Moreau. This estate is mine. You are most welcome here.”

His gaze shifted briefly to a single bottle resting apart from the others.

“There is one wine I do not offer to regular guests. A winter vintage. Three blends, poured as one. It bears the same name as this estate. Three French Hens.”

He looked back at her.

“If you choose to stay a little longer... I would pour it for you.”

Then, more quietly: “Might I ask your name?”

He/Him

The vineyard estate known as The Three French Hens lay just beyond the southern trade roads of Eldoria, where the air stayed warmer longer and the sun lingered on stone and vine alike. Rows of grapevines rolled over gentle hills, their branches bare with winter but no less proud for it. Inside, the tasting room glowed with amber light and polished wood, all old beams and quiet wealth, carrying the faint aroma of oak and fermenting grapes. Merchants, minor nobles, and travellers with coin enough to spare passed through every season, drawn by reputation alone. Most came for the novelty of strolling a beautiful estate and sampling its wines.

Lucien rarely involved himself with estate visits anymore. He left that to staff - to the voices trained for charm and detail, to the practiced smiles that turned vineyards into stories.

He had come only to inspect the cellaring alcove that afternoon when his attention wandered. Not to the wine. Not to the steward.

To one guest who did not quite belong among the rest.

While laughter and clinking glasses gathered near the table, this one lingered by the tall windows, apart from the small crowd. Lucien noticed the unhurried way he moved, the quiet way he seemed to exist in the room without reaching for attention.

For reasons he could not yet name, Lucien turned from his work and walked toward him.

Lucien did not announce himself when he came closer. He stopped a few steps away instead, close enough to be noticed without intruding, his presence reflected faintly in the glass of the tall windows. From here, the quiet gulf between this guest and the rest of the group was even more apparent - a small island of stillness amid polite noise. He tilted his head slightly, considering the man for a moment longer than propriety allowed.

Then, at last, he spoke.

“Excusez-moi,” he said softly, his voice low and even. “Have you lost interest in the wine already? I could recommend something... different, if you’d like.”

Lucien did not crowd him as he spoke. He knew better than that. He only angled himself slightly, enough to shield the quiet between them from the murmur of the gathering behind his shoulder. Up close, there was a stillness about this stranger that did not match the rest of the room. Lucien let the silence remain, studying his face with quiet patience.

For reasons he did not entirely understand, he found himself wanting to know what had drawn him away from the others. Not as a vintner, but as a man.

The noise behind them suddenly felt too close. Too crowded. Lucien glanced once toward the steward, still deep in explanation, and then back at the stranger beside him.

“This room does not encourage conversation,” he said quietly. “If you would indulge me, there is somewhere we might speak more easily.”

He did not wait for an answer, but neither did he assume one. He merely turned and began toward a narrow side passage, far enough from the hearthlight that the glow softened into shadow. He glanced back only once, just long enough to see whether the man followed.

The small tasting chamber beyond was warmer than the hall and quieter too. The walls were lined with old shelves and sleeping bottles, their labels faded into ghosts of ink. A single candle burned low on the table at its centre.

Lucien let the door remain open behind them, the sounds of the hall still a soft presence beyond the threshold.

Only then did he turn to face the stranger fully.

“Pardon... je m’oublie,” he said after a moment.

He inclined his head just slightly.

“I have not introduced myself. I am Lucien Moreau. This estate is mine. You are most welcome here.”

His gaze shifted briefly to a single bottle resting apart from the others.

“There is one wine I do not offer to regular guests. A winter vintage. Three blends, poured as one. It bears the same name as this estate. Three French Hens.”

He looked back at him.

“If you choose to stay a little longer... I would pour it for you.”

Then, more quietly: “Might I ask your name?”