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 The Rogue and The Wildflower, Flashback | Dawson Greyjoy
Astris Martell
 Posted: Dec 20 2017, 05:05 AM
QUOTE.  


Wildflowers rot in the shade.

If you have gold dragons to part with then there is no better place in Planky Town. The trader town is filled with exotic delights from the decks of vessels docking from the Narrow Sea. These delicious entrapments infiltrate the walls of the most grand establishment in the Dornish Location. A Tavern entitled The Terrible Kiss. One of the few who features gargoyles of men either side of the entrance. Stoic, solid, silent. One with skin as black ebony. The other as pale as alabaster. Security for a drinking hole that caters to those with titles and those with items, information and other such commodities to be sold to said highborn.

A home of decadence but with a seedy underbelly that is dressed up in finery. A gust of spice-infused air hits you as you enter. A cacophony of scents that are near impossible to pull apart. Salt from the sea. Raw Sand. Cinnamon. Smoke. Dark Wood. Orchids from parts of the world seen by few. Saffron. Pepper. Mist that can leave a guest breathless for a moment until they get used to the heavy cloud that envelopes the whole room. Music trills from various instruments played by minstrels hired specifically to perform for the clientele.

Topless dancing girls who double as barmaids swirl about the floor in bare feet. Anklets of copper coin about their ankles and almost sheer pale fabric secured loosely around their hips. Several games of Cyvasse are underway on boards that have been sat at by many a traveller. Set in alcoves in the far side of the room these are often scenes of gambling that most would not have the pockets to handle. Atmospheric mood lighting allows the onyx and jade set pieces to be observed from afar, while shielding the lowered heads of the players from prying eyes. Relentless torches enflame the bar which is manned by regal looking men. Bare-chested with intricate tattoos adorning their torsos.

As beautiful as the sights and sounds are, the customers are a rowdy bunch. Drunk on not just the commonly procured Dornish Red but concoctions from everywhere possible. The wooden tables are stained with many a spilled drink. Signs of an earlier scuffle presented with dribbles of blood down a wall. Those present are as eclectic as the drugs and beverages available. A kaleidoscope of colours and cultures that would have you think you’d sailed across to Essos.

However easy as is for even the most flamboyant travellers to blend into the crowd it’s hard to miss the Dornish Princess. Dancing upon a table with a handmaiden either side of her, Astris is enjoying an evening out that isn’t going to ruffle any feathers. One of many nights. She had already been part of the mass of coming and going bodies for the previous three nights also. She had primarily returned to seek the face of one she had seen the evening before. Astris had made the mistake of bringing bodyguards with her that had blocked every approach she had made towards one individual. Claiming he wasn’t someone a Princess should be fraternising with. This of course just made Astris all the more curious.

Attending this time with her handmaidens she was hell-bent on finding him. If only to find out why it was she shouldn’t be seen speaking with such a man. One girl was already murderous drunk. Not so much dancing beside her Princess, more swaying with an intoxicated roll to her limbs. The other a plump grinning cherub unashamedly running her hands down the curves of Astris’ hips. Sneaking around to grasp a buttock with greedy fingers. Astris throws her head back. Raven hair tumbling down her back. Eyes closed. Letting every tendril of The Terrible Kiss to embed itself in her skin. The sirens call of her movements could possibly entice any man if she wasn’t also pairing it with horrendous singing.

“I see you watching me. Eyes on your target. Mix drinks and smoke rings. It's already started. It won't be too long before me and you. Are doing what lovers dooooo”

Some could say she makes up the fact she can’t hold a tune to save herself with the sheer passion in which she warbles along with several other patrons. Stroking the table top with her bare toes. Ravishing her fingers through her own wild hair before then dancing them upon the ample supply of naked flesh she has on display. A hot night in Dorne lends to little clothing. Just a strip of red silk bound about her like she were a maypole. Every now and again her shiny eyes open to waltz over the crowd. Hoping that she might spot the person who she had been barred from introducing herself to. .

tag: MISHA Word Count:795 // credit: below the sun
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