Under The Sun
Under the Sun
Summary: The Dornish Marches have only come to an end. Yael prepares to depart the Sunspear as Gael just returns.
Date: 12/03/14
Related: None

The late afternoon sun has set in and seeks to bake the palace with light and heat. Salt cuts the air as a refreshing wind sweeps in from the ocean the paints three of the views from the palace in never ending blue. Dark hair unbound and a gown of gold-hued silk that billows over her bronzed skin, Yael has found her way to an upper terrace where the view of it can be see over the walls of the Sunspear. The point of the spear itself casting a shadow over the city in its own mark of the hours like a great dial. A lute sits in her lap as she picks at it idly, a red-gold serpent coiling over her ankle to the tune. "If you seek a sailors wife," she lilts softly in Myrish.

Myrish, is not a language the owner of another shadow knows. It's very opposite of the languages he can speak. Still the shadow's owner has been caught by the soft words, and the flash of skin-though truly skin and women here in Dorne is not entirely uncommon. Dressed in silk robes off black with accents in red, Gael Allyrion does not look out of place for a noble of this land. His head is uncovered, though were he out in the heat of the day, it would be different. A few hushed steps as boots skim along stone and the man comes further out.

"What is that?" Gael asks, picking a time to interrupt the lady. "That you are singing?"

The filligreed gold that makes of heavy earrings, dropping with azure beads, rattles and catches the sunlight as she turns her head. The earrings brushing her neck and dark hair, head turning to regard him in an elegant sqeep. Yael's dark eyes fix upon Gael with interest, mouth still freshly healing from her scarred upper lip. The skin puckers as she speaks. "I know you, Gael of Allyrion is it not?" The snake on her bare ankle winds upward as she speaks, dipping under her skirts. "Just a song of the Free Cities."

Impressed? Why yes, the knight is given the bemused look that comes across his features, as arms cross at his chest. Eyes easily roam in the manner that is normal for a man, and then move to her lips and settling there. "So you do-And you would be correct, I am he." The movement catches his attention again and there both brows raise as the snake disappears, before he is looking back up. "You are the Manwoody, are you not? Your name, feels familiar to my tongue, though-I know we've not spoken. Not truly spoken." And so his hand raises up from it's arm perch to pick at his chin. "You are Yael, yes?"

She looks amused. Her own dark eyes roam over Gael just as easily as his roam over her, without an ounce of shyness of apology — although she marks finger things than flesh alone, the cut of his silks and the markings of his house and the edge of his blade. "The whispers of court," Yael allows smoothly, voice soft with a bit of a rasp. "We have not properly. I am Yael." She smiles as he guesses rightly, fresh scar bowing her lip tellingly. It will remain after it has fully healed. She does not seem scared of the snake in her skirts, fingers idly picking at her lute as they speak. "Do you seek the breeze?"

Both have sized one another up for whatever dance may be on their minds-both have inspected and now the slow rise begins. It's no thrumming or song. Just a dance people do when they meet. There are no moves, nor song and time to keep. It is a natural thing, this dance.

Gale chuckles ever so slightly. "The whispers of court can be deceiving." His grin gives way to teeth before he is turning to face her better. "No, we have not. I should apologize. I do try to meet beauty head on." Compliment given before he is looking back to the lute, and now he moves in stead of just standing by the awning to find a seat close by. "I do. It can be sticky and hot within the walls, despite how it was designed to keep everyone somewhat cool."

"Can they?" Yael sounds amused at the thought, head tipping to follow Gael as he repositions hiself. "I find them to be quite illuminating, myself. Seek not of yourself but hear the thoughts of others." The nip of her fingers on strings slows, almost offering a background to their dance when he finds himself a seat close by. "I imagine that would be the best way to know if it receives you well or turns away," she suggests of his strategy of meeting beauty head on. "The sun is all powerful."

"They can, for instance they could have said that I slept with a man's wife. I assure you, I've not slept with a man's wife lately. They could say I am overly fond of my drink. I can say that I enjoy as much as any normal man. No more." Gael rattles off before he is looking back towards the woman, and there he tilts his head ever so slightly. "And what thoughts do you hear?" He teases before he is looking up to the clear sapphire sky.

"So it is." the knight quips. "That is why the Martells have speared it."

"They could hear you returned from the marches recently." This is Yael's first observation. "They could also hear that you served well." She smiles pleasantly, picking out a fragment of lullaby of border-origin. It is less a tease than truth, followed by a small note of music to draw her serpant back from where it has curled up under her skirts. "It is why they will hold it." Power to beget power.

Gael leans in there, as if sharing a secret. "I painted both my spear and sword red with the blood of Westerosi invaders. I hung cowards and killed heroes. But, that would be my own brag." he replies before he is leaning back again, eyes ever moving to the music. "He, who controls the sun, controls Dorne, it is said." Repeated from old rote, and there he is looking back to Yael, ever thoughtful for a moment. "Those things you heard were correct. And for it, I've been rewarded to return here."

Yael laughs at his secrets, turning her legs so they cross neatly at the ankle and stalling her music to collect her snake around a slim maiden's wrist. "I suppose that is to be impressive," she challenges, not looking nearly so impressed as a maiden ought. All men tell the same stories. "It is said." Repeated and respected for a reason. Squinting, she looks up at the sun till there are stars in her eyes and she can see it no more. Her red-gold serpant circling her wrist like an expensive bracelet. "May your reward suit your needs then, Ser Gael. Are they as you wish yet?"

"Can I say." Gael starts with a point to the snake that has now shown itself back out before he is looking back up. "That, that is impressive?" And there he raises a brow. "How do you do that? I have found snakes to be dangerous things. Specially adders, which can kill your horse while it grazes." Eyes watch the woman and serpent before he is looking back to her. "Is it?" His own tales gets a chuff of laughter. "I did what any man does. And they call me the Red hand." A shrug there. "I believe I did what was required of me to keep invaders from our lands and flesh." As to his reward there he shrugs. "I am happy to be loved and seen as boon by the Prince. But, I do not think that counts as reward as much as what is the normal consequence for loyalty."

"That which?" There is a moment of confusion before Yael realizes he is gesturning to the snake winding its way along her wrist. "They do not often strike if they are not startled, even the most venemous can be soothed," her voice lowers to a cook, a finger stroking gently down the bend in the snake. "Unlike people" She seems perfectly at ease with the creature. "Ah, I see." Her gaze flits towards his hand, from right to left, with an edge of a smile. They do not seem to be read. "Our land and our Prince thanks you."

"Your snake." He replies with an amused look on his features. Gael watches carefully as the woman strokes along the serpent's neck before he is nodding. "I have heard, but I have never witnessed it in my life." Admitted there before he shifts in order to edge closer to the woman. His hand out carefully-though knowing his own luck he will end up bitten and scarred, if not dead from some poison. "Thanks is reward enough for me." Gael says softly. "I am a simple man with mostly simple wants." And there he looks up. "What do you want, Yael?"

Leaving her lute askew on the bench with the callousness of nobility, no doubt some maid will fetch it if she forgets, Yael rises in a fluid pool of skirts. It takes only two steps to bridge the distance between their benches, an amused quirk to her damaged mouth. "Go," she whispers to the snake in Myrish, angling her hand so it slithers onto Gael's instead. It will not bite him this time. The cool scales sliding over his palm as delicately as silk over skin, strength outlining ever line. "A man with a title such as 'The Red Hand' is simple?" There is challenge and a touch of disblief to her words. "I am not a simple woman. I will think on it. Perhaps someday you'll hear of it. Although likely I will not get to tell you."

"I have simple wants, that does not mean the rest of me is not complex." Gael offers back softly, as he seems to be utterly marveled by the snake that has wrapped about his palm. And there he turns his hand as the snake dictates, ever careful with the creature before he holds his hand back out to the woman, so that it can return to it's owner and charmer. A slight bit of a wink is given before he nods. "When I do, I will see if I can help you achieve that happiness." And he rises up, letting the breeze catch his robe.

"A challenging proposition, a complicated man with simple wants." Dark brows rise to a point, chin dipping as Yael regards Gael briefly. She is more occupied with keeping an eye on her snake, cooing to it softly as offers it back to her. "With me, my love." It leaves a sensation of motion of his skin, coiling delicarely back up her arm and around. Such a charmer. She doesn't mean Gael either. Smirking slightly, she looks up at Gael as he rises to stand tall and proudly. The distance in height seems not to be so great as she angles her chin nobly. "Even more promising. Till then, Ser Allyrion." Catching his hand, she gives it a light squeeze before she seeks to slide from the terrace leaving only the whispers of silk and hiss of a snake.

Fingers are gripped and squeeze is returned, though he has no further parting words to his condition. Instead he smirks, and allows for a flourish of hand and arm as he bows in he wake. "Till then, Lady of Manwoody." or whichever house she is with these days. His slide to hips as she leaves with her whispers of silk. A glance is given the lute, to which he crosses over to pick up. And then he sits back down, and plucks quietly to himself.

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