(121-04-08) Infamous and Famous
Log Title
Summary: The Blackrood and the Oncoming Storm meet over drinks.
Date: Date of play (08/04/2014)
Related: Wickham's Nest Plot
Players:
Quill..Prospero..

The Fist and Falcon

Given the time of day, the Fist is not entirely so packed, though it is clear from the preperations inside, that the Bar is making ready for big comings and goings. More benches have been brought in, and some are being set up outside. Likely some even on the horizon has the barman in general dreaming of stags and dragons pouring out of his ears. With that scale in mind the few that occupy the bar seem like ants to the massive plans of the owner.

Sitting at his own table, one lone figure in black is reclining, why a dagger carves in deeper grooves to the table, of a small shield-with three oak leaves. Apparently someone continuing to work on their sigil in the dark and stained wooden table top. A pot of ale is before him, only haf drunk-where as dull eyes are focused between the door and carving. Quillian Oakheart, the Blackrood is but easily hidden here. No one near sober enough to care.

Even full, occupants of the place would likely resemble ants, just swarming ones. As is, there are few enough people around that it's not a difficult task for someone to 'find' Qullian—albeit in less than usual circumstances and certainly an unlucky one. Any carving or drinking gets interrupted as a small man gets tossed from the nearest occupied table, hitting the ground to half-fall and half-stumble to Quill's table with a resounding *thump* against the floor and another against the man's table when the thrown fellow tries to stand, hits his head on said table, and falls back down. Speaking of the not sober enough to care.

At least someone cares, though, because a moment later and older man treks up towards Quill's table, mustache a-bristle, and brushing his hands. "Sorry 'bout that. Bit of bad luck. Didn't see you sitting there, would've aimed in another direction." The drunk on the floor is shoved away with a foot as Prospero mutters under his breath. Shoo.

The sudden thump does have the Blackrood waking from whatever hazy thoughts clearly are occupying his mind and time with. There's a blink and he sits a little straighter, though his focus seems to figure itself on the fallen drunk,who is so neatly kicked away. A man should admire in which the ways drunks are handled. "No bother." Quillian is quick to quip back. "I believe I moved that one when I saw him dawdling about and contemplating m carving. had to bloody claim this from him.."And then the knight is squinting his eyes as he looks back towards Prospero. And the, the Blackrood stands.

"Ser, your face seems familiar to me, but I cannot recall if we've met.." And there he notices his own pot having tipped in the small ensuing and short lived mayhem. "Perhaps a drink, and you can join my recently damp table. All I am doing is whittling, and I'd prefer company to my thoughts."

"Nothing between them ears but air, as the say." The drunk's indignity is added to as he's kicked across the floor until he's no longer at either table. Prospero brushes himself off like some of the stupid might've attached itself to him. "Hmph." Scratching at the stubble along his jaw, he squints over at Quillian when he stands. "I'm sure that's just because I'm old and old people all look alike, It's the grey hairs and the wrinkles. Time's not a kind lady," he says, humbly for a man who just tossed another across the room. "I'm sure you'd be the better company to the rest of this sorry lot."

A smirk dances on Qullian's face. "I was about to comment on how I couldn't tell you apart from my father, or my old grandmother." he adds before he is making a motion to the bar first. Likely in order to direct where the drinks will be purchased. "I'll be sure to get you something for your bowels. A light tea." teased again before he is making motion for two more-since his own drink has spilled. "Ser Quillian Oakheart, at your service." he offers with his hand, out in means to greet. "And I do not know..I know I am less drunk than the rest-and likely less moody." he adds thoughtfully. "Though I've been in a bit of black thinking. Ale seemed the medicine."

"At least you won't be too surprised if I start ordering you about, then." Prospero makes a sloppy imitation of a lordly-type parent snapping their fingers and pointing. "And you owe your poor grandmum an apology," he adds with a click of his teeth and a rustle of mustache. He is somewhat more impressed hearing the other man's name. "Ahh, the, what was it? Blackrock, no, Blackrood, isn't it? Fancy that. You must be in a bit of black thinking to be here." He takes the offered hand with the rough grip of someone not actually good at shaking. "Ser Prospero Storm, not so black of thinking, but probably poorer taste."

"I likely do, but alas, She is dead, and I cannot talk to them." Quillian replies before he is chuckling. As ales are brought and set down, there is a look of likewise impression on the Blackrood's face. "Blackrood, yes." Though there seems to be no annoyance or correction. Just acceptance as he shakes the other knight's hand in a rough grip of his own. "Oh-I do know you then!" there the surprise clearly a good one, as he offers Prospero a seat. "The Oncoming Storm, oft shouted by some women about to become mothers." a grin there "I heard that the Crag and the Golden tooth are named after your testicles. Is that true?" all given out before he is pumping Prospero's arm twice, before sitting. "Well, This is a fine occassion then. I will take poorer taste, over black thinking."

"Apprayerologies, then." YOU GO PRAY YOU'RE SORRY, YOUNG MAN. It's not a good joke. Prospero doesn't dwell on it. Rather, he cocks an eyebrow at Quillian's claim to know him after all. "Oh?" Or know of him, at least. "Ohhh. That." That, he says. The knight takes a seat with an audible bump of his ass hitting the wood and hands slapping the table. "I'm sure some of those women are just a mite confused, easy mistake to make." As to the Crag and the Tooth he just laughs, a rough and deep thing. "I wouldn't touch those with my balls—might knock 'em down," he drawls, a grin appearing beneath his mustache. "They don't mind if I leave refuse on the ground, here." He nods at the prone man from earlier.

Quillian snorts, but it is a pity snort. The snort a man gives a friend when a truly bad joke is given. And right now it seems Prospero has easily fallen into that category with Quillian. A reach for his ale and he's nodding for the Storm to do the same before he is looking back up. "Oh that? They'll drag it out at some point." Likely the owners are used to such things. "Indeed." a smirk flashed before teeth and smile follow. "I have to say I am somewhat overjoyed to finally meet the man. Did you know, once you brought a stillborn lamb to life, and then killed it in order to prove the Storm giveth, and the good Storm taketh away?" A bit of laughter there. "What has you in the Reach, Ser?"

"Mhm, sure they will." Some of that gets muffled as Prospero takes a hearty draught. The owners are likely used to a lot worse than some fellow lying on their floor, given that it's right next to the tourney ground. Armed men with tempers drinking, fresh of a win or lose, is a pretty good recipe for disaster. Or entertainment, depending on who you are. "'Fraid I'm not actually six feet and twenty — not sure where that one came from — so I understand if it was easy to overlook me." You are forgiven, Quillian. He whistles through his teeth. "That's one that hadn't made it back a'round to my ears before now." The Storm just drinketh, for now. "Garden tour," he says with a totally straight face, looking over at Quillian with an unblinking gaze for a moment before laughing. "I hear your borders have had some trouble. Is it true? Been hearing unrest in Oldtown."

"May I direct you to Garden Manse then, There's is but the finest Garden I know. Filled with fresh flowers." Depending of the Storm is looking for something to ah-Pluck. Still Quillian gives a grin and another draught of his ale is pulled in an easy and fluid motion. A man used to his cups, is he. "I'll be sure not to do so now." a quick ammendment before he is grinning ever so slightly. "Ah yes-that." and he laughs. "We had some bloody Dornish come skulking over in the knight like roaches. And they of course burned a hunting lodge down and killed every man jack inside. All the small folk and women too." A brief sombering moment that. "Children as well. And so the people demanding justice here rioted quietly for a bit, while a raid was exacted on Red Rookery. Of those bastards I know not-I do know that Lord Blackmont my good uncle-has named me a murderer. And so I am likely to stand trial-and murder whomever he has chosen to force the guilt upon me." How's that in a nutshell?

"I supposed it'd figure that it would be, with a name like that." Unless someone is just naming things to be contrary. Surprise, just sand and rock. "You just have to keep your eyesight train a little lower. But only a little. Something a bit more reasonable, like six foot eighteen." Or a little lower still. Prospero has heard bits and piece of the story, it's been the talk of the town here and there for anyone not unreasonably preoccupied to oatcakes. Now he grumbles some dark oath into his cup and shakes his head. "Roaches is too kind for that. Damned creatures look honorable enough to be given spurs in comparison to such." He spits on the floor then sighs heavily. "Borders are a tough place to be. Seems like there's always some skirmish happening or near enough abouts to. Uppity bastards to turn around and cry murder." He takes a drink before fixing Quillian with a look. "That's right mess you're in, son."

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