|Caught in the Rain|
|Summary:||Locke gets caught in the rain and runs into Sofya. Pina coladas are sadly anachronistic.|
|Temporary Stable — The Twins|
|Smells like horses.|
|May 18, 289 A.L.|
Rain. Rain. Rain. It whispers over the packed earth, leaving puddles and singing as it strikes stone and iron. It beats down on skin and draws dark lines over fabric, deepening every colour with its touch. Sodden and damp, with a red shawl draped over her shoulders, Sofya stands within where the Vance/Terrick party has stabled their horses — still catching droplets under the patchy cover. Her dark hair is slicked with rain, hanging in a limp tail down her back. Her hands stroke over the nose of a large, brown stallion trying to calm the fidgety horse down; her sweet alto voice softly croons an old, familiar Riverland's lullaby. It is the sort often sung to children, that even the least train of voice can carry. "There, now, come o'er dale and willow. Come, see…"
The rain is horrid, for some, but for others they tend to like it. Dressed down since the calling off of the joust, one of the many lads seen scurrying about with the squires earlier now finds himself trapped out in the rain. A scowl fixed squarely on his features as he moves to find a lip of someone's tent, as if that would keep the rain off his back for a bit. One hand moves up to brush back his hair, though that doesn't keep the rivulets of water from going down the back of his neck. Air is pushed out in a hissed vent, which shows some in the cool rainy night.
Locke though doesn't have time to simply rest and relax. Something catches his ears, and eyes as he squints out into the darkness- spying the horse, and hearing the song, or bits of it. But, it's perhaps the sight of the lady that has him staring, before he is looking away only to stare back again.
"Aww bollocks" he mutters before he's coming out from his temporary sanctuary, the splashing of his boots heralding his approach.
It's an old song. It might have been one that Sofya heard as a babe and that her mother before her heard, the kind of tune that is passed from cradle to cradle. "Come, see, see to my heart," she sings quietly, before breaking off her song at the sound of splashing feet in puddles. The horse is given another gentle pet as the Vance retainer turns to look over her shoulder, eyes scanning the dark and the rain. "Hello out there?" She calls with hesitant cheer. Anyone there?
"Allo out there." comes the response back, before Locke is seen, coming into the light. A wave of a hand, before he is looking towards the horse. "Heard your singing." of course, still the young man nods to the beastie "And saw him..So I thought you needed help-That your horse, m'lady?" apparently Locke cannot tell common from Lordly at all. "I squire for Ser Lawson..so I am somewhat fine with horses." A task he's had the pleasure of learning through being bitten and stamped on.
"Hello lovely," Sofya greets with a crook of a grin as Locke's scruffy-chin and worn self comes into the light, he may have the figure of a man but he is still a boy to her eyes. "Did you, now? I feel I ought to apologize for that. I haven't got much of a voice, never did. This one likes it though." The stallion's nose is given another affectionate pet, coupled with a soft snort as the beast peers at Locke. "What's your name, squire of Benedict? I am Sofya Dale, retainer to Ser Inigo Vance. And this lad is his." The stallion's ears twitch irritably, possibly because the mistress is focusing her attention elsewhere.
"Loverly?" comes Locke's own queer accent. Not something rightly of the Riverlands, but a hodge podge mixture of that and something swarthier. Still he shakes his head for a moment, to shake out the rain before he's looking at the big stallion. One hand moving to run his hand at the mount's neck. "An Ser Indigo doesn't have a squire? Shame that. Not sayin' you're not fine." to look at. it bitten off. "Jus' sayin." he adds on before he is trying to focus there as opposed to wet girl. "Locke Septswood." As he prefers Locke to Lockesley-though nothing is wrong with that fine name on it's own. "Never met me a Dale, let alone a Vance..Though there's been some down round Riverrun." where he's currently been. He's quiet for a moment as he tries to calm the steed. "He jis needs t' be walked, which would be fine if it weren't fer the rain." he adds, before finally commenting: 'Sofya's a fine name."
"Sweetling's always seemed more like it belonged to beasts to me," Sofya replies in a cheerfully roundabout fashion that likely doesn't answer his question. Oh, well. Her own tones are pure Riverlands, but properly turned to full vowels and round constants that slip a little as she leaves the company of nobility. The big stallion huffs indignantly as Locke places a hand on his neck, swinging his face away. "There now," Sofya whispers. Calm. She laughs at his comment on her looks, sweeping a sleeve across her forehead with a grin. "The Ser is currently doing without a squire of his own, Squire Locke, yes," she affirms with a wide grin. "Well, you've met one now. And yes — he really does, but as I cannot take him for a walk and I don't want him to stress himself more, here I am singing lullabies to a horse." There is no surprise in her voice at his analysis, she is not tending to the horses for lack of else to do. The stallion nudges his nose into her hand, needling for more pets as Sofya ceases. "Locke's nice as well."
"Well, I ain't no sweetling t' be sure, lass." Locke comments "Nothin' sweet to me, that I know of." his recent debacle with the young girl o'er a stone is proof of that.
"Oi there, stampy fella." Locke murmurs to the horse as he tries to keep the beast somewhat happy, or at least from stamping on him. "You go lookin' away at me, cause I am no lass, is a fine way t' find yerself alone." A pat given, which turns into an easy stroke. There's a glance over to Sofya. "He is? Why? Don't know any fellers that are fine enough squires?" An idle question enough before he is nodding. "So I have." agreed.
"I could take him fer a walk for you, if you want? I don' mind the rain too much." he admits. "Used to it, where I am from." A nod at that as he continues to try and do, what he does best-perhaps trying to show off as well. "Well, where are you from? I don't know where Vance lands are."
"Oh, I've yet to meet a lad that doesn't have something sweet in him," Sofya chides gently, arching her brows in amusement. Lass, indeed. Older than him.
While the horse is finicky, he shows little urge to trample anyone to death even as he shys away from Locke's hands. "Hey now, sweetling. He is not too fond of strangers, I'm afraid." The horse, not her Lord. "I am afraid, that I am not my Lord and do not have an answer to the question on the tip of my tongue," Sofya replies, casting another smile his way. "And were are you from that it rains so much?" Bit for bit, she describes where the Vance lands lay in relation to the Roost where she knows he's been.
"Oh Aye? An how do you coax that out?" Locke asks as eyes narrow at the horse which seems to shy from him. "Come on now fella.." and he's bringing his hand close to the muzzle of the horse, so it can smell him if he wants. "I won't hurt you.." which is true. A laugh and he looks back towards Sofya. "I prefer Lovely t' sweetling, I believe.." a snort and he's glancing back to the the horse. "Mmhmm." idle no answer to no question. "Oh, th' stones..I mean I was born in the Saltpans, but I've done my livin' on the stones." That he knows now, and so there's a bit of an understanding there. "So how do you help your lord?" what do you do?
"Like I said, sweetling is for the horses," Sofya agrees with a grin, bright eyed gaze flitting towards Locke. Her hands are otherwise occupied on the horse though, fingers lightly dusting over his mane as he SNIFFS at Locke's hand. Disapprovingly. If a horse can disapprove. "Who says I coax anything out? It tends to be there, behind the eyes." The corner of her own slate blue eye is given a short tap. There. Then she points at Locke's. See.
"I'd ask how you found it, but from the little I've talked to folks it sounds like a bit of a miserable place. So how did you find it?" Sofya lifts shoulder and rolls it lightly, dusting her hands against her skirts as she regards the much calmer-now stallion. You going to behave? "Me? I am a retainer of the House of Vance. It's a bit like being a squire, I fetch and carry and embroider and see to my Lord's needs."
"Then ask how I found it." Locke says back over his shoulders as he's looking back towards the horse, obviously, not entirely pleased that it is not calming for him. Oh, BUT IT DOES FOR SOFYA. A frown at the horse, before the squire is shrugging and looking over towards the girl. "Yeah, save we hit things with swords n' don't embroider." A snort there before he's dropping his hands down, eyes on the horse. Yup.
"Eh. Well- Parts of it are nice, the rest could be burned from the face of th' earth if you ask me." His opinion on the stones given easily.
HORSES, man. This one seems to have a particularly bratty demeanor. It is every bit a spoiled, pure bred thing. Locke's frown is matched with a quirk of a smile on Sofya's lips, although she turns to the horse with a chastising click of her tongue. Spoiled. "That's like a rather large needle, isn't it? I mean, they both are meant to go through things," she teases gently, adjusting the hang of her shawl around her shoulders.
However brief his view of the Stepstones is, Sofya listens with the utmost attention. "Seems that'd take quite a bit of fire. What have you liked of the Riverlands, hopefully it doesn't ask for nearly so much destruction in your regard?"
"Miss, lots of things are made to go through things." Locke crudely suggests, as his grin is barely stifled. "Doesn't mean you're usin' the same skill set for that." And with that he is moving to get out of the rain, or come a little closer towards the retainer, as the squire has no desire to get further-wet. A sniff, and he is looking back towards Sofya, his head craning a bit, so that what black ink is on his skin is somewhat exposed.
"Oh the people, are just fine. Better food, an more ale..Less, whateverthefu-ahem Whatever they drink." he adds. "An it don't. No.. It's like bein' dry an warm. An that's fine by me."
"Fewer of them are pointed and metal," Sofya replies with a pointed arch of her dark brow. His implication is left unmatched, although the curve of her smile indicates that she caught it. There is an element more of similarity between the needle and the sword than…other things. "True enough. I don't think your callouses match mine." She lifts her hands and wiggles her fingers demonstratively, watching as he shifts to angle more out of the rain. "Brutal weather."
Locke's near slip of the tongue into cruder language threatens the tug of another smile across her lips. "Good. I am glad their hospitality is suiting you. I'm rather fond of them myeslf," she adds.
Locke grins back towards Sofya, as he brings his arms up to cross at his chest, and hunker in as it were, trying to find warmth under his wet clothes. "Aye, though that seems to be the funner bit of dancin' or needlin' miss." Locke adds with a grin. The Squire looks over, before offering his hand. "You're free to check, if you need provin' one way or the t'other."
A laugh as he idly looks back into the rainy night. "Eh, could be worse, could be winds with it, as I've seen." a nod. "Not likely to burn it all myself. No- you wait yerself for a fat war, miss-an it'll be burned." A shake of his head. "Not by me.. I don' burn pretty things."
The rain continues to hammer down, leaving a chill in the air that permeates even their mostly effective shelter and seeps through damp hair and clothes. Clicking her tongue, and shortly catching it between her teeth, Sofya meet's Locke's addition with a decidely wry grin. Uh-huh. "I didn't think there was much dancing involved in either of those things," she refutes innocently. "Certainly needlework is done at rest…" What implication? Fingers gripping her shawl to keep it close, she does lean in to inspect his hand with a thoughtful purse of her lips — it almost makes it look as if she is an expect. Almost. Her grin as she meets his gaze again ruins that impression. "Very different."
"Gods, be good. That'd just add a worse turn to this already miserable night. The lighting earlier was impressive, but not something I am keen to see while out of doors." She simply shakes her head, hair sticking to her skin. "These lands have seen enough flames. I'll happily miss that war, Lovely," Sofya admits with a frown. "I'm glad to hear that though. Few enough nice things in this world to see them ruined."
"Well if you're a fine man," Locke begins, "You'll do more than jus' hump there. A little dancin' should be requisite along with dinner before you lie with someone, or if you do lie with someone. You owe 'em at least." A chuckle there before he's grinning back to Sofya. "Course there is dancin' without music, but" he doesn't press on. Instead he stares on unabashedly as the Vance girl overlooks his hand, and one brow raises, a serious look adopted that lessens with her grin. "Aye. A fine man's hand I have."
As for the bit about war, Locke shrugs. "Aye, well I hope that it remains pretty for a long time. Knowin' what I do of the world though, Miss. It likes to ruin' things all the same."
"I think you and I are talking about rather different sorts of needling, Squire Septswood," Sofya manages with a straight face, eyes bright with repressed laughter. She meets his grin with that gaze, not a hint of a maiden's blush on her at Locke's words. Just amusement as she resists the urge to 'rise' to meet his commentary. Ahem. "Instruments of dance and its particular courtships aside." She taps her foot to a steady beat of 3/4th's time, sound soft against the earth. His hands earn another look, blue eyes flitting towards them and a low laugh turning her lips. "Nae. A 'fine' man's hand's have seen no work, seems to me that you might have an honest man's hands. They show what they've done."
"Your hopes and my prayers." On wars… She doesn't seem keen to say more than that."
There's a grin there with a faint chuckle as cheeks ride flush for a moment. "Aye, maybe we are lass, but I find that sort of talk is made for nights like this, when you're lookin' for warmth an have to watch a horse." And there he is smiling as if he ate shite. "Do you dance then? Like a real fine an proper lady with blue in your blood an gold sewn into the hems of your dresses?" the Squire asks as he sways to the beat slowly.
As for his hands, Locke does manage a grin. "I think the only fine men are honest ones, Miss Dale. All others are noble or not fine.." he tacts on before he looks on with a slight nod. "Same an all."
The corner of her mouth twists up as that telltale flush of colour rises to Locke's cheeks. "Do you, now?" Sofya wonders, words idle and demure; her foot still tapping out the rhythmn. She tugs her shawl snugly about her shoulders. "You could go find warmth in your tent, I wouldn't be offended…" A low rumble of laughter colours her words. "I can't say I dance quite so fine as one whose blood is blue and gown is stitched with gold, no. That'd get me in trouble. But, aye. I dance."
"And I think it is far more complicated than that," Sofya replies with a crinkle of her nose. "The hands are the same to start at least."
For his part Locke gives a cough. "I do, don' let my looks fool you." he notes before he is looking to her shawl and then his pale blue eyes flashing back to catch her gaze. "I could, but it'd be rather less warm, and my knight snores." he adds with a faint chuckle before he is looking back towards her hips. "Would you dance?" a pause "With me, though we've no music?" After all it's a frigid summer night with pouring rain. Dancing makes the most sense, obviously.
"It is and isn't, Miss." Locke replies as he grins on. "Aye, I guess that is so."
Uh-huh. Crossing her arms and cocking a brow, Sofya just looks bemused at his assertion and stands unflinchingly under his inspection. Yes? "You want…to dance, while the rain beating down on us louder than a drum and half the camp is asleep," she repeats dryly, the point of her brows rising higher with the moment. Dance and not dance, right? "I've heard where that leads, Squire Septswood," she teases with another of those clicks of her tongue. He said so himself, after all."And you'd do better finding another lass if that's what you're looking for this night," she adds with a level gaze. Fetching as she is all dark, damp hair and hints of horse hair in her shawl.
"Lass, if a man asks for a dance, and he is an honest man, then he means dancing. If he is not an honest man, then I would guard your virtue." Locke notes as he stays on his toes. Her brows raise and he merely looks unphased, as if such a poker face could exist. "And you yourself, claimed I had the hands of an honest man. If you like, I can try at humming a tune." rain be damned. After all he is just as fetching with the drowned rat look, which is so popular down in King's Landing this year.
"A man who's quick enough to dance around his words just as nimbly as dancing feet'll touch the ground is one worth making it clear to just what I mean by a dance," Sofya replies, a touch of her earlier smile returning. "Honest man or no." She is many things, but a stupid woman is not one of them. Shaking her head in mild amusement at his protests, she lifts a single finger and wags it at him. "I'll dance with you another night, I think, Squire Locke. One where there's proper music. Then we'll see if you can keep up with me," she answers finally, a flash of a bright grin warming her features. Much as he is in the latest and most fetching of fashions, a night time and waterlogged dance is not in the cards this evening. "For tonight, I'll just bid you good rest and better warmth. It's been a pleasure." That said, she checks on the stallion a final time and moves to take her leave of him.
"I am quick to dance around my words, because you're quick to try an lead em on another dance." Locke adds with a clicking of his tongue back, before he is grinning into a chuckle. "Hmm, I'll keep in mind, next time someone doubts my honesty.." A half wink there before he is nodding. "Of course. I've taken much of your time yet.." And still he is lingering on, strong as ever. "I'll hold you to it, Miss Dale. You'll find my feet are quite fleet." Otherwise he would be dead-but that is not said. Instead he smiles as splendid as he thinks to. Which is probably a copied version of something he's seen Ben throw at a woman. "Good rest an all to you." he calls out before he's looking back to the horse.
"Good rest..What?" he mutters to himself, before eying the stallion. "Right, like you're any better at it, boyo." And with that he is off towards where he thinks the tent is located. Rain and all.