(121-05-27) Family Fugitive
Family Fugitive
Summary: One Bracken, two Bracken. Elys is lurked upon by Reeda.
Date: 27/05/2014
Related: Corpses Of Course

Hightower Street


This is a large residential street. The cobblestones are quite new and fresh here, and there is a pleasant, perfumed smell mingling with the salt air. The roomy manses of the rich and famous sit cheek by jowl with the merchant tradesmens' houses, the ship-insurers' houses, and the houses of some of the most prestigious shipwrights Oldtown offers.

Banners hang down from poles in the center of the street, with the Hightower of Oldtown fluttering proudly upon them in the breeze. There is a pleasant view of the river from here, and of the Hightower in the far South. One can also see the gateway to the prestigious Hightower Square, ringed as always by Oldtown's City Watch.

It's hot. And raining. This Oldtown weather sure is crazy; one minute sunny and warm, the next the Gods are upending their washing water buckets on your head. One auburn-haired Riverlander woman has still not gotten used to the wild weather whims, and thus is caught out in the rain without a cloak. Elys never really looks happy, but droplets of rain pelting her face and drenching her hair makes for an even more stubborn frown. She stomps, literally and petulantly, through puddles on her way to the Tully's manse to train. There's a couple men with her, rowdy boys, not her brothers but Bracken-sworn by the sigils on their cloaks. You'd think one of them might offer it to their lady, cloakless as she is, but no.


Near the Leaping Trout Manse, clinging to a scarce corner between their property and another's — where by all accounts, no one ought to be lurking — someone's watching Elys. Her and the boys are sighted, between the passing of people and the occasional rain-slicked horse, and targeted. Her seeker slips under cover of cloud and wet but doesn't step immediately in the Riverlander's way — rather, keeps to a lurking distance. Anyone who knows not to sneak up on Elys Bracken has some measure of knowledge about Elys Bracken.

"Cousin." A low voice, deep, full of rumbling grit but female. The figure that's stood in front of Elys and the Bracken-sworn is tall and narrow with a particular slouch to her long limbs. The rain soaks her dress and turns its brown colour that of deep soil and thins the scarf she has wrapped around her hair — a duller shade than Elys's auburn. Water spills off a leather half-apron; of all things, this is the worst affront to fashion, but clearly she doesn't care. Reeda Bracken's holds tight to the strap of a travel pack hung heavily over her shoulder. She stares on without pomp or circumstance for her unannounced arrival. Here she is.

From their settle folded across her chest, Elys's arms unwind, one hand coming to rest on the pommel of her sword as shapes flicker in her periphery. Her head whips about at the call of that low voice, jaw set firmly as she peers through the rain, stubborn tendrils frizzing free of her thick braids to curl down the sides of her face. "Who — " When brightest sky-blue eyes land upon Reeda, words fail her, and Elys stops, then paces a step backward. She holds tight to her sword-hilt, glancing each way beside her to her men and ordering them to stay with the flick of a hand. Then, warily, she reclaims that distance she'd put between her and her cousin. "Reeda." It's part statement, but also part question, delivered with her signature frown.

Reeda's less than clean, up close, though the rain's doing a fair job of cutting through the topmost layer of travel-grime and a few days worth of poor city-living. The ornamentation and lacing's been torn from her dress, but she hated it anyway. She shuffles closer, hem of dress dragging carelessly over the wet cobblestones. Dark green eyes meet blue and are, for a moment, drawn there in familiarity, then skirt off, as they're wont to do. "Got sent away," she explains in her concise way. Her gaze narrows briefly on the men with Elys. "Mother meant for me to come learn to be a Septa. Silent Sister, maybe." Clearly, she is not at the motherhouse. "Rather not," she practically grunts.

Elys isn't one for frills and lace, either, and a bit of grime doesn't bother her. As she moves closer, steel jostles amongst her buckles and wet leather squelches. Finally, she removes her hand from her sword, clapping it instead on Reeda's shoulder roughly. Is she real? Welp. Apparently so. She cants her head, seeking out her cousin's eyes again as she looks away. "We heard," she says crisply, not without concern. "Are you alright?"

Reeda jostles slightly under the hand, she's thin like— well, a reed— but she stiffens and plants herself stronger, revealing herself to be a solid thing after all. She works out only belatedly that Elys is trying to look her in the eye and hauls her own gaze back. "Mm," is her noncomittal answer until she firms up with a curt nod, "Good. It's fine," she assures, inasmuch as her flat tone can. "Just— " The shoulder unaffected by the pack's heavy pull rolls slightly. Her jaw shifts about, stalling. "Need somewhere."

The men, for their part, stand strong and tall, right in the places they've been so casually commanded to. One of them, with wiry brown hair, seems more interested in Reeda than the other. Elys shakes Reeda not-so-gently by the shoulder again, echoing that curt nod back to her. "Yes, yes of course." She clears her throat. "We have rooms at the inn out on the water. Is this — " She hesitates, withdrawing her hand and looking her cousin over once more with an arched brow. " — all you have with you?"

When she's looked over, Reeda instinctively arches her own brow; it doesn't reach far, and causes the other side to glower more than it already does in its natural state. "All've it," she confirms, adjusting the tightly packed bag. "Would it be alright," she asks, with some effort. Again, her gaze sneaks to the men, studying and suspicious. "Don't want you to get trouble for harbouring a fugitive." She pauses, pressing both brows down, quieting to clarify, "I'm not a fugitive, but. Well, by some accounts."

Elys sucks in a breath, her other brow arcing up to complete the look. She sighs, not weary or wary now, but hooooo boy. "All of it," she repeats quietly, processing that thought as she speaks. "Of course it's alright," she scoffs suddenly, drawn from her thoughts with a peevish shake of her head. She utters a few unintelligible noises, culminating in one resolute word: "Family." It's with a wince that she glances back over to the Tully's manse, heaving another sigh as she thinks better of heading in there, just now. "Come, then," she bids, turning back the way she came. Her men do the same, muttering to each other.

Family. It means more coming from her cousin that it does from the immediate family Reeda was shoved from. Her mouth softens, smiles her thanks, even. She steps in alongside the other Bracken, leather different than the other woman's martial sort rustling in time. She glances at the Tully manse, a dull wince pulling her smile away; that's fine, makes way for glowering carefully at the men. "S'that alright with you," she queries them brusquely in a manner that suggests they probably shouldn't respond unfavourably and should go back to being muttering props to the Bracken girls.

"Pff," scoffs the one, and the other just laughs, before muttering props they return to; they'll just hold their own conversations in the background, thank you very much. "There are watchmen at the inn," Elys warns, after a carefully measured scowl at her men. "Do you think…" Her question isn't quite voiced, but it's there in her glance aside at Reeda, and the clenching of her jaw.

"Would the septas or my mother post a watch for me," Reeda fills in with her own thought. She's not exactly inconspicuous, the tall, distinctively freckled Riverlander. Her own jaw shifts about instead of tenses; the tension's all in her freckle-spattered forehead. "Wouldn't be for awhile, yet. Til someone notices I haven't made it to the motherhouse. It's that or," while she walks, she twists her narrow frame about to dig into the side pouch of her pack. She retrieves a tattered paper; an advertisement taken from wherever it used to be plastered. Watermarked already, the rain eats at the ink immediately as she holds it out in front of her and Elys.

'Seeking assistant in studies alchemical and biological' it starts out; there's mention of corpses, herbs, occasional travel, room and board if needed. It ends with 'Lord Samael Hightower.'

Elys shrugs, nodding at the timeline given. She more or less agrees with that much. "I won't let them take you," she adds, rather arrogantly. Because sure, Elys vs two or more watchmen. Ha. (The Bracken men a pace behind both snort a laugh.) She brings her hand to rest again on the pommel of her sword idly, as she tends to when her thoughts trend martial. As the slip of paper is produced, she squints through the rain to read it even as the ink starts to run. She blinks, tucking her chin to her chest and then turning her face to her cousin once more. "Hightower?"

Reeda nods succinctly like she believes her cousin's arrogance, at any rate. As for the advertisement in her hand— she tucks it back away, what's left of it, anyway, and holds tight to the strap of her pack again. The other shoulder shrugs. "Don't much know about hanging about the Hightower," she admits tersely. "It's the just the job I want." There's a pause as her lower jaw sticks out in considering hesitation with her mouth open. "— and — got." So there's that.

Mild surprise flashes across Elys' expression at the last, and again she sucks in a short breath. "Huh." It's not a confused sound, but rather a firm, sharp one. "It will suit you well," she says, allowing the smallest of smiles to tug at the very stubborn lines of her frown. "You can stay where you please. If the Hightower suits you better or — of course, at the inn. You'll need a horse. I'll see to it."

A nod, firm to match. "Missed having a horse," she mumbles, distantly bitter over the fact that she was sent away without. Turning her head toward Elys, she too manages a smile, about as bright (so, not) — but clear enough that she's glad her cousin will right this wrong.

"I'll bet," retorts Elys with a huff in lieu of an actual laugh. "That was cruel of them," she adds, rather more gravely. Sympathy softens the creases about her eyes and mouth, her gaze lingering on Reeda only a moment before turning back to the winding town road. "You'll need a bow, too. Sword, if you want it. I'll give you some coin."

It's a strange circumstance, to need such things, and the charity — though from family —weighs oddly upon Reeda. "Don't need much." She accepts these offers, but does so with a grim look — shaken up, then, by a quirk of her mouth. "You're better with the sword. And the bow, but I like the bow. Lost my knife, tho'. A kid beat me to stabbing an arsehole of a man in the crotch." Spoken like rare good times in her adventures to and in Oldtown. "Ye'd of liked to see that."

"I won't see you go wanting," Elys vows in return to that grim look. She smirks sideways at the anecdote, lifting her chin briskly to contain the expression as it threatens to bloom into a smile. "Sounds like he had it coming," she observes, dry and amused at the same time. "There's a smithy here, run by some Braavosi crackpot. A woman there makes armor for Prospero Storm — been meaning to pay her a visit. I'll bring you with. Sort you out."

Another nod from Reeda, interrupted only briefly by the way her nose screws up in fleeting curiosity over Prospero Storm. She falls into silence alongside her cousin, every so often sloshing where a puddle manages to form between the cobblestones. "Should like it here, yet," she states, decisive. Even optimistic, if one strains their ear.

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