Page 213: Barter and Biters
Barter and Biters
Summary: Senna barters and Tommas whittles, between the two they manage a chat.
Date: 16/02/2012
Related Logs: Ironborn Invasions.
Tommas Senna 
Army Camps — Seagard
Campy and kinda dirty.
Thursday, February 16, 289

Army camps like these function thanks to a few things. There's leadership, though that's vastly overrated when it comes to day-to-day concerns. There's management, which does help. And then there's barter. Senna is engaged in some of the latter at the moment, accepting a small bundle from a foot soldier in exchange for what looks like a few buckles and and some usefully-sized scraps of leather. Both sides seem happy enough with the arrangement, and as the soldier walks away, Senna opens up the bundle to reveal several plants and flowers, a little squished, but not too worse for the wear.

Barter also helps to pass the time. The days up to war are quieter than the tense atmosphere that led up to the recapture of Seagard, but the boredom can begin to weigh in on those that have remained since the Ironborne retreat. Tommas seems in pretty fine spirits, a trill of a whistle on his lips. a stick a'whittling away in his hands, shredded clean by a disturbingly large knife and a furry stubble at his jaw. Although the big (giant) man is careful with his steps, the others quickly step to the side — sometimes jump — to make their way out of his path. He pauses as he comes across Senna, dipping his head at her. "Afternoon, Mistress."

Senna looks up from the bundle at the greeting, smile quirking when she looks /further/ up. "Afternoon, Ser," she greets in turn, taking a step to the side to make space. "I hope it finds you well?" She raises a hand to wave in passing to a foot soldier in the Nayland colors, though her attention remains on the man in front of her.

There's a lot of up to look. Tommas takes a step back, so that she might avoid craning her neck too far, chipping a splinter off of his carving as he does so. "Aye, Mistress. It goes well as the pause before another battle might, I can see your own is fruitful at least?" He notes, nodding towards the bundle in her hands with a crooked, easy smile.

"Ah, well," Senna shrugs, looking down at the bundle with a faint smile. "The last assault took a toll on my healing supplies, and with word that the next one is on the horizon coming through the camp, I thought I'd do my best to restock. That," she continues with gallows humor, "And the gentlemen who owe me for my services after the last battle may or may not be around to make payment after this one, so." She looks to the carving then, craning her neck slightly. "What is it you're making there?"

"A wise gamut all things considered. My mother always did say you can't sell a too dead chicken nor a cracked egg," Tommas agrees approvingly, eyes crinkled by the breadth of his smile. "Never did quite know what she meant by too dead, because the dead ones sell just fine—" Trailing off after that thought, he just shrugs. Never was one to argue with his mother's wisdom. It just ain't wise to do so. He lowers the hand that holds the stick, the imprints of a small tree slowly beginning to emerge from the piece. "Just a present, it'll be a bit for a pendent when I'm finished. You think that's a thing that's alright for a wee bit of lass? I did not make it too large, did I?"

"Depends on the size of the lass, I'd think," Senna answers when she gets a better look at the work. "And her tastes. Some women like a piece with some heft, others like something a little more delicate. That's good work, though," she adds, looking up with a small smile. "Are you a carpenter when you're not off fighting wars, or is it just something you've picked up to kill time between battles?"

"About…yae big?" Tommas slips his knife into this belt, then gestures with a hand to a height that is several inches shorter than Senna herself. Wee thing. Most things are wee to Tommas. "My thanks. This one's a bit feral, so we'll see. I expect she'll bite my hand if she really hates it," he says, surely joking as he returns her smile with a wide grin. "Not me. Fraid they knighted me with the last one and it stuck, Mistress. I'm just a guard."

"Ah, that sort of girl," Senna laughs. "In that case, I think you're doing well. A bigger piece will let you keep your hand a little further away when you're giving it to her. Mind if I ask which house you're with?" she asks, taking a few more steps out of the path of travel and carefully tucking the plants back into the cloth in her hand.

Tommas places a big finger on his nose, tapping it knowingly. She's got the right of it. "I was thinking I might dangle it by a cord, keep myself a wee bit more out of reach," he admits wryly, glancing around him to make sure he isn't stepping on anyone before moving to join Senna. "My apologies, Mistress. Ser Tommas Belte, sworn of House Groves." The big man folds himself into a slight and exceptionally careful bow, slow as a tree bending in the wind.

"Wise decision," Senna agrees with a swift smile. She laughs lightly at his bow, sweeping a smooth curtsey in return. "Senna Delacourt," she introduces herself. "Healer, occasional lady's maid, and general help to the Nayland household. More healer than anything else of late, it seems."

It's a terrible bow and with her laughter Tommas rights himself somewhat awkwardly, accepting its due with a light smile. "Pleased to meet you, Senna. You must be a damned good one if they've got you out here, rather than tending the ladies. Or your needlepoint looks like stitches."

"Possibly both," Senna allows without a pause, winking. "No, my needlepoint is all right. But there are a great number of soldiers in this host, and very few maesters. And plenty of servants for the ladies back in the castles. I'm needed more here. Besides, someone has to take care of laundry and cooking and the like, and it isn't generally the soldiers."

Tommas laughs at that, the sound is a low warm rumble. "No, it isn't. Personally I perfer to do my own if given the opportunity, but I know the nobility has those needs to be sussed out. Never much the life for the common foot, I'm sure your talents are much appreciated at your camp," he replies, thumb brushing along the edge of his carving.

"They appreciate the extra flavor in the food, at least." Senna slips the packet of herbs into a pocket with a crooked smile. "And they do appreciate the healing when they've been hurt. And I appreciate not being stuck in a castle with an entire herd worth of noblewomen worried about their men."

"That's to be sure, I'm certain." The transit of herbs to pocket is watched with quiet attentiveness as Tommas simply listens, no real cause to speak. Senna's latter appreciation draws another low chuckle from him. "While I have never had cause to be in that position, I imagine that the ladies' waiting is not an easy one."

"I don't really recommend it," Senna chuckles. "Although, to be fair, I doubt you're going to find yourself in that position any time soon. You don't look like the sort of fellow who could slip into a dress and hide among the ladies." Absently, she rubs her hands together, brushing off any residue from the herbs, though a soft, herbal scent rises from the bruised pieces of leave. "War is waiting, though, when it comes down to it."

"I'd look awful in it and with all due respect to your gender, Miss, I don't know how you get much done in them," Tommas opines sincerely, brushing his fingers along the length of his jaw. "Aye. It tis. And the parts that aren't move so fast that you'd soon as forget you're breathing."

Senna chuckles, flicking her skirts dismissively. "It just takes practice. And you do things differently. And do different things, for that matter. I'm rather fond of their convenience for some things." She pauses as another soldier starts to approach, stopping a short distance away. "If you'll excuse me, though, Ser Tommas," she smiles crookedly, "I've a few more trades to make today. Best of luck with your feral girl."

"You might be seeing me if I do poorly," Tommas jokes, sketching a short bow to Senna. "Good luck with your further trades, may fortune help weigh your hand." The tall man flashes her a slight smile, then slips off to rejoin the crowd…although he hardly disappears in it, lips picking up the tune of his earlier whistle.