(121-05-05) A Good Old Fashioned Spanking
L
Summary: Jorah and Elys spar.
Date: Date of play (I don't know it was a few days)
Related: None I guess?
Players:
Jorah..Elys..

When one does not have a manse of their own, they usually end up at the tournament grounds-or in the case of the Riverlanders in Oldtown, they crash where the Tullys are staying and then force themselves into the inner barbican where they can trade insults and swing blades at one another. As it stands a few men wearing the black and red of Blackwood are mingled with the blue and crimson of Tully. As they lounge the fighting ring, words and bets are placed, for in the center there is a dark horse candidate.

Shirtless (Cause why the fuck not) is the tattooed (half) brother of Ser Riderch Blackwood, swinging his spear at two men at arms in Tully tunics-wearing the practice armor. Sweat clings to him, and stains into his dark leather eyepatch. “I’ve seen whores stab better for coin. come on then.” comes the enthusiastic joinder from one Jorah Rivers, as a sword’s thrust is parried away with ease, and said trout sent sprawling with a blow to the man’s gut. Dancing lightly over the fallen man, Jorah’s next move has the ashen pole swinging down and tripping up the other, before thumping him soundly on the noggin. Which does illicit some laughter. “Gods this is fun-” so when not breaking or causing fights of his own, it seems the Blackwood bastard enjoys picking on the trouts.

Shirtless. Well, I suppose it is the Reach, shit gets pretty humid here. The Tully manse is a regular gathering spot for all people Riverlands, and Elys is no exception; she has her shirt very much on, though, as she strides with pompous air out of the main building. Skirted in leather and swinging her sword idly, she means to join in the fun… only, what.

“Jorah fucking Rivers,” she mutters, sounding pissed off.

To be fair, many women before Elys have likely muttered those words when they’ve spotted him in some aleshop or Tavern, laughing it up with locals and comrades alike. However said shirtless wonder finishes his spear work exhibition, before he is marching back over to the rail where tunic and surcoat are. “Alright then Meryn.” this intoned to a young, goofy looking teen who is trying to sport a mustache. “It seems I can do this, beserking thing, should I get the notion.” And there ink muscle, and sweaty riverman is covered up as poor black tunic is jerked over his head and down. “I’ll fuck their-” and whatever else he was, or is going to say is lost as he looks in the direction of one Elys Bracken.

Bracken

“Horses.” growled out-though Meryn seems confused and begins to question, only to be cut off. “No, I don’t fuck horse-godsdamnit Meryn..”all rambled out as he’s hasty to secure his tunic before squaring off to eye (as he’s the lone one) Elys upon approach.

Thick auburn lashes narrow over bright blue eyes, and Elys’ expression all but dries up as the horse jokes start. She tilts her head and raises her sword, pointing it in the direction of Jorah accusingly. “Sure you don’t,” sneers the sour Bracken lady, lifting her chin haughtily as she sweeps her gaze up and down the now black-be-tunicked Rivers. As if she has any right, she challenges:

“What are you even doing here?”

A coppery brow raises as Elys nears and Jorah drops his eye down to his collar as fingers fidget. Despite Meryn’s guffaws the Rivers seems to remain calm, though thin line smile does betray it to a certain extent. “I’ve not seen you on your back, so I will take that as a negative, Lady.” a look up as such bold talk-and there now the other men gathered round seem to be watching the trade of words in earnest. As Sword is raised Jorah raises his head so as to look down on Elys, which given that he is taller than her-isn’t difficult. To her challenge he snorts.

“I’m a Blackwood man, I come with Blackwood men, why else would I be even here?”

A look goes back to the ring.

“As for doing, Lady I was thumping trouts- Ser Riderch and I ride out to aid the North soon, and I’d have us be right ready for it.” A look then is leveled by Jorah before he shifts his weight from one foot to the other. “And what do I get to have the pleasure of talkin’ to you this fine day, for?”

“If you mean to imply that I’m a horse, I take great offense, bastard,” Elys retorts promptly, shifting her stance as she continues to hold Jorah at swordpoint. There is a faint flush, more visible due to her pale skin and red hair, that creeps into her cheeks at the snorted reply to her challenge.

“North?” She spends a moment contemplating that, rushing to add before an answer is given: “I’m here to train, of course. With my countrymen.”

“Your sigil, Elys.” Jorah replies, as if it was the most normal response ever. Gosh. “You wear a horse on your sigil, therefore you’re a horse as others call us Blackwoods ravens.” A shake of his head there, whether he notes the blush or not, the bastard as he is called does not comment. Instead he’s looking back to said Bracken and nodding.

“Aye North,” Jorah states, before an amused look rushes over. “We’re hunting Wildlings that some how the Starks let slip pass.” he doesn’t know the whole specifics. But it doesn’t matter, he gets to go killing and that in and of itself is rather interesting work. As to her own declaration there’s alook about the men gathered before Jorah is taking the girl back in.

“Do they train with you?”

It is not the most normal response in the world, although it is technically true. Elys isn’t placated, though, gritting her teeth and spitting through a minced expression, “You think I don’t know what you people say about me?” A shake of her sword is added for oomph, but she’s quickly derailed from any further action by the talk of the Northrons and wildlings.

“What?” She scoffs, plainly disbelieving. “The Starks let some wildlings through? All this fucking way?” A beat. “What a fucking joke.”

Another beat. “Why wouldn’t they?” She sounds indignant.

A glance back to her and there the amused look shows itself again. “I don’t know, what do they say about you, Elys?” smirk, is barely hidden-but he doesn’t dwell on it long. With sword being shaked, he raises one hand slowly to merely point the blade away from him. Unless she like hacks off his fingers. That’d suck.

“I believe so. So, the North has mustered it’s strength to hunt them down. Somehow we were asked and are going.” Jorah adds with a smile. “I suspect they die like squids-so it should be normal.” And he looks back down, to smooth out his shirt.

“You’re a woman.” Jorah points out before he is looking up. “Some men won’t.”

“Arse,” mutters the Bracken woman in response to that smirk. She is not amused, Jorah. She is, however, not enough of a bitch to chop off his fingers when he touches them to the point of her sword, allowing the bastard to deflect it. YOU’RE WELCOME.

“Well,” she continues, seemingly irked by all his smiling and carrying on cheerfully, “So they should.” Muster up their strength, to fix their mistake, of course. As for men training with her, she finally lowers her blade, sniffing and hacking in a half-hearted but still rather unladylike fashion. She spits into the dirt beside her.

“I’m a better blade than half or more of them,” she claims. “Tits and all.”

The ‘arse’ elicits a chuckle from the tall bastard, before he is shaking his head. He’ll be sure to send some flowers or something in thanks for keeping his digits. Kissing his teeth though, all Jorah musters the strength to do is nod, as she speaks up about the starks. “That’s how one should handle their cock ups. As it is, we could all be murdered and raped-that order- by the weeks beginning should we fail.” Hope is riding on Riderch Blackwood and Jorah Rivers. Old Gods be merciful.

The spit is noted and Jorah laughs out loud once, before he in turn snorts and then spits at her boot, if only to land close to her previously noted mark. The back of his hand wipes across his mouth before he straightens a bit. “So I’ve heard.” likely from Elys’ own claim.
“Tits ‘n’ all.” Jorah parrots with a grin. After a second he turns back towards Meryn. “Boy, grab my blade, toss her here.” Care with weapons seems to not be much. A look is given to Elys.

“Get in.”

the ring.

“Tits ‘n’ all, loverly.”

Well, that’s disgusting. Elys watches on with a mixture of horror and envy as Jorah hacks up a lovely gob of spittle to join hers, her face arcing down to see where it lands. To her credit, she doesn’t scootch her feet one whit, remaining staunch in her stance. (And by the way, your Old Gods are stupid, and you’re all weird, and she’s not riding North to rectify the mistakes of a bunch of cockups from Winterssuck.)

She does twirl her sword in a well-practiced maneuver, steel swinging behind her and drawing up to point again at Jorah for a brief moment. In the ring, he says? In the ring, she goes; she moves with a warrior’s confidence, but the sashay of a woman. It’s likely terribly hard to take her seriously, all things considered, but in she goes.

As she finds her place, she rolls her shoulders, arches her back, little cricks popping as bones slip back into their proper spots, or out of them, depending. She cracks her neck, head lolling severely side to side amidst a tangle of freed auburn curls. Well, frizz, really. This Reach humidity! “Come at me, then,” she bids, not at all ready. But hey, it sounds good.

[ROLL Jorah Blades vs Elys Blades]
[Jorah: Success vs Elys: Great Success]
[Elys Winner: Marginal Victory]

As Meryn fumbles about for the sword Jorah’s hands slide to his side, eyes watching in earnest the sashay of those wide set hips, as Elys does come right into the ring. Some of the men, Tully, by their colours snicker-where as Jorah gives them a glance before he is turning back and gesturing for his sword.

“Meryn, now.”

the Feckless boy tosses over the blade, which the bastard catches with ease. “You’re a bloody feisty thing..” he adds before turning and giving the air a testing cut, before he is coming in.

It’s not his best showing.

With a testing slash, he finds that Elys, though not at all ready, was more so than he gave her credit for. His blow is easily batted away, and she presses in him him, causing him to parry and riposte as he can-before she catches him open point to his chest.

There’s a faint laugh there, as the Tully men are Howling. Still Jorah pays them no mind.

“Good, again.”
And now he swings for her to knock her back.

[ROLL Jorah Blades vs Elys Blades]
[Jorah: Amazing success vs Elys: Great Success]
[Jorah Wins: Solid Victory]

She revels perhaps a beat too long with her opponent at swordpoint, but that is certainly not the reason that the next move goes to Jorah. Though she is quick to block each blow he delivers and her balance is good, he is clearly the stronger man on the field, and steel clashes against steel once, twice, thrice before she falter and is caught with her own sword to her throat, pressed in tight. Elys grits her teeth, struggling to hold Jorah’s sword clear as she growls at the Rivers.

“Better,” she admits, unwilling to give in just yet.

She strains to keep him at bay a moment longer, before slipping backward in the dirt and ducking out of the way. Shaking her hair from her face, she readies herself again.

[ROLL Jorah=blades Vs Elys=blades]
[ Jorah: Amazing Success v Elys: Good Success]
[Jorah wins: Crushing Victory]

There’s a grin once the red hair’d woman slips back and away. Taking a few steps off, he circles her in a rather lazy manner. His sword held low. When she is ready, Jorah simply nods before he comes in, his blade slashing it’s way through, as defenses are broken, and basically, the knight proves his own mettle, with his metal.

Backing her up Jorah manages to knock blade wide, before the point of his sword pokes her jerkin. Enough to leave a small cut on the leather, but otherwise not mar or harm the lady. Whatever tension or snickers were in the air have dropped, and Jorah lowers his sword as he comes in close, cross guard down from her neck-his thick fingers seek to tug on a curl.

“Best.”

he adds with a slight grin.

“You’re better than what they would give you credit for.”

Steel sings merrily in contrast to Elys’ sour expression, the lines of her scowl deepening as she fails to best each heavy blow. She grunts with the effort, and finally gasps, sucking in her stomach as though it might help evade the slice of her jerkin as she’s caught on swordtip.

Infuriated by the tug on her hair — what is she, six years old? — the Bracken woman curses softly, and adds: “Cocky arsehole,” to her list of insults accredited to Jorah. She lifts her chin indignantly.

“Well of course I am, nobody ever expects a woman to know the pointy end from the hilt.”

Jorah snorts there as he remains close in contemplation. Truly, he should likely break back before some Bracken get’s it into their head to come up and stab him in the back, or right now slit him from groin to gullet. Though, right now he is playing easily into the new descriptor bestowed upon him by yon sword maiden.

He lowers his head, as he tries his most charming of grins. And likely knowing it’s intended target, it fails.

“I do.” Jorah admits, “I speckt a woman to know how to handle anything that may be pointed at her.” And there he adds on a wink for good measure-also likely because he can’t well bloody blink with one eye.

Her guards know better than to rush in and save the lady unless she’s seriously about to fucking die. Most Brackens worth their salt disapprove of Elys, anyway. That charming grin certainly doesn’t inspire her to shed her clothes, and with his one eye closed to wink at her, Jorah might miss the subtle working of Elys’ jaw; she means to spit right in his face, before knocking his chest with the butt of her fist. “Fuck off, Rivers.”

Luckily for Jorah then-though at least he has earned the humor of some of the Blackwood men, to match the favor of his brother. Were Tewdric still alive, Jorah would likely be in some other camp harrassing some other woman. Funny how fate plays itself out. Though with his keen eye shut, he does miss the volley’s initial preparedness, so that when he does open his eye, he’s met by a gob of spit coming in. He all but flails, as head jerks back, but Elys’ aim is true and it catches cheek, and eye with flecks sliding into his beard. Sword arm jerks back as the hit to his chest rebuffs and checks the invading bastard.

Though for Elys’ moves, she does not get hit with a sword, but rather there’s laughter wild and braying, as free hand slides up to wipe the gob away-eye blinking to clean itself rapidly.

“And go where?”

DIE?

That won’t happen Elys.

“You’re sore, cause I whupped you. When you should be glad, I even sparred you at all.”

Were Tewdric still alive, he’d have himself a horribly surly red-headed wife. One who’s just been beat soundly, too; Tewdric is probably happier in his grave, right? The look she shoots Jorah certainly agrees with the sentiments she’s voiced, yes, FUCK OFF AND DIE. She squints, her expression only broken by the bastard’s latter statement. Her temper flares, and she readies her sword again, charging with the tip pointed as she roars. They’re not really words, these twisted sounds, though if they were somehow to be translated they might hark back to the most recent capslock.

[Jorah: blades vs Elys:blades]
[Jorah: Amazing Success! Elys: Good Success!]
[ Result: Jorah wins! Crushing Victory]

When Elys comes charging this time, Jorah’s ready. His sword comes up in a quick and hasty swish of wrist and line of arm, the move made to disarm the girl, by entangling her blade to his own, before he’d grip to throw the girl down-and hard. Hard as he would with any other man, were he fighting them. With her down, he’d come over and kick the sword away, before returning back towards where hopefully the Bracken remains on the ground. His blade tossed back to his fumbling squire-(which one might hear cursing and notice blood on the fool’s hand later)-Jorah drops down, one hand moving.

Not to plant at her back to keep her down.

But rather, a liberty is taken, and her ass?

Grabbed, smacked-whatever you wish to call it.

“Elys.”, the tone says stop

“Just don’t. I like you-and let’s keep it that way.” Which is likely an annoying thing to hear, let alone the embarrassment of pure bastardy behavior on her personage.

Well, this is embarrassing. Indeed.

Having possibly underestimated the infuriating bastard, Elys is… gobsmacked, to say the least, to find herself so easily tossed in the dirt. It doesn’t help that the wind is knocked out of her chest for a moment, but that’s certainly not the only reason her cheeks are aflame to match her hair. As Jorah grabs at her ass — WHAT — her jaw slacks open in even more shock, and reflexively she moves to grace his face with a slap of her hand in return.

“I don’t like you,” she confesses, and what a surprise. “Just… ugh!” She rolls, wriggles, whatever you’d call it, to right herself, scrambling in the dirt to put some distance between them. She’d like to stand up again, but getting away is more important just now.

This brings about the hooting, and hollering from the Tully men, and a few Blackwood men as well, as the Brackenlass is then scrambling away. Jorah for his part grins as he stands up-however to the hooting of the fish-there’s a brief glare given and some of them die off, having had their own asses handed to them not too long ago. Jorah looks back, before he’s snickering and shaking his head.

“I take it our spar is over?” the bastard asks as he walks over towards Elys’ sword and plucks it up.

(Truth be told, Elys’ own men are sharing a quiet snigger behind their hands to each other. It’s a guy thing.)

The fiery, fire-headed lass picks herself up, and proceeds to dust herself down as people generally do after a tumble in the dirt. It’s terribly undignified. She doesn’t particularly care — not for the dirt, not for the laughter, not for Jorah fucking Rivers and his securing of her sword. She keeps her bright eyes down, muttering, “You’ve got to be fucking kidding me.”

Pitched to carry to the crowd, she adds, “Yes.”

“Good.”

Jorah states almost as cheerfully as he whistles (Which is pretty fucking cheery) And then he turns to see where the woman has placed herself, before he is walking over. Sword tossed up and caught, like some magical mummer’s feat that is used to please children and make true knight’s eyes roll. So yes, something Jorah does during tournaments if only to piss people off.

And he stops squarely infront of Elys, before he turns the hilt towards her, and holds the blades in his hands (Likely a stupid thing to do)

“Your sword.”

There’s no smugness in the Rivers’ voice, just a statement.

“Let me know when you’d like to swing it.” Again, likely.

Credit where credit is due, as fast as Elys’ temper flares, it cools. She sniffs, purposely avoiding any glance Jorah’s way. His tourney trick? Wasted on her. (But it’s a very nice trick. Good job, Jorah.) The Bracken woman spends an extra few strokes of her hand brushing off her butt, because JORAH GERMS.

When finally she looks up, it’s only for the mention of her sword, and she settles what is all-too-baby-blue to be a steely gaze upon the bastard as she takes it. Gently. She can’t quite bring herself to say ‘thankyou’, so the sharp wag of her chin to nod will have to suffice.

“Another day,” she responds crisply, motioning to her men that they’re leaving. And leave, she does, boots stirring up a dusty trail behind her for her haste.

“Another day.” The bastard parrots as he takes time to watch her scurry off, before turning back to Meryn. The squire seems to suggest something followed by a mule’s laugh, before he is for his own trouble back slapped by Jorah.

“Gods damnit Meryn..” muttered as he moves to gather his things, leaving the Tullys to practice in peace.

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