He decides to dance with Gwenevi.

"Gwenevi's...the least bad choice," he thinks. He turns his gaze to her and their eyes meet. To her credit, she keeps his gaze, although the confused and embarrassed look on her face tells him everything. The musicians play the first note, and they dutifully step towards one another. They embrace in the traditional posture, one arm around each other's backs, the other hands clasped and held close to the body.

"It's uh...Domic, right?" she murmurs, her green eyes flustered. "I uh, neva' knew yu looked at me like thiz..."

"Be careful, get it over with, just be honest," he thinks, focusing all his will and mindpower into forming the right words. "Gwenevi, I, uhhhhhhhh," he fails. "Fuck fuck fuck!"

"Ohh, you uh, dun't, do ya?" she sighs with a mix of relief and a bit of hurt while he nods affirmatively.

"I'm zorry - I uhm, didn't really wanna dance wit' my sista, and tha blonde well, uhm..."

"It'z complicated?"

"Mmhmm."

"I unda'stand," she murmurs, as they spin around. "And thiz dumb dance makes things eitha' romantic or awwkward," she jokes.

"Ma thanks foor your understanding," he says. "I should say something nice," he thinks. "And yu're very pretty Gwenevi - your uhhh, beau, is very lucky," he smiles.

"Oh, thankz," she flushes, smiling. "But uhm, he'z uhm, well..."

"It'z complicated too?"

"Yez - we've known each otha' foor zo long, but all we do iz jus' dance around the otha', we neva' take tha next step. I dun know if we wanna," she says a bit sadly.

"Have yu talked with 'im? About it?"

She smiles and shrugs. "A bit, but there'z a lot 'o things to cover," she mumbles.

"Well, I hope it workz out," he says.

She nods, smiling, as they spin and twirl around for the remainder of the dance, chatting amiably of other things. As it finishes, she wishes him good luck with Cerni, and he with her beau, and they bow politely goodbye. As she disappears into the crowd, he finds himself alone, and unsure what to do now, as the some dancers disperse or others stay for the next song. "I'll just go sit down for a bit," he thinks, making his way through the crowd, vaguely towards a corner of the tavern.

As he walks around a large group of craftsmen loudly discussing esoteric technique, he finds Velda, sitting behind a long table, covered with tankards and flagons, but unoccupied besides her. "Domic," she smiles. She sits at the end of the table, right in the corner of two walls.

"Oh, um Velda, hulloo again."

"Join me?" she inquires, motioning to the seat across from her, as she grasps a small goblet on the table.

"Ohm, of courze," he says, sitting down. "Don't want to be awkward," he thinks.

"Did you enjoy dancing?" she asks.

"Ouh, sure, I guess," he says.

"I always enjoyed the affirmation dance. It was very stimulating, meeting new people," she smiles sweetly at him.

His mind can't help but jump to a dirty place. "Don't be awkward," he thinks again. "I uh, zuppose it's alright," he says slowly.

"Mmm, I see. Didn't get to dance with who you wanted to, hmm? Was it that brunette who came and got you?"

"That'z ma sister," he says embarrassedly.

"Oh oh, my mistake, my apologies," she chuckles.

"It'z alright, and no, I uh, didn't get ta dance wit' who I wanted," he says, resignedly.

"I'm sorry," she says, gently touching his arm. "There are other dances in the future," she looks at him, smiling comfortingly.

"Thankz," he says, looking away, flushing slightly. He had caught himself following the curves of her body, wondering.

"Of course," she says, leaning back. "Now, when I didn't get to dance with who I wanted, I used to play a game, to take my mind off it. Would you like to hear about it?"

"Sure?" he murmurs.

"It's just a simple guessing game. I'd look around, find someone in the crowd, and try to guess things about them - where they work, if they're married, that sort of thing. Sometimes it's fun to choose people you know, to gauge how right the other person is. Would you like to try it?" she smiles sweetly.

"Zure, why not. Can I go first?" he asks and she nods. "Who'z that," he says, pointing at one of the craftsmen he just passed before sitting down.

She chuckles. "Oh, that's too easy - he's a dyer - look at how stained his fingertips are," she smiles as he nods in agreement, dismayed a bit at his obvious choice. "Now, who do you think that is," she says, pointing at a woman dressed in garish purple, part of a large group.

He looks closely. "Purple, rich. Not in dance, married," he thinks. "Merchant, married, cause she didn't dance," he pauses. "Rich, rich," he thinks. "Deals in furz, wit' a bit o' guld, probably. She wears 'er wealth," he says.

"You're right, she does deal in furs, but not gold," she says, sipping from her goblet. He points to an older man, dressed in black leathers, sipping slowly from a small tankard, chatting with passerby - the night watchman he and Cerni hid from.

"An off-duty night watchman - they like colors like that. Married, with young children, but his wife's not here. She likely stayed behind to watch them," she says.

"Uhmm, yes, he's a watchman, but how'd yoou know tha rest? That all true?" he says.

She just smiles. "Who's that?" she says, pointing to a painfully nondescript man. He sits at a table occupied by a few others, wearing a long black doublet. His beard is trimmed short, and he grasps a copper tankard in one hand.

"Hrmm," he grumbles. "Not really much to go off, could be discrete rich, or flashy poor," he thinks for a few moments. "I uh, dun know," he shrugs, after a bit.

"Have you looked under his table?" she asks, sipping from her goblet.

"Under his table?" he thinks, as he leans down a bit. It's difficult to see, with people moving in front of his vision, but the man seems to be holding something, something glinting. "And there's, a bag? At his feet," he thinks. Then it comes to him. "A thief," he murmurs.

Velda chuckles. "A thief, my my, why do you think that?" she says sweetly.

"He'z too borin' up top, and he has a bag and knife to cut pursez."

"You certainly have an active imagination. Who's your next choice?"

Her nonchalant attitude gives him pause. He turns back to her, staring into her grey eyes. "Why'd yoou tell me to look unda' tha table? Who'z that man?" he murmurs suspiciously. "I should choose you next, so you can describe yourself," he thinks.

She simply chuckles again, a pleasing sound, and leans forward, meeting his gaze. "If you can't gauge a man over a table, look under it," she says softly, intensely. "And I don't know, never seen him in my life," she says, leaning back.

His dick twitches, and he can't but flush a bit, mumbling in agreement. "I don't know if I like this game anymore," he thinks, searching for his next choice. "There, Izabel. Try to guess about her from the back of her head," he thinks, spotting her dark waves of hair. "That dark-'aired woman, standin' ova' there," he points.

"Hmm, your sister?" she murmurs. He opens his mouth, surprised, searching for words, but she continues. "Oh, don't look like that. There's no trick to it. Your sister's hair is very singular, and I saw enough of it to remember it forever, when she called you over to dance."

He regains his composure and nods, then he smirks. "Wha's she do fur a job?" he says. "Try to guess that correctly."

"Your sister is a journeywoman apothecary at Herut's, where I go to buy cosmetics. Really Domic, you must try harder," she smiles teasingly as he flushes in irritation. "Now tell me, who's the short blond girl, talking with your sister?"

"I don't like this game," he thinks, uneasy, looking at Cerni. "Is her choice a coincidence? Is she working with Halle? She came to me before, but then I just came to her now," the thoughts slosh around in his head. "What if she **** me?" he panics, "no no, I'm just too drunk." He glances back to Velda, whose grey eyes watch him, finishing the rest of her goblet. "She must know who Cerni is, everyone here knows Halle. Why does she want to know what I think Cerni is?"

"Are you almost done thinking?" Velda asks quietly.

He swallows, and tries to keep his tone level, casual. "She'z monied, some burgher's daughta', by 'er necklace, clothes. Maybe in tha guard, in 'er term 'o service, by 'er age," he says, turning back to her. "Am I right? Who'z she?"

She just smiles. "Two more, Domic. Then I need more wine," she murmurs, setting down her empty goblet, tracing the tip of her forefinger around its edge. He stares into her grey iron eyes, and slowly points his finger at her. "The game doesn't work like that. Find someone you really want to know more about, and I'll tell you about them," she says.

He turns back to the crowd slowly. "She'll tell me? Not guess?" he thinks, uneasiness growing cancerously. He searches a bit and then he sees him, the one person out of all he wants to know more about. He points to Halle.

Velda chuckles. "Oh yes, our host," she says, sliding across the table to him, talking softly and closely into his ear. "A bullish chess player, with many pieces. Pawns, knights, bishops, rooks...and a queen. He moves them across the board in the way he thinks, or hopes, is best."

"Who - no - 'ow many games iz he playin'?" he whispers, seeing her grin in his peripheral vision. The gesture sends tingle of pride through him.

"Hmm, very perceptive, Domic," she says, amused. "Only he knows how many he truly plays, but it is likely a great many, against foes of different skill. And perhaps a few whom he doesn't even know he's playing against," she says.

"I'm, I'm just a pieze, aren't I?" he whispers, already knowing the answer.

Velda leans closer to him, close enough now that he can feel the barest trace of her breath on his ear. "No. No one's just a piece. His pieces play with him, maybe simpler games, but games nevertheless," she whispers, and then after a moment, she leans back. "One more," she says, and he looks over at her. Her hand rests lazily on her chest, just touching the gold band around her neck.

"A woman who plays games with men," the thought appears in an instant, but he doesn't say that. "A uh, interestin' woman," he says, trying to smile casually. "Ethereal, allurin'," he blurts. He blushes as she chuckles.

"Oh, you flatter me, thank you," she smiles sweetly, leaning forward. She gently touches his hand with the tips of her fingers for just a moment. "I'm afraid I must be going now. But this was a pleasure - and I'm sure we'll see each other in the future," she says, as she stands up and walks around the table.

Despite his unease, a twinge of excitement travels down his body to his dick at the thought. "I do too - uh, gudnight," he says, fusing his eyes to hers.

"Goodnight, Domic," she says quietly, looking down at him, smiling. Then she turns and slowly walks away. He watches her, a wave of relief washing over him when she finally disappears into the crowds of people.

"I am just crazy? Drunk? Is she just some weirdo?" he thinks these and a hundred other thoughts as he turns around to trace patterns in the wooden table. He traces and thinks, for maybe a few moments - or perhaps a few minutes. Then someone gently touches his shoulder.

"Here yu go, Domic," Gwenevi says, setting down a big tankard in front of him.

"Wha, I," he mumbles confusedly, looking up at her, then down at the tankard, filled with what seems to be cold water. "Gwenevi, I didn'-" he says, but her red hair is already disappearing behind a group of craftsmen. "Did Velda order this for me?" he thinks. He sniffs it, peers down into it, smears some on his wrist, watching and waiting as it evaporates and nothing happens. "I am going crazy - she **** me? After she leaves?" he thinks, sighing, as he dips a pinky in it and lightly touches a drop to his tongue. It tastes like cold water. "Guess she's just nice - or she likes me," he thinks, smirking, putting the tankard to his lips and enjoying the water. He finishes, sighing contentedly, looking down into the tankard, another thought twisting itself into his mind: "Gwenevi doesn't work here."

...

He and Izabel arrive home, having stumbled and trudged back to their house as the party wound down. “Come ‘ere, Domic,” she asks, calling him from the kitchen as he takes his shoes off, wriggling his feet. He wanders into the shadowed kitchen, where she stands, peering at two jars. Finally, she hands him one. “Drink – help wit’ ‘angover tomorrow,” she says, popping the lid off hers and downing it. He does the same – it tastes terrible, some bitter, runny sludge. He chokes as she sets her jar down, looking at him. "Yu alright? I'm zorry it tastes bad."

"Yez, I'm fine," he mutters, thinking about his conversation with Velda. "Haz a silver 'aired woman eva' come to Herut's? Tall? Name Velda?"

"Whaa?" Izabel groans as she sets the empty jars on a shelf. "Uhmm I think zo, lotza old women come in. Is she uh, kinda, um?"

"Weird?"

"Yeah, I guess, zure. Why yoou care?"

"It'z nuthing, dun worry."

"Yoou zure?" she murmurs, staring quizzically at him, trying to keep the fog of sleep from covering her eyes. He nods tiredly and she shrugs.{if Izabel ****=1} "Let'z go to bed then."{else} "Alright, I'm goin' to bed."{endif}

"Mmhmm," he mumbles, mechanically following her up the stairs.{if Izabel ****=1} He trudges up, reaches the dark upper hallway, mind wandering, following the swish of her skirts, through a door on the left. "Wait," he thinks.

Izabel chortles quietly. "Uh, this izn't your room," she says, her vague form turning around in the gloom of her room and then twisting down to the side of her body.

"Oh uh, yez, I'm zorry, just followin' yu to bed," he mumbles. She snorts quietly, fingers barely visible as they fumble with her bodice lacing. "I mean uhm," he mumbles, feeling his face flushing.

"Hmm, I know wha yoou meant."

"Uhhuh, uh gudnight," he says, turning to scamper away.

"Gudnight," she says and then, "grrm, uh wait, wait...can yoou 'elp me?" she says with a bit of annoyance, her arms pointing to her side.

"Uhhuh," he says, moving over her. "Laces top?" he asks, pressing his open hand to her side and running it up.

"Nuh, they're down," she mumbles. He runs his hand down, grabbing the knot of laces and starting to fumble with them.

"Zo, uh, who'd you dance wit'? Avfermation dance," he wonders.

"Heljo. Why?" she responds, a bit curtly.

"Heeey, hey, dun do that, just asking," he mumbles, still fumbling with the infuriating laces. "Do I need to uh, get to know 'im? 'Iz family?"

"No. He'z an idiot, I've no interest in 'im."

"Gud," he mutters. "There," he says, finally undoing the laces.

She sighs happily as her bodice loosens. "Thankz," she murmurs, turning around to face him.

"Mmhmm, anytime," he says. "And uh gudnight," he quickly adds.

"Hmm, gudnight," she murmurs with bemusement, leaning forward to kiss him on the cheek. Flushing, he retreats briskly to his room before he says something stupid, like offering to help with her skirt. He shuts his door and collapses into bed, hoping sleep takes him before thoughts about Izabel replace his thoughts about chess pieces.{else} He trudges up, mumbles a quick goodnight to her, and heads to his room, collapsing into bed, filled with thoughts of chess pieces.{endif}