Party Log
Who: EVERYONE
When: Thursday, November 3rd, 8 p.m. - midnight
Where: The Manor of the Twins
Format: Action to start, then whatever you feel like!
What: Halloween Party.
Warnings: TBA? Generally, none.
NOTE: Make sure you read the OOC information here if your character had a run-in with the Horseman! (Or if you wanted them to.)
( It was a graveyard smash. )
When: Thursday, November 3rd, 8 p.m. - midnight
Where: The Manor of the Twins
Format: Action to start, then whatever you feel like!
What: Halloween Party.
Warnings: TBA? Generally, none.
NOTE: Make sure you read the OOC information here if your character had a run-in with the Horseman! (Or if you wanted them to.)
( It was a graveyard smash. )
Her hair a spill of flame as well - held in check by clusters of crimson leaves - a walking Heart Tree.
She's stopped to look out and up and over the rail, her features echoing that of the shadowsilk etched at her back. Just now the light suggests a frown in those skirts. Who's to say if it's mirrored - her back is turned.
Oh, look. A sparrow is chilling on the rail a few feet away, unnoticed. Tilting its derpy little head.]
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[Oh, right, something about mingling and learning about this land and... well whatever it was, it sounded more interesting than contemplating the ceiling anyway. He's pretty sure there was a time, long ago, when he knew what to do with his time aside from sit, but enough time in a cell can rob one of direction.]
[And so he finds himself wandering away from the cacophany of the party and toward a quiet area where... ah. What's this?]
Ah, the little Lady Stark.
Or is that Lannister? Or Stone? Or Stark again? You know... I really can't quite keep track.
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[It's out of her mouth before she can stay her tongue - but she's the good sense not to look stunned or sorry in the least. He is the last person she expected to see here. Here, there everywhere a Lannister, and the least welcome one at the moment.]
It's Stark, ...ser.
[What it is is stiff. And when she steps away from the edge of the balcony just a bit? Not a coincidence.]
Why must you keep track at all?
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Stark, is it? There aren't many girls in the Seven Kingdoms - or from them - who would give up a chance to be wed into the illustrious first family of Casterly Rock.
In any case, of course I would keep track. It's always important to know whom I should and should not call "good sister."
[He's drinking. A little. And to demonstrate this, he takes a sip and tries not to notice her moving away from the edge.]
[Trying, and failing. He pauses for a moment.]
If wanted you dead, girl, I'd have gutted you before I started to speak. As it happens, I am quite gifted at killing.
Though perhaps not when it most matters.
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I am not your sister!
[Thank the gods. It's true many times over and in several different ways and it's a thing she's proud of, because as far as she's concerned, after Joff, Cersei's the worst of the lot. She deadens her voice - rote and drone and empty is what comes out.]
We are no longer wed, my lord. Your brother has released me from my vows as I have him. In front of whatever gods listen in Anatole. And they do listen.
[She's caught in her movements - betrayed by her fear and shamed by it. Shame heats beneath her breast, up and into her cheeks - steals sense along the way and blossoms into quick anger.]
Don't you dare. Don't you dare make a jape of what you did to Bran! You are cruel and terrible and have no shred of honor!
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Do you think Tyrion is truly able to release you from vows he's never heard, himself? A theological question, to be sure, and one our own world never had the need to consider. It's quite the shame we lack for a septon to confirm your hopes for freedom.
And as for those gods... [He laughs softly, shakes his head.] ...if they're listening to your cries so closely, then why was your father's head lopped off and you left in the hands of Cersei's ill-tempered boy? Why is are your brother and mother rotting in a riverbed?
Why didn't they hide you from me?
[Quietly, he sips his drink.]
There are no gods, girl. Or, if there are, they couldn't care less about you. No more than they care about me. Or anyone else.
But yes, I suppose that's true. I'm quite adept at being cruel, terrible and honorless, too. [One might say it runs in the blood.]
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[She stops, angry that she's even told him this much. All he'll do is likely turn it back upon her again. She'd do better to hold her tongue all together.
But his words are too much. Perhaps it's because her lady mother's not here, and there's no soothe to the hole that's still dark and raw and she clenches her hands into fists at her sides. Her words remain fairly civil, but clipped.]
You misheard what I said, ser. I do not speak of the gods of Westeros. I prayed to see my brothers, my sister and my father. Every day I prayed, and they came.
[She's turned her face away and into shadow, unwilling to let him see how horrified, now sickened she is. She knows little of the details of her mother's death, and now this image is burned there. Sure, he might be lying, but the damage is done for the moment.]
Why do you say such things? Do you mean to poison everything you touch?
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[He sips his drink again.]
But whatever your commitments are or aren't, they lie with another version of Tyrion altogether, so I suppose you may as well be considered free.
[He steps forward - toward the railing rather than Sansa herself, and leans against it, looking over.]
...no. That isn't my intention. But it seems to come so naturally to me.
[... a long pause. He glances at her.]
I'm glad for your family reunion, girl. Though I doubt it was the work of any god.
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Tyrion knew, didn't he? He'd asked her once, if she'd wanted to know what had happened to Robb and to her lady mother, she remembers this. But if he is a version that doesn't yet know of our marriage, perhaps he won't know what happened at all.
It comes naturally to her to turn on her heel, slowly and cautiously, silent at his last sentence, waiting for the barb that doesn't quite land. She'd expected him to say worse, but doesn't trust his gladness.
She does, however, trust his bluntness.]
If that is true, I---
[Am suddenly struck in the head by a sparrow that was aiming for her shoulder. What it's gotten instead is its feet in her hair, and a wing beating furiously at her cheek.]
Oh! No! I can't---
---ah! What is it?! What---
[HALP JAIME. YOU JERK.]
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[...definitely worth the effort to look.]
You seem to have attracted an admirer.
[...he takes a few seconds to chuckle before he stands upright and steps nearer, holding the bird gently as he tries to disentangle it from her hair.]
[...questionable success. And he can't quite get that wing to stop fluttering.]
A rather feisty admirer.
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But she turns from the rail, looking back over her shoulder, slightly unnerved. Is someone there? Because it feels as if...]
Who's there? Who is it?
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[Lying, a little, but she's unwilling to give up this space after having fled from it earlier. And turning fully around, eyeing the stranger warily. If there's any familiarity, it's lost on her right now.
She moves to back up, but can't really ...go anywhere.]
You seem to be made of shadows. It's a clever costume.
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She'd do well to remain wary, but danger does not lurk at every turn. She reminds herself of this as she offers a small smile, and a nod.]
Truly? Then you have an eye for composition. Tell me, is that what you cloak yourself as? Is the story behind your costume a shadow?
I set the jewels into my own dress. They are small, and little more than colored glass, but I am pleased.
[She's a little proud, though.]
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