| By The Fire |
| Summary: | Bryn and Anselm share a brief conversation by the fire. |
| Date: | 27/Jan/289 |
| Related Logs: | Seagard logs, loosely |
| Players: |
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| Low District |
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| The lower class residential district of Seagard, just inside the city walls, with all the worst smells of the fishmonger's trade and the tanneries mingling together. The roads are paved with cobblestones, but the avenues which wind between buildings are of packed dirt, reek in the heat and turn to muddy morass in the rain. With little of worth, and only enduring occupation for a scant few hours, this quarter of the port city is largely intact. |
| 27 Jan, 289 |
It's early evening, the camp is securing down for the night and the patrols are just about the only activity to be seen other than that of the men around the fires. It's at one such fire that Anselm sits, his armour still worn, though he seems to be studying his helm, possibly for damage. He has a water skin next to him that he takes a drink from now and then. He all but lounges at the fire, despite his attire he seems mostly at ease.
There's a squire at a different fire, by his height and his build not far off knighthood, whose voice rings out amongst the ambient noise while he sings lustily and gustily of a lady called Rose, with hair a sweet red who comes from the groves. The company he keeps is growing tired of him, though, and it's not long before young Brynner is sent to the next fire over to fetch something. It's Anselm he approaches, and assuming the other young man a knight already made, he interrupts with a crisp and chirpy, "Ser? Y'all got a kettle to spare?"
Offering a nod to the other man. Anselm points to the kettle next to the fire. "Of course. Help yourself." He sits up a little straighter now. "You're welcome to it. And the fire if you're looking for somewhere to use it." He chuckles a little another sip of that waterskin taken. "I doubt I'll be using it soon." He offers a bow of his head. "I'm Lord Ser Anselm Flint." It's a greeting offered with an easy and charming smile.
"Oh, heck," is Brynner's first response to the introduction, his cheeks flushing a deep red as he realises what he's said. "I mean, ah. M'lord. I'm - crackers - no, I'm not crackers, I'm Bryn Hunt, aye. Squire to Ser Kittridge of Groves." There's an uncomfortable beat, in which the squire scratches nervously at the nape of his neck, before he adds, "'E's a lord, too."
Laughing Anselm shakes his head. "No need to be so worried… Squire Hunt?" Anselm motions to the kettle. "The offer stands from before. Feel free to join me." He shrugs a shoulder. "At times like this I don't mind the company. We're all fighting in the same war after all." He shrugs a shoulder. "How fare the Groves?"
"Squire Hunt," Bryn confirms, with a short, sharp nod. The lad, not that much younger than Anselm himself, sends a look over his shoulder to his companions from before, and decides that it wouldn't be too much trouble to sit for a time. He squats down in his spot, resting his elbows atop his bent knees. "Aye, that we are. We've not taken any injuries too serious, m'lord ser. Got me a scratch or two, and I don't think my knight was too pleased with how I fared against the pits on ride in. But we're still intact, ay? And the… the Flints, didja say?"
"I'm a Flint, but I ride with the Haighs for now." Anselm's smile fades somewhat. "I'm sorry to say my brother doesn't fare as well as that, but he'll live well enough I'm told." He shrugs a shoulder. "I am for my part content to know that I've not suffered anything more than a few nicks. These Iornborn have done less harm to be than a rushed shave. But of course I suspect that could change at any time… Fighting on foot suits them… Which makes fighting on the streets messy work for us."
"Sorry to hear," Brynner says sincerely, his features twisting an expression of deep sympathy in the firelight. "Seven bless yer brother with many more years with us, ay? The ironers are sure in their element, I think you pinned that right. We got an lad with us, got some ideas. Spoke with a Ser Rivers of somewhere, just earlier, about it. I reckon there ain't no number of squids can break the Riverlands, right m'lord ser?"
Offering a nod and a laugh Anselm looks at Brynner. "I should hope not. We're doing well enough, even if the Iornborn do have things to their liking. But it's going to be messy…" He stares into the fire for a moment. "Still. I suppose it's more glory to be had for those looking for such things. "He begins to stand with a grin to the other man. "And no doubt a chance for knighthoods to those who do well." He shrugs a shoulder. "I need to be going. But perhaps we'll run into each other again soon."
