Snippet #1488491

~~~NUALA~~~
Nuala had exited the Feast hall and quietly made her way through the corridors to Jamie’ room after the bard had stopped her singing and been killed. Nuala paused outside when she heard voices. She stood there, listening to Eilis’ and Jamie’s from the shadows and not putting much stock into the things being spoken. It was clear enough that the bard had been Jamie’s doing and it did make her wonder why he would use others to serve his needs rather than deliver messages by himself. These Southron people, she understood them not.

“The storm will last until it is over.” She had entered the room as he spoke the last part of his words. Nuala did not care much for the company of Eilis and ignored his being there save for remembered where he was located in the chamber. She had come there to ask what Jamie was doing in his rooms while there was turmoil being stirred in the Feast hall.

Nuala went over to lean against the edge of a table and kept on surveying Jamie’ sitting form through dark eyes; she was not impressed in the slightest to see him acting this way. “You are moping.” She spoke her mind and put one hand on her hip while the other held the spear that was much like an extension of her physical body.

“Tch.” She made the sound from between parted lips and shook her head at the same time. Back in the North there was never time to sit around and bemoan fate, not when it could gore you in the side and rip out your entrails the second one decided to sit down. Yet here in the South nobody knew of that -- wherever she looked there would be another Lord or Lady lost in their own troubles and pitying themselves.

“She sang well,” Nuala went on to say, keeping her eyes on Jamie, “but why send a fox to do the job of a bear? There is little surprise to what happened.” To her it all sounded reckless and she found herself shaking her head again. Such strange games they played here in the South; strange games full of lies and many words.

~~~DANTE~~~
Dante had been instructed to keep an eye on things from a distance and his position had been behind the main table, lounging against a pillar out of view of the eyes of the guests. From this vantage point he had a perfect view of all that was occurring in the feasting hall. He could easily see the backs of the chairs occupied by Princess Adelaide and Prince Raban and all he had to do was stand there and watch them while keeping them in throwing knife’s distance.

To put things simply: the job was boring. Dante found himself yawning more than once and his thoughts drifting to think about how he would rather be conversing with Nasrin or playing cards with some of the palace guards. He did not give much of a fig for all the politics which were unfurling all around him. There was talk of engagements and other such trivialities and Dante found himself holding back a yawn.

He had not missed the Damian’s youngest son weaselling his way out of his chair and sneaking by. Dante could not blame the boy -- he would have most likely been trying to get out and do something more interesting had he been twelve and forced to sit for hours at a feast while adults talked of government. Dante considered going after him and actually doing his job, but decided not to. Young boys deserved to go about and have fun once in a while, Princes especially.

It would do Prince Raban more good to be able to run around on his own a bit and engage in play rather than be made to sit around. Children deserved to have time for fun and so Dante did not move an inch as he watched Raban slip off and bolt towards the door. Letting out a chuckle, Dante shook his head to himself and then half-heartedly returned to surveying the scene just as the beginning notes of ‘the Rains of Castamere’ began to echo throughout the hall.

That had certainly incited the sellsword’s interests. Spying the towering female bard, Dante took the time during which she sang the first few verses to rake his eyes across her body. The wench was a looker, that was for sure, but she was too tall for him to be willing to considering ploughing her fields. ‘Short little Nasrin would be so much sweeter...’

At some point the song ended. Dante picked at his fingernails. He did absolutely nothing as the Crown Prince hurled a knife at the bard who had turned her back and been walking away. A waste of a good woman, in his eyes, otherwise it was no loss for him. Dante did not know her and thus did not care.

The aim of the Crown Prince had been good -- not the best stance for throwing a dirk, though still very good as Lady Leliana had been thrilled to point out.

Dante went back to picking at his nails.