|Later That Night|
|Summary:||After the Cane Lord and the luckiest bastard in all the Riverlands leave, the Young Lord joins Pip's table.|
|Related Logs:||A Lord, a Bastard and a Courier walk into a bar...|
|Tables, people, ale. Huzzah!|
|13 September, 288|
One lord has already stopped by Pip's table this evening, with his cane and his wit and his dinner, and his bastard brother, too. The boys have since left her all on her ownsome, and what's a girl to do when she's on her ownsome? A girl is to drink, she is. And as the hour grows later and the rest of the tavern grows sloppier in their cups, a girl is to sing. The man thumping out a rhythm on her table across from her is no lord, and is most certainly sloppy, but nevertheless he provides the accompaniment for her off-key rendition:
"The Boys of House Terrick
Are pressed at the border
Pressed at the border
Pressed at the border
The Boys of House Terrick
Born in the wrong order!
O, what's a poor father to do?"
As if on queue, the heavy, wooden door to the Rockcliff opens and the long, brown-haired form of Ser Jaremy Terrick steps through. Speaking quietly to a retainer, he makes his way towards the back where a booth awaits him.
Though as he nears the tables the familiar beat is met by the somewhat familiar key of the song. As the words reach his ears, he furrows his brow and mutters under his breath as he nears to pass Pippa's table.
"Bloody seven hells…" He grimaces, doing his best to keep his face out of notice, though some of the regulars have already gone to ignoring the song at the sight of their young lord.
Pippa draws out that last note, her voice wavering terribly as she oooooooo's. At the cessation, she slaps her hand down merrily on the table, which causes some startle in her tablemate. He rises - presumeably to fetch some more drink or a piece of pretty ass for himself - and the young redhead catcalls after him. "Ay, me! My sweet singin' ain't that bad now, Hosef! Ah, bugger yer anyway. Yer dick's tiny, so says Missy." She bats her hand dismissively at the retreating gent, and lifts her mug to chug back some more of that bitter, fizzy ale.
Though as much as the young lord feels the urge to throw beer on the singer, his chivalry requires otherwise of him. As the man at her stable stands, he issues the famous and manly stiff-nod-and-lowered-brow to the man, rounding past him. As he does so, his knee accidentally bumps one of the table's legs, forcing a mug to teeter and spill over.
"My apologies, miss." Jaremy offers, quickly turning to upright the mug. The thought occurs to him, however, that the Stranger must be laughing, as Jaremy's wish has been granted.
"Ay, now!" Pip exclaims, reaching for the mug at the same time as the lad who's just knocked it over on her. Ale spreads across the table and starts to threaten to spill over the edge into her little lap. "'S'just a song, laddie. Ain't no need t'getcher panties in a twist, ay? I met me two of them there brothers Terrick, they be right fine lads 'oo don't take too harshly t'that there song. Wouldn't sing it with me, mind, coz they was missin' the Young Lord for 'is part." She sweeps a little hand over the liquid on the table, brushing it back toward Jaremy. "You seen the one with the cane for a'walkin'? I don't right think he believed my tale bout the alligator and then lad!"
Gazing down to the puddle of beer that she's shifted back towards him, Jaremy moves his boots a bit further from the table and glances behind him. Spying a rag, he snags it and rather unceremoniously drops it onto the puddle with a slight splash. A few people seated nearby chuckle as he does so.
"The Terricks, I've been told, have weathered that song with a bit of sarcasm." He replies with a smirk, letting the rag soak up most of the beer. "I've seen the one with the cane once or twice, though I've not heard this alligator stories." More chuckles follow. "You've met the Terricks you say? I'm assuming Jacsen and Jarod? How much like the song were they?"
Pip lifts her hands up jerkily from the table as the lad thunks that rag down, trying to keep 'em clear of the inevitable splash round the edges. "I can tell yer the alligator story, ay, if a lad be keen to sit an' hear the tale? — O, ho, well, that Ser one is pretty, ay? And charming, t'be sure. I ain't be knowin' about the Lord one though, 'e didn't be believing my story, and surely any smart lad can see I ain't no liar." The little redhead sniffs mock-haughtily, then allows, "They ain't so bad, I says. Both of 'em easy on t'eye and nice boys, ay? Good company for a lass in her cups."
Lifting his head from his half-effort at topping up the table, the young lord cracks an awful grin. His eyes scan the room, confirming that he'd just missed his brothers. The prospect of speaking with a tavern girl with no clue as to who he is settles into a nice prospect. He moves to sit across from her.
"Please…enlighten me." He replies as a barmaid rushes over a mug of ale and goes to work at the table. Careful of his sword, Jaremy turns so that it hangs from his side, family creature in view. This, also, receives a few chuckles. "According to the song, one I'm sure was better company than the other."
Pip ain't so daft as to miss a hen on this lad's sword, even if only she's be seeing it because she was looking at his… sword. "Ayyyyy, now," she says, long on the 'ay', but though her eyes widen a little and she sends a loft-browed look at some of them there chucklers, she doesn't get all shirty. Instead, she shifts in her seat to get back more comfortable, and she nods. "Ay, well, I'd be takin' either one o' them for my company if they did there offer, t'be sure," she insists. "But the alligator, lad! T'was in the swampy swamp of swampness, wit the muds and the hidden waters in the grasses where I did see me this lad. Tall as 'e was wide, his arms each as thick as my fair waist." Thus begins her tale.
Folding his arms across his chest in a lazy, non-defensive manner, Jaremy leans against the back of his chair and settles in for a listen. His grin broadens, showing off his white teeth as she delivers her 'aaaaay now', eyes lighting up with humored interest. "Tall as he was wide?" He asks, brow lifting as he tries to wrap around the concept. He reaches for his mug, bringing it towards his lips. "The man sounds like he is shaped like a cracker. Was he able to walk?"
"You're pokin' fun," accuses the girl, her eyes narrowing a touch but her own smile nary a touch less for it. "'E was tall, he was, built like one o' your fair castles. Tall and broad, almost as big as a alligator 'imself. And aye, he could walk! Walked right into the alligator, he did. You ever seen a alligator, lad?"
The word 'lad' seems to illicit a humored smile from Jaremy, peering at the storyteller over the rim of his mug of beer. His eyes narrow in return, teasing her before he busiest himself with another sip of the bitter drink. His long mane of hair shakes from side to side as he signals the negative. "I'm not teasing you. Im just not entirely sure people come I'm those sizes. At least often." He sets the mug back down. "I've heard of them in the crannoglands, though perhaps as a lizard lion? What so they look like?"
Pip's own ale is all soaked up in that damp cloth, but the way Jaremy looks at her over the rim of his glass reminds her - she tosses up one hand in the air to signal for a waitress. "Well they do," she insists regarding lads built like castles, "And them alligators - they're big and ugly as a hat full o' arseholes. Big snappy jaws that like to chomp at ladses feet. Not this lad, though, ay? He was cunning as a… now what were it that Cane Lord says to me he was cunning as… as a fox! Cunning as a fox. — Another glass, please Missy? Bless yer, Seven times over again, ay?" The waitress, well familiar with little Pippa, grins and nods as she saunters past.
Jaremy glances to the bar maid, raising a few fingers in a salute that can only mean that the girl's drinks have been covered by the young lord. "Another as well, thank you." He sidelongs, falling back into putting his 'listening ears' on.
Taking another sip from his mug, he plants his booted foot against the table's cross-bar beneath the top and shimmies into a more comfortable angle in his chair. "Hat full of…arseholes…" He muses. "I heard once that ale from the Mire tastes like it came from a keg of crushed arseholes."
That salute all earns the lad across from her a curious once-over from Pippa, the smile she sports all 'a sudden a slyly lopsided, saucy affair. She shuffles in her chair, too, sitting up straighter and taller as she can. "You henhouse boys ain't fans of the Mire lads, is ya's? I ain't mind me some swamp ale, when it's the only ale a lass can find. Bit of a hike t'be a-ridin' all the way here from the gator's nest just for a brew, ay? They ale's arright by me, but they boys ain't as pretty as the ones out here." Under an impish toss of red curls, the girl winks.
"Hen house…" Jaremy huffs, eyes lidding as the chuckle that emits from the center of his chest causes him to softly buck in his seat. Far more amused by it than offended, he reaches out to down the last of his mug's contents as the new one is being prepared.
To her compliment, his eyes tilt to make contact with hers as his ears darken a shade in a display of an somewhat reserved bashfulness.
"Let's just say…" Jaremy starts, pressing his tongue to the inside of one of his molars, choosing a creative way to put it. He suddenly grins wickedly. "…that its not that people from the Roost hate Hag's Mire. Quite the contrary. Their ale, smallfolk, knights, manners, products, and way of life does an excellent job of showing the rest of Western just how good the people of the Roost are by comparison." A few of the tables nearby rumble as patrons bang their mugs into the wood as applause. "That and everything we touch doesn't oddly smell of piss." Jaremy replies, a bit more quietly, but those around him that hear it laugh loudly.
Young Pip's eyes a-light with mirth, her cheeks already rosy from ale, and at all the commotion of banging cups and hear-hear's and laughter, she joins right in and throws her head back to let out a hearty chortle of her own. "They's be saying," she begins, a hand pressed to her tummy to try and compose herself some, "Over in the Mire full of hags, they's be saying the same about you hens. But hens, hags, eagles and gators, Lords or Sers or ladies or lads, what does it matter to a lass like me? I'll be a-drinkin' and a-makin' merry wherever my saddle does take me, wherever my feet does land!"
"And when the day comes that you find yourself ready to dig in your heels and end your wanderlust, remember this place. Feckless as I apparently am…" Jaremy motions across the table to her, referencing the dreadful song. "…I take pride in the way the people of the Roost take to each other, and a good place it is all around its edges."
"I reckon me that you're a good sport," says Pip, as the waitress finally arrives with more drinks for the drinking. "Even if you does bump tables and waste ale over a silly song, ay? I shoulda been knowin' the Young Lord just by that, they says yer a sensitive poppet back in the Mire, they does." The little redhead lifts her glass to toast the lad at her table, givin' him another wily wink before she chugs back three or four good gulpfuls of fizzy ale.
"Sensitive poppet eh? Well the bump to the table was an accident and despite some of the jeering I received from the people of Hag's Mire at the last tourney I unhorsed their champion well enough." To her, he returns the salute with his newly acquired mug. A smug look settles onto the corner of his lip, no doubt comfortable with their table topic of choice. He drinks liberally, downing a few swallows worth before the MIG is placed back onto the lacquered tabletop.
"I am the young lord in the song, yes, Ser Jaremy Terrick."
Gulp, gulp, gulp… when Pippa sets her own mug back on the table, it's near half-empty. Thirsty lil' thing, she is! "I did hear that, ay? The sensitive Ser does alright with his lance!" The double entendre draws a merry little snicker-chortle from the girl.
Growing steadily drunk, though far behind, Jaremy gives Pippa a decently weighted 'shame on you' look before turning his head to the side. He sees a number of the patrons at the Rockcliff counting the bubbles in their beer when he does so. A mildly nervous snort passes from Jaremy's lips as he directs his eyes back to Pippa. "They said I was feckless, but not too feckless." He dodgers her question with reserve, standing ground against her wild ways. "I am trained in the art of war, yes, this includes the lance."
There's no shame felt by this young lass, nay! Despite the very look she's being fixed by the Young Lord. "Is a shame, ay," she says, putting on her best impish smile, all inviting and such. "But war! Ain't no need t'be makin' war now lad, mister Young Lord Ser. Pippa Sears," for that is her name, as she gives it, "Is a lover, not a fighter!"
Not entirely bristling at her flirtation, the young lord seems rather unequipped to death with it. Thankful that the thrum and life of the Rockcliff has stopped listening to their converastion and resumed the white noise of many conversations, he squirm in his seat and drums his fingertips atop the table. "Well…" He starts slowly, choosing his words carefully in an attempt to retain his lordly stature. He picks up his mug, saluting her with it. "…then this drink is for peace, that I should never have to use my lance in a field of battle and only for tourney." It sounds right to him, at least for a few seconds. Somewhere inside of his mind he is mentally calming his forehead.
Pip takes that as some swell encouragement, waggling her eyebrows suggestively in response. "Aye, to peacetime and tourney!" Her own glass she lifts as she echoes the toast, and when she tilts it to her lips she darn races to the bottom, downing the rest of the ale caught within it and thudding the empty jovially back upon the tabletop. "Well," she announces, in a rather decisive tone, "I be retiring me for the night, my good Young Lord Ser Jaremy Terrick - ay, what a mouthful of a name that one be, lad! Lil' Pip ain't gonna be offended if nobody sees fit to 'scort her up on account of they pretty wives-to-be and they sensitive poppet nature, no. But if a Young Lord does like makin' peace… ah?" Flattening her hands against the table to screech her chair out and stand, Pippa winks one last time.
"Mistress Sears, I am by no means a sensitive poppet as you would say. I'm built of far sterner material." Jaremy retorts, slapping the emptied mug down on the table. Though his eyes have grown a bit fuzzy, she's far ahead of him in terms of drink, and he remembers himself carefully. Eyes trailing from her flattened hands, to her shoulders, and then down the lines of her sides towards her hips, Jaremy suddenly catches himself and avert his gaze. Jaw tightening, he finds her face and winks back, playing bold and stalling. "But it's so early. I apparently missed my brothers and I've only had but a few."
Pippa giggles gaily, pressing both hands to her flat tummy this time. "Ay, m'lord, but that's the idea," she responds equally bold. "A lad's no use a'tween the sheets when he's well in 'is cups now, an' I'm like to be up with the sun, ay? No mind though, lad, be pressin' my luck, I is. You bid those pretty brothers 'a yours one more hey-yo from Miss Pip, ay?" All cutesy she waves both of her hands farewell, pressing a kiss to her fingers and tossing it Jaremy's way before she starts off toward the stairs all merry-like.
Jaremy blinks, dipping his head as the kiss is waved in his direction. It is all he can do to try to hide the burning sensation at his cheeks and the back of his neck. Clearly it is not often, or has been quite some time, since a woman has approached him in such a way. As she turns to walk away, he bites the side of his lip, casts one final glance to the sway of her hips, and then goes to the table. Letting out a deep, frustrated breath, he goes about digging part of his fingernail against the table's top.
"Damn it all…" He murmurs. "…damn it all."