(121-05-23) Dornish Darts
Dornish Darts
Summary: Arrick challenges Alaeyna to a game of knife tossing, and loses (naturally).
Date: 23 May 2014
Related: None

Back Lounge - Acacia and Leopard Hall
This private lounge is intimate. It is furnished much like the main room — low couches, low tables, floor pillows, sheepskins and plush carpets. In here, everything is deep purple and gold, with little suns embroidered into the fabrics. The walls are hung with fabrics woven in the old Rhoynish style, making the room seem tent-like while muffling the voices so they cannot carry through the walls.

The raucous and rowdy crowd of Dornishmen and women has only slightly thinned out as the night has wore on. Some have left because they were drunk, some have left because they were thrown out and others have left because they were ready to taste the sweet Dornish fruit that is readily available, only more privately.

To some however, the night is still young and it seems Ser Arrick Gargalen is on a bit of a winning streak. He won at blooddaggers earlier in the night, he won at the random games of some far off place in middle of his night and now it seems he's taken to playing drinking games in the back lounge, which although he's not drunk yet, he's well on his way. A good ending to a good night!

"There you are," Alaeyna says as she comes upon Arrick in the back lounge of the hall, having evidently been searching him out as the night wore on. "Are you celebrating victory, or mourning your losses to that silver-tongued Sand snake?" She's neither drunk enough to have been kicked out or well enough accompanied to have been drawn upstairs, counting her as one of the lingering patrons still seeking their entertainment downstairs.

As the Lady of Skyreach arrives, the Gargalen lights up and he says while jumping up from his seat, "Lady Alaeyna! It's surprising to still see you about!" Arrick peers about, expecting some sort of escort for the famed temptress. Not seeing one he goes deadly serious as he asks, "Did you come looking for blood?" Arrick motions over to the dulled daggers that have found their into the smaller lounge and he says, "I'm on a bit of a winning streak, that snake could not best me, even in his own games!" Arrick slowly heads towards the dagger and he offers as he picks one from its resting place, "We could go, first blood.. If you do not fear these skills." Arrick waves the dagger about, pretending to be some sort of Braavosi swordsman.

"The better for him to lighten your pockets when next you meet him at the gambling table, nay?" Alaeyna counters warily in reply to Arrick's overabundance of confidence where his recent opponent is concerned. But she's lured in with the promise of knives and blood, dangling a cup of strongwine as she stalks her way through the lounge to Arrick's side. Sensing that he seeks out any sign of an entourage, she tells him, "My darling Alia is about, but I've lost track of her." All his waving of daggers prompts an arch of an eyebrow, and she asks him, "Are you sure you'd like to have a game of daggers? Don't you recall the tantrum you threw when I bested you last time?"

Where Alaeyna goes, Alia follows, albeit at a distance just this very moment. The little Sand woman, garbed in silks wound about her somewhat toga-style and barefoot, makes up for the simplicity of her clothing with the wend of golden chains and large, indulgent emerald cabochons. She has a glass of the establishment's fine Dornish vintage in hand, hovering ten or so paces away as she engages a young girl in less-than-polite conversation.

Arrick lets the dagger fall to his side and says in response to past events, "This tantrum you speak of was because you called me into a game you knew you'd win!" Arrick goes back to twirling the blade and with a bit of confidence in his voice he says, "While I'd hate to see your soft features taken from you.." Arrick stops his twirling act and presses the dulled knife into his palm, saying without a hint of pain, "These blades are dulled for just this game. First to land a blow that cuts the skin. No face or neck." Arrick traces his neck and face with the dagger and then proceeds to pull his silks down to his waist, exposing his hardened chest and abs, most Dornish woman's idea of a delightful view. "I'll give you a bigger target as I'm not the type to target such valuables." Arrick motions to the Fowler woman's chest and then backpedals, dagger at the ready.

The perpetual cock of her eyebrow should lend some hint at what Alaeyna makes of Arrick's revisionist history, but she says nothing to contradict him, instead letting herself be drawn into the game he proposes. She downs what's left of her wine and discards the cup, taking the blunted daggers into each of her hands. "How can I resist?" she asks, raking him head to toe with her discerning gaze when he bares his chest to her and any other onlookers in the room. "Ladies first?" She claims privilege.

Ultimately, Alia embraces the girl she's been talking to, curling bare arms about her and pressing a kiss to her cheek. It's the Rhoynish language they speak, one bidding the other farewell and vice versa as they each go their separate ways. Perhaps it's that broad Dornish chest bared that draws her over, but more likely the flash of dark fury that is her lover and best friend; the bastard-born woman starts to move through the room, side-stepping and handling gently aside those who mean to stay her. "Ladies first, always," she drawls in her own special way, thick and husky as she eyes the two, raising her cup.

Arrick nods towards the crowd that seems to be against him and he says rather sarcastically, "Ladies first of course!" The Dornish knight fakes a swoon and then heads to the wall, which has long been turned into a wall of execution in this game. He stands still and turns his head, hoping for Alaeyna's worst but seriously expecting her best.

Alaeyna turns away from Arrick at the press of her lady love's warm body at her side, turning on her toes and engaging Alia in a hungry, open-mouthed kiss, her blades still in hand. She lingers at it long enough that the crowd Arrick has drawn turn away from him, too, the better to spectate the passion shared between the pair of paramours. The Lady Fowler parts from the kiss at length, turning back to the wall and adjusting her stance, pausing just a heartbeat before flinging both daggers toward the wall in twinned arcs that travel clearcut paths toward the half-naked knight.

Alia claws at Alaeyna equally hungry, twining her fingers in her sweet love's hair to prolong the moment. A little breathless afterward, she glances after the thrown knives with a short, but delighted, gasp. As the knives sail, she reaches limply after her lover, hands hanging in the air.

Arrick closed his eyes just before the first blade was thrown and it slices into the wall just above his forearm, opening a small cut. The knight then grunts loudly as ANOTHER knife slices his side open, sending droplets of blood down into the lowered silks. The Gargalen opens his eyes, which have turned to a brown fury as he moves away from the wall. Arrick looks to almost wish to tackle the woman who threw two blades instead of one. He grumbles as he stops short however, not wishing to throw the same tantrum as before, "You fucking like to play games milady.. I'll concede this round…" Arrick shows the slice out of his arm to all those present and then he turns to show his ribcage, equally sliced open. Arrick grinds his teeth for a few moments as he ponders if he's going to get the better of this evil woman…

Catching Alia's hand in the aftermath of her throw, Alaeyna watches with depraved glee as her blades throw true, taking first blood as effortlessly as she warned him she would. Between the furious stare that gets fixed on her when the knight throws open his eyes and his begrudging words, she offers him a rich, hearty laugh, incredulity in her tone when she counters, "Concede? Ser, what you ought do is capitulate. We might have a dozen rounds, but I'd best you every time." Her bravado could match that of most of Dorne's finest knights, maybe a few of them put together, even, and she falters not in making such a brazen claim in front of their spectators. Another kiss gets laid on Alia before she tears away to take her turn at the wall.

Alia laughs, low and warm, as each blade finds it's mark. She tangles in close to her lover, bestowing the most sympathetic of looks on the Gargalen knight. "Oh, but Ser Arrick," she coos, letting Alaeyna go only after their last brief kiss. "Games are for fun, yes? Come, let me see that while you throw, mm?"

Arrick takes up another dagger to go along with the one he's held since the game came about. As Alaeyna heads down to the wall, Ser Arrick's glare grows darker with each swing of her hips. As she sets herself in the position of execution the Gargalen lets his eyes turn briefly to Alia, who looks over his cuts for a moment. Arrick needs a pair of deep cuts to carry this game any further or capitulation is at the top of the menu. As Alia steps aside, the knight twirls the knife for but a moment before sending one and then two down towards the woman in quick succession. He's out for blood and maybe a little more…

Standing against the wall with feet firmly planted, Alaeyna looks more like she's having her portrait taken than awaiting Arrick's anger-fueled throw, the stare she fixes on him a defiant one, her chin tilted up in the air so that she looks down her nose at him. With her arms flung out at her sides, palms flat at the wall, she doesn't so much as blink when the blades come hurtling towards her, but there is a gasp among the spectators as the first knife notches in the wall a hairsbreadth from the curve of her shoulder, kissing her flesh but not marking it. The other blade, though, buries itself in a swath of silk near the swell of her chest, puncturing the fine cloth so thoroughly as to cut a clean slice through it. What's left of the material falls away, baring one of her breasts. But there's no blood drawn.

Were Alia an artist, she would most certainly draw it; her lover, sprawled out so picturesque against the wall. Instead, bereft of such skills and the tools to exact them, she simply sips at her wine and watches, having judged Arrick's own wounds as mild enough. Another laugh escapes her, as silk slides to reveal flesh, and it is with a warm joviality that she claps a hand upon the Gargalen's shoulder to congratulate him. "Well thrown, mm?"

Arrick tilts his head and grumbles a moment and then exhales loudly as the silk falls away, doing just as he hoped it would. The Gargalen wasn't going for blood this go, as in his opinion he already lost. No, this was more about extracting his own pound of flesh from the evil Fowler woman who has bested him on this night and likely will do so many nights in the future. Turning to Alaeyna's paramour the knight lets out a bit of disappointment, "Ahh, I didn't manage to draw blood, just a single tit."

"When was the last time your eyes had chance to feast upon one, Ser Arrick?" Alaeyna taunts him from the wall, making no effort to cover what he has exposed in the wake of his shot. This time, rather than pry loose the blades embedded behind her, she palms one from the sheath she wears at her thigh, crossing the floor so that she stands just before Arrick. "What say we make the game a little more fun? Real knives. Real blood. Take your place, unless you've cause for second thoughts." She casts a glance over her shoulder, to the wall where she'd just been stationed, a strip of silk dangling from it where the dagger still tacks it up.

"A tit in the hand is worth more…" Alia cants her head, alluding to some vulgar joke with a smirk as Alaeyna retreats from the wall. She sips again at her wine, swallowing words and opening her arm for an embrace.

Arrick takes the challenge in stride and says simply over the laughs and jeers of those present, "What the fuck do you think? I prefer real blood!" Arrick moves away from Alia and brushes past the exposed woman, feigning a grab his fair share but stopping short, obviously wanting to keep his hand just where it is. Two hands for grabbing tits is definitely worth more than one. The knight comes to the wall of execution and pulls the colorful silk from the embedded dagger, waving it about as if he has taken up ribbon dancing. The knight then closes his eyes and calls out rather playfully, "Lets see if you're as good two times in one night as you think you are!"

Once Arrick stalks past her, making the wise decision to stay his hand rather than risk losing it, Alaeyna falls into Alia's arms for a squeeze. She's still entwined with her paramour when she casts back in the knight's direction, "You need only ask my beloved beauty to find out how many rounds I can go in a night." The Fury of Skyreach is positively enjoying herself and their little game, the wicked delight she takes in enflaming the Desert Fox reflected in her smile, her swagger and her speech. Turning to face her mark, what's left of her silk dress threatening to spill off her shoulder and reveal the other breast, she cocks her knife and lets it sail, flinging it with a graceful flick of her wrist in one singular direction; Arrick's meaty thigh.

Alia's laugh bubbles a third - or is fourth, now? - time. She pulls her lover close, fashioning a replacement gown over her bare breast with her hand, moving with her as she throws again. "Oh," murmurs the Sand, anticipating pain in the resulting slice of blade.

WHIFFFF…THUNK… Arrick feels a hot sensation on his leg and it's definitely not the good kind. With a quick look down he spies the dagger lodged into his left leg. There's a moment for a wince and then without thinking the Gargalen reaches for the small hilt and pulls the sharpened blade, letting blood begin to pool inside his silken pants. The knight's eyes go up to the woman of single titdom and he says sarcastically, "Fine throw milady… At least it's my leg and not my cock…" Arrick drops the bloodied dagger to the floor and then uses the piece of silk he pulled from the wall to pressure the wound. The knight waves off a helping hand, saying through a grimace, "She didn't put her back into that throw thankfully…" Arrick limps forth and offers, "You've won this round I think, a hole in my leg for a moment's view of a darkly-tipped mountain of Skyreach." Arrick limps to an emptied couch nearby and he rips a piece of cloth from the top of a low table and proceeds to mop the blood dripping down his leg. What a game! He looks up from the couch and grunts out, "Well…Good showing…"

From Alia's side, Alaeyna watches with dark, depraved delight as Arrick rips her knife out of his thigh, a wound threatened on him at least a half dozen times and finally made good on. Her victory tastes sweet, and it spawns a smile that spreads wide upon her face, unwavering as she retorts, "Yes, darling, but of the two, your leg's the only one that gets much use." Her tone is saccharine, but though she intends little more than to provoke, she lets him coast off toward the couch to lick his wounds without further badgering or crowing over her win. Well, maybe a little crowing, and within the group that had been watching them, some coin changes hands, random bets having been made between the spectators as to who would emerge the victor from the fray. Giving Alia's earlobe a nibble, she whispers something to her lover.
You whisper, "What's your whim, wildcat?" to Alia.

Alia sticks close to her paramour, resting her cheek against Alaeyna's shoulder as she watches Arrick find repose. "Are you hurt?" She queries more audibly, to carry across from where she's wound about the Fowler woman, lifting up onto her toes to return the whispered nothings.
Alia whispers: Let us sit, darling, and talk awhile of important things?

Arrick leans back on the couch he limped to and rolls up his bloodied pant leg. Yeah he's still shirtless, no it doesn't really matter at this point, and no he's not upset there's a hole in his leg, he's more upset that his winning streak has ended! Of all the people to lose to tonight, he finally was bested by an opponent who is likely to bring it up until the sun sets on her final day. Fuck. "Well, come over here and gloat, there's no sense in letting me sit here and bleed and not hear more about your great victory." Arrick snarls down at his leg which has continued to bleed but it doesn't seem to be serious. He says to Alia, "I'm fine, I told you, she didn't put her back into that throw, otherwise I might be hopping out of here on one foot." Arrick manages a grin at that, for a second anyways, as he props his leg on the table before him.

Assenting to both the whispered words and the ones bellowed at her by Arrick, Alaeyna guides Alia to the sofa, hand in hand, that they might both join the knight where he recuperates. She lets Alia have the spot closest his wounded side, the better to tend to the wound she's inflicted, and then she takes his other one, because how better to chase out of mind the shame of defeat than finding yourself sandwiched between two beautiful women? "So you agree it was a great victory," Alaeyna teases him, filling three cups with wine and distributing them before settling in at his side, offering him a shameless second round of gazing upon her half-naked chest, should it be conducive to his recovery.

Despite the protests, it is with eager eyes and hands that Alia seeks to survey the wound after Alaeyna leads her over, settling on one side on him on the couch to impose. "Yes," she agrees with his assessment as her hands press either side of the wound, as much to humour him as it is true: "It's just a scratch. You are lucky, Arrick," she continues to drawl, voice tending wry as her eyes slide sidelong to Lady Fowler, amused. "I think you will survive, no? To boast another day."

As there are sights to be seen, the fact of the matter is these sights ARE conducive to recovery of the mind, not so good for the increased blood flow.. Arrick nods to the Fowler woman and lets out a few words rather unhappily, "Maybe the greatest victory I've ever witnessed milady. I cannot be ashamed of being the vanquished when the battle was won due to such superior skill. Your skills run as high as that tit, daggers always pointed forward." Arrick bristles a bit as he offers the cloth to Alia with a whispered, "I'm not sure how to get it to stop bleeding though, I was only doing what I've seen done…"

Alaeyna rests an elbow on Arrick's shoulder, leaning against him as she drinks her wine, having worked up something of a thirst in the course of their competition. She watches Alia assess the wound, pleased to hear it declared a clean one that will easily mend, and then she turns her gaze on the knight at her side to hear him deem her victory the greatest he's ever witnessed. "Thank you, darling," she tells him, pleased by his flattery. "My gorgeous girl will see you righted so that we might soon square off once more. I doubt I shall ever tire of vanquishing you." Her smile is another teasing one, but at length she turns back to Alia and asks, "What was it we ought speak of?"

And they spoke into the night, and no one else was stabbed, despite a few close calls…

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