The Cu Sidhe ducks his head, blushing. He scuffs a boot on the floor, taking a plate and sitting on his knees near the Princess; the only chair near enough to allow him to sit would be the Throne, a terrible idea for any number of reasons.
"Aw, I dunno. Thank you, m'lady, f'r the compliment, but...well, I ain't got no royal blood like you; I was a clock-maker, 'fore I got this post. I ain't got more 'n a speck o' Oberon's blood in me. With all the fancy techno-magicality all the merchants be bringing from Over the Hill, though, I knew I wasn't gonna be in business long. Still. Was nicer, then. None of these gosh-darn interfangled politics to deal with. 'S practically the only thing there is to talk about, these days. Bunch of oak-born gossipers, like! Bad as school girls, I tell you. Arranged marriage this, border renegotiation that. From what Clove tells me, there's been some tensions goin' on 'tween the Blossom King and Her Grace, thanks to one o' the Naiad families havin' some dispute with the Selkies o'er a river delta. Ridiculous, if you ask me. Ought to just share the place and be done. But no one ever asks the Cu Sidhe, or anyone low-born at all, for that matter. We're Summerfolk, after all. Not rightly welcome in the Winter Court..."
He looks a little depressed, but the expression fades to one of simple contentment and happiness as he fills his plate about halfway; it's rude to be a pig in front of a lady, after all. As he takes a bite, the door opens, and he blanches, turning around to see the Kelpie who had escorted Tia to the Court standing in the doorway. He looks absolutely mortified, swallowing and nearly choking in his haste to stammer out an apology, standing up so fast it's a miracle he didn't trip the cart over.
"I- Uh- M'lord- I mean- Well- I was just- Oh, bugger...'M sorry, m'lord..."
The poor fae seems extraordinarily frightened as the Kelpie strides forward, something not quite anger- satisfaction, perhaps? - lurking behind his dark eyes as he very purposefully refuses to look at the guard. Clove remains behind, standing at attention by the doorway, but his face is pale and his eyes continually dart to his canine companion currently cowering back from the steps to the Throne dais that Tia's chair is on, worried as to the man's fate.