Page 054: Whore and Lance
Whore and Lance
Summary: Rowan and Veris meet for the first time. Then Rowan punches Veris in the face.
Date: 05/09/2011
Related Logs: This scene takes place a few hours after Drink, Dice, and Dames.
Players:
Rowan Veris 
Rowan's Room - Four Eagles Tower
This small, modest bed chamber is about the size of a large closet, with room for a single bed, a foot-locker, a chest of drawers and little else. Everything is pin neat, the bed made, a large rag-rug covering the rough floorboards underfoot. A half-melted candle on a small, chipped saucer decorates the rickety nightstand, and a number of books are piled up on the low shelf beneath it. The chest of drawers, just left of the door, is wider than it is tall, about waist-height, topped with a pitcher and basin. On the walls are hung the banners of both House Nayland and House Terrick, along with an old but intricate map of the Riverlands, and another of Westeros entire. A single, dormer window looks out on the tower courtyard, the deep sill seeming a pleasant and inviting place to sit and watch the world go by.

It's the wee small hours of the morning following the last night of liberty for a certain newly acquired squire. Jarod had mentioned Veris' room was above the stables, and after an unfortunate turn into a closet, he finds it. Or a room, in any event. Amidst the pitch-black shadows and vague, moon-pale shapes of things there seems to be a somewhat bed-like object. Maybe a little lumpy, but it's probably just unmade.

Stumble left, wall. Stumble right, doorframe. Veris tries to get over to what looks more or less like a bed, but between the alcohol and the post-coital happy-haze, he's having a hard time moving in straight lines. "The fuck is all this stuff in my room," he mutters to himself as he trips over various objects on his way, unable to see any of it in the drunken darkness. Eventually, though, he makes it to the bed and collapses into it, not even bothering to take off his boots.

The bed doesn't feel like a bed, suddenly. The bed, actually, feels a bit like a girl — all leggy and smooth and good smelling. And it startles and yelps — the bed or the girl or the who-the-fuck-knows — and becomes a sudden explosion of remarkably effective violence, savagely kneeing, shoving, and ultimately delivering a blow to his face that sends him crashing off the bed. Quick as a wink, his attacker's on top of him, knees pinning his arms, breathing fast with the sudden spike of adrenaline. "Who the fuck are you?"

"What - " Veris barely has time to get out the one word before he takes a shot right to the nose. Off the bed he goes, blood pouring down his face, still dazed and confused as Rowan pins down his arms. "The fugg're you doing in my bed," he half-asks, half-whines. The busted nose and drunkenness only accentuates his lilting accent. He struggles against his assailant, trying be free of him, but that's none too effective with the bruising he took earlier while sparring with Jarod. "Get off me, you shit!"

"YOUR bed?" is the indignant retort, then there's a gasp. "Oh. Fuck." And a soft, choked snort of a sound that might be laughter. The slight but well-distributed weight pinning him lifts, a shadow moves, and there's the sharp strike of flint on steel. A tiny bowl of kindling flares up, and a candle is lit from it, the steady light finally making some sense of the darkness. There's the leggy young thing, dark curls and dark eyes, in nothing but a lad's nightshirt, kneeling to get a better look at him. "You must be Veris." The pretty face scrunches in a wince. "Did I hurt you?"

Veris groans as the pressure on him lifts up, rolling to his side so the blood from his nose can drain out easily. "Like to broke my nose, is what," he mutters, gently prodding at the relevant parts of his face to feel how bad it is. "Why the hell does everyone here know my name?" he asks, spitting out blood and sitting up with a grunt. "So much for ending my night on a good note." When Rowan kneels in front of him, he scoots back a bit, still not quite sure if the mystery bedperson crazy or what. "Are you a whore that Ser Jarod sent to my room or something?" he asks, trying to figure out why this leggy young thing was in his bed.

He gets a long, flat, dry look. "I'm Rowan. Jarod's former squire. And this is my room, dumbfuck." It's not really meanly said, just… said. The — boy? The other squire pushes to his feet, getting a clean cloth from beside the wash basin and returning to Veris' side. "Definitely not a whore. Unless you like lads?" he leers, waggling his eyebrows even as he offers the cloth for his injured compatriot's nose.

A beat. "Oh," Veris says lamely, accepting the cloth and pressing it to his nose. "Musta had more drink than I thought, you looked - " Realizing that there's no good way to finish that sentence, he doesn't even bother making the effort. "Well fuck," he says, trying to pull himself up to his feet only to fall back down on his ass, "guess that's what I get for askin' where the room for Ser Jarod's squire is." It seemed like the best way to phrase the question at the time.

"Yeah," says the other squire, smirking without umbrage. He knows, apparently, what Veris thought. "I get that a lot. No worries." He startles a laugh as Veris topples over again. "Fuck, you must've drank the lion's share. One last fling before you're chained to the oar?" He stands and goes to snag his breeches, left on the floor by his boots. "Let me put some pants on and I'll show you where you're probably meant to sleep. Though you can move in here when I'm gone, if you like."

"Don't take much to get me gone," Veris says with a laugh when Rowan comments on how much he must've drank tonight. "A little bit of drink, a little pretty thing from the kitchens, a little game of dice to round out the night… gotta enjoy the brief freedom while it lasts." He lifts the cloth away to check it; seems like the bleeding's starting to slow down, at least. "Didn't mean to startle you in your sleep like that and all."

"Hah. Well, if you get lit quick, that's more coin you can save for your knighting — not a thing wrong with that, as long as you don't get so inebriated you wind up limp-lanced with the kitchen girl." Rowan smirks over his shoulder at Veris. "Avert your eyes, lad — I'm not having you ogle my arse when a minute ago you thought it belonged to a whore." Once he's satisfied the other squire's not looking, he steps into his breeches and quickly pulls them up, tying the laces. "//I'm/ sorry I busted your nose. I'm a bit of a light sleeper — pretty enough to've given lads the wrong idea in the past, if you get my meaning."

"Fear not - my lance is ever straight and true!" Veris says in the loud, laughing voice of a man who's had too much to drink. He looks about the room as Rowan pulls on some clothes. "Heh, well, a couple more drinks and I might've seen where they got those ideas," he jokes, finally getting back on his feet with some effort. "Though my efforts are spent and my weapon sheathed for tonight all the same." He holds on to the wall to keep from falling over, being none too steady on his feet. "So if you were Ser Jarod's squire, what are you now?"

The other lad smirks, wryly. "That's an excellent question." But, more to the point, "I'm squired to Ser Gedeon of Oldstones, now. He trained with the Braavosi waterdancers. We're working on adapting some of those techniques to the longsword. Style suits me better. Quick and nimble. I will, alas, never be a battering ram as Ser Jarod is." He cranes and squints at the moon through the window. "Egads, man — there's only a few hours til drills. Will you even be sober, by then?"

"This is nothing," Veris laughs, waving away Rowan's concern. "Some water, a crusty loaf of bread, and some salted meats'll cure this in no time." He sounds pretty sure of that, but doesn't everyone always sound sure of themselves when they're wasted? "Longsword, eh? They tell me you're quick on your feet, and now I believe them. We'll have to go a round on the field sometime - I'm a man of the polearms. The longer the better, they always say!" He laughs like this is the funniest thing in the world.

"Thicker," says Rowan, snrrking at the cackle. "Thicker is better. Longer just winds up bruising a lady's liver. But if you meet a lass who's into that, let me know. I've got a weapon here that tickles my knee when I tuck it down my pant leg." He pats his crotch, deadpan. "So you want me to take you to the bunks or the kitchens, considering? I'm thinking you'll need quite a bit of water."

"Liver?" Veris retorts, still laughing. "When I lay a lass, her ribs get bruised from the inside. Eh? When I train, I gotta wrap it around my leg and tuck it into my boot what so's it don't get in the way." When his laughter finally dies down, he pulls away the rag to make sure he isn't bleeding no more before trying to stumble his way over to the door. "I know where the kitchen's to from here, but not where I'm to lay my head. So the bunk first."

Another soft snort of mirth, and the smaller, slender squire goes to help steady his replacement. "Easy does it," says Rowan, guiding Veris out the door. His voice is quieter once they're out in the hall. "Just there. Two doors down — you were close. It's where the stable hands stay, so you'll probably be sharing a bunk — and they're likely all sleeping right now."

Veris grumbles at that. "I'll just make sure to punch first this time if I end up in a bed that's already occupied." He leans on Rowan's shoulder to steady and guide him. "Thanks," he says once they get to his door. "Except for the part where you punched me in the nose. That part, I'm not so thankful about."

Rowan stifles another laugh, grinning. "Right. Well. I'll give you some bruises you can thank me for, tomorrow, Lance. Or later today. Whatever."

"And I'll make sure to get you back for this," Veris threatens jokingly, pointing to his nose. "An' call me Very. Right now, Very Drunk." That joke on his nickname never gets old for him, and he chuckles as he walks into his new room… and promptly trips over something, stumbles against a bed, and immediately gets punched in the face by its occupant, sending him falling back on his ass yet again. "Fuck!" he growls, rubbing his jaw and kicking the door shut before Rowan gets a chance to laugh in his face.

There's a great chorus of grumbling and cussing as the falling and slamming wake Very's bunk mates — and with the lot of the already woken, Rowan takes liberty to laugh out loud. "Sweet dreams, Lance!" Shaking his head, Ser Jarod's ex-squire turns and strolls back to his room, stifling a yawn.