|Faces About Camp|
|Summary:||Knights and scouts and free lances and cousins oh my. Many meetings in the Army of the Cape's camp.|
|Related Logs:||The Grey Gardens and other Harlaw invasion logs in general|
|Harlaw Isle — Wilderness|
|Armies and invasions and stuff.|
|Mon Feb 27, 289|
Pariston nods and does the same greeting, "Ser." Then hearing his name. "Nice meeting you. Pariston Vis." He offers back, a glance at Martyn before he goes on. "It's been calm and quiet. No real problem. I would be paying more attention at night. Those islanders seem to like the night." He says with a smirk. His tone light even if the words were serious. A shrug offered as well. But not speaking, keeping his tongue in place in the presence of a noble.
"Martyn Mallister," Martyn introduces himself to Jere, nodding a little bit, both to him and to Pariston's words. "They seem to do that, yes. As if they think we're all asleep or something like that."
Jarod is heading back into the main camp from the outer lines, armed and armored and all of that. He's walking alongside a man-at-arms in Terrick livery, in low conversation with him about something-or-other. When he spots Martyn in passing, a respectful nod is offered to the Mallister man. And the men with him, by extension.
"It attests to their character, skulking about in the night." Jere comments, "And it is a pleasure to meet you Ser Martyn, Master Vis." He says to each in turn, "I doubt they will catch us napping if they decide to strike after dark, though."
Pariston chuckles at Martyn's words. "Or they're just ugly and want to hide that from us. Which is actually rather kind." He then shakes his head at his own bad joke. Another nod to Jere. For now smiling and staying quiet.
Martyn is unable to hold back a grin as he hears Pariston's joke. "True. Unfortuntely the dead ones doesn't disappear so it'll still be hidden," he comments, before he notices Jarod's nod, offering him a nod in return.
"Ser Martyn," Jarod offers the knight with an easy grin. And more general, "Good eve" that seems aimed at Jere and Pariston as well. "Discussing the many ill-looking qualities of the Ironborn? They've not showed their ugly faces tonight yet, at least." Though he sounds more restless than calmed by the lack of squids.
Jere gives nod towards the new arrival, "Ser." He says pleasantly enough, "And at least some of them are courteous enough to cover their faces when they do die." He says, chuckling a bit at the conversation.
Pariston grins and continues to chuckle. Drinking some from the cup he has in his hand. Jarod get a bow of his head. "Ser." But other than that he is just enjoying the rest and is comfortable with just listening to the others for a moment.
"Something like that, yes," Martyn replies, before he nods a bit at Jarod's words, unable to hold back a bit of a sigh. "Part of me is glad for that, and part of it wishes they'd come so we could get them taken care of."
"Have you fought veiled Ironborn, Ser?" Jarod asks, grin crooking at Jere some. "Though I suppose they cover their faces well enough when they fall flat, so that does it as well as anything." He's just walked back into camp proper from the outer lines, paused a moment to exchange something of a greeting with Martyn, Pariston and Jere.
"Indeed, when they hit the mud face first it's much like a veil." Jere agrees to Jarod's comments with a bit of a nod of his head, "The name is Jere, a pleasure to make your acquaintance, Ser." He adds.
Pariston grins and listens for a moment. Soon drinking up what he has in the cup. "I'm sure there will be more squids to fight. Last time it felt like target practice." He offers, shrugging. His eyes moving around for a moment before returning to those around.
Martyn nods a little bit as he hears what's being said at the moment, nodding a bit at Pariston's words, "Good that they're keeping you in practice, right?" he offers.
"Ser Jarod Rivers," said knight replies to Jere for his part, extending a hand for a shake. His right. "I'm with the Terrick contingent. Pleasure's mine and all of that." To Pariston, he nods. "Was half peasants last time they tried us, and that was before we were with our full force. Ser Rygar Nayland says many of the smallfolk in the area have holed up in the keep at Grey Garden. Wish we knew if they had any sort of plan, beyond sitting behind their walls waiting for us."
A slight, dark figure kitted out with a blade at his hip and bow and quiver predominant in reach strapped to his back, Dmitry paces quietly on the edges of the camp, tracking the clustering men with a flicker of his dark eyes. The alert track of his gaze marks each in a flick, before he looks away again, back out toward the perimeter from whence he came.
Returning from his shift out on the perimeter, taking his shift on sentry duty, Ser Kell Drakmoor finally makes his way back to camp after being relieved. It seems like the Hedge Knight has been taking on extra shifts, perhaps to be alone with his thoughts as he hasn't been around the campfires too much with the other men who have landed here on Harlaw Isle.
"Free Lance, myself, answering the King's call to arms." Jere says conversationally to Jarod, considering the man's word and he nods, "Likely hoping that someone comes to break the siege and save them before they starve." He says with a faint shrug of his shoulders. His attention does drift a little to the figures figures coming off the lines.
Pariston chuckles and nods to Martyn. "Yeah, I'd say." Then his head turn to Jarod. A shrug to that. "True. But still not a lot to do. Just sending folk to go look at us and die. Felt unnecessary." But then he shakes his head. His eyes looking around to try and keep alert. Can't get too comfortable after all. For now not really looking at anyone in particular. Just trying to see that everything is as they should. But then remembers to introduce himself as well. "Pariston Vis, man-at-arms of the Flints."
Martyn nods a little bit, "Let's hope there won't be any larger force that'll come when we're trying to break Grey Garden," he offers, after a few moments of pause. "Probably they won't but if I had the chance, that's what I would do…" he offers.
"Aye, Master Vis, did feel unnecessary, though they might not've had much of a measure of our forces. Wanted to test us. Or they were just spoiling for a fight. No way to know." The dark figure of Dmitry isn't noticed yet, though he does spot Kell. Raising an arm at the man. "Ser Drakmoor." He breaks off from the others a bit, to stride to meet the hedge knight.
As his name is called, Kell turns his gaze towards the source and turns to head that way, seeing that a couple of other men are with Ser Rivers. Raising a hand in return in a motionless wave, the Hedge Knight greets in return, "Ser Rivers." He starts with Jarod first then nods his head to the other knights, "Sers." His attention is then back to Jarod who is approaching. "Seems like things have quieted down after that engagement the other night."
Jere turns his attention towards Martyn and Pariston again as Jarod moves to greet Kell. "I've not seen any indication we should expect it, but it's always best to be aware it could happen." He says with a light shrug of his shoulders.
Pariston listens to Martyn and nods, "Let's hope. But I don't think things are gonna look like it did last time. A few peasants only, that is." Listening to Jarod as well. "Not even worth trying to understand them. If we say 'strategy' they might say 'What?'." He grins. He isn't arrogant, just trying to keep the conversation light even though the topic is serious. Jere gets a confirming nod. Then looking as Jarod moves towards Kell. But his eyes then continue to look around, spotting Dmitry. A nod offered if the man is looking.
Martyn nods a bit in Kell's diection as the man is greeted, and then back to the others, shrugging a bit. "We'll find out soon enough," he offers, quietly.
Drifting in on an angled trajectory toward the other men on light steps, Dmitry offers mild words in his low voice, "Waste of blood on an insult, such that these men here aren't worth fielding proper soldiery?" He folds his hands loosely behind his back, all crisp and halfway to cheer as he hoves into view with a tip of his head as inclination to answer the nod given in his direction. "You never can tell," is spoken altogether lightly. Just throwing that out there, like.
"Seems to have," Jarod says with a nod to Kell. Dmitry does draw a look of no small amount of curiosity, though there's no real recognition there is, and his focus returns mainly to Kell. "Seven send it'll stay quiet throughout the night." He pauses a beat, clearing his throat. "I figure I owe you an apology, Ser Drakmoor. I should've stood with you better, during that mess with the prisoner and the Charlton lord." Departing the light conversation for a moment, is Ser Rivers.
Kell can only shrug his shoulders at Jarod's hope that the night remains peaceful, "Who knows, last time they came out of no where but with the beating we gave them, they will be much more hesitant about sending another raiding force against us. I am getting the feeling that they are rather outnumbered here on the Isles, along with the other Isles as well." The King did send his the might of the Westerosi mainland at the rebel king.
As for the apology, Kell looks confused for a moment as he doesn't seem to understand what Ser Rivers is talking about. However, after the explanation, he nods before looking away for a moment, "No apology is needed, Ser Rivers. He is a Lord, and you've had better upbringing than I have, me being common born and you born with noble blood. I guess I just don't any better."
"It was a pleasure meeting you, Ser Martyn, Master Vis." Jere says, "I'm going to go and see my horse is being taken proper care of. I'll see you about camp again, I'm sure." he inclines his head to the two before taking his leave.
Pariston falls silent, listening and nodding. All the men having valid points. When Jere is to leave he offers a slight bow of his head. "See you, ser." Staying silent for a bit. Having a smile but kind of letting things go through his mind. Mostly about the upcoming battle.
Martyn looks a little lost in thought for a while, before he nods a bit as he hears Jere's words, "Likewise," he offers, before he sighs a bit. "I should get going too. I have a few things to take care of." He then offers a momentary grin in Pariston's direction. "And you needed to eat soon, right?" That said, he slips off back towards where the Mallister forces are, and his tent back there.
Jarod shakes his head. "Lord Aleister showed plainly what he was." There's a hardness in his tone as to what that might be, though he doesn't insult the man openly before the other knights. "As did you. No knight should've interfered with another in that fashion. You were the one the Ironborn yielded to. But, he is a lord, and there were none above him to dare call him wrong. It was…poorly done all around." He keeps himself from saying more than that. Snorting a chuckle at the bit about himself. "I'm as baseborn as you, Ser. Moreso, as a bastard, though my father Lord Jerold was kind enough to keep me well. Things'd be different if he were here." He frowns some.
"True enough, though I am not naive enough to believe all Lords and Knights would act as they should." Kell says with a sigh of resignation, as if the incident is already past him as he had plenty of time to think. "If we stoop to the level of the Ironborn though, we are no better than they. I just hope this is remembered as we fight our battles here." That is all the Hedge Knight offers on his part on what his thoughts are on the incident with Aleister. As for the comment about Jarod being baseborn, Kell actually manages a grin, "Some may debate the merits of being a bastard as opposed to being having common parents on both sides. Lord Jerold is a good man, it is a tragedy what befell your family, Ser Rivers." Having heard of what happened to Lady Evangeline before the army departed Seagard. It seems like the Terricks are just taking one blow after another as of late.
Pariston nods to Martyn as he heads away, grinning a bit. Then looking to the others, wanting to hear a bit more about the issues that have been. But for now, he does not have time. "I think I better do go get some food." He says. Then a bow to those still around. "I bid you a good day, sers." Then he is off for food. He need to go get some food before he is needed on duty again, after all.
His presence already announced, more or less, Dmitry listens with a quiet alertness to those snippets of conversation occurring nearest him, and otherwise makes of himself a mild, unobtrusive presence, not unfriendly — for he'll greet look for look and smile for smile — but not precisely extrovert. He sponges up gossip without context, a silent default to the shadowy borders of perception that were the meat and drink of his Terrick childhood.
Jarod offers Pariston and Martyn both somewhat distracted, if polite, parting nods. And another, more focused, inclination of his head to Kell. "Seems so. My lord father's a strong man, though. We shall rebuild." He says it with a stoicism that's not really common in the extroverted bastard. He seems reluctant to speak any more of his family, though perhaps that's because, his more serious words with Kell mostly concluded, he's paying more mind to Dmitry lurking. "A good eve upon you, Ser," he greets the man, perhaps a little loudly. Perhaps wanting him to know he's been noticed. He blinks again at the other knight, as if trying to place him but not /quite/ succeeding.
One part of the camp is as good as any other, and they often need walking through on the way from one task to another. Hardwicke's armor is starting to look pretty travel-worn and his Terrick livery a bit muddied, but there's little else to be expected. He scratches one hand along his beard as he walks, the other resting idly on the helpful rest of his sword hilt in the habitual manner of one used to occasionally having to navigate it. Of the three men left in a vague grouping, two are more familiar than the third. "Sers," he greets them, making certain assumptions about that third. His gaze flickers longest over Dmitry in a reflexively wary manner.
Kell leaves the subject at that, tactful enough to know when a subject is to be avoided. The Hedge Knight does turn his attention to Dmitry as well as Jarod greets the other knight, Kell inclining his own head to the Noble Knight who he has yet to meet. Hardwicke's arrival has the Hedge Knight nodding a greeting to the Captain of the Guard for the Terricks as well. "Ser."
Dmitry's smile is a quicksilver flash over his features, quick and pleasant without lingering. He says, "Indeed, sers," with a slight inclination of his head, and folds his hands in a neat clasp behind his back. He is geared like a knight, at least, though the bow and quiver he wears like old familiar friends is less standard than some of the other weaponry. He answers the wariness in Hardwicke's look with an innocuous blink of long-lashed eyes. What?
Jarod is geared in longsword and armor, for his part, his surcoat black with a single golden wing upon it. Personal heraldry rather than that of any noble house, though it has some sideways resemblance to elements of the Terrick eagle crest. "You'll forgive me, Ser, but I cannot place your face. Mostly. And I've a head for faces, so that won't do." Dmitry's offered an easy grin, manner falling without hesitation into friendliness, though there's still an edge of curiousness behind it. "I'm called Ser Jarod Rivers, for my part. I'm here with the Terrick contingent. This is Ser Kell Drakmoor. A hedge knight, though he's been good enough to lend his sword to our part to the host." At Hardwicke's gruff 'Sers,' the Captain of the Guard receives a bright, "Ser Blayne" in kind.
Where Jarod is free with his introductions, Hardwicke seems content — for a given value of 'content,' anyways — to wait for Dmitry to reply before giving one of his own. Because he is sociable.
Kell is kitted out with a longsword and armor as well, full chainmail that seems to be well maintained, especially in a time of war. He has no formal surcoat or heraldry though except for some ribbons of Banefort color tied around the hilt of his blade. As the Hedge Knight is introduced, he nods his head respectfully to Dmitry again as if to confirm what Ser Rivers is saying.
"Ah!" Dmitry lays a hand over his chest. "I am wounded that my face is so unmemorable. Perhaps if I came armed with sling and stones." He executes a little bow, then, turning dramatics into courtesies with the placement of his hand. "Dmitry Terrick; at your service, of course. Surely, we are glad of all these sword arms."
"Lord uncle Aramond's Dmitry?" Jarod blinks in surprise. Then he beams. And tries to hug Dmitry. He's an emotive fellow, the Terrick bastard. "Cousin! Well met!"
Hardwicke's brow arches, though he refrains from more emotive reunions that Jarod excels in. "Lord Dmitry," he says a bit stiffly, his lips twisting with the hint of a frown. He is possibly attempting to remember if he Dmitry annoyed him however many years ago he last saw him.
As the two with Terrick blood greet each other with familiarity, Kell gives the same respectful words Hardwicke offers to Dmitry, "Evening, M'Lord." As the Captain tries to take a trip down memory lane, the Hedge Knight looks towards where the Terricks are encamped before turning back to the others, "I must excuse myself, M'Lord, Sers. Gonna grab a quick meal and catch some shuteye before my shift in the early morning."
Dmitry seems taken aback by either the immediacy or the strength of Jarod's reaction, his dark eyebrows swept high over his eyes as he finds himself caught in the wrap of an embrace. He takes it in good enough part, anyway; only mildly awkward about the hug, with a laugh's breath caught behind his teeth. "I see I am remembered, then," he says lightly. "Well met and thanks, cousin." His eyes gleam as they flicker from Jarod and round about the others, a light of almost-humor in amidst their apparent warmth. "Good evening. It's the ser I've earned, though, if you don't mind."
Jarod's hugging is bro-y and armored and involves a lot of enthusiastic shoulder-clapping. So, yeah, it's probably a bit jarring. He releases Dmitry after a particularly hard slap on the back. Kell is offered a quick wave goodnight after Jarod's released the truer-born Terrick. "Blood is blood, my ser cousin. Seven hells, it's good to see you." Despite not even knowing the man enough to recognize him, Jarod's enthusiastic to welcome him warmly as family. "It's been…seven hells. Decades, must be."
"The two of you only have decades put together," Hardwicke says a bit dryly before turning his head to offer Kell a nod of farewell. "Ser," he says before looking back to the Terricks.
Dmitry's eyebrows are still swept high over his eyes, something wry in the smile tucked to the corner of his mouth. "A decade, about," he says. He glances sidelong at Hardwicke, a nod of farewell offered to the departing in turn. He lifts his hand to rub his lips, as though to chase some expression from his mouth. He says lightly, "Nothing like a good old-fashioned war to bring people together."
"I was estimating," Jarod retorts dry to Hardwicke. "Not all of us have accumulated as many decades as you, Ser Blayne." The comment from Dmitry earns a snort. "Aye, we've all of the Riverlands here, and some Northmen, for better or worse. Have you come to join the Terrick host? You were squired afar from Lord Jerold's lands, if I recall right."
"You've barely two decades to put together, Rivers," Hardwicke replies to Jarod in a thread of continued dryness. He turns his gaze on Dmitry, sweeping him over assessingly to see just what ten years away squiring has done for him.
"I rode with the Pipers," Dmitry says with a slight lift of his chin. What can be told, to look at Dmitry? He is young and slight, though not so young and slight as he was ten years ago, with a wiry strength to define his slim lines. He has confidence now to go with his knight's ser, the bow of fine make to match the feather-fletched arrows in his quiver. Other than /that/, well, that's up to you what Hardwicke can tell, heck if I know. "But I've come to shoot for the Terricks, yes; when all's said and done, I intend to hove for home." He smiles, another quicksilver smile, there for a heartbeat only before it vanishes from his mouth.
Jarod's smile is a broader thing, and it shows no sign of vanishing since's found another trace of Terrick blood among the host. "Well met, indeed, my lord cousin!" He strikes out a hand to do more shoulder-clapping. "I'll see a proper place prepared for you among our men. Ser Hardwicke and myself lead the Terrick contingent upon these Isles. Lord Jerold, alas, remained on the mainland." His smile vanishes as he touches on this note. "I know not how much word from the Roost you've been able to gather, but Lady Evangeline Terrick has passed on. Seven keep her soul. She was with child and the babe came to soon to survive, and her life lost along with."
This note brings with it a certain tension along Hardwicke's jaw. His gaze slides away from the two Terrick cousins, falling quiet(er) as Jarod brings Dmitry up to speed on family matters.
Expression shuttering to a still blandness, Dmitry looks for a heartbeat oddly blank and remote at this news. He casts his eyes down, then, dark eyes veiled by the sweep of his long lashes, and says with quiet courtesy, "Those are sad tidings indeed, cousin. Seven keep her."
Jarod does not notice Dmitry's blandness, or Hardwicke's tension, caught up in his own thoughts. "Aye. Well." He clears his throat. That particularly piece of un-cheer dispensed. "I should see a place prepared for you in our camp, my lord cousin. If you will pardon me. Ser Blayne." On that note, he'll take his leave to the little section of the camp the Terricks have claimed.
Hardwicke's gaze trails after Jarod as the young knight heads back to the Terrick camp. He doesn't bother turning to look at Dmitry when he notes, "So you've taken to the bow." It is not entirely approving.
"Thank you again," Dmitry murmurs to Jarod's departure. He turns slightly on his heel to face Hardwicke, his eyebrows twitching up. "I was trained in all the weapons you'd expect," he says, lightly and with a careless ease in the admission.
"Mm." Hardwicke gives him another assessing look. "Capable with a sword, then?" Priorities.
Dmitry drops his hand to the hilt of the blade at his belt, tapping it meaningfully and then turning out that hand in a gesture of long fingers. "Of course." His smile lifts his mouth at the corners. "But I can drop a number of men before it comes to swords, Ser Hardwicke."
"Well." Hardwicke fails to look entirely convinced, but he grunts out a quiet noise of affirmation. "That's something, then."
"Something, is it?" Dmitry's eyes are bright with a laughter he does not voice; he does not even smile. "I suppose."
Hardwicke frowns at that threat of laughter in Dmitry's eyes. "That's what I said," he says with something of a stubborn edge.
"Mm." Dmitry turns his hand away from the hilt of his sword, palm up, and then turns to pace back across the camp, step light. "Good evening, Ser," he says over his shoulder, all blithe ease. "I'm sure I'll see you around."
"I'm sure." Hardwicke jerks his chin in a stiff sort of nod that is — not really a bow. "Ser."