(122-07-08) Whimsy Veterans
Whimsy Veterans
Summary: Clovis Tyrell gives an entertaining juggling demonstration at the Quill and Tankard, whilst encountering the whimsy veterans Iris and Amadys. One of the two is openly admitting her acting past, while the other… puts on a show.
Date: 08/07/2015
Related: Everything concerning the Whimsy Theatre

Terrace - Quill and Tankard

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.

The night is getting on and the hour of the bat catches the moon at center sky, midnight, and the party carries ever on inside the Quill. Tankards flows and drunkards drink, yet outside on the terrace a more quiet thing is happening to the delight of several intoxicated patrons. Lord Clovis Tyrell is in attendance and as always that means something is getting juggled or jongled… as it were. The nobleman has three apples in the air and he catches them repeatedly with a practiced ease as two smallfolk couple look on and clap with drunken delight at his antics.

There can never be a constant flow of tankards without any serving wenches providing them. Like Iris is at the moment, carrying three heavy tankards, one filled with the famous cider and two others with ale. Dark brown hair worn in a braid that falls down her back, her comely curves wrapped in the plain brown dress of a commoner, beige chemise worn beneath. Blue eyes dart here and there, a bit of relief showing in the smile that conquers the barmaid's features when she realizes that the number of patrons has decreased. Coherent patrons, that is, who can still order a tankard or a refill. Her gaze brushes the nobleman and she moves to pass his table, leaning over to present those tankards to him, raising a brow. "Want some more, handsome?", in typical barmaid manner. She is an actress as well, but has not been much around at the Whimsy of late. Maybe her dalliance with the impresario Ser Loryn Tyrell has cooled off a little?

Lord Clovis spots the comely bar maid as she swings out the door with famous cider and dark brown ale. "May I have another cider, love." Clovis called in his genial manner without breaking his juggle. The three apple continue their jolly trek through the air regardless of whether he is watching them or Iris.

"Sure, m'lord," Iris concedes, placing one of the tankards onto the table before the noble juggler, taking her time there as she admires his nimbleness with the apples, her blue eyes following the three of them until she averts her gaze, smirking. "Just how will you go about drinking the cider, when you're are busy as that?", she asks with a chuckle, putting the other tankards of ale down as well for a moment. They certainly are heavy to carry around, and it's already late!

<FS3> Clovis rolls Acrobatics: Success.

Lord Clovis could be an amusing sort of Noble. He grins at her as his three handed apple maneuver continued. There is a cheeky laugh and one of the apples stops dead in his right hand, the hand closer to her… as she set down the tankards he inclined the apple toward her… "If you would be so kind." Clovis ventured and all the while his right hand, just in the distance there, continued the two apple shuffle without him looking at the feat. He takes a sip from his cider and sighs contentedly- all the while juggling.

Iris accepts the apple - or takes it from his hand to allow him to grab for his cider. His cheeky laugh is met with a raised brow. "The funny sort you are then, m'lord?" Her eyes return to his other hand, observing the one-handed juggling going on over there. "And pretty nimble with ye hands, eh? Why, you must be part of some mummer's troupe… but your clothes are too fine for a mummer, I'd say…" She raises her hand with the apple and takes a bite from it, munching happily. He has offered it her, has he not?

"After enough wine and cider we all get a little funny dear." Clovis quipped back in easy going aside as he took one final sip of cider and turned back to his apples. Since she is eating the third he lets the first two fall to the wayside. He hands them off to some of the patrons who had been watching him before he stopped for cider. "I'm newly arrived, recently back from Dorne where I had a wardship in House Martell and actually," Clovis grins with an easy going bob to head head as he confirms, "I do in fact work at my cousin Loryn's theatre. Lord Clovis Tyrell."

"Hah," Iris quips back. "Thoyouffadnuffcider? I've feen worfe." The reply muffled somewhat by her munching of the apple. She looks comely enough, still seems to be spared from any uncouth advances from any patrons - at least right now. There may be a glare being shot at one in particular who takes one or two unsteady steps towards her, but he seems to change his mind quickly enough. The explanation of the nobleman draws a smile from Iris's lips, as she finishes chewing and swallows. Her blue eyes do widen at the latter part of his explanation though. "You're… what, m'lord? Working at the… Whimsy?" The inquiry leaving her lips in an almost accusatory tone. Before she notices her misstep, and a blush creeps up her cheeks. "Oh… sorry, M'lord. Lord Clovis Tyrell. So Loryn's your cousin, eh?" Leaving the title for his cousin out in a telling way. "I… I'm Iris. I mean… I was Claribel. You've heard perhaps of the 'Pirates of Pentos'?"

Lord Clovis nods to her in conversational stride, "Yes, my cousin -is- Loryn." He draws again on the cider but he's mostly finished the new tankard and he sets it down one final time in exchange for a large clear sphere. The sphere he plucks delicately with his fingertips from where it rested poised atop a nearby wine glass. "You sound surprised…" Is softly ventured as he cast his hazel eyes on the sphere instead of the girl.

The persistent nip of the night breeze somehow struggles through the summer, the crowd, and the torches as a solemnly robed and cowled little knot trickle into the tavern, their bearing and dark garb seeming a rebuke even to the establishment's many maesters. Until, that is, the tallest among them throws down his hood and sweeps back that enveloping cloak, his deep blue eyes rolling with mirth at his own performance. His (no doubt fairweather) friends, too, with their outer trappings cast off, are in fact a companionable looking throng, young, daring, rakeish and carefree. But Amadys Baratheon pays them little mind. He calls for a tall cider to begin the slaking, as he scans the field for old acquaintances…and ends up first locking glances with Iris, then firing a broad wink at her.

"No… not surprised, really," Iris replies, shifting a little in her stance. "I didn't know Loryn had a cousin in Dorne. No. Surprised perhaps that a Tyrell is showing off juggling skills at the Quill and Tankard, aye. But…" She shrugs. Shooting him a slightly annoyed glare that he has not commented with more than a yes to her question. Which will make her persist on the subject. "The Pirates of Pentos was a fabulous play, written by Loryn, and I had a part in it. A big part. It was quite a success." Can it be that there is a bit of sourness lurking at the back of those blue eyes when she says that? "So… congratulations for working at the Whimsy. I haven't been there in a while." The hint of sourness turns into a glare, the gaze lowered soon. Her lips are pressed together, one of her feet tapping on the ground in a slightly impatient way.

The arrival of new patrons draws her attention next, a slightly exasperated sigh leaving her lips in a first reaction. "Oh my, I gotta keep going…" The locking of glances with the Baratheon makes her stop in her tracks, as she stares back at him. Her lips curling upwards after a moment, and yes, that wink brings a blush to her cheeks. "M'lord Amadys…", she stammers. "Good eve. Cider?" As if this could be a good excuse to make her exit, and flee any further interaction with the infamous womanizer. That attempt at flight rather reluctant however, as her feet seem to be glued onto the ground.

Clovis had a way of drawing eyes that went beyond attractive smiles and coy little hairflips. The young Tyrell takes the crystalline sphere in one hand and slowly slides it from front to back with a motion that seems to defy gravity. The drunken smallfolk patrons nearby ooh and ahh again as the nobleman idly goes about another one of his imfamous improptu street performances. He is Contact Juggling the sphere which requires him to keep the ball up and moving, when, if, he stops to speak he stalls it on the back of his hand with practiced ease. As the sphere stalls he turns to look at the newly arrived once Iris greets him. "Lord Amadys…" He surveys the gentleman. "It seems I'm running into all sorts of my cousin's troupe tonight."

Clearly the cider has dipped on Amadys's list of supreme desires, as he ambles meanderingly towards Iris with a definite glimmer in his lingering stare, but then a new voice and visage distracts him. He leans back against the board, looking this latest Tyrell up and down, a faint smile curling over his narrow face as he mutters, distinctly unconvincingly, "dunno what y'mean, my lord of Tyrell…but certainly I know your kin, yes, and the prating stageshock in particular. Who doesn't, round here? You intending to spend all your days capering beside him, or have you any other purpose in the city of wisdom?"

Those last words are more than half delivered in scorn, though at the same time Amadys toys absently with the links at his neck. The moment passes, and he returns to Iris. "Dreary time I've had of it lately, deal of learning and precious little lounging. Glad to see things haven't changed a whit here, at least, least of all you, sweet piratical wench that y'are…"

<FS3> Clovis rolls Sleight Of Hand: Great Success.

Her blue eyes widen even more, much like a prey that has been singled out by a snake's immobilizing stare, when Amadys approaches. Iris stays where she is, biting her lip, looking perhaps not that cornered after all, judging from the smile she has for him, as well as the sparkle in her gaze - because she may be prone to charms unleashed at her with such relentless ease. But then that gaze is broken, the Vixenbane distracted, and a soft exhale leaves the fair barmaid's lips. "Lord Clovis Tyrell," she mutters, by way of introduction - or in a mere attempt at explanation. "Seems he works at the Whimsy now." Her gaze shifts from the impressive juggler of spheres to the impressive juggler of compliments. "I… still work here, as you can see, M'lord," is offered, a bit breathlessly perhaps. While her cheeks take on a darker shade of pink. "Cider. Aye. I'll get it for you… and your friends, in a moment, M'lord." Apparently the ban is broken, feet that have refused to move a moment ago, waking up to new activity. A curtsey is offered - slurred of course! - and Iris moves off, vanishing inside the Quill, to get another round of cider.

Clovis speaks a little longer with the sphere stalled. "I rather enjoy my capering." Clovis quipped before smartly popping loose the sphere from its perch and allowing the orb to roll up his arm and over his shoulders where, instead of lingering, it slides right on down to stall upon his opposite hand. The ball balanced once more, "I also make my family money selling goods from the far east and Dorne, my father is Lord Gaffrey." A lifelong resident of Oldtown and known Importer of fine silks and rare treasures from abroad. "Did you see the sky lanterns last June twenty second? Father found those for Prince Jurian." He turns back to Amadys adding, "Were you not in one of Loryn's plays? Forgive, I've been out of Oldtown so long I've found I'm relearning everyone's names and faces… even those I knew in my youth."

The Baratheon's mirthful eyes gently follow Iris's retreat, but offer her no further comment for the present, save an imperceptible shrug which mayhaps whispers, later, some day, soon enough, no hurry. Then Amadys fixes his attention right back on the slightly younger Tyrell. "Mmm. There's something of my late-step-grandmother about you too, my lord, and she was born of the Rock. Do I guess aright?" He slouches indifferently for a moment, but at Clovis's query he suddenly rears up, feigning, at least, dignified, arch-noble hauteur.

"Loryn employed a player called Vixenbane, who I'm told resembled me greatly. We are a lusty house; perchance he was some bastard by-blow, who knows. You might ask Iris about him, I believe she had him several times in the wings. The confusion is frequent, and I suppose understandable. Now where's that bloody drink…?"

Clovis 'ahs' silently and perhaps is foolish- nigh.. /naive/ enough to believe such a lie. He accepts it readily and his easy going grin simpers on in spite of his idle activity with the sphere. "Quite, my mother is a Lannister." The svelte nobleman agrees before he stops the sphere as a matter of polite recourse. He sets it in the wine glass again, asking, "Do you acolytes come out so often in droves like this to drink?"

Amadys laughs readily enough at that, with a careless toss of his dark, lank head. "Whether droves is the right word for a mob of acolytes I'm less than certain. Flock? Too tame, though some indeed call full maesters grey sheep. Murder? Well, we're unfledged, as yet, unsworn, and not of the bloody Night's Watch either. Parliament? Too damn wise. When it's my friends, we end up as…well, a debauch. But for the most part I prefer the company of those outside the Citadel. Hot-blooded squires, idle merchants' sons…aye, and jugglers too." A cider arrives at last, but Iris is not its bearer; by now it seems Amadys is glad enough of a drink not to care much either way.

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