|Summary:||Drunk Saffron and Just-woken Kamron talk and walk.|
|Related Logs:||Follows shortly after The Starlight Tea|
|The Mallister Encampment, Seagard|
|Purple tents here, purple tents there, and all about, darkness.|
|19 June, 289|
It is late when Saffron Banefort comes half-stumbling through the encampments. Supposedly, Hara Weatherfell had put her to bed after the excitement of the tea party, but she could not sleep as the honey-colored Ironborn meade colored her vision and warmed her head. Most have decided its time for sleep what with the hour and the schedule of tournament events. The moon is low in the sky, as if she is nearly ready to sink down into her own bed at the western horizon. The redhead wears a hooded sleeping robe, fastened tight around her and the flame-framed hood pulled over her head. The Banefort certainly love their hoods. She stumbles to the Mallister encampments, blindly knowing where to find Kamron's tent.
Snoring rises from the tent within, loud and long like someone drawing a rusty saw through splintery pine. One might even think that the tent walls should billow in and out in time with the sound, but thankfully they are still. In fact, all is still, even the lump bundled up just outside the entrance to the pavilion. Coals burn low in the firepit before it, sod banked over the embers to keep them hot for the morning. Then, finally, there is movement, the vaguely man-shaped form across the door of the tent rolling over and raising its arms to the sides of its head. Kamron's voice rises softly from the shadows, groaning, "Shut… up… Percy…"
"You could always stuff a rag in his mouth," says the hooded woman as she approaches him. There is something strange about her voice — it almost smolders like the sod-covered embers. Her steps are uneven, but still graceful with the gentlest sway of her hips as one foot crosses over the other in her stride. She perhaps is undiscernable until she is almost upon him, standing over him as she reaches out to grip at one of the support her now that she has stilled her steps. There beneath the hood is the soft features of Saffron Banefort. Her cheeks are nearly glowing with a drunkard's flush.
Kamron starts a little as the words cut through the harsh buzz and saw of squirely breath. He looks up at the familiar features, underlit by the glow of the embers. That same red glow gleams off his eyes as they look up, his voice dull with near-sleep, "Uh… Sa- Lady Saffron?" Confusion fades pretty quickly as he rises to full wakefulness, and he tugs the blanket wrapped about him a little further over a bare, scarred shoulder. He blinks again, calling back to what she said earlier, "He might choke. Are… are you drunk, My Lady?" Even as he asks, he starts to sit up, chuckling just a little, "Sounds like my kind of tea party."
There is a stalled moment from the young woman before she drops onto her knees on the grass beside him. So, perhaps she is not quite as graceful as she would be should the Ironborn curse not be roaring through her veins. She actually laughs softly as he tugs about his blankets. "So proper," she says with a snort as she draws her legs out from under her; the fabric flashes a lovely length of leg and knee. "I am not… drunk," she says with a touch of failed indignance. "Alright… perhaps a touch," she admits soon after.
Kamron might have iron control (okay, copper control…) when he's fully awake, but that flash of white leg draws his eyes in the darkness. His gaze returns quickly to her face though, and then he's nodding, "So you decided to spike the tea?" As he asks his question, he sits up fully, unwrapping the blanket from around his body to drape it over his shoulders in something that's actually comfortable for sitting up. Thankfully, he's wearing loose linen pants, but that still shows a flash of his torso from neck to waist. "I hope you at least had some fun before all the ladies were too drunk to walk straight."
"I did not spike the tea," Saffron states with a scowl on her pretty lips. "Rowenna brought squid piss. It was magnif—magni… it was good." There is a tilt of her head as the man begins to pull the blanket up around his shoulders, and her eyes flash shamelessly over the hardened edges of the knight's torso, no matter the interruption of scars. She would perhaps disengage her stare if not for the warmth that fuzzes her vision. She softly bites at her lower lip before she shakes out her red hair, the hood slumping aside. Her hair is ruffled, glowing like a wild halo about her head. "Katrin got assaulted with a burning sugar square, I commented on Rafferdy's wick… I will wake from this with many apologies on my tongue."
Kamron lets out a short laugh, "Squid piss? That shit is v-" He stops, blinks, clears his throat, "I found that a bit cloying for my tastes." He tugs the blanket more closely around him, covering the rest of his torso, although it still leaves his arms nearly bare wrapped around the blanket. "My eyes are significantly north of there, Lady Saffron." The words are teasing again, accompanied by a laugh that cuts off with a choke as she continues, "Rafferdy's w — wait, burned? Lady Katrin was burned? Is she alright?" Then he blinks again, his next words coming quickly, "What the hells do you know about Rafferdy's wick?" Jealousy, they name is Kamron.
"Mm?" The woman inquires at the mentioning of where his eyes may be, and she does look up to meet them without a hint of a blush. At the mention of the squid piss, she scoffs. "I actually like it," Saffron states with a slightly haughty tone, and she gives her redheaded mane a toss. The movement makes her head tilt abruptly sideways, and she breathes out suddenly. Then she squints one eye at him through the drunk haze. "She will be alright… she will perhaps never forgive me for letting Rosanna flail about a burning sugar square, however." Then those jealous words draw a slight smug smirk on her lips. "Its not as though he's shy about it."
Kamron should probably relax at the mention that Katrin is alright, but his shoulders have already tensed up rather completely, "Wait. You've seen it?" Disbelief washes through those four words, the knight now fully awake in his complete shock. At least he has the good sense to keep the words to a low hiss rather than shouting. As the question lashes out, however, he straightens up a bit more, drawing back a little from the woman sitting close.
There is something in the tone of that whisper that causes Saffron to glare quite freely at the knight. "I never said that, Kamron," she says hotly, though she has tried to keep her own voice at a whisper. "I have not, nor I ever plan, to lay my eyes on Rafferdy's wick. I'm sure its just as crooked as his fucking nose." There is a touch of anger in her voice as she looks at him, and even the slightest draw from her makes her flush brightly. "And why do you care if I have or not?" She will probably regret asking that question later, but it spills out of her lips before she has a chance to stop it.
For all his surprise and shock, Kamron relaxes almost immediately at her denial, sinking back down again, "I believe you, My Lady. I just…" he stops then, looking down at his hands in his lap, "I apologize, Lady Saffron. I'm still confused from waking up." Letting out another breath, he shakes his head, "I care because I care for you, Lady Saffron, and Lord Rafferdy is not a good sort. He's already done damage to one lady's reputation." Grudgingly, he admits, "Two, actually, including his sister Lady Rowena."
"I've hardly been kissed let alone been in a situation where I would see a grown man's wick," Saffron states with a touch of irritation, her gaze cast aside toward the heavily trodden path of dirt that travels through the encampments. At his words of care however, she looks back over toward him with the slightest tilt of her head. "Lord Rafferdy won't be coming anywhere near my reputation, Ser Kamron. I'm in control of how it will be tarnished, thank you." Though, as he relaxes, she equally sinks back down into her drunk girl's slump. "The tea was quite lovely before all that…"
Kamron shakes his head slightly, making a smoothing gesture with his right hand. "I believe you. And I do hope that your reputation remains untarnished until your wedding night, Lady Saffron." There's a pause as he realizes that he's endangering it himself right now, and he reaches over to grab one of his boots, throwing it lightly in toward the snoring lump inside the tent, hissing, "Hey! Percy. Wake up." There's a snort and a murmur, and Kamron looks back to Saffron, "Let me walk you back to your tent, My Lady. You should drink some water before you go to sleep." His words now are soft and quiet, fond and gentle.
"Yes, as if that day will ever come," Saffron says abruptly. "I'm starting to think that Morla lied, maybe to sooth the shame of falling out with Lord Walden. Perhaps I will just go back to the Banefort when all this is done." There is unfiltered anger in her voice, but she has managed to quiet it into something softer — a low burning flame. She looks up toward him at his word to walk her home, back to her meager tents amongst the Terricks. She nods her head vaguely. "Yes, alright… as you say."
From inside the tent comes a fumbling and grumbling, and Percy crawls out, blinking and falling back onto his butt inside as he spots Saffron sitting right outside the pavilion with Kamron. The squire tosses out the thrown boot, a shirt, and then goes scrambling for his own boots. Kamron pulls on his boots, although he keeps his eyes on the redhead seated opposite him, "It takes time to send word down to the Banefort, and to arrange for a match, Lady Saffron." With his boots in place, he half-turns, then strips the blanket from about his shoulders and pulls on his shirt. "Your Lady Aunt and Lord Cousin are probably here to finalize negotiations." There's something bright about those words, almost a smile, but if such expression graces his features, the half-turn away from the fire hides it. Rising to his own feet, he offers out both hands to the seated lady, "Unless you would rather go back to the Banefort, My Lady. I think the Cape would be a great deal the duller without your presence."
"It is not your life's path that lies in that parchment fold," Saffron almost murmurs to herself, but still audible in the cool, quiet night. She resigns herself to his comfort however, even if it provides so little. "They've spoken not of it," she says in regards to her aunt and cousin's presence, but she appears to be in a state of loathing that perhaps too much drink has solidified. Too much drink, and too much thought. As he rises, her head lifts to she may look at him, his head crowned in starlight. She is quiet for a heartbeat, and then she lifts her hands to slide into his so he may help her to her feet. "I don't know what I want," she says softly in a feeble reply.
Kamron shrugs his shoulders slightly at her first accusation, "One day it will, Lady Saffron. Perhaps even one day soon." He bends his knees and lifts to draw her to her feet before him, Percy taking the excuse to slip out of the tent behind her and move off to linger somewhere within sight but discretely not right upon their heels. His hands linger on hers for a long moment, and then he releases her left hand to collect her right and slip it about his left arm, patting the pale fingers into place lightly. "I bet they've made a good match for you, but don't want to get your hopes up before it's been finalized, My Lady."
There is something malleable about her as she allows him so easily to coax her hand around his arm, fingers settling into the thin fabric of his shirt. Saffron listens to him with a dutiful ear, or perhaps just a drunkard silence. Her gaze slides over to Percival once before she returns her focus on the knight. His words draw her lips into a firm frown. "I'm not a weak, wallowful girl, Kamron," she says, the words even somewhat reproachful. "They are making me into an idiot, is what they are doing. I've become eager at each approach of a messenger, and I miss Timmen. I confuse any tall, lank fellow for him." There is a sudden weight in her shoulders. "I'm sorry… I'm becoming a burden."
Kamron doesn't move his right hand, leaving it atop her left — in turn atop his left forearm. "You're anything but a weak, wallowful girl, My Lady. But I believe you may be finding that you are mournful drunk. There are many types, really, and it always pays to find out which you are." He starts to lead her away from his own pavilion, stepping carefully through the lines and rows of tents, moving slowly so as to not rush the less-than-steady lady. "Only in the physical sense, Lady Saffron," is the response to her mournful complaint of burden status, and it is given with a bit of a laugh, some of the Mallister man's humor finally waking up.
"Or perhaps I've just always been mournful and the drink lets that come to the surface," Saffron retorts, well, mournfully. There is nothing left to say for a moment as the knight leads her onward through the encampment. It is perhaps good that so many are asleep, as even a knight with a squire escorting a girl in her night robe is perhaps unseemly. She smiles a little at his laughing words, and she looks down at her feet. "I don't mean to sound like such a ill-kept girl… it must tire you to hear me bemoan my silly fate."
Kamron shakes his head at her mournful dramatics, "If you have always been mournful, Lady Saffron, you do a most wonderful impression of a maiden as cheerful and bright as the sun. You should absolutely become a mummer." The smile draws his own broader, and his fingers squeeze lightly over hers, "Half the ladies of the Cape bemoan that fate, while the other half cannot wait to get to their wedding, even if they have not even reached their majority."
"I wish you were not so sweet to me, Kamron," Saffron says in the honestly of the squid piss. She looks up toward him with a tilt of her head. "It makes it hard not to think of you when I should be thinking of what my husband-to-be will be like. It will be poor of me to imagine your lips when I should be kissing his." And there's that lack fo filter again. At least she has the decency to blush soon after her words. "I'm sorry," she murmurs. "That was poorly said." Though she does not shrink nor retreat from him. "I only bemoan not knowing," she clarifies, hopeful to keep that topic going and letting the other fade out.
Kamron has started smiling as her wish is stated, but as she continues, he totally doesn't miss half a step. Really. Honestly. Catching himself from the step he didn't nearly miss, he clears his throat, keeping his eyes oh-so-very carefully on the ground before them as he leads her around the guy wire to another tent. "I will blame it entirely on the reaver honey." Because he's not going to all it 'squid piss' again in front of a lady if he can help it. "In the wake of such an event as the Ironborn Invasion, I bet that negotiations for dowry take all the longer." Finally, he seems to have gotten the image of pink lips pursed against his out of his brain (at least for now), and he can turn to look at the Banefort and smile once more, "Especially for such a catch as yourself, Lady Saffron."
At least he has the decency not to stop complimenting her despite her honest confession against it just moments ago. Saffron has blushed and looked at her bare feet as he speaks, and she offers him a small nod of thanks. It is not long that they come to the Banefort tent — simple, graceful, nestled amongst the Terrick tents like the last glowing ember of a dying fire. There is not a hint of light coming from the tent, though one of the cloth windows is opened as if revealing where Saffron had snuck out. She guides him toward it now. "I will try to find myself some patience," she promises him, as if for his own sake.
Kamron hushes his voice a bit more as they close on their destination, "I would be very thankful for your efforts, Lady Saffron. I very much prefer the laughing, smiling, dimpling, raging," yes, he even included that description, "Lady Saffron Banefort to the melancholy one." As they approach the tent, he studies the window, and then looks down to the night-dress. No way she's climbing in that window head-first without him getting an eyeful of something he shouldn't. Instead, he extricates his left arm from hers, "Here… let me help you back in." The knight's left arm moves to wrap about her back as he dips, his right arm lowering to sweep up carefully behind her knees and lift her up against his chest in the classic princess-carry.
Each little feature he has recognized causes her to blush more intensely until she is nearly the same shade as her hair. "For you, Ser Kamron… I will try." At his release, she looks as if she is about to move to climb back inside, but instead she is swept up suddenly in his arms with a kind of soft gasp. Her arms cling to his neck almost immediately, and she buries her face against his neck — in reflex, of course. It surprises herself to find that she is taking in his scent now that they are so close, and she murmurs softly against the skin of his jaw. "Thank you."
Kamron has to freeze in place for a moment as the lady now in his arms curls against him, his eyes closing to ward against the thoughts and feelings whirling behind them. He stands stock still for perhaps half a minute, and then the grip his arms have about her relaxes just that tiny hint it had tightened at the clasp of slender arms around his neck. And he even starts breathing again. Ducking his head, he murmurs, "You are more than welcome, Lady Saffron." The breath that follows the words draws the scent of her tousle of hair into his nose, and his eyes nearly drift closed again, then he's stepping up to the edge of the tent and feeding her feet into the empty window in the canvas side. His arm slides up from her knees to brace her as she gets her footing, and as he sets her down, he whispers again, "Remember… plenty of water, and sleep tightly, My Lady." That last term is probably just a little too warm, and perhaps even a little possessive, but he's not entirely thinking of anything but the warmth still gracing his neck, arms, and torso.
Her toes stretch gently to touch the cushions of her bed that lines up along the window. Not a candle burns within her room, casting shadows about the small, closed off square of space. She is trembling even as he begins to depart from her, and she is certain that it is the reaver honey that makes her so weak. She says not a word even as she drops to her knees on that bed of grey blankets and orange pillows. She looks after him for several paces, but then she leans out the window, her hand gripped on the supports of its edge. "Ser Kamron," she whispers out to him. There is a stalled moment as he inevitably turns back to her, and she is at a loss. "Goodnight," she manages, almost shyly.
Kamron takes half a step back as she is freed from his arms by her own support, but her words stop him, and the moon above reveals the white of his teeth as a crooked smile slips onto his features, "Good night, Lady Saffron." And then he well and truly steps back, offering a formal, courtly bow for all that he's in rumpled breeches and an unlaced shirt. Another step back, and he's turning about, Percival melting out of the shadows of the next tent over to join him, although the knight is silent as he retraces his steps back toward his own tent.