(121-02-08) Shadows of the Quill and Tankard
Shadows of the Quill and Tankard
Summary: The night is warm and Ser Viggo Cockshaw makes many new acquaintances outside the Quill & Tankard, including Ser Quill, the Lord Garvin, Lady Locke and several more. It is busy in the shadows.
Date: 08/02/2014
Related: None.
Players:
Quill..Viggo..Garvin..Angharad..Rhean..Arath..Riderch..

Hightower and Citadel Streets — Oldtown
Sat Feb 08, 121 ((Sat Feb 08 23:13:33 2014))
It is a summer night. The weather is hot and clear.

Here Hightower Street's course curves from its upper East-West run to follow the river. The narrower River Road continues North, past The Citadel and out the Honey Gates to follow the riverbanks all the way North to Brightwater Keep.

The northern course of the Honeywine is slender and deep. The banks of the river have been improved in a number of places, walling it in to keep it narrow enough to be easily spanned by narrow bridges of stone and timber. Small streams spill into it here and there, some from the surface and some from tunnels running under the streets.

Another cobblestone road leads Northwest to where the Citadel squats alongside the river forebodingly, all stony and thick-walled. Perhaps a quarter mile downriver from the Citadel's narrow Acolytes' Gate is the old Quill and Tankard, that famous inn that has never closed in six hundred years. It stands on a little island not far out into the Honeywine, accessible by a small foodbridge. Most the buildings further South of the inn are far newer, and sparkling clean. Large, expensive manses shrouded in gardens and shrubbery overlook the river.

Hightower Street is wide, clean, and lined on either side with apple trees and stone benches. The river-boats that travel this area are quite finely crafted, with luxurious furnishings, bright new paint, and sound timbers. Looking south, one can see the blazing beacon of the Hightower looming over the city.

//The shops here cater to those with rich tastes. Baubles, jewelry, silks, satins, finely wrought armor and armaments, and varies >other shiny things meant to catch the eye of well-to-do city-dwells with stags or dragons burning holes in their purses. //

The night is young or youngish enough to warrant men and women about on the streets. Noblemen and small folk alike mingle and make their way crawling from in and tavern-while some seem to be doing as they will to finally head home after a long time spent selling their wares. Of this usual sort-one knight moves rather easily taking his time coming from the Citadel East-and likely working his way towards Garden isle the long way round.

There is a brief glance by the man clad in blacks and greens, towards the Quill and Tankard. Gloved hand moves up to tug briefly at his beard, before he is turning away and continuing on. Though fond of the place and fond of Drink, Ser Quillian Oakheart does have to return home at some appointed day and time.

It is not from the tavern's warm light and heady aled halls that Ser Viggo Cockshaw steps, but from the shadows of the stables. His gloves still tucked in his belt after putting away his horse for the evening, face cast in deeper shadows that persist past even as he enters the street. "Good Eve, my Lord," he bids, a fine blade at his hip and clothes carelessly bespeaking wealth.

Well it is good to know that blades are still in fashion here in Oldtown, as Quillian too sports this much needed accessory. It's the voice from the dark that has the Blackrood spinning on heel, and turning in the direction of where Viggo Cockshaw had shuttled himself out. "Good Eve yourself." his voice amused in the surprise. He'd not known someone else to be filtering about-but it shouldn't have surprised the knight as much. "I take it, you're taking a room in there?" A whistle between teeth. "Careful, some of the beds stay with you." And there a hand drapes to his crotch-where he grabs.

Mouth quirking in a slight smirk at the gentleman's startlement, Viggo stides with sloping steps further into the light. His fingers brush his hat in greeting, bearded chin dipping in acknowledgement. "It has been hospitable so far. I'll make a point of watching out for the…beds." He pauses, sliding a finger along his nose. "But, I'll take a recommendation for a fine healer for that has the ring of memory."

"I know of a lady named Paxsen. She's free with her herbs. Serves no house, but I assume she is known in town." Quillian quip back. "I tend to keep my blade sheathed when with company in there. Saves my marriage." he jests in his own way before he is turning his head-likely trying to gain a good view of he-moving into the light. "Who do you serve, Sirrah?" As now, the Oakheart does make to show his own sword by merely changing his stance-thus showing out of professional courtesy. "There are so many houses within Oldtown, you never know whom you're running into."

Garvin has his arm around one of the Tyrell guards, who is half carrying the drunken fool from the tavern. Five other Tyrell guards surround him and Lady Angharad, who has a guard of her own as well. Garvin begins slurring his way through some ballad, his voice far too loud.

The two men of different houses stand just outside the shadows of the stables, each bearing blades and find clothes. A hat marked by feathers is perched on Viggo's dark head, mouth cracking in a broad smile for Quillian's quip. "Aye. I can imagine that it might. A surprise brought home is a surprise shared, leading to a most unhappy wife." He dips his head at Quill's asking, doffing his hat politely. "Lord and Ser Viggo Cockshaw," he offers with a crooked smile. "And for whom do you speak?" His question trails off as Garvin arrives, slurring through a ballad.

Rhaen comes down the street face flushed as he hurries back towards the tavern. hearing the slurred voice singing he pauses watching as Garvin is led out of the tavern. He rushes over to his lord and looks him over with concern. "My lord…I have done as you asked. Perhaps we should return home now?" He falls into step beside Garvin staying close incase he needs to help the gaurds with supporting his lord.

"Ahh, well met Cockshaw." Quillian says with a fierce grin to match the knife of the moon. "I believe I had the pleasure of meeting your young squire with my young cousin." his chuckle there, somewhat earnest, but also drops off of it's own accord. "You best tell him mind, Lady Keyte Tyrell. She is a fine girl." And a good wife she would be-unless someone's love was the sea. "As to whom I speak for-I serve His Lordship Tyrell here in town. A watching pair of eyes for distant cousins." A bow of his head. "Ser Quillian Oakheart at your service." If Viggo knows of his byname-good and well for Quill does not supply it.

With the sounds of caterwahling, there is a glance in the direction of the tavern as a crippled lord and lady come with their full might. "Speaking of one of them..Name the stranger and he doth appear."

"Steady as she — er, he — goes!" Angharad advises, fretfully supervising the guards as they half-assist, half-drag Lord Garvin along. "Careful of his arm, please!" She laughs helplessly as Rhaen arrives late on the scene. "Home, indeed, is the destination. Can you see to him from here?"

Garvin turns his unsteady head a bit too quickly, his absurd, wide-brimmed hat knocked askew by the shoulder of his guard. "Rhaen! I thought you'd run away." He tries to reach for the valet with his left arm, tugging against the sling, but unable to get free. His right arm is still around the guard's shoulders, and if not for the man, Lord Pansy'd likely be flat on his back. Frowning deeply down at himself, Garvin mutters something about seven-times-damned Archmaesters, then gives up the fight against his sling. Suddenly, his head comes up again, and the hat is nearly spilled from his unruly hair. "Tyrell!" he shouts, looking around. "I heard someone call my name. Lady Harry, can you see who said the name Tyrell?"

"He is a fine lad. Tyrell, you say? I am acquainted with the house," Viggo offers, sounding perfectly complimentary if someone nostalgic. "We are even their banner man, if so called." He grins, showing teeth in a bright arc. "Well met, good Ser Quillian." Dark eyes narrow at the lack of a byname, if he does not know it now he'll soon enough find out. "Hail there!" He calls to the party. "We spoke it, my Lord. Only with fine words, though."

Rhaen nods to the lady offering a shy yet warm smile. "Of course I can my lady. If you need to be on your way I will gladly make sure he makes it home. That is apparently part of my job after all." He smiles warmly and takes Garvin's good arm in the guards stead waving the men off. "I've got him don't worry." The smaller man lets the lord lean against him as he start to lead him away with slow careful steps.

Angharad does indeed look, though it's only to blink a few times at the men and flash an abashed, apologetic smile. "Neither known to me, my lord, but that you are known to them…" Well. There's a little something called noteriety.

The Blackrood is easy to find if one looks for him. His name is either a shining example of how Dorne should be handed, or a black spot in the view of his father. Still the Knight grins easily enough, as the narrowing of eyes do not seem to unnerve or place Quill at unease. There's a turn of his head, and a nod is given in difference to Ser Viggo. "Lord Ser Cockshaw here speaks correctly. We were merely noting that you arrived after I said, whom I serve." The guards around Lord Pansy, likely recognize the Oakheart knight and Lord-even if the Lord Tyrell does not.

Garvin's guard looks a bit dubious, but finally shrugs and helps get Garvin's arm around Rhaen's shoulders, stepping back into formation with his fellows. Garvin leans heavily on his squire, squinting toward the two men at the stables. His lips move slowly, but soundlessly for several moments, as the overworked mice inside his head scurry around until the correct name is located. "'Tis the Blackrood!" he suddenly shouts, grinning sloppily. "Ser Quillian Oakheart, that's your name. You guard the manse, do you not? Under my thorny cousin, Laurent." He turns his grin toward Angharad again. "Look, Lady Harry, it's the Blackrood!"

As Ser Quillian calls back to the Tyrell with the weight of his cups upon him, Ser Viggo looks to the Lady Angharad and smiles. Politely, he removes his hat and dips his head in a nod of acknowledgement. "Aye, my Lord."

There's a brief look given Garvin, it's own contents unreadable, before he too is offering his bow, though it may be slow, before said Blackrood is back up with an amused look on his face. "You would be correct my Lord. It seems even in the black of night, I cannot hide my own ink." A curl of his lip before he is clearing his throat with a brief glance in Viggo's direction. "You are correct again my Lord. I do serve under your cousin, Ser Laurent. A fine man-who is of my mind more oft than naught." meaning the two likely think similarly. A glance is given Rhaen, as the valet is seemingly now in control-whether he wants to be or not-of Lord Pansy.

"Are you getting him home?"

Lady Harry, as it seems the lady's called, laughs helplessly and spreads her hands, lifting a shrug to the men their small army's encountered. "Indeed, my lord. I am looking," she assures Garvin, then drops a curtsy to Cockshaw and Oakheart, both. "Lady Angharad Locke, gentlemen. How lovely to meet you." She explains, "I believe it's best for Lord Garvin to be in his manservant's care. Rhaen knows well what to do for him, I think."

Arath strides in passing along the street at slow pace. The young man puases when he sees the crowd and the very drunk Lord. He steps forward his head tilting to the side as he considers them all. He looks to Garvin and then to Rhaen and then back to the lord before he speaks. "Is everything alright here?" His tone is calm but there is concern in there as well.

"Ser Quill is famous, you know," Garvin says confidentially to Angharad, or perhaps Rhaen, or maybe even one of the invisible mice on his shoulder, though his attempt at whispering comes out far too loudly. "Scourge of the Marches, he is! There's not a filthy Dornishman who doesn't cower under his bed every night for fear of being found by the famed Blackrood. All the Reach is safer, thanks to him." He bobs his head then, and that's all it takes to topple that ridiculous hat off at last, spilling it to the paving stones in front of him.

"My Lady Locke," Viggo greets with a flourishing bow, cloak fluttering behind him as he dips with his hat in hand. "Ser Viggo Cockshaw at your service. Well met, my Lords. It is a pleasure to met you, Lord Tyrell." He delicate sets his hat on his own head as the lord's topples int othe street. It shadows the lift of his brows at the establishment of Ser Quills many skills and reknown, his body weaving on his feet as he stands in place.

Rhaen doesn't seem to mind supporting Garvin as the walk. He nods to Quillian with a faint smile. "That is the plan yes Ser.." He looks down at the hat falls off and looks from the hat to his lord with obvious distress. He can't bend down to fetch it like he normally would as he is the only thing keeping his lord upright. The young blonde valet pouts a bit glaring at the offending hat that dared fall off and make his job even more complicated. He looks to Arath briefly but lets someone else answer the question.

Quill glances back towards Garvin and then towards Rhaen, ever lucky now that his wife is not present to be reminded of his wilder days. Still the Knight remains generally aloof under the praise before his amused look is a smile easily pressed on. "Your words do me many lauds, My Lord. I don't think there are many who cower under their beds." And there he pauses as he chews on that. "Likely as I would burn them in them." And there he lets that gruesome detail just sit before he is looking back and bowing his head to Harry. "Lady Locke, a pleasure." he adds finally as an after thought.

It's the lady who stoops to conquer — the errant hat, anyhow. She quickly retrieves it, handing it to Rhaen. "Make sure he drinks enough water," she tells the valet, softly. "If he's sick later, he'll wind up tearing stitches." She glances back at Quillian, agreeing with Garvin, placatingly, "I'm sure he's terribly impressive."

Rhaen takes the hat in his free hand with a grateful smile to the lady. "I will see to it and thank you for your help my lady." He looks to Garvin and starts to led him away now. "Come on my lord lets get you home now." They start off down the street moving away from the main group.

There's a large, bald meatwall of a human being and a couple more average sorts proceeding in an orderly fashion down the street, all wearing black with various red and silver fringes. The man in their midst is light on his feet and idly stretches a hand overhead to smooth his unruly short hair back. "No, Tel, I don't think that's what they meant. A sweetbread is neither sweet /nor/ bread. Don't tell me she sold you one anyway." Riderch finishes commenting towards the big guy and oddly throws his head back, laughing a hoarse bark of a laugh. "Unless it is. Wait, do you have any more?"

Garvin looks down at his hat, pouting and scowling in turn. But then a hand appears to whisk the hat away, and Garvin is left blinking at the paving stones. "'Tis a pleasure to meet you at last, Ser Oakwood," he says, finally looking up again. "And you as well, Ser Cockshaw. I fear I am in no fit state to be proper company tonight. Perhaps Lady Harry has the right of it, and I should be on my way home." Arath gets his blurry attention at last, and he squints hard at the young man, even as Rhaen begins carrying him off. "Aren't you the Maiden's Squire?" he asks over his shoulder. "No, that's not it. Who are you?"

Arath falls into step with Rhaen and Garvin obviously intent on making sure the pair make it to thier destination with out trouble. Garvin's question has a dark brow raising upwards as the young man replies. "I am Lord Arath Baratheon squire to Ser Daevon Targaryen who is also known as the Maiden's Knight." He smiles warmly. "I hope you don't mind if I walk with you? I would feel better if I saw you both safely to your destination." He glances to the gaurds but obviously seems determined to help them escort the lord all the same.

"I believe the Lord is well tended," Viggo offers loosely to Arath, gaze finally slipping towards the youth. He dips his head in a polite nod to Garvin as he apologizes for his state. "Another time, I am sure." His hand pats his hip as if looking for something before falling to his side. Brows rise as Arath moves the attend the pair, gaze sliding towards Ser Quillian in curiousity.

"I do have the right of it, sweet cous — as you will find, I think, is often the case," Lady Angharad assures Garvin, kissing the drunk lord's forehead before stepping back from the gaggle of men. One, in the livery of House Locke, follows along with her. "Not away from home a day and I'm already part of a scene in the street," she murmurs to her man-at-arms. "Mama would be mortified." She sighs, adding, "And unsurprised."

"A pleasure indeed my lord." Quillian doesn't correct Garvin with his name. And there as it seems the processional is to head for Garden Isle, the Blackrood turns and offers a nod to Viggo. "Perhaps we can catch a drink soon, Ser. Or I could see your Squire spar?" Likely curious as to figure out more about the Cockshaw himself. "I believe I must make sure my Master makes it home in fine order." A bow of his head. "But, it was good to meet you. If you wish-you can seek me at the Manse-or about. I am not terribly hard to find." A faint chuckle there as he waggles fingers before gripping his pommel and moving to fall in. "Ta, Ser."

"No?" Ser Riderch Blackwood's animated face crinkles into a broad smirk as he stops a moment, opening up a hand and using it to prop himself against the supports of a small shop, talking to his guard again. "Mmm. That's a bloody disappointment, isn't it." He starts fumbling at his pouch absently.

Garvin's little entourage has his valet, six Tyrell guards, and now Lord Arath as well, a veritable army marching through the streets. Well, not all marching, as Lord Pansy is barely dragging his feet along the cobblestones, supported by poor Rhaen. "Did I mention the pretty gardens we have at home?" he asks no one in particular, before his head falls forward, chin to chest once more.

"We ought. A drink, that is," Viggo agrees easily, waving off the request of sparring squires. That needs two drinks. "I shall seek you, then." He waves off the processionable, chuckling softly to himself at the sight they make parading out through the street.

Angharad turns her head just enough to offer to the newly arrived lord-and-men, "Neither sweet, nor bread." Since she's on a roll with the being right thing. Another quick, abashed smile at the gathering. "Good my lords, I should find my way home." She glances at her man. "It's… that way, right?" she ventures, pointing down Hightower.

"Fine then." Riderch's eyes roll upward in his head, the Riverlander lilt in his accent prominent as he declares, shrugging his shoulders roughly. "See if I stop in the Gryphon's Square next time." It's clear from his tone of voice that he's more bemused than aything else.

Ser Viggo Cockshaw's mouth quirks at the discussion of sweet breads, causing his moustache to tip lopsidedly. "Afraid so." He tips his hat to the newcomer. His brow furrows slightly at the Lady's confusion. "Need you additional escort, my Lady? It would be my honor to offer such."

Angharad's man gives an uncertain grimace. "I — it might be, my lady…"

The lady claps a hand to her mouth, looking equally gigglesome and aghast. "Oh, gods of men, really? And I thought I was in jest…" She turns gratefully to Viggo, eyebrows drawn upwards in entreaty. "Would you? I'm staying with my Mormont cousins. It's not far from here. If we can manage to stumble 'pon it."

"Well next time, bloody — I don't know. I'm out of ideas. Come on, man." Riderch intones, wryly as he strolls down the way, with his motley entourage in tow.

"Of course, my Lady," Viggo promises graciously and with the solemn air of a knight who means his word. "I have only returned to the city myself a few days, but we shall see you there safely." Striding forward with a flap of his cape he awaits her leave. "I once spent some time here, surely they cannot have added too many other streets."

The Locke man looks a little put out that he's being… supplemented… but knows when he's out-classed. And out-ranked. "Your help is very welcome, my lord."

"You are too kind, Ser — Viggo, was it?" the lady says with a warm smile. "I'm sure this isn't how you intended to spend your evening. I hope we won't take up too much of it."

The noble Cockshaw does not so much lift a brow to the Locke man's put-upon expression. It is beyond his notice for the moment. "Indeed, my Lady. It would tarnish my spurs were I not to offer my aide," Viggo offers, nodding as they venture down the streets. "Now where did you say that you were headed?"

"I think the house is called Sailmaker's Manse?" Angharad supplies, walking very properly at the knight's side. Her man falls back a few steps, but remains close by. "It all looks different by light of torch and moon. You must think I'm entirely empty-headed."

"I believe I have a recall of its positioning. I am in agreement that your prior heading seems just," Viggo comments, moving in the direction the Lady indicated initially. He may not know the city perfectly, but he can guide her away from the lesser districts to where such a manse might be found. "Aye. It does. I was lost my first night in, I'll admit. The city changes ever moment you dare to look at it." He offers the lady his arm as they walk, with simple courtly poise. "What brings you so far south, my Lady Locke?"

Angharad rests a hand on the proffered arm, with the same well-bred grace. "Ah, you practically speak my thoughts! You're very good," she chuckles, smiling with lowered lashes. "I will say, for sake of my pride, that were we in the wood or wilds I could find my way with utmost confidence." She smirks slightly. "As we are not, it matters little, but you're most kind." As to what brings her south, she replies, "Marriage to House Tyrell."

"I would never claim to be in so poised a mind," Viggo counters, waving away the thought with a cant of his head. "Indeed, my Lady? I should be at your disposal there. What should you look to first to find our direction?" He wonders amiably, as if they were in fact in the woods. The Cockshaw knight weaves as he walks, arm still as a chicken's head at any angle while his legs and shoulders wander. "How auspicious. May I offer my congratulations."

"The trees," says Angharad, somewhat wistfully. "One cannot always see the sky, but the trees grow moss and lichen on the northward side, as proof against the wind." She flashes a quick smile. "Thank you. May it be as auspicious as you say." She takes a breath. "If it brinds Oldcastle to Highgarden, I'm sure it shall."

Dark brows rise, not for her wistfulness but in thoughtful regard for that scrap of knowledge. "I shall be sure to mark it, next I am knee deep in the woods after some harry." Viggo smiles in turn, mustache twitching at the corners. "Ah, I sense some politics there. May the Seven guide it to bring you joy in it. A woman on her wedding day knows no competition but the moon and the stars." A dash poetic, really. As they walk the buildings refine, becoming more of those befitting to a woman of her status. They might be nearer to the right neighborhood now at least. "This appear more familiar?"

"Do you hunt?" asks the lady, looking pleasantly distracted by the topic. "I grew up trying to outshoot and outride six brothers… I learned to love the sport. It truly gets the blood up — a dash of adventure, just for a moment, in an otherwise ordinary life." She nods, glancing at the sky. "It is political, of course, but what marriage isn't? Noblesse oblige." A moment's pause, then she nods. "Yes — yes, I think — I believe my cousins' manse is just the next street over.

"Well enough, my Lady. I prefer a good chase, preferably astride." Seeming open to the topic, Viggo listens to her pleasant passion on the subject of sport. "It is a pleasant escape. The hare. The fox. The pheasant. You sound quite a threat to their longevity, do you hawk as well?" Far be it for him to turn away from such delightful conversation, when elsewise lurks politics. "Indeed." He pauses a moment, awaiting her direction in the course of their heading. "Well then, let us continue. Perhaps we'll find moss on the wall," he jokes.

Angharad laughs, nodding. "I hawk, certes — but I, too, prefer the chase." Her smile is a bright, warm thing in the dim streets. "There's extra gore and panels in a gown of the Northern style, you know. So ladies may ride like lords. I fear I would topple from the sidesaddle as though I'd never been ahorse." She shrugs gently, still smiling. "Hawks are pretty things, but they are the sportsmen — we are but glorified perches."

Viggo does not quite manage to hide his surprise at her explanation of the Northern style. "I did not, my Lady," he promises solemnly, likely trying to amend how such things figure in. "You educate me on many fronts." Gowns. "I am certain that I could not manage it either, but many ladies of the realm are gifted with such a grace." He chuckles at her assessment of hawks. "Aye and look as like they'd consider you the food as the prey. What hunters though…" He squints into the dark, eying the houses that they now pass looking for the appropriate manse.

"I," declares Angharad, merrily, "am not a lady of grace. Alas. But a bumpkin from wooly woods." She ahs! "And here we are!" It's a stately stone house, severe as the Bear Island Mormonts, themselves. She turns to drop a curtsy to her noble escort. "Lord Viggo. Thank you for coming to our rescue."

"Such words would never escape my idle tongue," Viggo protests with his hand on his heart. Lest the seven punish him so. Taking in the stately stone house, indeed severe and seemingly harsh in its appointment, his dark eyes rake over the edges of the building from foundation to roof. Ahem. It is imposing. Turning towards the lady, he dips into a gallant bow. "Of course, Lady Locke. I should hope our paths should cross again."

"It seems more likely than not, there being so much celebration and pagaentry in Oldtown, lately." She takes a step back, up on the stairs. "Perhaps, if you ride out a'hunting, you'll think of me. Good night and gods keep you, milord." She curtsies once more, then lights up the steps and into the darkened manor, followed by her man-at-arms.

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