| Bedside Manner |
| Summary: | Justin is in recovery. Various people show up to bother him. |
| Date: | June 19, 289 |
| Related Logs: | Jousting at Seagard, Archery at Seagard, various other jousting- and ransom-related tourney logs |
| Players: |
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| Terrick Campsite |
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| It is suspiciously tentlike in here. |
| June 19, 289 |
As you might expect, Justin is laid up in one of the Terrick pavilions, resting and healing from his jousting injuries. He is dressed only in trousers with his ribs and chest bound snugly with bandages. Nasty purple, black and blue bruises mar his abdomin and around his chest/left shoulder area with some bruising on his left arm. At the moment he is sitting partly propped up so he could write a letter, a pair of oil lamps close by for extra light and a writing board in his lap with feather quill, parchment and inkwell. The letter now finished and dried, Justin rolls it up. A boy of about 12 years old waits on him, "Take the lap table, please. I'm finished with it. Did you take my message to Ser Frederyke about my ransom?"
Dmitry sidles into the tent looking obnoxiously healthy: since he has not jousted, and his performance at the archery competition left him with little more serious strain than stiffened fingers and a mild soreness in his shoulders, neither of which display at all in his easy, fluid motion or neat purple-frogged dark finery. "They didn't exaggerate your bruises," he remarks with an idle flicker of his gaze, one dark eyebrow cocked. "Is Tarly trouncing you terribly over that ransom?"
The boy takes the lap table as bid and then nods, "Aye, Ser, I did. He had nae reply as yet." Justin nods and the boy departs to let the two Terricks have some privacy. "I gather that I don't know, yet. But I ransomed him first, and I did so fairly without gouging him, so … I hope he'll be fair in return." The words come a little slowly, spaced out with regular, shallow breaths in between. Justin's color though is good so he doesn't look like he's dying or anything, nor does he sound drunk or hung over. He makes a gesture for his cousin to have a seat, "I saw your shooting at the archery match. You were doing pretty well."
Dmitry's lips purse. He glances after the boy, and sidles closer in with a slow fold of his arms across his chest, mild humor showing in the narrowing of his dark eyes. "Well," he says, "let's hope for fairness and good sense all round, then." He drums fingertips lightly against his opposite sleeve and goes, "Pretty well is hardly good enough, but I can't truly complain; next time, eh? You did quite well, all told. Made an impression."
Jarod arrives from the Encampments.
Jarod has arrived.
"Made an impression, with whom?" Asks Justin. He's not moving his left arm around much but lays back relaxed against pillows that are leaned against a small travel trunk. A yellow ribbon, Lady Roslyn's favour, lays on the pallet on his right side as though he had been holding it and thinking about it earlier before he paused to write the letter. Now that the writing lap table has been removed, Justin carefully moves his right hand over to flip the light blanket at least over his feet as the day's warm air is cooling into evening. "Anything interesting going on out there while I'm stuck in here?"
"Can't say," Dmitry says lightly. "But it was certainly a strong showing for your first time out." He stands at a slight tilt with his weight braced backward on one heel, almost as though leaning on nothing; it is a casual insouciance of body language, common to his stance, as he lingers by his bruised and battered cousin's bed in the Terrick tent. "What would you be interested to hear? If I don't know, I'm sure I can make it up whole cloth."
Jarod is still wearing his black and gold-winged surcoat, minus armor, as he enters the Terrick camp. Saves him from having to don any heraldry of the decidedly non-Roost House he's now sworn to. Perhaps getting his armor back is his aim, but Ser Inigo's tent is not the first he stops at. He heads for Justin's. Stopping outside and clearing his throat loudly. It serves as a 'knock', or as much as one can manage on a tent.
Dmitry almost makes him laugh, damn his soul. Justin chuckles, but even that hurts, making himself stop. He shifts his right hand over his chest and mock scowls, "Don't you make me laugh yet, or I'll try to beat you with a waster later, cousin." Still, he smiles somewhat even if he has to speak slowly with several brief pauses for shallow breathes. "Boring as it is to be stuck in here, anything you have to say is better than nothing."
The boy of around 12 years who is the elder House retainer's son is loitering around out front of this pavilion. He'll converse to find out what Jarod is wanting, and if he names Justin, will show the knight in. The pavilion interior isn't fancy and is divided into sections with hanging canvas walls, none of the ladies sharing it with the Terrick menfolk.
"Somber as a septon," Dmitry lies promptly, lifting two fingers. He turns slightly on his heel at the sound from the mouth of the tent. His eyebrows wing up over his eyes. "Oh, look who's here," he says. "Tell me, Ser Cous, how much of that-" He gestures expansively at Justin with the flick of his wrist toward the serious bruising and bandaging that makes up Justin's abdomen, "-is on your doorstep? You bring me to the serious recollection of why I've not much of a jousting habit."
And in Jarod is shown. "Mind some more company?" he asks, half-awkwardly. For all that he seems to insert himself so brashly into the center of most crowds, he's still less than sure of himself around his younger half-brother. "Heard you were dying or something. Rather hope that's not the case." That's tossed off more casually. He is fairly sure Justin isn't dying. He comes just in time to hear Dmitry's last comment, snorting a laugh. "Don't enjoy falling off a horse? You're missing out. Quite entertaining. There's the hitting the ground, and the rolling to avoid hooves. All most sporting."
"You left out being impaled, and trying to impale others with a long stick. That's the best part." Jarod's half brother adds with humor. Justin draws a careful breath, "Actually, due to Jarod's generousity… I'll be taking back two of three ransoms. That's half way to buying a set of good armour and a fine war horse." Justin smiles softly, "More importantly, it'll pay for a fair number of wagons full of food, some oxen, and seed for planting." Not nearly enough but no shabby amount, either. Justin makes a motion with his good right hand that Jarod is quite welcome. "Do come in."
"I can live with the bruising and impalement, it's the broke I don't much care for," Dmitry says with a wry sort of frankness for his own blatant material concerns, chin lifting. "Though I am sure that the Roost will be glad to hear you intend on spending your gains so practically." He tilts his head, the wryness lingering about his mouth as he favors Justin with the slant of his gaze, and then he turns out a little wider toward Jarod, loosing his arms from their fold to open a hand in a spread-fingered gesture. He is terribly at his ease, or at least, he seems to be. "Are the rumors true your spectacular successes were on the back of a borrowed horse?" he asks him, all light, blithe tease.
Jarod shrugs, at mention of his generosity. It's apparently not something he wants to discuss himself. Dmitry's crack about his borrowed horse does earn a laugh, and a shameless grin. "Not just any borrowed horse. That's Rowenna's charger, that is. Calls the beast Dragon, after some fancy of her grandmother's. Mean as all hells, but he's got a taste for the tilt. At least after that first day of jousting I cover my losses proper. Came here to settle up with Ser Inigo, cwhile to it, though I figured I'd look in on Ser Full Eagle while I was in the area." He winces some at the bruises. "Hope I didn't impale anything of yours, for my own part. Breaking I can live with."
Kell arrives from the Encampments.
Kell has arrived.
Justin muses, "A proper breastplate would have kept me more whole." There's a slow nod to Dmitry, "Aye, our people need the ransom coin more than I do. A few teams of oxen and wagons full of seed to plant will get a good number of fallow fields producing crops. We need that more." Indeed, there is temptation to try himself at more tourneys if it can bring in badly needed piles of coin. There's an almost laugh at Jarod for calling him 'Ser Full Eagle' but that makes Justin's ribs hurt something awful, so he stops himself, "Don't you start." But he grins when he can get his breath.
"I am beginning to think that Ser Justin here has this bizarre prejudice against jokes," Dmitry asides ingenuously to Jarod, "and I can't think why it might be." His smile flashes, then; a brief, quicksilver expression all bright sunlight before it fades back to a more composed neutrality. He and Jarod are standing around talking while Justin recuperates abed. "I can't think of any jokes to make about your wife's horse at this point that wouldn't rightly earn me a punch in the nose, Ser," he says, "so I think I'll refrain. Ser Inigo rode well, too. The lists were all ablaze with my cousins this tourney. Why, a Terrick might almost feel proud."
"The jokes about me make themselves, my somewhat-proud cousin. You've heard my song, certainly." Jarod's grin is easy and bright, and a touch shameless. He sounds, for all the world, proud of 'Lord Jerold's Lament,' even if in a back-handed sort of way. "I try and get there first. I tell them funnier. It has been a good showing. Felt fine to compete on the fields of Seagard again." Though that's somewhat bittersweet, he can't quite deny. "I imagine Lord Patrek's pretty Reach girl will bring Seagard, at least, a fair dowry. Perhaps some salve for the Cape, leastways."
Kell was hurt from the jousting against the Hammer but since he is able to visit Justin, the Terrick Knight must not be that badly hurt as he pushes past the entrance flaps into the Terrick pavilion. In the man's hand is a skin of wine and when he sees that Lord Justin has visitors, Kell pauses in his steps for a moment to nod to both Dmitry and Jarod. "I brought wine, I heard Lord Justin was either dying of thirst or dying of a pierced lung. So I was going to either pour the wine down his throat or through the hole in his chest." The Terrick Sworn's movements are a bit stiff but he still manages a friendly grin to the bunch.
Justin gives a slow nod to what Dmitry says, "Ser Inigo did do very well. Now if I can convince him to throw in his three ransom lots, and maybe Ser Hardwicke his as well… we'd have gained some serious coinage against our needs for the Roost. We might not even need that loan, or much less of one." Depending on what dowry he might bring in marriage as well. Now wouldn't /that/ be shiny? He smiles at the other two standing around making their quips, pleased to have the company. Justin lays there resting, then picks up Lady Roslyn's yellow hair ribbon to idly skim it through his fingers, barely moving his left arm around as it's yet sore. And there's Kell! His gaze flicks up at once at the sound of the other man's voice, "Don't be wasting it. we'll gladly drink it."
"Nice try, Justin," Dmitry says with a quizzical quirk of his brow, dark eyebrows pinching together with an expression that almost suggests suppressed pain (why! he isn't the one covered in bruises), "but I think you may be counting your ransoms rather highly. I hope you did not attempt to beggar anyone with yours, at any rate. I am going hunting with Ser Kittridge later this month and I do not wish to shoot with a man inspired to throttle Terricks." He tilts his head, dark eyes narrowing faintly. "Courtesies will buy us more than grain in the long run. Though I think it would be rather painfully arrogant of the House to ask its sworn knights and its guard captain for their jousting money. It is one thing to choose to do it yourself and quite another to expect it." Speaking of sworn knights, he glances over toward Kell. "Ah! Wine! Excellent."
"Their lords will get their tithes," Jarod says, though he tries not to say it too pointed. "As is proper. Tourney coin's all well and good for one man, but it's dent in a holding's coffers is small." He turns his head when Kell enters the tent, grinning broad in return. "Ser Drakmoor! Wine is the cure for all ills. Or so I've always presumed. Drink enough of it and nothing no other hurts matter for awhile, at least."
As the offer of wine is glady accepted by the other men, Kell steps further into the pavilion to join them in conversation, offering the wineskin to the wounded first. "Tourney coin… I thought I had a chance against the Hammer for a second there after the second pass. But he showed me why they call him the Hammer, I think the Warrior blessed my armor or I would be the one actually dying of a pierced lung." The brutal impact of Tyrell's tourney lance on his chest is still remembered. "I wasn't present for the first day of jousting, Lord Justin, but I heard you rode magnificently well. Your first tourney too." He then look towards Jarod with a grin, "And you won it all too, managing to claim a Champion position."
What humor he had is lost at Dmitry's words. Justin frowns, "No, I didn't gouge any ransoms, you may ask them yourself." All this talking wanes on his strength but he adds, "I don't expect anything, but I would ask. There will be other tournaments, but … if our people starve there may well be no House for us to serve. What will personal wealth avail any of us then?" Well, it still seems like a great deal of money to him and a lot of seed grain and food that could be bought. But Justin lets it drop in the face of such negativism. He gives a faint nod to Kell's words, "Thank you, Ser."
"I do not believe it would be a credit to House Terrick to make the request, Cous," Dmitry says mildly, a hint of a steelly firmness in his voice so often characterized only by light play or easy silk. "You will do as you choose, of course," he sails more blithely on, turning a sidelong look on Kell with with a quick smile to go with his quick words. "You, Ser Drakmoor, showed great fortitude under a bloody pounding, and I am very glad to see your armor held up. And I don't believe I had the chance to congratulate you, before, on your shooting."
"You'll have a chance at a good showing in the melee, Ser Kell, from what I recall of you against the squids," Jarod says. "Not quite so much coin as can be made in the tilt, but it's nothing to sneeze at. I hope to get a bit more broken there, myself." He can't help but grin, when the first joust is mentioned. "I got a pretty cup, at least. Before we leave Seagard, I'm taking the damn thing out to have a drink or several in. And you'd all best join me. And buy me a round or several, I'm not leaving so flush with silver as all that." He looks distinctly uncomfortable at the talk of requesting coin, though he still seems reluctant to really speak against it. Or perhaps just against Justin's words. "A knight's earnings are his own, brother, and the life of a knight isn't so easy as to offer many chances for coin they can call their own. It'd be a fine gesture, but one man's ransom would be a paltry thing for Terrick coffers. And a harsh thing for one man to loose."
Kell inclines his head to Dmitry, remembering the archery contest which he was at the other man's side. A sheepish grin appears as the Terrick Sworn runs a hand through his hair, "I didn't think I would make it that far, was very lucky that day. All the shooting I know comes from hunting while I was a Hedge Knight, sometimes catching smaller game in the wilderness is the difference between a night of empty belly and a full one." He then nods to Jarod, remember how they fought side by side against the Ironborn, "Those seemed like simpler days, Ser Rivers, when we all stood side by side against a common, visible foe. And I will certainly not say no to a few rounds of ale."
Justin dosen't think starving or watching their people starving is much of a life either, judging by his closed expression. But he's given up on the topic, and the hope that it would help. He doesn't say anything further, laying there and listening to the others. The ribbon he had been fingering he lays aside.
"I'll certainly not discount shooting like that because it came from squirrels rather than shooting targets," Dmitry says, "although I did derive much more satisfaction from shooting squids, myself." He opens his hand, palm up, and slants a sideways look at Justin where he has fallen silent. The soft puff of a snort exhaled past his nose, he shakes his head, and says, "That wine was really lovely timing on your part, Ser," before glancing in Jarod's direction with upswept eyebrows. "No, I am sure I will be happy to buy you a round or two; I'd like to hear more of these fabled jokes, for one thing." Blink ingenuous, he adds, "It's amazing how humorless it can get around here. Or there."
"I rather regret not getting to try my lance against the Hammer, or the Hawk," Jarod says, happy to return to lighter conversation. The talk of the Ironborn war gets a nod from him, particularly Kell's. "Did seem strangely simpler, didn't it? I was thinking on it when I saw Ser Harras Harlaw at the Twins. Most squids can go straight to their Drowned demon for all it is to me, but he was an honorable enemy. Were all our enemies such, the world'd be a far kinder place. And far simpler."
Despite wanting to stay with the pleasant company that are present, Kell looks towards the exit of the pavilion before back to the others, "I think I will need to take my leave, M'Lords, Ser." He says while nodding to each men here, "Going to go lie down and rest up for tomorrow's melee, hopefully I won't be as stiff at moving as I am today."
Thinning his mouth, Justin quips back to Dmitry, "Knights of the Roost acruing great personal wealth at tournament during a time while our people face starvation certainly isn't enduring to my good humor, Ser. Our people will have good reason to hate us in such case." While Dmitry is then speaking to Jarod, Justin makes a motion with his good hand that maybe Jarod should take them out to do that drinking in good humor thing elsewhere, rather than stay in here. Stiffly, he moves to lay back down on his pallet to rest, and think.
Dmitry flips a hand in a plainly dismissive gesture. "I think it must be having been knocked about so that has made you cross," he determines. "I will wait to talk sense to you until you're better rested, cous." His eyebrows up, he glances at Jarod, and nods to Ser Kell. "Right," he says. "Well," and then turns to drift back toward the opening of the pavillion. "I think I am inspired to go find more drinking."
"Get some rest, brother," Jarod says simply. He half looks on point of saying more, perhaps something contrite or apologetic, but he lets it lie. And grins to Dmitry. "Mind some company? I'll see what jokes I can remember. Buy me enough drinks, I'll tell you the Pyke girl story." He makes it sound like quite the impressive story, but he may well just be angling for booze.
"Is that a set number of drinks," Dmitry wonders, as they head out of the tent; his gesture is open-handed and broad, indicating welcome wordlessly where he does not bother to do so aloud.
Justin isn't going to say anything to their departure. He lays there focused on the problems that he's been trying so hard to find solutions to. The noise goes out with them to leave the pavilion quiet.
"Not quite sure. Never actually reached the number it'd take for that story. But I'm willing to try," Jarod says as he strolls out.
Dmitry snorts sharply into a laugh at that. "Ah, a challenge, then," he says.
