Bebin

Bebin

The Basilisk
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View attachment 896It had only been near a year entire since they had ventured out to that accursed place. Near a year since he had lost his leg, and close to so much more.

One boot crunching in the snow. One false leg clumsy against the sink and slip of the powder. The rest of him, clumsy there with it. And how he hated feeling it.

"Syr Theros!" A familiar voice called out.

The Pursuant of Dusk turned to meet whom it belonged to. "Ah, Squire Arietta,"

The young woman smiled, as she affixed the bundle of firewood beneath her arm. "It's Syr now, actually,"

A crook of a smile cracked beneath the ebon bristles of the senior knight's mustache. "So it is, Syr til' Bandri, so it is," he offered her a bow, "Pardon my erring,"

A blush spread across the younger knight's face. Hand waving away the formal gesture. "Oh, no, Syr Theros, there is no," she stopped as the elder knight rose up. She blinked, and stepped back, heels close, spine stiff, as if they were at attention during drills.

"I am not so mangled from my misadventures that I cannot show a token of respect unto you, Syr til' Bandri," he said with a smile. Hobbled forward. "Now," nod toward the hustle and bustle that gathered and swirled all around them. "We've much work that needs doing, should the night's celebrations go well," took his breath, easy as he could. "Best be on with it then,"

A gout of shroudfire spewed up from a squire's hands. Their friend's pigtails kindled like a candle wick.

View attachment 897"Oh!" Arietta called out, logs dropped as she hurried over. "Chance, Illip!" her own fingers tracing lines of the shroud through the air as Illip screamed and Chance just watched wide eyed.

Bebin just sort of laughed. Carried on with his hobbling.
 
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Dormitories​



Sana, Dawnsworn, had never been the bravest or the brightest. Never stood the line against charging armies or made tactical breakthroughs like some of her peers. There were knights of battle, and those of study. Never quite fit her. Hers was the belief that all places should be left a bit better after you passed. Whether it was helping thatch roofs or mend fishermen nets as she learned some spicy new vocabulary she most definitely wouldn't use in polite company – hers was the pursuit of goodness. And she prided herself on a long and middling career of lukewarm success.

Years had amounted to more back problem and less darkness to her hair. As soon as the first streaks of white had appeared, she tried dying her hair...but it never quite turned out right. And since she was vain and mixing her own dyes, it often yielded uneven results. Instead she committed to bleaching her hair. So it now looked like cleaner city snow, or the small bits about the chimneys of the monastery. Never quite white, but even and close enough. Her mother had been one of those skunkhaired women who liked talking about salt and pepper – couldn't be her – she was prettier than that.

Today, she was in charge of decorating the dormitory ground floor. The squires working around her had found a bottle her own generation had squirreled away and forgot about. She no longer remembered the name, but as soon as it was uncorked, the smell brought back memories. How they'd all only sipped once and went some combination of red and pale. How they hid it in the floor, vowing to fish it back out when Lena finally got married. She no longer remembered whose idea it was – only that it was a good one. Funny, they really should've pressed that night into amber or three.

„You think this will help?“ Squire Wellingham...or was it Willingham... wasn't going to whisper.

„It could, it could.“ Another one she didn't fully recognize nodded sagely. She really should relearn their names. So many new faces. „Didn't they tell us some alcohols were banned?“

„Only beyond a certain proof. No one said what exactly...“ Willingham's eyes got misty as he sniffed at the bottleneck.

„Squire, Willingham – that one would most certainly be off limits.“ Sana popped behind his shoulder with a smile.

„Bellingham...Syr“ The brownhaired youth gave a start.

„Ah yes, Bellingham and...“ She squinted, feeling guilty. „...Won't you introduce me to your friend?“

„Reka, Syr.“ The taller blonde said in a voice that suggested they'd met before.

„Of course, of course!“ She nodded, enthusiastic. She hoped she would remember their names come next year. So many people to keep track of.

„Um...Syr, how do you know that one's too much?“ Reka looked over his shoulder before he asked. Bellingham drew in closer.

„I can't tell you the story of why they started banning flammables, but I can tell you a story...“ She looked at them hugged and hunched, conspiratorial. They reminded her of her own grandchildren. Hopefully these two had more sense.

That was all the confirmation she needed. She tugged at the strand around her neck. One of the nights she was lucky enough to amber. She wondered how much of the story she still remembered and how much she'd have to see again.

„So if...“ And she pulled the bottle out of Bellingham's arms and took a sip. „...It gives you lemonface or flunose.“ She coughed, as both manifested. „It's too much.“

The two nodded like it was obvious. She was once again aware why this was never more than a single sip for her. It was awful.

„Make sure to be mindful.“ She did her best grandmother voice...guess it was just voice now, ever since Joyce had the kid. She was far too young to be a granny. „Else your pursuit of flame becomes pursuit of blame.“ She nodded like it made all the sense in the world.

The two were quiet for a moment before looking at each other.

„That's it?“

„Sure is...“

The squires nodded like it was a great story and went back about their business, bottle left in her hands, as she shut it again.

Her thoughts drifted to the rest of that story as a smile crept up her face. Sure wasn't a thing she'd be telling nosy squires.
 
The bundles dug into the knight's shoulders as he walked, halfway to nowhere, if only in his mind. 'Uneven steps... weight on the heel, more oft than not.' Observations spoken aloud, answered by a fierce wind, cold as it was biting.

The oil lamp hooked through his belt fluttered and swayed as he pressed on, head low and eyes narrow. Flecks of snow decorated his beard and brow, though his mop had borne the brunt of winter's wrath. What I get for not wearing a hat, he huffed, breath misting in the frigid air.

The shaggy-haired mutt by his side barked as a light flared to life up ahead.

'Hush now, Bramble, or you'll give the game away.' A woof, quieter this time. Faramund smiled and stumbled on, on, on. Until shapes materialised in the swirling white. Familiar faces welcomed the syr with smiles and wrinkled brows. None of them could resist eyeing the packages he had brought with him, though -somewhat remarkably- they managed to keep their questioning to a minimum. Probably for the best.

A wiseman had once said never to look a gift horse in the mouth. Well. The same applied to gift Munds.

'Nearly got away from me.' Ghosting in from the side, Faramund swept round to take Bebin's flank. Swathed in furs and quilted cloth, the dawnling appeared more bear than man. Good thing I speak the Common tongue, he mused, otherwise some hunter might've chanced to put a bolt through me by now.

'Ole stump givin' you gyp again?' Faramund asked, watching as Bramble circled the would-be fire dancers, tail swishing excitedly. 'Hope you don't expect me t' carry you.'
 
The sweet little memory stones hung like fat berries from strands around wrists and necks. Such a feast had been prepared for this festival! Fresh stones were piled high, brimming with potential, clustered together glistening in boxes and bowls.

A mother's gentle hands cupped around her child's, as she instructed the little one on how to freeze a fragment into the amber.

The girl closed her eyes, and the amber stone began to glow. There, an image wavered in the bright, bold lines of a child's memory: a picture of a lazy tabby stretched out on the fireplace mantle, with a belly so white and fluffy and a cat's grin so blissful one could see the purr on its feline face.

Above the family, a raven craned down further on its tree branch and clicked its beak. Its eyes gleamed hungry.

Everywhere the raven turned its head, a shiny new thing caught its eye. But the moment Leyik plucked one of the morsels, there'd be a big fuss about it. Bad raven this and don't eat other people's memories that. So Leyik had to choose carefully. Dark wings fluttered to and fro, landing on thatched roof and tent ropes. The raven stood out like a shadow amongst a sea of lit lanterns, because that's what it was.

It preened and carreened, and sometimes hung upsidedown on a tent rope to get a better look at what little hearts people were wearing on their sleeves.
 
Single path of bootprints pressed clear in snow, pointed and parallel in track and trace, no return from the dartboard in the white, tread as if the man had filtrated into the frosting wind at pocked corkboard. Or had passed on and through it, as if the path did not care for being halted by a paltry thing as timber hoisted so. The boots were at the start of the path to the dartboard now, along with the rest. Cloak of redness reaching out as did arm, dart in hand, threading the needle in the air over and over, sharp point prickling at what snowflake did tumble about in dances.

The needle stilled. Frame stayed in calm poise. The left arm did freeze the motion. The right hand did cup the glass, and did sip the port he did. A uplift of wind, a hum of appreciation of that which was barrel raised. And pinprick of silvered dart did fly as is ejected by strict huff from blowing dart.

The wreathe of segmented places to strike was adorned with all the symbols of the season, somewhat maladaptive to their purpose. The pressure of the needle laying claim to the points by the rules of the game, did strike the light mysterious about the border. Three ruby lights did glow soft, set in the left candelabra. The right for the second player, another fresh addition to the original. The ruby port was supped again. Eye went to his carving, etched in darkened deep stained wood, animals mysterious and wicked turned caricature with imitation of the present season. A hum of satisfaction which rose into simple remark from him.

"Simple game really."

He stepped long into his well tread evidence of retrieving the dart. Boots placed in the mould of his gait, careful not to displace more than his need to be within the snow. The shed which had been adopted for such a game was half filled with lumber, tarped and ready for the fires to glow with.

"But, here's the test," Valborast said, taking a deeper pull of port, slow and almost rueful of eye towards the wreath so lodged with his dart. The dartboard adorned with places to glow a score, stones that flickered in the mouths of oddities that only Valborast knew of. Wooden winged things with smiling faces, saccharine and beguiling in their hiding of their features. White laced feathers, craws that did smile, eyes that did leer with mischief that came from hoping for a failing of said test.

Left hand went to needle, gentle and silent did it remove. Valborast made no sound, not with breath or movement of the cloak, his feet now as if tripwire were tense by the removal of the gamepiece. His foot raised fluid and without err in softness, boot planted in new path without disturbing ground. Another step, yet still snow undisturbed.

Valborast did walk back to his original position circuitous to his evident path to the board. His shadow moved more snow than he did disturb. As if oil on water, as if he had made the snow forgetful to notice, he returned to his starting position, and stepped into his starting path to the board.

Another sup.

"It's an old game. For youths where I came from. Walk Away Needle. Teaches you much. Now, well. It teaches how many sips of alcohol makes you inattentive to your traces."

He returned, relaxed, to thread the needle in the air. Chatted to his company idly.

"My high score is two bottles. I can't remember the number of lights, it's beside the point at my age. Finally figured out how my old kin made it. And how to make it more akin to carnival fun than, well..."

Another sup, needlepoint still threading. A shrug as he dropped the former description of the frightful childhood game apparatus.

"I promise this version just startles if it senses you walk away. Still serves the same purpose. We as kids were taught just so with this. Carved it myself, this board. Might make a tradition of making them this time of year. Something to do aside from," Valborast said, and swirled his glass, which finished his thought without saying it so simple.

He looked to his company. Explained further the rites of the ritual game as snow did wait to be disturbed. Second dart in hand for company to accept or deny, or keep talking as he would demonstrate and drink on.

The words said as he did as a youth. Far more calm now than then. Memorised since that time, remaining true to the traditions of tense childhood nights.

"To throw a needle begin like so. Good hearing, good eyes, return I'll go once I've thrown. Traces don't lie, but you won't know, else I'll be seen and known. Walk away needle. Care to startle? Take a dart and stick it right, walk away clean and you won't fright, if all has placed rightful in the night."

The needle was raised in nonchalant offering to his company, another swirl of port, clinging to the glass more than wine ever cared to.
 
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The cheerful light of winter flames flashed against bright smiles as Farren prepared the last of her dancing garb alongside her fellow fire dancers. She wore lined boots, worked and decorated leathers, and a heavy mantle of soft reindeer fur that warded against a cold that dragged the breath from her lungs in sharp clouded bursts as she chattered away with them. Her hair was partially braided up and away from her face, catching snowflakes in long wheaten tresses that cascaded down her back, woven with small amber stones that resembled the enchanted anamnesic amber that got handed out, placed so they would catch the light of her spinning around the festival fires, throwing lambent shadows against laughing crowds as they watched the stories the dancers told. Around her neck from a leather cord hung a decorated wolf mask, wooden carved cheeks streaked in bright red paint and glowing gold runes, presenting a guardian spirit to shepherd the good wishes of tired folk with the last of the year's light into its long slumber, eager to herald a fresh spring.

But here, in this place, so far from her people, the chill of hardships dealt blows against her spirit with an uncanny tenacity, and yet, when she looked around, she still found herself surrounded by so many that she loved and cherished, an enduring community that burrowed deep into Farren's heart and glowed with the warmth of a long burning coal, staying the biting winds of a loneliness that so often dogged her steps between moments of clarity.

Especially during a time like the Festival of Lights. Where the smell of fresh snow and hot mulled spiced wine quickened Farren's blood to the tempo of cheer that bounced with gaiety on every red-appled cheek and eager hand held as it dragged its partner to the next array of bright lights and enchanted garlands that chimed like silver bells when one kissed another beneath them.

In the glowing fervor, Farren's eyes caught the movement of a scraggly good-natured mongrel skirting the perimeter of her and the other fire dancers. A quick-pang of longing shot through her, the brief desire to leave this place and run the wild woods on four paws under the silent moons, carrying her song through the frigid night and shaking the frozen slumber of pine trees.

She kept watching the dog with a passing curiosity until it ambled to the side of a familiar broad-shouldered figure close by, who was hunkered under a burden of large burlap sacks. Grinning wolfishly, Farren clapped the shoulder of the dancer she had been passing time with before the ceremony and made her way to Faramund's side, shallow furrows tracking behind her in the snow.

The Dusker went to greet the Dawnling with a buoyant quipping charm, but paused in her stead when Bebin appeared beyond the mountain of Faramund's shoulder, her painted smile instead carrying her into a brief bow, "Syr Theros! How delightful it is to see you out and enjoying the festivities, were you here to watch us humble fire dancers perform the Lunar Annals?"

@Faramund @Bebin
 
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"The fuck does it look like?"

"I mean, it's... definitely... a bear," The knight tensed in reply, under a breath which was held, caged in the same urbane restraints that kept outward contempt and judgement from wreathing his features. Trothful and warm-blooded, he was.

Her demeanor was unlike the knight's -- she sat astride the beast she claimed as festive, boasted as tame. Her mirth was as frosty as the firs that walled the monastery. Her stare held merry at arm’s length, her rough-knuckled hand around holiday-bright throat. The only light cast from her a diffusion of gold fur and fat, from the old-world ursine that rolled shoulder at the Syr who cautiously barred their entrance to the famed Festival of Lights.

Jhima cracked a spit into the snowbank. Felt it leave her mouth like an ice pellet, chip against her teeth like a hard candy.

"A Miser's Cavebear. You should know. S'from your own neck of the woods," she drawled.

"I've never heard of no miser's bear," The man balked, breath clouding out from his flared nostrils. "An' you cleared this with a Captain?"

"Some Dawnfuck, yeah, sure," Jhimara lied, leaning impatiently into the ceremonial-looking pommel jutting from the bear's neck folds. “Anyhow, I done promised Peach here a peek at your fancy cheese bar, so if’n you wouldn’t mind… "

Her awkward straddle of the wide, sloping spine demanded a generous crush of her knee to set the beast forward. It rumbled in response, a deep, cavernous sound like an avalanche, reverberating through the courtyard. The knight yielded, as if he could do nothing but, while the bear’s long, arched claws scraped along the frozen pathways with the same efficiency as any squire with a crooked shovel.

And so Jhimara guided her holiday bear across the monastery grounds, the sway of its massive haunches setting bells jingling and garlands rustling. The accoutrements, cobbled together from a stable she had far too much access to, caught lantern and shroudlight; tin mule-bells twinkling on haybale twine, fragrant green cedar tucked into the shimmering pelt. Truly any curious head might turn and cast mouths agape, some in awe, some in disbelief, at the festival of its own making, with Jhimara riding at its center like a grand marshal of chaos.

She was definitely going to win this bet with that fuckin' Darthinian woman.
 
She had promised she would return home for solstice, but in truth, Monroe had been trying to find something of herself in many parts of this region of Ilica. It was a promise she told no one but those that granted her leave more than a year ago to aide those of the town no longer named Cathmore. Monroe was not one for goodbyes. No amount of ale was going to loosen her lips on what has been on her mind these past few months aimlessly walking every road that lead back to Astenvale, until she passed it altogether and prolonged an early return.

Her return, although, was dreaded.

Her hair, what used to be cut in a straight line above her shoulders for years, had grown to a length that brushed over her heart. The scowl was still the same, as was her heavy footed gait that walked a faster pace than many on a leisurely walk. Already, some brothers and sisters in-arms had spotted her, with a variation of loud surprise and humble welcoming back, all of which Syr Cathmore answered with a tight smile and a dip of her head.

But there was always the sort of people that tested her patience.

"I thought you didn't want me as your Dusker partner." The golden headed Syr snorted, that smile never too far on her face. Syr Saskia Kerraelas had been a right pest as a child and squire, but since becoming Sworn, had learned to reign it in. Not that Monroe would ever tell the Shadowknight, but she was one of the few she did not mind being around...

In fact, it was her positivity Monroe had hoped to see.

She did not.

"You knew my leave was temporary. I'm here now." Her ever present frown deepened as she stared at Saskia. "Unless you found better pairing?" And if she did, Monroe could understand. It took six squires under her wing before they stopped ushering more towards her. She rarely got along with many, but those that took time to understand her began to make things bearable. "You won't hurt my feelings if you have."
 
Saskia scrunched her face. "I don't know if it is that simple, Monroe. Maybe if you have somewhere to be, I can accompany you... but you barely been back for more than a day, why are you thinking about work?"

In an attempt to bring some merriment to the known Grumpster, Saskia waylaid someone of elvish descent that held a half empty tray of mead. Taking two mugs, she glided out of their way and grinned to her scowling friend. "This is the Festival of Lights, Monroe! Remember? The year before last? That was when you made all the plans for the Himbo Festival."

Stepping back towards the returned Knight of Dawn, she offered the second mead.

"Imagine what fun idea you will think up next with many drinks had this night, hm? I doubt you need to pay for many drinks, a lot of us have missed you this past year and would surely buy you a drink."

Monroe took the mead, sniffed it, and knew it smelled of home. "Oh, no. I don't get that drunk anymore."

The Shadowknight rolled her eyes and repeated the silly words with mocking. "You're going to want to be drunk if Roki finds you. That one has not forgotten the prize he won and alas, his artwork is missing your dear portrait! Bottoms up, and welcome home!" Knocking her wooden mug against Monroe's mead sloshed and droplets fell off the sides.
 

In the Farm Fields​


A huff from the dusker, who but ambled on through the snow. "You make that sound like some impossibility, rather than the common occurence it is, Syr Faramund," pulled his night blue cloak about himself, just the tighter. "Even with the, ole stump, as you have so charmingly put it," His turban of winter green cloth dipped with the motion of his head, as he checked the line of how the fabric fell across him.

"And I do not expect a thing from you, fool ass," he grinned. "I'll simply order it, if the needs must," eyed him with the deep brown of eyes that looked obsidian flecks in the cold of the falling winter night. "But, the leg," he huffed, swirled with grudge as he looked away and kept on crunching through the snow. "Or what's left of the damned thing," smiled some. "Doesn't seem to like the cold much," went on, with his half-jerk step.

"Syr Theros!"
​
"Syr Lothlindor," he said. Came to a stop, and gave his fellow dusker a bow in respect. "A vision of the night's spirit, as I would expect from one of the Dusk's Sanctum,"

"...were you here to watch us humble fire dancers perform the Lunar Annals?"
​
"Amongst the other revelries, yes," he said with a warmth that spread across his midnight bristles. "Fancy give us a tease of what's to come?"
 
He had been far from home for too long, and he knew it. Still in his youth but feeling like he had spent decades from the place that used to fill him with contentment. It had been a plague he had avoided with all his might. Still, it was the Festival of Lights, he should make an appearance, make an earnest effort.

With a heavy sigh, Alaric approached the warm glow of lights and the crowd within. He tousled his hair and then fixed the mess immediately. He had an image to maintain, even if it was surface level at best. Snow crunched underneath his leather boots, the sound of laughter and jeers meeting his cold reddened ears. He should have worn a hat he supposed. He meandered his way into the thickening crowd, his first stop not far ahead.

He could see whispered memories being shared all around him, and he too picked up a shiny piece of amber, studying it without really seeing it. A front in all honesty. He made the motions, clutching the amber in his palm. It remained dark and lifeless; no memory filled it as it should have. He had no fond memories to save, after all..but appearances were needed to be kept.

Soon after, he found himself with a warm ale pressed into his hands. He took a sip, letting it warm his bones. He greeted and smiled at those that recognized him, continuously slipping away before conversation could be had. Without really looking, and really it was his own fault, he found himself planted directly in the path of danger. None other than Saskia stood before him, unavoidably so. His body stiffened and he uttered the word before he could stop himself. "Fuck."
 
'Oh, aye, and with the brisk wind pinchin' me earholes closed, I'll be certain t' ignore said order,' he gruffed, gold-flecked eyes full of mirth as he turned them on the dusker. 'Well, least there's less o' you t' get cold,' replied the dawnling, the guilt of yesterdays receding, if but a day at a time. 'Silver linings, eh!'

Bramble woofed and rushed off ahead as the squires and syrs converged. Cuts of coloured cloth betrayed the ghostlier among their number. Any excuse to dress up, the dawnling smiled, though it was a short-lived thing, barely there.

Snow crumped and sifted underfoot as Farren came to join them.

A vision, yes, Faramund agreed with Bebin's assessment, waiting quietly as the two bandied words. 'Now, here I thought patience was a virtue all Pursuants extolled!' Grinning, the Mund hefted the heavy sacks thrown over his shoulders, gaze shifting to Farren, the mask secured about her neck. 'Reckon I can get me one o' those?' He asked, jutting his chin at the wolf's head. 'Fore the teasin' begins in earnest.'
 
Hector looked at the knight in red. His own cup full and warmed with hot apple drink, spiced with cinnamon and ginger, splashed with a touch of Arshakan rum. "Say what?" he managed to say through the warm bloom of blush that spread across his face.

Needle in one hand, steaming swirl of drink in the other. "We are, sneaking away from the board?" he eyed the piece of work, smile still curled at the corner of his mouth. "Suppose that's a game," he laughed. Fingered the needle betwixt forefinger and thumb. "Well then, lets have a go," he took another drink of his spiced cider, and narrowed his eyes at the target. "Am I... trying to hit anything?" he asked, unsure. as he wobbled.
 
The raven only got to rest its laurels atop the woodshed for a few seconds before the thunk of a dart into the wood startled it into a flurry of feathers.

It cawed in a circle as the red-robed man below stalked silently away. And it croak-cawed again with a hollow click in its throat as Hector laughed (the raven recognized the boy because Oskar was always going on him). A funny game afoot here, but no memories. The raven flew on.

--

Now, here was a soul brimming with ennui! The raven decided to risk a ground landing to spy on the not-so-fond reunion between the dark-haired Dusker and the golden-haired Dawnling. Hop-skips over the snow took it closer to the action. Words brimming with things not said, little glimpses of lives lived together and then pulled apart. Oh, how bittersweet, the image of the noble knight returning home!

But the raven got plenty of that at the monastery. Dawn and Dusk were always leaving and coming back different. The bird wanted something rarer to call the new year in with.

--

A poor lad who couldn't get the amber to glow. He thought there was nothing inside of him, at least nothing worth keeping. The raven felt strangely for him. It watched with full brown eyes, knowing the truth that everything had its value. Rocks, moss, plucked feathers, half-chewed chicken bones. All treasures, in their own time. Maybe the lad needed something to remind him of those good feelings that lived inside of everything.

The raven went to one of its secret places, which was a gnarled old tree with a nice hollow spot between the branches. It pecked around until it pulled out a thin bit of copper. A metal button, nice and scuffed, with a gorgeous notch chipped out of the edge.

Dark wings fluttered between lantern lights. The raven delivered its gift, and plop! went the button right into the man's mug of ale.
 
Hector said:
Hector looked at the knight in red. His own cup full and warmed with hot apple drink, spiced with cinnamon and ginger, splashed with a touch of Arshakan rum. "Say what?" he managed to say through the warm bloom of blush that spread across his face.

Needle in one hand, steaming swirl of drink in the other. "We are, sneaking away from the board?" he eyed the piece of work, smile still curled at the corner of his mouth. "Suppose that's a game," he laughed. Fingered the needle betwixt forefinger and thumb. "Well then, lets have a go," he took another drink of his spiced cider, and narrowed his eyes at the target. "Am I... trying to hit anything?" he asked, unsure. as he wobbled.
Click to expand...

Valborast's nails did tap against the glass, one two three. He looked to the steam rising from the warming drink, swirled his own as if mirroring the movement of Hector who did ask.

"Just try and as best you can you strike where you can this time, long rule games another," Valborast did say, a mixture of non-chalance and coaching to what practical joke was awaiting a failure in stealthing. Another swirl.

Taking wide step, turning to look at board direct, draperies of red slow rushing and pooling. A sip, a gesture with the glass at the board.

"Just one success is enough to start the need to be hushed, just...stick the board. Not the faces," Valborast said, voice affected by the warmth of port, and waved his left hand across himself, over the glass gripped, to issue a command to snow touched ground to form a divot.

"A line of safety to return," Valborast said almost sweetly, and did smile crooked on one side, shoulderblades settling into himself. He looked to the board, rounded with carved things he had whittled into existence, their shrieking he had remembered and reinvented as loyal as he was to the experience.

"If you manage to hit two, I'll throw coins at something in the festival for yourself," Valborast said, crooked smile remaining as he pressed thin lips to ruby quick, knowing full well two darts landing would make sneaking all the most difficult, and heard all the more startling.

Three? Well, Valborast could only hope Hector would play his best. And hope his own glass didn't shatter.

@Hector
 
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