(121-05-18) Harbouring Dornish
Harbouring Dornish
Summary: Parizad makes a variety of impressions on some other Dornish by the harbour.
Date: Date of play (18/05/2014)
Related: None

Harbour Street Oldtown
Sun May 18, 121 ((Sun May 18 12:26:10 2014))
It is a summer day. The weather is hot and overcast.

A narrow cobblestone street overlooking the Docks, snaking northward into Oldtown Square at the heart of the city, and curving westward to the harbourfront. Lined with aged stone buildings, these support the weight of timber-framed over-hanging houses that look none too steady. The dockside can be seen quite clearly from the street, with the Whispering Sound beyond.

The shops here deal with the business of the sea. Fishmongers with carts and stalls, heaped full with fish of all kinds, cry their wares. Taverns and brothels await the coin of sailors fresh from the docks.

An array of strange temples, with stranger gods depicted upon them, are tucked away at the far end of the street. Opposite from them stands the slightly shabby-looking Sailor's Sept.

The clouds hang hot and heavy over the street that overlooks the docks, leaving hardly a shadow underfoot as the crowds people cross the warm cobblestone. Brilliant silks of yellow shot with blue dance around Yael's ankles as she sashays swiftly through the crowd, slippers barely sounding against the stone. The gold wrap of her snake bracelet glinting on her arm. A coloured veil casts cobwebs over her bronzed features, dark eyes darting about like a hawk as her lips purse with rue. Attending her follow three guards, each wearing the bold arms of House Blackmont. "It seems my husband has been swallowed by the sea," she comments to one, dark hair shimmering with the small glints woven into it as she shakes her head. They offer a strange sight on Harbour street, although no more so than the other foreigners that flock to it alongisde fishmongers and gods.

The problem with harbours and docks and the sea is that all these things attract all manner of strange creatures and random denizens of far-flung places. The bigger the pot of honey, the more flies are drawn to it, and sometimes these flies dress in odd colors, different tongues, and behave in ways that are alien to the locals. And Oldtown is a /very/ large pot.

On Harbour Street, two of these flies could be seen emerging from a small, red-painted building with no obvious purpose, although it has been said that this place serves as a temple to some faith that comes from the far-off East. Two men - the smaller of which is belted in a lightweight, breathable robed tunic of green with a brilliant purple cloak tossed about his shoulders. A sword and dagger are belted at his sides. He is followed by a much larger individual with a shiny, oiled bald head that glints in the sun. He wears a shirt of scale and first glance would tell you there is /nothing/ Dornish about him. Heavy tattooing one might see or have heard of upon the face of a Volantine Sellsword in harsh, sharp black angles frames his face and gives him an unsettling, disturbing look even though the pair aren't really doing anything unsettling /or/ disturbing.

They chat amongst one another. Not in the common tongue but in the musical dialect of Myr, were any to recognize it. The more finely dressed man turns to eye the strange tattooed man-beast and grunts. "So. Do you think he is surprised, after all this time? I think he was surprised to see me." The two grin at each other at their little private joke as they head down Harbour Street. And probably closer to a yellow-and-blue clad Dornishwoman, but have not made note of her presence yet, or her guards.

If not swallowed by the sea in body, at least Lord Blackmont's attention has been captured and kept for a time, long enough that one might wonder of him. Though there are the longer six ships in the harbor that he sailed in to town with so memorably, a few still remain under his command and care. Ships that need to be tended, ships that need to be guarded…Neither of which he personally needs to do, but he has spent his morning speaking to his ships-men and guards, inspecting the vessels, and generally overseeing work (and in truth, some of the sailors are probably humoring him with inspections, given how he is not personally a sea-faring man, whatever his interests in it).

It is with one of his sailors that Arnau speaks to now, as he strolls away from the docks themselves an onto the street, a Blackmont guard in tow. As it so often is, his expression reads serious, though it lacks the heavy weight of grim duty he can carry around with him in rougher moods. He is a mountain among the waves, the shipman's gait rolling as though he's still on the sea, the colorful parade of people coming and going bobbing and rushing, as he walks tall with solid steps. The soft grey of Dornish-styled coat wraps around his broad-shouldered figure, pattered with subtle embroidery all over, some embellishments picked out in gold threads. A silk shirt of the same golden color peeks out from beneath his coat. Finely, if not colorfully, dressed like the Heir Apparent he is. Though with the heat of the day he has spent so many hours in, his bronzed skin sheens with sweat.

The musical lilt of the words prick at Yael's ears as readily as the bold colour of one man's cloak catches her eyes, pared as it is with the strong green of his tunic. For a moment, the pair turns the Lady Blackmont's attention away from her husband and causes her quick stepped sashay to slow to a saunter as she nears them. "Good day," she bids in the same lilting Myrish that they spoke so recently. It carries her sand spun voice, low and lifting as the edges of the sea. "It is rare to hear such spoken. From where do you hail?" Dark eyes regard each man in turn, a polite smile hanging on her lips, chin angled with the poise of a lady.

Eyes up! These waters have been infested with not only foreigners, but /Dornish/ foreigners, as the Myrish-speaking men have suddenly noticed. With one glance back at the comforting arms of the Red Temple, the tattooed man falls silent now, glancing questioningly at the Dornishman with him, his hawklike features squinting as he wrinkles his forehead, his eyes narrowing — not on Lady Blackmont at first, but her men. Her words /do/ grab his attention though. It's become immediately clear the two men can no longer gossip unheeded without at least one onlooker being able to make sense of it, so the only sensible and polite thing to do is what the man in the purple cloak does. He switches to the common language of Westeros. And immediately his accent gives him away. Dornish. With a slight trace of lilt common to a few of the tongues of Essos, like Myrish. His words will no doubt tell Yael a story.

Looking about with a wide swivel of his head first and foremost, it's anyone's guess if he also spotted or recognized Lord Arnau but the initial implication is in fact — 'no.' His ghastly-faced minion remains standing still as Parizad's actual response comes now. "Forgive me — My lady. But I am from many places. The Free Cities. The Eastern Plains. Dorne." His head bows in a deep nod of greeting, eyes still checking out the heraldry. Is it recognized? Again, anyone's guess. "I had not expected a Dornish Lady to speak this so well."

Tameron comes out of the Acacia and Leopard Hall.
Tameron has arrived.

So many Dornish on the street today, though many of them seem to be guards or persons with their own daily business and trade to attend. But then, of all the places in Oldotwn, this is one of the most likely places to find foreigners of all sorts. This doesn't make Arnau any bit more careless as he walks down the street, keeping an eye on every other person who approaches, mildly wary of all. He strides through the crowd on the streets in his greys and golds, conversing with a sailor for a bit until that sailor bows and heads in a different direction, down some alley and slipping away, clearly less concerned for his own safety than Lord Blackmont…or having a need to be less visible for some reason. In the distance, he recognizes his own guards, looking much like the one that accompanies him this day, and approaches.

The waters of bodies ebb around them as the purple cloaked Parizad and his grim faced man pause to speak with the Lady Yael Blackmont, draped in translucent whisps of yellow shot with blue and the spiderwork of a veil decorating her dark hair. They cut a brilliant pair in the din of the street's markets, although she stands shorter than her companion she does not seem lesser as they converse. Her dark eyes narrow with what could be curiosity, mouth taking a pleasanter turn than polite, as the men stutter on their gossip. "You need not choose a more common tongue on my behalf," drawls the dark Lady, not so polite as to be so accomodating and continuing in Myrish. "That is a long distance you've come, from our own sands as well." Her attention focuses on him, head canted regally at the appropriate address. Dark eyes skate over the silver brooch clasped into the farbic of his cloak with cursorary interest. "It is my mother's tongue and mine as well by birth. You speak it well, although your journey sounds as it horned it." He guards shift to an easier stand behind her, buffering against the crowd.

Less remarkable, but still dornish, comes one more figure. Tameron Sand walks without guards and in clothing that is of the dornish style but of far plainer, duller garb than the vibrant clothes of Lord and Lady Blackmont and the Uller man. Making note of these figures and their entourages, Tameron moves toward Arnau. He offers a small bow. "Lord Blackmont," he greets. "It's good to see you at liberty, again."

"It is not for you, my Lady. I think you have acquitted yourself nicely. And your mother is from Myr? Ah, that would explain it." Parizad's lilting speech shifts back to match Yael's as they continue to converse. The large bald tattoo-faced Volantine in the scaled shirt studies Yael but seems to have more of an eye on her guards. Of course, were this situation hostile the imbalanced numbers they have are laughable. The Dornishman's emerald-green tunic rustles lightly in the breeze. He wears no sigil or symbol, save for that conspicious pin bearing a singular red flame. He himself has his hands tucked behind his back in a formal pose.

"I did not change tongues for you, but for your men, here." An upturn of the hawk-faced man's head indicates the guards flanking the woman. "When I see many armed men, I would like to put them at ease." His smile is there, and it is all-too-serene. "As for my journey? I will say that my mother nor father were /not/ of Myr. But it has been long, and right now, I feel as though I were..At rest." His speech remains in this old Valyrian dialect, coming to something of a halt as he spies Tameron Sand passing this way, turning his head to idly study the man, even if his main attention was focused on Yael. And all. Those. Guards. "Tell me, how does a Myrish Lady end up in Dorne? That sounds like something worth hearing."

So approached, Arnau inclines his head towards the Sand in greeting, his guard keeping an eye on the people milling about rather than a familiar Dornish man. "Ser Tameron." One concer of his mouth lifts in a smile that is sharp and wry as his following words, "As much liberty as a place like this has for people like we." Lots of affection for Oldtown and it's people, here. (No). "Though it looks as though my wife is exercising some of hers, as well." You know, as much as you can surrounded by guards. This time, he gestures in an inviting way to Tameron to join him before approaching Yael and her new acquaintances. "Afternoon," comes his low greeting, dry and neither especially friendly or unfriendly. His approach ups the number of guards now by one.

Tameron smiles faintly in understanding and gives a small nod. "They do not exactly make us welcome, here, do they," the sand agrees. He falls into step beside Arnau, walking with him over to Yael and Parizad.

One of the three guards behind Yael admires the tattoo-faced Volantine with a hard eye should he look too long or too untowardly at the Lady. The situation is not hostile, but it is obvious by the way they shift that they are wary for the Lady's protection. Something is watched for, if not these two new men. "Indeed. How came you to speak it? Your own tongue seems borne of Dorne," Yael judges, from the distinct accents that ply his common. Her lashes fan low on her cheeks, smile tipping to a skew that flatters the scar that cuts through her upper lip with its secretiveness. "It is. A long one, though, if not unlike your own by the sounds of it," she offers, switching back to common easily if with accent. "Perhaps we ought trade them?" The stories, that is, even if she looks to him with dark eyed interest.

At the approach of the others, the Yael cants her head to bid, "Husband. I had thought I might have lost you to the sea. Ser Tameron, good day." Dark eyes and smile turn back towards Parizad with apologies on her lips, "I cannot offer introductions for we have not yet exchanged names, only language. I am Lady Yael Blackmont, this is my husband, Lord Arnau Blackmont." And you are?

The Volantine's efforts are fortunately — well, not hostile, just wary. And even then, a lot of that likely has something to do with the way the man /looks/ rather than his actions. And after all this is Westeros, a land of peace and understanding, so no-one would ever prejudge, right? At any rate, he remains calm, taking stock of the situation.

Whether or not Parizad noted the sigil the Blackmont men wore before, he knows it now. There's just an imperceptible relaxation of his shoulders and he gives his man a glance, nodding a little. Who does more or less the same.

"I spent many years in the Free Cities, Lady Yael Blackmont." He finally answers, respectfully enough. As those others do pour in though, he again switches to the common tongue of Westeros for the next round of speech. "And /Lord/ Blackmont." Tameron Sand also receives a nod although he's unsure of the man's relation to this whole mess. Maybe he's a guard?

With that, the cat might as well be released from the bag. All the while, the purple-cloaked man's hands remain tucked behind his back. "The Lady Yael is as astute as she is proficient with the languages of the Free Cities, it seems.

"Since you have been so kind, I would ask if you have treated with Lady Alaeyna Fowler?" There is a question posed here. "I am called — Parizad Uller."

"No, they do not, and they feel righteous in doing so," is replied to Tameron with a touch of weariness. One of those guards isn't the only one to be giving the tattooed man a long stare, though Parizad himself is watched just as much with a sharp, green-eyed gaze. "Then you should be thankful I know how to swim, wife," Arnau replies, turning to regard his wife with less hardness and suspicion in his features. "I remain found." His expression remains mild, for all that his features would not be considered soft, listening to Parizad speak…until the man introduces himself. Uller, but no Lord or Ser attached. His eyes narrow, muscles standing out in temple and jaw briefly with a clench of the latter. "And what brings someone like you here?"

Tameron glances from Arnau to Parizad and back, his own expression carefully neutral. But, as he has been remiss in his own introduction he offers, "And I am Ser Tameron Sand, sworn knight of House Dayne."

"Ever so, husband, on the rare chance that your lady sea might become your wife," Yael answers lightly, smile remaining set into her lips. Her own hands hang loosely at her hips, one settling at her side with the lift of an eyebrow as Parizad Uller names himself. There is no lessening of the idle pleasantness, if sharp eyed regard, in her features. "I have but recently, we drank with another who wears the flame. Do your know the Lady Fowler as well?"

Names are considered, and introductions weighed, and Parizad's form visibly relaxes. A little. "I have seen one of — us in passing." Parizad considers aloud, when the Flame is mentioned. "This is a great city for /Westeros/ but our numbers are always small." A thick eyebrow raises as he initially converses with Yael again, still in common, and he glances back towards the fire temple. It seems both of these strange Myrish-speaking men relax even more though after Lady Blackmont mentions this 'flame,' whatever it may be.

"Ser Tameron Sand, then." He finally offers again. "I — heard about Ser Osric Dayne in recent days. He was regarded as a good man, no? Good men are often not afforded the justice they deserve, for this, and him, I will mourn."

Arnau now, my, isn't this a little Dornish party. "I confess, I have never had the pleasure of treating with House Blackmont until this time. There are truly many of our countrymen here. And to answer your question, Lord Arnau — I am here on an errand. I have an old…friend. A Targaryen Prince by the name of Maelys, with whom I served across the sea for some time. I have come to pay my respects." The man's serene smile is there again and deepens. For Yael though, he offers, "And Lady Alaeyna is someone I knew a long, long time ago in another place. She is perhaps the greatest surprise I have been afforded here. Her hospitality is…impressive."

"Not this day," Arnau replies simply to his wife with light words, obvious as they are by his being present at all. The sea waters have not enchanted him away this day, he remains firmly on land. Which is really for the best. Whatever he does or doesn't know about this 'Flame' being spoken of, his expression doesn't change for it, neither more or less suspicious or otherwise. "Regarded as such a man for good reasons. He fought with remarkable bravery — more than most would," he says of the fallen Osric Dayne, gravely serious. "My own times…graced with the presence of those from House Uller have been few. I have only come down from the mountains and seen those hell deserts but once." A slow blink and a cant of his gaze over at Tameron briefly, follows the admission of coming to pay respects to Prince Maelys. "I was unaware Prince Maelys had friends, he seems, mostly, to have enemies." Do exiled people have some sort of club? One might wonder. "The Lady Alaeyna has many connections, which is probably owed in large part to that hospitality."

"Ser Osric was the best of men," Tameron agrees somberly and with a small nod. "He is greatly missed." His brows lift faintly as Maelys is mentioned. "The exiled prince, you mean. The Ashen Prince. He can be found on Starry Street in the Purple… something manse. Look for servants that reek of the East, and you will find him, there."

"Yet not so small as to be nothing," Yael notes, having seen the rise of the temple to the Red God along his walk. She smiles pleasantly, lashes brushing against her cheeks, as her gaze slips towards it and then back to those gathered. Lifting a hand, she settles it upon her husbands arm as the death of Ser Osric is spoken so amount them. "She is most hospitable and welcomed often because of it."

"Her family has remained — shall I say /steadfast/ in honor in her dealings with the Hellholt in recent years." Parizad explains, dryly enough as he brushes a thumb against his green tunic, looking down slightly. Something /dared/ leave dust on his clothing? Terrible. "I name her because I know her, — while her anger may seem terrible to some, she seems to have a love of justice, and that makes me proud to count her amongst the names that I know." The odd Uller Lord finishes, trailing off a bit as he readjusts his hands behind his back. To Lord Arnau

"I understand that House Blackmont has had rare dealings with the Hellholt. I am a poor representative of its…charms. You are better speaking to Lady Alaeyna or Princess Ellia on it." The strange Dornishman with the foreign lilt does not elaborate.

Tameron Sand now is addressed swiftly. "I agree, although I never met the man. The enemies of the just cry out with their gluttonous laughter, unaware of the day when the roots of their crimes will bear fruit." It is an easy smile that is delivered to Tameron Sand. "And Prince Maelys and I were of once one mind and one purpose. Our purposes merely changed. Perhaps 'friend' is not that right word, no? When a man shares the fruits of warfare, it changes him."

Arnau places his hand lightly over Yael's own on his arm after a moment in acknowledgement. A small thing, a small gesture for his otherwise looming stillness like the mountains from whence he came. From him, he description of the Lady Fowler begets a simple, "I see." Lord Blackmont is not a man of many words when he thinks a few will do just as well. "I imagine I would speak to House Uller again, should I need to acquaint myself with their charms, if you are a poor representative of them. No doubt I will someday." That sort of thing is expected of both Heirs and Heads of Houses, assuming he lives long enough to become the latter. "I suppose that it does," says a man so changed by warfare, though he speaks rather non-noncommittally about it.

"I am not sure a man such as Maelys Targaryen would call anyone 'friend', but you likely know him better than I," Tameron replies to Parizad, "and perhaps he has more than servants and allies, after all." He listens as the talk moves to Lady Alaeyna and the Hellholt, but if he has any opinions on either topics, he does not offer them.

"The Lady Alaeyna is so blessed to be as many things as you name. She is long a friend of mine and it is a pleasure to meet an acquaintance of hers who is so well travelled and versed in the tongue," Yael offers, leaving her hand settled on her husband's arm. Her head cants towards Ser Tameron at such an assessment of Prince Maelys. "Yet, he fought with you did he not? His name was counted among those who stood the trial."

"'Friend' is a complicated term where men like us are concerned. But we know each other and know what we want and are capable of. And I am pleased to note that Maelys' intentions towards the people of Dorne are surprisingly — magnanimous." Parizad observes with a stiff sort of smile to the Lady, confirming Yael's sentiment, it would seem. "He is a man who has seen the world, like me. And a man who wished to go home, again like me. Our paths diverged some time ago but I am hoping the goodwiill between us remains." Having spent an appropriate amount of time gauging the position of his former countryment around him, Parizad is relatively at ease, it would seem. "Lord Arnau. Please let me be the first to tell you that the Hellholt is not a place a reasonable or sane man would approach lightly, right now." He works his way back between the three named acquaintances and their numerous guardsmen.

To Tameron now. "There is a burning want in a man's heart. The want of justice. If you want for justice for Ser Osric Dayne, there are always ways. Noble ways." He doesn't elaborate and turns to his hideous companion. "Serdar. This is Serdar of Volantis. Formerly of the Company of the Black Hand. But now he serves me, and we serve together, mm?"

"Ser Tameron did say he was capable of having allies," Lord Blackmont notes to Yael in his low, clear tones, not sounding particularly enthused about the Prince of Ashes, but neither does he speak so openly about the faults of the Targaryen or with such distaste. "Though he had two knights set upon him as soon as the trial began." Which, say his dry words, are not very good odds at all. Maelys does seem to attract people who want to beat him up. His brows light slightly in question of Parizad. "It is said that Hellholt is not a place to approach lightly, whatever the day. What is it about now that makes this especially relevant?"

"Yes, my lady, Maelys Targaryen fought on our field," Tameron agrees with a glance to Yael, "but for his own ends and none of ours. He wanted the forum to strike at Ser Laurant Tyrell. There are those, among the deeply devout, who suppose his presence on our side was enough to turn the gods' faces away." There is a wrinkle of the young knight's nose to demonstrate his own opinions on such thoughts. Looking to Parizad he adds, "I have no love for the man who felled Ser Osric, but neither do I seek revenge. Ser Osric was a knight who died on a holy field of battle. To seek restitution for his death would be to dishonor him and belittle his sacrifice."

"I see," Yael utters simply as her husband and Ser Tameron further explain their interaction with the men of Dorne. Her gaze cuts upward through her lashes as she looks to her husband, judging the unshifting calm of his features as he speaks. While the men speak more of trials and holds, she scarcefly acknoweldges Sedar with more than a nod.

"Mmm. As you say." Parizad's voice practically purrs to Tameron. There is but a curl of the lips as the Knight mentions 'holy field of Battle' indicates a certain sense of preposterousness which might take a second for an onlooker to detect. For a moment, he draws in a breath, but Parizad thinks better of speaking here. "I did not mean in the vulgar sense. If you took that as such, please note my correction." It's not immediately clear /what/ the strange Uller means here.

After being introduced, Serdar slams a fist to his scale-armored chest in a greeting. It might be a foreigner thing. Or a sellsword company thing.

"Mmm. Make no mistake. I make no trouble for my former countrymen, but I would caution against dealing with the Hellholt in its current state." This last bit is delivered to Arnau, and the foreigner elaborates only slightly. "It appears there is some confusion about who is the true Lord there. I would be hoping that this confusion is resolved…soon. No?"

There is no disagreement from Arnau as to Tameron's account of what happened. He nods shallowly, tilting his head towards the Sand in a quiet sort of agreement. "Whatever the cause, the gods did abandon us on that day." He does not lay all the blame at the exiled Prince's feet for what happened, but neither does he deny that it is possible. He is certainly not impressed with the contributions of Maelys to events or his reasons for involving himself. It's almost imperceptible, and probably for anyone but Yael it is impossible to read, but his brows knit a hair closer at the mention Osric's slayer. Sedar is acknowledged with the barest of nods. "Those confusions are often resolved quickly, one way or another," he says slowly and a little suspiciously. Those confusions usually are resolved with blood.

Tameron's gaze lifts to settle on Parizad for a long moment, but he keeps his thoughts to himself. For now, at any rate. "Is there 'another' way to resolve them, my lord?" he asks Arnau of such conflicts. "I can only think of the one."

The ringing of fists Serdar's scaled chest causes Yael's brows to lift, dark eyes flitting away in what may be a genteel roll. "Such things cause great unrest," she says of the state of House Uller, dark eyes sharp as they settle on Parizad. "Certainly for the brotherhood of all houses of our land, we should hope that things are settled." Her fingertips linger on Arnau's arm, even upon catching his expression. "Perhaps everyone should just get married," she suggests with a tone dry as ash, irony thick in it. "No, blood is often best."

Yael's suggestion is met with coarse laughter, by, of all people, the lost scion of House Uller who wheezes it out. "It is a day too late for that and a few gold coins too short. But it is a splendid idea. Perhaps I will marry a cockatrice, no?" Parizad beams brightly as his bodyguard relaxes.

"I did not suggest wanton slaughter, no. But there are other ways. Perhaps my Lord will recognize Ser Osric, even though he did not recognize him himself. It is never too late, no?" He stands, with his arms crossed across his chest now.

Arnau smiles at Tameron in a way that is not going to be confused with happiness, even from him. It does not touch his eyes. "Royalty appears to give decrees and commands to be followed," he answers, much like his wife in the dryness of his words. Marriages and commands, all less final than deaths, words much more easily broken. His fingers tap lightly against Yael's hand on his arm, for what she says of marriage, but it is Parizad he looks at, with a hard gaze. "Then you would surely continue to live up to the Uller reputation."

Tameron gives a quiet look to Arnau that is as skptical as Lord Blackmont's smile. But all he says is, "Ah. Yes. Of course." To Parizad he asks, brows furrowing, "I'm sorry, I do not understand. Recognize Ser Osric?"

"We are but their humble vassals," Yael says smoothly, the ring of the courts of the Sunspear sounding in her words. They are musical intonation could be taken neither as overt praise nor as disparagement. Her fingers do not twitch as they are tapped by Arnau's hand. "I think he'll find solace in his own gods, for he was sworn to them." There is no arguement there lurking in her voice, but stately calm and certainly as if she was giving a command.

"That is understandable and by no means something to — disturb. We'll all honor ours in our own way." Parizad doesn't push the issue as answers this, delicately. And suddenly he's all smiles. "Think nothing of it. The only apology I have to offer, though, was that I did not have time to make it to Westeros to fight by my old comrade's side. Think of this as an offer. Should this happen again." He takes a single step forward, "There is one old duelist who walks upon this land who is not yet done. Tell me, do you know of Princess Ellia?"

Arnau does not add much to the conversation for a bit, solemnly silent, giving no obvious signs of agrement or not with what is said. It is not courtly politeness, perhaps, but but is not meant to be discourteous. "The royals have concluded this matter settled, but thank you," he says to the offer, not dismissing it outright as though he would not wish assistance, but of course as a humble vassal he must abide. Of course. "I know of the Princess, of course, though I do not know her personally."

It takes Tameron a long moment to fully understand what Parizad offers. But as he listens to Lady Yael's words, his eyes widen and then narrow, jaw clenching for a moment before he can school his features more properly. "I know her," he answers. "I serve her and her family. What business do you have with her, Parizad Uller?"

"It is a kindly offer," Yael drawls in response to Parizad's words, warmer now than those prior in accompaniment of her husband's. She remains on his arm as Parizad steps towards them, regally lifting her chin. "Of course." Her answer is simple. It is hard to mistake a Princess.

"It is settled. But some wounds never heal. And I would like to think I were man involved on the side of righteousness." Go you, Hero. Parizad is just raring to go, apparently. "Oooooh. That would make sense." Parizad observes to Tameron, his exclamation musical. "Well, I would say, were I rude, that it were between 'me and her.' But I feel that in the service of graciousness," He explains, the lilt of his accent practically hugging the words, "Lady Alaeyna has convinced me to treat with her to settle an old grudge between House Martell and me. For my part, I welcome this, for I bear House Martell no ill will." He bows his head stiffly.

"Everyone wants to think they are involved on the righteous side." It's a flat statement of fact from Arnau, not admitting to wounds, healed or otherwise. He looks over at Tameron, then to Parizad and back. There is nothing he can offer about the Princess, leaving it to the knight in her service to say what should be said.

"That would be rude," Tameron agrees placidly, and then offers a small nod as Parizad clarifies his interest in Princess Ellia. "Then I will inform her of your arrival and your desire to speak with her," he replies. "Where will you be staying?"

Yael too holds her tongue, as she does her husbands arm. If she does have thought upon the Princess they are not voiced.

Arnau just earned an invisible gold star from Parizad here. He regards the Lord with a certain wary deference right /after/ he says these words. "That's the problem with these things, Lord…Arnau Blackmont. Some people are /sore/ losers." He doesn't elaborate on this, but there will likely be much time in the future for the man to do so.

To Tameron. "I have lodgings for now. There are circumstances that make it easier for me to stay somewhere away from my countrymen. Although I will always appreciate Lady Alaeyna's hospitality when it is offered. And thank you, Ser Tameron Sand — it has already been seen to but if you have dealt with me and have a favorable impression, it will doubtless help." A beat as the man smiles an ever-broadening smile.

"Mhm." It is hard to disagree with that: Some people are sore losers. Though Arnau does not look particularly pleased at the reminder. Then again, he does not often have a cheerful air about his person, so it may mean nothing. "Your former countrymen, is it not?" He asks for clarification, a touch pointedly. "For the time being," he also allows after a moment, as the exiled man seems to be trying to make in-roads back to Dorne.

Ser Tameron regards Parizad and then looks away, towards the Acacia and Leopard. He offers no comment as to whether or not he found Parizad favorable, but says only, "I expect it would."

Lady Yael merely cants her head, gaze sliding from one man to the other and leaving her husband outside of her focus for the moment. "It must be difficult for you," she simple says to Parizad. To be exiled, one must suppose.

"Much of that remains to be seen, mm?" Parizad's cheery demeanor matches the bright colors of his clothing. It's a little, instinctual thing but he flashes his purple cloak about his side. "Tcch. I have probably said too much already and I must spare my tidings for Princess Ellia. He glances at Arnau flatly. "I am merely a man who has a purpose and I want to make it clear that this purpose is not at odds with House Martell. I would not upset Nymeria's Daughters and we would not make trouble in this place, no?" He glances sharply at Serdar. Serdar says nothing but an affirmative grunt.

"It is an interesting life one leads when one has options taken away from him and options given. Perhaps now I would have not changed them. I would wish you all a pleasant evening." What a strange fellow. His sworn man (?) echoes this with another fist pressed to his chest.

"House Martell will find it comforting that your quarrel is not with them, I am sure," Arnau replies, low and even, voice unaffected by much emotion. Perhaps a hint of skepticism, but no more. Someone, doubtless, will not find whatever Parizad's purpose is comforting. "Good evening," he bids in simple farewell, watching both strange men.

"Good evening," Tameron agrees with a small nod as Parizad and his tattooed man make their departure. He glances over at Yael and Arnau with slightly raised brows, as if you ask 'what do you think of that.'

"It sounds to be so, perhaps another time we shall speak of it. Good evening," Yael bids, not in common tongue but in musical Myrish. The man, both men, are offered the slightest of smile. There are still stories to trade. Lingering on her husbands arm, she shifts to regard Arnau and Tameron with peeked interest. "Will your word speak well of him, Set Tameron?" She wonders once the pair are out of earshot.

These last words are delivered —- not in the common tongue of Westeros but in Myrish as well. "Your mother is honored by your voice." These are delivered to Yael, as Parizad bows his head, beforeh e straigtens. "May you all pass through the Great Shadows." Congratulations, Dornes, you just got blessed by a heretic. Happy day! With that, Parizad and Serdar bow their heads and move off. To somewhere…else. After one last thing. "It is a pleasure to find — good diversions in a strange land. A pleasant night." This very last lat /last/ bit is back in the common tongue. And with that, Parizad is off.

Arnau's gaze shifts sharply to his wife as Yael speaks to the exiled Uller in a language he does not know and then to Parizad as he replies in the same. The corners of his mouth twitch, uncertain if they wish to frown or not. He probably does not mean to smile. "That was…unusual," he grinds out slowly. What was that? says the undertone.

"My word will speak of caution," Tameron replies quietly. "If that man served with Maelys Targaryen, he was a mercenary and likely burned his share of villages to the ground. Whatever brings him back to Westeros, he is not someone I would trust. And he tried to… to convert Ser Osric. He would strip him from the gods he has already gone to. What sort of madness is that?"

"Parizad Uller… He certainly offered. I believe he might have thought it a kindness," Yael says, with her voice saying that she thinks it to be no such thing. "He serves the Red God, R'hllor. It is the madness of that faith, from what little I know it." She tips her brows at Arnau, head canting in such a manner as if to ask him what he thinks of it.

"Fought with him and would do so again," the Lord Blackmont notes in addition to what Tameron says, speaking of the exiled Uller's wish that he can been here earlier to join the fighting. He presses his lips together in thought, fingers briefly brushing along the bearded line of his jaw. "The madness of conviction." Arnau nearly echoes Yael, though his words are different. "I know little of a Red God, or his followers." Such people do not generally find themselves in Blackmont. "But I know the look of a man on a mission."

"But is it a mission we wish to entangle ourselves in?" Tameron muses. "I know little of R'hllor, save he is tied to fire. And, apparently, fanatics."

Yael's mouth tips in what is not quite a smile, "It seems it shall be quite the political play." She lifts her shoulder in a slink of shimmering silk. "What I know is readily tempered by gossip, but his Myrish is quite good."

"It may be that we have little choice to become entangled, depending on the nature of the thing," Arnau observes as much as he can, with what little he knows of what Parizad means to do. "Perhaps, wife. Perhaps even a wild one." He seems the type for a wild political play. "Is that what you two were speaking to each other in?" And leaving the rest of people out of the conversation.

"Do you mean Parizad Uller or R'hllor?" Tameron asks Yael by way of who speaks good Myrish. "Have you been to the free cities, my lady, or were you taught Myrish in Dorne?"

"It seems he would seek to speak to us at another time. We shall see how the wildness of his actions take form," Yael agrees, offering Arnau a nod for his observation. Dark eyes sliding over to Tameron, her mouth turns in the slow hook of a smile. "Uller. I know not what R'llor speaks for we are not so acquainted," she offers with a sniff. "Yes, husband it was. No, Ser Tarmeron. I was taught by my Mother, it is familial."

"We shall see," Arnau murmurs in a lower echo of Yael's words followed by deep breath, slowly taken and released light a sigh. He lets his wife answer the questions directed to her without feeling the need to explain for her or interject in any way, though he does nod for her answers.

Tameron nods as well for his question answered and puffs a small breath out. "I suppose I had best fine my lady and tell her of this encounter. It was fine company and I thank you, Lord Blackmont. Lady Blackmont." He offers a small bow to each.

"She will certainly wish to hear of it," Yael opines, dark eyes certain as she regards him. "Good day, Ser Tameron."

"You are welcome, Ser Tameron," Arnau replies reasonably graciously without over-flowering his words and nods at the Sand. "If any more come of this, we would like to hear of it." He just assumes on behalf of his wife. "Though nothing that your lady would wish not be shared, naturally." Naturally. "Good evening."

"So long as it is not against my Lady's wishes, I will share what I learn," Tameron agrees. So offering, he turns to make his way back to the manse.

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