Knights of Anathaeum A Pretty Night for Himbo Knights (After Dark)

[Arbok]

Arbok's dark eyes scanned the room in envy. She would like to have competed but it was her turn to muck out the stables so she missed it.
"Maybe I could just take... one!"
She didn't mean it really but she felt her courage was all played out by just being there. Making off with one quietly, especially from one who didn't really want it, seemed like a way to not make a fuss.

Then she noticed them again, they were up and laughing so Arbok went low and quiet and looked back at Byanka.
"I don't need one though"
Her head seemed drawn to the tabletop.
"I could just stay, here?"
Arbok's face turned red as an apple.

Byanka Valkas

 

[Byanka Valkas]

Byanka could not help smiling as Arbok's brief burst of confidence dwindled. "You don't have to get one from them if you don't want to. Maybe Saskia has some extras she can give you,"

She could definitely understand how Arbok felt, the high number of shirtless men in their vicinity was liable to make anyone sweat (for good or bad reasons).

Byanka personally could not think of any logical reason why they were still wandering around half naked, when they held perfect good shirts in their hands. Shameless, is what it was. And as Julian walked back over to them with three glasses of lemonade, Byanka found herself echoing Arbok's actions; now she was the shameless one.

Arbok

 

[Julian Benavide]

Julian fetched the lemonade and made his way back through the crowd to Byanka and Arbok. Had more people arrived? It felt more crowded, and he had to be extra careful not to spill any drinks.

He made it back to their little table safely, this time without any adoring fans asking for his autograph on their faces in lipstick.

"What are we talking about?" He asked, including himself in the conversation. "The shirts Saskia made? What, do you want mine?"

Arbok

 

[Valborast Valchek]

In fortunate circumstance, Valborast would have kept a broad distance between himself and the celebrations currently unfolding. Yet, for Valborast, fortune had not turned his way. A simple bet between himself and Parshen, the librarian, had gained an additional consequence as the ante had been increased. Being sure of the cards within their hand, and refusing timidity, Valborast had quickly agreed.

And was just as quickly trounced.

Valborast was this very day obligated to stakes of the bet Parshen had won handily some days before with most punctual silent smugness.

With much slowness and silent loathing of his own self inflicted unfortunate circumstance, Valborast made his way to the place where he had to make good on stakes he had wagered upon. Where the cheerful champions did revel in their victories, Valborast was to fulfil his duty. For if a knight's word was used in currency, even in a game of cards, he did think, then that coin was minted true.

But, Valborast thought, I need not do this without alcoholic smoke screen.

Valborast entered the scene, and did purse lips at it instinctive. Yet he did force himself to seem neutral, for that, indeed, was part of the terms that he not spoil anyone's good fun. He did hide his attitude, nodding and giving hint of smiles as did inwardly shudder at the sheer unbridled lackadaisical nature of it all. Further thoughts roiled as he did make tactical move to the bar, wishing not to be seen as to be enjoying any of this. Firmly uncomfortable, Valborast was still considering how best to fulfil the conditions of the bet without betraying his mood about any of it.

From nook and cranny, Parshen and fellow confidants to the nature of the terms looked on as Valborast made entrance. Much elbows to jostle and hushed excited conversation as Parshen did sip white wine with that same silent smugness as was followed when the hand had been won. They watched Valborast reach the bar and was awkwardly doing his best to remain inconspicuous.

As inconspicuous as one awash in crimson draperies in a sea of shirtless folk could ever hope to be.

The straight flush was soon to pay out. Parshen was soon to earn what revenge a librarian could have against one who did perform endless infractions of the 'no smoking' rule in archways that was so diligently enforced by Parshen and his colleagues.

Valborast looked for a bartender and would speak of want of wine when one would present. Strong wine.

 

[Farren Lóthlindor]

Not his first time– No, it indeed was not. To reflect the fact, her grin was met in kind, an untethered glee crinkling the edges of his eyes. A fine sort of remark as for being more than true and for which she seemed not the least displeased. He could keep up a good habit.

“If it would please me. “ He repeated, tone dipping to the serious, considering sort as he tore his look away from her into an idle glance about, one that saw nothing.

“ Now perhaps it would. If my experience of playing passenger today proved anything, it was just how exquisite it is to be manhandled – lugged about, dragged along as it were. “ Despite all of Faramund’s trained strength, that was definitely what it had felt like, at the end of the day. Half of it must’ve been due to the attitude of the luggee.

“All that huffing and puffing. Makes a man rendered powerless feel less so, somehow. “ He continued, eyeing her more carefully, like he meant to size her up.

“ You’d do to that for me, Syr Lóthlindor? You, who is so formidable. “

Farren Lóthlindor

Her answering laugh at the memory of the princess carry was bright. Syr Theros had indeed treated her with care and chivalry, and her ride was for all intents and purposes, a smooth and delightful one. While Aarno's passage on the broad shoulders of Faramund had been... a sight for a multitude of reasons.

Farren tempered her giggle and made note to find Bebin later and buy him a drink for being such a gentleman. Getting to experience his dark fathomless eyes that glittered like obsidian, was just a bonus.

“ You’d do to that for me, Syr Lóthlindor? You, who is so formidable. “

Aarno's question caught her off guard, and even if he was just teasing her, the secret pleasure she felt at the idea of him finding her formidable, competent evem, sent heat into her cheeks and knots in her tongue.

"Ehem, uh... hmmm." Farren tried to recover with a self-conscious laugh. "And what would you say if I told you that there's much I would do for you, Syr Latva. Formidably, of course."

Aarno Bebin Theros

 

[Faramund]

'So far as I know.' Petra had been around long enough to know what she liked, and what she didn't. Wine was wine was wine. 'If not, more for you.' Grinning toothily, the dawnling tipped a salute to Hector as he approached. 'Ah! If it isn't the champion and his lady love!'

Shifting to face the newcomers, Faramund clapped the half-eared half-elf on the back, his eyes aglow with unfeigned warmth.

'Enjoying it? Why, yes, as a matter of fact... I am.' He couldn't speak for Monroe, though his gut told him she was. The livelier the do, the livelier the Roe. And she was pretty lively, no word of a lie. 'And yourselves?' Holding up two fingers to Matvi, Faramund ordered a couple more drinks. Odds were Hector didn't have to pay, being Him and all, but Faramund was feeling generous.

Just hope Aarno doesn't see, he thought, peepers peeled for the orc and his own lady love.

'So, tell me: How does it feel to be crowned Himbo Supreme?' Faramund asked Hector, a wry smile pulling at his whiskers. 'Not that I'm jealous or anything! 'Course not! No, just curious is all. Curious and... proud.'

Monroe Hector Lorinna Astarel

 

[Monroe]

"You know what, I am surprised too you did so well... you know I gave bonus points to Osuin and Bebin Theros mostly." She supposed Saskia could have been a good friend, voted Hector and Faramund, but Monroe did not pay much attention to what the Shadow Knight put her vote towards. Thank the gods Alaric were not part of the competition, else the Shadowed one would have all her votes to her beau.

Monroe looked over to the barkeep, eyeing Matvi with a stare that sober Syr Cathmore had perfected. She raised her hand, waiting until his own gaze swept over them before she snapped her fingers to hurry him along. If he needed a hand behind the bar, he could ask.

Not like she would even help either way.

"Must of been the fan votes that tipped the scales in the end. Must of been your trousers tearing oh so strategically, wouldn't you say Syr Astarel?" Her smile was wicked, teasing. "Heard some ladies were hoping it would be a trend to catch on next year now we are making this an annual charity event."

Lorinna Astarel Hector Faramund

 

[Lorinna Astarel]

“My champion!” She declared. "Needs to get me a drink!"

He certainly did not need to get her any more to drink. That was beside the point.

Lorinna leaned against the counter top. She kept one arm around Hector. She made a show of slamming down an empty wooden mug.

'And yourselves?'

'So, tell me: How does it feel to be crowned Himbo Supreme?' Faramund asked Hector, a wry smile pulling at his whiskers. 'Not that I'm jealous or anything! 'Course not! No, just curious is all. Curious and... proud.'

Lorinna leaned forward across the bar to look back at faramund across the front of Hector. She pretended to converse in secret by covering her mouth.

"He is deeply uncomfortable because he won," Lorinna blurted.

Must of been your trousers tearing oh so strategically, wouldn't you say Syr Astarel?"

"But I'd say he deserved it," she laughed.

 

[Aarno]

He watched her fumble, his expression unflickering even as she posed question in turn. It was all too endearing, really, coercing him from the first instinct of teasing further, some commonplace retort. Much you would do— things as what?

“ I shan’t feign surprise, as you have already proven yourself lacking neither dedication nor kindness when it comes to friends and kin. “ He answered, fondly. Travel to edges of the world for family, go on harm’s way for—

“ And I’ll confess the sentiment is mutual. I cannot promise you excellence nor that I do anything formidably— “ His head tilted, a bright jest in the quirk of his smile. “ But I’ll promise a gods-honest effort. In whatever you'd ask of me. “

Farren Lóthlindor

 

[Gunner Valenntyne]

It was easy enough for Gunner to pretend he had any idea what the fancy-flippin' bartender was doing. Valenntyne was a simple man when it came to the drink: They put it in his glass, and he poured it down his throat. He'd never really gotten into the more intricate side of alcoholism, but it was always a good time to start if it impressed a lady, he figured.

"Norden vodka." Gunner repeated the listed components under his breath, committing them, at least, to his memory. If Caelia fancied this, it couldn't hurt to remember how to make it himself. "Obanese orange, Valenntennian lemon..." What did it matter where the fruits came from? Wasn't a lemon a lemon? An orange an orange? They all came from the dirt, one way or the other. Bah, questions for another time.

As Matvi added the spritz of vanilla to the drink, Gunner couldn't help but notice the expression on his face. He'd seen some intense bartender's before, but this guy seemed like he was on some kind of mission. More power to him, he supposed, that he took his job so seriously. Still, every time the man looked up, it felt as though he wasn't looking at him, but something else. As long as he got the drink, he was happy enough.

The end product was a beaut of a beverage, colorful and aromatic to boot. Not really Gunner's thing, but he could appreciate artistry when he saw it. Hell, he even found himself clapping for the deft fellow after that display, not that he really understood what he'd just seen. "Bravo!" he laughed, "Sure as shit better than anything I could have whipped up. Tell you what, I owe you one, yeah?" Valenntyne grinned ear to ear as he carefully picked up the drink, reaching into his trousers and pulling out his last ten golds for the day on the bar as he turned back toward Caelia. "You ever need something, find me, friend."

In no time he was back to the bookworm of the evening, gently setting down the drink in front of her and slinking into the seat across her, that smug, yet innocent grin on his face and his hands clasped together on the table, just waiting for her to drink.

"I dunno what the hell this is." He admitted openly to her, "But I think you're gonna like it."

Caelia Matvi Iramene

 

[Caelia]

"For a lady," he said at last with a show of teeth.

Caelia could not help herself watch the bartender put together the drink ordered, had trailed down the end of the bar to find a seat free and take it, mesmerised by how easily and quickly he came to think of a drink meant for her. And she knew that he knew it was for her, as their gazes met that briefest moment.

And by the time Gunner placed the drink before her, Cael brought her gaze to look up at him. "I am going to ignore that you resorted to someone else to make a drink, but a deal is a deal." She did not need to sample the beverage right then to know it was a drink she would enjoy. Matvi had her at Valenntenian lemon, a small tree that had done well and thrived since Saskia, Alaric, and Roki brought it back to the Monastery.

Sweet and sour flavours tended to burst across her tongue best, and as she lifted the glass rim to her lips and took a measured sip, she knew this was a winner. She set it down, scrunching her face at how delicious it was but was to stubborn to say so aloud.

"You're from Valenntenia, are you not? Bit of a travel between here and there, and yet you are here."

 

[Farren Lóthlindor]

He watched her fumble, his expression unflickering even as she posed question in turn. It was all too endearing, really, coercing him from the first instinct of teasing further, some commonplace retort. Much you would do— things as what?

“ I shan’t feign surprise, as you have already proven yourself lacking neither dedication nor kindness when it comes to friends and kin. “ He answered, fondly. Travel to edges of the world for family, go on harm’s way for—

“ And I’ll confess the sentiment is mutual. I cannot promise you excellence nor that I do anything formidably— “ His head tilted, a bright jest in the quirk of his smile. “ But I’ll promise a gods-honest effort. In whatever you'd ask of me. “

Farren Lóthlindor

For such a stoic man, she found Aarno's penchant for flowery words endearing. Some may have judged him too gruff, but Farren found he had a quiet strength about him, and it had never failed to make her feel safe.

He listened, and even if it was awkward for him, he tried to engage with her the best he knew how. He asked questions and tried to get to know her with such genuine interest that it often left her flustered. And when Farren was lucky enough to catch a piece of his dry wry wit, she felt like she had been given something precious, no matter how fleeting it was.

And until that moment, her heart had kept tempo with the music. Joyful, leaping, and free. But now, it stumbled over the sincerity in Aarno's words, and Farren squeezed his hand gently, the earnest light in his eyes matching the anticipation that bloomed in her chest. Like a flower that sought the golden beams of the first warm Spring morning after Winter. It was a warmth that felt daring. Like she finally had the courage to overcome this strange fluttering anxiety in her gut. And it was in the reflection of Aarno's eyes, that she saw her own expression of hopeful resolve settle on her face.

"What if I were to ask you to lead me through the rest of this dance?" Her pulse thrummed in her throat like a songbird, the bardic tune nearing its crescendo around them. Finally, Farren looked up at Aarno through hooded quicksilver eyes. "And I wouldn't say no to being dipped to the floor."

Aarno

 

[Aarno]

It appeared to land as sincere as he’d meant it, despite the gauze of well-mannered banter and teasing that’d remained carefully pulled over most words betwixt them. No laughter or quip sprouted to counter, allowing him time to digest just how awkward he must’ve been — the little squeeze of his hand could’ve meant anything, the pause pushing him to avert his look. Lest it be assumed he expected something.

Had he embarrassed her? There was a discomfort to receiving compliments, wasn’t there, the type he’d chosen the perfect moment to inflict upon her. No way for a polite person to excuse themself, really. The dance caught a mechanical quality as the not seconds’ past sentences looped on over, a sinking feeling somewhere deep within. What had happened to the ever-sneering fluency and detachment, both of which had served well to keep a man sheltered from things as this.

And what sort of things were they. Even if she had not spoken then, reeling back his attention from where it had drifted, he doubted he’d had the courage to interrogate an answer out of himself. There needed be no such thing, for now. As he eyed her, an easy mischief replaced whatever blank introspection had befallen his face.

“ A titillating suggestion. “ He started, a shift upon him as he bettered his grip on both her and the next steps, accepting lead in all but words. Or perhaps he rather seized it, confidently as anyone practiced in it might. “ Perhaps I’ll see to granting the latter, once I’ve spun you around for good measure. “

As they meandered amongst other dancers, only the hem of her dress brushing against his shins, he hadn’t but to remark yet again that she danced well. He needn’t tell her to brace nor pace herself, but he made note to do so himself. He brought them to turn, sharper, one arm rising to send her to a couple steps’ distance, loose enough for her to occupy the space as she wished before he drew her back. It was closer still, how he’d preferred to lead, wherein one felt the entirety of their partner’s movements. Forfeit sense to sensation, pattern to intuition, mere atoms apart.

The thrill of it did away with both the budding ache in his shitty leg and the music that dampened to a mere discordant buzz, unimportant as he spun her again. Drapery snapped, some percussive instrument reaching into the fibers of his body in a steady beat, though he barely heard it. He’d not abide by it, caught by the recollection of old muscle memory that egged him on like in pursuit of something. Just pure physicality, attention narrowed to immediate vicinity, not too far past skin.

Though his smile had lost it’s breadth, he enjoyed the present no less than initially. Having promised suspense, he held her in it a moment longer, if only half for the principle of not being caught giving in too soon when he’d threatened to the contrary. Nay, suppose it was all too clearly indulgent, really, wanton satisfaction writ on every heel turn and ripple of expression. With them drawn so close, he couldn’t steal a glance at whatever she might’ve worn on her face, but neither did it matter as much as how she felt. He’d nigh forgotten she’d come to him in a stumble, as she’d not faltered once since.

He’d worked up the anticipation, the lot of it in how his heart hitched when he adjusted his grip for the last time, the jolt of pain in his right knee a split-seconds’ reminder to which leg exactly he ought lean weight upon. Breath held, he tilted her against the arm that’d dutifully kept to her waist until now, other hand holding fast to hers. A light toss of his head saw that his hair fell past merely one shoulder, keeping it away from both of their faces as he peered down at her.

Now, it wasn’t exactly to the floor as she’d described and only as graceful as an aged man of his occupations was able, but he figured it would have to suffice. Despite the smug confidence in his smirk, his tone remained softer with self-awareness as he eased her upright again.

“ How was that, Syr Lóthlindor? “ Allowing a bit of distance, he held onto her hand ever so slightly, almost brazenly to his own mind once he caught himself at it. Or perhaps it was just a touch too honest, to linger.

Whichever, it felt like a ghost come haunting.

Farren Lóthlindor

 

[Matvi Iramene]

Iramene smiled sweetly at the guest's excitement, a sincere bow his response to the applause.

Come the slap of coins against the counter, and Matvi's eyes went wide. His head recoiled back and he let the loss of words well in his mouth for a silent moment.

"Sir, are you-" but the brawny man, so stout with his generosity, sauntered on off, back towards Caelia, who's eyes caught Matvi's, if for but a moment.

A satisfied smile curled at the corner of his lips, a smooth motion of the hand across the counter turned to a bow. As he rose, he slipped the coins into his vest pocket, palmed one which he slapped against Ruthi's chest as he passed him by. "Keep it safe," he told the big squire.

Ruthi looked down past his chestnut curls, and blinked at the bright gold coin that had fallen into his hand.

Matvi stepped easy across back of the bar, hands found a long stemmed coup, its big belly perfect for the aromatic bouquet of a Allirian Port, a cloth snapped quick behind the accoutrements an aged bottle upon the rack.

"Syr Valborast," he said smoothly upon his approach. "Always a pleasure," he gave the cantankerous night fighter a nod, set the coupe down, and presented the vintage. "From the Holds of Pontelia's very own Le Nieux vineyards," set his thumb into the bottle's punt, and angled it for the pour. Slow steady, he tilt the red drink to fill the coup.

Ruthi, having pocketed his coin, looked to Lori and Hector, who had crashed into the bar. Lori looked... a little far gone. And when he'd caught Hector's eye, he could see the unspoken, something light. Very Light. He smiled, and fetched a pair of steins.

"A pair of elderflower meads," he anounced as he set down the sweet drinks. Scoot one closer to Lori with a wink to a elf. "For the champion," he gave a polite bow.

Gunner Valenntyne, Caelia, Valborast Valchek Lorinna Astarel

 

[Valborast Valchek]

"Excellent, good, outstanding," Valborast stated quickly, familiar with the quality of the pour and the veracity of the port to his request of strength. As the pleasing pour to both ear and eye did give brief solace and respite to the challenge awaiting, appropriate coins placed for the rich libation from lithe fingers. His eyes went to the drink, fingers reaching to grip when the word dreadful to Valborast's ear did arrive, born from Ruthi, set the fingers to flinch and curl.

The word of, 'champion'.

Eyes darted to Syr Hector. From champion to drink, from drink to champion, and then firmly to the drink.

Fingers became comfortable about the port, a deep breath in to savour what was left to enjoy about any of this. Slow continual sips, eyes closed, as dialogue and pantomine rehearsed in reticent imagination, incited by Parshen's wager won, was given one last recital in Valborast's mind.

Half of the port consumed, Valborast's dealt with the overindulgence of the port in such sups on the senses in the same manner as he did the bet lost upon his sense of dignity. With unrelenting tolerance and refusal to reveal hint of displeasure, he made approach to the champion. Port in hand, flatteries in mind, and with Parshen watching, Valborast spoke to Hector, as he did perform his duty.

"Syr Hector, Champion true," Valborast said saccarine, with convincing sincerity in tone yet all loathing for his own speech barely contained by his eyes, "In all my years as a knight I have never seen a more audacious and thorough display of proficency, aptitude and capacity to the challenges provided. It was an honour to see your deeds performed, and," Valborast said, and his voice did faintly crack for a moment, a twitch of the eyebrow.

Valborast quickly smothered it with a sup of port, and continued on, "you're truly an inspiration to us all. You're a fine and excellent example of worthy intelligent deeds. To your victory Champion," Valborast said, and necked his port before Hector could raise elderflower.

A breath of alcohol fiercely endured so quickly exhaled from his nose, along with the final utterance as the performance struggled to maintain it's facade. The final duress.

"I do so thoroughly enjoy these entirely worthwhile events," Valborast added, the final boot against himself.

Hector

 

[Hector]

Hi'So, tell me: How does it feel to be crowned Himbo Supreme?'

A nervous titter escaped Hector's mouth as he eased into their newfound perch. " I mean, No, not supremely, I-"

"He is deeply uncomfortable because he won," Lorinna blurted.

"I am not!" he said with a sharp grin and a laugh. Gave a nod as he took the pair of drinks and offered up Lori's first. Thanked Ruthi and took up his own drink. A warm smile still on his face as he looked down at the sweet drink. "Just not sure what it all entails is all, being Himbo Supreme" chuckled. Cut a sly look to Lori, then Faramund and Monroe. "Do I -"

"Syr Hector, Champion true," Valborast said saccarine,

"Um, Syr Valborast," he answered with a little raise of his mug.

Then came the outpour of praise. Tight lipped and stiff as it all was, it sounded flowery sweet as the wine and mead, even through the gritted teeth. All of which set Hector to blink.

Deeply uncomfortable.

"I do so thoroughly enjoy these entirely worthwhile events," Valborast added, the final boot against himself.

Hectors brows quirked with profound confusion. For all he knew of Syr Valborast, it was none of this. So he laughed, and raised his cup. "Cheers to that then!"


Monroe

 

[Faramund]

'Cheers!' Bumping cups with those sitting next to him, Faramund needed no excuse to quaff more beer. Drinking with friends was just as good as drinking alone in his honest opinion. Perhaps even better. 'Listen here, little brother!' Faramund stifled a burp. 'Enough with the modesty, you won! Accept it, and get to basking in the... uh, let's call it glory.'

Yes, that sounds right.

Glancing at Monroe, then Hector, the big dawnling cracked a smile. 'Everyone else seems to have gotten the idea. Hells. Even ol' Grumpy Bones there is singing your praises, which I find most disconcerting, to tell you the truth.'

Leaning close, Faramund gestured for Hector to do the same.

'Usually, he'd have threatened someone by now. Watch yourself!' With a reassuring nod and a pat on the back, Faramund straightened up. His stool creaked as he swung about to face the bar again, arms folded for support.

'Anyways, how's the shirt fit?' Faramund asked. 'I got one, too, only I seem to have misplaced it somewhere.'

Monroe Hector Valborast Valchek Lorinna Astarel

 

[Monroe]

"But I'd say he deserved it," she laughed.

Monroe hid a small smile behind her drink, tilting it so that a slow trickle passed her lips and filled her mouth. Quite a pair did they make, but to see Hector and Lorinna enjoying themselves after a win certainly made some cold, icy snarl inside her mellow to something more... complacent.
It was then that she looked to Faramund, staring at him longer than sober Roe would have done. Could she be like that with him?

'Anyways, how's the shirt fit?' Faramund asked. 'I got one, too, only I seem to have misplaced it somewhere.'

Monroe's face split with a grin so smug, she placed her drink on the bar and used both hands to smooth her stolen shirt. The hem fell to the middle of her thighs, making her look like a child wearing their parent's clothing that was much too big for them. It was a lovely shade of blue, one she might have remembered Saskia saying would compliment all the participants well. On Monroe, it made auburn hidden in her brown hair stand out. "My shirt just needs a nice skirt over it and it will be my new dress to wear at the next celebration in Astenvale." She winked to Hector and Lorinna before tossing Faramund a shit eating grin. "You snooze, you lose, Fara."

Hector Lorinna Astarel Faramund

 

[Arbok]

"YES uh... I mean. If that's okay with you Julian. I think they're very keen."
They were and it looked like they'd be comfortable to sleep in.
Arbok was hardly fashionable but nice things were still nice.

A hint of the nerves came back to her as she thought about it but she quashed them with the fresh drink.

Julian Benavide
Byanka Valkas

 

[Farren Lóthlindor]

They moved together, effortlessly, as if they had danced this dance a thousand times before. Every step, every turn, every sway brought them closer, the space between them shrinking until it was nothing at all.

Farren's hand rested on his shoulder, the muscles beneath his tunic flexing slightly as Aarno took control and led her through the dance. His other hand pressed firmly against the small of her back, anchoring her to him, ensuring she wouldn't slip away.

But she was the farthest she had ever been from running.

Laughter pealed from her as she twirled out at the end of his hand, the fabrics of her skirt billowing and snapping around her legs, blond hair whipping behind her like sun rays. There was joy in this simplicity, this culmination of movement and touch and music.

Suddenly, the world tilted and Farren found herself surrendering to the weightlessness of being held above the floor.

All too soon, the song came to an end as he effortlessly pulled her back up and she found herself inches from his face, her breath mingling with his and suddenly able to catch the lavish spice of his skin. The closeness was electric and Farren swore she could still feel the phantom touch of his hand where it had held her— the only connection left between them now was the warmth of his hand still in hers.

Their eyes locked, and she felt a flush rise to her cheeks. Her lips parted to answer him, but no words came. Instead, a small, shy curve of her lips. Her hand squeezing his gently once more as she raised her other to tuck stray wisps of his hair behind an ear. Her fingertips buzzing where they brushed briefly along the tip of his ear.

Finally, she smiled fully, pulling him forward in the direction of the bar, "That was everything, Syr Latva."

Aarno

 

[Gunner Valenntyne]

Gunner could only give a shrug at Caelias pointed remark, lifting his shoulders with that easy-going smile that almost never seemed to leave his rugged features. "Hey, it's a bar! Would have been kinda rude for me to jump back there and take over all of a sudden, and I paid him well, too!" If she'd wanted Gunner to personally brew her something from his knowledge alone, she shoulda been more specific. Winking, Valenntyne leans back and rests his hands behind his head. "The fact that bloke knows his way around a drink better than me? Just a bonus."

The burly wanderer wasn't a complete idiot, though. He didn't get as much satisfaction from the barely restrained look of delight on her face as she took that first sip as he would've liked, only because he knew it wasn't a look meant for him. That fella over at the bar had definitely been eyeing her up, and Gunner was starting to think maybe he was third wheeling things, just a little bit.

"Besides, I only said you had to have a drink with me, nothing more than that." He laughed, "If not for any attraction towards me, then out of pity for a lonely bloke with nobody to spend a little time with on what's supposed to be a happy fuckin' night, ay?" It wasn't in his nature to be pushy, and while Caelia was a cutie, he didn't want the lass to be uncomfortable.

Even though she did that very thing to him as she brought up his home.

Valenntyne tensed a little at the question, his posture changing to one a sight less relaxed and carefree. Clearing his throat, he took a long swig of the grog mug he'd procured for himself, wiping his lips with his broad wrist as he sighed.

"Yeah, that's where I'm from." He almost seemed reluctant to admit it. "But I ain't been in a while. No plans to go back either. This table is just as much home to me as that place is, and I think I'd rather sleep on the table."

Caelia

 

[Caelia]

Caelia kept a sweet and pleasant smile on her face as Gunner spoke of the home he no longer wished to return to, pushing down on her own feelings of relating to that fact. She had left Alliria, never wishing to go back unless she had a different face and a different name, a ghost to those that remembered her in the past.

"Not bad company here either." She nodded, slowly taking another sip of her drink. Afraid to make it come to an end so soon, Cael resorted to taking mindful sips as her eyes watched the stranger before her converse. "The Order is made up of all sorts, actually. Not a single one here is like the other and... it reminds me of a place I too called home. Here, it's better. Much better."

Another sip, placing the drink down to look around.

She saw Farren being swept around the dance floor, but of course, Aarno made it look effortlessly fun. The song came to an end, and the poisoner smiled before turning her head to look around. Monroe and Faramund, sharing company with Hector and Lorinna. There was Julian, Byanka, and Arbok. Her eyes briefly saw Matvi before flicking her gaze to Gunner. "Are you thinking of joining the Order, Gunner?"

It was quiet down this way of the Knoll, and that was how Cael liked it, happy to make small conversation with one of the participants of today's event.

Gunner Valenntyne

 

[Valborast Valchek]

Valborast's eyes provided what retort was to be had to Faramund's comment, a brief flash of devilish menace, a slight curl of a liar's smile did emerge at the word, 'disconcerting' being uttered.

"Still young is the night," Valborast did quietly utter more to himself in drole tones more than to Faramund himself, as Valborast did turn to leave them, providing commentary to his own situation more than anyone else. He had done his duty to the bargained circumstance, and what tension was within him was dissipating by slipping degrees.

His eyes sought out the one who held his behaviour ransom so.

To the corner of the room, a smiling Parshen was beheld. Raising glass to Valborast, with an expression which was made as if to say from so afar, 'Fair play.'

A smile for a smile, pantomime and rueful from Valborast, as he did meet such sincere and playful mirth with his own withering. As if to say, 'You've had your fun, now if you don't mind,' in the final payment of the bet conditions rendered complete.

To the bar again, fingers rushed across the face as if to dispel what smiles had lingered too long in whatever form. A soothing sigh, a placement of his vessel of alcohol so emptied in such a cheery toast politely on the bar. A rap of fingertips, a rap of knuckles on the bar as Valborast, so relieved of his duties to poker pot lost, became more cheery and indulgent to their whims as they did wait for service once again. The Crimson Knight's ears would prickle and redden at any mention of what praises he had administered in such disgustingly liberal doses that might arrive.

Valborast reached for a pipe of finest rich woods, toying it with for a moment as the strain of being so jovial and permissive gave way to more relaxed shoulders, and thoughts of something special to drink to mark the moment of being freed of this obligation. He looked around slyly, as if wishing to observe someone else make a jape of themselves for a change of pace, as lithe fingers did rotate his well used smoking apparatus.

He would offer genuine flattery to the port and the pour that had fortified his speech when service might arrive. One could afford to tempt fate with librarians from time to time, Valborast thought, but one should never incur the chagrin of those that provided libations to deal with such librarians.

Matvi Iramene

 

[Matvi Iramene]

A glance over the crowd. A good number of people taken care of, and given what drink he thought might soothe their ails.

If only for the moment. If only for the night.

But wasn't such the way of life? Little acts that lent their weight to the winds of the world? Gestures and phrases, all little ingredients that came together to form a thing that was more than the sum of its parts.

A fancy he had come to have, he supposed. A fantasy he found himself holding on to, no matter what ill fell around him. So far.

Idle hands looked for something to tend to. Something to take care of. A lone mug found its way there between his palms. A cloth rag soon after. The work of his fingers fell into sure motion.

"Farren, Aarno," he said idly, a crook of invitation at the corner of his lips. "Anything that might parch your thirst?"

Farren Lóthlindor Aarno

 

[Petra Darthinian]

'Did I? I don't remember.' One night bled into the next around here, and Faramund knew for a fact his memory only extended so far. Still, if he could recall that little titbit of information, they must have been some fun nights indeed. 'Well, before you go pointing our accomplices out of a line-up, remember: no-one likes a grass!' He got it in the neck enough as was, so he sure as shit didn't need Monroe adding to his woes.

The drinks arrived sooner than expected.

Doffing his imaginary cap to Matvi, Faramund clapped tankards with Monroe. 'Cheers!' Tipping it back, Faramund sighed contentedly. 'Gods, doesn't that hit the spot.' Swivelling on his stool, the burly dawnling put his back to the bar, elbows up and resting.

Around them, the day's contestants and their myriad admirers chewed the fat. Some, more committed than others, were busy dancing the night away. Noting faces, Faramund caught a glimpse of Petra through the swirling crowd.

She looked like she was having a good time. Smiling, laughing, her arms were out and on full display as she wrestled with some bloke for all to see. The emerald scales covering her right arm up to the shoulder shimmered in the dancing loch- and flame light. And to think she used to be afraid of showing it off.

Catching her eye, Faramund gestured for her to "get on with it."

'Fancy trying your luck against her later?' Glancing at Monroe sidelong, he smiled, waved lazily across the room. 'Petra's managed to snare herself an unwitting victim. Arm-wrestling, see?' The dawnling grinned. 'Figure it's only right someone gives her a run for her money, sooner or later.'

Monroe Petra Darthinian

Teeth bared in feral glee as Petra clocked the shaking in Syr Hyntír's arm. He glowered at her over their joined fists through bushy brows. The din of their betting crowd an encouraging clamor. Coins hit the top of the barrel they arm-wrestled on, and seeing the contrast of piling coins against her dragon scales, Petra had the passing thought that perhaps there was some merit to the stories of dragons and their gleaming treasure troves.

A parting in the crowd saw her eyes on Faramund and his smirking invitation. She barked a laugh and turned back to her opponent. "Sorry, ol' chap. Seems duty calls me elsewhere." Her grip tightened as her bicep flexed and she leaned forward with insidious intent, "I'll even buy you a drink for being such a good sport." Hyntír's eyes flared and he only had time to grunt before Petra slammed his fist down, coins flying off the barrel from the force of it. Cheers and good-natured groans came from the crowd, the winners vying for their spoils.

Standing up, Petra stretched and gathered her coin. Leaving a handful behind to Syr Hyntír and his wounded pride. She clapped him on this shoulder in passing, "See? I bought you a drink." And melted into the crowd with a smoky laugh, the bar and her friends her new destination.

Faramund Matvi Iramene