(121-07-12) Daylight Rescue
Daylight Rescue
Summary: Delwyn is dragged into an Alley; Ser Malcolm Storm goes to the rescue. Afterwards, they discuss various matters including the Questing Beast with Tellur.
Date: Date of play (12/7/121)
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)

Malcolm is in his leathers, striding along with his favorate blade on his hip. He is a man with a mission, though not perfectly sure of his destination. He looks relieved as he spots the sign for the fashionable cake house all the nobles are talking about.

It was just supposed to be a pleasant trip to the cake shop. One can keep a bead on him, but the choice is close or unseen, not both. Still, he's come to the cake store a lot of times. He's dressed like a weaver, nothing special save that he's got that sweet, boyish smile. The same smile that used to belong to another man, sadder and rare then and now still forever. Delwyn is just approaching the door of the shop when a man walking past him stops. It happens in a second. The man looks. The man grabs. Delwyn starts, and the man is already dragging him into an alley before it even really registers that something is /happening/.

Malcolm starts at the sudden violence, but being the sort of man he is, he draws his sword and runs towards the alley top rescue a pretty blond in obvious distress. That the blond is a youth and not a maid matters naught to him. Ser Malcolm may claim he is not a knight out of stories, but on this occasion he sounds like one. "Unhand that man, you scoundrel, or taste my steel!"

The man has thrown Delwyn to the ground and has a foot on his chest, a sword at his throat. "Who are you," the man hisses. He knows someone will come, and he's not going to waste any time. The point is already pressing into Delwyn's skin, a line of blood trailing in a crimson rivulet down one side of his neck. The wide-eyed blond shakes his head rapidly, mouth opening and closing as he tries to think of something to say. "I don't know," he sputters, and he sounds like a Riverlander. "What do you want, I don't know what you're looking for…"

Malcolm is already lunging with his sword at the assailant's chest on the theory that he'll be too busy deflecting the blade to do murder, and if not, the youth in distress is rescued, so aggressive offense is win/win, "I am Ser Malcolm Storm, and I do not approve of cowards who assault unarmed men. I am armed! Fight me instead.”

The man whips his head around, though the sword remains on Delwyn's throat. He's a blond fellow, into his thirties perhaps? And he carries himself like someone who knows his way around a blade, and there is cruel glint in his eye. "Be gone, /bastard/, he says. "This doesn't concern you."

Delwyn doesn't waste time. The second the swordsman's attention turns, the weaver uses his forearm to bat the blade aside, and he rolls away and to his feet. The man, startled by the movement, slashes with the blade and rips the weaver's sleeve.

Malcolm whips the blade around to slash at the assailant's sword hand, "Bastard or not, I have more honor than a man trying to murder an unarmed man in an alley. Stand down!" He snaps at Delwyn, "Get behind me!"

The man tears the weaver's sleeve from his shirt, and there is blood on his blade, but he moves quickly to deflect the blade coming for his heart. "You should mind your own business, whelp," he hisses. "This doesn't concern you." Delwyn clutches his arm, and doesn't need to be told twice. He ducks behind Malcolm, and he casts about in the alley, looking for something. Anything.

Malcolm attempts to press the point of his blade into the aggressive stranger's throat just enough to draw blood, "Yield or die!"

The man looks like he may well yield. He backs up, one hand lifting as if to stave off Malcolm's wrath, but then he catches sight of Delwyn again, and his features twist in… fear? "You don't know what you're—"

Blood stains the weaver's shirt, but he doesn't seem so badly hurt that he'll cower and bleed. No, he finds a piece broken brick from a building, and he whips the thing past Malcolm's head, catching the man between the eyes.

You say, "Then Ta-" The brick flies past his ear. He concentrates on not accidentally threading the man. "Then talk. If he's done something requiring justice, than it's a matter for a magistrate, not cold blooded murder. Seems to me you are the cut throat here. If you don't talk fast, you are the one going to doie or to justice depending.""

"T'isn't a crime t—" Then the man eats brick. His head snaps back, and he snarls as he clamps a hand to his nose and blood pours forth. "The Others take you, demon! You should have stayed in your crypt!" He staggers backward, then turns to run. "On your head be it, bastard! You've idea what you've done!

Meanwhile, the blond with the bleeding arm, bleeding neck, and torn, bloodied shirt has grabbed up discarded bottle, and he's hefting it in his hand, lining up another throw. "We can't let him get away," he says.

Malcolm watches the man go, then collects his sword. Waste not, want not. He snorts, "Someone's clearly been drinking strong spirits." He turns to the blond, "Are you alright there?" He looks the other man up ands down, "Looks like you could use a Maester or the like… Clearly the man was deranged from his babble. Good arm with the brick….Oh." he traces the bottle's tragectory with his eyes.

Malcolm watches the man go. He snorts, "Someone's clearly been drinking strong spirits." He turns to the blond, "Are you alright there?" He looks the other man up and down, "Looks like you could use a Maester or the like… Clearly the man was deranged from his babble. Good arm with the brick….Oh." he traces the bottle's trajectory with his eyes.

Speaking of strong spirits, the weaver with the Riverlander accent, lips pressed firmly together in his concentration, lets fly the bottle, whips through the air end over end and makes contact with the back of the fleeing man's head. The man staggers with a loud cry, weaves, and though he keeps running, it's not quite so fast and not quite so steadily. The fellow with the good throwing arm (not his injured one, thankfully) tenses at Malcolm's side, like he might spring off in pursuit. If the armed man. Who tried to kill him. He is bleeding rather freely, though, and he wobbles, barely keeping his feet beneath him. "Bullocks," he mutters as he blinks a few times and lurches for balance. "That's going to be trouble."

Malcolm slides an arm under the blonde's arm pits to hold him up. The bastard knight has a South coast Stormlands lilt, and he code switches smoothly to match his class level accent to match the other man's, though moment's before he was doing his best Ser Daevon impression. "Shall I walk you somewhere? I live at Weirwood, but perhaps they'd let you sit in the cake shop, it being closer. Seems to me you might do best with an armed guard just now."

Delwyn struggles for purchase in case he has to push Malcolm off of him. Sometimes the one who saves the chicken from the fox is the farmer with a pot on the stove. He studies Malcolm's face intently, but he's too wound up to know concern from conniving, and the Stormland's accent is something to be cautious about. "I'm all right, I'm all right," he mumbles, "I just need to get to my room and change my shirt." There is something Stormlandish in the lilt of some words, now that one has a moment to take it in.

Malcolm studies him back, "I could let you go but your none to steady on your feet. I swear by my sword I mean you no ill, and I'm happy to walk you out of this alley into the square where there are more witnesses, if you'll just trust me that long. I know we weren't properly introduced, but I'm Ser Malcolm Storm, acknowledged of Kellington, sworn man to house Stark. If it makes you feel safer, I'll offer you my sword as surety, but seems to me you've a good throwing arm and can defend yourself if I take liberties you don't like." He offers the plain, but well balanced and cared for rapier to the blond youth hilt first.

The youth looks like he might pull a runner anyway, but he's shaken, and he knows how badly hurt he is. But his features ease a little at the mention of House Stark. His gaze drops to the rapier, and he lifts his chin as he takes the offered weapon with his good hand. "You're a trusting man, Ser Malcolm Storm," he says. "That man might be telling the truth. I could be a dead man wot walked out of his crypt." Except they don't bleed copiously in the street. Usually. "Best take me to a healer, I think."

Malcolm smiles crookedly, all roguish charm. "You're not ice cold and we aren't North of the wall a thousand years ago, so I'm going to go with, you are a living man I just saved from a raving mad man with a sharp blade and half my skill. Also, I didn't swear that's my only weapon and I like your face. Come on, and let's find you a place to sit and hopefully some pretty women to fuss over you with bandages while you have a stiff drink and tell me what that nonsense was all about. A healer it is." He starts guiding the man back out of the alley. He is a wiry sort of strong and used to helping wounded men not lose face when he's helping them.

Delwyn's brows lift, and despite the circumstances, the youth isn't entirely without humor in him, and there's a small ghost of a pained smile when Malcolm says he likes his face. "It pleases me it pleases you, Ser. And yes, I am living. For now." He lets Malcolm guide him, moving with him instead of trying to prove he's got strength he doesn't. What the watchers looking after him think of this, and what they do, he has no idea.

Malcolm is gentle and patient. He doesn't put his hands anywhere they oughtn't be including Delwyn's purse. "I fear I didn't catch your name, friend." Malcolm finds a healer not far from the Cake shop and helps Delwyn to sit to be looked over.

Delwyn isn't the best patient, but he submits to being checked. He just doesn't look like he wants to be there. Then again, who ever does? "Delwyn the Weaver," he says. "I suppose that man really doesn't like my patterns. He could have just said." He winces as the healer cleans the cut on his arm. It's a clean cut, and not all that big, but it sliced into some nontrivial vessels. Another few millimeters and he could've been dealing with an a severed artery. Lucky, this fellow.

Malcolm crouches to look him in the eyes as he's tended to, trying to keep him talking and not thinking about his wound, "A weaver, huh? Is it true what they say?" He winks, "Just kidding. I'm sure you get that all the time. I'm a body guard, myself. Do I hear a touch of Stormlands in your voice? I'm from the South Coast, myself, land of rocks and fish."

Delwyn's brows lift again, and he eyes Malcolm sidelong. "Yes," he replies. "T'is." He winks, then winces again, tching the healer, who is probably used to it by now. Delwyn settles, and he watches the man prepare the needle for the stitches without pleasure, but without fear. He's one of those who responds to injury with irritation. "Aye, my mother was a Stormlander," he says. Never been myself."

Malcolm laughs at the ''tis.' "That's the spirit." He chatters on, relaxed and affable. The visible scars on his hands suggesting he is no stranger to this sort of stitching himself. "Once we're done, I'll stand you a round at the tavern of your choice, though I'm not sure of my welcome at the Quill, so that may get dicey. Public place, yes? And you can hang on to my pig sticker in case of more violent lunatics. My Mother was a Stormlander too, though I can't say where my Father hails from, Seven Bless him."

"I never met mine," Delwyn says with a small shake of his head. "But he was a Stormlander, that I know." He grimaces as the needle goes in, but he shakes his head sharply when asked if he wants something to bite down on. His eyes close, and he waits until the stitch is underway before he trusts himself to speak again. "Making trouble at the Quill? What kind of company have I fallen in with?"

Malcolm has rescued Delwyn from violent attack and is chattering at him to distract him as he's getting stitched. "Ack, I was an idiot. I… lost my temper. I over paid for the damages without being asked, and I didn't hurt anyone, you have my word on that. It was rather hard on the chair, bed, and night stand though. For the most part I'm an honest and sober citizen. Ask anyone."

Delwyn has lost a sleeve on his shirt, and he's got a cut on his throat, but it's not as bad as the one on his arm, and the bleeding has stopped, so it's left alone while the arm is stitched up. Delwyn looks, as a matter of fact, like he is in an indescribable amount of pain, and yet he's got a stiff upper lip and a clenched fist until the healer bids Malcolm to hold the weaver's arm down so he can't do that. Which the weaver will tolerate. "You did that to the chair and bed and nightstand and ask me about weavers? What should they say about Knights?"

Tellur pauses as he heads past the front of the bonesetters, noticing Malcolm "Hoi, Ser Knight - you're rescuing the citizenry again?" He is once more in his town clothes, though the puppy at his side has grown rather more larger. Tellur has a short red beard right now, the hair there growing in rather more ginger than on his head.

Malcolm holds Delwyn's arm down. His favorite sword seems to be in Delwyn's possession for some reason. "That they can loose there reason over a woman like everybody else, Lad. Luckily, my reason returned soon enough." he calls back to Tellur, "Come meet Delwyn Weaver, and ware sword weilding lunatics. There's one hearabouts thinking he's hunting Walkers!"

Delwyn spies the dog first, and he says, "Grace, luv." He would perk up more, but he's being jabbed with a needle and thread while the man whose rapier he holds pins down his arm. He starts as the needle goes in again, and he mutters under his breath, "Son of festering donkey's…" Malcolm manages to get a laugh from him, even if it is barked out with a fair share of pain. To Tellur, he says, "See how this butcher repays you threefold, Tellur Snow." Three stitches, is what he's getting. The third one is going in even now.

Tellur says "Are there that many pale Northrons this far South that someone can think they've seen a Walker? I'm not afraid of swordsmen." He heads over, his half-grown dog trotting along beside, and he offers his hand to grasp to Malcolm, then pauses as he notes the wway the man is being stitched. His eyes widen a little, and he says "…what. Me? What has this to do with _me_? What happened here?"

Malcolm flashes the blond a sunny grin, "I'd ask Tellur Snow here to give me a character reference, but it may be you know my friend here well enough, you might look askance." He winks at Tellur to show he's kidding. "Well Delwyn here is rather pale…" He pretends to consider the possibility in a comically exaggerated fashion, "But he certainly bleeds like a man. I saw some lunatic with a sword drag him into an alley. He hardly needed me, given how hard he throws."

"You don't remember how, when we met, I gave you a little prick?" Delwyn says. He sucks in a breath, and he shoots the healer a look. But he's tough. He takes it. He's quiet while the healer pulls the needle through his flesh one last time. Then he lets out a pent up breath. "Right," he says. "I had them man right where I wanted him."

Tellur raises his hands, lightly, and shakes his head, then pulls up a local barrel for a seat, while the healer works, the man winces, and Malcolm grins. Then he says to Delwyn "Gods, that's you - yes. You half-stabbed me." He shakes his head, and then he regards the healer, and gives him an approving nod, before he says "Another robbery attempt? This city is going to hell. Master Delwyn then - I'm Ser Malcolm's friend, here." He grins. His grin shows sharpish teeth.

Malcolm raises his eyebrows and looks at Tellur, "He gave you a little prick, did he? Fascinating."

Delwyn twitches when the healer finishes cleaning up around the stitches. It's a good thing Malcolm's got his arm held down. "Only half-stabbed," Delwyn rasps. "That's how forgettable it was. I did get his hose off, though."

Tellur, humour impaired to the last, looks at both of them with a sad, canine expression. Possibly even lupine. And then, slowly, as he gets it? He colours up. Very badly. And he croaks to Malcolm "That is not what I meant!"

The effort Mal is putting in to keeping Del's arm still is only noticeably in the tensing of muscles under fabric. Mal's expression stays roguish and his tone relaxed and cheerful, his version of bedside manner. "And he got your hose off did he?" He relents, "Were you fitting him for new hose cand cod, Master weaver?"

"Just trying to undo what I'd done," Delwyn tells Malcolm with as much sincerity as the urge not to flip a table and scream can muster. "But you see, he's no worse for wear." The healer finishes the worst of the painful bits, and Delwyn exhales loudly, and he trembles in the aftermath of adrenalin. As the healer plies clean bandages, the weaver relaxes some, but he's pale and clammy now, and his eyes are dilated. "We're bad men," he tells Malcolm.

Tellur squirms in place - the healer throws them all a slightly amused, slightly warning look, and then Tellur finally says "Well, I like Southern clothes." It his sole, rather awful, response. He prods around to find Grace's ears and ruffle them, and the dog puts her head hopefully on Malcolm's knee "I don't. Know. I'm not so quick with my words," he mutters, face flaming "Master Delwyn. I'm just a. Dog trainer."

Malcolm ruffles Grace's fur fondly, "Tellur Snow, seems to me this man showed brave, so we ought to stand him a round or two in consideration of his wound." He casts an apologetic look at Tellur as he stands, careful of the dog. He offers Delwyn a hand up, "So what say you? A tavern, or would you rather a bit more quiet at Weirwood. Either way, best you have someone to guard your back until you've had a bit of time to recover."

Delwyn gives Tellur a kind look, and he says, "I'm not a master of anything, my friend, Tellur. It's just Delwyn." The healer doesn't let him up until the cut on his throat is cleansed. It's just a surface wound, and a lucky thing, that. Doesn't even require bandaging. Delwyn rises, and he offers Malcolm back his sword. "You'll do better than this than I will, Ser. A half-brick in a sock is more my style." His hand, thus freed, is held out to Grace for sniffing before he presumes to pet. "Wherever it pleases you, friends. I would say the Quill, but I don't know if I want them to associate me with you lot there." This last is said in particular to Malcolm.

"Weirwood is a good place, but the taverns are usually good at serving chilled wine," says Tellur, who drinks most of the cold wine at the Weirwood. He grins, and then he says "Let's go to the Quill. Why would anyone object to us there?" Grace's tail wags and she noses in under his hand, as Tellur says "So what was it? A robbery attempt? Something worse? Hs the healer been paid?"

Malcolm bows and takes the sword, which he wipes and sheathes. "You are definitely a good man with a brick, Delwyn." He pays the healer, "I imagine if we sit out on the terrace, it should be all right. I'm guessing Grace might be a bit much for the interior. I promise not to break any furniture."

Delwyn holds up his good hand as Malcolm starts to pay. "No, no, I insist, Ser, put your coin away." He has to fuss a big to get at his own coin purse with the arm that is really tired of trying to do things now, and his generally weakened state. It's weighted, though. He's not fool enough to carry all his wealth with him, but there are a fair share of silver stags in there, and at least a gold dragon. A lot of money for a simple weaver boy. To Tellur, he says, "It seemed the man objected to my face. Fortunately, Ser Malcolm liked it enough to find it worth salvaging."

"She doesn't like being inside so much anyway," Tellur says, grinning at his puppy "She's more than half wolf." He raises his eyebrows as he sees the size of Delwyn's…purse. And then he says "Huh. Well. Can't say as I understand that." It comes out so casual, so easy. He has no idea what he is saying, the boy does not. And then he eases up, and he says "Some wine will help, and maybe some good red meat."

Malcolm allows Delwyn to pay. He shrugs, "It nothing I wouldn't do for any stranger. Master Tellur is a fine healer, and you ought to take his perscription to heart. Steak and wine on the Quill Terrace it is!"

The Quill and Tankard's terrace occupies the area of of the little island that is not filled by the tall, timbered, southward-leaning building itself. There are ragged little stacks of stone sticking up from the Earth around the island's banks, the remains of a wall that once kept drunkards from falling into the river but has now been knocked down and robbed of its stones enough that it better serves to trip them and make sure that they fall headlong into the Honeywine instead of merely walking in. They are rather picturesque. Tall torches stand along the ruined wall. They're lit at night, and in foggy weather.

There's a single, ancient apple tree in the middle of this area. The rest is grass, made sparse by the passage of too many feet, flagstone footpaths that help keep the guests from muddying their feet when it rains, and weathered tables and benches. Tall torches surround some, but not all, of the larger tables.

Delwyn tries to make his way along without leaning on anyone, but there are a few times where a steadying hand keeps him on his feet. Once at the tavern, he asks the gentlemen to excuse him a moment, and that he will join them on the Terrace. He doesn't make any attempt to hide that he heads for the stairs. He's got clean shirts, and he means to change into one. And then to leave a message with his contact at the tavern to send word to Dragon manse about a matter of a certain number of coin. The weaver is always keeping accounts somewhere.

Tellur just heads out onto the Terrace himself - Grace, though, is left outside at the bottom of the tavern, and she behaves herself - she does not need to be tied up, and the man gives an urchin a small coin to see to her with water. Tellur himself leans on the wall, looking out at the city, then gives Malcolm a quick grin, with Delwyn absent "…how are you?" he murmurs.

Malcolm is subtle about keeping the pace slow and having a steadying hand ready to grab the elbow of Delwyn's uninjured arm. When he has a moment alone with Tellur he grins, "I'm fine, Wolfling. No luck at the hunt for the Questing beast though. Tracking is not my strong suit. I think I know what direction to go in at least…. Sorry I embarrassed you. It was a drape to dristract Delwyn Weaver."."

Delwyn takes some time with the shirt change, and the message, but while he's there, he settles the tab to come with the bartender for food and drink both. Whatever they want, put it on the tab. It's not like he's ever had trouble paying in the past. With that settled, he makes his way toward the terrace, pausing to greet one of the serving women on the way, by name, and assuring her he's quite all right. Weaving accident. Yes, very harrowing.

"It's no matter," Tellur says, with a sudden, wry grin. He is looking up at the slightly taller, heavier knight. "The Questing Beast? I think I've missed something - I've been busy with the hounds and horses. I've half a mind to train myself a horse fit for battle - Loathely's a lovely thing in the footing, and her nature is perfect, but she lacks strength to pound down an armoured man." Weaving accidents are awful.

Malcolm says "It's a good idea. Better if nothing happens to Loathly in a fight. It's a fabled beast appears in the Reach every Seven years, apparently. Knights are meant to be hunting it, apparently. It's something to keep me out of trouble, mostly."

Delwyn makes his way to the terrace after the serving woman is assured that while weaving is, of course, extremely dangerous and best undertaken only by the bravest of men, that he is all right, and that he will live to weave another day. Even pale, he's got a fair face, and the woman gazes after him with understandable infatuation. In a clean shirt, looking less just-attacked and bloodied, he joins the other two and says, "I didn't want to tell you when I thought you might murder me that this is where I'm staying."

Tellur says to Malcolm "Is it the one I've seen on some shields? A massive thing with a lot of legs, supposedly sounds like a hundred hounds. Has the hind quarters of a cameoleopard?" He shakes his head, and he grins "It does not sound real to me. But let me know if you would like another pair of eyes. Are you inclined to get into trouble?" Then he nods towards Delwyn, and he pauses, and says "Murder you? I've never murdered anyone."

Malcolm laughs warmly, "you are a wise man! I could easily have been a dangerous cut throat. By the seven, I'm a swordsman and so by definition a dangerous cut throat. I won't hold sensible caution against you. It's a good in with clean kitchen, no bugs in the bed and honest rates. It's a sensible place to stay." He gives Tellur a hopeful look, "I could very much use the help, and assuming the beast is real, odds are I'll be needing patching up eventually. It's that or mope about hoping to tangle with Laurent Tyrell again."

"You can see why I'd be cautious letting a man who demolishes perfectly fine furniture be seen with me," Delwyn tells Malcolm. He finds a place to sit, and he's sensible enough to wait until there's food before he inundates his flagging bloodstream with alcohol. "You see, Tellur, after the one madman with a sword had a go, I wasn't sure if my savior here was saving the chicken from the fox to put him in the pot. I still wasn't sure until I saw you, and you're decent folk, and he mentioned the Starks, and even I know the Starks' reputation for honesty."

"Give up on the man, it's not that he's your better, it's that he's a monster, and barely goes anywhere without armor on," says Tellur, arms folded, watching the city "Aye, he's a thug, it's true, but I suppose she chose him in the end - what can you do, Mal? He's killed fair knights before, just for the pleasure of it. The man's just a massive brute." He shakes his head, and then he laughs as Delwyn speaks, before he says, oddly affected "Thankyou. Because, if I'm nothing else, I try to be an honest man. Mal here is my Lord Carolis' man, sworn. He's just a bit hot headed at times. The rest of us are more dour. He's the local colour."

Malcolm was apparently a regular before "the incident," as they bring him watered small ale and the stew of the day without asking his order. He is very polite to the server, all charming smiles, thank yous, and eye contact. "I might have been a pick pocket. It would have been a good rouse. I saw the like in Braavos once. I am a man of honor, though, and you purse and throat are safe with me unless you come at me or my Starks with unbated steel or take a brick to my head or the like." He eyes Tellur, "I have good armour and a great sword to pry him out of it. It's because he's killed fair knights and hal;f killed others when they were down that he needs a good thrashing with sharp steel. The lady no longer comes into it." he beams at Delwyn, "Aye, it's as he says, it's my job to charm my Starks out to enjoy jests in the sunshine lest they brood like hens."

Delwyn frowns faintly, his brow furrowing. "I was hoping that bottle would've brought him down. I could've done with another brick." When the server comes, she smiles at Delwyn, and when he smiles back, his expression is all sunshine. The steak she lays before him is an excellent cut, and a generous portion, and the ale is of particularly good quality. He thanks your by name, and she gives him a kiss on the cheek before she's off again. Delwyn glances after her, grins a little, and says, "Thank the Seven for hot-headed Storms, Tellur Snow. This one here didn't think twice coming to my aid. If I'm ever in a position to offer proper thanks, I won't forget it."

Tellur lifts a hand "Well, damn your eyes, we're just more used to solitude! Aish, Malcolm. Come on, don't go up against Ser Laurent. Let age wither him, as it surely will. No man can act like that forever. Sooner or later…" He then pulls out a seat "I don't understand why it should be _you_ who end up on the end of his sword." He then says to Delwyn "I don't know if that's a Storm trait so much as it's a Ser Malcolm trait. The man would never walk past someone in peril. Unlike some, he _is_ a true knight." He eyes the steak, and inhales. MmmmMMmmmMMMm.

You say, "I only have about two more weeks to skewer him without it being political. It's tempting… best I be kept busy riding about in search of mythical beasties. I'm just enough better than the Princess to wager I have even odds against the Tyrell, though." he flashes a grin at them both before digging into his stew with gusto, "What can I say. I'm not a religious man, bu6t5 I take my vows and calling seriously.""

"Are you really looking for mythical beasts?" Delywn asks. He waits until everyone's food is brought before he tucks in to his steak, and he offers to share, even. It's nice and bloody with a decent char on the outside. "If you find one, doesn't that, er, make it not quite so mythical?" He shakes his head. "I'm a man of faith," he says. "The machinations I've seen at work in my life, I have to hope it's the divine."

Tellur says, after a moment "I'm from the North." It might be meant to answer for both religion and honour. And then he groans a little as Delwyn offers to share "Yes!" Tellur leans in to snap up whatever treats he is given. _Meat_. Meat is _good_. Distracted, he looks up "I should order something from the kitchen. Very rare steak. What machinations, Delwyn?"

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