The dark-haired Spring Butterfly maiden, unlike her flaxen counterpart, is already in motion again. With a bright greeting for everyone she passes, she flits past tables of food and drink, emerging with a goblet of wine in one hand and a miniature strawberry tart in the other. She edges her way through the crowd with nimble grace, keeping close to the ring of light cast by the lanterns, and drinking in the array of costumes with eager eyes and a bright, wondering smile. And there the Spring Butterfly stays. She notes the progress of the tall wintry lady towards the hostess’s table, watching for a few moments to see what passes between them, but she herself stays back for now.
As a servant comes by with a tray of small cups filled with summerwine, the robed knight with the flowers about his brow and hair calls to him, motioning him to pause. He takes two of the cups from the tray, and speaks to the man as he does so. The serving man offers a brief bow before going on his way, and the knight turns to offer a cup to his squire. The youth takes it eagerly, and the pair mill about among the rest of the partisans of the Spring while the gold cloaks watch them with bored expressions.
“A fantasia indeed,” Summer agrees with Harvest Moon. “I should present my small token to the lady Jyana.” The girl smiles, dimpling, clearly excited by all of the pagentry.
The tall Queen of Ice has moved to the young, unmasked female at the dance floor in the middle of all seasons. Ser Noel, it seems, has stopped humoring his charge for a moment so the maid can address the tall woman before her. At her curtsey, the Jewel returns it, and beams at the woman as she starts to speak.
Kellyn inclines her head towards her warm weather friend. “I will be here. You go on. I will greet her when the first crush is past.” There is an encouraging smile as she nods her cousin forward. Left to her own devices, she reaches up to adjust a vine that threatens to droop over her eye with the unapple occupied hand, then snags a passing bit of meat. It is going to be a long evening of cravings it seems!
With a slight shake of her head, that leaves black hair brushing in ripples over the stark white of her gown, the wintry maiden accompanying the spring-like one leaves it to her companion to move forward to present the gift that the pair have brought—a brooch in the shape of a white rose—to lady Jyana. The chaperone accompanies her youngest charge, and in doing so allows for the elder one to slip away on her own into the masked crowd.
One of the guests in the Spring section is not bored by the presence of the green-veiled flower knight. The Butterfly Maiden watches his passage over the edge of her goblet with a spark of curious interest in her demurely lowered eyes. “Good evening, ser,” she says, once she lowers her drink. Her greeting to him is just as bright as it has been to everyone else she has encountered, and she gives his costume an equally avid look.
A Sandstorm amid the recently-arrived Dornish contingent starts to split from the group, silk fluttering around her form with the passage of the others. The dun and sand and gold of her robes stand out among brighter costumes only by virtue of their plainness, and her eyes track the movements of the others for the time being, catching her bearings.
The page boy stops dutifully, presenting the silver platter to Kellyn as she picks and chooses what she wants from his plate. Another server also stops to present her with wine, to wash it down with.
Ryssa
Her gown is a spring garden in pink and blue, fluttering down in folds of dainty chiffon. Tiny pink flowers dot the pale blue fabric of the bodice, which fits snugly over the gentle curves of her figure. A line of pink ribbon, more decorative than functional, circles the waist and traces out a V at the front, making the bodice look longer and the waist narrower. The neckline is wide, but reveals nothing more than the delicate lines of her collarbone as it skims over her shoulders, edged in light pink like the waist, and like the ends of the narrow sleeves that ruffle down to her elbows. A gently flaring skirt, pale blue scattered in the same tiny flowers, sweeps down nearly to the ground, its hem circled with a border of larger versions of the pink blossoms between two lines of pink ribbon, like the straight lines of a garden path.
Her face is covered by a mask of shimmering pale blue fabric, stretched over a frame that arches up and out on either side like a butterfly’s wings. Pink ribbon, matching that on the gown, edges the wings and flutters down from the tips in long streamers that mingle with the carefully-arranged waves of dark hair that flow down her back. Here and there, a miniature pink carnation peeps out, pale against the dark waves.
Aidan turns his attention to the voice that addresses him, and beneath the veil can be seen to smile as his eyes take in the butterfly costume. “Greetings, my lady!” he exclaims softly, bowing carefully—for the half-full cup of summerwine which he still holds—to her. He watches a little longer, trying to see if there’s any recognition there, before he laughs a little. “So many costumes and masks—it is hard to tell who is who.” At this distance, the veil does very little to obscure Ser Aidan’s face, nor does it do much more for his squire with the apples who also offers the lady a bow between sips at his own cup.
The Jewel seems to be speaking to another guest - the Winter Birch bows lowly to her, with the silver princess by his side. Words are exchanged, in which the Jewel curtseys and responds with a cheerful smile. She turns to another guest who approaches her, however, accepting the white rose gift happily as a few more amicable words are exchanged.
Spring, summer, winter, fall—there’s enough peolpe here in enough costumes to represent all seasons. What harm a single drop amid this pool?
From the direction of Spring appears a tall and lanky figure garbed most peculiarly in some mixture of grey sandsilk and wool. But it is not his clothing alone that bears the color: his skin—hands, sandaled feet, and face are dyed a similar color—a blue, bearing on grey.
His steps are slow and cautious; his eyes are hidden beneath a long, grey, eye-less mask; and his lips are twisted into a half-frown of displeasure.
Serion the Stormcloud has, it seems, arrived.
The Harvest bows lowly and steps to the side to allow other guests to speak to The Jewel.
She of the Summer Isles feathers approaches the Jewel as she is conversing with a tall lord dressed as an autumn harvest. The young maiden turns to greet the newcomer as she arrives.
Over in the Winter area, the White Mask moves up from where he was seated. He looks around, starting to move through the crowds, stopping at every significant person to give them a long look from behind the white ghostly mask. Bows are offered to each and every one, too. In his right glass, he holds a polished silver cup that seems to have been made for the outfit, white stones set into snowflake patterns all around.
The Grandfather of Fallen Leaves smiles at the young maid, She of the Summer Isles and takes a look around the crowded room, getting his bearings.
There is unmistakable recognition in the Butterfly Maiden’s bright smile and the blue-gray eyes that sparkle eagerly behind her mask and search the veiled face for signs of recognition there in return. “Indeed, ser.” She dips a graceful curtsey, adding another little inclination of her head to the trailing squire. “But that is part of the fun - or at least, that is what Lady Jyana hopes will be part of the fun.” The Butterfly Maiden chatters swiftly on, excitement speeding her words. “For my part, I am enjoying the discoveries.” She turns to cast another bright, eager look around the room, taking in the swirl of costumes in her glance - and then catches sight of a streak of blank gray amid the color. The Butterfly Maiden stops short, looking at the gloomy stormcloud that has just entered, and her eyes close as she lets out a faint sigh of resignation. “I might have known,” she murmurs.
As others guests rush to the Jewel’s side, the Season of Harvest silently slips away and joins the crowd once more.
The tall Winter Birch and his Frost Princess escort, having paid their compliments to the hostess, drift back into the milling crowd at the center of the grounds, speculating quietly amongst themselves at passing costumed guests. The Birch lifts a hand to a passing servant, and after a brief conversation, the pair are both holding winecups.
Outside the City: Pavilion Grounds
In the absence of a tournament, which is customary, the pavilion grounds lie empty, save for various patches of grass. Hardly any humans are present during the off-season, so small animals have the run of the area, scampering about in the heat. Some willow trees dot the riverbank. Off in the river, shallow-drafted boats can be spotted traveling along on pleasure cruises, as well as merchant barges carrying goods. To keep the Rush honest, a small war-galley will occasionally appear, evidently upon patrol.
To the south, of course, the grounds come to an end when they are met by the waters of the Blackwater Rush. Further along the river, past a congregation of willows to the west, lie the tourney fields themselves, where many a reputation has been made and lost. Towards the northeast lies the Breakspear Lane, neatly kept and flanked by tall rows of trees. Ending at the King’s Gate, it links the city to its tournaments.
Conversations over for her first set of Greeters, the Jewel steps back to deeply curtsey in front of the Summer Isles lady, and then goes on to mingle with the other guests. It was time to start doing her rounds.
The Summer Island surveys the area a moment, before choosing to explore the area set aside for her “season.”
Aidan’s expression turns briefly pained, his lips briefly compressing to a thin line before a tenuous smile is restored. “Surely, the lady’s nameday wishes are being fulfilled by many of her guests.” A glance to Danyll, as poorly costumed as the knight he serves is but quite obvlivious to it as he finishes up his cup of summerwine. “Danyll, offer this sweet butterfly an apple—and here, there’s the servant, give him the one.” Danyll looks between the butterfly and the serving man, returning now with his hands free. The latter receives the first apple, along with a sealed scroll bound to its stem with ribbon. The man bows again and departs, leaving Danyll free to offer the other apple ... but he’s distracted.
So, too, is the beflowered Knight of the Twilight. “A ... a remarkable costume, surely,” he says, looking to the grey-clad figure now amidst the other spring-masqueraders.
Everything about this figure, who enters through the Summer section, DEMANDS attention. His doublet is a lurid yellow that clings tightly to his well-muscled form, so shiningly bright as to immediately bring to the mind the image of the sun. Indeed, the doublet is adorned with diagonal slashes of orange and white, in an abstract reference to the rays of the summer sun. The clingy hose that covers his legs is no less eye-catching - it is colored in lush verdant hues that mesh well with their lighter counterparts above.
It is however, the man’s cape that truly snatches the attention of all viewers. It is a massive affair, tied about the man’s neck and extending a good ten feet behind him. It is decorated with all the bountiful beauty of summer: bright green leaves are woven into the very threads of the cape; real miniature fruits either hang from the garment or are tied cleverly onto it with colored thread, delicious-looking strawberries, cherries, and above all, grapes grapes grapes! And of course, one cannot miss the flowers - roses, daisies, sunflowers, all of the garden’s offspring seem to be sprouting from the very cape itself.
The enormous garment is carried from the end by a dwarf, whose largest feature seems to be bulbous, warty nose that dominates his unpleasant face. The small creature is dressed in a tunic and hose of green, decorated with designs of… gold roses.
“Not a difficult one, neither,” Serion’s sullen voice replies as he grapples for a chair behind—rather than beside or before—the fragrent Ryssa and the Knight of the Twilight. “For such a charade. Is there wine, yet?”
The minstrels on the platform finish their first set. Now, they start on something less boisterous, but still a happy one for ambience. With food depleting in most of the tables, a new wave of servants come along to replenish, or just outright change the dish into something new. The pheasants are busily on their way of becoming extinct for tonight’s festivities - however, the roast birds are replaced by platters of honeyed quail.
Now unaccompanied, the frosty apparition with streaks of hoarfrost threading through her black hair weaves her way through the crowd, at one point pausing to pick up a goblet of wine from a servant’s tray. Though a few other guests offer her greetings, these are returned with only as much politeness as the situation requires; it would appear that the frosty theme chosen for her appearance is well suited to her demeanour. Indeed, as one already slightly inebriated gentleman, crowned with a lopsided garland of flowers, approaches a little too closely, he finds himself sharply rebuffed with words that make those nearby turn their heads.
Not content to linger simply among the other autumn guests, a young lady swathed in a violet and gold Dornish gown glides joyfully from area to area, a large goblet in her hand filled with ruby red wine. She laughs at a joke told here and there and the mask of golden leaves covering her eyes bounces as her cheeks rise in the amusement. She is dressed as the fullness of the autumn harvests, choosing grapes and wine as her centerpiece. One might take her for a denizen of the Arbor, though the gown she wears would be found in few Westerosi wardrobes. She certainly seems to be in high spirits as she takes a quick turn across the dance floor with a masked partner in the chilling hues of winter.
Concern flickers over the Butterfly Maiden’s face as she sees Aiden’s unhappiness, and she offers a small smile of hopeful sympathy in return. She sets aside her goblet, freeing one hand to accept the apple - but there is Serion, almost between her and Danyll, before she can accept it. Fragrant, she is indeed - the carnations scattered among her hair give off a delicate scent, easy for anyone to identify, especially when matched with her light voice. “Good evening, Serion.” Ryssa’s voice is half a weary sigh, but she pushes her smile back onto her face, absolutely determined to keep it. “Yes, there is wine - another servant should be by in a few moments.”
The Jewel chats with a certain pregnant lovely in the space where guests from all seasons mingle, taking a goblet of wine for herself, and watches someone’s advances be rebuffed by one hailing from wintry lands. The brightly-colored costume on the other side trailed by the dwarf tears her attention away from the conversation for a moment, blinking.
Heads turn from many corners to stare at the technicolor display of fruit and ... yellow. It is, at the least, a terribly impressive entrance. Amongst the minglers, and before she answers the conversation at hand, the pregnant moon watches in fascination. “I almost expect to hear trumpets blare. Well done, that. I do hope no one decides to try and crush the grapes before the evening is through.”
Belatedly, a trumpet does blare - but from a minstrel who mistakenly plays the wrong chord. He is quickly cuffed at the back of the head by the lead minstrel in the ensemble.
The Long Summer, while exchanging a few words with the Summer maiden, deftly tugs on his cape, notifying his dwarf (who can barely see past the crowd of people) that a servant is approaching with a full platter. The little man scurries to one side to avoid the unseen yet oncoming collision, then straightens the hem of the cape that he is carrying with both hands.
“We shall consider it if the wine continues to dwindle in the pace that it is at present,” Jyana says with a laugh to the Pregnant Moon. “I’ll distract the dwarf.” With a wink, she turns to incline her head as the Winter Birch says a few words, to which the Pregnant Moon replies to. She seems content, for now, to take a sip of her cup of wine and follow the imposing Winter figure of the White Mask with her eyes. That one’s costume was impressive, as well.
“I, on the other hand, hope someone does try,” notes the Winter Birch, standing within earshot of the Moon. “Fail - such art deserves preservation - but try. The reaction would be…interesting. If perhaps messy.” Jyana’s reply in similar vein earns a sharp laugh.
The Arbor Lady laughs as her partner attempts to get too friendly. She dances a few steps backwards and shakes a taunting finger at him before she turns and disappears into the crowd once more. She drinks deeply from her cup and receives more from an attentive servant before she makes her way towards the lovely Jewel in all her winter finery. “A success, but I had no doubts,” the Arbor Lady says, grinning at Jyana before she leans over to brush a kiss to the Arryn’s cheek.
The White Mask approaches the Jewel’s party, who turns towards him as she and her companion are addressed. She dips him a curtsey, and smiles over at him and exchanges a few words. This is when the Arbor Lady arrives, and kisses her cheek. She turns, and laughs. “I see you went with my suggestion, it warms my heart to know for certain that despite everything you -do- take my opinion to heart.” She reaches out to give the woman a hug. “You look magnificent.”
Aidan says nothing to Serion’s remarks, letting the Butterfly Maiden—who earns an earnest study from him as she speaks to his fellow Dornish hostage—do the work of letting him know about the wine. “There is summerwine, my lord of Uller, and Arbor gold by the looks of it. Shall I fetch you some?”
Upon downing the contents of his goblet and proclaiming something to his fellows within the Summer area, the Long Summer tosses the empty drinking vessel onto a nearby table and heads toward the common area - dwarf, cape, and fruit in tow.
The Stormcloud makes a brief face as Aidan mentions Arbor gold and summerwine, but as he slouches into his chair, he puts on a brave—albeit eye-less and tight-lipped and grey—face.
“If you’d be kind, Ser Aidan?” he asks. “Summerwine. The gold is too sweet by half for getting drunk off.” A brief and rueful pause, and he adds: “Good evening, Ryssa. You smell…fragrant. Are you a flower?”
The Arbor Lady giggles at the Jewel and gives her another quick kiss to the cheeks as a means of saying thanks. “You know I value your opinion,” she says playfully and turns to look out over the large crowd. “You are simply stunning, my lady. I’ll leave you to your guests,” she tells Jyana, grinning impishly. “There is dancing to be had!” With that the lady in the gold and violet silk spins away and heads back into the crowd to find a new dancing partner.
The feathered lady of the Summer Islands acquires a goblet of sweet summerwine which she sips, while chatting pleasantly with the Grandfather of the Falling Leaves.
And now a different kind of concern dims the spring brightness of Ryssa’s expression - she gives Serion a sharp, worried look at his comment about getting drunk. Still, when she speaks to him, her voice is gentler than her eyes, even if it has lost a bit of its giddy light. “A garden with butterflies,” she explains. “Well, of a sort. My mask is a butterfly, and my gown has pink flowers on it. And there are real carnations in my hair, which is where the scent comes from.” Almost despite herself, eager pride brightens Ryssa’s voice and smile as she goes through the description, enthusiasm growing with every word.
Catching sight of .....someone with a very distinct mask, the Jewel lifts her head and grins at the Arbor lady. “Enjoy yourself, I’m certain I’ll join you out there shortly.” She waves to the lady in the pretty Butterfly Mask.
Aidan gives Serion a brief bow. “A moment, then, Serion.” Danyll starts to follow him, but he motions for him to stop. “Stay here and be polite company while I’m off. I’ll be back shortly.” And then he’s moving away through the rest of the spring crowd, seeking out a servant.
Some winters are longer than others; therefore, some springs come later than one might like. But when spring finally comes, it is nearly -always- worth it. Late Spring has come, and she is a vision to behold. Like another notable arrival, she wears a magnificent cape; unlike the other, this one is light as a feather and downed with spring flowers.
First are the lilies and crocuses, spilling onto the cape from a mass of brown curls; next are daffodils, tulips of tender pink and pale orange and last of all, violets, the whole thing wafting behind the lady like memory. Her gown is all of dark green, the green of the budding leaves of a rose bush, the bodice trimmed in ivy that drapes over her bare arms. The skirt is all of green, but garlands of roses—every color of rose ever thought of, and all just budding.
Her face is masked behind a dove with wings spread, the dainty head over her nose, the wings sweeping back to nestle among the flower-strewn curls atop her head.
Aisling
A torrential cascade of midnight-hued tresses spills unfettered to past her hips in heavy, languid waves, and even in the most meagre of lights that silken shroud of shadows and twilight is tinted by a lustrous sheen of deepest indigo, reminiscent, perhaps, of the wings of a raven. However, that deep, winter-night darkness does not remain entirely unbroken, for at each temple pale streaks—as if covered in hoarfrost—trace a bright path away from her face, the slender tendrils of frost cutting a swath through the blackness. Bright and white is also the mask which obscures her features, its twisting, irregular shape calling to mind the bare branches of a frost-kissed tree in the depth of winter. Gazing out from behind the mask are striking eyes of liquid darkness, tinged with a subtle shimmer of purple iridescence. These deceptively still, reflective pools are rarely rippled by rising tides of temper, but ardent emotions left undisclosed by that dark gaze are often betrayed by surprisingly sensual, garnet-hued lips, as suddenly given to frowns as to smiles, or smooth skin like pale ivory, easily touched by a faint blush in the heat of the moment. Of middling height, her form is sleekly lithesome, yet pleasingly ripe with soft, sinuous curves to which the supple, fluid grace of her movements is a fitting complement. Curiously at odds, however, is the air of cool, disdainful arrogance which often lingers around her and the warmth of her low, slightly husky voice.
Winter-white samite envelopes her form like a blanket of new snow, pale and pristine. Boldly cut, the low and wide V of the gown’s neckline bares most of her shoulders and dips down deep between the soft swell of her breasts. A panel of Myrish lace, like a dusting of snowflakes, lies beneath the deepest portion of the V, yet enough skin lies bare to reveal a paleness fitting for such a wintry apparition. The sleeves are tight to begin with, then widen rapidly so that the cuffs—trimmed in white fur—drape lavishly from her wrists. The rest of the dress mirrors this, with the bodice being closely fitted to her form, following the lines of her shape from her bosom down to past the curve of waist and hip. From there, the skirt then plummets to the floor, wide enough to fall in deep folds about her legs, where it ends in a fur-trimmed hemline that brushes the tops of white slippers. About her narrow waist, resting lightly upon her hips, a silver girdle wraps twice, the ends falling down to her knees. A hint of silver also gleams about her throat, a delicate filigree of the pale metal circling it, as well as at her ears.
The Birch offers a few words and a cordial nod towards the white-masked figure, before moving off on a circuit through the crowd and taking a turn on the dance floor with his princess. Passing the rose-garbed new arrival on their return, his eyes sparkle with surmise as she is offered a deep, greeting nod.
Moving through the spring crowd with a searching look upon his lightly veiled face, the robed and beflowered Dornish knight comes towards the margins of the quadrant when he finally comes across what he’s looking for—a servant with a laden tray of summerwine. Placing an empty pair of cups on the tray before taking up two more and sending him on his way, he turns to go back to his companions when a cold vision of Winter comes into his sight. He pauses, thoughtfully, before drawing nearer.
The page boy dutifully stops in front of the veiled knight, holding out his platter, and trotting off with the empty cups as soon as the lord has taken some.
More akin to a frosty winter night than a bright and sunny winter day as she casts a cold glare in the direction of the inebriated fellow she just chased off, the white-garbed maiden is at first oblivious to the interest she has drawn from the Dornish knight. Carefully, so as not to move aside her mask, she sips from her goblet of wine and then her red lips set in a thoughtful expression as she gazes out over the crowd.
The newcomers are observed by the young Jewel from her place with the minglers, as another impressive cloak makes an appearance. She takes a quiet sip of her wine, and gestures subtly to the platform of minstrels as the Arbor Lady prepares herself for yet another dance. With the signal, they end their current set, and start on some dance music. After all, the Winter Birch was happening along that area with his princess as well.
“You sound pretty, too,” the Uller offers, though his compliment is a touch lame and his smile still thin. He says nothing more, either, but sits contentedly far from the spotlight.
The White Mask who has mingled for a while now heads for the Summer parts of the feast, the spectacular layers of his clothing giving him the look of a moving snow storm.. Well, if your imagination runs wild.
“Thank you.” Even though the compliment is weak, Ryssa’s smile is still warm, and it touches her voice as well.
“Oh! Lady Jyana’s waving to me!” The Butterfly Maiden brightens as she catches the gesture across the room, and leans back in to give a hasty - but by no means insincere - farewell to the gloomy Raincloud slouched next to her. “I _must_ see to her - I’ll be back later, I promise!” And with that, the Butterfly Maiden is off once more, fluttering out of the Spring section and over to the center where the hostess is stationed. Her eyes widen eagerly behind her mask as she crosses the entry of the Spring Garden, and a wondering smile spreads across her face. But a quick, graceful curtsey is all that she has time to give before she moves off towards the hostess.
With cup still in hand the Arbor Lady is escorted to the dance floor by a tall man in greens and brown. She bows deeply and she returns with a curtsey before they begin the dance. They laugh over whispered jokes as the dance brings their steps closer together, otherwise the girl in violet and gold is smiling as her feet move her effortlessly through the familiar steps.
With the White Mask leaving, Jyana’s attentions are taken up by the Butterfly Maiden. A broad grin curls up the edges of her mouth, reaching over to clasp both of her hands and kissing both of her cheeks. “You look wonderful,” she says warmly. “I’m so happy you were able to come and you weren’t exaggerating at all about your mask! It’s so creative.” She touches the edge of it gently, if allowed.
Late Spring turns to a servant for a slender package as she draws near Jyana, then waits her turn to pay her respects to the hostess and guest of honor.
“Lady Aisling?” the Dornish knight asks once he’s close enough to draw the lady’s attention, with the both of them at the very margin of the Spring crowd. A pause, as if he’s making sure her reaction suggests a current identification (or perhaps he’s merely taking in the costume…), and then he offers a brief—and even more careful, now, with the cups in his hand—bow. “I had heard you had returned from your travels. I trust you had no difficulties?”
The Ice Queen, having spent some time quietly sipping at a drink, watching the shifting crowds and myriad costumes, opts to make her way around the dance floor towards the quarter decorated in the fashion of her opposing season, moving towards the balmy environs of Summer.
The Season of Harvest can be seen talking to a lady in Spring for a while now, and they both leave their wines with the servants as they begin dancing slowly.
And the Butterfly Maiden is off again, flitting around the party. Dancing for a bit, eating for a bit, paying visits to all of the seasons, keeping careful watch on the Raincloud and on the Ice Storm who sits by the edge of the Winter section, always keeping close to the circle of bright lanterns and never straying from the light - and having the time of her life.
The identification would appear to be correct, as Lady Aisling turns at the sound of her name to find herself facing the Dornish knight in his floral garb. “Lord Ryger will no doubt be disappointed that I did not commission a more ingenious disguise,” she dryly remarks, verbally confirming the guess as correct. She pauses for a moment then, giving a closer study to the man before her before she continues, “And yes, you are correct, Ser Aidan. My foster-sister and I returned to King’s Landing only recently, after visiting with kin in the Riverlands. It was ... uneventful.”
The gift is graciously taken from the Butterfly Maiden, the Jewel giving her a quick hug. She sees the Queen of Spring waiting for her, and she smiles, beckoning her closer and looking admiringly at her ensemble. “....Reyna? You look -beautiful-!” she exclaims. She would say more, until someone else causes her to turn and looks up at the arrival of the Long Summer by her other side.
The Winter Birch and Frost Princess move together with the ease of familiarity through the steps of the new song, taking refuge for the moment in their own laughing little world, but as the song draws onward and towards its inevitable end, the pair step out of the open space and back towards the crowd on its fringe, its edge marked by the Long Summer’s elaborate costume.
Smiling, Reyna leans in to kiss Jyana on the cheek. “As do you, my lady Jewel,” she says, holding out the parcel and letting the green silk fall away to reveal a delicately wrought hand mirror, all old ivory and carved with butterflies. “I hope your nameday was a happy one, and that you enjoy this glorious celebration of it. I, alas, am not to dance, so I think I’ll go sample the wine.” Still smiling, the Rose of Highgarden makes the nameday girl a deep curtsy and moves on, idling here and there, speaking to everyone and lingering no where long.
As the music comes to an end the Arbor Lady curtseys again and turns to leave her masked partner. He reaches for her arm but she shakes her head and laughs. “Only the one,” she tells him with a grin, slipping her arm free of his hand so that she might continue to mingle through the crowd, her eyes lingering over each costume as if trying to determine who is behind each disguise.
The Jewel hugs Reyna, seeing her beautiful gift, even as a few more amicable words are exchanged. Reluctantly, she lets the Rose of Highgarden go, looking after her quizzically. What did she mean? That she won’t be able to dance? Confusion, she seems to forget as she slowly turns back to the Long Summer speaking with her. And her eyes -widen- at his words. And then, laughter. It seems she knows who this one is after all.
Despite the veiling of his costume (such as it is), Ser Aidan’s reaction to the lady’s remark is plain enough; it’s just as well that it is dark, even with the flickering torchlight and the pale light of the crescent moon hanging like a jewel in the sky. “It is a becoming gown and mask, my lady, and you wear them well. It was little more than a guess,” he offers her. His eyes glance down to the cups of summerwine in his hands, and he remarks, “Will you join us? Danyll and Serion Uller are waiting, with a maiden dressed as a butterfly; I haven’t identified her yet, and perhaps you may have more luck.”
The platform of minstrels finish their dance set now that people have yet again cleared the dance floor to mingle with other guests. They switch to gentler music, meant to keep to the background and not interrupt other people’s conversations. The plates are changed again as slices of beef smothered with some sort of gravy replace the empty quail plates amidst the vegetables, small cups of soup, and sweets.
Summer’s end is the harshest the longer it is in coming. The tall, lean man who enters now past the extravagant cloak with its dwarf bearer is a stark contrast to the extravagance that surrounds him; cloak, tunic, vest and breeches, they are of a plain if well-made cut, no more than may be worn every day. But they are the angry grey of a bitter evening when summer has dwindled from the land, subtly patterned with darker grey and white in a manner that calls to mind the bleak joining of a winter sky and snow-shrouded horizon.
His mask does little to conceal the angular lines of his face as he stops and surveys the gathering; a simple covering for his eyes, its eyeholes are covered with paper so thin it is transparent. Glazed golden, it calls to mind the unsettling stare of a winter owl upon the hunt.
“I was not asking for flattery, ser, merely stating a fact. I am here because Lord Ryger thought it would look amiss, were he to outfit only my step-sister for the occasion. Never mind that I would have preferred that arrangement.” Aisling’s reply is cool but polite enough, lacking in the sharpness she gave the previous fellow a taste of, and after the initial response she hesitates for a moment, considering the proposal. A glance strays sideways, taking note of where her step-sister now can be found, and apparently in light of this she then nods. “I suppose I will, for a time. It ought to keep Sylvina away, at least.”
The so-called Queen of Spring moves through the throng like a seasonly zephyr. She draws up to the lean winter owl and looks him over from top to toe—then catches sight of the dwarf in green and covered with gold roses. “What in the -world- is that?” she asks, voice low.
Said dwarf with gold roses wakes up with a start as the Long Summer barks at him, dutifully moving the train before a server could trod upon it. The Jewel seems to be engaged in an amicable conversation with the man, who has taken off his mask, though the crowd seems to be blocking his features at the present moment while he talks to the Arryn maiden.
The White Mask, the Winter Queen, the Autumn Grandfather and the Summer Islands are all conversing quietly up among the Summer guests, all standing in one place. The Winter birch has just proceeded up to join them and they are splitting up a little at the new arrivals.
The winter owl looks over the Queen of Spring from dove mask to rose-covered skirts; he grunts in a manner that might indicate approval before following her gaze to the dwarf: “Another spectacle to match the others.”
He glances at the long cloak and then its owner, “But there are better to be seen.”
Up at Summer, the White Mask manages to bump into one or more persons while stretching for a glass, and the resulting spin to apologize ends up in a little tumult. Nothing dangerous it seems.. at first, at least.
“Very cheeky of him,” Spring replies, clucking her tongue and snagging a pair of goblets from a passing tray. “Summerwine, ser?” she offers, holding one out to the owl. “And may I take the liberty of saying that your utter lack of spectacle suits you? Far better than lordlings aping their betters,” she adds, in clear provocation of the dwarf’s golden master.
The Long Summer, having been unmasked for a few moments, now lifts the green mask up while in mid-conversation with the hostess and re-ties it about his face.
Walking together now, deeper into the fold of the Spring crowd, Ser Aidan and the winter-garbed Lady Aisling move to join Danyll Toland and the stormy Serion Uller. “By keeping her away, I suppose you mean because of the fact that Dornishmen are accompanying you… ? I am sorry for the lady, if so.” After weaving past a ponderously-skirted noblewoman who seems to have sprouted bouquets of flowers all over, they reach Aidan’s companions, only to find that Serion has wandered elsewhere in search of a drink that might arrive more swiftly, leaving Danyll alone to fend off slightly-tipsy ladies who seem intent on petting the ‘poor creature’. Aidan gravely extricates Danyll from one such, and hands him a cup of summerwine for his troubles.
The Harvest Moon returns from a bit of touch up work on her attire (wheat, vines, hundreds of pieces of loosely stitched together would be leaves - what could possibly go wrong? But when some of the ‘leaves’ making up ones skirt begin to fall during a dance, well! It does require a quick, stern talking to with a maid. Things are much more secure, though. Not that it prevents her from looking back over her shoulder to make certain she isn’t leaving a trail any longer.
Taking the goblet, the winter owl raises it in a salute before sipping, “My lady of Spring.” The formality seems to amuse him by the quirk to his lips; he glances at the dwarf again, “Roses. One of your cousins escaped from Highgarden, perhaps. The Seven know you have enough of them.”
The small incident of chaos up among Summer is under control and no one fell - now the White Mask is, after some laughter and jokes up there, on his way down towards the mingling nobles once more.
The Arbor Lady looks past a pair of young lord dressed like winter and she spots the Harvest Moon edging back into the crowd. With a mumured apology she breaks away and head towards the woman, eyes taking note of the lady’s midsection. “You’re looking beautiful,” the Arbor Lady tells the Harvest Moon, grinning over her cup of wine. “You’ve no companion this evening?” She looks through the crowd as best she can, but sees no lions.
Septa Corellys, dressed as a Matronly Spring Woman (though her oxen shoulders and her gray-white hair give her away despite her mask), seems to be looking for someone in the crowd. Seein the Arbor Lady and the Harvest Moon, she walks over to them. “My ladies. Have you seen Jyana?” she asks, adjusting her mask. “It’s time to call a formal dance and she as Queen of Seasons - and did she protest the name - needs to declare a Lord and Lady of each season.”
The Summer Isle watches the Mask of Winter depart with a bemused smile. “And so, the winter storm passes.” She murmurs to her companions. Then the Septa captures her attention and she falls silent to listen.
The Harvest Moon rotates as she revolves around the Arbor Lady, just a bit of slightly off balance spinning and then she stops in front of her friend. Then she rises over the Arbor, pushing up onto tiptoe to look around. “Well I did not see a costume, but he /did/ promise me he would be on his best behavior.” She goes back to the flats of her feet, a smile ripe upon her lips as she further suggests, “Perhaps that makes it all the more challenging to recognize him if he is here! And aren’t you stunning?” Another cup of wine is taken as she converses. The matron of Spring offers her question and Kellyn hmmms. “Well - she should be a bit more easily picked out. No mask, and that stunning pendant…”
“I know which cousin it is not, for all he’d surely be amused to trail a dwarf behind him,” Spring replies quite tartly. “But none of mine are so dressed. That’s just a bit garish for Highgarden tastes, I fear.”
She looks round then, and raises a brow at the Harvest Moon, and those she is passing. “Kellyn’s looking ripe to bursting,” she murmurs, then looks round for Jyana as so many do when the Septa speaks.
The Arbor Lady glances up at the septa through her mask and shakes her head. “I lost track of her some time ago. It seems everyone is seeking her favor and who can blame them,” she says with a grin. But so as to not be completely useless she turns and looks over her shoulder, trying to find the pale Arryn girl in her wintery garb. “Perhaps you might ask the minstrals to call for her?” she suggests to the septa, turning back to the large older woman.
The White Mask is mingling again, still drinking at his wine through the minimal opening the mask leaves him. It’s a slow and tedious process, perfect for a long evening. He sticks around where the wintery hostess is seen, talking pleasantly with those around him.
In Summer, attention seems increasingly to be turning towards the centre of the room, the peering to and fro of others in search of the hostess apparently having attracted notice.
The Moon bows its head towards the Arbor and she murmurs, “Who do you think will be called? There are so many spectacular representations to be seen!” She takes a sip from her drink, a peaceful expression on the lips beneath her mask. The comment about how close she is to bursting is missed amongst the crowd.
The Jewel, as it seems that someone is calling for her attention (and one that wouldn’t be denied it), curtseys to the Long Summer, and turns so she is headed for the middle of the dance area, smiling at the Harvest Moon and the Arbor Lady along the way.
The minstrels stop their playing. The lead minstrel announces that a formal dance is going to be called, and led by the Lord and Lady of each season. “And to name the Lords and Ladies of each season, our own Lady of Seasons, Jyana Arryn, will declare them for each.”
Extremely embarrassed judging by the pink on her cheeks at the title, the Jewel clears her throat once she’s given the floor. “Alright I think I’ll start with the North and make my way down South,” she remarks. “I declare the Lord of Winter to be….” She looks over at the Winter section, and with a smile, she points out White Mask. She doesn’t name any names, of course. It’s not yet time for the Unmasking.
“The Lady of Winter will be….” And she gestures to the tall Queen of Winter hanging about in the Summer section of the room.
“I would not waste any effort on being sorry for Lady Sylvina, for that reason or any other. And there are many others, I might add,” Aisling is quick to reply, and follows her words with a mouthful of wine, as if to wash an unpleasant taste from her mouth. “But yes, she still seems convinced that you hostages really ought not to be let out of your tower at all.” To Danyll, newly rescued from the too-friendly ladies, she offers a polite dip of her head, and then she looks back to Aidan. “That, however, is only one of many ... entertaining opinions that she holds.”
The groups code replaces the places and table code used on many other games. Rather than depending on pre-made places, it allows players to create all sorts of groupings on the fly, from tables in an inn to a gathering on a street corner. The code can be used both to hold more private conversations and to simulate virtual space within a room by breaking it up into smaller areas. A look in a room will sort people by which group they belong to, making this break-up readily evident.
Sinking into a deep curtsey, the new Lady of Winter inclines her head to the hostess, murmuring something to those close by before setting her drink on a servant’s tray and starting to move onto the dance floor.
The Arbor shakes her head at the Moon, having no idea for the room is filled with an array of lovely costumes. But when the Jewel is called forward she turns to give the lady of the seasons her full attention, passing a wink to the girl as she passes them.
The Summer Isle smiles warmly as the Queen of Winter is selected. She mururs something to those close to her.
The Lord of Winter looks about, his featureless white mask a chilly representation of Winter. His eyes rest on Jyana for a moment, then a muffled ‘It’s an honor’ is heard before he looks to the lady he is about to dance with. He extends an arm, inviting her down to his side to listen to the other seasons being announced.
Accepting the offered arm, the Lady of Winter murmurs a quiet aside to her new dancing partner, blue lips twitching into a smile.
Marian whispers to Cadan.
The Winter Birch turns with his escort towards the centre of the room as the Mask and Ice Queen are called forward, nodding offhandedly towards the Summer Isles and returning her low comment, as they watch Jyana surveying the rest of the guests to make her choices.
Moving to the West, Jyana continues. “Our Lord of Autumn will be….” The Grandfather of the Falling Leaves, eyecatching due to its gloomier representation of the season is gestured at with a smile, also from the Summer section that seems to be so popular in the current setting. “And our Lady of Autumn will be…” She keeps herself from smiling too broadly as she points a finger towards the Arbor Lady.
“The costumes are all so elaborate,” Late Spring says to her wintery—and silent—companion. “I don’t know -how- she chooses from among them, when there are so many, and all so wonderful!”
With a surprised laugh The Grandfather walks out to the center, a rustle of twigs and rusty mail.
A triumphant little “Ha!” is heard as the Harvest Moon pushes the Arbor Lady forward. “That I might have predicted!” Smiling quite smugly, the Moon sets into a chair as the dance is called. The threats of wheat and vines being crushed is not too much worried over as she takes the opportunity to get off her feet.
With a look away towards where Sylvina was last seen—impossible to tell if she’s just there though it may be—Aidan remarks, “I am sorry to hear it. She’s young yet, though, and it’s said that some take longer to grow in wisdom than others.” A pause and then he offers, with a flicker of a smile, “I’m quite convinced I’ve stopped becoming any wiser, for example. What do you say, Danyll?”
“I’d never disagree with you on such a serious business, ser,” the youth replies, flashing a grin that he seems to have learned from his older sibling, although his high spirit might be affected by the fact that he’s now deep into his third (not his second, as Aidan might think) cup of wine.
The Arbor Lady blushes (though that may be from the wine as well) and heads her near-empty goblet to the nearest servant as she steps through the crowd at the ‘queen’s’ command. There’s a quick laugh passed back towards the Harvest Moon before she continues on. She grins up at the Jewel and then drops into a deep curtsey before her before turning to greet her ‘lord’ for the seasons dance.
The Grandfather bows deeply toward the Arbor Lady. His bow is almost musical for all his twigs and rusty armor.
Cadan whispers to Marian.
Carmella smiles at the Grandfather and offers a deep curtsey in return.
The White Mask waits for the Lady of Winter to approach him, and at her whisper, he turns to whisper something back in turn. Or at least leans his mask close. Then he turns back towards the room while sticking rather close to his new partner.
Moving east, Jyana glances over to the Spring, and so many pretty colors. She seems to take a quick look, and a quick ponder as there are many lords dressed as Spring, and she didn’t know which one to pick. In her survey, the veiled one quickly catches her attention - in a backdrop of, as the Queen of Spring says, very elaborate costumes. A small smile, and a gesture towards the Veiled Spring is made to join the other seasons’ representatives.
“Ser, would you do me the honor of being the Lord of Spring?” she calls.
The tall Ice Queen seems to be quite content to remain close by her new partner, adding another sotto voce comment to him.
Marian whispers to Cadan.
The Grandfather takes a step toward his partner for the dance and with chuckle murmurs something, a friendly smile upon his face.
That exchange does bring at least a touch of a smile to Aisling’s lips. However, it does not take long for her expression to once again take on that frost-tinged air that seems to be second-nature to her. “I highly doubt that wisdom is anything Sylvina aspires to,” she dryly remarks, then finds herself distracted by the attention directed towards them courtesy of Jyana. “It would appear you have been noticed, ser.”
The Arbor Lady leans in to hear what her partner has to say and then she laughs brightly once he as fallen silent. With an eye still on Jyana and her choices she leans in to respond.
Caught up in his conversation with his green-robed squire and the winter-clad lady, Ser Aidan is slow to note Jyana’s approach, and slower still to respond as he takes her in. Flustered for being singled out, he offers a bow, and only then does he find something to say to her. “I would not claim a lord’s honors, my lady. But a knight’s I’ll accept, as your humble servant this evening on this your nameday.” He turns his head slightly, and gestures for Danyll to step forward. “And this is my squire, also at your service, who holds the promise of summer in his hands.” Whether he means the nearly-empty cup of summerwine or the basket of apples, it’s unclear.
Cadan whispers to Marian.
Carmella whispers to Burton, “A pleasure indeed, my lord. ... wisdom with ... ... ... ... am ... more ... of these ... ... ... of ... ... ... ... ... ...”
With a widening smile The Grandfather chuckles politely and murmurs a response in return.
There’s some more quiet conversation among the two chosen of Winter but no greater attempts at moving about.
Marian whispers to Cadan.
His well crafted response causes Jyana to smile even further. “Thank you very much,” she says sincerely, curtseying in response to his bow. “For acquiescing to be my knight of Spring.” She will respect his wishes, of course, and she also smiles over at Danyll who is pointed out to her, murmuring a quick hello. Though as the crowd waits for the next candidate, she glances around, this time, to the ladies dressed as Spring. “The Lady of Spring will be….” And she points, naturally, towards its Queen, with her delicate, dove mask.
And then, the White Mask suddenly laughs when Aidan is picked and he gestures towards the knight. “Now that is a way to accept.” The laugh isn’t loud enough to truly disturb but well draw some attention.
The so-named Queen of Spring moves away from her Winter Owl, but reluctantly it seems. She surrenders her goblet to a servant and moves to the side of the veiled Spring knight. “I am honored beyond measure, but I must demure. I can dance with no man who is not my own husband.”
Cadan whispers to Marian.
The Arbor Lady grins demurely at the Grandfather and for a moment her eyes leave Jyana as they glance down to the floor, as if she has momentarily grown shy. Though in a gown such as the one she wears there is little room for such thing. Glancing up, she leans over to murmur to her companion, but pauses as she watches the lady in the dove mask reject Jyana’s honor.
The Ice Queen turns her icicle-burdened head to focus upon the Queen of Spring - only to be distracted by some quiet comment from her partner. She stifles the sound but not the appearance of a laugh, one hand lifting to cover blue lips and the quiet response that follows.
Marian whispers to Cadan.
If she takes offense to the rejection, she doesn’t show it. “Then as Lady of Spring,” Jyana remarks with an incline of her head, glancing over to the Winter Owl, then back to her. “You may assign a proxy to dance in your stead. After all, Spring tonight is half-yours.”
Near to the newly-appointed Lord of Spring, Aisling silently sips from her goblet of wine, her dark eyes looking out from behind the pale mask to take in the crowd closest to where she stands. Jyana’s selections seem to be of only mild interest to her, though her lips do quirk into an amused smile as the Lady of Spring is announced, her gaze now straying to seek out her foster-sister amidst the many guests. It is hard to say, however, whether she is amused that Sylvina was not selected, or amused when considering what her reaction to her partner would have been, had she been selected.
Cadan whispers to Marian.
Marian whispers to Cadan.
The Isle of Summer murmurs an occasional comment to the Winter Birch and the Frost Princess while she watches the proceedings.
The sun sets and the evening stars begin to appear in a blue and cloudless sky. There’s a cool breeze from the west.
Face hidden behind mask and goblet, the Winter Owl merely watches the announcements. He stirs when his companion is called forth, then settles down again.
The White Mask keeps chuckling for a while, breaking the image and causing shivers to pass through the multiple layers of his clothing. Only after a while, he offers a stiff bow to the Lord of Spring, then shakes his head and leans to reply something to the Lady of Winter.
Cadan whispers to Marian.
Marian whispers to Cadan.
Cadan whispers to Marian.
Cadan whispers to Marian.
Marian whispers to Cadan.
Turning to the Spring lord, the Queen of Spring bobs a curtsy. “Choose your lady, ser,” she says graciously, finally smiling. “I leave it to your good judgement to name your partner for the dance.”
Cadan whispers to Marian.
Jyana glances over at the Lord of Spring, while her eyes wander over the summer contigent. You, my lovely bright colored victims, are next, her eyes seem to say.
The Arbor Lady frowns a little as she watches the goings on among the Spring potentials and then turns away, for her Autumn lord requires a response. She leans in again and murmurs quietly to him.
Carmella whispers to Burton, “... are ... ... ... me ... shame ... the ... ... ... a ... for ... ... sake have been ... ...”
The Isle of Summer chuckles softly at something the Winter Birch says to her, murmuring a quiet reply.
Nodding sagely, the old man, The Grandfather, murmurs quietly to his lady of Autumn, with a sly look toward the preceedings.
The murmured exchange between the two representatives of Winter seems to have come to a close for the time being, both Lord and Lady of cold silently watching proceedings.
Kellyn fluffs her skirt as she sits, the leaves fluttering a bit but remaining attached. Once her feet are hidden, she slips them out of their slippers. Eyes briefly close with a look something close to bliss. During the complications of naming a spring court, she finally opens her eyes to pick out the would be queen. Her head inclines curiously, but in the end she finds herself seeking out Rosalind.
The White Mask seems almost a little impatient, now that the discussion with the Lady of Winter seems to have died down. The creepy white mask’s wearer moves around, getting a better look of those who were chosen along with him and his partner. He never strays more than two three paces from his partner before he returns to her side.
Lifting her eyes towards the appointed Lord of Spring, the Arbor Lady studies him quietly with her ear tilted towards the Grandfather beside her. For a long moment she is silent before she shakes her head and speaks quietly to him.
Ser Aidan seems rather unaffected by the looks and remarks his selection (or his words of acceptance) engendered, and seems the very model of an aloof young knight ... well, except for all those flowers. The Queen of Spring receives a bow from im as she withdraws, and he states, “It would have been an honor to dance with you, my lady.” Then he turns, and consider the costumed ladies nearby, and though he briefly seems to consider someone in colors quite other than spring ... ultimately he turns his gaze to an older noblewoman, old enough to be his mother—perhaps even his grandmother—in ponderous skirts weighed down with more flowers than can be readily counted. “My lady, would you do me the honor?”
Carmella whispers to Burton, “cannot certain, my ... ... ... the ... ... am ... ... ... it ... would guess Ser Aidan ... I ...”
“You choose kindly, Ser Spring,” Reyna says as she backs away from the imminent dancing. Once on the fringes, she turns and seems to seek for someone; she would likely find him, were she not shorter than most.
The Winter Birch’s gaze drifts from the approaching Harvest Moon to the denouement of the controversy of Spring, as he converses quietly with the Summer Isle and Frost Princess.
Quietly The Grandfather of the Falling Leaves continues his muted conversation with the Arbor Lady.
The older lady, bearing a crest of House Corbray on one finger and dressed in a tasteful gown of spring colors with lilies woven into her predominantly white hair, smiles kindly towards the much younger knight, slipping a gnarled hand into an outstretched hand once it was offered, carefully stepping towards the dance floor with him, skirts brushing against the wood on the floor, though it doesn’t sway much considering the somewhat slower, but graceful movements of the courtly matron.
Jyana’s look perceptibly softens at the generous gesture, indeed despite the unseen complication, she was positively beaming at it, being the gushy sap she is when it came to kindness. She looks over at the summer contigent. “The Lord of Summer…” She can’t hold back a wicked grin this time, pointing at Lord Long Summer. “And the Lady Summer…” She points towards She of the Summer Isles.
A wine-sodden knight is steered away with a stiff arm, a laughing vision of summer fended off with a blank stare from golden, hunter’s eyes. Stepping through a gap in the crowd, the Winter Owl appears before the erstwhile Queen of Spring to offer a hand:
“Highgarden wins, I see.”
With Aidan preoccupied with the task of selecting a new partner, the incarnation of Frost known as Aisling Ryswell sets down her now empty goblet on a passing servant’s tray and moves to depart from the Spring quarter. Precisely what her course is set for is not clear, as she weaves her way through the crowd, though the intent seems to be to avoid drawing notice to herself.
The older lady, bearing a crest of House Corbray on one finger and dressed in a tasteful gown of spring colors with lilies woven into her predominantly white hair, smiles kindly towards the much younger knight. Stepping away from her companion this evening, she slips a gnarled hand into an outstretched hand once it was offered, carefully stepping towards the dance floor with him, skirts brushing against the wood on the floor. Her clothing, however doesn’t sway much considering the somewhat slower, but graceful movements of the courtly matron.
The Isle of Summer flushes roses in her cheeks momentarily as her murmuring to the Winter Birch and the Frost Princess is stopped short by the hostess’s announcement. She recovers gracefully though, preceeding with stately mien to the dance floor to meet the Long Summer, though she looks askance at the dwarf, perhaps wondering about the logistics of the dance.
“Come Vys… the duties of lordship call us forth.” The Long Summer stretches his neck to the side, adjusts his mask to fit more snugly about his face, and steps forward, his green-masked head held high and his posture as regal as can be with such a gaudy cloak to bear. The gold-and-green-clad dwarf behind him looks quite kingly himself for once, bumpy mountain of a nose pointed straight up and both arms raised to support the hem of the massive summer-cloak.
Carmella whispers to Burton, “... mine ... ... ... is something ... to ... into, at ... time. ... ... ... wish enjoy ... ... ... ... not ... ... ... meanings, at ... ...”
“To the dance floor, then,” the white mask says when returning to his Lady of Winter. He holds out his arm, too occupied by her presence to note the actions of the Summer Isle, or the Lord of Summer for that matter.
The Harvest Moon presses her lips together at the sight of the Dornish Summer Lord and the woman of the Summer Island. Any frown is dulled as a hand strays to her abdomen, resting there gently as she starts looking around for her husband, half expecting Jonn to charge the dance floor with an objection. But apparently he is drunk, absent, or actually minding his manners.
So far.
Accepting the offered arm with an inclination of her head, the Lady of Winter accompanies her Lord to the appropriate spot on the floor.
“I had rather an unfair advantage,” the Spring Queen replies, taking Winter’s hand and looking, nonetheless, pleased with herself. “But it ends well enough. The dowager there gets to dance when she was surely thinking her days of dancing were over.”
The Grandfather nods at the Arbor Lady with smile and murmurs agreement. He then extends his arm for his lady of autumn as the kings and queens of seasons begin to assume their appropriate places.
The Arbor Lady smiles brightly and takes her lord’s offered arm and allows him to escort her. Whatever had caused the frowns and concerned whispers has been put out of her mind. For now is the time for dancing, not worrying over other mundane issues.
In high spirits, Jyana turns to clap at the minstrels, who get ready with their instruments. She also scurries away quickly from the dance floor as the Lord and Ladies of the Seasons get in their positions to dance. Once the couples are situated, facing one another, the formal dance begins.
The minstrels start slow, dictating the gradual pace of the first series of movements. Somewhat melancholy, if not deceptively so. But it soon jumps up into a quicker pace - though not too quick, but certainly much more lively than it started.
Jyana maneuvers her way towards where the Harvest Moon is seated, taking the space up next to her and smiling over at her and a glance down her belly. She makes a quiet inquiry, watching the way the woman lays a hand upon her womb.
“And what was that?” golden-eyed Winter asks, stepping back a pace as the lords and ladies eddy around the chosen couples. He glances at the knight chosen as Spring’s reigning king and the matronly woman he has chosen: “The perfect knight.” It is difficult to discern if he means it or speaks sardonically.
Drily, he adds, “He was a touch less gentle when we met at Sandstone.”
Jyana whispers to Kellyn.
The Grandfather of the Falling Leaves listens for a moment as the music starts, then recognizing the pleasent tune, takes the Arbor Lady in his arms and begins dancing, a little off at first but soon enough remembers the steps and melody and begins dancing with grace not befitting his elderly appearance tonight.
The Lady of Spring watches the dancers begin to move, even as she is drawn a bit further back. “Highgarden, of course,” she says absently, the light in her eyes most definitely wistful. Then she looks up sharply at the Owl of Winter and shakes her head once. “Not tonight, please,” she says in a low voice—not quite imploring, but very nearly so.
The Isle of Summer steps to her chosen partner. “My lord,” she murmurs, again glancing at the dwarf. She waits, head tilted and brows slightly lifted, to see how the Long Summer intends to manage this. The expression is mostly of curiosity, but a touch of dread, not sure what he might do.
The stately measures of the opening seem well-suited to the Knight of Spring’s chosen companion, and the matron dances with a cool and precise motions suggesting she’s been performing court dances well since before Aidan was in swaddling. Ser Aidan matches her motion for motion, hands lightly touching as they turn and bow and turn and step. When the music picks up its pace, they move with it as well as they might, and in the course of it Ser Aidan can be seen to smile beneath his flowered veil.
The moon’s forest colored gaze remains on the dancers, but she inclines her head towards Jyana. At whatever is whispered, her lips turn upwards. A whisper is returned and then Kellyn’s chair is turned slightly towards the day’s honoree. Her tone is excited, any concern dissipating swiftly.
The Winter couple approaches, a little later than the other seasons, the dancing area. The Lord of Winter casually lets go of the lady’s hand just long enough to smoothen some of the layers of his clothing, putting them in place. Then, he extends a hand to her again to start the court dance. A little unusual, a little out of practice, but the Winter Mask seems to hold his own.
The Autumn Lady moves easily through the dance, making the steps appear effortless as she and her elderly-appearing partner keep in time with the music. She laughs a little as the music quickens, her feet keeping in time with the music as she turns and dips as the dance calls for it. “You are more skilled than you let on, my lord,” she laughs as the two Autumn nobles approach each other.
Now and then, the White Mask misses a step - most of the time, it’s around when the Summer Lord comes into view.
“My lady of Summer…”
The Long Summer steps forward and begins to move to the music, performing the courtly dance with as grace that /ALMOST/ makes viewers soon forget the enormous clumsiness of his cloak. However, though his movements are quite pleasing to the eye, the enormous vulgarity of his cloak is not forgotten - indeed, those observing are constantly reminded of it by the dwarf who holds the long end of it. The small man scurries quickly from position to position, anticipating the moves of the dance and taking pre-emptive action so as to prevent a mishap.
Cadan whispers to Marian.
The feminine half of Winter copes with the first part of the dance with graceful ease, even attempting to mask some of her partner’s uncertainty. The increase in pace, however, serves to distract her from such generosity, her daringly cut bodice perhaps not leaving her feeling entirely secure with the greater energy and rapidity of movement required. Still, she keeps time faultlessly, for the time being.
Kellyn whispers to Jyana.
Marian whispers to Cadan.
With smile and a bow of the head, The Grandfather says, “I am the spirit of fall, I have danced the dance of falling leaves since summer first set. You however dance with the grace of the setting sun as it flits from golden leaf to golden leaf, I fear you have me bested my lady.”
“Peace, my lady,” the Winter Owl says absently. “There’s not a Lannister in sight and I have no intention of getting into a fight tonight.”
He glances at his companion, then away at the strutting dwarf—and then back again at her. Whatever he sees there causes him to shake his head; he steps back a pace, opening a space between them as the dancing couples have:
“It’s slow enough for now. Just one measure, woman.”
The Lady of Summer keeps step with her lord, gracefully following the other’s movements while she occasionally glances past him at the trailing dwarf, with a mixture of wry amusement and a touch of surprise that neither of them have managed to trip on the cumbersome cloak. She murmurs something to her partner.
Relief sweeps over the Jewel’s face, and her concerned expression fades into a broad grin. Her chatting now is much more animated, though she watches the dance floor now and then to see how the couples are faring. Ser Aidan and his matronly partner whirl around as if they’ve been dancing with one another for years. She also grins seeing the Autumn couple, and the Summer and Winter couples look wonderful, especially considering they’re dancing near one another.
Now that the dance floor has been formally ‘opened up’, other couples start moving towards it, taking up positions that carefully circle the four honored pairs. The minstrels, it looks like, have a rather long night ahead of them.
Rosalind whispers to Corrent, “... ... ... ...”
Jyana whispers to Kellyn.
The Lady of Autumn blushes again at the compliment. “Then we are well suited for this dance, my lord,” she tells him as their steps again bring them closer. “For together we provide the fullness of the harvest season and the forebearer of winter. I shall have to compliment Lady Jyana on her choice, intended or not.”
Just as his partner, the White Mask starts to concentrate more when the pace increases.. At least until the damn dwarf comes skipping along, and he finally bursts into laughter, completely missing a step, resulting in a second step that becomes even more bungled. He trips.. almost, and tugs at the hand of the Lady of Winter, for support or something.
Spring reaches to take Winter’s hand, bending into a curtsy as she watches the forms of the dance and waits for the opportune moment. With her skirts in her free hand, raised just enough to keep her feet free, and with a skip and a hop, she leads the Owl onto the floor to bend and dip like one born dancing.
The Grandfather is about to say something to his lady when the fiasco of the White Mask and the dwarf and laughs almost missing a step himself, but the grace of his partner keeps him dancing to the increasing beat of the musicians.
Whatever the topic is, it seems to be one that lifts any possible tension. The Moon and the jewel share their smiles and quiet tones as they watch the dancers. Laughter bubbles up on occasion, especially with the dwarf bringing so much mirth to the affair.