| Victor's Spoils |
| Summary: | To the victors go the spoils…and the spoiled victories. |
| Date: | 26/October/2011 |
| Related Logs: | Melee and fallout. |
| Players: |
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| Rockcliff Inn — Terrick's Roost |
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| The Rockcliff Inn is one of the better inns within the town and it shows with the well-lit interior and the relative cleanliness to the other locations in Terrick's Roost. The tables are polished with oils and the floor regularly swept. A set of booths towards a darker rear of the Inn's bottom floor, just beneath the staircase, are where whores generally socialize and eye prospects from when not waiting tables. Signs over the undersized bar area advertise prices for ales and wines as well as several different choices of food to be served at the small eating area by the bar or in the main open area in its comfortable seating. A door behind the bar leads to the kitchen and cellar while another near the staircase leads to a private room that would appear to be off-limits to the 'wait staff' except for food and drink service. |
| October 26, 288 |
The Rockcliffe is rather lively for a night, talk of tournaments and weddings seeming the only thing on people's lips though one can sometimes hear a murmur of annoyance at certain other goings on. This round at least stands Alek's drink on someone else's tab, a boisterous call and slap on his back from another knight, some joking comment made about the melee. The blond knight does not linger there, however, his fingers curved around his glass as he weaves to a seat at the bar for himself, casting a thoughtful eye towards two whores laughing together over—yonder.
"Of course it's not going to look like it did before," Senna laughs to a hedge knight who follows her toward the bar, still holding a hand to his broken - though reset - nose. "You let someone put it on the other side of your face. It had just enough time to learn to like it there, I suspect. But it'll be straight, at least. So long as you don't let anyone break it again before it heals." The knight grumbles a bit, but waves and orders a pair of drinks from the bar. When they arrive, one goes to Senna, along with a few coins, while he takes the other to nurse in a corner.
Senna should feel flattered, since Alek's attention is torn easily from the whores at Senna's approach, something of recognition flickering in the grey-green eyes where they slide in a caress over the woman's features. He interrupts, rudely but with a warm smile, "Are you something of a healer, then, my lady?"
Senna turns at the question, her polite smile taking a twist somewhere when she recognizes the knight. "Something indeed," she answers, turning to face him more fully, drink in hand. "I started learning when I was just a girl. Had a tournament knight for a father," she explains, not the least bit shy about looking Alek over in return. "But if I recall correctly, you didn't seem to be in much need of those particular services."
"You would think, but the lad got a rather good hit on me," Alek answers, amusement crinkling the corners of his eyes as he shifts to a chair closer to Senna. "I still have some pain in my—ribs." He makes a smooth gesture of overturned fingers down his side, brushing against plain linen fabric that skims across lean muscles.
"Oh?" Senna takes a sip of her wine, reaching out to press a hand gently against his side. "How's that feel?" There's a glimmer of amusement in her eyes as she looks up at him, a decidedly wicked curve at the corner of her lips. And yet, it isn't /all/ flirting. For all her smile, the touch is practiced, and the tilt of her head suggests more attention than flirting requires.
Alek's fingers lift to trap Senna's hand against his ribs, a warm weight that attempts to stop said exploring as well. "It hurts, my lady," he murmurs softly, thumb dragging across the back of her knuckles. "But, I think it may only be your touch that does."
A dark brow arches upward, and Senna reaches up with the hand that holds her wine glass to flick a finger at Alek's ear. "What you get for not knocking that stubborn little thing upside the head earlier," she winks, then sips once more, making no effort to retrieve her other hand. "Oldstones, I heard," she continues after a moment, considering. "Do you have a name to go with the Ser? Or shall I make one up for you?"
"First tell me what name I would be burdened with. If it is more charming than mine own, I would rather let you use what you like," Alek answers, grin crooked at his lips where he jerks away from the flicked ear too late, too lazily to really be in earnest. "And what may I call you, my lady?" With her hand still trapped, he instead twines his fingers into hers slowly.
"Mmmm, a harder question." Senna leans back just a touch, taking her time in looking him over under the guise of choosing a suitable name. "Ser Cockerel, I think," she decides after a moment, looking back up with a wry twist of her lips. "And I'm Senna," she introduces herself, though a flicker of a glance toward the whores at the other side of the bar convinces her to add more. "Delacourt."
It is subtle, that hint of curiosity and recognition that slides briefly across Alek's expression. Even as she says it, he begins to lift her hand, though he stops well before any destination is made clear. "It is a pleasure, though I fear I must say I do not find my name that flattering," he replies with a smooth smile. "Though, rather close. Ser Alek Coope of Oldstones."
"One of the champions of the day? I can imagine you'll find flattery enough everywhere else." If Senna catches the recognition, she doesn't show it, stepping forward to let her hand press a little more firmly against his ribs. "Blacksword, isn't it?" That smile curves again when she looks up at him. "Oldstones is blessed with experienced swords, it seems."
"Very experienced swords, my lady," Alek teases wryly, his words holding humor warmly where it bleeds through. His fingers catch hers again, pushing them lower—to his hip, instead of his ribs. Pain only teases at the edge of his expression from that press, recovering fairly quickly. "But I doubt any other lips would deliver flattery as well, or mean as much."
Senna laughs, a low, husky sound, as her fingers curve around his hip. "In my experience, Blacksword, it isn't flattery knights like you are looking for from any lips." She leans closer, then arches a brow, smile curving wickedly. "Also, Blacksword? Not promising. Are you sure it's your ribs you're worried about?" she drawls, teasing. Alek and Senna have claimed a space near the bar, and though Senna still has a glass of wine in one hand, the pair are pressed rather close.
"I have already said I am not just looking for any lips, however. Or should I write a sonnet to your smile, a poem for green eyes? Flattery in return for flattery?" Alek questions in a murmur, fingers brushing up from her hand in a slow caress of her arm. "If you would like to join me in my room, I could show you the bruises that concern me."
It's possible there may be a new matter that concerns Alek in short order. Namely, the lean, blond knight that steps through and into the Rockcliff Inn. A quick glance around locates the Blacksword, and Gedeon makes his way over. "Alek," he says. Which is about all the warning the fellow gets before Gedeon aims a punch for the unbruised eye.
"Could you? Hopefully you aren't truly Blacksword-ed. Those types of bruises might be-" It's probably telling of something that Senna is stepping away from Alek as early as the sound of Gedeon's footsteps, cradling her wine glass against her chest and trying to free her other hand before they /both/ end up on the floor.
It is a good thing Alek isn't holding her hand anymore, fingers dropping away from tracing circles against her flesh at the sound of his name and turning—right into a punch. "Holy fucking seven," he curses as stumbling back into the bar sends his own wine spilling. His first reaction is violence, stepping quickly forward himself to try to catch the younger knight by the throat. "What the /hell/ was that?"
"What were you thinking?" Gedeon replies, moving to try and duck back from Alek's grab. "I know you've a brain beneath all that pretty hair, so what, by all the seven, possessed you to beat my squire into a pulp?"
Senna takes another step back to the bar…but only back to the bar. She drinks as she watches, keeping an eye out for anyone who might be inclined to interfere. This is her free show, after all!
With Gedeon ducking away, Alek's fingers only manage to catch on to his shirt instead, quick to twist roughly into it and yank the knight back towards him. "And so you thought you would take a swing at me, Ged?" he question in a growl, harsh where his words come from gritted teeth. "Your squire is the one that does not have a brain, thinking to teach /me/ about war, not knowing that we all yield if we want to fight another day. I /should/ have beat him to fucking death."
"Too fucking right, I do," Gedeon growls, face to face with Alek and breathing quickly. "I invited him onto the field, in front of the Young Lord and Lady Terrick and all the specators of the joust. How do you think it looks when a knight of my own house trounces him the instant the fight began?"
"Like the kid is half the size of the rest of the field, the least experienced one out there, and the easiest target," Senna chimes in at Gedeon's question, arching a brow at the knight. "As a spectator, it seemed like sound strategy to me." She slips up onto a stool, watching the pair without any apparent concern for getting in the middle of the fight. "But don't let me stop you," she adds, gesturing with her glass.
"Exactly. My lady Senna is right," Alek agrees, the threat of violence broken briefly for only as long as it takes to flash a smile to the woman and slide his gaze over her for another moment before turning back to Gedeon. He yanks on the shirt again in emphasis. "It /looked/ like he did not belong on the field. It /looked/ like the poor kitten needs to learn how to yield. And now it /looks/ like you are letting an insignificant lad hide behind your skirts, Gedeon."
"He's my squire," Gedeon responds coolly, keeping his gaze on Alek, though he must note Senna's words. "He's part of Oldstones. You could have fought him just as well and made your point without cutting him to ribbons."
Senna leans an elbow back against the bar, crossing her legs lazily as she watches the pair. "Getting cut to ribbons is a known risk of joining a melee," she observes. "If the squire chose to join into the knight's melee…Mmm." Another sip of her wine, and a small smile toward Gedeon. "But he didn't, did he? He was volunteered into it by…wasn't that you, good Ser?"
"If he is to be part of Oldstones, I would rather have him join knowing his /place/," Alek replies tightly, but he seems content to let it rest, untwining his hand from Gedeon's shirt and smoothing the wrinkles away with a brush of fingers. "You might be good to teach it to him, Ged."
Gedeon gives his shirt a crisp tug once it's released. "If he's to be a part of Oldstones, his place isn't under your heel. I had enough of that in my youth, I've no interest in subjecting a squire to that nonsense." He glances, now, over at Senna, "Even, miss. I hope you'll forgive the intrusion."
"Absolutely," Senna assures Gedeon, smile wry. "This is likely some of the best entertainment I'll have all evening." She takes another sip from her glass, finishing the content and setting the empty glass next to herself at the bar. "Well. Depending. Ser Gedeon Rivers, isn't it?"
"And not an apology for me," Alek drawls dryly, his gaze sliding briefly from Gedeon to Senna and back again. "I can still beat you just as bloody, /ser/, and I would remember that if I were in your place." There is something that cools about his own manner, turning cold as the threat of violence retreats. He turns back to get the bartender's attention to refill spilt wine.
"Yes, you can," Gedeon replies, "and it may be I can manage to crack a rib or two before you down me, but I had thought, when you called me 'friend', it meant a bit more than that." For Alek's apology he sniffs and shakes his head. "No, I'm not sorry. You earned that eye."
"Gentlemen," Senna murmurs, holding out a hand toward Alek and slipping from her stool to approach the knight. "Surely you've had this out now, hmm? Let's take a look," she adds, reaching up to try to cup Alek's face and 'inspect' the punch.
"And that is why you are still standing," Alek answers flatly, his attention diverted where Senna draws his gaze away. Instead, it falls steady to find hers, unblinking as he holds still for the examination.
Gedeon waits until Senna has finished looking over Alek's eye before he says, "I would ask you to give Rowan a chance, before you decide what lessons he needs to learn. I would ask that you help me make him a welcome member of Oldstones."
There's a little less examination and a little more soothing to Senna's touch on Alek's cheek, her thumb brushing gently around the orbit of his eye. She meets his gaze and holds it, despite any chill lingering there. "Nothing you can't survive," she declares after a moment, smile faint. "I'll get you a little something to rub on it. Wouldn't do to scare the girls off with a black eye, though you can claim it came from the melee easily enough if you're worried about scaring them off."
"Only you, my lady. Have I scared you off?" The question comes as a murmur, low and soft where Alek attempts privacy with the slightest lean in towards the woman. His answer to Gedeon, at the moment, is mere silence, a glance towards the other knight and a dismissive gesture of his hand that is probably meant to inidicate 'later'. Let's discuss it later, Ged.
Senna laughs, though there's less surprise and more genuine amusement in this one. "As I said, Blacksword," she drawls, smile crooked, "My father was a tourney knight. It's going to take a good deal more than a tumble between knights to frighten me away." There's one more lingering brush of her thumb against his cheekbone before she lowers her hand.
"More than a mere tourney knight, but if you wanted to tell me more, you would have," Alek answers, his brow curving upwards as his own fingers lift to draw against Senna's temple and pause with fingertips brushing against dark hair. "Come back to my room, my lady. I have more bruises that need looking over now."
There's a flicker of something in Senna's eyes at Alek's first words, a faltering in her smile, though she hides it quickly enough. "A Sheriff, as well, near my mother's family lands," she murmurs, a certain weight to the words. But then her hands are elsewhere, and and she's very close, smelling of herbs and woods. "Let's go see to those…bruises," she murmurs, lips curving in a small smile.
A laugh catches in Alek's throat, smile a crooked thing where he twines his fingers in Senna's and moves to lead the way. And Gedeon will have to wait because pretty woman trumps squire any day.
