Campfires and Other Things That Burn

[Doran Cooney]

Astonished that he had guessed true, Doran turned a wide eyed look of bewilderment towards the man beside him. "Really?" There was nothing but baldfaced surprise in his face and voice. While he felt a bit of a giddy excitement, as Alistair explained, his smile faded to a more sombre expression. The words need not be said; the other man's face finished the story well enough. It seemed Doran had been correct in his reasoning, though he still found the idea of romance between one's own blood - especially the act of copulation - to be a bit much. It was a peculiar thing to share, and Doran wondered if Alistair had done so in an attempt to win the game, or if he had hoped Doran might guess correctly. He was more tempted to consider the prior, as, regardless of caste, incestual relations were hardly subjects of praise.

Whatever his opinion of the act, he respected Alistair's feelings and murmured a gentle, "I see... I'm so sorry." He didn't press the matter. His cousin's death seemed to be one that Alistair had better come to terms with; but Doran knew well that such things always left scars that, if there was no need to, were better left to continue healing. There was a time for airing one's pain and another for merely gently remembering it, and Doran waited patiently until Alistair was ready to continue.

When he was, light seemed to return to Alistair's eyes, and Doran, though with some reservation as the sober mood had yet to fully lift, grinned at the unexpected kisses, gently pushing him away with a palm to the other man's forehead. "That tickles." Clearing his throat, Doran adjusted his posture, leaning forward to free himself of Alistair's arm for a moment before settling back beneath it, considering the had he might play.

In his experience, the lies that were closest to the truth were those he had the best chances of telling, so he mulled over his life experiences. He already knew his past was not nearly so colored as Alistair's, and that left him at some disadvantage. As he'd been the one to suggest the game, he in turn wanted to end its victor. It was a matter of how that eluded him. "Very well..." His airy reply was more a contemplative sigh than a real response, and his gaze rose toward the vaulted wooden ceiling of the cabin, tracing the lines of the wood's grain in thought.

"My three. The first, I was born a bastard of the house Venora, which would make us cousins." His words were even and metered. He knew he was bad at telling lies, thus he opted to make each of his three sound the same, regardless of content, a suspiciously deliberate meter delivered in his same airy tone. "The second, my mother - ashamed - chose to raise me as her nephew when she finally did marry. And the third," He moved right along, not wanting to give anything away and making a point to keep his eyes fixed on the ceiling. "Marcel, the man I told you was my cousin, is in fact my brother by blood - on my mother's side."

[Alistair]

"Don't worry about it," the man immediately replied, not wishing for Doran to feel all too great a concern or pity for his fallen cousin. Alistair had loved Theodore, and he missed him... but there was nothing he could've done to change his fate; he had always felt that way. Theodore killed himself while Alistair was gone - and for important reasons. He had done it to cry out, and even... to spite him. But Alistair could not have done anything, and since then, he had spoken with him.

Vri came upon the mage, as did Ymiden . . . and both had given him the opportunity to speak to his fallen family and find forgiveness. Theodore gave him a task, and Alistair fulfilled it. There was nothing more to be said, or done.

Instead, he gleefully moved on towards the next set of mysteries, three small stories laid out before him. Doran had challenged him equally as much, though he was certain that at least the first of his tales was false. He would've... told Alistair by now if he was a bastard. There was simply no way he would not know - and being a bastard meant a very different, yet challenging life. They had more wealth and influence than most, particularly considering they were still directly related to the Seven. It was simply... implausible.

The difficulty, though, was that Doran led one story into the next - in fact, all three stories were intricately tied together. He was a Venora bastard with a common mother, who proceeded to hide him and claim him as her nephew . . . and she also gave birth to Marcel? The mage squinted. Did Marcel and Doran really share the same mother? It seemed . . . interesting, but certainly plausible. But, then, why would he call Marcel his cousin?

On the opposite side, considering the first two stories linked directly together... were they then both automatically false? Or was this a play at disqualifying the second statement due to the falsehood of the first?

"Sly," the mage simply responded. He wasn't so nearly as good at these games as Doran, it seemed. Thinking on it, Marcel being his brother-cousin actually made sense if he was his mother's nephew in name. But then, the only thing justifying Marcel being his brother-cousin was the second story; it was reliant on it.

With nothing but logic alone, he made his assertion.

"Your mother chose to raise you as her nephew," he stated, apprehensively. "...Right?"

It made sense, and it wasn't uncommon for a woman to do, particularly considering the value men tended to carry on being 'first'. The first to father, first to lay with, first to marry. No man truly wanted to be second, not to other men or with other men. Alistair was different in that he valued his partners more on their compatibility than their virginity - though for a simple farmer without much ambition, he supposed the prior chastity of their partner was one of the few trophies they could raise. As primitive as it was.

[Doran Cooney]

At Alistair's comment, Doran turned to face him, "You think so?" He chuckled, leaning back into Alistair's arm and counting the times his companion's chest rose and fell while he waited. He wanted Alistair to be wrong, naturally, as then he would win the privilege of getting to watch him perform for him. Yet, he also wasn't opposed to Alistair guessing correctly. After all, the point of the game was to further their understanding of one another - at least, in theory. He imagined he could have gone his entire life happily blissful of Alistair's past incest, though he supposed he was relieved that it had been more of an emotional romance than physical one.

When the answer did come, Doran couldn't help but to be a bit disappointed with himself. In a slight frown, he nodded, clearly not quite as happy as he would have been had Alistair guessed false. "What gave it away?" He took some comfort in the uncertain tone that Alistair employed, but ultimately, they were tied. Sighing through his nose, his smile gently returned as he leaned back into Alistair, speaking towards the ceiling. "Well, yes. You're correct."

Deciding it best to provide a more insightful answer, as Alistair had done before, Doran continued, his pace much more usual, rather than the intended oddity he'd used before. "All three were... true, in a sense. My aunt - or... mother then, I suppose - was..." He paused, pursing his lips for moment. "Anyway, I was not an expected birth, and I had - and have - no father. Whoever he was, I doubt he came from nobility." He gently laughed at the very idea. Alistair was worlds apart from him, even having been banished and his title stripped. He knew well there was a divide between them that, no matter their feelings, would always exist. It wasn't something he was particularly worried about, merely something he acknowledge, like much about the confusing and impossible man Alistair had turned out to be.

"And as you guessed, she - my aunt, as I call her now - instructed me as a child that I was to be her nephew, recently orphaned after a tragic accident involving a mill and several oxen." The Cooneys, from whom he had received his name, had been distant relatives. They were long since dead, and he'd never met them, even as a child. They had been nothing but strangers who's deaths had proved a timely convenience for his aunt. "But Marcel truly is my cousin - on my aunt's side, in fact." In his story, Marcel had played the part of Lily. Doran wasn't quite sure how to approach that subject without falling into a bit of malaise, and he was enjoying himself.

Choosing to wait for a less convivial setting, Doran turned towards Alistair, gently kissing the man's warm shoulder with an affectionate peck. His words carried a fair amount of enjoyable laughter. "It seems we're evenly matched." As they had both passed, Doran wondered what might next, expectantly staring up at the other man's thoughtful expression.

[Alistair]

He grinned triumphantly as his victory was declared, at least... for that single round. They were one for one, neither yet having to perform any notable acrobatic feat. Beyond that, he found himself compelled in knowing this of Doran, and he was unsure of whether or not to feel sorrow or satisfaction in knowing. He was . . . a bastard, just not one of House Venora. His mother, ashamed, had raised him a nephew as she married another. He was punished by his father, left by him, only to be punished by his mother for being illegitimate.

This, like many other ridiculous cultural practices and conceptions, needed to be changed. The unnecessary stigma that rung through Idalos' many cultures, stigma that typically punished the vulnerable and rewarded the villainous. What was that man's retribution, he wondered? Doran's father? Likely . . . nothing.

Though, during at least one portion of the story, he found himself forced to subside his laughter. A mill and several oxen? How odd - why not go for the typical bandit murdering story? Was this how Oxentide had been born, he wondered - a tidal wave of oxens, creating thousands of industrious orphans in their wake? Of course, he felt rather unkind for making such light of the story... but he found Doran's mother-aunt's tale to be oddly entertaining. Still, he kept his thoughts to his head, and tried to keep that same ungenerous humor away from his expression. Instead of a smile, he demonstrated an oddly warped frown, though one with a raised curve at the end of his lips.

Regardless, it was time to move on to the next round. He kept his thoughts reserved, and his questions for later. Of course, Alistair did want to inquire upon what had happened to Doran's mother, though his assumption was that she had been violated, which brought on a swell of empathy. He loathed how the victims were so often given the ire on such occasions - largely because, in truth, Alistair had faced the same ailment in his life. The man who had done it was the father who raised him, and it was from this significant and frequent action that his evils initially originated. His sister, who shared the same fate as him, had suffered in much the same way... and died as lost as she had been raised.

Truly, the two shared considerable grief; it was clear that neither of them had followed from idyllic pasts. This, if anything, made Alistair's feelings for Doran grow. He knew of sorrow, of injustice. Yet, he continued on, tethered only lightly to his sorrow and not insidiously. He had utilized it as a platform from which to grow. Alistair admired him immensely, for that.

"Alright, my go," he said, finally breaking from all of the curiosities and contemplations. He'd already laid out much of the stories he wanted to tell, and so, they came naturally.

"I speak five languages fluently," he started. "I nearly married several noble-women from several major Houses, only to call off the marriage each time. And, I had a period in my youth where I was so fat, they called me the Blooming Rose," he looked away, a silly grin covering his lips. The Blooming Rose. He supposed it was better than the Wilted Rose, at least.

[Doran Cooney]

Though he meant to listen carefully, Doran couldn't help but snicker a stifled cough of a laugh at the name, catching himself in realization that it might be true. He sat up, eyes wide with apology and hand over his face to hide the smile that seemed to have a mind of its own. "I'm- I'm so terribly sorry, I-" He coughed into the crook of his arm, trying to regain his composure. "The Blooming Rose". What a horrendous moniker for a poor, portly child.

The man before him was handsome, muscled, intelligent, and well-spoken. That he were the human equivalent of a butterfly's metamorphoses wasn't impossible, but he couldn't even being to imagine him falling under any such descriptions as "fat" or their kind. It was incredibly endearing, to think of a little roly-poly Alistair, bobbling about. Quite definitely nothing like he was now.

"Please excuse me." He let his hand fall back into his lap, face a bit more under control though mirth still glimmered in his eyes. "Five languages - five fluent languages?" He raised a brow at that. "And weddings that would never come to be." Though perhaps he should have spent more time on his guess, Doran felt rather confident this round.

Nobles were notorious for their planned espousals. Even some of the more prominent commoners practiced such things, marrying not for love but for political security. The poor and the peasantry did so more for financial stability - and Doran had always viewed marriage as such: not a thing of love but a contract to be signed. Alistair was a tight knot of emotion, and, in his own way, he was not unlike Lily, who had often spoken of husbands and wives with so romantic an opinion. With a rather confident lilt to his voice, Doran chose his answer.

"The marriages." While the first was certainly impressive, Doran had no real reason to believe it. If it were true, he mostly certainly would demand a demonstration, and was quite ready to argue the better points of "fluency" in his favor. As for the period of his bloated childhood... Doran still couldn't really imagine it, though it brought another embarrassed smile to his lips and flushed his cheeks just so.

[Alistair]

Alistair laughed with Doran's laugh; clearly, he was not offended, though of course it was only funnier when Doran imagined that he might be. In actuality, Alistair had been of an average weight, and he'd begun to train his physique from early on. Skinny men often died skinny and fat men often died fat; the body was a flexible thing, but for many, its portions were constrained. Alistair likely would not have developed the physicality he had today, if he'd been raised a frumpy child. Perhaps he would've been thicker set, more bearish... he could not know.

And, certainly, Alistair did not speak five languages fluently - only two. While he did speak Ith'ession, Rakahi and Atvian by their most basic principles, he could certainly not hold a conversation, and for that matter regale a speech. Common and Haltunga were his only two languages of relative fluency, and so, Doran in fact answered correctly... this time without all the same embarrassment associated with the correct response.

Alistair simply nodded. "Correct, again," he said. Doran was good at this, surely. He supposed neither of them were necessarily challenged in the realm of logic, and much of this was about... using knowledge of the other to make a logical assertion. This only proved that they knew the foundation of one another very well, something the mage appreciated.

"I was engaged to, at one point... Olivia Warrick, Elyna Burhan, and Celeste Andaris. All three weddings, I shot down near their finalization; I refused to marry or bed a woman, noble or otherwise," he stated, proudly. If there was any one thing he'd never faltered with, it was his predilection towards men. It had never done much good for him in the realm of nobility, but, he stood by his base feelings regardless. He would never claim to love a woman romantically, nor would he willingly bed one, even his wife. The attraction was simply not there - nor the romance. He liked men, everything about them.

If he could've found a gallant noble husband who would've fought the laws and traditions of the Kingdom, he would have done so, and his fate and future within the Kingdom would have been very different; he and Fridgar would have never gotten married, and he would've never been linked to the King's supposed assassination attempt. Alas, this was not where his life had led to.

"Alright - your turn. Three more stories. This will have to be the last of them, however. I'm feeling... compelled by sleep," he admitted, a sudden onset of tiredness hitting him. The mage supposed he hadn't been sleeping enough, of late. It was the downside to any ambition, losing the quiet, the solitude. The blackness one viewed when lain upon the bed frame. Somehow, being with Doran made him desire to rest. He felt... pleasantly at ease.

[Doran Cooney]

Doran happily settled back into his place beside Alistair on the couch, leaning against his arm, as he was told he was, once more, correct. He enjoyed winning. While he was not so competitive that he actively sought out tournaments to conquer, he preferred to be victor over defeated. Content in his success, he listened to Alistair's explanation, nodding slowly at the names. While he could not place faces to them, anyone who had been raised with Rynmere's realms knew of Warricks, Burhans, and, especially, the Andaris'. He'd never have guessed he'd kept company with such prestigious women, though he supposed Alistair himself had been quite high ranking before the incident with... the door. Still, that Alistair had turned such powerful houses down... Doran had to wonder if he had ever been a normal noble at all.

His comment about women elicited a surprised tilt of Doran's head. "Then... you are solely attracted to men?" While he knew, quite well, that Alistair was attracted towards those of the male persuasion, he'd assumed that it was a preference split, not singularly focused. He imagined that that must have caused quite a fair amount of trouble for Alistair and his house; but he, in turn, found himself quite impressed with the man's resolute conviction. He'd never given much thought to his own proclivities when it came to affairs of the heart. In fact, aside from a certain alchemist - who was, he supposed, also a man - he'd never even felt much attraction towards anyone - not in the romantic sense, anyway. But when he was around Alistair... He found his cheeks involuntarily flushing. Alistair was much different from any man or woman he'd ever known, and he quite enjoyed that.

"Drowsy already?" Doran turned to face him, a smile on his lips, and jest in his voice, though there was a hint of genuine concern. "Am I truly so insipid?" Unsure as to whether he wanted an answer to that or not, he instead shook his, moving right along. "Very well, three from me, then I shall be declared victor." He spoke factually, not necessarily over-confident, merely sure that he would best Alistair at their game.

"The first: I've nearly been arrested the by guard twice. Just this season alone." He spoke evenly, but had since reclined back into the sofa, making certain to keep his gaze away from his companions. "The second: I was in a brawl involving meat and inflation, but I lost and had to be dragged out of the mud by a frantic, dark haired dancer." He came to his final option, still eyeing the ceiling and speaking with a deliberately thoughtful tone. "And the third: I met a Tunäwä - one of those... little plantlike creatures - who was intent upon freeing all of the slaves of Rynemere; she requested I be her mount to ferry her through the city for the trial."

When he had finished, he turned to look expectantly at his companion, a merry grin on his face.

[Alistair]

"You, my darling, are the opposite of insipid," the mage merely replied, a coy smile growing across his lips as he stared confidently at the other. Again, perhaps, the aromatic attraction would spread - but all too naturally, and so scarcely a part of Alistair's will. The tone of desire always laid beneath them, and certainly when asked of Doran's 'flavor' Alistair could only remind him of how sweet he tasted . . . and how nice it might be to taste, and feel, more of him.

He did not directly answer as to his attractions, as he found them to be obvious, and mistook Doran's question for a rhetorical one. Alistair had never onced eyed a Lady in a suggestive manner - not even all of the many beauties that served as Venora's courtiers, handmaidens and other professionals at the hand of the ducal crown. He, too, had many lovely ones serving him - but only lovely in their smile, and in the gentle demeanor that they were trained to express. In matters of both lust and love, his eyes wandered elsewhere.

Men like... William Grayson, had been the foundations of his sensuality as a youth. He, to this day, frowned upon the lost opportunity to truly know a man like him - a noble Lord with similar predilections as he. Alistair had always respected his fellow Lords, and perhaps that had been intricately tied to his attraction to them. It was... complicated, and in some ways, foul.

Unlike their very light-hearted game, though in truth, Doran's stories had gotten wholly outrageous. None of them seemed particularly normal, though the mage found that the first two were considerably doubtful, whereas the third was just... odd.

Alistair could not imagine a man such as Doran being arrested, and certainly not even considered for arrest; he was too sweet and gentle. He supposed the more... to put it bluntly, flowery of men tended to be viewed in a way that associated them with magic or suspicious motivations, but even then the likelihood was... low. The second, he deemed outright impossible; this was not something that might have occurred. Doran was the opposite of violent. Even as Alistair had assaulted his dignity and pinned him down, he did not lay a single finger upon the mage with any intention or inflicting pain.

And finally, the third story. A Tunawa who wanted to free every slave in Rynmere... who requested Doran as her mount. If one thing stuck out to Alistair on the final story, it was the way in which he described her. One of those... little plantlike creatures, he called her, as if he wasn't properly certain on how to describe her. This painted the final story as being more genuine - he recalled her appearance, but did not have an immediate explanation for her on-hand. Hopefully, his perceptiveness would do him a favor in this regard, though he still mulled over the story a little more.

This was, after all, his final chance to tie the game; he didn't much like losing, even in trivial matters. Few would forget how abusively he focused down the debate section of the Cylus Ball - practically made the other contestants cry with how mercilessly he assaulted their arguments.

Tunawa were very often slaves, in Rynmere. His family held many, many Tunawa as slaves. They did much of their gardening, and the flowers grown from a Tunawa's head were considered much more beautiful, and valuable. Alistair had worn many on formal occasions. He was certain there was a considerable number of Tunawa who resented slavery, and sought freedom.

And, they seemed somewhat dumb, based on his encounters with them. So certainly, freeing all of them might feel feasible to a little wooden ankle-biter.

"The final. You met a Tunawa who wanted to free all of the slaves in Rynmere. Is this correct?" he asked. "If it is -" Alistair continued, "will you lie down with me?" the mage followed, immediately. He desperately hoped yes, though he knew Doran was a patient man. Had he earned the right to hold him in the night? Possibly, or possibly not. If there was one thing he was certainly poor at, it was timing things in a way that didn't end in him being rebuffed.

"I wouldn't make any advances," he added, innocently.

[Doran Cooney]

Before Doran could confirm or deny Alistair's guess, the man proceeded with another question, one that, while his cheeks flushed a light rose at the forwardness and nature of the suggestion, elicited a bright, airy bought of laughter. He leaned forward, his mirth filled eyes and wide grin betraying his response even before he said it. "Then, shall we instead hinge your last request on whether or not you have tied with me?" The question was rhetorical, and Doran continued unimpeded. While he most certainly found the thought of lying beside Alistair, being able to simply feel the rise and fall of his chest and listen to the quiet sounds of his breath, an alluring invitation, their game was not finished, and Alistair has so presumptuously thought himself an equal victor. Penalty was in order, after all.

"Let's start with the second, shall we?" He was, quite clearly, enjoying himself. "I was in a brawl at the meat market, only... I didn't lose." His left eye winked at the other man. Doran was well aware he looked nothing like a fighter, but he could hold his own well enough. His childhood at required it of him. "And the dark haired dancer? She and I managed to force out way out of the tumult, but she was more of a burden than a savior." Holding up a finger, he continued. "Which brings us to my first unfortunate near arrest. There was so much muck and rain though... I doubt anyone would recognise me." He chuckled, clearly not worried about being found out.

"As for the Tunäwä..." His tone remained light, but there was a hint of apology in his voice. "Well, it's a bit of technicality. All I said was true, save that I suggested we travel the city together, not she." Doran's smile seemed a bit more sheepish. He knew that the point of the game had been to misdirect the other while still sharing parts about themselves, but he couldn't help but feel a little guilty for so underhanded a tactic. "And that is what led to my second brush with the city guard. Fortunately, everything worked out."

"Now then," Doran cocked his head, regarding Alistair with a pensive furrow of his brow, though his lips remained in a bemused, upward curve. "It seems that I am the victor, which would make fulfilling your request entirely impossible, I'm afraid." Still, there was a warmth in his gaze as he thoughtfully beheld the other man. "That is, unless..." He supposed the rules of the game shouldn't simply be changed at will. "If you can hold yourself upside down, on your hands, for a bit without moving," His cheeks flushed red, but his airy voice remained genuine. "Then I will acquiesce." In truth, he found he wanted Alistair to succeed, but he had lost their game. He waited, expectantly grinning at the other man. "At your leisure, of course, though you have only one attempt."

[Alistair]

He'd lost?! And to such subterfuge - the man wasn't sure whether to feel grumpy, astounded, or to simply laugh it all off. And then cry. "I versus she? Really?" he asked, half-scoffing, lips parted in shock. Doran decided to play dirty tricks at the very end - Alistair had no way of determining which answer was correct if wordplay determined the truth. But, he supposed that was a tactic of the game... even if it was cheating. He decided, the next time they played it, he would have to outlaw wordplay.

But as he hadn't thought of that this time, he'd lost. And now... Doran had all the power to toy with him, digging into his defeat. It seems that I am the victor, which would make fulfilling your request entirely impossible, I'm afraid. Alistair rolled his eyes immediately, almost wincing; he was partnered to a wholly fiendish man. He knew what Alistair wanted - and to deny it from him with such... fulfillment. The mage prepared himself to tickle Doran to death, as that was not against the rules of the game. His acrobatic feat could be tickling under the man's shoulders with his fingertips, and tickling his ribs with his feet at the same time.

They both needed to suffer together, and if wordplay had been Doran's victory, it would be Alistair's - he'd never said that the consequence would be chosen by the victor, merely that the consequence was a physical feat.

...But then, he provided an out. An opportunity to get what he wanted: an easy acrobatic task. Suspend himself by his hands alone for a singular bit - this was... child's play to him. Alistair knew how to perform a Flag, an L-Seat, backflips, double backflips, cartwheels, handsprings, back-springs, even successive wall hops through traction. Not to mention Gravelmonger, where he quite literally ran with the sides of his heels alone, at nearly equal speed... among other things; slithering on the ground like a snake using one's appendages equally like feet, and even anchoring oneself with singular muscles to play total limbo.

The request was easy, and he was a braggart; this was an excellent opportunity to show off to his partner, who he desperately wished to show off to, at every given opportunity. Alistair immediately threw himself onto his hands, performing a front handspring before stopping near the end of his motion. Once both of his hands had balanced evenly on the floor with his feet raised above him, a completely vertical line from the tips of his pointed toes to his open palms, he ceased his movements and focused his balance completely. Balance and mobility were, certainly Alistair's strong points - more than even strength, despite appearances.

He merely evened out his weight completely, and spread his strength throughout his body as well; despite how it looked, the hands were not the focal point of such an action. The whole body needed to be suspended, kept straight and balanced. He viewed it the same as standing; the legs and feet were important, certainly, but so too was the straightness of one's back or the ability of the neck to keep the head held up high. This was the same, but in reverse. And the legs, heavy as they were and certainly meant for the ground, were the focus of his balance.

Alistair was a large and robust man - though perhaps that was never as clear as now, with his muscles all in action in unison. His body was spread out, stretched from head to toe, and lowered in reverse. The shirt had peeled from his abdomen, brought down by the force of gravity, curling into folds near the base of his pectorals. His chest was revealed, and tense, with his abdominal muscles never clearer as they worked with the rest of his core, upper and lower body. The man's legs were especially tense, though in truth, his body did not considerably wobble or shake. He was... balanced, and confident in his balance. The mage merely looked to Doran with a satisfied expression, though it might have been difficult to read whilst upside-down.

Eventually, the bit passed, and after time had run on long enough he walked on his hands over to Doran, his legs spreading out some as he did so. When he finally stepped over to the other man using his palms as the new soles of his feet, Alistair wrapped his calves around the other man's shoulders, offering him a leg hug. The man was clearly showing off, though shortly after he moved back and finished the handspring, returning to his feet as he momentarily closed his eyes and took a breath to help the dizziness subside.

"Is this the secret to your heart, Doran? Half-finished handsprings?" he asked, grinning. "If I do ten back handsprings in a row, can we lay naked together?" he inquired, teasing the other momentously; in a way, they had both won... and they were both quite satisfied by their winnings.