Red, Red, Wine

[Lady Corrine Marsten]

Despite his attempts to be inconspicuous, 'Orys' stood out to the Red Priestess' eyes. She recognised that uncomfortable shuffle, the uneasy movement of the head, the white knuckles around the stem of his cup. Someone as awkward as she had once been.

Deciding, in her tipsy state, that she was best placed to help the poor man out of his shell, she approached, smiling coquettishly.

"Are you afraid your wine will run away? That's quite the iron grip you have on it," she jested, before taking a sip of her own wine.

[Aerion Storm]

His face is largely concealed beneath the mask -- of course -- but the same open area that lets him feast and, especially, drink, shows his smile; in the blink of an eye, the warrior's face goes from frustration, perhaps even anger, to mirth. Is it forced, genuine, or merely the drink?

"No fear there," he tosses the rest of the goblet back, and forces himself to adjust and relax his grip in the process. "Another foe vanquished, rather than let flee the field."

No half-naked servant has wandered by just yet with a tray of fresh drinks and returned empty goblets, so he holds onto it for now. It's plain to see he's aching to transition the cup, even empty, to his right hand, but with the black and red 'stump cap' in place, he's left frustrated. Frustrated in more way than one, that is. Mask or no mask, there's no hiding how his eyes flicker up and down her painted, red-clad, form.

"It would seem that wine's not all that's red and sweet this night, m'lady."

[Lady Corrine Marsten]

She let out a bright, singing laugh.

"Why thank you, Ser! I must confess I was worried I might be met with stony silence, but I see you are a witty one! But with your vanquished foe comes those to avenge him!"

She caught the eye of a passing servant, beckoning them to come fill their cups.

"One cannot abide an empty cup at a party. I imagine it is a cardinal sin at a Bartheld party. Is this the first time you've been to one of these? Bartheld parties, I mean."

[Aerion Storm]

In a way, no, he almost says, the wine and long-simmering anger egging him on.

"It is," he says instead, eyes bright behind his bastard mask, gaze flickering again to snatch a look at the servant's bare behind as they're leaving. "It is, indeed. I'm more accustomed to humbler fare. And you? Have you lit up more than one such room, or is this the first you've graced with your flame?"

[Lady Corrine Marsten]

"This is my first too," the Red Priestess admitted. "Though I have long heard the tales of how wild they were. I must say it is living up to the reputation so far. I very much understand why the masks are so important. Those three over there could be a Septon, a Princess, and a Lord for all we know."

Don't think about Septons, Corrine. You shouldn't even be here.

Shut up. I'm having fun.

"That must be frustrating, only having one hand to work with."

She clapped a hand to her mouth suddenly.

"Oh, sorry, that was insensitive of me. Is your arm really like that, or is that part of the costume?"

It came out slightly awkwardly, belying either drunkenness or a hint of a shy person hiding behind the red skull.

[For reference, the green and purple italic text indicate Corrine's inner thoughts.]

[Aerion Storm]

"A warrior fights with his head, not merely his hands," 'Orys' says, intoning it strangely, voice going deeper, Stormlands-accented even more strongly, no doubt quoting someone.

"Or hand, as the case may be."

He lifts his arm -- dim light catching some oil his arms had been smeared with to make the muscles ripple even more, a scattering of small scars marring his Andal-pale skin, they're the arms of an actual fighter -- and presents his leather stump-cap.

"Luckily for you, though, no, m'lady. My arm's not really like this." With both arms relatively side-by-side, it's easy to see the length is off, that the shortness of his maimed arm is an illusion caused by mis-matched bracers, that he's got a fist curled up inside the round leather cap, that there's not anything wrong with his hand at all.

"If I were Orys One-Arm, though," he leans in a bit to speak softly, warning her with mock-seriousness of her breach of etiquette, "Or anyone named One-Arm, in fact? You'd likely catch a stump for your trouble. Doesn't count as beating a lady if there's no fist made, I hear. So best be careful with statements like that."

His voice is low, serious, sincere. A warning, almost a threat. His proximity is clear, leaning in closer than he would sober, looming over her, broad of shoulder, strong of arm, and almost -- almost -- grievously insulted by her wayward statement. For just a heartbeat, the teasing warning stretches out...

And then, just after the rule about a closed fist being stated, there's a series of squeals accompanying a flurry of spankings from the Septon, Princess, and Lord in the corner. 'Orys' holds it together for a few seconds, calling on the Warrior for strength and discipline, before the first bit of laughter slips out at the absurdity of the timing. The facade crumbles faster than his showy armor would, and there's no hiding how hard he had to work to intimidate a lady.

He drinks around the laugh -- another cup, drink it down, cool your head and your blood, Aerion -- and shakes his head with a sigh, eventually.

"Tell me," his smile seems warm enough, sincere enough, and he ignores how warm his own cheeks are beneath his mask. "Were you blushing under there? Afraid you'd offended?"

[Yeah, no problem, I just use italics-alone for it, and try to make it clear in the prose. I got'cha!]

[Lady Corrine Marsten]

The Red Priestess barely picks out the Stormlander accent before he looms over her like a dark tower, eyes intense and judging. For several interminably long moments, she gazes up in apprehension. Suddenly convinced she has made a terrible mistake, she steps back a little, and he catches a glimpse of wide sky blue eyes through the red mask.

"I... I'm sorry, Ser. I meant no offence..."

The slap of hand on flank in the corner and the burst of Orys' laughter breaks her out of her frozen state, and she laughs in return, though nervously, still a bit panicked. She fidgets with the huge garnet around her neck, stroking its glossy surface.

"I think I could light a candle with my cheeks, Ser," she replied, with an exhalation of relief. "You had me quite afraid there. I hope that act did not reflect your true feelings about how to treat a woman."

[Aerion Storm]

His eyes go visibly wide, mask be damned. Seven Hells, too used to kidding with other squires, he curses himself, almost choking on his wine.

"I...no, no," the confidence doesn't leave him, but it pivots sideways and lets the moment catch him off-balance. He's not used to seeing real fear in a woman's eyes. He doesn't like it. In his worry, his haste to apologize, he completely ignores how it feels for her to keep calling him 'Ser.'

"I'd never raise my hand to a woman, my lady," There's no japery to him now, no kidding, no drunken charm, no joking about raising a stump instead. Just honesty. He doesn't care if she's actually a Red Priestess under there, or a Princess, or a whore. He wouldn't. "I've..."

I've not yet spoke it save in every night's dream, but every knight swears to the Maid to protect all women. He clears his throat, doesn't let the words out, forces the next mouthful of wine down.

"I've...let Orys Baratheon's fury run away with me, and for that I apologize. The joke was cruel, and no joke for company such as yours." He studiously ignores the ongoing spanking, pinching, squealing, and assorted other physical activities going on all around them. "I am sorry, my lady. Sincerely."

Now clever again. Riposte. Close your guard back up, boy, and get back to the sparring.

"And look," he tugs the stump-cap off. "Your Lord of Light worked a miracle through you. The fire from your cheeks has healed me."

His hands are huge, callused, a warrior's hands. His knuckles are broad, and more than a few have scars from having been split, no doubt on some poor bastard's face. But he holds them towards her gently, palm up, moving slowly -- very slowly, just like he would with a skittish horse -- and gives her another bright smile past his dark mask and his bristly, short, beard.

"I owe you a hand and a drink, m'lady, not merely the apology I pray you'll accept."

[Lady Corrine Marsten]

She audibly exhales, the sudden tightness in her chest dissipating with his reassurance.

"I'm relieved. You are a very convincing actor, Ser," she replies, her smile returning. She cannot help but smile wider as he displays the 'miracle'. Her champagne laugh bubbles up, and she takes his hand, noticing the roughness and the scarring. A warrior's hands. Like her husband's, but bigger. Her own pale, delicate hand looks as small and fragile in his as a doll's.

"The Lord of Light's fire is a force of restoration as much as it can be one of destruction," she muses, unconsciously letting her hand nestle in the hollow of his broad palm.

"And I accept your apology. It was a misunderstanding. With these masks, it is harder to know someone's intent."

[Aerion Storm]

I could never lie so well on purpose.  His smile, bristly beard or not, is almost gentle in its relief.

Or sober.  There's no denying that he's drunk, not as close as she is.  She seems to be, too, though, so Aerion hopes she doesn't mind.

Or to her.  He feels his cheeks flushing again at the sensation of her hand in his.  It'd been a while since he held a pretty girl's -- pretty woman's?  Pretty Lady's? -- hand.  It had been a while since he'd done much more than that, either, another round of squealing and moaning reminds him.

"Blame it on the masks, aye, or on a bit too much to drink," his smile sharpens a little, the humor comes back for a moment.  "But I imagine a misplaced joke is the least sort of trouble masks and wine are likely...to cause...tonight."

He almost trails off as it hits him.  He almost jerks his hand away from hers -- as though she were a Priestess of a pagan god, or, in fact, fire itself -- as the realization drifts past the oceans of wine and crashes into him, as hard as Ser Harbert's mace upside his helmet, as hard as a lance along a tourney lane. He doesn't twitch away from her, but he does forget to bow and kiss her hand in a timely enough fashion to be polite, instead he lets her hand linger in his, pleasantly warm.

It's what he wanted me to learn.  My uncle didn't send me here to spy on Tarly, or any other damned Reachman, or the Blacks, even.  He didn't send me here to scout out anyone.  He sent me here to learn how it happens.  How I happened.  What these parties do, what these parties...enable.  The mistakes.

It all flashes before him in a heartbeat, a slip of concentration easily enough explained away to another passing breast or bottom, a thirsty glance at a platter of wine glasses, or simply the clouded mind of the wine glasses already consumed.  There's a fragility to his smile as it returns, though, as he pushes himself back into the sparring ring, the melee of courtesies, flatteries, and words that taste almost like lies to him.

"Enough of apologies, though, and back to...to..."  His gaze searches the room for a conversation piece.  "To spotting the Septons, Princes, and Lords."

"What do you think," he nods towards a painted man eager at a feasting table, gorging himself on grapes and nuts.  He's naked save for body paint, it appears, and with some grossly huge phallus hanging low.  The light makes it hard to tell the color of his paint, the theme of his lewd costume besides overcompensation.  "When he turns and the torchlight shifts, what color do you think he'll be?  A red stallion of Bracken, or a great, swinging, log of Blackwood?"

[Lady Corrine Marsten]

"Yes, I rather suppose the drink doesn't help either. But it tastes ever so good," Corrine replies, with a congenial smile much more like the one she normally had for strangers.
Was he even a stranger though? She didn't recognise his voice, but that meant little. She could count the number of Stormlanders she knew on one hand.

I'd remember a big fellow like you though. I'm sure of it. Lord Baratheon isn't this tall, is he? I heard he was handsome though.

She follows his gaze to the nude man gorging himself at the table. The big knight's phallic allusions in his question give rise to a giggle from Corrine as she surveys the man, her eyebrows raising at his disproportionately huge, pendulous manhood.

"More a tree trunk than a log," she laughed, her eyes briefly flicking down to a similar area on her new companion, her curiosity piqued.

"Is it true what they say about men with big hands?" she asked him, with a coquettish look, those bright blue eyes trying to scrutinise what little she could see of his face.

[Aerion Storm]

He has to fight a snicker at that, along with a startled little widening of the eyes. He still can't place her -- prostitute, princess, or anywhere in between? -- and teasing him like that doesn't help Aerion narrow the field any. He's not used to such talk, not from a woman's mouth. Other squires, maybe about to get a cuff from their knight, sure. Hells, even knights...but not women, no.

"I'd say that depends," he gathers himself, shielded with another smile, "On who 'they' are and what 'they' say. I doubt you're about to discuss the merits of different longsword grips and balance points, though, are you?"

[Lady Corrine Marsten]

"Not my weapon of choice, I'm afraid. I prefer to keep a healthy distance between my body and sharp metal objects," she chuckled. She resisted the impulse to tell him she was an archer, debating with herself over whether that constituted identifying information or not.

"What I meant was, I've heard many women claim that big hands are an indicator of... generous endowment."

[Aerion Storm]

The mask and beard, thank the Smith and the Father for them both, are enough to hide his blush. He knows it's coming. He knows what she's about to say, even before those red lips part to let the words out, he can almost hear her. Every snicking ten year old or older knows what she's about to say. If a lass talks about a lad's boot size or glove size, she's interested in talking about the size of what's in his britches.

He blushes anyways, and thanks the gods for that mask and beard.

"Well! I've met a fair number of 'many women' myself," he forces the confidence to overrule his shock, forces the charm to wrestle down his desire, makes himself stay even and parry, tongue as quick as a practice blade. "But it's rude of them to gossip about me so, but Seven smile on them for their honesty, at least."

Hah! he can almost hear Ser Harbert's own wine-soaked cackle, can almost feel the man's open-handed slap on his back. That's it, nephew! We'll make a man of you yet!

[Lady Corrine Marsten]

"Hah! Such bravado! Nicely done!" she laughed, and sipped at her wine. She stepped closer and her voice became quieter.

"Though now we have the question of why a charming fellow such as yourself is standing in the middle of a Bartheld party and looking uncomfortable. Something amiss?"

[Aerion Storm]

Something along the lines of I'm thinking of my mother wouldn't likely make her laugh again, so prettily.  He forces another smile, shrugs those broad shoulders, meaning to look carefree and unconcerned.

"Uncomfortable?  As I mentioned, Red Lady, this is my first time at such an affair.  Perhaps I just worry about getting burned. You priestesses are notorious for liking fire, and who knows what new scars wandering hands might pick up?"  Another grin, then, sharper, pressing the jape onwards, a little chuckle.  "Or perhaps the discomfort is simply physical in nature, and has more to do with big hands and tight leather breeches."

[Lady Corrine Marsten]

"Oh, well we can sit down if it would be more comfortable. And worry not about my fire. Only the unworthy are harmed by the flame," she teased, though she had no idea if that was actually true for followers of the Red God.

"But, I do understand the apprehension as a first time visitor. I feel it too," she confessed, in a softer voice. "If not for the drink, I'd probably not be talking with you so informally. The person I have to be outside these walls would not fit in here at all."

[Aerion Storm]

The beard splits into a wide smile again. That means she's not a working girl, then.

"And suddenly decorum matters again. Oh ho, so we have found a Princess! Costly crimson hair dye to hide that Targaryen blonde, no doubt," he winks at her from behind the mask. "Not to worry, Your Grace, the secret's safe with me."

That's it. Joke about it, as though you're not terrified of who she might actually be. Who any of them, all of them, might actually be. Seven Hells, you could lose your head for a night like this.

He gives her hand -- still gently cradled in his own -- an oh-so-soft squeeze, almost as though he's about to pull her, softly, to walk with him...but not quite. He leaves it to be her choice.

"But, on the topic of being more comfortable..." Behind the mask, one brow arches high. "Would you like to have a seat somewhere? Or perhaps take some air, instead?"

[Lady Corrine Marsten]

She giggled again, though in a more subtle, knowing way.

"I see I have given myself away. I am undone!" she exclaimed with a dramatic swoon. She straightened up with a playful grin.

"Don't worry. I am not anyone special. No need to stand on ceremony here either. That would defeat the purpose."

She felt a little flutter of excitement when he squeezed her hand, and once again he was met with that bright blue gaze, intelligent and kind.

"Would you feel more comfortable outside? You do seem rather distracted by all this flesh. Though finding somewhere in here to recline might help you acclimatise."

[Aerion Storm]

"'Acclimatise,'" he repeats with a small smile.  She might claim to be no one special, but he'd never met a blushing milkmaid or innkeeper's daughter who talked like that.  He imagined there weren't many such girls here tonight.

"Reclining sounds lovely.  Between your obvious authority as a high holy priestess, and your secret power as a platinum-haired dragonrider, I bow to your will."  Orys Baratheon hadn't been the bowing sort when he'd killed the last Storm King, but that was besides the point.  "Fresh air isn't going anywhere. It will be there tomorrow.  Let's find somewhere more comfortable in here, my lady, while tonight lasts."

He does finally withdraw his hand from hers -- still moving slowly, and after a second warm little squeeze -- but does so only to grab them both fresh cups of wine from a passing servant.  Then a nod, almost a bow, gesturing for the Red Lady to lead the way to where-ever it is she'd like to go.

Perhaps it's to enjoy the view as she walks away...perhaps it's to clench his jaw tight as soon as her back is turned, and to steel himself -- gird his loins, so to speak -- in preparation for their sparring match to intensify.  He is having fun, despite his intentions.  She's charmed him silly, though no doubt the wine has helped them both do so.  He doesn't want to let his other intentions fall to the wayside, either.  Where ever she leads him, things will likely heat up with ways that have naught to do with the Lord of Light;  Aerion can't, won't, let himself burn up.  Not entirely.

[Lady Corrine Marsten]

She turned lightly on the balls of her feet, buoyant and cheerfully smiling, her bare back in his full view, with only a stripe of gold paint covering any of it, and her figure from behind undulating enticingly as she walked. She padded across the floor, through the crowds, leading him to a space near the edge of the room, littered with plush cushions and luxuriant draped fabrics. A small, low table allowed for reclining guests to put down their food or drinks, to free up their hands for mischief.

The Red Priestess gracefully lowered herself onto her side among the soft cushions, propping herself up on one elbow, reclining as though posing for an artist. She kept her wine cup in her free hand.

"How's this? You can cover your enthusiasm with a cushion if you like," she teased, though she smiled in a way that showed no intended malice or ridicule.

[Aerion Storm]

He tears his gaze -- openly leering, mask be damned -- away from her backside only as she turns and lowers herself.  He takes a drink while she gets comfortable, standing just in front of and over her, his clear 'enthusiasm' not far from her face, in fact, as he offers her the other fresh cup of wine.  

"There's one pair of cushions in particular that look well suited for the task, both comfortable and warm," she gets an impish grin from him, "But someone's yet to volunteer them."

Storm, you're mad. You're a bastard without even spurs to his name, she's some lady who says 'acclimatize,' and you've just asked her to rest her rump on your lap. Ser Habert would laugh his arse off at you.

[Lady Corrine Marsten]

Her flirtatious smile turns to a little squeal of delight at his bawdy comment, though under the mask she blushed redder than her robes.

"Oh my! I see you are getting more comfortable, Ser! Come down here, beside me, while I try to discern if it's my arse or my tits you're referring to."

Her foul-mouthed banter shocked even her. She sometimes spoke like that in the bedroom with Ben, but never to a stranger. It felt utterly wrong, and utterly thrilling.

[Aerion Storm]

Well, she didn't reach up to slap me, nor grab and twist anything sensitive. I'd say I landed a solid blow, then.

He takes a seat thrillingly near her -- close enough to feel her heat against his own bare arm -- but keeps his nearer hand full with a wine cup, for now.

"And I grow more comfortable still," he smiles, leaning her way a bit, enjoying just the closeness, the illusion of privacy they've bought themselves. "And confident enough to be brutally honest, my lady; I'd not complain either way. Though the bottom end may be a bit more discrete."

That's not so terribly offensive, is it? Women sit in men's laps all the time, right?

Right, the wine cheerfully reassures him. They certainly do!

[Lady Corrine Marsten]

"I am flattered, Ser. I may indulge you, if you continue to be so charming. I am glad you feel more comfortable. It pains me to see someone not having fun at a party. Do you attend many 'normal' parties? From your hands and beating, I suspect you have seen a fair share of tourneys."

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