(122-01-12) A Brawl with a Bear
Log Title
Summary: Hawke, Killian, and Lady Maera Mormont have a brawl.
Date: Date of play (12/01/122)
Related: None.

Hawke's drinking by the bar, leaning heavily enough on it to imply that he's probably been here for a bit. He's flirting casually with a serving girl who's flattered but not looking particularly promising.

Killian stalks in, hair dripping wet in his usual tunic with no hose. He stalks to the bar and orders "Whatever you have is strongest." He tosses some money on the bar and glowers, eyes red and lips compressed. He is too intent on watching the man pour his drink and the fast downing of it to notice the familiar man leaning next to him. "Another." This one he sips, anesthetized enough to look around him.

Hawke turns a glance over to Killian as he stalks in, and he watches with his brows raised as he takes a casual sip of his booze - straight liquor by the looks of it - and doesn't interrupt until Killian actually looks about. "Y'look like you've had a day, mate."

Killian sighs and nods, looking away to take a long drink of what is likely gut searing moonshine. "I don't want to talk about it. I just want to see how much of this I can get inside of me in the next hour. What have you been up to?" His eyes scan the room looking for men who might be fun to pick a fight with, his honest face completely failing to hide his longing to hit someone, anyone in the face repeatedly.

Hawke grunts at that and tosses back his drink in one go, holding up two fingers to the bartender when he comes by again. "Fuck-all. Apparently there was this big to-do around here yesterday an' th'whole place was packed. Should've gone and put money on one've the riders, could've made myself some money by th'sound of it." He snorts, though, apparently not too interested in the goings-on of these knightly sorts, and eyes Killian sideways at that look. "You look like you're itchin' for a fight."

Killian drains his cup and sticks it out for a refill without looking at the bar man, "Silly Southron posturing I expect. Odds are no one we know was in it…. Captain, I would pay good money for a man worth exchanging blows with who mostly fights fair. I wouldn't want a knife in the back while pounding a man to a pulp."

"Hell if I know. Apparently that girly prince, a girl, n' some green kid won it. Don't seem like they had proper competition, if y'ask me." At the words, he grins, cheeky; he has enough booze in him to critically eye a couple men passing by, to pick one that looks alone and unarmed and yet mean enough to have some pride in him, and whistles to catch his attention. "Ahoy there, mate. Just wanted t'let y'know I fucked your mother right proper 'n was wonderin' how much it'd cost t'let me mate have a run at it."

The man, a tall, gangly twentyish-something with something to prove, stops dead. "You what?"

Killian coughs as the wicked strong drink goes down the wrong tube, but then he's emptying it and setting the cup aside, straightening and wiggling his arms to loosen them up for what he very much hopes will be a very good brawl. "He wants to know what'd cost for me to have a go at yer mother, her being a very good fuck."

"You sonuvabitch," the man, tipsy, growls, and lunges in to take a swing at Killian; Hawke, job done, snags his drink and half-dances merrily away, looking just thrilled with life.

Apparently drinking three shots of 'whatever is strongest' in quick succession is not the best thing for Captain Killian's accuracy, though he is eerily good at stepping out of the way of the drunk's clumsy punch. He swings hard at the stranger's face and blinks in bafflement as his own fist sails by the stranger's face.

Killian is dressed a couple of centuries out of date in an obviously Northern weight tunic. His accent is some incredibly archaic northern/Iron Islander mash up.

Of course, by this time, the bar's happily up on their feet and crowding around the bar, and Hawke's tossing back his drink and gleefully says, "Get 'em!" with the rest. His life is just amazing at times.

The drunk's swing takes him against the bar, and, angered at missing, just kinda tries to bull into Killian in a grapply.

Maera arrives, dressed in her hunting leathers with her long dark brown hair twisted into a braid, and her bow and arrows still slung on her back. She is followed by a huge barrel chested man with a big beard and an impressive axe on his back. The she-bear and her swornaxe shove their way up to the bar for ale.

Killian turns dizzily to try another swing and is surprised by the stranger's grabby hands, though the miss is not quite as comically bad this time. he is way to focused on trying to hit his swaying opponent to notice danger approaching.

Hawke's oblivious to axe-man and bear-lady, alas; he's too busy happily watching the fight, like it's his own doing.

The angry man gives up trying to grapple and takes a swing; he's blocked, barely, and then the tide starts turning as Killian clocks him a glancing blow.

Killian is slippery as a wet seal. His hair has started to dry into damp curls and his face is red from the drink. He weaves close to the other drunk and head butts the other man's nose.

"Fucken Ironborn." The swornaxe says before he spits out onto the floor. Maera's lips twitch upwards at her companions sentiment. "We should toast." She says out loud as Killian grapples with the angry man, and Hawke cheers it on.

"To the Ironborn." The Lady Mormont toasts towards Hawke, "May your forsaken shithole of an island collapse in itself into the sea, and your whore mothers wail as they drown."

Killian is caught finally, for all his twisting and swaying. he blinks in confusion to find himself grabbed and tries to pull free in an uncoordinated way with some irritation. Then he is growling in the direction of lady Mormont, pure animal fury with no thought behind it at all.

Well, the man wasn't quite expecting that; he lets out an undignified yelp as he's headbutted, stumbling back before using the extra room to take a swing at Killian's face. And actually hits!

Hawke grins as he watches, hollering, "C'mon, now, mate, don't let 'em get away with that!" before his attention is pulled 'round by Maera's words. His grin turns a hint savage. "Seems like you've got on the wrong end've our ships."

Maera's murky blue-green eyes flick towards Killian. Her lips twitch upwards as the angry man socks him in the face. Her attention turns back to Hawke just as her ale arrives. She picks up the mug, takes a few hearty gulps from it, and flings it at his face.

Killian tries to push the strange drunk sidewaysish, but the drink betrays him again and he ends up missing the drunk even as the drunk misses him.

Hawke's paying attention to the fight, winces when Killian misses, and then he's getting a goddamned beer thrown at his head. He manages to get an arm up just in time to avoid getting whacked by flying dishware, but still gets doused thoroughly in booze, and he drips indignantly. "Now that," he says, "is a right disappointin' waste've," and lo, poor man standing next to him gets shoved aside with a yawp as he takes a perfectly cheerful swing at the woman. His adrenaline's runnin'.

Maera is swung at and punched in the stomach by Hawke. She lets out a grunt, but her leathers prevent her from having the wind knocked from her. Sucking in a breath she says, "I was hoping you'd come dance with me." Using the bar for leverage she springs forward to throw a right hook at his jaw, "You daft fuck."

Hawke's clipped by Maera, enough to sting but not enough to really knock him flat. The Greyjoy's drunk enough to be having goddamned fun with the scrap, even though the next blow's fended off. "Can't say I'm much wounded by th'words've a woman that looks manly enough t'wonder what she's got," he cheerfully - if a bit savagely - rebounds. The man he shoved in the ring to get at Maera has slipped on the spilled booze and is kinda frantically trying to get free of the scrap.

Killian is swaying away from the drunk again, beautifully fluid in his footwork despite the clumsiness og his punches. Seeing the other Ironborn has taken up the cause with the Lady bear, he hits the other drunks nose again, with his fist this time. There is something wild and not entirely sane about his grin.

Maera laughs, "Ah, that's original." She neatly sways to the side to avoid his fist, but when she thrusts her body forward to body check him they sort of just rebound off of each other. "It isn't my fault you're a bigger cunt than I."

Killian gives a loud, barking growl and pounds the guy so hard his head bounces off the bar. The drunk's flailing is weak at best before he slides unconscious to the floor. Killian ululates in triumph, the sound eerie and not at all civilized. He turns grinning to see how his friend is doing,

Hawke's shoved close with the body check, and his brows climb. "If I would've known you wanted t'be close, I would've turned this into a whole different sort've brawl," he winks, and then is promptly decked, and, cheerfully, grabs a random guy in the crush and shoves him in the mix. Unfortunately, the guy really doesn't want to be thrown in the mix so it isn't exactly effective, but it affords him a sec to gleefully duck out, hollering to Killian, "Get 'em!" So noble.

Maera helps the poor man that Hawke throws at her get out of the way. If by 'help' one means grab by the shirt and hurl into the opposite direction. "We aren't done, pretty boy! I'll see you later." She allows Hawke to go, and instead crooks a finger at Killian.

Hawke happily blows a kiss at Maera, snags a drink someone forgot in the chaos by the bar - germs, what are germs? - and fades into the crowd.

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