(121-04-27) Spunk
Spunk
Summary: On bad decisions and the ejaculate of horses.
Date: Date of play (27/04/2014)
Related: Related Logs (Say None if there aren't any; don't leave blank. You have to use full URLs, like http://gobmush.wikidot.com/logtitle)
Players:
Tellur..Malcolm..Angharad..Andolin..

Archers' Encampment, Somewhere on the Road North


(Ser Malcolm has arrived at camp severely wounded from his showing in the tourney melee, the previous day. Tellur Snow is Not. Amused. We join this arse reaming already in progress.)

"You aren't well enough to ride!" Tellur says, with some exasperation "You're a mess!" He assists Malcolm in sitting down "I have no idea - I wear boiled leather, like any other archer. Some of the soldiers will know how. Your ribs are smashed! I thought armour was supposed to help this…" He is already ducking into his own tent to get out his leather pack, which he slides out and begins to peer at "Hmmmshmm…get everything above the waist off - Lord Carolis is going to be appalled - everyone is going to be appalled! Look at those injuries!"

Malcolm stands very straight and tries very hard to look like he hasn't been pounded flat, "No really, I think I'd be all right if we could… wrap things better." He keeps having to stop to catch his breath. "It looks worse that it is because of the bruises." The loose lacing makes it easy to get a better look at his chest, which is a veritible rainbow of bruises. "I'd have done much better, I link if he hadn't dented my breast plate so badly with the first blow… It was hard to get my breath back after."

"Don't fill my ears with shit," says Tellur sharply "I've had enough of that lately - I can get you onto a horse, but you can't fight, Ser Malcolm. You might put one of these broken bones through a lung, and then you are well and truly dead. Do you understand? Dead." He prods, lightly, and then crouches down to take out a little leather bowl and begin mixing up a poultice "I'm surrounded by Lord Carolises," he mutters "Even the women are Lord Carolises. Why am I cursed so. Surely there must be some ill I have done, some offence of the Gods…" Malcolm's shirt is coming off. And a numbing poultice is going on.

Malcolm sighs, not having much fight left in him after getting on his horse and riding all this way. "Please. I won't fight. I just… want to be here. In my place wouldn't you do the same?" He smiles wanly, "If I put a rib through a lung, you won't have to shoot me from a distance. Think of it as a win win battle." He is very still for the taking off of the shirt, though he can't hide the wincing.

"I am very soon going to start shooting people from a distance," says Tellur, irritably, and then there is more of the goop going on - over every bruised section. "It hurts to breathe, yes? Don't care. Breathe. Slow. Deep. Slow. Deep. As much and as often, as you can. It keeps the broken ribs held in the right place. Now. Do it. Slow, and deep." Tellur is cursing as well, filthily under his breath "Fucking nobles. All of you - even you, bastard Knight. How I hate you all - slow. Deep. You have to sleep on your side - not on your back. Now listen - you can't wear armour. Not around your chest. If you restrict your breathing, it is going to heal wrong - you can't even wear leather, and you can't have - these bandages are too tight!" Tellur is fussing. You could hear it from space "No! Not this tight - who did you see? A butcher?!"

Malcolm is breathing shallow, but from his stomache. He tries to obey though, gritting his teeth, "May I beg leave to sit by your fire, Little Wolf? It would… be easier to concentrate." Yes that's it: concentration not trying to keep from making sounds in response to being handled. "Can't wear the breastplate just now anyway. There's… rather a dent in the middle. Are you sure not even chain? Or my leathers? I don't want… Lord carolis to worry, not to miss the hunting."

What can be heard from space can almost certainly be heard from Lady Angharad's tent. She comes out with her hair down, still only in shirt and breeches… she might have left her boots and brigandine in Carolis' tent. Shut up. Anyhow, she comes storming over, ready to give it to Tellur just because she's in a bad mood, and stops short. "What the fuck is Malcolm doing here?" That's a general query, people. More specifically, to Malcolm, "What the fuck are you doing here?"

"It's Lady Angharad's fire," Tellur tells the man "But yes, you're injured. No. Not chain, not leathers - no tight bandages. If you strain this, you will get water on the lungs. Then you will die. If you force this, you will damage the bones, and get an infection, and die. If you get hit, you will put a rib bone through your lung - AND DIE -" The rant is nicely cut off when the Lady arrives, and Tellur says to her "It's the usual problem - an over developed sense of nobility. It's the same disease you all have!"

Lady Angharad blinks. "Exactly what's noble about riding into a battle zone so wounded that a light tumble off his horse could kill him?"

Malcolm brightens a little, "Oh? It's good she is here. She seems sensible and intelligent… And then she is storming over. He tries very, very hard to straighten up and look like Tellur is not torturing him. "Ah… Lady Angharad. I had a mishap at the tourney and Tellur here is good with poultices and the like." He carefully keeps eye contact so as to avoid noticing her partial dishabile. "I will, take that under advisement, Tellur. The wrapping I fear were the best I could manage at the time, not having skilled help."

Tellur is muttering…but the poultices are now on, and there are light bandages there, and there. He has something else warming in a pot by the fire already - that gets slapped onto Malcolm's neck bruise. And then there is the distinctive smell of poppy, and Tellur says to the lady "Earlier, by the way, it appears I caused a misunderstanding. When I spoke of Ser Malcolm, I meant the way he looks at me oddly - C…Lord Carolis does the same damn thing. It's as if they're wondering if I'm insane."

"None of that explains what Ser Malcolm thinks he's doing here," says Angharad, not even looking at Tellur to confirm or deny whether she heard his disclaimer.

Malcolm winces at the slapping on of the poultice and somehow manages to look even paler under his tan. "You are not insane, Tellur, at least, I do not think so. I have seen some things in my travels… I have… questions, but whether you are mad is not one of them." He is in no condition for bowing, but he does sound contrite, "Forgive my discourtesy in arriving unannounced. I was… not wanting to draw attention to…" He gestures helplessly with the good hand. "I was meant to ride as a body guard, but I was detained." He takes several ragged breathes, "I apologize. No rudeness was meant."

Tellur says, wearily, eventually "Ser Malcolm swore he would assist, and apparently he is being A Noble about all of it." He finally offers the man heated wine, with the poppy and honey in it, and he tells him "You can guard the camp while the archers are off - or possibly scout. But you cannot fight, Ser Malcolm. You must also tell me if you start to cough and bring up any liquid - yellow is especially bad, black is worst. Give me your arm - it is sprained, and it needs a splint and a sling to stop it from hurting. Then you need to sleep as warm as possible. Your horse - is your horse injured?"

"Ser Malcolm, don't be obtuse. I'm not in the mood," says Angharad. "I don't give a fuck if you stole in under cloak of night or came with a legion of golden trumpeting heralds riding ahead, the point is, what are you doing here wounded and in no shape to fight? You're going to be a distraction and a liability. Do you intend to be decorative?" She folds her arms. "If I had a ladies maid, she'd be better fit to guard the camp than him. If the camp is attacked, he's dead."

Malcolm closes his eyes and mostly concentrates on trying not to look hurt, "I… had not expected a Lannister with a great sword that went through my armour like paper. It was a miscalculation. I hit and hit, but nothing seemed to penetrate. He was quite gallant about it really…."

Tellur says after a moment "I don't think he knew how badly he was hurt, Lady Angharad - by the sounds of things, they did as Knights do and patched each other up on the field. The man wasn't aware. He is now, and now he's here, he'll be made useful. We'll make the ruddy best of it - it's the Northern way." He tells Malcolm "Drink that! I'll put your tent up if you tell me where your horse is - you can't sleep outside."

Malcolm looks terrible. It's not just the below average hygiene and the having his shirt off in front of a noble Lady, but his left arm in a sling, a massive bruise on one cheek, a scarier bruise on the right side of his neck. His chest is a rainbow of bruises, now poulticed and loosely bandaged like his neck. Also, there is a shallowness to his breathing and he sits stiffly and still as if there is something very wrong with his torso. He dutifully takes the cup, too tired to argue and gives Tellur approximate directions to his ridiculously beautiful charger.

"If you had any sense, you wouldn't have competed, you vainglorious peacock," says Angharad, clearly testy about something. She shoots Tellur a look, since he's being sensible — the traitor — but softens a fraction. "This was stupid," she tells Malcolm, sulking. "But you're here now. Tellur is right. You should stay. The ride back would probably kill you."

Angharad kisses Malcolm's forehead. "Thank you for the cordial and preserves," she says, looking now a little ashamed of being such a harridan.

"And really, who wants to eat peacock?" calls back Tellur. WHY MUST SHE BE NICE. He scowls. It is all unfair. Then he is off to collect that pretty charger, and bring the horse close to the others. He will collect the knight's pack and set up his tent - like a good servant, though it has to be said that Tellur is looking a bit dozy now "I need to sleep," he decides, at the same point that his raven starts to nod off on the tree.

This is the archer's camp, a little distance from the main force. They have a goodly fire going, and everyone has their own tents - the sign of a little more wealth. There is a warmed pot of left over stew available on the fire, and wine to drink, and someone (Tellur) has been making sure that everyone has arrows and so forth available. There are regular scoutings out by people, but the place seems safe for the moment.

Malcolm says pleadingly, "Please forgive me, Lady Angharad. It was my first tourney and I did yield when the massive knight that nearly took off Ser Kasper's head came to join the Lannister in my pounding. I know that wasn't entirely honorable, but I was well beaten." He brightens again at the kiss, "Please say i'm forgiven, Lady, for I greatly respect you and your fair opinion is the best honor of all." The ridiculous man does seem sincere and is rather too busy trying not to look in pasin to properly conceal much of anything. He calls, "Thank you, Tellur! You are all the healer I couldn't.

Andolin sometimes isn't a fan of groups. So, when someone said, 'someone should go get food', he kind of leapt (figuratively) at the chance. His large blue roan horse was left in cap tied to a tree, and the animal has been happily snoozing aside from the occasional shift about. At any rate, he finally comes back into camp, two medium-sized rabbits held by the ears. "The rabbits are smaller in the south," he sighs, and then blinks at Malcolm, brows immediately furrowing.

"Don't ask," says Angharad. "He's had enough censure from Tellur and me." She adds, "Yes, the rabbits here are puny." Then, to Malcolm, she sighs, "Yes, you're forgiven. It's just — " she shakes her head. "It's been a very strange evening."

Malcolm says quietly, "Thank you for the fine cloak. It is by far the finest thing I have ever owned." He studies her, a hint of his normal attention peeking through as the numbing herbs in the poulitice eases things a little. He is breathing a bit better as well, "Lady, is there ought amiss? Is there anything I might do to help?" Then he is smiling for Andolin and trying as hard as possible to speak in a bright and natural conversational tone, "Lord Andolin, that is good hunting." He is still holding the cup of medicine laced with poppy, not having actually lifted it to his lips.

Andolin busies himself with tying the rabbits up on a low-slung branch of a tree, again by the ears. He almost seems more comfortable here, outdoors like this, than he ever does inside. He gives a wry grin to Angharad, giving a sidelong glance to Malcolm. "Noted," he says, and then opens up the rabbits with a smaller knife to let the blood drain. "Thank you," he says to Malcolm, and then, despite the warning, "Are you still fit to ride?" It's at least with a touch of concern, though.

"And your care package was by far the kindest thing I've ever received. I don't think a cloak of any value matches that," says Angharad, sitting beside Malcolm. As for what he can do for her… "Drink your poppy." She answers Andolin in Malcolm's stead, "No." And gives Malcolm a look. Go ahead. Argue.

Malcolm does not answer Adolin's question directly, "I rode here. Tellur is kindly seen to my horse." Colour rises in his cheeks at Lady Angharad's compliment. He looks down at the cup, "It is the sort of thing I would want if I were indisposed…." He blushes to his ears worried that the mention might be indelicate. "It hardly hurts, Lord Andolin, really." He makes a face at the cup, but much as with Tellurs ordering him about, he dutifully takes a long swallow, chocking a bit afterward, "I haven't much experience with intoxicants of any kind. I must.. beg forgiveness in advance if I say anything inappropriate later."

Angharad grins wryly. "I'm not Southron lady, meek and mild, Ser Malcolm. You could tell me I have better tits than the Maiden and I'd just say, 'Thank you.'" Then, to Malcolm's assurance that he barely hurts, she supplies for Andolin, "If he so much as takes a tumble off his horse, he'll die. He's not to leave the camp. He's not to fight, ride, hunt, or do anything but look pretty until Tellur says he can."

Andolin mops the blood of his hands with a rag he has tied to his belt, and lets the rabbits hang while he makes his way over to the pair, leg stiff but not so painful as to be causing a limp. Yet. He eyes Malcolm a little, dubious, and just says, "I'm glad you're not hurting, but —yes, it would be wise for you to stay in camp, I think.”

Malcolm can not look at her as he says, "I know you are not like most Southern Ladies. It is why I admire you so." He toughs out another more cautious sip, "Cansider me well punished by this concoction…. Please. It is important we try to take prisoners. I will make no trouble for Tellur if I be allowed to help with the questioning. I have… many things I would ask of these Wildlings." He smiles crookedly at Andolin, "Please don't alarm Lord Carolis on my account. I should hate for him to be distressed." He looks rueful, "I had hoped Tellur might patch me up without worrying any of you."

"I'll tell Lord Carolis if Tellur doesn't," says Angharad, not entirely unkind, but decidedly unyielding. "He should know what you're allowed — and not allowed — to be doing. So that you don't decide getting yourself killed is in everyone's best interest." She looks like she might nudge him affectionately, but then decides there's really nothing that she might nudge without causing bleeding. "Drink the poppy down, Ser Malcolm. Sipping it will only prolong the agony."

"I think it is in everyone's best interest to know," Andolin adds, so seriously. "And I can try to bring back a prisoner, but we will see. I don't aim to cripple a man." There's probably a reason for that. "And it looks like that's a little beyond simple patching." He sighs, though. "Is that helping?" he asks, along with a nod to the drink.

Malcolm looked genuinely embarrassed, "I hate to be disappointing any of you." He looks her in the eye then, "I would much rather live to serve, though I would not shrink to die if there were another way." He looks guilty as she catches him out, and he bravely chokes down another swallow, "Lord Andolin, how did you stand it when they made such for you? I'd rather eat a…" He changes metaphor mid stream, and there is a long hesitation as he runs alternatives until he lights on one he is willing to say, "steak of over ripe venison." The pain and tiredness has lowered his guard and he seems to have lost the ability to properly mask his thoughts. He looks chagrined, "No, of course not, Lord Andolin. I would not expect you to." He studies the liquid, "I feel… distant from it. Really, it IS mostly bruises."

Angharad nods in approval of Andolin's… something. Agreeing with her. Shoot-to-kill philosophy. Something. She smiles at him, then says kindly to Malcolm, "You're not disappointing anyone. Stop it. Just get better." She laughs at his inadequate metaphor for how dreadful poppy tastes, suggesting, "I'd rather drinks horse spunk in three day old vomit."

Whatever Andolin was going to say in reply to that, he just sputters a laugh at Angharad's addition. "I wouldn't," he grins, cheeky, and then just shrugs to Malcolm. "The other option of feeling everything was worse," he says frankly.

Malcolm chokes on his next swallow of poppy in response to the "horse spunk." Styarts laughing, which given the state of his ribs leads to a horrified look and the escape of a terribly embarrassing whimper through gritted teeth. When he can reliably speak again he says, with more than a hint of awe, "I hope when Lord Carolis marries she is even half the woman you are." He nods respectfully to Andolin, "Still, I think you are a man of will and courage." Whether this is in reference to Tellur's medicinal concoctions or lord Andolin's wound is unclear.

Grinning devilishly at Malcolm's choking and awe, Angharad agrees with Andolin, "You've a point, actually. The thing about the horse spunk is you don't feel nearly as good, after." She kisses Malcolm's temple, assuming it's unwounded. "You're very kind. Thank you. But sincerely, drink up. It tastes awful, but there's a reason people fiend for poppy. You'll thank me later."

Andolin grins, and finally finds a place to sit nearby. "Don't let me forget the rabbits," he says, soberly, and then says, "Just don't have too much of it. When I stopped taking it after things started getting better, I was sick off of not having it for a good few days. And, he looks wry at Malcolm, but only says, "Thanks."

Malcolm blushes again at the kiss, but obediently drinks the rest down in one horrifying gulp. Eyes still closed, he leans against Angharad's shoulder if not stopped. (The sling, neck, and cheek bruise are one the left, the chest bruising seems to be off center to the right where the Lannister got around his shield. His tone has grown rather drifty and his accent is thicker and less polished. He shows no sign of remembering he is half naked in from of a noble woman. He is a total light weight really. "I haven't actually tried horse spunk. It would be… undignified to acquire…." He nods solemnly to Lord Andolin, "Rabbits… right. Maybe we will have rabbit stew for breakfast. I do love a good rabbit stew. Filling." His brows knit with concern, "Lord Carolis hasn't been giving you too much has he? He… worries."

Angharad puts a hand over her grin, shaking with mirth about the undignified acquisition of horse spunk. "That is so. True," she agrees with Malcolm, solemnly. He's allowed to lean against her without awkwardness or umbrage. "I'd help you," she offers Andolin, "But…" She's currently being used as a prop. Her nose wrinkles a little at the last. "Carolis worries too much. Lord Andolin is capable as any man." Maybe not in a foot race, okay, but they're HORSE ARCHERS. And horse archers rule. Damn it.

Andolin stretches out his bad leg a little once he's seated, features going briefly neutral and stoic to avoid a wince, and then he straightens up again and leans back more comfortably. He's sitting on the ground leaning against a log, what of it? "I don't even want to think about acquiring it," he says, expression playfully pained, and then he shoots Angharad a mildly surprised - if not a little grateful - look. He just looks downward, though, and shrugs. "Carolis worries too much," he agrees. "To be honest, I don't take it most of the time, but I can't keep him from being" He stops, mulls over a word, "being Carolis."

Malcolm nods solemnly, "Lord Carolis says he is one of the best horse archers, yes. More bows in hands is better when raiders come. I mean about him being happy." If not stopped he will rest his head on her shoulder. "Probably best not to, Lord. There are much better things to be doing with hands." He starts to laugh at Lord Carolis being Lord Carolis, but stops with a gasp. When he can speak again he says, "I have accused him of as much to his face, Lord Andolin." And then a thought strikes him and he looks alarmed. With elaborate casualness he is unaware of telegraphing he asks, "Do you sleep soundly without, Lord?"

Angharad lets Malcolm rest on her shoulder, her smile bemused and indulgent. She looks at Andolin, shrugging her unoccupied shoulder. "I think Lord Carolis has just about everything he wants, at present," she notes, dryly. "I wouldn't worry about him worrying. It's just… you know… then everybody's worried."

If Andolin is suspicious of anything, he certainly has a talented poker face, as he doesn't imply it. Rather, he just shrugs his shoulders. "It depends on the night," he says, noncommittal. "Some nights, yes. Others, no." And then, more privately and with a lower voice, he says, "To be honest with you, I wish he would stop worrying about me. He treats me like something to be handled carefully and I am getting weary of it."

Malcolm is not in a state to be picking up subtext, alas. "No no no, I mean, I think he'd love to see you laugh again. He's been of more cheer himself of late, I think." Luckily he drops the threaded about what might or might not be heard at night in Weirwood.

"He laughed just now," Angharad points out. She noticed. "I am willing to wager it's not to much Lord Andolin's lack of humor as everyone's expectation that he should be sad that's skewing things amiss. Now, that his own bodyguard doesn't have the sense not to get himself half-killed and then try to ride into battle the next day should worry him, more. He'll have to hire another, ere long, if that silly bodyguard of his doesn't get his dutiful head out of his romantically notioned arse."

Andolin sends Angharad another mildly surprised if not grateful look; it's becoming a thing, apparently. He gives her a bit of a wry smile. "That and everyone's inclination to ''try to fix it''," he says, rueful, but he just shakes his head.

Malcolm opens his eyes and studies Andolin, "Oh! That's true. Perhaps we need more hoirse spunk and less solemnity!" He is contrite again, "Lady Andolin, I am indeed a fool. I do not guard him for pay though. I would fight for him as I would for you or Lord Andolin here, or, or… It's not for gold. I would only swear to one I respect and though I have not sworn, here my respect and thus my sword are."

Angharad trembles as she tries not to laugh. "We've become the same person," she stages whispers to Andolin. "If I'd brought a dress, we could put you in it and see if anyone notices the difference."

"I don't think I'd be very pretty in it," Andolin laughs, voice dropping to match the lowered tone of Angharad's. "But if we give them enough of that, I think I could put my cloak on my horse and convince them it's me." He, perhaps tactfully, is too smart to suggest putting the horse in a dress and trying to confuse people to the identity.

Malcolm completely fails to notice his tongue tangled the two "An" names and simply rattles on, "Well, one must admit he would likely look fetching in it, though not perhaps as much as you do in…" He blushes, catching himself about to make indelicate reference to her trousers, "I fear I may not be entirely myself. Lord Andolin, promise to stop me if I start to sing, 'The Mermaid and the Shy Octopus.' It would not be seemly."

Enh! Angharad goes there, for him. "Maybe if we put the horse in the dress and convinced him it's a fair maid, we could acquire that horse spunk." You're welcome!

"I will do no such thing," Andolin laughs. "I'm about to get up and skin those rabbits, and I could use some entertain—" And then, lo, Angharad's input; there goes any sense of propriety he had, and he promptly dissolves into laughter, only coming up after a moment to breathlessly say, "Now that's a plan!"

Malcolm shakes his head, clearly not quite following, "Hands and mouth only, I can't afford Flowers…."

And there sits poor Lady Angharad, trying so hard not to laugh she squeaks. "I'm sure your hands and mouth would be sufficient, sweet Mal," she assures the poppy-headed knight. "It's the horse that should bring you flowers."

"Maybe you should take it to dinner first," is Andolin's sober input; he's stopped laughing, though his eyes are alight and his features betray how much of an effort it is not to be laughing.

Malcolm gazes up at her confused, "I fear I have lost ye. How'd we come back to horses? Dinner, Lord Andolin?"

Wiping her eyes, Angharad steadies Malcolm as she stands. "Come on, sweetheart. Let's find you a cot, somewhere. I think it's time."

Andolin chuckles, and hefts himself up with a bit of effort to go over and fetch the rabbits from the tree. "Sleep it off," he advises solemly, though he's still grinning a little. "You'll be sluggish in the morning, so be ready for that."

Malcolm is uncharacteristically obedient and manages to get stiffly to his feet. As he is led, he begins to sing in a voice more appropriate to the offspring of a crow with a blacksmith's forge and hammer about how shy the octopus is, hiding in it's cave and the lovely and curious mermaid trying to coax it out.

~Fin

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