| New Bruises And Old Wounds |
| Summary: | After the Melee at the Twins, Benedict and Tommas talk about some things, and not about others. |
| Date: | 24/05/289 |
| Related Logs: | Melee At The Twins |
| Players: |
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| Tommas's Tent — Frey Tourney Grounds |
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| A tent and lots of grass. |
| 24 May 289 |
Stripped of his armor, likely with the aide of one Septa and a feral wildcat, and seated to the edge of the campside, Ser Tommas Belte is taking a well deserved rest following the melee. The majority of grit has been scrubbed from his skin, leaving it red with friction where it isn't purpled by a number of bruises. Wincing briefly, he wads up a cold, wet towel and presses it against his head. Ow. The two ladies have wandered off since, leaving the big knight alone for the moment.
It was a long melee full of noble fights and impressive sword/bludgeon/polearm maneuvers. Also, it was full of whacks and thumps that left behind a generous assortment of bruises. Benedict Lawson Nicodemus Groves has changed out of his armor and now he drifts towards the Groves pavilion and over towards the tent outside of which Tommas rests. "Hello," he greets, opting not to bother with much of a nod or bow with his torso sore as it is. "Mind some company over there?"
"Hello," Tommas croaks more than greets, neck having taken several harsh blows in the course of the fight. The big knight carefully inclines his head up to meet the hedge knight's gaze, smile slight. He waves his hand towards the open space in the grass. "Pleanty o' room. Damn nice fight."
"It was," Nicodemus agrees. He's got a fine purple spread across the side of his own throat, though he hasn't quite been brought to rasping. Sinking down in the grass with a deep sigh, he continues, "I have to admit, I was a little surprised to see you fighting beside me. Thanks for that."
"Hedge knights," Tommas utters in bemusement, shifting the press of damp towel against his head. They were surprisingly fierce. Benedict's comment brings a lift of his brows, mouth pressing in a thin line. "I was a little surprised to find myself there. Old habits." He pauses for a long moment. "You're welcome."
"We're a surprisingly vicious lot," Nicodemus agrees, stretching out his legs and leaning back to rest his weight on his elbows. "Would have been fine if Kitt had been there, too. Gods, do you remember that boar hunt? That was some good fun."
"I'm just glad I wasn't such an easy target on Pyke," Tommas grumbles, winching as he shifts to adjust himself on the grass. "Gladder still that wee Merel is doing me a kindness and fetching some ale. Sweet lass." Ow. He eyes Nicodemus in amusement at the comment. "M'Lord Kitt isn't much for a melee, he'd prefer to leave his war to the wars." Barking out a low laugh, he utters, "That damn boar. I still have those scars."
"Real warfare has a different feel," Nicodemus agrees. "A melee is good fun and a fine test of skills but it doesn't always transfer. Not all those who can fight for sport can keep their wits about them when it's no longer play." He smiles faintly. "I met your Merel in Terrick's Roost. Considering the number of creatures you used to rescue, suppose it's only natural you'd eventually start collecting foundlings." Though, of course, on that front Nic's hardly one to talk. "That boar was as stubborn and you were and twice as heavy. Wouldn't give up, either."
"Aye. There is more on the line when you know the other man will not yeild nor let you yield." That there is only death to follow failure. The mention of his ward and founderingly causes Tommas to level a sharp look to Benedict, not looking quite so amused at the comparison. "She's not a cat," he says shortly, repeating the sentiments of other. Blowing out a low breath between his teeth, he ducks his head in a short, pained nod. "But aye. We found each other." Nic may hardly be one to talk, but Tommas has yet to meet his wild child. "Can't say I've punched many boars since then."
"She's not much bigger than one, and I'd wager she hisses and spits when she's cornered," Nicodemus replies for Merel and her feline tendencies. He chuckles, then winces a little, because ow. "Not a pass time worth pursuing if one can avoid it. Boar punching."
"Were you cornering my ward?" Tommas wonders warningly, although he makes no move to refute that claim. He is very intimidating at the moment, all marbled with bruised and dirt. He laughs shortly at that. "Aye. Notable though."
"No, no corners in sight. Plenty of open space, if she wanted to flee, but she didn't seem inclined to," Nicodemus answers. He huffs a laugh and nods. "Quite notable. And fetches you some fine tusk dagger handles.
"Oh. She won't flee. You'll just find yourself with a fetched arrow butting out of yer thigh and wonder how it got there," Tommas says knowledgably, smiling in recollection. Damn good shot too. He shrugs at the memory of the tusks. "A twinned pair." He is — probably referring to daggers. "Pity that one of them got lost."
"You know this from expereince, do you?" Nicodemus asks of flesh-embedded fletching. He considers, a brow lifting, as Tommas speaks on. "Well, you never know. It might just turn up again."
Tommas lifts a shoulder to stretch it with a pained wince, shifting the towel to press it against his neck. "Aye. When you grab a shell shocked child out of a tree, you tend to not be expecting so much fight in them." Luckily, she missed. But. "Huh," is his reply to that missing dagger.
"Suppose not," Nicodemus agrees, and then he cannot resist, "Are you quite sure she's not a cat?"
"Damn sure, I'd have more scratched. Moves like one though, don't she?" Tommas sounds…almost proud.
"Less fastidious, though," Nico muses thoughtfully. "Personal hygiene might be an area to work on."
"She's perfectly tidy. 'Sides, it isn't as if you can comment, Ser," Tommas opines, looking over at Nicodemus's general — self-ness with disapproval. It isn't a very nice jerkin. Gods.
"I just came from a melee," Nicodemus points out for his non-tidiness. "I clean up well enough when I've a mind to."
"And she's hardly a noble." That is that, so far as Tommas is concerned. "So what've you been doing all these bloody years that you're so curious about my founderling. Not got a bastard of your own, I hope." Cherry on that cake that'd be. "Aye. You did. My damn ears are still ringing."
"I hardly am, either, these days," Nicodemus points out. For bastards, he chuckles, winces shakes his head. "Gods forfend. No bastards. Just a squire."
"You keep picking at my lass and I'll fetch my hammer again," Tommas replies dryly, giving Nicodemus a look and no comment for his noble crack. "She's a good lass." Perfectly respectable. "A squire, eh? I heard a small bit about that."
"You swing, I'll dodge," Nicodemus replies with a faint smile. "You don't frighten me, ser. Locke's a good lad as well. A bit too quick to jump to arms, sometimes, but he'll settle in, given time."
Tommas shakes his head as if to say — Nicodemus can try to dodge that attack. "I'll have to work on that," he says wryly. He is clearly not intimidating enough. A fallacy of character. "Dangerous in a squire, that."
"Less than he used to be. Training helps. Focus. Control. Well, you know," Nic says with a small shrug. "Purpose and all that."
"Can't say that I do, know that is," Tommas returns, draping the towel he's been using over his shoulder. He never was one with much of a temper — the giant of Kingsgrove. "Seems it might. Having a bit to occupy yourself with."
"I think it has," Nicodemus agrees, giving up on resting on his elbows, and simply flopping onto his back in the grass. "I hope it has."
"I suppose you'll find out right quick if it hasn't. There is nothing to be done for not doing much with yourself, too much thinking," Tommas opines.
"Too much thinking?" Nicodemus asks. "Usually I get told I haven't thought enough."
"I meant your squire, Ser," is Tommas's brief reply. He lifts his eyebrows as he glances towards the former Groves. He knows Nicodemus doesn't think right, least in his opinion. "Did the same with Merel. Lass needed things to be doing, not just thinking."
"Oh. Yes. Well," Nicodemus murmurs, "that wasn't exactly Locke's problem when I found him. He seemed right busy, just not with the right sorts of things."
"What wrong sort of things was he doing?" Tommas wonders. Conversationally.
"It's not my tale to tell," Nicodemus replies. "I think it's enough to say that I found him in the Stepstones and I was about all he had in place of family."
"Ah, I see." The reply is short, unwilling to prod deeper if Nicodemus is unwilling to share and equally unwilling to comment on the tense subject of family. So instead, Tommas lifts his head and frowns up at the sky briefly.
Nicodemus sits up, carefully and gingerly. "I'd best get back, speaking of squires. Thank you for letting me join you for a spell."
"In this atmosphere…just lads are the more likely to get themselves into trouble, never mind squires. And do not mention," Tommas replies with a wave of his hand, brushing off Nicodemus' thanks.
There's another small groan as Nicodemus pushes to his feet. "Tourneys," he muses. "Still not sure whether I like them or not. Good afternoon, Tommas."
"They are what they are," Tommas agrees. His big mitt of hand offers another wave of farewell, then he settles back into the grass to rest awhile longer.
