| Pig Tales |
| Summary: | Desmond writes to many of the area's nobility to apologize for his behavior at the Stonebridge feast. Kittridge replies. |
| Date: | 22 April 2012 |
| Related Logs: | The Generous Harpy |
| Players: |
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| Stonebridge Green |
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| It's a green area in Stonebridge, but not the town square. |
| 22 April 289 |
I want to sincerely apologize for my absolutely inacceptable behavior on the evening of the feast hosted by our most gracious Regent. It seems I had misjudged how much I had to drink before attending, and while some believe I was drugged, I take full blame. Unfortunately, I can't recall the details of the night, so if I had affronted you, please let me know that I may offer a more personal apology. The Gods frown deeply upon me, and I pray just as fiercely for their forgiveness as I do yours.
My knight, Ser Garett, will have me running laps in the Stonebridge outskirts, in full armor, as soon as I'm finished with these letters. Afterwards, I'll be cleaning armor and stalls, and then running again until, he claims, "I spill my guts as badly as I had in front of everyone".
Also, if anyone has seen my flatcap, please let me know.
-Lord Desmond Westerling
Lord Desmond,
I write to inform you that I most certainly do not accept your apology. That you remember nothing of the evening in question I find difficult to believe. Your conduct towards me and my sister and the implications made about my dearest departed grandmother, not to mention your behavior with my steed, were of the vilest sort and betray you as truly one of the most depraved of men. The insult you have given me and my house cannot be allowed to stand unanswered, and it is only in the interests of gentlemanly fairness that I have waited til you recovered your wits to address the matter. I shall hold my tongue no longer.
Meet me on the green just outside Stonebridge center this evening at the ninth hour, and bring with you the pig, the purple pantaloons, and the greased elm rod or I will call you out and see that all of the Cape hears of your perversions and perfidies and the name of Westerling is forever tarnished. Any attempt to pretend further ignorance of these matters will not be tolerated. Do as I have directed or I will see both your infamy and your innards spread about the land. Good day ser.
Ser Kittridge Groves
The green just outside of the center of town is not exactly deserted. It isn't a high-traffic area itself, but there is a steady trickle of people heading past it on their way to somewhere else. Ser Kittridge Groves is not one of them, stopped instead beside a tree at the edge of the green. He stands in its shadow, unlikely to be noticed by a casual look at the area but not precisely hidden. He leans against the tree trunk, waiting.
Desmond had been given a vague description to look for. He trudges along, head low, fingers curled. When he spots the waiting knight, he exhales and straightens up, bowing briefly. Behind him, a vassal stands with… a pig on a rope. But that's it - no purple pantaloons, no greased elm rod. Desmond appears deeply skeptical as he stares at Kittridge. "Ser… Before I hand anything over or offer a more sincere apology, would you care to elaborate…"
Kittridge straightens up from where he leans, and walks towards Desmond, a frown upon his features, dark brows furrowed in displeasure. "You seem not to have followed my instructions, Lord Desmond," he says, "Shall I assume then that you did not mark my letter? Elaborate?" He lifts his brows and barks a laugh, "You would have me recount to you the shame heaped upon my family through your actions? Repeat the disgusting things you said of my sister, my mother, my horse? No ser, I will not. I want to never have to think upon that dark hour again. So I will give you one more hour to find the other things you must return to me, or else I shall be forced to do something drastic." He does his best menacing glare.
Desmond can't help but sputter. "I read your damn letter!" he snaps, then frowns, biting his lip. "I think I'd remember doing something to a horse, Ser! What if you are lying? What drastic measures? I may not have been /that/ drunk before but I like to think I had /some/ self control." But… he gestures to the pig. "I want to know what the pig has to do with this as well." The pig oinks innocently.
"I would think you would remember as well!" snaps Kittridge in return, "I find it quite impossible, Lord Desmond, that you have no memory at all of your despicable conduct. If I were you I would want to have blocked it from my mind and pretend I knew nothing of it as well. The pig?" He takes a deep breath as if struggling to control his ire, lips pressed tightly together, "The pig, Lord Desmond, was a treasured pet of my sister's. And you in your state were so desperate for a pork chop that you attempted to eat it. ALIVE. We were forced to put it down. My sister is terribly upset."
Kittridge's rage is so convincing that Desmond actually pauses to doubt himself. Well, he /does/ like pork chops. All of the vagueness makes him wonder if he'd done something /lewd/. "What kind of noblewoman has a pet /pig/… W-wait, eat it ALIVE? Gods help me! You are lying, surely!" The squire steps forth to wag his finger. "I bet you weren't even at the feast! I don't recall your face. And I'd never do such a thing. This is ridiculous!" He throws his hands in the air, exasperated.
"Oho, so you recall enough to know you don't recall me?" Kittridge counters, "I knew you were lying, disguising your disgusting conduct behind claims of a black out. And don't you dare insult my sister again!" he says, raising a finger to point warningly in Desmond's face, "She raised Lady Petunia from a piglet and now you have traumatized her to death!"
"Who in flames is your sister?! Name her!" Desmond is at the end of his wits here, being played like a fiddle and oblivious to it. He stares at the finger, and rolls his eyes at the pig's name. "You're mad." Heaving a sigh of submission, he kicks the pig forward. "Take the damn thing. I don't /have/ any elm rods or purple pantaloons. I'm sorry it has come to this!"
"Did you just kick that pig?" Kittridge demands, as if this makes him even angrier than all the rest, "You will apologize, Lord Desmond! Apologize at once! Or I will call you out!"
Desmond doesn't know whether to laugh or cry. "I'LL KICK ALL THE PIGS I WANT!" he suddenly shouts, and kicks the pig again. It squeals and starts to move the hell away. "Enjoy your /pork chops/, SER!" he scowls, and reaches up to give Kittridge a snarky hat tip. But alas, his hat is absent. "I'm going to be on my way, and I hope I shan't cross paths with you or your sister again!"
That is about it for Kittridge. He has done so well, so far, but Desmond's shout followed by that indignant tip of a hat that isn't there does him in. The noise he makes as he tries to hold it in might at first be confusing, and he bends double for a brief moment, but then it becomes clear that he is laughing. And laughing, and laughing. "Oh sweet Seven you should see your face," he cries, practically in tears he's laughing so hard.
Desmond stares blankly, wondering if Kittridge's supposed rage overtook him. For a brief moment, he braces for some sort of attack. But when it becomes clear that the man is /laughing/, Desmond puffs right up, indignant as ever. "I should've known! Have you no shame! I… hnnn." The squire folds his arms, anger slowly fading to amusement. "I've never heard of a prankster knight," he smirks. "Do you still want your damn pig?"
Kittridge laughs and laughs, straightening up but still holding an arm across his middle lest he laugh his guts right out. He starts to gather himself, but the offer of the pig sends him off laughing again, and it's another moment before he can snigger himself down again. "No, I don't want the pig. Though my sister really did have a pet one, back at Kingsgrove, and it really did just die. She has been very upset about it. But no, I— I couldn't resist," he shrugs, totally shameless as accused, "Your letter gave me the idea and before I knew it, it was written and sent."
"You actually had a pet pig? …WELL! I'm sorry for your loss." Yeah, it's hard for him to keep a straight face. He does seem less puffy at least. "Yes yes, I'm a fool for believing any of that. As if I'm not dealing with enough humiliation!" But his tone is good-natured. "I honestly don't recall seeing you at the feast… Groves, was it? Ruddy, take the pig off!" And the vassal drags the poor pig away.
"Rosanna did," Kittridge tells him, "Not me. But if you see her, you should say so," he advises, "She doesn't like to let people see, because it is a bit odd, as you said, but. She is quite broken up about it." He grins as Desmond seems to take the jest well and says, "I was there, actually, but you were so deep in your cups we didn't have a chance to meet. Ser Kittridge Groves," he names himself, and offers his hand.
Desmond now dons a much more shamed expression when his drinking is brought up. "I wish I hadn't been… I-It was an all-day effort, really! I started early, since there were festivities everywhere. But I clearly cannot handle my drink like my knight, so I've sworn it off." He reaches for the handshake. "Well met. I wish under better circumstances but alas. I recall speaking with Lady Rosanna, briefly. She's… pleasant."
"Please, don't apologize," Kittridge waves it off, "We've all done it now and then. Maybe not quite so publically, but," he shrugs, "Nobody really thinks the less of you for it. Or I wouldn't, anyway." He gives Desmond's hand a firm shake, "And please, Gods, don't give it up altogether! That's the worst way to handle it," he advises, "Because then one day you'll just really need a drink and you'll find you've got even less tolerance than before. Just ease into it," he suggests, with accompanying hand gestures, "Have a pint or two here and there and figure out what you can handle, you'll be much better off in the long term. Trust me." Then he grins, "Maybe not the best choice of words just at the moment, huh?"
"I'm so damn used to everyone being somber and serious that your little prank is actually refreshing. So sure, I'll take your word for it. Pint at a time. Think I can do that. So long as nobody thinks less of me… I hope the feast was still enjoyable afterwards, though I seem to have pissed off Longbough." Desmond shrugs. "Did you say Kittridge? I recall a K-name being a son of the Lord of Groves. Though you're not the heir, are you?"
Kittridge grins wider at Desmond's response, and nods, "Good man. Your next round's on me." He nods, "Oh, aye, it was a good time, and besides getting rushed out to be sick you didn't really do much to draw attention. I wouldn't worry too much." He rakes a hand through unruly hair and nods, "Kittridge, or Kit," he confirms, "Lord Groves is my father, yes. But no, my older brother Stafford is our father's heir, which is why I get to spend my time doing things like this."
"I'm just glad I didn't become sick all over the Regent," Desmond grins, rocking on his heels. "Ah, lucky you. Kit then. I don't know that I'd want to be the heir of anything… I'm kept busy enough." He pauses, then smacks his brow. "Speaking of, I was supposed to be climbing that damn hill a half hour ago! Sorry, I have to get going. Hope to see you around!" With this hasty farewell, the Westerling turns and bolts for the outskirts.
