|Oh No You Don't|
|Summary:||Arthfael dreams of being a knight. Marsden and Petra try to talk him down from the ledge. Jac is no help at all.|
|Related Logs:||None really.|
|Mews — Highfield Keep|
|The hawking mews is a simple, three-story tall building with a solid roof instead of the normal thatching. Unlike where the ravens are kept, the hawking mews have a more potent smell that suggests carnivore eating habits. There are several paritioned spaces with perches where birds can be tethered, but there is also quite a bit of freeloft space so the birds can stretch their wings and fend off restlessness. All the windows in the building are covered with wires so that air can circulate without risk of the birds flying free.|
|22 Aug, 289 AL|
The day is mostly cloudy, a bit of a wind blowing up outside with the promise of rain. Not a storm so much as scattered showers. Inside the mews it isn't well lit, but a youth is working. Arthfael isn't tending the hawks directly as he has wooden bars he is setting against which wire will be interlaced to add another mew. This one for separating out sickly birds to be tended. The lad sets the debarked bar into the holes he has drilled and taps it into place with a rawhide mallet before setting a thinner wooden peg to hold it fast. Arthfael has a small hachet hanging off his belt and a wooden tool box with assorted tools for his trade. The door is left standing open to give him more light, though he may well get fussed at for it.
The Songbird Knight is always announced by song; entering the mews is no different. He is singing some uplifting song about a drunk and a dog, though he has obviously sung it long enough he doesn't break into laughter at the rather side-splitting parts. When he fully steps into the mews and takes a gander about, the sight of the smallfolk boy draws a small smile onto his dirtridden face and his song pitters out. "Have you seen the hawking master about, boy?" He asks, his tone conversational than commanding.
The lad has squat down to use a sharp knife to whittle away a bit on the next bar that is too fat to fit into the holes he tapped with the hand drill. Arthfael stands to check the fit when Jac wanders in, his blondish head to turn at the merry tune. He grins whether he knows the song or not, then sheathes the knife to pick up his mallet, "I dunno'm. I just arrive'd 'n dunno anyone here, yet." Nor does he have a clue who Jac is or might be, and the man isn't dressed in a very knightly fashion, so the honorific isn't offered. Arth looks back to placing the bar and taps it with the mallet to set it firmly, "If'n I see'm, who tae say is look'n for'm?"
Jac Caddock chortles gently to the boy, and he nods his earth-colored head. "So you are, so you are. And does the new whittling boy have a name?" The Captain asks even as he steps further into the mews. He turns to regard one of the falcons who fluffs up her feathers at the knight before clicking her beak. He looks back toward the boy, offering a small bow of his head. "Captain of the Guard, Ser Jac Caddock," he introduces himself. "But Ser Jac will do just fine, boy."
Arthfael drops his mallet and it lands on his foot but he doens't flinch. He stares at the other, then deftly bends to pick up his tool, "Eh … " Is he supposed to bow? He does just incase, "I'm eh, Arthfael Carpenter. From Holyholt. I'm just start'n me journeyman studies 'n me grandpa, he thought there be plenty o' work down here for th' likes o' me. Captain, Ser." Arth looks over the other and then he grins, hesitantly, "Are ye really a knight and Captain of the Guard?" Because you know, Jac totally doesn't look it.
Jac rumbles with laughter, stepping forward to clap the boy easily on his shoulder. "Easy there, young Master Carpenter." Then he starts to look over the boy's work on the new mews, though the question does draw a slight arch of those dark brows. He glances down at the boy, crossing his leather-clad arms across his chest. "Yes, a knight… perhaps been one for as long as you have breathed." And man, doesn't that make him old? He wears his smile with a youthfulness however, especially helped by the smudge of dirt. "The Captain of the Guard, though? Well, like you boy," he drops his voice conspiratorily, "I'm rather new." He raps his knuckles against the wood idly.
<FS3> Arthfael rolls Carpentry: Good Success.
His work so far looks pretty good despite Arthfael's current distraction. He has thus far been fitting everything together with care, nothing loose or shabby in his workmanship. The lad looks back to the bar he set and pulls another peg from the tool box to start setting it at a 90 degree angle to chock the bar snug into place so it can't be knocked back out. He taps it deftly with the mallet, then when it wont quite set flsuh enough, he switches to the hachet. Arthfael handles it well to use the backside like a hammer and sets the peg with a single stroke like he's used to handling a larger axe. A moment later and he's dropped the handle back through his belt sheath and picks up another bar.
"Are ye a lord, Ser?" Arthfael looks over Jac who's kind of in need of a bath more than the boy. "You're new too? And ye be Captain o' the guard already? Are ye from Holyholt as well?"
Jac offers an expression of approval, nodding his head as he steps back to let the boy work without the looming giant. He crosses his arms at his chest once more, watching the far younger soul work. He chortles once more though as he shakes his head, holding up a hand. "Hardly, boy. I'm as common as the dirt beneath my nails." He then nods his head a bit at the follow-up question. "I spent a few years up at the Hollyholt, but I am a Bracken born." He pauses before asking with earnest curiosity, "Did your grandfather send you up here all alone, boy?"
Arthfael gives a negative shake of his head, "No, grandpa brought me. I think he intends tae be tak'n me back home wit' him later but I be warned th' Lord Aleister, he be want'n folk tae stay. So I dunno which I'm tae do." He coughs and clears his throat, "I mean, I'm not sure which I'm supposed to do." Apparently, he can speak like he's half educated but isn't used to it as much. For he quickly lapses as he goes back to finishing the bars of the quarantine mew, "I ha' a list o' things I'm tae work on for a few weeks. Grandpa, he's a master 'n I'm his apprentice."
Amusement flashes in the Songbird's eyes before he shakes his head a bit. The hint of education in the boy's voice is actuall the source of that amusement, but he decides not to point it out. The dirtridden Jac Caddock is standing aside to watch the young carpenter work, and he decides to take a lean against an empty mew. "Highfield will be a greater source of work that Holyholt, you are right there, young Master Arthfael. There is much to be built, and a new township is a good place for an apprentice to become a master."
The lad is clueless about the differences in the Houses other than location. They are both Charlton, right? None of his concern - yet. Arthfael finishes with the bars and changes the tap on the drill to a much finer bit. Using the hand crank, he sets to drilling out the holes that will be used to set the wire mesh along the mew's sill. He chews his lower lip idly as he works, quiet for a time before he runs his hands over the wood for roughness. Arthfael changes tools to a plane to skim off a bit along the edge. He glances once or twice to Jac, uncertain what the man wants with himself. He finally adds, "I dunno what grandpa's arrangement be."
Arthfael pauses, then asks, "Ye have a squire, Ser?"
Another person is soon to interrupt the work, though sadly he is no fair maid bringing food or drink for those working on building the mews, or any other part of the township for that matter. No, the man dressed in drap browns and greens, is not much to look at, beyond plain trews, a quilted jack of sorts, and a greygreen smock that seems to have been stained thrice over. One gloved hand remains resting on the pommel of his sword, while the other has it's fingers caught between his teeth. Chew-tugging off eyes slide back as he ducks himself in. Eyes scanning up, before he is slightly chuckling. "Not bad.." the tall fellow remarks, before he is floding the glove in his free hand and placing it into the thick belt about his waist, close to where a prayer knot dangles down. "I guess the new lord enjoys himself a bit of hawking.." A flash of teeth, before he is looking towards Arthfael and Jac. A nod to them both, and Marsden Streem, has himself looking off, as if to get the scope of the new hawking houses.
"I do," Jac confirms with a nod of his dirt-covered head. "Young Darek Boldt. He is about your age," he guesses, even if in reality there are three years of difference between his squire and the boy before him. He glances over at the newcomer, and he straightens from his lean a bit as if to judge the status of the man. He offers a more relaxed smile, bowing his head. "Lord Aleister does indeed enjoy that," the Songbird agrees with a small grin. He glances toward Arthfael as if to see if the newcomer gets the same awkward, uncertain greeting that he got.
Yeah, the new arrival does get a looking over, carrying a sword but dressed … almost like a Septon? But also, not quite maybe. Arthfael settles the wood plane back into his tool box and comes up with a chisal and his mallet once more. He gives the stranger a welcoming nod, then the lad starts to cute a rope pattern spiral along the mew sill - a bit of carving embellishment that isn't strictly necessary but will make the edge rounded smooth and look all the more handsome. Arthfael is pretty quick in roughing it out, working as he listens. He grins at Jac, "He's a lucky lad then. I envy'm."
<FS3> Arthfael rolls Carving: Success.
There is a glance over to Arthfael and then to Jac for a moment, listening to the two talk before he simply nods. "I know Lord Aleister enjoys many things." A wry grin followed, as if the joke didn't quite reach. Still the Half Septon remains where he is, aloofly surveying the work. To his status, were Jac to look he'd note the sword, and then spurs down on plain brown boots. Despite his dress one might surmise that he is indeed a knight, or something. Though something the Youth says seems to draw Marsden back in for a moment. "Envy's a green monster that'll bleed you boy." A rough laugh there. "Why do you envy th' lad?" Apparently he missed or simply ignored the earlier question about Jac's squire.
This undefiniable man spurs Jac's curiosity, but he has a patient curiosity. He chuckles a bit to the near-joke from the Half Septon. "At least he now has the space to have the things that he enjoys," the Songbird replies with a good-natured note in his tone. He quiets a bit now, giving the boy a space to answer the man's question. While he does, Jac considers the young Arthfael.
Arthfael chirps up with some enthusiasm, "Because if'n he works hard, a squire'll become a knight too, if'n he be good enough!" Said as though of course /every/ lad day dreams of becoming a knight, doesn't he? Who wants to be a stuffy, boring carpenter?!? He lifts an arm to wipe sweat and hair back out of his eyes before he shifts his stance to chisel more of the wood, working deftly and more or less spacing the 'rope' pattern fairly eveningly as he works down the sill. Most of it he does without use of the mallet unless it catches and the chisel needs a bit more push, "Everybody wants tae be a knight! But, ma says it's real expensive, and few get take'n on as squires. So aye, I envy'm. I heard lots o' tales, ballads'n the like of knights 'n squires. I kin sing'm tae."
<FS3> Arthfael rolls Singing: Success.
Arthfael keeps working on the carving but starts singing because it passes the time, and you know, he was just talking about knights in songs and tales!
"A dragon has come to our village today.
We've asked him to leave, but he won't go away.
Now he's talked to our king and they worked out a deal.
No homes will he burn and no crops will he steal.
Now there is but one catch, we dislike it a bunch.
Twice a year he invites him a virgin to lunch.
Well, we've no other choice, so the deal we'll respect.
But we can't help but wonder and pause to reflect.
Do virgins taste better than those who are not?
Are they salty, or sweeter, more juicy or what?
Do you savor them slowly? Gulp them down on the spot?
Do virgins taste better than those who are not?
Now we'd like to be shed you, and many have tried.
But no one can get through your thick scaly hide.
We hope that some day, some brave knight will come by.
'Cause we can't wait around 'til you're too fat to fly…"
Marsden raises a brow back over towards Arthfael, and there is a shake of his head thre for a moment as he watches the young man. A smirk coming up upon his face. "Aye, that is true, one day a man might become a knight if he has managed to squire himself away- an live long enough he might come to know what it means to be a knight." A glance is given back to Jac for a moment, before he is clearing his throat. "But, lad. I can tell you there are finer things to be than a knight. For instance, being a man of wood, like you are-you can earn a fine bit of coin without worrying about your innards being pulled out by another man's sword or fist." And there he turns as the boy begins to sing.
"I think our lot are what we are, a bit by ambition, a bit by knowing not what else to do." A raise of a hoary brow. "Would you agree ser?"
Jac begins to chuckle at first to the boy's excitement at being a knight, but then it turns into a more rumbling laugh at the song. He shakes his head a bit, giving the boy a tilted look. "Careful with that song, boy… you'll make girls blush and men want to thump you." Returning to his lean against the empty mew, the Captain looks over toward Marsden at his question. He offers the Half Septon a careful nod of his head. "Perhaps a small sprinkle of the unobtainable, the sort that keeps us forever striving." He then glances to the boy. "The Half Septon is right, though… that there is more in this world than being a knight, but if being a knight is what you want, then you have to find your way to it."
The chisel just keeps going, round and round the edge of that mew's sill until in short order, Arthfael has finished that side. It'll need sanding and smoothing yet but he steps around to work down the longer side. He stops long enough to look to each man, settling on Jac, "I'm not afraid tae be tak'n me lumps." he's not a small lad, broad of shoulders with promise that he may yet grow tall, even if he's not yet." He shrugs, "I ha' nae money. Ma says nobody'd want me without a means tae afford me own gear anyway." Arthfael lifts his chin anyway, "I'd spar ye squire though 'n maybe I could thrash'm."
Oh, if only everyone would serenade her as she passed, the blonde woman might be more inclined to good cheer. Alas, however, that is not the way of the world, and Petra has only the covered basket of meat and offal to see her through, as she steps inside, pausing just at the door to listen to the song, "That is not a song that would ever be sung about the Riverlands. Where would they ever find virgins enough to feed a hungry dragon?" The cloth is pulled off of the basket, as she continues inside, carrying the meat over towards where the tender waits to feed the hawks.
Whooops! And there's a pretty gal now! Arthfael suddenly blushes and yep, look at him focusing on his good work.
"And I would gander the only houses with the means to outfit a lad wanting to be a squire would be Chartlon, or some of the other Frey sworn. The Terricks are poorer than sept whores.." Marsden mutters before he is looking back towards Petra as he shows herself in, with it seems the feedin' for the birds. A chuckle leaves the older knight's lips as he bows his head. "I'd be surprised if any kept their maidenheads intact, till the day of all judgement." Given that Jac has figured him out, there is a nod right there. "If the lad is serious, I am sure he could make some wages here. Enough to buy himself a rusted sword or at the very most, an old plow horse." A chuckle there. "With war back in the air, one would think boys would looke to become maesters or septons instead of riding off to get gutted nigh the rill."
The woman's voice perhaps startles the Captain a bit, though he does his best not to look guilty as he turns his head to regard her. There is a hint of a smile on his lips and he bows his head to the woman. "Mistress," he greets foremost before he regards the boy and the Half Septon. "Certainly so. Though I'm certain thrashing about my squire is a good way to start that," he says with a dull smirk as if he is trying to imagine what it might be like for Darek to be thrashed by a carpenter. He chuckles a bit then before he considers the talk of maidenhood. "Depends on the size of the dragon," he comments with a tap to his nose.
Petra's eyes move to the Tordane knight, a smile curling the line of her mouth, "I would think sept whores would be the most well paid whores in all the seven kingdoms. It seems, in good times and bad, people are willing to give all their possessions to the sept for their gods' favour." The knight recieves a respectful bow of her head as well, as she sets down the basket, the tender handing over the buckets to be filled. Petra seems not at all bothered by the blood or the smell. The Captain's words do bring her head around, as she gives him a undisguised head to toe once over, "A small dragon then." But she doesn't ignore the carpenter, "One of the new journeymen in from the Roost, are you?"
Arthfael is sooo not saying anything now. The lad works at his carpentry, stealing a glance aside to look at Petra. His hands deftly use the chisel to cut the rope pattern into the wood, working steadily. Oh, wait, she's talk'n to him! Arth lowers the chisel, "Nae, ma'am. I'm from Holyholt. My grandpa be lent tae help with work here 'n I be his apprentice journeyman. I dunno th' details o' my grandpa's arrangement."
"Pardon." The Tordane knight says with a bow of his head. "Maybe, I did not take in the accidents of my former brothers in the cloth." A chuckle and Marsden allows a grin that stretches to his crowsfeet and crinkles there. "But, I was speaking on celibate men, not those desparate enough to give all in hope of some blessing that may not come as they like." A tilt of his head before he is looking back towards Jac. A snort there, but the lean Streem, doesn't interject on the properties of dragons. Instead he lets eyes flick back between the three Charltons.(Well sworn at least)
Petra seems to manage the threads of the conversations well enough, and Marsden's smile is answered by one of her own. "Perhaps that is why the gods do not answer so many prayers as they once did. Celibacy is such a trial." She hands off the bowls as they're filled, eyes falling for a moment, studying her fingers, red and sticky with blood, "Then I am glad to make you welcome in Highfield, such as I can, young master. And you may call me Petra. I am no lady, and I have little need for titles. But we have sore need of carpenters, more than we have need of squires. The world needs honest men and honest work. The sword is a romantic dream, but a sword cannot build. It only destroys."
"I was telling the boy, just that." Marsden quips with a nod of agreement in Petra's direction. There's a brief chuckle as he looks back to the young man. "You see that boy? Even honest women think there need to be more honest men, than those of us with old arms of steel." A pause and the Half Septon goes back into a lean against one a mew, eyes looking back to see where the bowls are off to next. "If a man wanted he should join the levy. That would show him what battle is. And that might temper what he wishes to become. Nobles have no choices in the matter. They are often either a knight, or a maester. Or at the least a septon." a rub of his chin as eyes watch Petra for a moment, before he looks back towards Arthfael. "You can do better than bein' a squire son."
Whatever he thinks, the boy keeps it to himself. Arthfael works on the carving, working the rope pattern all the way down the side of the mew's other sill already barred and interwoven with wire to keep the birds in when it's used. It's smaller than other mews since it's meant to tend to injured or sickly stock that needs separating out. When he's finished the carving, he wipes away a few wood slivers, then starts to check incase he needs to smooth out a place a bit more. Wood slivers litter the floor around his feet. He looks from one to the other, and mostly to Petra though his gaze also evades her if she looks his way. Arthfael might be a little shy of gals yet. He moves to put the chisel back and picks up a rough stone that fits his hand well, rounded and flattish with a pointed end like a tear drop. This he begins to use to smooth off the chisel marks, sanding and polishing the wood smooth. It'll then be ready to be sealed with beeswax mixed with pine resin until the wood shines, or left raw if nobody cares for that final touch in here.
The Songbird has been listening without much interjection at this point, as he is still looking at the boy with careful assessment, though he does chuckle a bit toward Marsden with a tilt of his head. "Careful there, ser… I take great pride and fond memory of my squire years." Then he looks to the boy. "But, he is right. There is no money in being a squire, and little still in being a knight — unless you want to be a tourney knight," and by the Captain's words, he definitely doesn't find much merit in those types of knights. "If you find being a knight romantic, perhaps those dreams should remain pure and you can tell your children how you always wished to be a knight." He looks over toward Petra before he offers her a small grin. "We will talk more one day on this idea of be being a destroyer, Miss Petra." She said no honorifics, but Jac is never good at that.
A glance is passed towards Jac. "And I Ser, don't entirely care. You wish to speak to the boy about lies? Then go ahead. Our calling is not romantic, nor is it easy. As a squire-despite being under a fine knight- you can attest to the life which we lead. I know I saw more dead squires become knights before the rebellion was dead and through." And there Marsden turns his head to spit down into some of the sawdust that accumulates on the floor when woodwork is being done. Only then he turns his head to look back towards Arthfael. "We are trying to save you heartache and perhaps a limb son. I am sorry if you don't see the merit in it."
"Not so with a certain squire, if the stories I have heard around the township are any indication. Perhaps he should take up this lad's job, and leave squiring to those as seem to actually care for the position, not to mention the honour of their knight and their House." Petra finishes the sorting, carrying the bowl to be washed, and her hands as well. "Not all who have been given their heart's desire do it justice, sadly." Petra hunkers down, to better dip her arms into the water, scrubbing away with the harsh lye soap that's set next to the bucket, looking back to Jac, "Another time, Captain." And to Marsden, "It is a hard thing, to let go of dreams. We fight and wail and scream. But the swift cut is the merciful one."
"I aint said nutt'n tae gainsay ye, Sers." Iff'n that other one is a Ser. The lad's not too sure what Marsden is one way or another. He works the wood he's been assigned to finish, almost done with his work in here for the day. Then he'll be needing to see to his tools to make ready for tomorrow, stropping the hacket and chisel, oiling things. Arthfael works the stone around and around over the curve of the carved sill, smoothing away the chisel's marks. If nothing else, the extra effort catches the eye and makes for a more pleasant place to lay the hand to slide the mew door aside, while the other will be set to the iron latch.
Jac holds up a hand a bit to Marsden. "I don't find it romantic, but the bards do, and the storytellers, and the things boys hear in the common rooms." He grimaces a bit, nodding all the same with the word of the dead squires though he does not seem all that willing to speak further on that, perhaps keeping such things buried down. Then he glances over toward Petra as his brows furrow with another threat of a grimace. "If we are both talking about the same squire, he is showing promise but he is going through a period of adjustment. He will improve," the knight says firmly, and truth be told, Darek is not all that bad…
There is a slight sigh from Marsden as he looks back towards Arthfael, for a moment. "Ser Jac here has a squire. I have no need for one, as I am more an outrider than else. I do not do calvary charges." In fact Marsden's steed is a hearty vale pony. Nothing that would run down a man. A glance is passed back Jac as he nods a bit more, a laugh given over though it lacks mirth. "The best those tales are for, are finding yourself in a wet and warm place by the end of the day."
A glance is passed back towards Petra and there is a faint grin there. "And here I will warn you lass. A knight is ever protective of his squire, even if some treat them like shite."
"Periods of adjustment can be easily lessened by the proper application of punishment. Every member of this Household is a reflection of the Lord who holds it, and he does not suffer fools gladly." Petra's voice is soft, and not at all heated, though her Landing accent is slightly deeper than before. She glances to Mardens, as she gets up from washing the blood from her arms, though, perhaps a trick of the light, or the stains of water from the washing, but her hand still seem bloody. "A squire is a reflection of his knight. As the master, so the student. And a student who will not do as he should should not remain a student." A shake of her head, "But as I am neither a knight nor a man, I will leave such discussions to my betters." Another dip of her head, "Septon, Captain, young master. May you find yourselves in a warm wet place before the end of the day." Just enough humour in that to bring that half smile back to her lips, before she moves to collect the bowl she brought with her.
What /did/ she say? Warm, wet … oh boy. Arthfael blushes like a lad who's not actually bedded anything but his pillow yet, baudy songs aside. He drops the smoothing rock and has to squat down to find it in the straw. Where'd that thing go?
Jac chuffs a bit of air much like a bloodhound would, but he bows his head toward Petra. "I will heed your words, Miss Petra." At least that seems like an honest statement from what is perhaps an honest knight. He does bow a bit toward her at least in respect to a woman present, though there is still a small grimace on his lips. He does glance toward the blushing boy, shaking his head a bit with a small flicker of amusement in those dark eyes. "Take care, boy. You can still be more than a carpenter." The knight is standing near an under construction mew with a young boy, the Half Septon and what appears to be a departing Petra.
Marsden smirks back at Petra before he is looking back towards Jac. "I believe she has you there, Ser." a chuckle in that raw throat of the septon-ish, before he is turning to watch her as she files off, eyes unabashedly falling to her hips. "Yes." he murmurs before looking back to Jac. "May we all, and not get caught." a wink passed to the dirtier knight. "I think I've seen enough of Hawks for the day."
"Why would you, Captain? You never have before." And now she is laughing, almost, as if it were some old joke, albeit a contentious one, between the woman and the knight. And Petra hardly seems upset by it. But the Septon's comment gets her attention, "If you have no more desire to see the hawks today, perhaps you might be willing to take me to see Willem. We have some business to discuss." Girls. They're all alike. Though they probably don't all have carrots in their pockets. Out through the door she goes, though, not stopping to see if the older knight follows or not.
Darek, sweaty, breathing hard, and carrying a water-skin and a small satchet of something fragrant, has to quickly step aside from the doorway into the mews as Petra departs, the squire pulling up with an almost-audible skidding sound, and a surprised sounding, "Shit!" Regaining his balance, he bobs his head in a polite nod, murmuring, "Sorry." And then he waits until those coming out have come out, and slips inside himself. "Ser?" The young man's light tenor is querillous, as if he's not sure of the source of his report as to the Captain's presence.
<FS3> Arthfael rolls Singing: Success.
Yes, better now that those who dissaprove so of his foolish notions have stepped out. Arthfael found the stone he'd dropped and finishing up his rubbing down of the carved wood, he wraps it up in an oiled cloth and lays it carefully into his tool kit. Half under his breath he sings a few words to a merry little tune, starting to pick up his things as his work in here is completed for the day.
"The bravest knight in all the realm,
Young, handsome and vain as well
Declared the maid his holy grail
And rode off to rescue her.."
As the pair depart, Jac releases another unsettling breath. "I'm too old for this shit," he says mostly to himself before he casts a glance down to the boy — specifically the younger one. After all, the older one has come along with the same kind of grace he always does. "Darek," Jac confirms with a nod of his head. "Come along, what have you got for me?" He asks, as if he is expecting Darek to be bringing him something. His gaze drops over toward Arthfael as the boy starts to sing, and he casts a glance to Darek.
Darek ducks around a supporting post, "Phew… it stinks in here." He raises the satchet to his nose, taking a whiff as he finds the knight and the carpenter. There's a moment's pause as he catches the snatch of song, "Not bad, kid… not bad." He's probably no more than a year or two older than the other youth, but in his mind, that's evidently more than enough. Looking back to Jac, he holds out waterskin and satchet, "Yo wanted me to remind you that you were supposed to meet with Lady Highfield soon, Ser." By the dark splash around the neck and shoulders of his sleeveless shirt, and the clinging bounce to his waves of dark hair, he's already given himself his traditional bucket-over-head end to a good workout.
Arthfael picks up the last of his tools and his tool box. He's almost fifteen and starting to hit new growth, but he's not as tall as some and broader than a few. Openly he eyes Darek, then hefts the tool box over his shoulder to nod to the older man, "Ser, guess I be off. Thankye for ye words. We'll see what comes o' it."
"Right," Jac snaps abruptly at this news, and he glances over toward Arthfael. "Darek, this is young Arthfael Carpenter. He apparently has some song about him." Highfield must attract the musical sorts. He brushes his hands through his dirty hair before he looks to Darek. "I'll need some soap and water before that meeting can happen," he says in a rough note before he steps forward to clap his squire on the shoulders. He nods his head a bit to the young carpenter as if it sounds like he is making his leave.
Darek shakes his hands filled with waterskin and scented satchet at his knight, offering up a dimpling smirk. "Carpenter, eh? If you're interested in a coin or two on the side, I could use a singer for when I play down at the inn." He gestures toward himself with one hand, adding the introduction, "Darek Boldt. Squire to Ser Jac." And then he's gesturing back toward the Captain of the guard with the waterskin, rocking under the clap on the shoulder, "Since Ser won't come down'n sing with us."
The blondish lad sets down his tool box to take Darek's hand, "Oh, ye be him who's his squire." Arthfael looks Darek up and down, "I might could whip ye," he says boldly to the older boy, a laughing, daring glint in his blue eyes, "I might take ye up on it. I kin sing 'n play though if grandpa finds me drink'n he'll box me ears." Doesn't sound at all like that keeps him from it, "Name's Arthfael, from Holyholt. If'n ye can keep up wit' me."
Jac Caddock chuckles a bit at the spirit from the lad, and he casts Darek a glance. "Some spirit in him, you two should get along famously," the knight confesses with an amused smirk. Though he does scoff a bit to Darek's complaint. "I've told you, boy, I will sing with you now and then, but you are clinging to a strange fantasy of fame around that noisy instrument of yours." He says this with warmth in his baritone, not trying to hurt his squire's feelings. No, he is very precise when he has to do that.
Darek scoffs at Jac's scoffing, "I can be good with a sword and a fiddle, ser. Promise." The younger young man's bold words draw a guffaw from the squire, however, "Shitfire, kid… you've got more balls than brains." Pot, kettle, black. He waves off any immediate complaints, "Arthfael, then… damn that's a mouthful. Well, Arty," Apparently, the Carpenter now has a nickname, "I'm the best fiddle player you're liable to hear west of the Twins, and I ain't never found someone younger'n me who could whip me. What's it you play, then, Arty?"
Arthfael draws himself up with a grin, "I play th' lute, but I lay hands tae whatever I kin. I'm work'n on mak'n instruments when I gots th' spare time." He deflates a little, "I don't get much time fer it though." No, he's got lots of siblings to help feed. Too many mouths and too little time. The towhead glances to Jac, then back to Darek, "I'm nae afraid tae take me lumps. I'll learn from th' practice."
"Perhaps you can get your drummer," Jac says dryly to his squire. Some question why he puts up with these antics, but he has noticed that the more Darek plays, the more he is focused during their lessons. He glances over toward Darek with an arch of his dark brows as of conveying some silent conversation to the younger Bracken man. "If you decide to spar with him, Darek, keep it fair." He taps his finger aside his nose before he straightens up again to clap the squire on his shoulder. "And we still have a bar fight to discuss," he says in a soft rumble.
Darek frowns in thought at the mention of the lute, "Might work, might work." He nods at Jac's dry statement, apparently taking it at face value in his animated state, "We cursed well do still need a drummer." There's a pause, and he looks more carefully over to his knight, "Not that there's any 'we,' ser. But a lute might be pretty nice. And it's fuckin' hard to sing while you're fiddlin' away." Jac's warning causes the squire to look from the carpenter to his own hands and back again, "Fair, ser? I dunno that I can lose half a foot to make the reach even…" As he drops his hands to his sides, one brushes against the sword there, and he blinks, "Wait… you mean… oh shit no. I wouldn't use a sword on anybody without a sword. I'm better with my fists anyh — " Right, that would be the barfight. Quick to his own defense, he notes, "Wasn't my fault, Ser. Guy was getting all handsy with — " and there he stops, revises what he was going to say, and carefully goes with, " — a girl. And he swung first."
Looking from one to the other, Arthfael nods, "I kin sing a lil' better'n I can play." he listens and sticks his fists on either side of his slim hips, eager to prove himself and yet he drops his eyes to Darek's sword and looses some of his eagerness, "I ha' nae sword 'n dunno how tae use it. But I kin use an axe, or me fists." Nice calloused hands which he holds up, nevermind he hasn't so much as a gameson let alone leather jerkin or armour. He doesn't say anything about a drummer except, "I kin make a drum."
Jac smirks with amusement at his squire, though he lifts a hand up to stall the boy from further arguments about the bar fighting. "A girl, yes. And you protected her honor, and I hear you even stayed behind to talk to the guards. But, next time we teach you how to not throw a punch and still win the fight." He glances back down at the boy as he helps satisfy Darek's dream for this band of his. He sighs out a breath, but there is a touch of warmth in that old, dirty expression. "If you can make it, you can learn to play it," Jac offers dryly, such an enabler.
Darek nods at Arthfael, stating with a 17-year-old's certainty, "Fists are definitely the best, Arty. No one can take those away from you." Looking back to Jac, he blinks at the knight in confusion, "Now where's the cursed fun of dealing with a grope-y drunk without throwing a drunk, Ser? Unless…" His eyes light up, and he grins, "Fuck a duck. I totally shoulda just dodged his drunk ass until he puked. That would have been stonkin'."
<FS3> Arthfael rolls Singing: Great Success.
Huh, fight'n over girls. For all that he can whistle and sing up baudy tunes, Arthfael's a touch young in that area yet. He hums a little of the opening for the 'Lusty Young Smith' and his tenor sings:
"A lusty young smith at his vice stood a-filing.
His hammer laid by but his forge still aglow.
When to him a buxom young damsel came smiling,
And asked if to work in her forge he would go!"
Seems he knows a zillion of this little ditty tunes, whip'n them out left and right. And of course there are many more lines than the few he tosses out. Too bad Darek didn't hear that one about dragons and virgins, but then Jac only heard half of that one himself. Arthfael grins and picks up his tool box, "I kin keep a beat onna drum but it nae be me favorite." Ah yeah, to the fists he nods though he's only so-so tussl'n that way. Arthfael picks up his tools, "I need tae go'n eat me dinner. I'll see ye at th' pub." Most likely.
Jac taps the side of his nose at Darek's realization. "Would have saved your knuckles too," he says simply before he glances back over toward the young carpenter even as he sings another small tune. He shakes his head a bit with a low rumble of laughter. "First lesson boy is to be mindful of the company you keep before you decide on a tune. And we will see you long, young master," he says to the boy as he steps aside so he can move along. He glances over toward Darek with a smirk.
Darek blows off Jac's suggestion with a raspberry-like sound, "Pfft. I hit him in the gut twice and then kicked him in the fuckin' balls." The song from the carpenter brightens his expression, "Nice." Apparently, he's just the right audience for the song, "I could fit something to that with the fiddle real easy." He actually gives a wave to the other youth as he departs, "See you 'round." And then he's holding up the waterskin and satchet to his knight again, "So am I gonna have to chase you with these, Ser?"