| Godsdamned Sausage Festival |
| Summary: | Riderch and Jorah talk about the Wildlings and the aftermath of their raiding |
| Date: | Date of play (05/05/2014) |
| Related: | Wildlings stuff |
| Players: |
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The Fist and Falcon's sign shows a gauntleted fist with a hooded falcon sitting on it. The establishment is a tavern only, and offers no sleeping rooms. It consists of a single, large, low-ceilinged room, the timbered walls covered with old smoke-stained plaster. It is decorated with battle-damaged shields and the mounted heads of stags and boar.
There's a single large fireplace along one wall, with a high hearth for seating. A heavy, battered wooden bar stands opposite. The rest of the room is occupied by weighty oaken tables, marred by generations of men picking their sigils into the wood with knife-tips.
The Fist caters to the tourney-ground crowd, being close enough that a man fresh from a fight and with a thirst on him need not go far to satisfy it. It offers meads, ales, ciders, and wines of all types. One can also buy hearty, simple food in large portions — thick brown stew, sausages, hot meat pies, and meats roasted with potatoes and onions.
The scene. A warm summer day, shaded by the darkened environs of the Fist and Falcon's large feasting room. The massive ceiling yawns overhead as patrons go about their business. This business of course involves ingesting booze. And Riderch Blackwood would be one of those ingesting types. He's out of his armor for now, and one would definitely note a weariness to his demeanor and a stiffness to his left arm's movements as he goes about the arduous work of slamming a tankard of oat-ale back and groggily rubbing a hand over his brow.
Light rolls of thunder outside indicate a storm brewing, or coming-but of that it's not really important. In here, though with lack of whores Blackwood men find a place of respite and drink. Some lingering from the party that rode from Raventree Hall have lingered about, but the original Blackwoods in tow for the most part are still here. Tel is at the counter, where as peeling from it is a still somewhat loosely armored Jorah who comes down with a thunderous crash of ass to oak by where his brother (half) sits.
Another mug of Oat-Ale is sat in front of the heir apparent, while Jorah has a mug of a pale and hopsy looking thing. A sip of it taken, before he bringing his hand to his cheek, where dried gore still remains. "Well." the bastard finally breaks the peace. "Those were wildlings."
Apparently oats are cheap in the Kingdom these days. The drink is mild but quite palatable. Taking your breakfast is really something, here. The little party has barely rested since its return, with a few newcomers in tow. Robb Blackwood is unfortunately passed out at the moment in the garden of Luthier Manse. Something to do with 'starting too early.'
Riderch's eyes narrow at his kinsman's face with some wry amusement. "Sometimes I envy your no-nonsense way of things." He says, smirking at the remaining bloodstain. "And they were. And the traitors to the North were stopped from whatever it was they were doing, and all manner of confusing things." He sighs a rough sigh.
Jorah snorts, "And sometimes brother, I envy your name." The bastard states before he is looking back over towards the door, as a yawn is batted down with thick fingers. "They had no hack silver on them, or anything I'd want. There was a redhead." Jorah adds wistfully. "However, she was a corpse-and I'm not Frey enough for that." A wide grin there before he is clearing his throat. "What was their reason for being here?" he ask, before taking a drink, and his eyes slide into the cup. "This tastes like piss." And tehre he offers it to Riderch. "Actual piss-does it smell like it?"
Oh. Wildlings
"Surely it wasn't some wild political play by one of the other Northern houses and these things were but pawns?" ever eloquent one moment. "I bet their women fuck like they fight." And crude and appraising the next.
"I think we've been over this before." Riderch's voice is just tired. Plain old tired, and sore, but he belts a hearty enough laugh. "I don't know. Something about that whole thing — they send their women down to die. Which I guess is the Old way, but —" there's a certain amount of disapproval. Or maybe just a certain reluctance at being the hatchetman. He pointedly avoided engaging the few women amongst their number in those battles.
"It's not piss, it's what happens when the oatcake trade collapses, Jorah. Trust me when I say it grows on you." He pauses a moment, shiftily before adding, "Heh, and there goes my inheritance of Bear Island, which is likely what made Father so willing to send the men he did. That and some obvious lingering goodwill to the Northmen.
"Likely, but I like to know all the angles-and those Starks." A fine grimace there before there is a shrug before he is taking another sip of it. Settling into the ale that he has right now. He'll not press about Northeron or Southron ambitions which could have been at play here. "They do. I saw many a fine corpse with a good ass or a rack of a master carpenter. Alas. All filled with sword steel and left as food for crows." A sigh there before he is looking back to Riderch. And there a meaty hand moves over to pat him on the shoulder. "You're a good man brother. And if you'd not done it-they would have cleaned you like a fish."
"There's a trade on oatcakes? I thought that was code for a sex party held by Lord Gavin." okay, so he doesn't have the right players, but the sentiment is there. "Oh? I thought the she bear licked you-or sommat what Robb was chortling about."
"Starks are a great House. And those people can bloody fight. Even the ones who say they can't fight, can." Comes an immediate assessment from the younger (half) brother. "Those savages seem to share our blood, though. If you think about it. I am not sure how that makes me feel."
Time passes and fingers are drummed on the long table as a flagon is set down. "Robb should keep his bloody mouth shut, or at least wait to learn how to grow a fucking beard." Riderch says grumpily as he shakes his head. Lord Blackwood unfortunately gossips like a child sometimes, so he is one to talk. "She's respectable enough and not bad to look at, and despite what people say, I am not sore over getting beaten to the ground by her. I just —" He shrugs. "I really do not want to entertain these sorts of things right now."
"We share blood with the Starks and all them up North, Riderch." Jorah amends. "Even them that want us dead, which I imagine those Wildlings would have done regardless if we showed up to have a picnic with them." And there he watches his younger (half) brother, before draining down more ale. "You did em honor by sending them to their end with a sword in their hand. They will be welcomed." as if it needs said.
The drumming of fingers easily lulls Jorah into a blank, emotionless stare-before he is blinking and then laughing. "If he did, it'd be on his neck, like a Lannister's boy." a snort there. "Then don't." simple there. "Just go whoring, or find some sweet lass to take your mind off of silvered moonlight." A half smile there. "Look at it this way: We stopped them savages from coming and ravaging our poor cousin."
"There's truth in that, Jorah." Riderch finally comes around in a wry admission, with a little shake of his head. "Those foes are honest, at least. What bothered me more was the fact that we had that piece of shit Sylas Volmark nipping at our heels, serving as "Hightower Reinforcements." I can't begrudge Old Man Hightower throwing away his house trash at a problem that wasn't even his, I just don't even like being /near/ them. Raises my hackles."
"And yes, I suppose. You say it like it's an easy thing." He nudges his half-brother but lets the matter drop. "Twice over, I think. THE KINGDOM IS SAFE. And all that."
"We should have just murdered the Squids in the midst of the slaughter and claim some rattleshirt or skin wearer did it." Jorah adds thoughtfully. "Only good Ironborn men are them dead ones. And likely Lord Sleepstower probably thought they would have the courtesy of getting themselves killed somewhere quiet." A grunt there. "And then we had to watch them sleep, because the She Bear was uneasy. We should have smothered them like a bag of unwanted puppies."
He's nudged and he laughs. "Easy enough." And a nod. "Well Good. So what do we do now, beyond lick our wounds?"
"I would have done it if Lord Stark wasn't hovering so close — and let's face it. There were more of them than there were of us. If I'm going to do something mad, I want to be able to walk away from it — laughing." Like he always is, it seems. Riderch forcefully intones this before breaking into a series of little snickers himself, the ale shakes in his hand. "Lord Sleepstower. And — well, we wait. Wait and see. And maybe if we get a lead on our little problem, some of these Northerners will remember the men of Raventree Hall who fought for them when they needed extra swords, mm?"
"If I am to murder someone, I do it when they sleep without armor on their bellies or knowing it is coming." Jorah adds, as if that of all things are useful to this discussion. "I am surprised Lord Stark would accept them as suitable reinforcements. They looked pretty afield, but they could not ride." he adds, with a bit beam of pride.
And then there's the nod and the rub. "Aye, well I suspect some of them will. Them that's sweet on you. So we'll have bears with us." Which would likely be fine and good. Bears hate Squids. So it works.
"Wolves hate Squids too. Everyone hates Squids." Riderch says. In other news, most birds fly, and most fish swim. But now he's taking the high road here. "But no, Jorah. If the last of Harren the Black's line died at the hands of a Raven, I'd want to make damn sure he knew who was doing it. And why." Why? Because. He slams the mug down on the table.
"Right then." Jorah adds with a toothy enough grin. "So we don't kill them in their sleep. Or we save someone for their sleep. I don't know. I say we kill them either way." And with that he rubs a hand through his hair. 'We've come back and we've killed a mess of bloody raiders which should mean we're heroes. How do heroes celebrate, whilst we wait for word from our flashy cousin?"
"I don't know about heroes. We just went out and killed some savages and did what needed to be done." The smaller Riverman runs his hand through his short hair, taking in a deep breath.
"But I'm willing to let folk think that." His grin matches Jorah's now. "I don't know — I know you appreciate the finer things in life."
"I tell you, I'd rather appreciate a fine piece of Bracken flesh." all muttered into his mug before heis letting his eyes twinkle back in merriment to Riderch. "Oh!" And there Jorah sits a bit taller. "I got it-Why don't we have a party. Something to further our House's reputation here. Can be a smaller affair where we pick the nobles who'd rightly come-and use it as a means to see who would go adventuring" read REAVING, "With us, should we get the next stage of our dealings with Justyn. It can be under the guise of-something. Someone coming to town or to celebrate Lord Ser Mallister…"
"There's always Elys. She's around. Somewhere, I think." Riderch poses this thought distractedly. "Don't bloody ask /me/ though, It's not like I have gone looking for her. I'm a good guest. No fighting in the streets, I believe Lord Hightower has as much on his plate as he can handle as it is." The flagon is drained completely now — "See? You get used to the taste."
And it hits the table again. "Well, there is something. There's a Targaryen Princess who made a fairly solid series of suggestions that 'maybe' we should organize a feast." The sort of vague language here is buried as he adds. "Actually she seems quite serious about that. And if we can't try to entertain her and her guests I don't know who is worth entertaining? It'd be an odd affair to do what I think you're describing, though. Maybe keep all us ruffians out in the garden." His grin is wide and toothy.
At the second time of mug banging, a hand reaches out to steady Riderch's arm as he turns his head to look to the door and then back. "So, a certain princess-asks for a feast. We hold it, and can invite someone from home." A glance is given back to Robb and then he shakes his head. "And then we entertain the shit out of them. Should the men retire at some time, we can corner them in a room around an oatcake." a grin there. "Right-I bet I could get us some meat. make sure our pillowcases are clean." A pause "I think ladies care about that you know-clean linens."
"I'm not seriously entertaining madness here." Riderch states as he bites into what looks like a steamed pear on a plate, the remainder of it impaled by his knife. He points with it across the table, not immediately realizing that he's playing with his food. Oh well. His eyes narrow. "Let's not pretend otherwise. But what could this hurt? And — well, who'd we invite from home to this anyway? Actually, if the guests are esteemed enough…"
The pear then falls off the knife. "Did you have to mention pillowcases?"
"We could invite your uncle Lord Mallister, I am sure he'd love to see Justyn about-or." And there's a brief flash of his eyes and teeth as he grins. 'We invite your mother." Obviously they'd not invite his mother-she's off married to some milner now, so why would she be esteemed. But, Lady Blackwood is always an esteemed guest. 'We could even show her the Hightower and how nothing happens there. It'd be a marvel-Bonus to it: your Dragon meets her." And there a waggle of brows. "You're not being pressed to marry-but at least you could probe your family on it." Hah! Look at how smart he thinks he is. If the bastard is off put about havign stabbed fruit pointed at him, it doesn't show-even when the pear slips free.
"That's where their faces go. Ladies." and then a vaguely crude hip pumping motion is given while he sits. "So you want nice pillowcases."
"Jorah —" The laughs come from the Blackwood heir now, so hard that his hand shakes and the pear goes flying off the knife onto the plate with a disgusting 'splat.' It's absurd, but probably not the only absurd thing to him.
"I know what my family would say to that. Even father. Especially father. For once, he's not the problem here. I know — names are what they are. But my name isn't Tully, Lannister, Stark. It is what it is. I can admire from afar though." He lets this final thought linger aloud, shaking his head a little bit bemusedly.
"And I don't know. Mother is always a guest that brings out the best in people. She even likes you." He points a callussed finger at his bastard brother. "But doesn't everyone?" The grin is again wolfish. He just ignores the pillowcases comment, completely.
"We should have ordered chicken.." murmured as Jorah watches the fruit go flying- a frown there before he is shaking his head. There's likely a reason the man prefers apples to such disgusting fruits as pears. THE WORST.
"Little (half) brother, I will always think you diserve the best-because you do. Our family does-and what Valyrian blue blood wouldn't be happy with a men from the First of men? You'd greensee your way into her drawers.." he adds with a wink. "No, we're not wolves. We're not Lions. But we're fucking Ravens." and there he pauses. "Oh what will we do with our bird?" Have they even named the beast?
"See-even more reason. She'll make you shine, or at the very least make me smile."
"We should always have ordered chicken. I'm still trying to wash away the taste of that camp venison." Riderch comments. He's hungry, still. He's /always/ hungry, it seems, the man has a roaring fire in his guts like a smith's forge.
"And I appreciate that. I do, really. I just don't think the rest of the world sees things the way we do. But that's fine, I suppose. Houses and dynasties, Fish and Dragons and Squid and Horsefuckers come and go. Some of them are great, and some of them should be forgotten by time. But we're here. We'll /always/ be here." He extends his drink to his bastard brother now in a toast.
"And — I don't know. You know what she is? She's a an amazingly decent, clever girl who could have been handed the power to be a complete monster. And she simply chose not to. That's why I think she's great. But let's — forget this for now, shall we?" There's a bit of color in his pale cheeks. Maybe it's just the ale finally hitting him.
"I like venison." Jorah says with a faint frown. "Got used to it, here when I was off jumping from Lord to Lord during the Dornish dust up. You have good venison and it's right." Though nothing beats fresh fish-or in this case: A good fat chicken. "I don't think they've chicken here anyway. I've only seen men order sausage in here. Like it's some godsdamned sausage festival.." he adds before turning his head to spit.
"Horsefuckers will never be seen as great as they think. Same with the Squid. No-those Horsefuckers will always be men and women who choose to fuck horses. Or in the winter years: goats." A lick of his teeth and he raises his glass to clink against Riderch's "Always and ever." he adds.
More booze down, and he looks back to his brother. "Of course." he adds with a smile. "I'm writing her you know…Or I'll tell Tel what to write for me." Jorah may read, but making letters is another thing entirely
"That's true. This — wasn't." That's all that Riderch has to say about the venison. He lets out a slight cough. Maybe a sputter. "Sausage."
After the toast is made he downs the rest of his cup and looks at what's left of the pear, messily stuffing it in his face. "Where would we be without Tel?" He asks, dryly.
There's a grin there as he drains a bit more, before leaning back into his chair. "I don't know." Jorah answers honestly, "I suspect we'd likely be fucked and dead." A nod there before he's motioning to one of the slop boys passing by. "Nother round.
Riderch, in an amazing economy of movement, merely takes two, pinching the vessels and placing them on the table. "I don't know what to name that bloody bird."
"We could call him Justyn as well." Jorah's almost thoughtful about it, save for the shameful snickering into his cups. "Or I don't know. Would Tewdric want a bird named after him?" But then, the bastard would have to dislike the bird mildly, which will not happen. "We could call him Stranger? That's what they call that hooded bastard in the sept, right?"
"Let's not antagonize the local folk with that one." Riderch mmms as he knocks back a drink. "Or anger the dead." His tongue clicks. "We could always go large and storied. Hoaresbane? Hoarsebane, maybe?"
"Hoaresbane has a bloody ring to it." Jorah says as he perks a little. "And if it's a raven it should be storied." Or so that is Jorah's opinion. "Yes." he decides all at once. "Yes. Hoaresbane."
"Maybe we'll take him with us when we banish Sylas Volmark's soul from this world." The smiling Riderch now lets out a choppy, lilting laugh that is not at all short on malice. Indeed, malice is its primary component.
Jorah perks again now leaning forward onto the table. "We could do it in the garden, you know? I am certain no one will mind or notice." A chuckle there. "Invite him in, show him the garden and Axe him…or something." Jorah is usually much better at planning these things-ambushes and the like. It's probably the sum of no sleep and much killing before.
"I'd rather not gain the reputation as someone who kills guests." Riderch has managed to steal some bread from somewhere. It's like sleight-of-hand. Stuffing it in his mouth, he sighs a little bit as the two brothers fall into a now-familiar pattern. Jorah with the crazy idea, and Riderch as something of a wet blanket explaining why it would just not work. Or why it is a bad idea.
fin