Kings of the castle

[Oriena]

Oriena watched the die fall with only passing interest; she hadn’t yet internalised the consequences of each number, so the tumble and final rest didn’t hold as much tension as it might. It needed translation. As it turned out she hadn’t lost, though neither had she won – which left her oddly dissatisfied. She sat back with her drink, content to watch the next round of dares, faintly entertained by Jaxen’s reaction to having lost. Again. Then Jon’s forfeit prompted the rise of her brows, glass still pressed to her lips in contemplation. Not what she had been expecting, though in hindsight the demand fit his eccentricity. Those old coin cufflinks. His wordy expressions. It was fucking archaic.

She leaned forward to place her drink back on the table. “You’re funny, Jon.”
Her voice was utterly deadpan, pierced with accusation that did nothing to clarify in which sense she meant, though her expression betrayed amusement; if she was being insulting, it was not meant to cut.

Ori didn’t expect much from Jaxen; not for a dare like that. She wasn’t exactly impressed herself, though probably not for the reasons to be expected. It was Jon’s phrasing that did it; she could almost feel the whisper of strings about her wrists, though Jon’s was a subtle manipulation. One gentle tug, the suggestion of a direction, but he was happy to see how things unfolded from there. He’d been watching them, before, and now the numbers and dice gave him a pretext to interfere - and so far a run of luck that had made his voyeuristic show an interactive one. He was toying with them. Of that Ori didn’t quite know what to think.

Her gaze slid back to Jaxen, and her attention followed. His preening elicited a discouraging smirk, and a momentary edge of scorn to the way he framed himself irresistible. So unnecessary. Physical attraction was not in question, and he knew it. Large egos sometimes hid insecurities that fed bloated on self-boasting, the kind she usually enjoyed dismantling. Not that she didn’t look, of course; a show needed an audience, and she was buffered by enough alcohol to sedate the urge to be contrary for its own sake, to enjoy the display that was, for the moment, for her own benefit. Because there were games, point-scoring, conflicts of power. There was also just getting what you wanted.

Words were Ori’s weapons, so he probably made a wise gamble in bypassing any question that would have left a decision for her to toy with. Not that she wouldn’t have made a suitable plea worth his effort. Eventually. She could have pulled back from him; insisted upon terms that would no doubt have stoked his brief flashes of irritation from a simmer to a blaze. Could she press him that far? It offered a tempting invitation, to find out. Oriena wasn’t beyond petty cruelty. But she also had her own interests in mind.

There was no hesitation. She rose fluidly to the tug of his hand, as elegantly as if it’d been rehearsed. A pleasant rush of intoxication heated her senses as she stood, sharpened by the hold she maintained on the power – which she should probably drop, though she didn’t. “Not even a little bit of begging?”
A false heaping of petulance coated the words, an exaggerated air of disappointment. It was the closest to approval she would offer for his boldness, other than the fact she followed; and more than that, she let him lead.

Whatever potential Jon saw in a bit of undesignated space, it wasn’t an intended dancefloor. They were certainly going to draw stares, not that such bothered Ori; she lapped up the attention, good or ill, and given half a chance would spin the inane dare into something worth watching.