(122-11-14) Palaver at the Fist
Palaver at the Fist
Summary: A wee bar fight and it's aftermath.
Date: Date of play (14/11/122)
Related: None

Tybalt is filthy to the point it's unclear what colour his clothes are intended to be. His Wildling style braids are in danger of turning into dreads. He is currently scratching absently at what are likely body lice as he slinks into the tavern, sinuous as a snake, suspicious as a jackal.

Even with the excitement of the looming wedding, Camillo does not forget to keep an ear to the ground in case anything of note is happening. He looks rough enough to fit in with the sort of crowd that patronizes this place, and for once he's actually taking a meal while he eavesdrops: a nice hearty stew.

In contrast, the Dornish who comes swaggering into the Fist, is clean, meticulously so. Sandy robes are synched by well oiled leathers around the waist, buckles and belts tightening around the lean torso of a man who looks to be sniffing for a fight. Half the time most Dornish are. Manfryd's dark eyes are on the swivel, coiled whip at his hip, dagger at the other, a quarter staff on his back. The arrogance oozes off him as he postures his stride across the bar, snatching an ale that was intended for someone else from a serving wench with a slimey smile greasing his face.

Tybalt's aroma of unwashed body and old blood proceeds him as he heads to the bar, head swinging as he studies the crowd. His expression is hard and arogant, as he siddles up to the bar very close to the impeccable Dornishman and orders an ale. His words are slow and oddly accented, Northern vowels tangled with low Valyrian ones, his voice a deep, gravelly growl, slightly slurred by the long scar on the left side of his teeth, reminder of the blow that took his back teeth that side.

Camillo is just eatin' some stew, unobtrusive, trying not to get it in his beard.

"Dirty fucking cunts-" Manfryd notes when Tybalt slides up close to where he's taken his ale to drink, eyeing the Northman with a snarl of lips, "Looks like a big fat one swallowed you up and spit you out." He'll add with a wry twist of his lips, "Big fat ones all over this stinking town. Flapping." He knocks back a large gulp, sighs afterward, and wrinkles his nose because of the smell.

Tybalt snorts, and says in a slow draw, "Haven't got one. A shame, as you sound terrified of them." He lifts the ale to his lips, not particularly careful of his elbow or and fleas or body lice he might be liable to spread.

Camillo is a pretty quiet stew-eater. He mostly keeps his eyes on the potato chunks.

"I'm not terrified of the big fire breathing cunt herself…" his dark eyes consider how close the flea infested man is, dark eyes glittering. "What your cock sucking elbow-" he tells the other, "Or I'll leave you without it." He takes another swig of his ale, baiting the other or being baited. It really didn't matter. He was Dornish. It was in his blood.

Tybalt turns at the mention of cock sucking. The filthy axeman is not tall, but he is muscular. Hi turquoise eyes are hard and his glare an open threat. In that slow growl of his he declares, "I am NOT for sale. If you are, best to peddle your wares at the Bard."

Camillo just glances up at this tension between the two at the bar. Or maybe he just happens to look there without meaning to focus on them.

The turn causes Manfryd to turn, posturing with his threats not at all veiled. His one hand was still on the mug he was trying to drink without the fleas leaping in it from unwashed Northron bastard beside him. "I'm not BUYING-" he snarls back at Tybalt, his eyes leering once up and down just to nettle the other's bristling form, "Especially not a fleabag dick rotted out son of a three legged bitch shat out by the Stranger's ass!" He grumbles, "My ale… your bugs have gone and jumped in it—" Likely one has. Or just a random fly from the bar while they were growing in tension. He takes the mug, slides it off the counter, then systematically DUMPS it over Tybalts head. Half a tankard at least, pisses out from Manfryd's stein…!

Tybalt lifts his chin, voice cold and hard as the Wall itself, "My parents were married to each other. Unlike yours." As the ale pours down, he bares his teeth in something decidedly not a smile, and shakes his long greasy hair, like a dog shedding mud, the filthy braids spraying befouled ale at his opponent, even as he steps closer and tries to knee the Dornishman.

Camillo stops pretending not to watch at this point. Several people in the tavern are staring. Camillo reaches down and pulls a long knife out of his bag. He puts this on his table. Just in case.

Manfryd sneers with his hot blooded arrogance spiking at the mention of his parents, his retort: "Aye, your's were married, in a breeding kennel for dogs..!" And while one would expect him to flinch away from the tangle of braids that tarnished his decidedly clean robes, he did not blink. It allowed him to see his opponent's movement, however subtle, deflecting it while sliding back a step. "Bad move…" for now his weapons are secured on his person - a tavern was no place to draw out his quarter staff, but this is Manfryd we're talking about. He's always up for a dirty fight. The quarter staff whirls into his hand and swings out in attempts to knock out one of Tybalt's knees.

The room bristles significantly when Manfryd starts wielding that big staff of his. The room's a bit tight for that kind of combat, so a few angry voices shout out as people's heads or drinks are threatened by the whirl of the staff. "What's wrong with you?!" someone yells, and someone else shouts, "Oi, watch it!" A few other weapons are starting to show. Camillo stays put.

Tybalt growls, "Not. Polite." Rather than draw his axe, which would be very not sporting and a serious escalation, he keeps hold of his tankard and snatches up a heavy serving platter with his other hand. "Only a coward brings a weapon to a fist fight. He just manages to deflect the staff from his knee with the plater, while swinging for the Dornishman's head with the heavy and nearly full tankard, spitting something very obscene in some sort of low Valyrian dialect with a lot of phlegm in it, which he also sends Manfryd's way.

The quarter staff is unwieldy in the tight quarters. It was meant to knock and sweep out Tybalt's legs to end it, quickly. Rather, the shaft of the staff clangs against the serving platter and before he could successfully get the other end of the shaft up, a tankard comes flying at his face. He staggers back from the hit, nose certainly bloody as he comes up, shaking his head out and pinching the bridge of his nose. "FUCK…!" he hollars out, likely room enough made for them to fight, while others are bristling… and who knows if the tavern keep is going to get his brutes to break it up. "Cock sucking dawg!!" He barks at Tybalt, but someone's restraining him with a hand to shoulder - looks like another Dornish. A friend of his perhaps? Not friend. Countryman at least! He's trying to roll out of their hands and the suggestive remarks he should leave, so he spits toward Tybalt, "I'll grind you into the sand—"

Camillo asks something of someone sitting nearby, but there's too much noise in the place for his quiet question to travel far. He watches the rest of the combat, listening to a few more remarks to the old man at the next table.

Tybalt spits, "Leave. You have no manners and no honor."

"Who the fuck are you to declare I have no honor! You're a scab!" Manfryd chides at Tybalt, "A flea on the back of a flea." The other Dornish has eased him back and earns an elbow in the gut for it, as Manfryd wrenches his arm free, snarls at Tybalt on his way out.

The barkeep puts a mug in front of Tybalt that he says has already been paid for if he cares to have it. Camillo hunches down, putting his knife back in his bag. He rummages for a little while longer, then approaches Tybalt with a cloth. It's on the small side if it's meant to soak up everything Manfryd poured on him, but it's something. He offers it.

Tybalt shrugs and says with an almost Kingly arrogance, the slow, oddly accented speech adding to the effect "I'm not the one drew a weapon on an unarmed man. You threw the first insult and made the first attack. Which of us is most honorable?" But by then the man is gone and he sighs and looks sadly into his spilled tankard, but then the free drink appears and his gives the man a small, brief, surprisingly genuine smile before sampling it. Then he gives Camillo a quizzical look. "Not afraid of fleas?"

Camillo shrugs. "I've had them before," he says. "If you bathe with rosemary, it's a big help." He doesn't look terribly concerned about the prospect, at any rate. "The drink, it's not just from me. Number of fellows saw that. It…wasn't right."

Tybalt shrugs, "They just come back." He looks around, eyeing the other men with some surprise, but pitches his voice to carry, "Thank you," in a way that would include, not just camillo, but those who pitched in. His voice drops again, "I am Tybalt."

"The men here, they like a fair fight," Camillo mentions. "As you likely know." He nods once at the introduction. "Camillo," he replies. "You've been here long?"

Tybalt thinks it over, "A few months? I'm still getting used to… speaking the language again."

"Are you targeted a lot for fights?" Camillo wonders. "Because you seem…foreign?"

Tybalt shrugs again, "What is a lot for here?"? It is hard to judge?"

Camillo tilts his head slightly. "I can't say," he admits. "I'm generally left alone. Some aren't."

Tybalt has reverted to his natural state of filth and is now also wearing most of a tankard of ale, just starting to go sticky, but shows no sign of new injury. he is drinking a tankard of ale himself and talking in a low voice to Camillo at the bar. He looks Camillo over carefully, "You don't look the sort of man people looking for a challenge pick, I think."

It is hot and overcast and damp. Tellur has given up on his shirt, and is just wearing breeches and a pair of loose-wrapped shoes which really only protect the soles of his feet. He enters with his manhunter hound at his side, a massive courser with a spiked collar, though admittedly gentle eyes. He has a dagger at his side - with blue and worked over with symbols - but little else save his purse. Which is tied to his dog's collar. Sometimes one needs a rather unique solution.

Tybalt looks over the new comer slowly, then gives one of his small, blink and you missed it secret smiles, "Well that will make the pick pocket's thinks twice, Lad." He turns to the othr man to explain, "This is Tellur. he's from the North."

"No," Camillo agrees quietly with Tybalt. "I'm not a challenge." He turns to see Tellur, eyes the dog, notes the purse, and looks back to Tellur. "I see."

The place is dodgy, and Tellur is wearing little more than breeches and some excuse for shoes. Without a Stark presence in the high city, he seems to have reverted back to other ways. He grins at Camillo, showing white teeth unsullied by sweets, and he says to Tybalt "It is easier, eh?" A fluid shrug from his scarred body. He has a tattoo of a tree on his breast with a stag and a shadowcat on either side of it, circling it. And what looks like a brand on the back of his shoulders in the shape of a knife "How are you both? It's hot."

Tybalt absently wipes his face with the rag cam gave him with his replacement drink. He snorts, "I didn't say that. I said you aren't the sort of man they pick out when looking for one. In my experience, the wirey little guys fight until they are ground meat and generally have extra knives to stick in unexpected places." he doesn't seem to notice anything odd about the Stark's Master of Beasts. He himself is filthy to the point it is unclear what colour his clothes used to be and is scratching absently at some body lice. He is wearing most of a tankard of ale, which he occasionally wipes at. His speech is slow and oddly accented, a mix of the far North and low Valyrian. His voice is a deep rumble, slightly slurred by the loss of his back teeth on one side and the long stiff scar that side of his face. he sighs, "It is hot indeed. Too hot for rude Dornishman who bring weapons to a fist fight."

"Some try not to fight at all," Camillo says, but it's unclear whether he actually means himself. No comment on extra knives. He is still standing near Tybalt, not having thought to sit down (or maybe he secretly /is/ wary of fleas), but he doesn't look like he's been in any sort of bust-up.

Did someone say rude Dornishmen? There is a little bit of a commotion at the door as Dornishmen begin coming into the Fist and Falcon. Rather official looking Dornishmen in fact with the Spear Pierced Sun sigil of House Martell on their shoulders. They hold the door open for what appears to be a Martell Princess swathed in her veil and loose sand silk robes meant for riding.

"Tellur Snow!" The Martell Princess cries out, and she does not have a Dornish accent at all. Visenya pulls her veil down to reveal her face.

"Weapons to a fist fight?" says Tellur "Sounds like a wise decision." He grins. He is, after all, a little smaller than many men, built on the wiry side himself "But I think I'd prefer to bring allies." He glances at Camillo, and half-smiles at the way Tybalt is being avoided. Partly because he does the very same thing. Now there are people coming in. Official. Important people. Tellur hesitates, and he ducks his head appropriately, one hand on the shoulders of his huge mastiff. But then he blinks and looks up. He has a goodly number of new scars, and stubble, but suddenly? He is sweeping a low, courtly bow "Your Highness," he says gravely "What an unexpected pleasure." VERY unexpected.

Tybalt shrugs, "With a face like this, it is not an option." He sips his ale, leaning against the bar. He eyes the new arrivals wearily, as if expecting yet another unprovoked attack. The hailing of the Master of beasts has him studying his friend with some surprise. "A quarterstaff is not polite in quarters as cramped as this. I did just fine with tankard and tray fending him off." Tybalt lifts his chin a little rather than dropping his head in deference. His turquoise eyes are the only spot of color about him. As grubby as he is, there is suddenly something about his baring verging on the arogance of nobility. He says nothing, now.

Camillo looks up, perhaps startled by this arrival of official Dornishmen and princesses. Particularly one he actually knows. He looks her way, but says nothing.

"My goodness, Master Tellur. You look as if you've been through the wringer." Visenya takes a step towards the table full of men, a hand coming out to motion her men-at-arms away from her. Her eyes slip from Tellur to Camillo, and she smiles slightly at him and gives him a little nod. Her violet colored eyes rest on Tybalt for a moment and she surveys him a moment before guessing correctly, "I do not believe we have had the pleasure of acquaintance, my Lord. I am Princess Visenya."

Tybalt rumbles out, "Tybalt. Prince of Cats." Though really he has more the air of a coiled cobra than a cat. He adds no House name, but doesn't correct her form of address either. His tone is polite enough, all things considered. "Are you here about the Dornishman with the staff? Am I to be arrested for defending myself?" he doesn't seemed concerned, simply curious."

Tellur glances down at himself, then looks up, and says "…I would have put something on if I'd known you would be visiting. Unfortunately, your Highness, you know what happens when the Lords and Ladies of the Houses need to tend to their business. We servants go quite to pieces." His voice is not light, but rather wry, almost wicked. His massive hound sits, Tellur's purse around her throat. Then as Tybalt speaks, Tellur says "Best let her Highness speak before assumptions are made."

Camillo dips his head immediately at the princess's acknowledgement, murmuring, "Your Grace." He looks up, however, at Tellur's question to Visenya. "Surely…surely not?" he finds himself blurting, regretting speaking before he even finishes the two-word question.

Visenya blinks a little incredulously. "Do I look like a gaoler to you, My Lord?" Her nose wrinkles a little in distaste before she takes another step towards the table. "I was unaware that you had a quarrel with a Dornishman, but now I am afraid to know what has happened." And despite saying that she doesn't want to know what's happened she looks to Camillo and asks, "Master Camillo what has happened?"

Tellur goes quiet, glancing at Tybalt, cautiously. He is sniffing the air slightly, an unfortunate habit.
Visenya has reconnected.

Tybalt shrugs, his scent of unwashed man and old blood proceeding him, "I was unaware myself. He threw the first insult and first attack. I did not use my axe, though I was tempted when he started swinging that staff. He was… very angry at women I think and not having much manners or sense…. Your guards look to be Dornish as well. He seemed the sort to seek out hurts and then not react well to losing." It takes him a while to get out, what with the slow pace of his speech and putting the effort in to make hi speech very clear despite the long healed wound to his face and mouth.

Camillo's brows climb when /he/ is called upon to give an account, but of course he does not resist a princess's order. "Your Grace," he begins, taking a breath. He gives a full account of his own despite Tybalt's version having just been given. "A Dornishman came in, sat down, and loudly started…well, he used foul language and spoke…abusively to this man, Tybalt. Who…retorted. Then the Dornishman upended a tankard of ale on him. This man raised a knee, then the Dornishman picked up his quarterstaff to go after him. In a space like this, the quarterstaff…well, he nearly injured several others as well as his target. Tybalt was unarmed, but he defended himself with a platter and a mug when threatened with the staff. The Dornishman took the tankard in the nose and was pulled out by friends along with…other…unpleasant words."

"My guards are Dornish." Visenya says to Tybalt, "As my husband is a Prince of Dorne. But I can assure you that they are not uncouth or as rude as the man you experienced." She lets out a small sigh before listening to Camillo's account. "Thank you, Master Camillo. Did this Dornishman give a name?" She hesitates, and closes her eyes a moment in great frustration before she asks, "Did he brag about slaying a Targaryen?"

Tellur looks delighted at the retelling, most amused. Then he says to Tybalt "You should have bitten him." Tellur is terribly good at forgetting some of the people he knows are Princes and Princesses. Though as Visenya speaks, Tellur cannot help but add, under his breath "That seems to be an extremely short sighted thing to brag about, unless, of course, one is bored of life."

Tybalt cocks his head, thinking. After a pause he says, "He did not. He was a tall dark man in desert dress, very angry at women and…ugly with it. Then he said some things about me." His eyes flash with real violence and he says with finality, "I am not for sale, nor interested in buying. Not for anyone, man or woman." At Tellur's comment, he flashes Tellur a wicked smile so quick, it might have been an illusion, and ruffles the other man's braids, much as a man might a son or a nephew, though Tellur is the taller of the two of them. The scarred man, is wider at shoulder though, and certainly older, possibly by as much as a decade.

"Angry at women?" Visenya lifts a brow at this statement before asking, "Howso? Can you tell me what he said?" She gives Tellur a bit of a wry look, "If this man is the man I think he is then he is very close to me feeding him to my dragons."

Tellur says to Visenya gravely "As a student of beasts of all kinds, I should enjoy the chance to observe." And then he tilts his head to Tybalt, and he ducks a little. _Ugh_ dad. Ruffled?!

Tybalt thinks it over, giving Camillo a look that suggests he'd rather Camillo explain, "He was complaining about the vaginas in this town. That they were dirty and… large? And flapping about?" He wrinkles his nose. "He really seemed to hate them which is why I suppose he was so interested in the sucking of cocks."

Camillo looks rather worried that Tybalt is looking at him. "He…used a worse term, Your Grace," he says in a regretful tone. But he does not repeat verbatim. "And, yes, made accusations of…impure acts that the Seven would frown upon."

"You ought to see them now." Visenya says off-handedly to Tellur. "They are the size of hounds. My husband made the mistake of taking a step too close to me while I was in their company, and if I had not gotten between them one of them would have bitten a chunk out of his leg."

Tybalt's words cause Visenya's cheeks to turn rather pink. "How vulgar." She gives Camillo a worried look before she asks, "Do you still serve Lady Marsei in the Hightower?"

Tellur says "Someone is going to stick something in him that he will not enjoy, then." But he _carefully_ says it under his breath, and then he says to Visenya, curiously "May I be impertinent and ask if anyone has taken sketches of them? I should be very grateful to see those. I have done a number myself. I find their bodies fascinating - they certainly have both mammalian and reptilian characteristics…" Annnnd he has forgotten once more he is not a Lord or Lady. Instead, he is treating Visenya as though she was a scholar, and one who simply _must_ be interested in what he has to say.

Tybalt shrugs, "It's not a thing I would say about anyone, but I am not him." He takes up his tankard for a sip, watching Tellur babble with an air of fond bemusement.

Camillo seems a little nervous at the talk of dragons, but it's a subtle reaction. However, he is immediately responsive to Visenya's question. "Yes, Your Grace."

Luckily for Tellur, Visenya is receptive to his interest in her dragons. "They have not been sketched, but you know you may come and see them if you'd like."

To Camillo she says, "Good. Then I will show you who I think this man is at the Hightower, and you can confirm it for me." She offers the table a small smile and a nod of her head, "Goodnight."

Tellur looks so pleased, that for a moment? His true age shows - he's little more than twenty, and has just seen many battles "Why thank you V…your Grace!" he says, happily.

Tybalt inclines his head to the Princess, mellowed by the whole no one getting arrested part.

Camillo seems just a bit nervous that he'll have to testify about this again, but he inclines his head obediently.

"Tell Lord Carolis to come visit me if he's ever back in town again." Visenya says to Tellur. "I do miss his company." And then she turns and is gone. Her men at arms follow her out.

Tellur bows as well, though there is a flicker of…grief? On his face? Or something else "Of course," he says. _Someone_ is not happy that he has to sort-of-run the Stark household! He watches the Dornishmen leave, and then he says to Tybalt "She is very kind." Right.

Tybalt squeezes Tellur's shoulder companionably, "Have some ale. You'll be right as rain with a good skinful, Lad."

Camillo watches Visenya on her way out. Perhaps he's having a brood about having to name a nobleman as a miscreant.

Tellur says to Camillo "Aye, don't worry so much. She has always been very good to me!" And then he says to Tybalt "Eh, perhaps. I wonder whether I should start running the Weirwood more myself." He frowns.

Tybalt sighs, "You are both so grim. we are not bleeding or under arrest. there is ale and there could be stew."

Camillo left his bowl of stew to go cold and congeal when this mess started. He shakes his head a little. "It is only, I don't like to speak against a nobleman." Not when the noble might find out, that is.

Tellur says to Tybalt "I'm in the city, of course I am grim." He adds, with a snort "And you have _not_ been using the herbs I gave you to keep those crawlers off. The hair I understand - it's good to have a head that stays warm when you need it. But those have to go!" And then he says to Camillo "You need an allegiance to a house. It's not a good thing, certainly, to be in this close city without allies."

Tybalt snorts, "You Sothrons care too much about titles. Titles are not what makes a man." He takes a deep drink of his tankard, "I am sticky from that…" The word he uses is viscious sounding and learly low Valyrian, "'s filthy ale. Let us take a skin of wine or the like out to a pond or the like and i will use your herbs if you lend me your soap. Would that satisfy you, My Lad?"

"I am a servant," Camillo says to Tellur. "I am not a man of a stature that a house would /ally/ with him."

Tellur kicks at Tybalt's leg, without a care for it "I'm not a Sothron." He then nods "Yes, let's go out to the little river that flows into the ocean near here. Yes, it'd be better. Those things carry sickness." Then he says to Camillo "I am a servant too. I mean, you must ally yourself to a house - vow to serve, better yourself, if you can. Learn other skills, such as reading and herbs. Once you are valuable, then…things are easier. This, I have learned." He adds "A blasted huge hunting dog also helps."

Tybalt rolls his eyes, "You are all Sothrons. All this business of titles and bein servants. come on, let's go have a drink and cool off."

Camillo nods faintly to Tellur's advice. "I see," he replies politely, though he doesn't mention that he has been working for the Hightowers for some time, as Visenya mentioned. He certainly does not seem to assume he is invited a-bathing.

Tybalt drains his tankard and attempts to sling a companionable likely bug covered arm around both servants. "Come along, Lads!" he exclaims despite being rather younger than Camillo."

Tellur stares at those little crawlers, and he makes a mental note. Cover self in the daisy extract that kills these bastards "You are more than a little disgusting sometimes, Prince of Cats," he tells Tybalt, then he says to Camillo "If you want, come along. The heat is too damn much for me in the South." He has no body modesty, at all. But then, neither do animals, and Tellur spends most of his time with beasts.

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