|Drinks With the Family|
|Summary:||Lord Jacsen's bachelor night at the Rockcliff includes his father-in-law. And fiancee. But there's still lots of alcohol.|
|Related Logs:||The Terrick/Banefort wedding log(s) to come|
|Rockcliff Inn — Terrick's Roost|
|The Rockcliff Inn is one of the better inns within the town and it shows with the well-lit interior and the relative cleanliness to the other locations in Terrick's Roost. The tables are polished with oils and the floor regularly swept. A set of booths towards a darker rear of the Inn's bottom floor, just beneath the staircase, are where whores generally socialize and eye prospects from when not waiting tables. Signs over the undersized bar area advertise prices for ales and wines as well as several different choices of food to be served at the small eating area by the bar or in the main open area in its comfortable seating. A door behind the bar leads to the kitchen and cellar while another near the staircase leads to a private room that would appear to be off-limits to the 'wait staff' except for food and drink service.|
|Thu Oct 20, 288|
The Rockcliff is fairly packed on this night. The imminent wedding of the young lord of the Roost (individual young lord subject to change) and the Banefort lady has brought a good many new guests to these parts. Various lordlings, along with a decent number of knights looking to try their hand at the tourney field. There's a minstrel performing in the center of the room, thankfully singing some Westerlands drinking song rather than anything resembling Lord Jerold's Lament. Into this strides Jarod Rivers, holding the door open for his less-able brother. The crowd makes him blink a bit, though he still manages a broad grin. His face is mostly healed since his last adventure here, though the yellowish bruise around his right eye hasn't quite faded. "Huh. Well. This'll be festive. All right, Jace. Drinks're on me tonight. As are the girls, if you're of a mind. It's your final night of freedom. Or something. It'll be fun, I promise."
He laughs at his brother's comment, looping an arm around Jarod's shoulders and giving him a squeeze. "Would you look at this? Have you ever seen the Rockcliff so packed?" Jacsen asks, shaking his head as he releases his half-brother and leans instead on his cane once more. He makes way into the crowd and grins at the offer of drink and women, shrugging lightly, "Who knows what the night will bring, hmm? I know I should be possessed of thoughts unending of tomorrow's events… but I'd like nothing more than to think about nothing of the sort." He gestures to a free table. "Come on."
"All here for you, little brother," Jarod says with an easy laugh, clapping Jacsen's shoulder warmly as he plows through the crowd in search of a proper table. "Or, well, your impending nuptials. It'll be some good coin for the Roost, hopefully. Offset some of the cost from the wedding, and the tourney. But let's not think on that too much. Let's drink! Spend my coin while I've got it." He plops himself down at said table. trying to get the attention of one of the barmaids. It takes awhile. They're busy servicing, in various ways, the many customers. "Look, umm…sorry if I was an ass the other day. With Lady Anais and about the whole Oldstones knight brawling…thing."
It might take some time, but not too long, as the faces of the Terricks are not so unknown at the Rockcliff, and foreign coin not nearly so plentiful as custom that comes from the Roost. "What'll it be, Jar? A pair of ales to get us started?" Jacsen suggests with a grin, propping his cane against the table and taking a seat across from his half-brother. And then comes the apology, and a bit of a look from the soon-to-be-wed heir. "That song you're so fond of, unless there is a section in it about how the Sword is also really experienced in the matters of courtly politics… next time, come to me first?"
"Ale's good to start. You know, we never did get to sing that as a proper trio," Jarod says, rather sadly. "Hardly seems right to try it now. And the song has a good deal to say about my experience." He smirks, though he adds more seriously, "All right. Fair enough. I didn't make too much of a mess of things, did I?"
"You robbed me of a particularly decent opportunity to make an accommodation with Ser Anton, truth be told, but he's been rather quiet of late so I'm not certain how much good it could've done," Jacsen supposes, giving a faint shrug of his shoulders. "Not so much a mess as stealing a chance to put something to our advantage?" He glances over at the barmaid and places their order, getting some flirty comment back from the woman. It's no secret this is Jacsen's last night as a single man, after all, and he responds with something appropriately witty before she turns off to get their drinks.
Jarod gets a grin out of his brother's flirty back-and-forth with the serving wench. "In my defense…he was an asshole. And that sort needs to be punched now and again. It's for their own good." He seems satisfied with the unassailable logic of this. "I guess I didn't think much about accommodations. Or…much of anything, really." He admits it with an abashed shrug. "Anyhow. I will try and ask for your advice before I…don't think from now on. M'Lord." He says it with a very wry smirk.
He nods over at the cane resting against their table. "I've a few means of coercing you into thinking more clearly in the future, if my insisting is not enough in and of itself, brother," Jacsen remarks with a wry sort of humor, leaning back in his chair to take in all the unknown faces in the Inn. "Seven, Jarod. All these people are here for the sake of Anais and I? I hardly know the faces…"
The Rockcliff is fairly packed on this night. The imminent wedding of the young lord of the Roost (individual young lord subject to change) and the Banefort lady has brought a good many new guests to these parts. Various lordlings, along with a decent number of knights looking to try their hand at the tourney field. There's a minstrel performing in the center of the room, thankfully singing some Westerlands drinking song rather than anything resembling Lord Jerold's Lament.
Ser Jarod Rivers and the newly-young lorded Jacsen Terrick are seated in a table roughly in middle of this. They look freshly arrived. Or, at least, not too deep into drinking yet. Though Jarod, for his part, gulps of his newly-brought ale. To get a good start on that. "Looks like a good number of Westerlands sorts. I can't say I know them, either. And probably some wandering hedge knights looking to earn a tourney purse who might not know the names of either of you. Still, it'll be merry times for the Roost, which we could use right now. Merry for you as well, I hope." He pauses, and asks, "So…is it entirely weird? It must be weird. All of it."
This is no normal place for a septon to be, but of recent septons Josse has not exactly gained a reputation for being the most orthodox in the lands. The sept itself might be getting ready to have its own afterparty, if the long list in his hand hints at anything coming — he unfolds the thick paper as he slides past a throng of people at the door, drumming his fingers on it.
"Weird? Hmm, I think so," Jacsen decides after a moment of considerable thought, leaning forward to pick up his mug and drain it of a prodigious portion of its contents. "How could it not be, right? Brother up and off, jilted bride tossed some lame-legged courtier in place of her dashing knight of a would-be husband," he laughs, and wipes off his mouth with the back of his hand. "Weird for me, I imagine how she must think of it all. But, she'll get what she wants in the end, whichever Terrick it is she takes."
One Lyla Carrity, barmaid extraordinaire totters past whatever table the young lord and her knightly Ser Jarod do occupy, a few empty mugs in hand. Is that a wink she offers with the seductive shrug of one shoulder? Miss Lyla's in a fine mood tonight.
"Aye. Her groom's Four Eagles Tower. More dashing than the lot of us," Jarod says with a chuckle to Jacsen. There's no real ill-meaning in the comment, though he snorts as he raises his mug in a toast, of sorts. "I'd not think like that too much. Jaremy may've been a picturebook knight, but he was also a right ass. She's getting the better of this deal, and I figure she's a smart enough one to know it." The pair of them are seated at a table not too far from the bar. The Rockcliff is fairly crowded this evening, and getting moreso as the night gets into proper swing. The wedding, and tourney to follow, has brought plenty of strange lordlings and knights into town to spend their coin on hard drink and soft women. Jarod's eyes drift toward the bar as he, quickly, drains his first drink. A hand is raised to offer a wave, with no small trace of surprise, when he spots Josse. The septon distracts him from Miss Lyla's approach. So for once he doesn't get *right* to oogling the minx-ish brunette barmaid.
Oh, Jacsen isn't quite one to miss the passing of that barmaid, his lips quirking in good humor and welcome. He lifts his mug to her in passing, but his brother's words and the presence of the Septon demand more of his attention than the shrug of one shoulder can just yet. "Her groom is the tower… ha, that's not a half bad observation. Did Ser Coope knock some sense into you when the both of you tra-" His brow quirks and he calls, "Josse!" At the same man his brother waves to.
Josse puts two fingers into his mouth and emits a gorgeous high-pitched whistle — which gets lost in the crowd but is just irritating enough to catch one of the bartenders' attention. He grabs hold of a chair in his way and leans over the ducked head to stretch that list over, crinkled paper passing hand to hand. The tender gives the list an odd look (but hell, it's money) and shouts something back at the septon before turning to beat his way back towards the counter to start hunting. That all said and done, Josse gives the back of the man's head a raised middle finger that almost looks endearing — and then exhales and turns around to wait. Just in time to catch Jarod's eye right next to him. And Jacsen. Ahem. "Jarod, Lord Jacsen. If the Maiden asks, you didn't see me here, hm?"
Lyla saunters off back to the bar with those empties, no doubt to dump them somewhere convenient for a rinse and replace them with nice full new ones. That whistle and the interchange that follows draws her keen eye up from her work, but she continues filling mugs with beer. A good multitasker, this one.
There are plenty of strange knights and lords in the Roost for the wedding that is to come tomorrow. And earlier in the afternoon, all of those arrivals were joined by the true Banefort contingent, who all arrived along with the warship that was a part of Anais' dowry. They're a rugged lot, the men of the Banefort, with weapons that have seen hard, regular use, and armor that's more practical than showy. And among them, Lord Banefort stands out. He's a few inches over six feet tall, and broad-shouldered, though he's built lean and solid. Nearing fifty years of age, he can still hold his own, and though his fair hair is peppered with silver, his eyes are as piercingly blue as ever.
"Drinks," he announces in the booming voice of a sea captain as he steps into the Rockcliff, "Are on me tonight!" There's a flash of a white grin across tanned features as he tosses a purse toward the bar before moving further inside, accompanied by a small crowd of men in the Banefort colors.
"I'm not nearly as stupid as I act, my wise lord brother," Jarod replies to Jacsen in a jolly sort of way, eyes finally finding Lyla when she goes to refill mugs. He does give her a look up and down, though it seems more leering out of habit than anything particularly serious. His attention, eventually, returns to the septon. He snorts a laugh. "If the Maiden ever finds me, I'll be too busy running away to tell her your business. What in seven hells are you doing here, anyhow? Anyway. Sit down. I'm trying to get my little brother drunk and stupid before he has to chain himself down to a bride tomorrow…" He probably has more 'ball and chain' commentary, but the sound of…someone buying the house a round gets his attention. "Drinks!" he hollers, applauding that generosity. It's unclear, and perhaps unlikely, that he immediately recognizes the Lord Banefort.
Jacsen laughs at his brother's commentary, though he seems as interested in the Septon's presence in the Rockcliff as anything else, using his good leg to push out a chair in the man's direction. "We surely insist, good Josse, you simply have to share a drink or ten with us." He lifts his mug for a drink and adds, "If Jarod ever finds the Maiden, I don't think the first thing he'd think of would be talking with-" And then the roar of free drinks, and the voracious applause of the crowd, drowns him out. He doesn't quite add to the chorus, but he's still smiling freely.
Josse glances at the entering Lord and his party with absolutely no recognition on his face, glancing at the other two men at the table in hopes of some help. None given, he simply shrugs and carries on. "I am preparing, of course." He settles onto the chair next to Jarod, plunking his elbows on the table. "I've found that the less distance people must travel while inebriated to find more liquor, the fewer accidents and injuries. It's all evidence-based practice; I have proven it myself you see." He manages to say this entire thing straight-faced, then reaches over and knocks on the table beside Jacsen's elbow. "My Young Lord. I was worried I'd not get to see you before the spectacle, least of all toast to your last night of freedom — or whatever you may remember of it tomorrow."
Lyla juggles a mug to catch the Lord's purse before some other lout near the bar can, leaning forward and stretching a slender arm out to pluck it. She jiggles it round, the coins inside making a merry noise indeed, and her deep brown eyes blink wide. She hands it off to someone who looks remarkably like Loree, and starts with the rapid fill-and-stack of beer mugs on the bar, smiling and nodding and chatting with those close as she works. Obviously, the keener drinkers rearrange themselves to seats a little closer to the beer taps, the crowd thinning almost as though to cut a path for Lord Banefort right to his daughter's betrothed.
The Terrick lords may be glad to take free drinks without questions, but some of those in the bar are less certain. "And who's offering?" calls a knight wearing the colors of a minor house sworn to House Tully. "You've the look of Ironmen to me!"
That accusation earns a gale of laughter from the Banefort men, and a wolfish smile from Lord Banefort himself. "Boy, I've been eating Ironmen for breakfast since you were in swaddling clothes," he assures, clapping a hand to the shoulder of an even larger man next to him, more solid and more serious of mien.
"Go find a table, Quent. My wife," he continues to the man who questioned, "Tells me my daughter's getting married tomorrow. So who do you think I am, boy?" As he speaks, his eyes scan sharp over the crowd, marking faces. For a moment, the resemblace to Anais - particularly in the last few weeks as she's searched out solutions for wedding problems - is unmistakeable.
Jarod probably has some comment or other to make to Josse and Jacsen as the conversation rolls. But first, he has to express his gratitude/make a spectacle of himself. So h e stands up - on his chair - so he can properly point at the man buying everyone drinks. "Terrick's Roost salutes your aid in getting us properly fucked tonight, Master…Banefort?" He blinks, just standing there somewhat above the crowd and pointing. "Umm. M'Lord Banefort?"
Jacsen pushes back on his chair, using the table to steady himself as he pushes up to his feet. "If my eyes do not mistake me, Ser," he calls out to the lesser house sworn knight, "You've the pleasure of drinking on Lord Banefort's coin." He looks to the serious man the elder Banefort tasks with finding a table, and asks, "Lord Quentyn, is it? You've found your table," he taps on the surface of the one he shares with Jarod and Josse, "Any Terrick table is as well a Banefort one by my book. Come, join us!" He doesn't quite glance sidelong at his brother. Yet.
Oh, is that who that is? "Oh hell." Josse coughs politely, also rising to his feet — not on his chair, not with robes on. Come on now.
"Ah, there's a smart lad," Erik Banefort says, raising a hand in the air and slowly turning toward the source of the guess like a dowsing rod. "Got it in one." He snaps his fingers with a deceptively easy smile for Jarod, taking in Josse and Jacsen with a speculative gaze. "And a polite one," he adds to Jacsen's words, though he's waving off the standing even as he approaches. "I don't suppose it should surprise me to find you boys out drinking tonight," he grins. And he doesn't look surprised, either. "Sit down," he urges, suddenly finding a chair to do so himself. "We'll be family in the morning, won't we? No need to stand on ceremony. Or chairs," he adds with a smirk for Jarod.
Carrying no less than two mugs apiece in each hand, Lyla and a couple other of the prettier barmaids come following after the visiting lords to the Terrick/Banefort table, hips swaggering in that common-girl way. It's Lyly who bats her lashes, though, leaning forward a little longer than is really necessary as she sets her four down. "Can I getcha anything else, m'lord's?" Her voice is silky smooth, and despite the provocative nature of her gestures, she carries an air of sweet innocence about her.
"Milord Banefort," Jacsen greets, as the man takes his seat, and the lame-legged Terrick does the same. "It is good to meet you, at long last, your daughters have of course had much to say of you…" He smirks, and leaves it to the old man's mind as to what the quality is of what his girls have told the Roost. "This is my half-brother, Ser Jarod Rivers, Captain of the Roost's Guard. And this here…" He indicates the robed figure, "Is the good Septon Josse." He does not quite introduce himself, though it might well be clear by now, and he scoops up his mug and offers a salute to the Banefort party. His smirk turns sly as Lyla approaches, making her offer, and he tests the waters with his bride's father, "We're only family in the morning, aye, my lord?" With the cant of his gaze on the woman who leans so forward for their benefit.
"Uh. Aye. Lord Banefort." Jarod hops off his chair and flourishes a low bow to the Lord of Banefort. He might be a little red-faced. Might just. "Miss Lyla. A good eve to you." He does incline his head to the sweet barmaid before he sits, summoning as much dignity as he can. Then grabbing a mug and busying himself with that. "Mighty thoughtful, m'Lord." He does offer Jacsen a look-and-shrug that's mostly apologetic. When he's introduced he sits up a bit straighter. "Pardon the…err…exuberance. Just a bit of celebrating before the big day, you know?"
Josse smiles, though who knows exactly at what. There's so much going on it could be related to just about anything. "My Lord Banefort." Manners at least, the septon's still got a few. At least while sober. Hands slid into his large sleeves, he bows his head a good bit further than those bearing noble names.
Lord Banefort misses the first half of Jacsen's greeting somewhere between Lyla's chest and her smile, greeting her with a friendly smile of his own. "This," he answers, picking up a mug, "Should do to wet my lips for now." And he winks. The man /winks/. Only then does he turn back to the Terricks, looking vaguely amused by the introductions. "Ser Jarod," he nods. "Quent heard how you did in the melee at Stonebridge. He's looking forward to trying your mettle." A few years older than Jarod, the burly young heir to Banefort just grins. It's got less charm than his father's grin, to be sure. "Septon," he adds with a more polite dip of his chin, before turning his eye on Jacsen.
"And you're the trade-off," he muses. "I'm told you're worth the…irregularity."
"Ser Jarod," says Miss Lyla in that same satiny tone, a smirk accompanying for the chair-climbing knight. "As you will, m'lord Banefort," she adds, returning the older man's wink. Yes. She also winks. "I'll just keep 'em comin, then." A quick little curtsy, and a long sweep of her gaze over the one allegedly to be married, and Miss Lyla turns to head back toward the bar.
"I've heard a good deal about Lord Quentyn's prowess from the Lady Anais, m'Lord, and from young Caytiv Hill," Jarod says, relaxing a little back into conversation since it doesn't appear he's in any great deal of trouble. "I'm looking forward to trying his as well. My ribs're healed from the melee at Stonebridge, where I came out only second-best. Maybe if I break something more vital I can win this time." He grins up at the burly Banefort heir, and moves as if about to extend his hand up to Quentyn for a shake. Though his smile slips at the word 'trade-off' from Lord Banefort. Jarod exchanges a look with his brother, and reaches for his ale mug instead of trying to shake anyone's hand. Though even concentrated on that, the exchange between Lord Banefort and fair Lyla earns a blink.
The amicable, good humored manner to Jacsen seems to evaporate like a few stray beads of water dropped to hot stone, at the Lord Banefort's choice of words, though it's well enough hidden from unfamiliar eyes with the convenient presence of a tankard near his mouth. "I am Lord Jacsen Terrick, if that is what you are asking, my lord," he remarks with a voice that is somewhere betwixt cool and his previous warmth. "As to my worth, I'll leave that to others to decide. Opinions are, after all, just that."
Lyla's returned wink has the Lord Banefort grinning briefly but widely, his gaze following her progress as she swishes back to the bar. Then his pale eyes travel back over to Jarod. "Second-best is good enough for a tourney," he says amicably, "though when it's a real fight, we call that 'dead'. I will look forward to seeing you and your ribs out on the sparring field when my daughter's wed." The missing handshake is unnoticed or simply ignored as Erik stretches out his legs a little beneath the table. Jacsen's reply gets a beat of consideration and then a hearty laugh and a heartier clap on the back. "I think Anais was right about you," he says in a tone that implies a measure of approval. "You'll do."
Josse watches this whole exchange in silence, as the observant tend to do. A slight smile pulls at the right side of his mouth when the Banefort claps Jacsen on the shoulder, then he glances off towards the bar to look for the 'tender who vanished into the back. Order not up yet. Ah well.
Lyla is back at the bar. Pouring more drinks and chatting pleasantly to other people.
"True enough, m'lord, true enough," is Jarod's reply to the elder Banefort. He's all of friendliness, though the exchange between the Westerlands man and Jacsen seems to have made him a little less jovial. He offers a little 'toast' to Quentyn Banefort. "I know the difference between play war and a real fight. And this'll all be in good fun, aye? I promise you, m'young lord, us Rivermen'll be happy to show you what we're made of." He drains his drink, following Josse's gaze to the bar. Though it's more likely he's just angling for a refill than doing any checking on the septon's order.
The compliment, such as it is from the eldest of the Baneforts earns him a small smile from Jacsen. "Don't let my brother fool you, my lords," he insists to Erik and Quentyn both. "He earned his spurs on the Trident, and not without cause, no matter how he might act the humble one." He grins at his brother, giving the knight a wink. "A Dragon is no less fierce than a kraken, after all. It might not be the same as chasing off seemingly endless raiders, I'll grant, though you can hardly fault him. Terrick and Mallister are no strangers to bleeding the Ironmen, even if the kraken's arms reach elsewhere of late." He lifts his mug and finishes it off, and looks about the table. "Who's for another round? More ale!"
A refill! Lyla, with her mass of dark brown waves and that sultry pout, lifts onto her toes and cranes her neck in a timely fashion to catch Ser Jarod's (and Septon Josse's) look toward the bar. She rigs a couple glasses into one hand to fill them, and wriggles a little wave with the other: she'll be right there, boys.
Perhaps the Rockcliff is not the place where Anais should be on the night before her wedding. But her father has only just arrived, and that is where /he/ is, so that's where she arrives as well, trailing a guard and a handmaiden as usual. They both seem inclined to wait outside when they see the crowd inside, though Anais raises up onto her toes to search for her father - exactly as he searched for the Terrick's earlier. When she finds him, she grins broadly, weaving her way nimbly through the crowds until she can throw her arms around his shoulders from behind. "Papa!" she exclaims, laughing. "I was starting to worry you wouldn't make it!"
"I've heard the Rivermen are great jousters," Quentyn smiles back to Jarod. Unlike his father's smile, his is more of a shy thing. If Lord Banefort is a stormy sea, then his heir is the rocky shoreline that stands against it. "I'm looking forward to that challenge. We don't have many jousters at home. Hey, Annie," he laughs when his sister arrives, leaning over to ruffle at her hair. "What're you doing here? Don't you know your man's trying to get rid of the jitters before he has to marry your sorry behind?"
"All in good fun, young Ser, of course," Lord Banefort agrees with ease. "I will enjoy seeing the way a Riverman fights, and Quen here can show you a taste of the Westerman's prowess." There is a low chuckle for krakens and dragons. "More arms, more likely to drown you, though less likely to roast you alive, I'll grant. We do our best to keep cutting limbs away. One day, we'll have the head, too." Which is about when slender limbs wrap about his neck and his hand comes up to rest on one as his head tilts back to try and get a proper look at his daughter. "Don't be ridiculous. What can you think of that would have kept me gone on your wedding day? Come around, let me have a look at you, girl."
Josse drifts backwards from the table as more nobles arrive, withdrawing his hands from his sleeves. He shuffles between two shoved-together chairs, heading off to see what the heck happened to that moneysink of a liquor order.
Josse leaves, heading towards the Town Square [Out].
"I joust a bit," Jarod says, with a grin that's full of easy confidence. Those who know him well would recognize that confidence as mostly false, but he puts it on artfully enough. "My bread and butter's the melee, of course. That's where men are separated from the boys. Though my brother is too kind, m'Lord. Still…I'm looking forward to seeing how the play goes." He exchanges a wider grin with Jacsen, gulping some more ale once his refill is delivered. He might have more conversation to make, but he seems to lose any train of thought when Anais walks in. Blink, blink, blink. "Uh. M'lady. Good…evening." He looks half-guilty, despite the fact that he's not doing anything guilt-inducing at the moment.
One slender finger does a head count at the Terrick-Banefort table, an artificially arched eyebrow quirking upwards as the young blonde noble-looking woman intrudes. Lyla grabs a tray, loading it up with beers that she balances expertly on her way over, hips tilting to dodge this chair or that grabbyhand. "Gentlemen," she announces, leaning in between Lord Jacsen and Ser Jarod to settle the tray down, a shoulder brushing at whichever one of the two poses next. She starts to unload mugs onto the tabletop, switching them out for the empties, and adds silkily to Anais, "M'lady."
Jacsen casts a glance up at the shoulder-brush from the barmaid, though he cannot find much time to enjoy it for the sake of his betrothed rather unexpectedly showing up in the midst of a tavern. "My lady…" he greets, rather mildly, letting the woman pay her father the proper attention, especially when he demands a look at her. He seems for all that he might agree with Quentyn's assessment of things, though he hides most of it behind another swallow of ale.
Jacsen does of course notice as Josse makes his quiet departure, and raises his ale a fraction in salute to the Septon. Even if booze makes an odd salute for a holy man.
"I won't be long, I promise," Anais says to her brother's chiding words, cheeks flushing slightly. "I just wanted to see Papa before the wedding. Everything's going to be crazy in the morning, and- And I won't be long, I promise." She moves to her father's side, taking his hand to give it a squeeze. "Come see me in the morning?" she asks with a small smile. "It's going to take them forever to do my hair and everything else, I'm sure. Please?" For all her determination and maturity in some situations, she is still an eighteen year old girl on the verge of changing her life.
As the drinks arrive, Erik reaches for a tankard of his own, though his gaze remains on Anais as she comes around properly. The look-over the soon-to-be-Lady-Terrick receives is age old, endured by every daughter separated and reunited from her father. A perfunctory assessment as to whether his child, even so grown, has been properly cared-for in his absence. His hand turns so fingers can offer a squeeze to Anais's. There is a low sound and a small wrinkling of his nose at the idea of hair and gowns and whatever else a girl is obliged to do to make herself lovely before she's wed, but his pale head nods his agreement. "In the morning," he promises, his voice gentled just a touch for his daughter's quiet urgency.
Jarod isn't enjoying the brushing charms of the Lovely Lyla this evening as much as usual, either. And he hasn't tried to for the past several weeks, the sweet girl might note. He is, however, very much enjoying the drinks he does not have to pay for. The interaction between Anais and Lord Banefort makes him relax a bit again. Lurking fiance or no.
This is surely the part where Jacsen ought to offer some assurance that Anais needn't hurry herself along, though the Terrick seems reluctant to do so. Instead, when Erik assures his daughter he will see her in the morning, Jacsen assures, "I'll ensure Jarod takes good care of them, my lady, that you can be well and attended upon. In the morning." He even manages to give his bride-to-be a smile, warmer than the last time they parted company.
"Wasn't there a Septon here just before?" Asks Lyla, her brow wrinkling as she studies the spot Josse recently vacated, a hand flipping over in a fluid gesture to indicate it. She shakes her head a little, and shifts a look to Jarod. Her brows arch again. "You've been a stranger lately," observes the barmaid, gathering up her tray again and straightening.
"Thank you, Papa." Anais steps forward to press a kiss to her father's brow, hugging him around the neck once more. When she draws back, she summons up a small smile for Jacsen, though even that is uncertain. "I'm sorry," she murmurs. "I- I didn't mean-" She clears her throat, drawing a deep breath and strengthening her smile. "Tomorrow," she says simply, pausing to give her eldest brother a hug as well before darting for the door once more.
"I've been…busy," is Jarod's quick-but-lame reply to Lyla. "With…things." Mentioning his 'things' makes him smile a big, boyish grin. Whatever his things may be. "You know how it gets." He does not seem to want to linger on having that conversation, so he turns his head to nod a bobbing affirmation to Jacsen. "Aye, Jace. Excellent. I will do that. No worries, m'Lady." He doffs his head quickly to Anais, fleeing though she may be.
The arm not holding a tankard comes around to hug Anais close for a moment before she withdraws, and the Lord Banefort watches with his blue eyes as his daughter seems suddenly so uncertain. "Good night, Anais," he says, though his eyes narrow a bit as she turns and makes her retreat. He lifts his drink to his lips, glancing over in Jacsen's direction. One could not say the gaze, just at the moment, was especially kindly.
"I know how it gets," echoes Lyla, with a roll of her deep brown eyes hidden under a sweep of her long lashes. "Hope this one sticks," she mumbles, barely audible above the din, clutching the tray with one hand and pressing it into her hip as she shuffles back from the table.
"Tomorrow," Jacsen echoes for the sake of Anais, though he does not put up a smile any different than he'd given before her own less certain one, or Lord Banefort's less than kind gaze. "Good eve, my lady." His brow might even be said to quirk faintly at the glance Erik Banefort gives him, though he lifts his ale for another sip rather than comment.
"Aye, tomorrow! And a fine and merry day it'll be!" Jarod says to the Banefort contingent, reaching over to clap Jacsen on the shoulder, all jolly. He adds sincerely, "Thanks for the drinks, m'Lord. And the Rockcliff thanks you as well.
"Well, then," Erik says as the little party is once again a cluster of men with no women to account to, "A toast." He holds up his drink. "To new beginnings, new unions and stronger ties. Tomorrow will make us kin."
Lyla hurries back to the bar, because no doubt by the time she gets there and fills up another however-the-heck-many mugs full of beer, that tableful of noble and half-noble men will have finished the ones she just deposited. Such is the life of a barmaid.
Jacsen seems pleased enough to forget about the rest, and raises his mug for the toast suggested by the Lord of the Banefort. "To tomorrow," he echoes, and tosses back his ale once the rest have join in the salute.
"To stronger ties, and to family," Jarod toasts with a quick grin to his brother. He can get behind that sentiment.
There is a clunk as drinking mugs tap one another and Erik Banefort has several large, hearty swallows of his ale, proving Lyla's supposition likely correct. "Tell me of the Roost. I hear of it only from my daughter's letters, and these days those letters are filled mostly with details of cuts of cloth and flower arrangements." He sighs softly. Women. "What of meatier tales?" So the conversation is invited to fall into comfortable lines of news, women, sword practice and other, more masculine pursuits.
It's as the evening winds to a close and the empty tankards have begun to outnumber desires for a full one that Erik Banefort glances over towards Jacsen Terrick again. Jarod has drifted off to talk swords with Quentyn and the table has been reduced to the pair of them. "A word with you, young lord," he says, though the term 'young lord' seems more a reminder of the lad's youth than of his new position in his family.
There is some song or another being played in the Inn that has caught the wealth of Jacsen's attention, as his predilection for more drinks has begun to wind down, and a general contentment has fallen over his manner. "Mm?" he begins, drawn out of wherever his attention was. He blinks once, and then twice, sitting up straighter as Erik's words penetrate. "Of course, my lord," he allows.
The Lord of the the Banefort does not seem, for all the ale he's imbibed (and all the more he will be paying for) deficient in any of his faculties. He studies Jacsen with a steady gaze. "I know my daughter," Erik begins, "and while Anais may be many things, I have never seen her uncomfortable in her own skin. But I saw it tonight, when she looked at you."
"Anais…" Jacsen draws a breath through his nose, the conversation with his betrothed's father doing much to help him resume all of his own senses, and shakes his head a touch. "She seemed much more content with the idea of my brother than myself, if you'd hear the truth so plain spoken." He leans back into the chair which is turned sideways to the table, his hand settling that table's wooden surface.
"I wouldn't," Erik says with a shake of his head. "I don't care why. There is discord between the two of you, and it is visible, and that, young lord, is unacceptable. So I am telling you, you will fix it. And you will fix it before you call my daughter your wife. She will not walk to the altar looking as she did tonight. Am I clear?"
His index finger rises and falls once, tapping on the table's surface. "Your point is well made, my lord," Jacsen answers, after a moment considering the man across from him.
"Good," Lord Banefort says with a small nod. "See to it. A man who cannot keep his private life in order can keep nothing else in order, either. I have faced down more fearsome foes than your father, disgruntled that a wedding agreement was not honored." He eases his chair back and stands with the lazy grace of a man well familiar with each and every one of his muscles. Once again, he claps his hand on Jacsen's shoulder and offers a less-than-gentle squeeze. "But I am sure such measures will be unnecessary."
The first of Lord Banefort's words are taken in good enough stride, and Jacsen listens without interruption. It's when he mentions more fearsome foes than Lord Terrick, and the breaking of his agreement that the young lord's jaw begins to set. "I called your point well made, my lord," Jacsen reminds him, when the hand is put to his shoulder. His blue eyes set upon the hand the elder man places on him. "Please, let it not overstay its welcome."
"That will be for you to decide," Erik Banefort replies, his hand offering a final bit of pressure before it retreats. "Now, I had better go find that pretty barmaid and see just how much coin I own her. Rest well, young lord. You've quite a day, tomorrow."