| Fatherly Bruises |
| Summary: | Renholdt and Tyroan gain some bruises. |
| Date: | 26/09/2012 |
| Related Logs: | None |
| Players: |
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| Stone Walk, Tordane Tower |
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| Set at a slight incline, the stone pathway leads up a slight rise northeast out of the town square towards the single tower of House Tordane. Grass grows thick and plush along the side though it is well maintained. Private shops and stables are located up closer to the manor with the family's private stables attached directly to the exterior wall of the small castle. |
| 26 September, 289 |
Even at his age, there's only so much paperwork and talking that Tyroan Nayland can handle. And so he's found himself a nice corner of the courtyard before Tordane Tower, gotten his young squire to help him into his coat of plates and his maile, sent the youth running for practice weapons, and invited his eldest son to join him for some exercise. Apparently not content with his squire's job of securing his armor, the new Steward of Stonebridge tugs at the laces of his left-hand bracer as he waits for his son to arrive, his shield leaning against his left leg.
It has been quite a while since Renholdt has taken exercise with his father. The young man is whistling confidently as he strolls into the courtyard with his squire and equipment in tow. Offering a bow to Tyroan, Ren stands while Sten helps him into his armor. "Are you ready for some more ugly bruises, old man?" he calls out to Tyroan, obviously high in spirits today as Sten hands off a practice greatsword.
Tyroan gets his bracer settled to his liking even as his squire comes running back with a practice blade. The old man unbuckles his swordbelt and trades it with his squire, taking the blunted wooden waster and swinging it once to get a feel for it, "Just keep 'em off the face." There's a pause, and a tight smirk, "I have to stay pretty to meet with everyone." Rolling his steel-clad shoulders, Tyroan crouches down, slipping his arm into the sling and grip of his shield, then straightens up with a groan, "You have gotten better since the last time, haven't you, Ren?" Okay, so maybe the patriarch isn't taking this quite so seriously yet.
Stepping out of the Tower slowly, the sun pierces Jocelyns eyes, to the point that she has to close them and turn her head away. Wincing, she remembers how it is so much brighter out here, than inside. How would have thought it? The warmth the radiates onto her palish skin is a welcomed sensation. Squinting one eye open, she looks up at the sky and then down at the surrounding walk. The second eye soon follows the pattern of opening and they both blink rapidly to adjust. A hand lifts to shield some of the light from around her eyes as she adapts. Looking on from where she stands, she notes her Uncle and Cousin. Staying where she is, she pauses to watch, wordlessly.
Renholdt hefts the weight of his practice sword in both hands and frowns, though whether at the balance or at his father's words is left unanswered. Behind him, Sten is checking to ensure the armor is secured comfortably, but Ren waves him out of the way with a single dismissive gesture. "I have practiced since the last time, if that is what you mean," he replies to Tyroan, offering a cheerful grin as he brings up his guard, testing. "But don't worry, I will make sure you stay pretty for the ladies."
<COMBAT> Tyroan has changed stance to defensive.
<COMBAT> Renholdt has changed stance to aggressive.
<COMBAT> Tyroan attacks Renholdt with Sword & Shield - ARMOR on Left Leg stops the attack!
<COMBAT> Renholdt attacks Tyroan with Greatsword - Light wound to Abdomen (Reduced by Armor).
Tyroan advances on his son with a cautious approach, shield up and sword down at his side behind it, trying to ward off any ranging attack and hide his own choice of targets from the younger man. "I'm just looking out for you, Ren. You don't want to…" the words are interrupted by a grunt of effort as he cross-steps forward, lashing out with a slash that curves down and in toward his son's left leg, aiming for the meat of his thigh, just above the knee, "…piss off your mother."
Renholdt squints at Tyroan, watching his father warily as he keeps his sword low, waiting. He lifts his sword when the attack comes, spotting it a second too late to deflect the blow entirely. Tyroan's sword glances off of his armor, and he takes advantage of the opening of his father's stance to cut across his belly. He dances back for a breather as sweat begins to dot his brow. "She only gets angry at me for fucking with Aeron."
<COMBAT> Tyroan attacks Renholdt with Sword & Shield but Renholdt DODGES!
<COMBAT> Renholdt attacks Tyroan with Greatsword - ARMOR on Chest stops the attack!
Tyroan strikes steel and padding, not hard enough to do more than ache with the impact, and the attack brought his shield up a little too high, so he's driven back by the slash that comes in too low for him to block, grunting at the impact through layers of leather and steel, "Fuck." The older knight steadies himself quickly, shaking his head a bit and re-setting his shield before him, "Funny. That's what she gets angry with me for too." And then he's moving forward again, still staying back behind his shield. His next attack is a thrust aimed at the center of his son's chest, a bare jab with the tip of his sword.
Renholdt is distracted by Tyroan's words, and the humor in them causes him to bark a laugh that is short-lived as the older man's sword dives directly at his chest. His own weapon is nearly a second too late, knocking Tyroan's blade to the side. The scratching sound of metal-on-metal accompanies the defense as the tip of the older man's blade drags along the studs of Renholdt's armor. He attempts to take advantage of the momentum to parry, jabbing likewise at Tyroan's chest with a loud grunt. "Is he really coming along with us? He must know mother will push him into a new marriage, even if he is her favorite."
<COMBAT> Tyroan has changed stance to normal.
<COMBAT> Renholdt has changed stance to defensive.
<COMBAT> Tyroan attacks Renholdt with Sword & Shield but Renholdt DODGES!
<COMBAT> Renholdt attacks Tyroan with Greatsword but Tyroan DODGES!
Tyroan barks a laugh at the distraction, "Now just imagine if I was insulting your mother, lad." Even if his son has a child of his own, the golden boy will always be the golden boy to his father. He slams his shield across his body, knocking into the flat of Renholdt's practice blade and driving it off course. Not quite fast enough, however, as the blade still slaps into one of the small armor plates covering his right shoulder under the leather of his jack. Once more, the impact drives him back a little, but it isn't enough to keep him from sweeping a slash in at Renholdt's left forearm, advancing in a more determined, less defensive manner. "And she'll push him into marriage because he's her favorite." The elder knight doesn't pussyfoot around. "But she'll find him a good wife."
"Is that what has her so bitter about Lyna?" Renholdt inquires, although his voice is strained as she twists up his sword to deflect Tyroan's slash. In consequence, his sword slides along his father's blade, and with a flick of his wrists Renholdt directs the tip down toward the older man's right leg. He detects the change in his father's driving movements, and is immediately on the defensive. "Is she mad because she didn't choose my wife?"
<COMBAT> Tyroan attacks Renholdt with Sword & Shield - Light wound to Right Hand (Reduced by Armor).
<COMBAT> Renholdt attacks Tyroan with Greatsword - Serious wound to Right Arm (Reduced by Armor).
Tyroan barks another laugh at his son's question, "Fuck if I know." He grunts as he has to pause in his advance, cross-stepping back and swinging his shield across his body to buy him time to extricate his leg from the path of his son's heavy blade. That also gives him time to reach his right arm over his shield and flick his wrist, sending his own sword down toward the other man's right forearm and hand. "I think she just doesn't like her because she's so damned Riverlands." As opposed to the North, of course. "And not swamp-hard, either." His tricky little sword-flick has left his right arm exposed, however, over the rim of his shield.
"But we're in the Riverlands!" Renholdt cries, although some of the sound may be due to the fact that his father's sword had impacted with his right wrist. The blow is powerful enough to temporarily numb his limb, and so his grip loosens. He compensates by hefting the bulk of the greatsword in his left hand, and spotting the advantage, thrusts toward his father's right arm as if in revenge. "I am, you are, the Freys are. She agreed to send me there!" He grunts upon impact and right as feeling returns to his right hand. "I need sons."
<COMBAT> Tyroan has changed stance to aggressive.
<COMBAT> Tyroan attacks Renholdt with Sword & Shield but Renholdt DODGES!
<COMBAT> Renholdt attacks Tyroan with Greatsword - Light wound to Abdomen (Reduced by Armor).
"And everyone outside the Mire is soft and wet." Which is odd, considering that the Mire itself could best be described as soft and wet. Tyroan galmost gets his shield out of the way, but not quite, leaving his right arm to be pinched quite neatly between a heavy, unmoving block of wood, metal, and leather and a heavy, fast block of wood and leather. "Fucking cock-sucker." The curse is growled rather than shouted, and he backs up, shaking his arm out and wincing with each movement. "Sons are pains in the ass," he deadpans, "Or at least pains in the arm." And then he's attacking again, leading with his sword rather than his shield in an aggressive offense, his blade thrusting out toward his son's stomach and turning his body nearly sideways, right side toward the younger man. The movement, however, is slowed by the fact that just moving his arm hurts at the moment.
Renholdt seems unperturbed at being called a cocksucker - likely because he is quite used to his father's mouth. He backs away as soon as the blow lands, allowing him a moment to catch his breath before he's back in a defensive posture. "Spoken like a doting father!" he replies with a laugh, using the flat of his blade to block Tyroan's thrust downward. He swings beneath his father's sword and lunges forward to jab at the man's exposed side.
<COMBAT> Tyroan attacks Renholdt with Sword & Shield - ARMOR on Chest stops the attack!
<COMBAT> Renholdt attacks Tyroan with Greatsword - Light wound to Chest (Reduced by Armor).
<COMBAT> Renholdt has changed stance to aggressive.
"No respect for your fucking elders." Tyroan grouches dryly in response, "You keep fucking hitting me." He's not really complaining, since he stopped considering himself a front-line fighter a war and a half ago. And because he's probably proud that his son can kick his ass. He grunts again as his jack of plates absorbs another hit, causing his floating ribs to creak, and then he's stepping forward onto the attack once more. Still recovering his sword, he instead just thrusts his shield forward, aiming to bull Renholdt back with a thump to the chest and gain some space.
Renholdt hoots at the successful, if glancing, hit to his father's abdomen. The sound turns to one of those loud, gusty grunts of wind being knocked from lungs as his father's shield pounds him in the chest and sends him backward a couple of steps. Luckily he keeps himself on balance, and he retaliates by cutting toward the older man's chest through the opening created by the shield passing in front of Tyroan.
<COMBAT> Tyroan attacks Renholdt with Sword & Shield - ARMOR on Chest stops the attack!
<COMBAT> Renholdt attacks Tyroan with Greatsword - ARMOR on Right Arm stops the attack!
Tyroan hefts his shield a bit to draw attention to it, opening his mouth to make some smart remark, only to be smacked in the chest by the practice blade, "Shit." He shakes his head hard, as if that'll help when he's been pounded in the ribcage and arm, then comes pushing forward again, "Remember my shield's a weapon too, Ren." Sure, Tyroan's probably forgotten more things about swordsmanship than Renholdt ever knew, but the point is he's forgotten them. He chops down with his sword, aiming for the outside angle of his son's left shoulder, breathing hard, and now with sweat gathering across his face.
Offended! Renholdt growls at Tyroan's lesson about shields. "I KNOW, father," he grates out between clenched teeth, catching his breath just in time to try and dodge his father's attack. He is several seconds too slow this time, perhaps due to being winded by shield bash. Renholdt pivots on his foot, swinging back just enough that the thrust angles along his armor in a wound-free but not unnoticed blow. He retaliates rather sloppily, still turned nearly sideways, by slashing at his father's extended arm. "I'm surprised you know how to use one, old man. I thought when you were born it was all cudgels and rock knives."
<COMBAT> Tyroan attacks Renholdt with Sword & Shield - ARMOR on Chest stops the attack!
<COMBAT> Renholdt attacks Tyroan with Greatsword - Light wound to Chest (Reduced by Armor).
Tyroan twists his body a bit as the blow comes in, shifting his arm so that his son's strike comes in at a glancing angle, where it thumps hard — into one of the plates of his jack, dispersing the impact in a painful by not debilitating manner. "And some of us old men could gut you with those stone knives, boy." The half-taunting, mostly-fond term is given with another tight grin as he continues his advance despite the hits he's taking. His sword lashes out in a low, rising slash, aiming to catch his son just under the ribcage on the younger knight's left side, a blow meant to rattle Renholdt enough to excuse the opening it creates on Tyroan's right side. "Barristan the Bold. The Blackfish Tully. And the Bootleather Harpy if you're not careful."
Renholdt is grinning like a fool at this point, making note of his father's speed and breathing. He is distracted enough to leave himself open to a hit on the chest, and the blow below his ribs pushes the weight of his coat against his diaphragm. The force causes him to exhale unexpectedly, sending him stumbling back a step as he tries to catch his breath. The young man is definitely rattled, but not enough to prevent him from spotting the opening. "Comparing yourself — to Barristan — and the Blackfish?" he replies with a lazy grin as he stabs toward a similar spot on Tyroan, albeit the right side.
Tyroan takes another crack in his ribs, his shield not closing the gap in time, "Yeah. We're all old fucking men." There's a pause, and he guffaws a bit, holding up his hand to call for a halt, "Well, we're all old men, but with one in the Kingsguard and the other running from a marriage, I think I'm the only one who fits the other qualifier." Grounding the tip of his practice blade and leaning the hilt against his shield, he pulls up the bottom of his tabard to wipe at his face, "But then again, they probably having been sitting on their asses in a swamp for the last thirty years. Warrior's balls but I'm rusty as fuck."
With all these jests about old men, Renholdt is hard-pressed to look as cool and collected as possible when Tyroan calls a halt. Truly, he is relieved, and he steps back while lowering the tip of his sword to the ground. He mimics his father's posture, using his own tabard to wipe burning sweat from his eyes. "I thought it was one of the perks of getting old, father - you're allowed to sit on your ass and get rusty. Time for the sons to do the grunt work."
Tyroan's squire hurries up to strap Tyroan's swordbelt back around his waist, and then take practice blade and shield from the older knight before fading back out of the way. "No, the big perk of getting older," there's a half-meant glare along with that emphasis, "is being able to complain about everything around you." He looks around a little balefully, eyeing his squire, who blinks, jumps, and scurries to bring over a waterskin, which Tyroan uncorks, takes a swig of, and passes over, "Thanks for the exercise, Ren. You did well."
Sten appears at Renholdt's side and takes the practice sword from the knight. Ren passes it off gratefully, turning back to his father to accept the waterskin and down a couple of gulps. He wipes a trickle of water from his chin and returns it to his father with a brief nod, but his lips curve up in a cheeky grin. "I know, but thank you, father. It's nice to practice with someone ol—more seasoned. If mother complains about the bruises, though, I'm telling her it was your idea. It's every man for himself when it comes to her."
Tyroan pulls off his gauntlets, handing them off to his squire, then takes the skin back and pours a splash of water over his bald head, pushing the water over his head and down his neck with one hand before he takes another slug and passes the waterskin off to his squire. He snorts at the response, "You just haven't had the time to get used to her, not since you grew up at least." He pauses, glancing sidelong at his son, then snipes, "What's it been, a few months?"
"I'm wounded," Renholdt accuses, touching his hand to his armored chest before holding his arms out to his sides. Sten immediately sets to work removing the knight's armor while he squints at Tyroan. "Depends on when you define 'growing up', old man. I've had my knightood for seven years, but my wife for only one and my daughter for a few months. If I have to get as old as you to be 'grown up', though, I'm satisfied with being stuck in adolescence."
Tyroan rolls his right shoulder and grimaces, flexing and shifting his right arm, "No, I'm the one who's wounded. Fuck, that hurt." Still, he waves off the complaints, "You're being grumpy. You don't get to be grumpy until you have grandchildren." The aging knight pauses, then revises his last statement, "Or at least three children of your own." Because he was grumpy long before he had grandchildren. Breathing out a huffing sigh, he twists his arm again, "I should get back to work. Fucking paper. There's always more of it."
That same shit-eating grin is plastered all over Renholdt's face, but he bows his head to Tyroan in deference to the man's words. "I will try harder not to be grumpy until Lyna has given me two sons," he replies, emphasizing the importance of having a boy or two. His lips twist into an odd grimace as he wipes his damp hands on his tunic, now free of the bulky armor as Sten collects the gear and trots off to put it away. "I have no taste for girls. What am I supposed to do with a daughter? Keep her away from men until I have to give her to one, I guess. Tomorrow I will ask you how you kept from murdering every sonofabitch who looked at her. For now, I will leave you to your paper, father. I haven't a taste for that either."
