(121-05-15) Set It On Fire
Set It On Fire
Summary: Dornishmen just ruin your night out.
Date: Date of play (15/05/2014)
Related: None


Quill and Tankard Hightower And Citadel

Thu May 15, 121 ((Thu May 15 11:32:57 2014))

It is a summer day. The weather is warm and clear.

This is the common room of the Quill and Tankard, that famous Oldtown Inn that has never closed in five hundred years. The building is a noble old half-timber structure with plastered stone between the enormous old black beams. It sits on a small rock of an island at the edge of the Honeywine River, and is accessed by a little footbridge, or by water-taxi.

Rivermen and seamen, smiths and singers, priests and princes, Lords and sellswords, travelers both noble and small, and the novices and acolytes of the Citadel - all come for a taste of the fearsomely strong apple cider that makes this inn so beloved by Oldtown's people. There is a pleasant buzz of chatter, cups and tankards being filled and refilled, and general laughter.

The fire in the hearth allows for a merry glow and a comfortable warmth from Oldtown's breezy, misty cobblestone streets. Benches and tables offer places to sit, and there is a deliciously toothsome smell in the air of food from the back.

!!! Currently at least two City Watchmen are stationed here at all times. They will be quick to arrest those who offer violence to anyone. !!!

Afternoon in one of Oldtown's most infamous landmarks — no matter what happens in the Reach, fools will reach for drink and even visitors and foreigners are not exempt from this. For now, a typical crowd of men and women of different social castes can be seen here, sort of rubbing elbows.

Except it looks like this place just got occupied by a couple men who some say would 'clearly not belong.' The first is an imposing figure in some odd-patterened scale-armored shirt with the mien of a bodyguard. He is shaved bald and his face bears an assortment of tattoo-work that looks like nothing from this continent for certain.

He is flanked, however, by a dark-haired man with hawklike features that appear a little more familiar. Along with his comfortable, if colorful robed tunic, an observer could only scream one thing when looking at him. Someone even mutters the name aloud. 'More Dornish.' A taverngoeer says this, into his ale, but doesn't elaborate.

This man would have been known to some as Parizad Uller. Others have less polite names for him. He pays the man no heed but also does not let a certain smug look fade from his lips as he strolls towards a table with the big guy.

Occupying one of the tables by the window is a red-haired woman well into her drink, though thankfully she doesn't seem drunk. Still, her movements are just a touch more carefree and exaggerated that it doesn't take much to assume she is well into her second cup of red wine. A flagon is on her table while her cup dangles carelessly in her loose grip as she talks to the two ladies at her table. All of them appear to be highborn thanks to their well made dresses and their fancy hairstyles. The one with the red hair, Sera, is laughing merrily at something the blonde one with a small beauty mark over her eyebrow has said. "Oh Sireese, you're just /marvelously/ funny," Sera returns before sliding her teal eyes towards the pleasantly plump brunette, an amazingly fetching woman who doesn't seem to realize just how fetching she could be. "And Dorys, please don't give us that look, you can't be /that/ innocent, you've been betrothed for…how long has it been now? Seven years? Surely you have broached the subject with him once or twice at least." Sera remarks lightly towards her as Dorys blushes.

Sera lifts the cup up to take another sip from her cup when she notices the Dornishmen walking into the tavern, her red eyebrows quirking upwards while she watches them. She leans forward towards her girls to keep her voice low so that they may not be overheard. "I wonder if it's true what they say about Dornishmen. I mean, look at /that/. They're so…" she trails off and waves her free hand as if it might explain away her thoughts.

"Serdar. Over here." The Dornishman says to his companion, beckoning. "Do not worry, that chair will not cause your hindquarters to rot off." He barks out a simple laugh. "I've seen you put it in worse places anyway." He nudges the man, trying to find an open seat but realizes it is also crowded. The somewhat unfriendly looks being shot his way indicate he's probably not going to get a lot of happy company, either.

A trained ear would note two things — his accent is definitely of Dorne, but by way of some other strange things. Essosi? Of a sort? His bodyguard grunts and says something in a language that is /clearly/ Essosi, Sera or her companions would recognize it as Valyrian-derived, but maybe not much beyond that. "Serdar, be polite. We are in this city. Speak their tongue with me, no?" The bodyguard sighs. "As you wish, Captain." The seating they do find is conveniently right by Sera's little group, both foreign men give the gaggle of ladies a curious, inquisitive glance. The international symbol for 'mind if we?'

Veronica comes the heavy wooden staircase from above.

The three women freeze as Parizad and Serdar sit down beside them. Dorys, in particular, seems to be utterly terrified, as if she might contract some sort of disease by their mere presence. Sireese, perhaps noting her friend's discomfort, quickly rises to her feet as she offers the newcomers an amazingly warm and sunny smile. "Not at all, we were just leaving, please, have our seat. Come along now Dorys, Sera." She urges the terrified brunette up to her feet, but Sera remains rooted in her spot as she studies the Dornishmen curiously.

"Oh, Sireese, it's a shame that you have to go," the Florent woman finally murmurs, sliding her teal eyes back up to her friends. "But I'm afraid I am not yet ready to part from my wine for the day. I bought this flagon and it is still quite full; I refuse to waste such a pretty penny."

Sireese stops and eyes Sera for a long moment, as if wondering if the woman has truly lost her mind. "Suit yourself," she sniffs, "if you wish to be such a frugal woman-…Well, it's not my place to show you how to be a proper woman."

At that Sera smiles before she tilts her head to the side. "No, it's not." She lifts her cup in salute before turning towards Serbar and Parizad, "My apologies."

The named bodyguard in scale, Serdar's tattooed face breaks into a grin that could be almost described as abashed or apologetic. However, there's nothing about that face that could convey this in a pure way, and there's something unmistakably creepy about him. It's probably the facial tattoos. The bald man steps aside though and makes way for the strange Dornishman accompanying him. He adjusts his purple-and-green cloak, tossing it lazily over his shoulder as he edges towards a seat, watching the women with Sera flee. "Have a — pleasant day. Ladies." He continues in that strange lilting accent, watching them go. Before he turns back to Sera and eyes her flatly. "I see my people have been making friends, no?"

Loryn comes the heavy wooden staircase from above.

Veronica, opulent and airy in scarlet, gold-shot silk, enters the Quill and Tankard just as the Florent lady's companions are huffing their out. The looks she garners from said ladies are scarely friendlier than those given the Dornishmen, but she smiles all the same, dipping a brief bob of a curtsy as she turns sideways to let them pass. The men who follow her in — two of them, armed and armored with weapons and gear of exceptional make — wear no badge of blazon. They are, however, clearly hers, and station themselves to keep a watchful eye on their mistress as she suveys the room, gently working a ribbon-tailed folding fan of ebony and stiff red lace.

The women leave quickly enough, their steps hurrying after witnessing the horror that is Serdar's smile. As for Sera, she can't help but laugh quietly into her cup before focusing back on Parizad. "Oh don't mind them. Dorys is especially sensitive and she has family members involved with-…well," she waves her hand again, dismissing the skirmishes idly. "Sireese is just extremely protective over her; really, I don't think that woman needs any more protection." She wrinkles her nose then places her cup down on top of the table. "Your people have been nothing but an exotic spice added to the sweet nature that is the Reach. A much needed spice." Her voice turns dry at the last sentence. "Lady Sera Florent," she finally adds as a way of introduction. "Daughter of Lord Alwyn Florent and not much else." Catching sight of Veronica and her guards, she tilts her head curiously for a moment.

Loryn appears on the staircase to make his way downstairs. But he stops halfway to survey the scene and see who's left and who's arrived in the time. He can't help noticing his favorite redhead… with some stranger who looks suspiciously Dornish. Then he sees the finely dressed woman on her own and quirks a brow. For now he decides to gatecrash Sera's party and bounces down the stairs to appear next to her. "Well, hello, Sera! It's been a while!", he smiles eagerly.

"Sometimes that smell covers up a rank odor, I am afraid, which is something that all our people can understand, to be sure." There's a calculated smile on Parizad's face, and it's not actually a pleasant one. It seems almost a bit predatory, in fact, although his eyes are not meeting Sera's as he says this last bit so the target of said look is quite ambiguous.

"I can assure you that whatever one may say about me," the man's lilt gets more emphatic here, "I am quite sure your kin here have nothing to fear from the likes of me."

A glance is delivered to the imposing tattooed man, who meanders off in search of a barkeep. "Since we are sharing such close spaces, I feel that I should return that. I am called Parizad. Parizad Uller." This is directed to the redhead. And there was indeed hesitation before he added his last name. A jut of his chin is directed upwards as the establishment gets more and more full, first at Loryn. As he scoots his seat aside to make room for the man. "Please, I was only taking advantage of what little room there was here, and would not be rude enough to be unwilling to share." Veronica and her companions get a nod, and it looks as though the tattooed man who accompanied Parizad is eyeing them up. He's eyeing /everyone/ up, actually, including Veronica. It's not particularly salacious though, everything about his attentions scream 'wary'.

The proprietor snaps his fingers briskly at one of the serving girls, pointing to a table near the front, one with the advantage of the breeze from both the terrace and the unshuttered windows. The girl hops to, quickly resetting the table with what must be rather props for even the well-patronized Quill — delicate, almost translucent, boneware plates; silver eating utensils; a golden cup. He himself hurries to greet the golden-haired woman in red. "Mistress Veronica! Welcome back!" he beams. "You usual table, or will you be retiring to your rooms? The heat of the day can be so very vexing. A cool bath may be just the thing…"

Veronica smiles and inclines her head, her movements understated as her blood-red ensemble is not. "Just the table, please. And something light to eat." She looks over the proprietor's shoulder, blue eyes taking in the rather exotic pair. She returns the nod, a nuanced mirror of the original motion.

"Loryn!" Sera calls out delightedly as he suddenly appears next to her; it doesn't take much to notice the woman is lightly buzzed and in a good mood. "How wonderful to see you. Please, meet my new friend - Parizad Uller. A man with a far better understanding of just how our cities may be more similar than most." She offers as a means of introduction. Her teal eyes flick back towards Veronica curiously, especially as Serdar sizes her up. Noting the bodyguard's incredible wariness, she raises her cup up to her lips but pauses to speak; "your man looks rather intent. I do not wish to impinge on his duties as a guard, but he looks like he needs a few stiff drinks himself." When the tavern seem to hop to at Veronica's presence, Sera takes an even stronger interest in the woman until the mention of her name seems to ring a bell. "The Flower of Oldtown, why, she is famous, a proper courtesan as well! Oh Loryn," she turns to face the Tyrell with wide eyes, "You should call her over!" Since he is a man and all. "Invite her to join us. I would love to hear her tales."

Even though the stranger makes room for Loryn willingly, the young Tyrell still eyes him warily. "Paying us a visit from Dorne, Mylord?", he asks politely, albeit a little stiffly, "I am Loryn Tyrell." He does sit dow nfor now though, opening his moth to say something else to Sera, when she voices her unusual request. "Flower of Oldtown? Courtesan? She?", he repeats and quirks a brow at Sera's interest, then shrugs. "Ah, why not." He gets up again to approach the fabled courtesan and bows slightly. "Would you do us the honor of joining our table?"

"That is not really the case.. My Lord. I have not been there for some time." Any trace of harsh edges on Parizad a moment ago are gone as he glances back at Loryn. But his words definitely intersect with his strange dialect and the even stranger man who called him 'Captain' a few moments ago. "Ah, Lord Loryn Tyrell." He recognizes the name at least. "The great blossoms of the Reach I am told.

Although not the /only/ blossom here, if you mind my correction." Parizad gets an eyeful of Veronica and smiles slyly again.

Speaking of the strange tattooed fellow, he returns with a round of cider cups, including one for the red-haired Sera. Loryn and Veronica are probably SOL for the moment as he only has two hands and one elbow to tuck things under.

Parizad's dark eyes now dart back to Sera as he accepts the drink. "Serdar is a soldier, My Lady. You cannot take that out of him. It is his great calling in life. As our Lord guides us." Serdar responds in common with that Myrish-sounding accent, "As our Lord guides us." He smiles again. Creepy.

Delicate eyebrows, perfecly shaped and groomed and a shade darker than her golden hair, tick up a notch as Veronica turns to face the young lord. "Lord Loryn Tyrell," she says, dipping a graceful curtsy. "What a pleasure to meet you, my lord… and how kind of you to invite me." She glances at the table and its crew, which — with her addition — is becoming rather motley, indeed. "I'd be delighted."

Motley is just the way Sera likes it, it seems. "Well you are in the Reach, you tend to be surrounded by blossoms," Sera remarks lightly though her eyes are on Loryn and Veronica until Serdar breaks her focus. She accepts the cider cup with a quick 'thank you' and a bright, wide smile at Serdar, perhaps in her attempt to break through his wary nature. "Soldiers need war and war needs soldier. It is a good calling to have, there will always be a need." Sera looks back to Parizad, her eyebrows slowly sliding up her brow before she places her elbow on the table and her chin on her fist. "The /Lord/? You know your accent is unlike any Dornishmen I have met now that you mention it. Tell me, where does this Lord guide you?"

Loryn enjoys a good ogle down Veronica's front and thus completely misses her saying something. Huh, did she speak? Is anyone waiting for him? He looks back to the table, then do Veronica again and nods. "Well, then…", he begins and leads the woman - obviously not a lady - to the table he's sharing with Sera and the Dornishman. Or not sharing perhaps. Because, Dornish. Ew. "Lady Sera. Lord… something.", he introduces the pair to Veronica and offers his own seat which Parizad had earlier cleared for him. "Please do sit down. I am afraid, I cannot linger or Ser Brynden would be very cross with me. I will come and visit you some time soon, Sera.", he tells the Florent girl, then leans close to Veronica to allow himself another look and a whisper: "And perhaps our paths shall cross here again?"

First things first. Parizad and his sworn man (maybe? Is that the term in this case?) raise their cups, to each other and say in perfect unison aloud. "Blessed is the fruit ripened beneath the sun's fire." It's more than just a toast, that's for sure. And then they drink. Now, on to more interesting things. Parizad continues to make conversation while Serdar just watches. The newcomers, sure, but mostly the door. He's clearly looking for /someone/ and that someone is not at this table. The Dornishman looks to the redhead and continues then. "I have not seen this side of the sea in many years, if that is what you are asking? And Dorne even longer, although some things I am discovering you will always carry with you from home." He smiles politely enough after downing a sip of his drink and sets it upon the table. "And there will always be war. But I would hope not here. And our Lord guides us everywhere. It is a curious thing, hmm?"

Pleasantries are delivered to the Lord of Flowers and the Flower herself, their other guests as he lifts his drink in a greeting.

Not so very obviously not a lady. Veronica is dressed in finery that many ladies would — and likey do — envy to their teeth, and there's nothing excessively immodest about the cut or style. It's nothing that would raise eyebrows in Highgarden, though it would certainly lead eyes to follow. Her accent is perfectly cultured and her manners impeccable. Then again… she is what she is — and she's famous for it. She sweeps her gown smooth beneath her as she sits, lashes demurely low and smile sweet as the young lord whispers to her. "Perhaps, my lord." She smiles more warmly, and with less coquetry, at Sera. "My lady." Then, glancing at Parizad with interest, "Your Lord." It's an echo of his words, and a question.

"The Flower of Old Town," Sera murmurs in obvious fascination as she watches Veronica intently, like she might learn the history of the woman through her fine features. "Hmm?" she offers a bit distractedly before tearing her eyes away from Veronica to look towards Parizad. "I am asking many things to be fair," she sits a bit straighter as she takes a sip from her fresh cup. "It is a curious thing, your Lord I mean. How can there only be one? Or was it two?" She shakes her head dismissively at that before looking back to Veronica. "It is a rather odd thing that has been seeping out of Essos like a wine stain on a white dress."

"Oh, there is only one. Were I to return to my home, I would have to swear to a False Lord. Were that even something I could do." A series of sharp laughs emits from Parizad's lips as he hides his face in his cup. "Mmm. This is strange, yes? Made from apples? It is better than I had thought it would be." He sets it back down on the table and comments, wryly, looking between Veronica and Sera and is clearly having a little fun here.

"My true Lord is the Lord of Light. Who protects us and guides us safely through the dark places in the world."

Meanwhile, Serdar continues watching the door.

"A Flower of Oldtown," Veronica tells Sera, faint emphasis on the article, smiling modestly. "The first was my mother. I'm sure anything fascinating you've heard was probably her doing." She pauses to accept her golden cup and a flagon of chilled Arbor Red from one of the serving girls who's paying attention to the game of musical chairs. "Thank you." Then, eyes moving once more to the Dornish exile, bright and keen, "I've heard of your Lord. There are those high in the Faith of the Seven quite vexed at His appearance. Bad enough, I'm told, that the Old Gods refuse to die."

"A lot of us swear ourselves to false lords," Sera returns with a wry grin before she takes a deeper sip from her cup. "None of the gods willingly die. They have this annoying presence of being everywhere and everything," she intones with a mildly annoyed look. "And yes, it is made from apples, quite crisp though I tend to favor red wines; its headiness makes the world a beautiful shade of haze." What color haze is is anyone's guess. "Do you feel guided then? Does the Lord whisper in your ear of what to do and where to go?"

"People fear many things, it seems. The Seven are as venerated in Dorne as they are in these Kingdoms." Parizad chats, idly. "I too, was raised in that faith. I am not one of those people that casts ire upon those who follow them for that alone. How could I? I was once counted among their number." Veronica's identification of his creed has clearly piqued the man's interest, though, and gives her a pointed look which is quickly shot in the direction of Sera Florent. "It is the way of things, all things, Gods and Men to cling to what life they may and nothing ever will die without a great amount of noise and struggle, I would imagine." Rest easy. I am not here trying to convert anyone. They will find Him or they will not. I am told that there are some further East of where I have been who are more…insistent, maybe? Forceful. I would call them misguided, although I would tread /lightly/ around them." Wow. Okay. That's a relief.

"I will always prefer wine. Make no mistake of that. So my time in the Reach is well-spent." He tries out the cider again and makes a slight face at its tartness. Still, it seems to agree with him.

"Some men die in their sleep," says Veronica, swirling the dark red in her golden cup. "Though I imagine it takes a great deal more than wine and age to lull a god." She grins faintly. "No attempts at conversion? I'm disappointed. I always thought just looking into the eyes of a man — or woman — belonging to the Lord of Light might brand my very soul."

"One religion claims there are gods in everything, the other claims there is only one. I prefer the nice, even middle with a decent seven." Sera returns with a laugh, obviously not being very serious about such spiritual matters. She raises her cup in Veronica's direction with a broad grin, "Perhaps you have already been branded and as soon as you see your next candle you may suddenly find yourself prostrating before it." She then finishes her cup of cider and places the cup gently on the table. "But alas, I do not think I should drink any more if I am to walk to my manse without falling upon my face in the most unladylike manner. So…I may have to take my leave." Her voice lowers in dissatisfaction of doing the right thing and heading home. With that she slowly rises up to her feet.

Veronica looks concerned for the tipsy young lady, glancing about the room to see if the can spot any fellows in Florent tabards stationed nearby. "My lady, if your companions left you unescorted, please allow my men to see you home? I'm sure I'll be quite safe, in the interim, with our Dornish flame and his vigilant guard."

"It may be that they are looking at it through different lenses. Or there are some degrees of truth. I only know what is that I know." Parizad observes, his voice a little languid as he watches Sera with an inquisitive, thick arched eyebrow shooting upwards and gauging her reaction and her words. "Mmm. Very well. Stay clear of the shadows, Lady Sera Florent." An odd expression from an odd man. Who knows? Maybe they /all/ talk like that somewhere. Raising his cup again, he turns to the Flower of Oldtown with a bemused grin now.

"Maybe they are screaming in their dreams, no? No-one can say. As far as conversion, I would not call myself a Priest. If you are indeed curious, this city has allowed a small temple to be built, not far from Harbour Street. It was for visiting sailors, mainly. But the flames are still kept alive."

The hawklike man turns to Veronica. "That is something I do not hear often, hmm?" He laughs, now. Good naturedly, but there's something a bit — unsettling about it all.

There aren't any Florent guards within sight, but Sera is quick to offer Veronica a broad and warm smile. "You are very kind, sweet Flower, but my guards are simply waiting outside. I do hate having them over my shoulders constantly and I would rather they not witness my every move." She makes a face at that before chuckling, "A lady must have her secrets after all." And not much of one either. "Veronica, Captain." She dips her head in goodbye before making her way through the crowd, weaving easily between the patron with the grace of someone lubricated by alcohol but with her balance intact, thankfully.

Veronica chuckles, smiling ruefuly and wistfully as Lady Sera Florent departs, her cup held casually aloft, ever-ready to be delivered to her lips. "Were we ever that young?" she wonders, drinking a sip of deep red wine.

The pleasant, if a bit chilly smugness that seems to eminate from Parizad continues as he smirks along to Veronica's words as he idly watches the red haired lady depart with her newfound entourage. And then there's something about what she says that gives him pause. He leans over the table and gives her a flat, if not unfriendly glance. And then he comments in response a few simple words. "I do not know. Maybe not all of us, mm?"

"No?" asks the Flower, leaning in on her elbows and lofting an elegant eyebrow. "Were you born aloof and slightly sinister, then?"

"Not so much that. I am just wanting to be sure that not everyone is able to — enjoy life in a certain way." Parizad's answer is cryptic, as he lifts his hand and points again towards the door indicating of whom he speaks. And then his little smile returns as he finally confesses. "No, I was once a child too. Some years ago, in the Hellholt. I had a father and a mother. And I was not born with a blank, expressionless stare that some in Essos have."

Big ol' bald and facetattooed Serdar lets out a hoarse chuckle even as he is largely focused on watching the room. He's still listening.

"I was born here, in Oldtown," says Veronica, easily conversational. "I've never really left it — not for very long. And here, I grew up in a walled garden, just like the flower I'd one day become." It's all said so smoothly, it's difficult to tell what's simple truth and what's being read off the glossy brochure. "What was Hellholt like? A very dire name for a place."

"It is very warm. You see, some Dornish linger by the coast. But we — we were children of the desert, you see." Parizad clicks his tongue as he folds his hands together. "I have seen your home, mm? Not that much, but some. The Hellholt was more of an affectionate, hmm, how would you say," he wags his forefingers forward. "nickname. The legend behind it was a former lord of it locked his enemies within and set it ablaze." He snorts distastefully. "What a waste of a good pure flame, if you ask me. And yet, if this is true, that Lord is probably better than the thing that sits upon its seat /now/." Oh, and he's smiling again. Somebody keep him away from the tinder. And the Hellholt, it sounds like. Maybe Dorne in general. Unless you're into that sort of thing.

Veronica listens intently, eyes unflinchingly on those of the Dornish exile. She is, apparently, unafraid of fire. Or enough intrigued by it that caution has yet to outstrip curiosity. "Hellholt… is the seat of House Uller," she says, carefully recalling. "It was… Bors Uller, wasn't it? Who was prince. But there's a regent now." She shakes her head. "I can't recall his name, but… he is the 'thing' of which you speak?"

"Dear 'Lord Tirdad'." Veronica's clearly got an ear for who's who, and it's clearly left an eyebrow-raising inquiry on Parizad's part in regards to this woman. Even Serdar nearby gives a wordless grunt at this name. He's doubtless heard it before in even less friendly tones. "Sworn to the great House Martell, the Blood of Nymeria. All of this, yes." He waves a hand expressively, reciting something they no doubt both know. "I have not been there in some years. Nor shall I go back. At least not yet." His smile then returns, subtly.

"And when you return," asks Veronica, studying the Dornishman, "will it be to cleans Hellholt with fire, as was done so long ago?"

"No." The man offers, flatly. "Rule would need to pass to my cousin, after all. It is not my place to decide such things and burning my kin's throne would be a poor solution to this problem." His teeth flash, however, indicating that he may not exactly have — noble ambitions towards his uncle.

"Your cousin," Veronica echoes. "So you're Prince Bors' nephew… and a prince, yourself." She rests her chin in her hand and taps her bottom lip, working it all out. "An exiled prince?" she ventures, glancing at Serdar and back. "Is that why your man is so vigilant?"

"Not a Prince." The Dornishman counters. "This city is full of Princes-in-Exile already. Although that is partly why I am here." He just sits back, letting the Flower of Oldtown puzzle this out as she has made good progress with this so far. He steeples his fingers together.

"But that is part of it. I am not exiled from /here/ but there is enough contact with Dorne to attract unsavory sorts." Serdar isn't really doing much except nursing the single drink he ordered, and Parizad stretches his boots beneath the table.

"Plus, he is just always like that."

"My understanding of Dornish inherited titles isn't what it should be. I've had to educate myself about the ruling families rather recently, since we seem to be hosting a significant portion of one." Veronica takes another sip of wine, pursing her lips. "But what we have here are princesses, not princes. Not Dornish princes, at any rate." Ah-haa. "Not a popular man, that. Though I doubt, if you know him at all, you came expecting to find him so."

"There are some things that are similar. A seat of power is held." Parizad's hand flips upside down as he gestures idly, with tones just as idle and conversational, and that weird accent a little less pronounced, "Its holder dies. It passes to the heir." He leaves out /all/ the complicating bits of course and it's completely unhelpful. And his teeth flash, as he downs the remainder of his cup, setting it flat upon the table.

"And then you have those that upset the order of things. And take what is not theirs. What would you do to this in Westeros, hmm?" He asks Veronica, straight-out. "I think you know enough now to have a good understanding of what I did."

As far as the mention of Maelys is concerned, his name is just tossed out there. "Maelys Targaryen is here. This is true. I have not seen him in years, however. And things were — different, then. But we were comrades. That much I believe has /not/ changed." He keeps creepy company.

What do the Westerosi do? Indeed. "You challenged him." Which obviously went well. "He will have poisoned your cousins against you, in your absence." She sips her wine once again, considering who Maelys Targaryen once might have been. "It's possible. Do you hope to gain the support of his family, through him?" She lifts her eyebrows, mildly. It doesn't sound as though she sees a great return on this investment.

"He had a very smart choice of champion. But also a very foolish one. Depends on how you look at it, really, but that can be said of a great many things, no?" There's a piece of cloth serving as a table-rag siting on the table that he absently twirls, between his fingers until it is twisted up like a braided piece of rope.

Parizad narrates this. "Yes yes. Tell me." He leans forward, "What is it that you /really/ do in this city? Because you sound like you spend way too much time at a court to /not/ be some kind of nobility?" His snicker is slow and drawn out, and clearly he is laughing at his own statement.

"I do not know. But he and I were of one nature and one purpose once, and I would like to see what he has made of himself here. Perhaps it will give me…inspiration. I know that I tired of the life I once led in the Company of the Black Hand, like the Second Sons before it. So I left. A few of my men wanted to join me." He gestures at Serdar, who has just hustled off to go to the privy. "So they did. I also aim to speak to the Martells. To mollify a few of the fears they no doubt harbor about me. I am not the same man I was."

"I am strictly ornamental, milord," says Veronica, dryly, a corner of her mouth lifting to place a dimply on her cheek. Of his changed nature, she seems to agree. "Clearly," she says, chuckling. "Fire changes anything it touches, doesn't it? It blows sand into glass, forges iron into steel… And some things, it simply reduces to ash." She tips her hand, spilling an imaginary handful onto the table, then flicks her fingers clean. "But I imagine you are steel, my lord. I do imagine you are steel."

Oh yes, talking about fire. Wait, Serdar is /back/ already? The man is clearly a man of many tricks, looking at the door again. Even he turns his head to Veronica though at the talk of fire.

To the 'ornamental' description, Parizad's consideration of the woman is sharp and focused. "Oh, Ornamental? Is that the sort of thing people say in this part of Westeros? Oh, this place." The gentle mockery in his tone is unmistakable. Still, with the talk of fire she has his rapt attention. He pours his empty flagon outward and joins in the pantomime, making a 'hammering' motion on the little area he pointed out.

"I am no lord at this time. I am merely a Captain without a company. And I do not know what the fire forged, Flower of Oldtown. I am still being shaped." He falls silent now, smiling slyly while his dark eyes twinkle with obvious amusement.

"Aren't we all?" says the Flower, dimples deep, bright blue eyes both hooded and alight. "Even those of us without the kiss of fire are shaped by time. Time and attrition. That's really all it takes to change the world." She leans in on her elbows again, a merry tilt of her head. "Fire's more expedient, I'll admit."

"And /that/, gracious Flower of Oldtown, is why we see many in One." This statement is cryptic, sure, but Parizad lays it out here plain as the ear can hear. And with that, he looks dismayed at his empty cup and sighs. As he is about to walk towards the bar, Serdar stops him.

"Captain. Remember our errand."

"Yes, well — I'm afraid our companion here had already loaned her men out to the red-haired one." The Dornishman finishes his sentence. "As it stands, you deprived yourself of an escort to help another. And this is such a dark, savage place that one needs protection, is it not?" There's obvious sarcasm in his voice. "My friend and I must be off. But as you have donated so much of your time to make passing ours more pleasant, would you prefer to be escorted somewhere on our way? We are headed towards the harbour but it is early still."

Veronica stands gracefully, smile lingering on her lips and still warm in her eyes. "As it happens, I'm staying here. While my house is being rennovated. So we both meet and part already at my destination." She offers a hand to the Dornishman. "It was a pleasure to meet you, son of House Uller, whatever you may be." She smiles at Serdar. "And you, Vigilant One."

It appears to make little difference to the Dornishman who has now risen to his feet, along with his man. He ignores the use of a title he may have issue with, but both men tap their arms to their chests. Maybe it's a Sellsword thing, maybe an Essosi thing. This is really hard to say.

"MMm. Well the, have a pleasant walk up the stairs. Enjoy this — place." He looks about, and that haughty grin flashes at the Reachwoman. "Keep your eyes open." With this curious conclusion, the two men make their way through the crowd towards the exit.


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