(121-05-19) Last Tango for the Pansy
Last Tango
Summary: Garvin Tyrell meets with the Shackled Dragon and two of his cousins.
Date: 19 May 2014
Related: none

Game of Bones - Monday, May 19, 2014, 4:12 PM

Garden Isle
It is a summer day. The weather is warm and drizzling.

Here a grand manse stands on the center of a small island. Over a stone bridge wide enough for a vintner's wagon, a dark, two-story building rises, with two 60-foot-high towers at the northwest and southeast corners of the manor. High, arched windows have been secured with iron bars on the ground floor. Steps lead up to a small porch, guarded by two rampant griffins. Ten-foot-tall, five-foot-wide double doors of iron-banded oak provide entrance into the manse. In the center of each door is carved an enormous Tyrell rose, gilded and gleaming.

While the bridge connects to Sphinx Street, the front of the building faces Starry Street, giving a fine view of the domes and towers of the Starry Sept.

There's a pleasant walled garden in the back, viewed from the windows in the back wall. The upper stories have balconies to overlook it. Two centuries-old oaks dominate the area, their canopy offering shade, but there are also flowerbeds all around. Pansies of various colors dominate, but there are also marigolds, tulips, and of course, roses in white, red, and especially Tyrell gold.

The Purple Cloaks on the bridge look Raiko over suspiciously before waving him into the practice yard, where Garvin is currently jumping about with his thin Braavosi rapier, hacking and slashing at the air. He's garbed in a garish costume similiar to those worn by bravos, though with the addition of a mail shirt under his half-tabbard, and by his awkward movements, he isn't used to wearing any sort of armor at all.

The huge figure of Raiko definitely looks like a mercenary; assuredly a foreign one, but he doesn't seem to have any weapon beyond a small knife, useless beyond utility and grooming. Although the moment that the large figure thumps his way into the training yard, his good eye narrows at the blade. A ripple of contempt, before he swallows it and spits somewhere to the side. "Water Dancin' and armor don't go together." he gruffs out, Common broken and with a strange accent; Braavosi, but with elements of Astapor as well. "Heard you had coin." Although what sort of sellsword has no sword is anyone's guess.

Garvin swoops around to face Raiko, the plumes of his absurdly large hat fluttering in the wind. "Normally, I'd agree with you," he says, flourishing his blade twice more, before sheathing it at his left side. "But everyone wears armor and kicks my butt on a fairly regular basis, and frankly, I'm sick of it. But damn, this stuff is slowing me down…Who're you?"

The moment Garvin lays eyes on Raiko, it's apparent that the large man absolutely doesn't like him. That hat. That weapon. Idly, he scratches at his left eye, along an ancient scar that turned it into a blind, milky orb. "Raiko." he offers, growl like a baritone crunching through glass. "You give me money, and I hurt people. …That's a bravos blade. Ya know anythin' 'bout the Free Cities? Rumors, legends, myths?" From the inflection of his tone, he's already assuming 'no'.

Garvin takes off the hat for a low, dramatic bow, sweeping it back onto his unruly curls afterward. "Garvin Tyrell, sometimes knows as Lord Pansy of Whimsy. Naturally, you already knew that. And yes, this blade did belong to a bravo, once upon a time. My dancing mentor bestowed it upon me before he left, said I was his most promising student." Then he shrugs one shoulder, waving idly to a squire, who hurries to his side with a goblet of wine. "As for legends and myths of the Free Cities, I've heard a few from time to time. Harpists and talespinners sometimes bring stories from across the sea. Why, are you famous?" He guzzles down the wine, then hands the goblet back to his squire, who hurries away again.

"No. I didn't know who ya were. Coulda guessed on the 'pansy' part." Raiko states, with an utter lack of reverence that would probably get most sellswords thrown into the waters, if they were lucky. It's obvious he has no idea of the game of Nobles, and such is at least part purposeful ignorance. "I don't like the bravos." He just leaves it at that. "But I'm what ya call a… professional. Yeah? That means you pay me coin, and I don't give a dragon shit who you are or where you came from."

The wine is the only thing that really seems to get the attention of Raiko, but he does stride forward. It's more aggressive than not, but he'd stop close enough to lift a gauntleted hand and tap it. It's very well-crafted steel, or was at one point. Inscribed upon it masterfully is a dragon in shackles. "I made a name fer meself in Astapor." he offers, lazily. He shakes the rusting manacle, worn like a bracelet. "Called me the Shackled Dragon. So aye. I've a bit o' a reputation."

Actually, such is not a falsehood; many mummers, singers and song-weavers spread word of the Shackled Dragon of Astapor, killing a massive tiger with his bare hands. Although such has been so embellished, it'd seem rather improbable for the real man to be randomly standing in Westeros. Ah, the years he'd spent throwing halfpennies to make up new versions of his bouts in that city…

Garvin blinks his eyes wide. "The Shackled Dragon?" he says, obviously awed. "Truthfully? Well, I am impressed. You do indeed have a reputation, even here in the Reach. I even thought about writing a play about you, but it'd end up too violent, even for my audiences." He waves again, and this time, his squire brings two goblets, handing one to Garvin and offering the other to Raiko. "What are you doing here in Westeros, O Shakled Dragon? Wait, that's the second time you've mentioned me paying you. Are you wanting to become a Purple Cloak?"

"If it wasn't violent, ya wouldn't be writin' it right." Raiko states, but he does puff his chest up a bit. Apparently, his pride's not particularly hard to stroke. The look he gives the squire is indeed incredibly imposing. There's a wildness that would fit one past the Wall, as if daring the squire to get within arm's reach. The air of predator and prey. And like a striking viper, he'd move to snatch it. Despite it all, and the swift motion, he'd not spill a drop. No words come, as he's literally chugging the wine.
"…That's good." he grunts, licking his lips. Now he wishes he had bothered to taste it. Too use to pinching his nose and powering through. "This is why…" A small pack is shrugged off his shoulder. Digging around within it, he pulls out a leather sack. There's the clank of metal, a fairly large amount, and he hurls it to land in front of Gavin. Whatever it is, it's many things in pieces, about a hand's length. "I needed a change of scenery."

If opened, Garvin would count fifteen hilts to a bravos sword. Many of them very fine and gilded, some simplistic. Each had the blade snapped off the very tip. A lot could probably be read into it. It's been too recent for the storytellers to get to 'The Bladeless Bravos Hunter', after all. Give it another year or two.

Nyran Redwyne, Garvin's squire, isn't too easy to intimidate, but Raiko manages just the same, and the lad quickly withdraws to a safe distance, while Garvin is busy gulping down more fine Arbor red. When the sack lands at his feet with metalic clanks, he can't help but quirk a brow curiously. "Slave chains?" he asks, crouching to inspect the sack more closely. "You know, slavery doesn't exist here in…Wha—? Are these…hilts? Some of these look fairly well constructed, but…where are the blades?" Brows drawn together in confusion, he looks up at Raiko, head tipping to one side. "Are you looking for a smith to reforge your weapons or something?"

It is a perfectly lovely day to be out and about, roaming the grounds of Garden Isle with a lady's maid at one's side. Lady Lisette Tyrell is the picture of prim and proper nobility, walking at a measured gait with her hands tucked within the voluminous sleeves of her blue gown. Her lady-in-waiting is murmuring to her when they both look upward. Tiny specks of rain erupt overhead and it begins to drizzle. But the gentle maid is at the ready, and the homely little girl of 14 years, oft called Kalla, pulls a cloth parasol from a sack at her side and quickly opens it over the Lady's head. Lisette smiles to her and reaches forward to stroke a finger down the girl's cheek. "Thank you, Kalla." Kalla looks overjoyed to have done her Lady's bidding and grins from ear to ear.

They make their way over to the training yard, stopping at a respectable distance for a Lady of good upbringing to stand when viewing men doing those brutish things that men do. Fighting is such a messy business and Lisette's gown looks freshly washed. She pulls the hood of her wrap up over her head and cants her head slightly to see who is out there practicing. There is whispering happening between the two young girls, and when there is a break in the action, the Tyrell girl lifts a hand and waggles her fingers at the handsome boy in the ridiculous hat. That would be Garvin, her cousin.

There's just a tinge of respect from Raiko at Nyran's reaction. Like a skittered horse, really; yet one well trained. Good. "Yer slave's well lashed." he allows, not knowing the term for 'squire' and considering it close enough for his purposes. Nothing is said when the bag is investigated, giving some time to try and piece the mystery together by tossing his goblet back towards Aryan, motioning for more. "Every one o' those hilts is from a fighter in Braavos. Confronted in an accepted duel. I killed them, shattered their toys, and kept them as souvenirs. With me bare hands. I figured it'd be good proof ter anyone in Westeros who ain't familiar with the Shackled Dragon." Indeed, a keen eye would find blood of some of the hilts. Old, dried, stained. They all seem to be relatively new however, no older than half a year at most. The most elaborate and beautiful of the former bravos weapons, though, is likely not recognized to belong to one of the most dangerous men in the Free Cities. Killing his son is what caused him to flee to the Seven Kingdoms, after all.

No fighting is taking place, however. Although Raiko looks like nothing if not some foreigner monster, dress, skin, build and mannerisms completely alien — someone utterly unfitting to be standing in such hallowed grounds. His good eye settles on the pair, and slowly flashes a grin. Yet it is the smile of a wolf, little more than bared teeth, no more friendly than a wolf about to feast. "Ladies." he growls in his tone of baritone gravel, Common bastardized with an accept of Braavosi and Astapori.

Garvin's face suddenly drains of color, his eyes widening. "All these belonged to men that you…that you killed?" He looks at the array of hilts again, a shiver creeping into his shoulders. "Warrior's sweaty…uh…hands. All these? You've killed eight…twelve…fourteen…How many are there?" He slowly rises to his feet, still shaking a bit and, knowing the rules, keeping his hands far from the hilt of his own blade. Just to be sure, he grips the goblet between both hands. Can't be too careful, after all. And then he sees Lisette, and he puts on a weak smile for her benefit. "Cousin! How good to see you. Lady Lisette of House Tyrell, may I present Raiko, the Shackled Dragon." Meanwhile, Nyran carries a large silver flagon forward, his own hands shaking just a bit as he refills Raiko's goblet, never once making eye contact.

The lady's maid, Kalla, is startled by Raiko and tucks herself behind Lisette - she would make a horrible protector should the Tyrell girl ever have need for a guardian. This would be why she is kept to more suitable duties of tending to Lisette's hair and fetching wine. Several steps behind the girls is a Purple Cloak, the one assigned to actually take a care for Lisette's well-being. He is called Andros, for those that might know the names of these men. For his part, he is silent, though watchful.

Lady Lisette takes a step closer when the foreigner addresses them, her smile as pretty as most typical Tyrell flowers. It is in her blood to be pleasing to the eye after all. "Good day to you, Raiko. The Shackled Dragon, indeed. Are you going to be sparring with my cousin? Take a care not to hit his face," she says in a cool, though not unfriendly tone. Unlike the man - beast - she is addressing, Lise is a child of privilege. Clean, dressed as fine as a peacock feather, with the softness of skin that means not a day's hard work has ever crossed those milky pale hands. She moves to settle near her cousin and watches the very large, very scary brute before her. Manse life can be so very boring. Dangerous murders are a change of pace. Kalla struggles to keep the parasol over Lisette's head to shield her from the rain, so Andros steps up and takes it from her, covering both Lise and Garvin. "You are looking very fine, cousin. Though a little… tired?"

Well, Raiko certainly looks startling. Like some marauder from the Free Lands, who'd stuff children into sacks, throw women over his shoulder, and leave burning houses in his wake as all the men lay dying around him. How much of that is the truth? Garvin himself might not be sure. But after supposedly killing so many arrogant bravos with his bare hands, being let in with no weapon was obviously far from a guarantee in safety. "Fourteen. That I kept. Others I threw in the waters of Braavos. You should see it. The look of terror on one who relies on steel. Heh. That's why I laugh at you, boy. For trying to dance in that armor." He slowly strides towards Garvin, and it's impossible to tell from his strong, confident posture what his intent is. This myth from over the narrow sea does not know the rules of Westeros, of nobles and manses. Or if he does, he does not respect them. Not a nuance of fear, of social anxiety, nothing that even the most base of sellswords learns long before offering his trade.

All that would become of it is crouching down to grasp his bag of hilts, stuffing any within that might have been taken out and returning it to his back. "I heard you wanted strong men. And if you were taught by a bravos, then you know what this graveyard I carry means." Lisette is given his attention next. A bit too thorough of one, for most delicate tastes. "I wasn't plannin' ter. I heard there was coin here. So I came. That's as far as things have gone." He looks at her like any other. For what she is. Small, weak, and reliant on the purple cloak nearby who likely has every alarm bell ringing within his well-trained mind.

Garvin chews at his lower lip, glancing between Lisette, her maid, her Purple Cloak, and Raiko. "This is…That is to say, being a Purple Cloak is…You'd have to…." He tries to calm his stammering by gulping down more Arbor red, then holding out his goblet for his squire to refill. Taking a deep breath, he starts again. "I rely upon the steel of the men around me, as well as my own steel. Those have proved somewhat less than adequate of late, however, which is why I seek to hire more men. More trusted men, of course. Trusted not only by myself, but by me relations as well, men whose judgement I trust. I suppose what I'm trying to say, Shackled Dragon, is that you'll need to speak with my cousins, Ser Thorn and Ser Greydon. I'm no longer in a position to hire men myself. Lisette, do you know if Ser Greydon is about?"

His approach to the Isle would be noted by the clopping of horse hooves and the sound of a small procession by the noise approaching the Manse. Though it's not entirely large-rather it seems to be one knight and two squires. Young men by the looks of all three, but men enough. Dressed not for patrol, but rather as if they'd been off to pay a call on someone, and thus whatever armor is worn is more ceremonial than for overt protection. Given the climate and today's weather there is sweat on both horse and men-who come to a slow and then a stop as eyes set down upon the scene here. A brow is raised on the lead horseman, who nudges a bit further. A stable man coming to meet him.

Dismounting Greydon's hand moves to his sword, if but to situated the belt before his boots bring him closer to where Garvin and his 'company' are. A friendly enough smile is given Garvin as a hand raises up. "Hello, Coz.." or cousins, given Lisette's appearance, which earns another look and a grin. "It seems I have arrived at the right possible time-Looking for me?" a jaunt of the brow up, before he is eying Raiko carefully.

It is not an easy thing to regard Raiko, the towering mountain of a man, with cool indifference, but Lisette does her very best. It is that Purple Cloak so very near to her now that gives her courage. She glances to Andros and then back to Raiko. His talk of coin means nothing to her. She is not one to pay for such a man's company. Her hand falls to Garvin's shoulder and squeezes ever so slight. A bid to calm his jittery nerves. The poor dear. "I do not know if he is…" Lise's words are halted here as her elder cousin rides up right as he is being spoken of.

"Cousin!" It had been years, but it was easy for Lisette to spot her older cousin given that he looked much the same as when they last crossed paths, some four years ago. She, however, is older now. Nineteen, and well into the elegant grace of being a proper lady. "We were just speaking of you." Lisette's handmaiden, Kalla, openly stares at Greydon upon approach. She is just 14 years old, after all. Hero worship.

Raiko simply looks upon Garvin, nodding his head in a slow manner that gives absolutely no hint whether he is truly understanding the explanation being given. "Trust." is the only word he growls out. "Every man I've ever trusted has cast me away or tried to kill me. Or considered me expendable, at best. I don't think I'm the sort o' man ya need… that ain't in me vocabulary, no matter the language I use." The sound of a horse sets the back of Raiko's hairs alight. Horses. He hates them. It's a mutual thing. He's been bitten by even the most well-trained of steeds in Oldtown more than once walking too near. The Dothraki tried to kill him because of it at one time, thinking him something evil and twisted as a result; that was fun. Greydon is given an eyeballing, the sort of a long-practiced fighter and killer sizing up the worth of another. "Nah. I think we're done. I'm not the sort fer etiquette and discretion. Mebbe ya ought ask fer 'fancy sellswords' in the future, iron mouse." he allows towards Gavin. Lisette he moves to lock his good eye with. Again he grins, broader this time. A hint of a beast or monster within him, a purposeful intent to spook the more delicate girl with naught but his aura. "I ought leave ya all to it…" he grunts, shifting to turn back towards the bridge leaving out. "Mebbe the Wynds have more need o' my sort've… talents. Or a tournament… heh, that might be fun…"

Garvin looks visibly relieved by Greydon's arrival, his shoulder slumping a little under Lisette's hand. "Cousin, thank the Seven you're here. Ahem!" He straightens his shoulders again, drawing himself up more formally. "Ser Greydon of House Tyrell, I present Raiko Marin, the Shackled Dragon of Ataspor, who has answered my call for more men-at-arms to don purple cloaks here at Garden Isle." He eyes the scruffy sellsword for a moment, then forges onward. "I had just informed him that it would be necessary for you to approve his hiring. Perhaps you would like to test his skills with a sword, Cousin? I would be most interested in watching such an exhibition myself. Unless, of course, the Shackled Dragon isn't up to the challenge?" He eyes Raiko again, quirking a brow and giving a small, sly sort of challenging grin.

The stride to his cousins isn't some bold walk of swagger-Greydon isn't such a knight. But he does come around the rather tall and unsettling individual, that is Raiko. The man is given a look before he turns properly towards Lisette and leans in to place a couple of kisses in proper greeting of one's kin. Garvin is given a smile, as if that should be reassuring enough. There will be time enough to catch up later. Right now the Knight is moving to square up and simply give an added boon of protection, beyond whatever else they need from him.

As Garvin speaks up, there's a glance back towards Raiko for a moment as brow rise up and lower-quickly. "I do think we need reliable men. Men good with a sword or spear." he adds on as he watches this Dragon. Though as the man shifts and turns towards the bridge there's a brief nod. "Well, If you're looking for work, I know many northmen came in not too long ago after hunting Wildlings. They are likely in need of men of your…talents?" The knight is trying to be helpful.

Liking someone such as Raiko is near impossible, so Lisette drops all pretense of giving him the opportunity. Where in her life would she ever have a use or need for someone so very unkempt, rude, and brutish? The Tyrell girl hmms softly and takes a step back from him when her Purple Cloak gentle taps his hand at her wrist. Andros is, quite obviously, at the ready to draw to defend the lady. As luck would have it, it does not yet come to that.

Poor Kalla is nearly in tears and clings to Lisette's gown like a small child. "Really, Kalla," the girl murmurs to her maid. "Do not look upon him further. He will be gone soon," comes the whispered murmur. Or not. Lise settles a mildly stare upon Garvin, but what is lacking in her expression tells tales of her disposition about Raiko remaining here to fight. She looks to Greydon after she is kissed and offers a brilliant smile. He would win, surely, so all her favour will go to her knightly cousin over this Astapor fighter. Lisette looks to the Dragon now and offers a subdued smile. There is no telling what sorts of thoughts hide behind those luminous eyes.
<Public> Riker has connected.

"I wasn't sure what the bloody hells I was answerin' to. Someone in a tavern told me this lil' island had coin fer fighters. So I came." Raiko allows, spitting to the side into a patch of flowers. It doesn't seem to be anything intended to be offensive. Really, just everything about him is as far from etiquette, upbringing, and nobility as humanly possible. But he does slow at the later, tilting his head in curiosity. "Heh. A spar? I wouldn't. The way I fight ain't the way no other man fights you've ever seen. I guarantee ya that. I've ripped out the throats o' people who've learned better and fought more, men in Tyroshi plate and fancy greatswords. …And the only way I know how ter fight is to kill." All things considered, there's no hostility here. Raiko didn't wander across the bridge to cause trouble — it's like a scavenger, coming to look for breadcrumbs only to find them lacking.

"…Wildlings? …That what you call people here who don't have a noble's foot to kiss?" Raiko wonders, looking to meet Garvin in the eyes. "We don't got kings in the Free Lands. Not the sort you have. Just large cities, some a sanctuary, others a hell, both both dependin' where ya stand. …But aye. Right now, I'm tryin' ter afford headin' back to Astapor. Make another fortune in the blood pits. I'm not findin' Westeros ter be me cup o' tea… lord knows why the 'Stranger' brought me here." The god's name is spoken with intimate familiarity, but a peculiar inflection. He's lingering near the fringe now, bridge not far off. "But if ya wanna see power beyond steel from me here… ya'd need a sacrificial lamb."

Garvin wrinkles his nose in distaste. "Wildlings," he says with obvious disgust. "Wretched creatures, barely more than animals. I did a bit of research into them, you know, for my last play. How so many of them managed to get this far south of the Wall is beyond me. But then, I don't have the best opinion of the Northrons to begin with, I'm afraid." He glances between Greydon and Raiko again, chewing at his lower lip. "Well, we certainly don't need men about who can't fight without killing. It has its place, of course, killing I mean. Certainly the men who aided the Black Peacock deserve a painful death. But not every crime should carry such a penalty. A Purple Cloak must know when to deal death and when to withhold the killing blow. Perhaps my cousin is right though. You might find better luck enquiring of Lady Mormont or Lord Stark. Those Wildlings gave them quite a fight, I understand, and if anyone deserves to be slaughtered, it's those barbaric curs."

"No." And there a sterner tone escapes Greydon's lips, and a look to match. "No, there will be no men slaughtered here to prove a point." And there Greydon looks back towards Garvin for a moment. "And we respect the laws of our bannermen while in this town." a small admonishment given before he looks to Raiko. "A Wildling-" with no title or name to give Raiko beyond Shackled Dragon, Greydon opts for exclusion there. "-is someone from North of the Wall. They are a savage folk. Some of them pefer the taste of a man's flesh from what I have heard." Which is likely wild rumor. "Those who do not kiss a nobleman's boots." A small wry smile showing there at Raiko's choice of word. "Likely do not know etiquette, place or tact. Politeness goes a long way-more so than slobbering subserviance." With that said he nods. "If you've no skill of a blade-I won't have you. I am sorry."

Kalla faints. It's as if on cue. The Shackled Dragon was speaking and down she goes… dead away. She hits the ground and is out cold. Lisette rubs her lips together and looks to Andros who is already closing the parasol and reaching for the ridiculous little lady's maid. Now, Lisette is getting rained on, and that will simply not do. She pouts a little and then sighs. "I am afraid I cannot stand out here a moment longer with you fine gentleman." She glances to Raiko and smiles. He got to be lumped in with the gentlemen. That one was for free.

"Ser Greydon, Lord Garvin, do come visit your adoring cousin from time to time. The manse is very boring, I am afraid. Garvin, sweetness, you could arrange for a supper so that I might meet your acting friends." She looks to the uncouth brute and inhales deeply. "Shackled Dragon, it was… very interesting to make your acquaintance. Seeing as you have caused my lady's maid to faint I do believe that you owe me a debt." Oh, yes she did.

"Aye… what was yer name again? …weighted bird." Gavin is given a random nickname instead. Trying to Water Dance in heavy armor certainly brings it to mind for him. "The world is full o' monsters. And many deserve ter die. But yer a fool ter think there's only 'monsters' and 'not monsters'. There's a thousand types of beast in this broad world. I'm one o' the worst of them." His good eye looks almost amused. Greydon is given his focus, after. "If ya consider lawless men who feast on others beasts, friend, stay on this side of the Narrow Sea. Until ya've seen a crowd o' thousands cheerin' as a weepin' child is chased by a lion weighed down by rocks, then ya ain't seen the true evil in this world. If a noble spat at me on the road, I'd treat him the same as if a drunken peasant did. But I won't rape no woman who ain't tradin' coin, rob a man who wishes to live a simple life unharassed, nor kill someone fer fun. Nay, a life is no small whisper ter be takin' fer no reason, unless yer own is at risk or ya have no choice. It'd be good fer me to know… where's that put me in these 'kingdoms'?"

Although at the last, a gauntleted hand lifts to point towards Greyden. "And respect. Respect is what matters. Politeness is fer broken slaves, masters and powdered eunuchs. I'll assume yer sayin' that ya ain't interested in me not knowin' blades since ya have a dress code. If yer sayin' I can't rip the sword out of a knight's hand, hurl him to the ground, yank open his tin hat and crush his skull… then I'll take offense."

As for Lisette, there's just a laugh. "Oh. Did I? Hah. Find me in the wynds. I promise ter make things right as rain…"

Garvin reaches to take the parasol from Andros, opening it over Lisette again, though his own plumed finery is getting wet in the process. "I don't know that I'm up to hosting such a feast," he mutters, a quick shiver running up his spine, despite the summer heat. "And my troupe, they can be a bit…uncouth at times. Especially when drink is available." And if there's one thing Garden Isle rarely lacks, it's drink. Keeping the parasol above his cousin, he turns to Raiko again. "I am sorry we can't use your services, Shackled Dragon. Your reputation for…er…." What's a polite word for 'brutality'? "Well, your reputation is quite…um…." Yeah, this isn't going to end well, whatever he decides to say. So instead, he simply offers a small bow and glances at Greydon. "Cousin, I do hope you're free soon to speak about Lord Arion. I'm most anxious to hear how the search is proceding. No one's been able to tell me much of anything, and I've not heard from his cousins even once since I returned home. Has everyone given up hope?"

"Both go and in hand." Politeness and respect, Greydon answers back-before he is looking towards Lisette with a faint smirk. "Are you not staying here then Lady? If so- you'll see much, much more of me soon enough." a promise there if any. A curious glance is given back towards Raiko for a moment as gauntleted hand moves to tug at his closely kept beard. "I say, as to what that makes you in our kingdoms, is likely a very conflicted individual. You'll find it rare that men of good birth spit on others." But that doesn't go to say it doesn't happen. "As for as anything I am saying-where as those skills have merit, we do not have use for them at the present. There's no war where such brutality would be needed." And even then it's like the Tyrells would not employ it directly.

Turning now Greydon moves to accompany his cousins a shake of his head is given to Garvin. "I do not believe anyone has given up hope.." A pause there as the knight chews on his words. 'But, right now, the news is the same as when we found you. We still look for him." assured no one has given up on the other noble.

"Thank you, Cousin," Lise murmurs when Garvin takes up the mantle of parasol duty. "Really? Your friends are uncouth? Moreso than some random person I might meet, say, in the practice yard at Garden Isle?" Lisette is being obtuse by design. She is of course speaking of the giant before them, who is likely more uncouth than any silly little actors. Twice as deadly as well. Three times even. "I like to drink, Cousin," she counters to Garvin's assertion about drinking actors, which may be all well and true, but does she like to /drink/ is the question.

Lisette looks to Greydon and her mouth falls slightly agape. "Did you just… smirk at me, Ser? Yes, I am staying here. But I don't make such a fuss that the whole manse would notice my every move day in and day out. I will see you then," she remarks haughtily. She makes a motion to indicate that she is moving forward, so that Garvin and his ridiculous hat can follow along. "Did you eat, Cousin? You look pale."

"Aye, aye. Then sounds like we got an understandin'." Raiko offers, turning fully away back towards the bridge and giving a lazy sort of wave. "I'll find a way to make coin 'round here… Ain't too picky 'bout it, either…" No further incident comes. Although the guards who initially let him in to see Garvin might be giving him a well-deserved stinkeye for the attitude he had, he's wandering back across the bridge and into the streets once more, whistling some strange, haunting song that hangs in the air like an ill-smelling smog…

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