LOCATION: The Great Hall
TAGS:
Isla Draellix-Kobitana
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Aside from the servers circulating the Great Hall, with whom he exchanged his emptied glass for a fresh one, and aside from a gaggle of giggling young maidens viewing the trees with their ever-suffering dates and escorts - altogether offspring of some of the elites that attended the festival - Vyrien was left undisturbed in his own viewing of the conifers until his name was called, rising over the din of conversation and music, causing him to turn to the source of it despite his familiar with its particular inflections and tones. He didn’t need to look to know to whom the voice belonged, but drawn to the vision of her, was he.
“Countess Draellix,” he replied in kind, taking a draw from the second glass of the same liquid as before, and freezing, glass to mouth for a collection of seconds upon her welcome invasion of his space, to plant a soft peck. His eyes half-closed at the feeling of the act, but they were soon fully open; he swallowed, thereafter lowering the glass and peering at its contents - was it the drink making him warm, or…? - while she admired his look, her comments earning her one of his infrequent smiles, a mild upturn of the corners of the mouth,
“I might have subtly warned the clowns you have at the door,” he admitted; they were good, responsible men, but with his being a known entity, and all the time he spent around the Countess at her invitation, well…
“without uttering a single word, or laying a single finger.”
They had challenged him once weeks prior, out of curiosity and machismo, and learned a valuable lesson in the attempt. He hadn’t drawn his sword then, as much as he hadn’t drawn it on them today… only difference being that it stayed affixed to his hip, this time. They remembered the bruises, he was certain.
"So? How do you like my dress? It’s the one I told you about; I had it specially made."
He turned to her, the glass in his hand lowering further, and stepped back half-way to get a more complete look, noticing in particular the plunging neckline and golden embroidery, and how the dominant colour complimented her eyes. A queen, short of a crown. He obscured any expression his mouth might have had with another sip before speaking his judgment, but his eyes as he took her in said enough.
It was…
“Breathtaking,” …just as it was from a distance, but up close,
“You are...” his words became interrupted by her hand on his arm; she closed the space again, face to face, making him aware of her scent as the fleeting kiss to his cheek hadn’t allowed for, her scandalous words slipping in for his ears alone:
"I took your suggestion you know, about how not to let my underwear ruin the lines of my dress."
He blinked rapidly and turned his head slightly, softly clearing his throat as his heart picked up the pace by a small measure at the blatant implication. Perhaps it
wasn't the drink, and...
breathtaking? That might have been an understatement. His response to her request for his opinion had, after all, resulted in his providing
two options.
I... would like to report a murder. Of my sanity.
Here lies Lord Paskal, only
mildly mortified to death and otherwise plenty intrigued as to which option she went with as he tossed the remainder of his drink back in one gulp, dispensing of the empty glass on a passing tray when it became clear that she had every intention of making him dance. He let himself be lead onto the dance floor by the look in her eyes that beckoned his feet to move… slowly, deliberately, intentionally, his unrepentant silver gaze fixed on the enchanting yet bewitching woman before him.
“Does my lady, the Countess, desire to give her staff more to gossip about…”
Then it was him closing the distance, taking her hand, pulling her close. They had been just as close, in testing the strength, cunning, and skill of one another but everything about
this was
different. His voice dropped in volume, but increased in weight and intensity.
“...or is Isla the woman using a crowbar to pry me wide open?”