(123-09-14) Proper Arses
Proper Arses
Summary: The Lord Breeksless Whimsy, the Lord of Mathan Tor, Otter, and… Sal.
Date: 14/09/2016
Related: Balls

Crescent Beach — Blackcrown Road

This is a little sandy-pebbly stretch of the Whispering Sound's shoreline, crescent-shaped and somewhat sheltered by the more precipitous coastline to either side of it. Terns and gannets and kittiwakes nest on the sheerest portions to the North and South, but it's much gentler here and the tiny inlet even offers good anchorage for small boats of shallow draft. The city of Oldtown, marked by the great bright spire of the Hightower, can be seen across the water to the Northwest.

There's a steep switchbacking track leading up to the Blackcrown Road.

The shrill call of seabirds overhangs the Whispering Sound as faithfully as the grey clouds above. A soft morning glow fills the clouds as much as rain, perhaps promising at least a glimpse of sun once the drizzle runs out. A slim figure meanders the beach, hugging the curve of the crescent: faraway, nearing as she walks back gradually closer to the trail that leads back to the road. The light haze of rain does little to refresh Sal's appearance: dampened, her billowing sleeves only seem more threadbare, sandy grime settles into every wrinkle of fabric after dripping off the torn-sleeved leather shirt, and her dark hair clings to her forehead in scrawny strands. None of which bother the commoner woman as she plucks this and that from the beach, depositing small items into a patchwork leather satchel.

A young rider galloping along the shore stands in stark contrast to the threadbare appearance of the young woman. The clothes are light riding clothes, green and beige interwoven with gold, the colours of the rulers of the Reach. The horse is a fine specimen too, a lively Dornish sandsteed, happy to be allowed to race along the flat sands.

It is only the sudden shrill cry of a seagull, diving down into the water to hunt whatever she spotted from the sky that irritates the horse into a sudden sideways leap. The rider only just manages to hang on to his seat, muttering a mix of curses and calming endearments to the horse as it slows to a halt now, still irritated by the fright.

The bits and pieces Sal collects might not seem particularly useful: pebbles, for a start, and small lengths of driftwood. She's crouched, reaching for a somehow particularly choice bit of wood, when she jerks her head up to notice the galloping horse coming closer — and its little leap and the rider's subsequent near fling onto the beach. She snorts a laugh under her breath, but it's not humour in her eyes as she watches horse and rider, taking in the details of their finery, still crouched — a just-in-case sort of tension, an animal ready to spring like the horse did at the first sign of trouble.

Not that much further down the beach, a bearded man walks alongside a callow boy half his age. The pair are dressed in simple linen shirts and bottle-green braies, both shabby and in need of a good scrubbing. Between them they are carrying a woven basket full of fish and crabs and seaweed and on their other arms they carry fishing poles.

Raibert, for he is the man in question, walks with Otter, who is the boy then, past the woman, at least until they see the horseman, when both of them stop dead and burst into knee-slapping laughter.

The horse walks a few irritated short circles until it is properly calmed down again. It would now be their chance to continue on their merry way, but Loryn hears the man and boy burst into laughter and frowns into their general direction. "And may I be so bold as to inquire to the causse of your mirth, my good man?", he asks Raibert somewhat crankily.

The passing man's laughter kindles Sal's as surely as a flint-spark. No more mere snort, she laughs outright, loud and free, an entertained sparkle in her eye tempering the paranoia that was there just seconds ago. She shoves the driftwood in her hand into her satchel and rises to get a good look at the man on the horse. Recognition dawns with a squint — and a wink of her eye. She remembers you, Whimsy lord. "Yeah," she encourages Raibert and Otter, lifting her brows way up high. "D'you reckon it was the fact that 'is fancy horse is scared of gulls," she poses in her common accent by way of any common slum, but for the hint of a not-quite-Westeros lilt, "or that he could barely keep his arse in the saddle?"

The bearded man nudges the boy in the ribs before answering Loryn, "Just admiring the horsemanship there, lad!" Raibert calls back, apparently trying his damndest not to snicker as the woman puts her oar in, "You cannae be talking about his arse, he’s all proper and behorsed and that, lass." he adds, with cod seriousness.

Otter, for his part, is killing himself laughing, the fifteen year old nearly dropping the basket of fish from his gangly limbs.

Loryn narrows his eyes at the lot of them as he tries to figure out whether they are making fun of him. "I figure I cannot blame you for making assumptions, good folks, seeing as you have probably never been on a horse, most certainly not a Dornish sandsteed.", he says in his poshest voice, "You can trust that it's not as easy to handle as the nag pulling the plough on your village's fields."

Oh-ho, it’s on now. It’s on.

Raibert nods to Otter, the pair putting the basket of fish and their rods down between them, then he turns back to Loryn.

"… Your Lordship," says he, taking a step towards the horse and holding his hands up, palms towards the lordling, "I have some little skill with handling animals, what with my years gettin' me bears to pull me plow up on the island." Yes, his accent got thicker as his body language becomes more submissive, "If'n you'd kindly, I can have a word with yer fine dornish standsteed and get him tae play nicer with you?"

"Nah?" Sal counters Raibert; the gleam in her eye is approaching mischievous levels, sparkling more the longer Otter laughs. Her grin is thin and wide, showing a bit of her front teeth. "And here I heard a rumour he likes to wander about without his trousers." If there was any doubt that Loryn was being made fun of, it ought to be quashed now — but the woman grins wider, good-natured in the face of her boldness in talking to a noble in such a way. She approaches more cautiously than anything coming out of her mouth, although yet behind Raibert, admiring the sandsteed. "I don't have a village or a plough, but I know a fine horse when I see one."

Loryn stares at Raibert for a bit, wondering if all of that is a bit of a northern euphemism. "Bears? Pulling ploughs?", he repeats and smirks, "Sounds like a sozzled campfire story, my friend. And my horse is quite alright now, thank you.", he declines stiffly, so he can glare at the woman instead. "I've seen you before, Mistress, haven't I?"

Caught off guard by the thing about the trousers, Raibert promptly forgets both his scheme and his accent, which lessens to less of a parody, "No trousers?" he asks the woman as he straightens up a bit, "Stoating about with it all hanging out is the fashion in Dorne, I'm told." he manages, before the snickering starts again, not helped by Otter and his roaring laughter behind.

"Bears.. ahahaha.. with no breeks on… hahaha." says the teenager.

Her grin all the more fueled by the snickers and the roaring laughter, Sal beams into Loryn's glare as though he's smiling upon her instead. She ducks down, plucks two stones from the array of smaller pebbles around her feet, and — pausing to raise a few fingers in as much as an open-handed, no harm gesture as possible — stands. She throws the stones into the air above her, one after the other, and catches them deftly as they fall, putting them through a quick round of juggling before tossing them just as deftly behind her to skitter back onto the beach. There's the lord's answer, if his memory serves.

"I don't think anyone wants to see your privates hanging out, my good man.", Loryn smirks, highly irritated by the man's mirth. His horse meanwhile is more irritated by the woman starting to throw stones up into the air and paws at the ground as if ready to bolt. But Loryn calms it with some soft-spoken words, watching the performance. "Ah yes, you were at the marketplace.", he remembers, "I asked you to come and see me at the Whimsy, but you didn't."

Its an oddly knowing look that Raibert gives Loryn, "Wouldn't be so sure about that, lad," he says, grinning, "I've had my share of nags at my plow." He turns his attentions to Sal then, applauding her display, "That’s great, that is. Should try one of them show-houses in the town there."

Sal starts to shrug, cutting off the gesture when she jerks her head from Raibert to Loryn, on the topic of show-houses. Like his? A furrow — deep, well-worn — forms between her brows, a glimpse of that paranoia sneaking to the fore. "Might still," she hedges. She picks her satchel back up and slings it over one shoulder. "Would you really want someone like me there?"

Loryn rolls his eyes at the uncouth man, but his main interest is now the woman. She IS nicer to look at anyhow. "The stage in the frontyard is open to anyone, Mistress. If you entertain them, you'll earn some coin, if you don't, you'll earn some rotten eggs. Up to you really. Could take the gentleman here along.", he adds with a sudden dose of snark, "People love a good jester."

"I could handle a night out," Raibert says, nodding along, "Though I'd much rather you came along with me as a guest of my house, lass. Rather than an entertainer, I mean. My treat?" he asks Sal. "At the very least I can offer a slap-up feed that’s better than some rotten eggs and the promise of coin," the uncouth man continues, stroking his beard.

Sal smiles; good one, her expression says as she looks from Loryn to Raibert, appreciating a good snark as much as a good jester. Her expression takes a turn when the bearded man replies, however, seeing a return of the furrow of her brow as she gives him a slightly sour assessment. "House?" she repeats, incredulous as she is suspicious. He hadn't seemed like someone who has a house. "I might rather the rotten eggs." To Loryn, she says, "I'll think about it, hey?" Again.

"And I suppose the slap-up feed comes with a price.", Loryn points out rather crankily, feeling all knightly-protective suddenly. He shrugs at Sal when she suggests to think about it. "Up to you really. If the audience likes you, I may consider giving you a slot on the mainstage. Then you can buy all the slap-up meals and feather beds you like."

The bearded gentleman, as ever shabby and dressed well beneath his station, nods, "I am styled Ser Raibert Mormont, lord of Mathan Tor," he says, with a dismissive wave, "Friend to littlefolk and the like." He looks to Loryn, actually offended, "Only price I'm asking is company over dinner, I am quite unaware of what you are hinting at, Lord Breeksless, quite unaware," he nods, then suggests, "I fancy if I was aware we'd be meeting someplace somewhere far too early and have to have it settled at swordpoint."

Then, as if on consideration of both offers, "Or, you know, you could do both and take us both for our word."

The prospect of decent meals and decent beds — that is, provided by her own earning and not as the guest of Raibert — is visibly tempting to the performer. A treat dangled in front of someone who's starving for it. The consideration etches around her mouth, digs into the lines around her eyes, but, contrarily, she buckles down hard against the thought. Firms up her dark brows, sets her jaw and nods, self-confident — or some mimicry thereof. "I need to be on some big stage, front a' all those people," she states, though there's not exactly an air of stage fright about her. "All I want's to earn a few coins." She'd been trying to ignore Ser Raibert Mormont, lord of Mathan Tor in lieu of considering Loryn's offer, but turns about on him now. "I don't need the company of no lord of whatever the shit Mathan Tor is to get my dinner. Put your swords away, eh?" The fire in her scolding is true enough, but there's a good humour in there somewhere.

Loryn looks like he's about to laugh out loud when the man introduces himself. "A Mormont, I see.", he comments as if that explains everything. It probably does. "A relative of Lady Ulyka Mormont then, I presume?", he asks and smirks at the man's impertinent speech. "How fortunate then that you are as unaware of my hints as I am deaf to certain names being addressed to my person, right, my friend?", he smirks at the man, before turning back to the woman. He has no words for her though, only an expectant look.

The bearded man bursts into laughter, holding his hands up again, "My sword remains sheathed, lass," Raibert agrees, good naturedly and in all good humour. "Distantly related, distantly," he admits.

Otter, having apparently overcome his laughing fit finally, approaches his master? father? they do look very much alike, if one is pintsized, "Chief, the fish won't keep all day," he says, pointing at the basket.

"Aye, suppose," replies Raibert, who nods to the other pair, "Pleasure meeting you folks." he says. And then he’s off with his fish.

Sal watches the Mormont and his pint-sized counterpart retreat. Alone with Loryn, his horse, and the sea birds, she shoves a lock of hair away from her eye with an inelegant knuckle and crosses her arms. "So what's in it for you?" she pins on Loryn, bobbing her chin up to him. "How much've my coin would ya get if went 'n' I worked in your fancy courtyard?" There's something not only suspicious but reluctant about her questions, as though the Tyrell is pushing the Whimsy on her more than he is.

"I don't think he knows that his cousin Ulyka performed at the Whimsy with me.", Loryn comments thoughtfully as he watches Raibert and his pintsized companion retreat, then turns back to Sal as if he only just now realizes she's talking to him. "If you perform in the courtyard? Nothing.", he replies, "It's… just a chance for performers to strut their stuff and for me to discover talent. And people who watch for a while get thirsty and buy a drink and a snack at the courtyard and I earn on -that-." He shrugs a little as if reluctant to try and talk it up more.

The notion of Ulyka Mormont — presumably a lady — taking the stage is a matter of curiosity to Sal, prompting a squint, but she moves on quickly. "I guess," she starts to assess with a bit of scoffing, "it might not be the worst thing, eh?" It's not a resounding yes, but it's … a start. She raises her arms above her head in a carefree stretch and breaks into a smile, at least. "See ya 'round, Lord Whimsy," she says, punctuated by the slap of her arms falling to her sides as she lets them drop and starts to meander on her way. She takes a wide berth around Loryn's sandsteed.

"It's Lord Lo— ", he begins, but lets it drop as he decides she's only having him on. "Until another time then, Mistress.", he agrees, a bit relieved that she is departing before his restless horse bolts. He loosens the reins and the sandsteed is off once a more, now galloping back the way they had come from, heading back to the city.

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