| Wine and Tears |
| Summary: | Garett and Desmond try to get in some training. Briallyn shows up and it goes downhill from there. |
| Date: | 1/4/2012 |
| Related Logs: | Liquor Makes Everything Better |
| Players: |
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| Upstream Landing |
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| The waters here are more adequately described as a stream or tributary and thus the boats moored here are of the smaller variety. Two or three dozen of them with sails and even small dinghies and rowboats are tied up along the wooden docks. Sailing farther downstream takes one to Seagard while upstream to the north leads to the Green Fork and The Twins. |
| Sun 1 April 289 |
Hard to find a decent place to set up an impromptu fighting , but Garett has made do. And after taking a bit of time to do his shaving, he's set himself away from the docks on a small hill shadowed by a tree. that's where he's carry the majority of their sparring gear. Or Desmond's gear at least. As for himself, he's discarded his surcoat and rolled up his sleeve, in the midst of a series of push-ups.
Desmond lacks wit at times, most certainly, but he's far from incompetent. He's taken to sharpening Garett's blade with a whetstone, all the while gnawing away at an apple. Beside him are a pile of daggers that he'd finished with. "You'd think there are no men in this town," he smirks. "Those girls where falling at your feet. I don't know what they see in you, really…"
"That makes two of us, Desmond." Garett grunts as he continues to exercise, his pace slowing until he just stops, turning to sit on the ground. "Not really something I have ever really concerned myself with. I feel for their brothers and husbands, but there is little I can do about it. For their sakes, I hope they will survive, but, there are always the victims in war. Either way, I am sure there are some quality men in this town, but they are probably all spoken for. I would watch yourself if I were you before someone gets their claws in you."
Desmond leans back against the tree, tossing the whetstone aside. He laughs at the mere suggestion. "I haven't time for that. For girls and such. They're so… frivolous, silly. Immature. No one is going to claw me, Ser, you can be sure of that." He pauses to finish off his apple, and toys with the core, balancing it in his palm. "Tell me more of the battlefield, will you?" Perhaps an attempt to avoid having to do push-ups of his own.
"Claw? Or claim, do you mean?" Garett replies, the two in the midst of training by torchlight, suggested by the trio of burning sconces that form a triangle about them near a grassier part of the area. "Immaturaity and frivolosity comes hand in hand when dealing with the fairer sex, and you would do well to remember that. Don't be so easily lured into their snare, Desmond. A soldier's life is not easy. We are not politicians. We do not decide how the country is ran, we are but mere cogs in a larger system. Pivatol, but no less replaceable. If you take your life, go unnoticed while still acheiving the things you wish for in life, it is not a wasted one." he taking up a sparing mace in hand, made of wood and weights, tossing Des similiar sword-shaped one. "But perhaps you feel differently, in which case, I wouldn't blame you. I'm an angry, bitter, old man. But I'm also quite content with that. You will have to be content with the man you turn into. And if you can live with the things you do. Being a Knight isn't nearly as glamorous as some make it seem to be. It is hard, it is dirty, it is dirty, and the faces of those you have slain will keep you awake at night. Mortality can be quick and painful for us. Some of us are lucky. Some of us…not so much."
"You think so little of my resolve," Desmond grins, catching the weapon. "My old master had a much more different outlook than you, I'll say that. More about glory, honor, all that. Triumph. Never speaking of the grim things. It's a wonder I'm not depressed by now. But no, I certainly believe you. And you're not /that/ angry." He keeps that smirk, the usual band over his eyes pushed up, looking more like a bandana, and his hat set aside. The tip of his wooden sword rests on his shoulder as he waits for instruction. "Do the faces still find you at night? Maybe it's better that I keep you up."
"He wasn't exactly wrong, Desmond." Garett states, walking forward, wooden mace propped against his shoulder. "Stance." he instructs. "But the glory, the fame will pass. Until your lost in your little world, recalling only the good things you did. And you'd living in denial in spit of that." As he circles the squire, he slaps the back of Des' shoulder. "You've been over-extending yourself. When you reach too far forward what do wrong? And why is it wrong?"
"Stance, right," Desmond murmurs, counting on his fingers briefly before adjusting. At the light push, he pauses in thought, studying Garett's face as if he might find the answer there. Gleaning no hint, he exhales. "I leave myself open, right?" he asks, hopefully. "No, he wasn't wrong, but I do think he might've been living in a world of denial, like you said." There the faintest hint of spite in his voice.
It isn't that life is easy for a woman, it's just the way Briallyn carries herself that seems to indicate she doesn't give a damn. That casual stride of hers, hips swaying just slightly, allows her to weave in and out of the few people walking the docks, shaking Ilaria and Katrin's damnable guard. It isn't that the man is inept, so much that Briallyn is stubborn and patient. It isn't a safe practice, and more than a few crude glances are thrown her way, but if Bri notices, she says and does nothing different. Her hair is pulled up from her neck, loosely twisted and secured against her head with the versatile ivory combs.
Arms tucked behind her head and boots thumping softly with each step, the young noblewoman is content to hum some ditty beneath her breath. That is, until she spots a pair of familiar faces disentangled from the small throng of people. Garett's appearance causes a hitch in her step, but more pressing matters need attention. Those intense green eyes brush over Garett, note the squire's presence, which almost draws a chuckle if she isn't presently trying to obscure her presence as an observer.
"When you extend as you do," Garett, standing beside Des to give an example of Des' own mistake, "Look, you see how the shoulder is now the most exposed part of your body? Reach is only an advantage when you leave an oppurtunity for a counter and if you intend on using that an instance to goad someone into attacking, that had better be a beleiable feint. Make yourself as small possible, when in doubt, always retreat to your footwork. Right foot front, left back. Making your profile smaller is going to make you harder to hit."
"Many of us live in denial. Fact is, I think everyone does apart something or another about themsleves, but that's not for you and I to discern or think about. Pondering other's motives is pointless. They do what they do because they do. Easier if don't let it weigh you down. Remember," now he moves to face him. "You stick that sword out, leaning foward like you are, what are you going to do? Get hit in shoulder. So how do you correct? Extension is fine, but arm extension. I know you want to put power forward and you'll get those, but not here." He extends his mace without leaning, proding Des in the chest with it. "I can hit just fine without. I don't need it." This proven by how fast the two-step he takes. "Once you're in close, their weapon because unweildy, awkward. You go for the joint in arm." he touches mace at that particular point. "Or the throat." Poke there. "Or the groin." Thankfully, no poke there. "Once you close the gap, you have them, but you have to act fast. No thinking, Desmond. There is only doing. You are not here to hurt, or incapacitate. You are there, in that moment to kill them. Remember that, because that is what they are thinking."
Desmond is attentive, making a mental note of every little detail as Garett elaborates. He holds his stance as it's picked apart, and chuckles as he's prodded in the chest, throat, but dances away at the last note. "Well, ideally, think before doing… or think fast. Or do it enough that you don't /need/ to think. Right, kill." He mimics Garett well enough, looking down at his footing to correct it.
"Ah, I see one errant gull has strayed from the flock," Desmond all too cheerily notes upon spotting Briallyn. "Have you grown bored with them?"
"They have better things to do than teach me how to be a proper lady. Such as feeding their subjects and squabbling over politics," the youth breezily replies as she comes closer, but without invading either man's personal space. Her eyes linger upon them with the same unsettling lack of propriety as if dissecting them. But, at least Briallyn appears to be avoiding fawning, or outright leering. "I had not thought to find anyone I would recognize here, but it is best that I have. I would still like answers to my question, Ser Knight. Ones I know you can provide, even if you think that I would faint dead away at them." Bri drops her arms, folding them firmly beneath her bosom against the soft silver sheen of her corset. "War is ugly, Ser. I don't expect flowery answers. Or you could keep instructing him. It is most enlightening."
"Yes, once you have done this enough, it should be something so ingrained in you, that you no longer thinking upon it. You just do as your body wills. But, be very cautious about how let that slip in. Don't become some mindless killer, Desmond. You have a mind and you have a will. Never question your heart if something feels amiss. Don't blindly follow orders because you feel it is your duty. It is your duty, when you become a Knight to look after the people, commoner and noble alike. You are there to serve them, to protect them, do not forget that. Tryanny can come from the most unlikelest places. And in this age, we must always be cautious of that. It's insidious, it can creep and pollute the most pure of hearts. If you let yourself forget that, then you will assurdely lie in bed, remembering each face of the people who's lives you've taken, just or not."
At Des' note of note being along, he turns, to take in Bri. "Lady Briallyn. Odd place to see you out here at such an hour." He's about to look back at Desmond to continue his instruction, but the reemergence of the qustion of Bri's brothers from earlier has Garett sighing, perhaps in mild annoyance. "And I repeat the same thing I said previously, my Lady; I do not know the fate of your brothers, but I will say this; pray as hard as you can to the Seven that they were no where near Lannister. Few left what was left of that city alive."
Desmond is somewhat moved to silence from all of that, letting his weapon drop slowly. Heavy stuff, of course. "I'm not where I am because I want to kill, Ser," he feels the need to assure. "I'm here for them." He cants his head towards Briallyn, and when Garett picks up an apparently unfinished conversation with her, he moves aside to practice a few swipes against the unfortunate tree.
"It isn't that I expect you to tell me of my brothers' fate. If you do not know, you do not know. You were… very reluctant to share your experiences. And I would rather rely on the skill of my brothers' sword arms than the will of Gods. Praying has never helped me much, and it didn't keep Mercer alive, either. I just wanted to know their chances." She remains out of their way, but close enough to watch closely and speak softly. As Desmond moves away, Briallyn gives a small shake of her head and her gaze remains firmly upon Garett. "Do wallop him, if he needs it. I shan't cry if he bleeds. He would bleed more without it, I'm sure." The young woman offers a wry smile that curls the corners of her mouth upward. The smile wans rapidly, and she unfolds one arm to rub gently at her brow, moss colored eyes less bright.
"I am reluctant to share what I know because no man or woman should have to share in their experiences." Garett's voice gets dangerously cold. "Their chances? Fine, since you do not know when to leave well enough along." he states practically shoving the practice mace into Desmond's chest, walking directly at Bri. "Your brothers, they would not of been put together into the same unit, they would've been seperated and put where they're skills were most apt. The bulk of our forces that were not lost in Lannister were sent to the Iron Islands. There are a few things that could've happened then. They could've been burned alive at Lannister, along with the charred husks of dead women clutching dead children, the looks pain still frozen on their faces. Or they could've gone to Islands themselves. And while we are winning the battle now, it was not so when we first touched down on the beachhead. They had the higher ground, and we lost men in droves. Like scythe through a shock of wheat. I myself took two arrows in the beginning assualt. Or the third, more lucky option, that they were stationed somewhere that was low priority, like the Crag. Where attacks were few and far inbetwee. So to sum things up in a practical sense, in my experience, you have already lost one brother, perhaps two depending, again, on where they were sent. They wouldn't keep all three together and that is the saving grace. At least seperated, there's the chance that one of them will come back alive." It's not said nicely, but she asked and he did go out of his way to not talk about it.
To her credit, the young woman doesn't shrink away, or cower, at Garett's approach. She stands a little straighter and watches him warily, the darting tip of her tongue brushing over the top edge of her teeth. Briallyn doesn't look away, eyes meeting Garett's, however foolish that might be as he's bearing down on her. Her skin pales as he details everything, including the likely fate of her siblings. She processes it, eyes sliding shut firmly for a moment as her brow furrows. Draws a breath, holds it, and it escapes parted lips. The smile she responds with is pained, but appreciative, as she opens her eyes.
They hold no tears, but there is something darker there. Anger, perhaps, but no malice directed towards the Knight himself. "I see. You have told me precisely what I asked to hear. I do not regret asking, and I thank you for your honesty." Bri pauses, her white-knuckled fingers biting sharply into her arm. She doesn't seem to notice. "I've no desire to ask you to recount your battles, Ser Garett. I can see you are not a hungry glory hound. But, I am glad that you are returned whole and alive."
"Oof!" Desmond holds the training mace. There goes Garett. Oh no no no, he's vexed. And he's already describing charred remains. Desmond winces, as he's dealt with that grim reality, trotted before him. Garett lacks a filter, he has come to understand. But he doesn't dare try to intercede, apparently Briallyn wanted this. Even so, Desmond gazes elsewhere, face sullen, glad to just bask in the awkward silence after Briallyn has spoken.
"Nor do I have a desire to speak of them. And that is something people have thus far failed to understand, and I resent those who trivalize the nature of the very things that we have to do. The very things we do to keep the people here, nevermind this entire city from falling into the hands of brigands or bandits or whatever else someone can think of." As he looks down at her, his natually stormy blue eyes burn with an anger, not so directed at Bri but the very topic he speaks of. It's probably the most emtion he's accidentally shown since his arrival in town. Though, like most other times, he's able to catch him. "I think we're done for now, Desmond." he suddenly, looking at Bri a moment longer before turning away. What's reaching for in his pack? You guessed it; mulled wine.
DUMP: Dominick has accidentally set fire to the database.
She swallows softly, mouth dry, as she faces the Knight's anger, which is great even when it isn't directed at her person. She asked for this, and so Briallyn doesn't dare tear her eyes away from Garett's face, or feel sorry for herself. "Ser Garett," she calls after him, voice strengthening. "I didn't mean to interrupt you. Or to cause any.." Wisdom, a brief moment of wisdom, and her tongue stills. Bri wets her lips, slowly, as she follows the path Garett walks back to his pack.
Slowly, but not timidly, she falls into step behind the Knight, studying his shoulders. "If you think I disparage what it takes to keep me safe, I don't. It isn't even an option for me, and so someone else, many someone elses, without my choice, have to go in my stead. I am sorry, Ser Knight, if I've offended you." And since reaching Stonebridge, it is the first apology out of her mouth with any sense of sincerity.
Desmond watches Briallyn closely, lifting a brow as she displays a little… humanity? Perhaps she is not the shrill gull he'd thought. But this has grumped up Garett enough to cut their training short. Desmond huffs, and moves to slump back against the tree again. "All right then. If it's all the same, Ser, I'm staying out here for a bit. The lights are too bright inside the inn."
"Consider me to join you, then." Garett says, tossing the bottle over to the squire. "You'll understand if I have little paticence to tolerate most people. You'll learn Desmond, with any luck, you won't end up nearly as spiteful as myself, but at least I can mock myself in spite of it." At least he more than understand humility. "Father always said I was made for the military life. Always said he was unsure if I would ever end liking someone enough to not feel the urge to…" he looks away, taking note of Bri still there with them. "…politely disagree with their opinions." he suddenly correct begrudgingly. "Lady Briallyn, I am unsure if you should be in the company of two men without a chaperone of your own. I'd rather not tempt the wrath of your family."
"On the contrary, Ser Garett, that would make it highly desirable to be in your company," she says with shocking diplomacy, but the grin is not diplomatic. It's somewhat grim, and yet wryly humorous. "Especially since the hour is growing late, and I've no one to walk me back. I don't wish to impose, but I'm no hurry to return to the inn where I'm staying. Unless you're adamant, of course…" There's nothing in her stance that would indicate reluctance to be out by herself, but Briallyn glances towards Desmond curiously, teeth bared in that grin of hers. "I'm not sensitive company, so as long as you aren't shouting obscenities, none is the wiser. Besides, I've never had proper wine."
Desmond fishes around in his pack for another green apple and sets to work peeling it with his dagger. "Ser, I'm already spiteful," he laughs. "Perhaps not to your level, but I've been abandoned one too many times. Hard to really have faith in many people." When Briallyn asks to join, his smile broadens. "Well I don't mind, if Ser Garett doesn't. Though I don't drink as hard as he does, here. I promise not to shout obscenities," he nods.
"Few drink like I do." Garett grouses. Glancing at Bri for a long, probably guaging how much trouble he's going to get into trouble for having an unwatched woman in the company of two other men, but then ponders just how much he really cares. Which is to say, very little. "If she really wants to sit around with us and drink, be it far from me to stop. I can't say either of us make fantastic company." Dipping his head down in a sign of mock resignation, he shrugs. "Very well, I will see you home whenever it is that you wish to return."
It is Briallyn's good fortune to find someone with as much concern about social mores as she, and she flashes Garett a grin as he glances at her for a long time. "Don't sell yourself short, Ser Garett. You're really quite pleasant when you don't appear downright ready to throttle me. Pleasant might be stretching it, but moreso than needlework and practicing my etiquette. Which I know, but do not care to practice. Without threat of throttling, at least." That grin is nearly ear to ear, even though her complexion has yet to return to its full color, and her dark green eyes are still tumultuous. "It's either you, or running into some strange fisherman on the docks. I don't gamble, but I know my odds."
Unfortunately, Briallyn doesn't seem to be fidgetting this time. Desmond's entertainment is shot. "Pleasant," he scoffs. "Are you going to sit, or what? I suppose you can stand and try to court Ser Garett all night, but you may as well make yourself comfortable. Besides, he's an old man." The apple skin gathers in green curls on his lap, and he finally takes a big juicy bite. "I mean… /old/."
Contrary to popular belief, Garett actually has a sense humor, but it very unnoble like. More like a man who has lived with soldiers of both commoners and nobles alike, and when you live in constant life and situations, social classes tend to fall away until everyone is your commrade in arms. It's a society within itself, a sort of band of brothers that can transcend other kind of social graces, but only when around people of those kind. Standards have to kept around people who simply were not there and could never understand. The point being made, it's that kind of humor that the Knight is used to. "Please Desmond. Let the Lady sit here and listen if she so chooses, and I won't judge her for mere curisoity alone. Besides, how interested would you by needlework. If your swordwork is any indication, perhaps you should change careers." he notes lightly, patting the other man's knee in good humor, then taking the bottle of win. "Besides, I'm so old that thing shriveled up and fell off years ago like old cork from lack of use."
Heat burns upon her cheeks and the harsh pink stands out particularly well against her still ashen skin. "I'm not.. Which is to say.. Not that you're not desirable or anything, Ser Garett. You're really quite handsome, and.." Realizing that she is digging a mighty deep hole, Briallyn stares at Desmond with true threat in her eyes as she attempts to change tracks. "Ser Garett is not /that/ 'old'. He doesn't look any older than my eldest brother, Ser Gryffith." And then, like a true Knight, Ser Garett's jokes steal the awkwardness of the words spilling from Bri's flushed lips. At his suggestions, her mouth falls fully open, and she stares at him, not in horror, but in surprise.
Her gaze, somewhat glassy, is fixed upon the Knight for a moment longer before she blinks. And almost immediately falls into a fit of melodious laughter. She staggers a half step, sucking breath deeply into her lungs with each laugh, before giving up and falling as gracefully as she can to land sitting on her knees. That poor silk dress. "Ser Garett," she manages, between each of laugh, gripping her ribs with a pained expression.
"Hahaha!" Demond chortles, "Hah! …Hah… Hey wait!" When he realizes the joke's on him, he frowns deeply. "Yeah sure, he's not /that/ old. Be sure to remember that when his back goes out in the middle of- fff'nnn," he cuts that come-back short, face turning red. "I'm not changing careers, Ser!" he huffs. And he takes another spiteful bite, angry at the apple.
Desmond, Garett and Briallyn are atop a small hill with a tree, three torches surrounding them.
"Have no fear, Desmond, my lad, you'll be a man yet." Garett notes cooly. Perhaps, in another life he might've been somewhat more open. If anything, less cold about just about everything. Still, he's not a big smiler, even when being humorous. "I'm thirty years old, when I should be very much dead. Countless times that I have given up counting. And yet, here I am. All things considered, in my line of work, you live to be this old and you either very good at what you do or you are extremely lucky. At this point, I'm will to guess that it's a mixture of the two." Shaking his head at Desmond, hes gestures at the gear. "No. You've come too far to give up now. Not when you are as close as you are to your own Knighthood. Starting out later than some has hindered your progress, but it's been a worthwhile effort all the same."
"I don't know. With hands like those, might be better off with needlework," Briallyn quips, rising to her feet once her laughter finally begins to die down and she can catch her breath. Which she does, gasping softly as her fingers brush uselessly at the grass stains on her knees. "Ah. Well, that isn't… Damn," she mutters to herself as she glances down at the state of her dress. She almost has half the heart to grimace, but at a certain point, her expression quite clearly states 'fuck everything', and she crosses the last two steps to linger within arms reach, her arms, of Ser Garett. Expectantly, she outstretches a hand towards him. "Do you share, or will I have to wrestle it away from you?"
The small ring of torches serves as a beacon, calling all curious folk and visitors to this side of Stonebridge. The sound of Ilaria's voice rings out clear in the night air as she calls to the torch-bearing guard behind her: "This way, man!" Still garbed in silk and slippers, the young girl is careful to lift her skirt hem to prevent it dragging along the ground as she scurries along the docks before turning to hike the short climb upward toward the three.
"My brother - got word - you did not - come home," Ilaria announces when she arrives, pausing to press her hands to her chest as she tries to catch her breath. "Inquired - at inn - someone saw you - come this way." Without another word, she drops gracefully onto the bench nearby, leaning into the seat and tilting her head back while she pants. The guard who followed at her heels - outfitted in Haigh colors - stands beside her with his torch held aloft, staring mutely at the motley trio.
Desmond sighs through his teeth and the mention of his manliness. "Right," he mumbles, then brightens at the talk of Knighthood instead. "Here's hoping." Then Briallyn… insults his /hands/. He stares down at his palms, looking between them, confused. He never thought they were big and unappealing before. But now that he looks at them… aw damnit. Just as he tries to discreetly hide them behind his head, he hears a bell. A beautiful ringing sound, clear and true, or a harp. Ilaria's voice, of course. But she comes along with a guard. Party over.
Probably a good thing that Garett hadn't yet given the bottle over to Bri, but he was in the midst of mulling the that matter over, before the exclaimation ringing out by some kind of alert. Which does cause him to jump to his feet, not out of some sense of guilt, but more like how surprising it is, body just a bit tense. Upon realizing that it's a voice that he knows, he losens up, shrugging over at the two of them. "Told you." he notes. "Like someone wouldn't notice that you were just missing from your home."
<FS3> Opposed Roll — Briallyn=Body Vs Garett=Reaction
< Briallyn: Failure Garett: Success
< Net Result: Garett wins - Marginal Victory
That voice, that shrill voice, cuts into her enjoyment of the moment. She seems to recognize the voice before anyone else, and she lets out a curse under her breath. As Garett bolts to his feet, Briallyn almost bounces off of him, having stood so close. Instead, she whips a hand out as quickly as she can to try and snatch at the bottle. Her fingers are almost half-way wrapped about the bottle when the man appears to realize what she's doing and quickly retracts it before her grip can settle. She turns on her heel, grass stains and all, and stares at Ilaria imperiously. "These gentlemen here are better company," Bri says quite innocently, ignoring the fact that she's still standing a scant few inches from the now-towering Ser Garett. "And I wanted to ask Ser Garett a few questions. You can go home, Ilaria, I'm not in any danger."
Perhaps if Ilaria were interested in hanging around at night with a couple of hooligans, she would have been incensed by Briallyn's coolness. However, she has quickly grown accustomed to her cousin's scathing bluntness. The younger Haigh merely dusts a stray leaf from her skirt and then looks up to Bri with a pleasant smile. "I cannot go home, dearest coz. If I do, then - and I am quoting - 'He will send out six guards with manacles to bind the, uhh /lady/, and bodily bear her home'. Well, not a completely direct quote. I cleaned up his wording a bit."
Utterly pleased with herself and her delivery, Ilaria then dips into a curtsey for the gentlemen. The momentary high gleaned from her brief bout of superiority has untied her tongue enough to actually exchange a few pleasantries. "Sers Garett and Desmond," she calls out in a sing-song as her smile widens: "Fancy seeing you gentlemen here. I would /never/ have guessed for Lady Briallyn to be in /your/ company - and unchaperoned! I will kindly omit that detail from my report for her sake."
Desmond finally rises and offers a flustered bow. Then Ilaria pierces his heart with her heavenly sing-song voice. "Oh, m-my Lady, we tried to… mention a chaperone but she… she said that if we didn't shout obscenties, everything would be dandy. But I guess if she is to be bound and dragged home…" He trails off lamely. "You won't stay, Lady Ilaria?" he asks, still hiding his /hideous/ hands.
"Desmond." Garett cooly notes, drinking from his bottle languidly, now retaking his seat on the bench since he doesn't have to suddenly snap someone's neck out of reflex. "Now is not the time to be talking. We already said she shouldn't be out here alone and it's like we came to her, nevermind this isn't exactly our fight." A glance at the women and then guard, then back to Desmond. "Pick your battles, lad. This one isn't ours." Though, there is moment where he relents just enough to gesture a hand at Ilaria. "She wanted to ask about her brothers and she wanted an honest answer. She got want she wanted. And she received the answer she sought. Nothing more, nothing less. And from the sound of things, my and Desmond's presence is going to be the least of her wories." Sometimes, age is nice. Especially when you're not still living under your parent's roof.
"I agree. Ser Garett and his squire have been nothing but polite and considerate of me," Briallyn agrees initially, and then ruins the moment by being her usual brash, inappropriate self. Without warning, and without any sense of propriety, Briallyn, still standing directly next to the seated man, seats herself in his lap. Not on the edge of his knees, but fully upon his lap, and folds her arms stubbornly while staring daggers at Ilaria. Of course, after a breath's span of time passes, she seems to realize the error of her ways. Not enough to stand up and correct the lapse in judgment, but enough for her face to flood with color yet again. She manages, somehow, to hold onto some shred of dignity. "I don't want to go just yet," Bri states simply, licking her lips and trying not to squirm, despite being a natural fidget. "Come on, coz, you must agree that it would be boring to go back so soon." She says, from his lap.
Thin brown eyebrows arch upward slowly at Desmond's question and then lower quickly in unison with the corners of Ilaria's mouth. "It is very lovely of you to ask, Ser Desmond, but I am afraid the hour grows far too late for a lady to not be abed, let alone abroad. I will be attending to my cousin the Lady Ceinlys tomorrow, and she has a suite at the inn. Perhaps we will meet again in the afternoon for lunch?" The tone of her statement lifts upward at the end as if questioning Fate on whether or not such a thing could occur.
Ilaria seems ready to go, lifting the hem of her skirt again as if expecting Briallyn to follow without argument. What a silly, silly girl Ilaria is to think it a possibility, though. Half-turned to depart, she is taken aback by Bri's words and spins back with an open mouth armed with a retort. The words die on her tongue unspoken, however, as she plays full witness to Bri's astonishing theatrics. Her response is to gasp loudly, drop her torch on the ground, and clap both hands over her gaping maw. The guard, startled into action, dives forward to fetch the torch because—what in the hell else can he do right now? Despite the presence of the ladies, he emits a stream of colorful - and rather inventive - curses.
Desmond shifts and fidgets, but Garett manages to make him settle down. This doesn't last very long. To his great surprise, Briallyn plops down in Garett's /lap/. He stares, torn between abject jealously, shock, and serious amusement. He settles on the latter, but remains somewhat quiet about it, simply struggling with a lopsided smile and the faint quaking of his chest as he contains a hearty laugh. "You've ah, you've got something on you there, Ser Garett."
There aren't many times when Garett is rendered so speechless that's he's more statuesque than usual. Which really, says something for the man who'd rather say nothing and be left to his own devices than rather be included in just about anything. So when Bri plops down in his lap, his reaction at first is a blink, which is probably the suspension of belief that this is actually happening. Then he makes a tour of the faces about him; from Desmond, to Ilaria, to the guard rescuring the first. And for a moment, his muscles tenses in a way like he's about to jump into a fight when guard dives, his entire body goes completely rigid. His breathing perhaps picks up only slightly, mind rapidly evaluating the situation. Chivarly before outburst. "Lady Bri." his voice comes like ice cicles, teeth grit. "I would great appreciate it if you could please stand up. You are already in enough trouble with your cousin, my advice is to put the shovel down."
Amusingly, she's likely as tense as he is at the situation, but there's nothing humorous about her expression, which he can't see. She is attempting to direct a stern glare in her cousin's direction when Garett's voice reaches her ears. The icy tone is enough to evoke a sigh, and she twists in his lap to glance over her shoulder at him with wide green eyes. "Ser Garett, I uh.. I'm sorry," she mutters quietly to him, lowered so that no other could hear her. "I do like you, I just.." With a soft curse, she straightens, slides out of his lap and stands up. Interestingly, Garett would catch the gist of the curses, even if no one else does. And she sounds suspiciously like she's cursing herself.
Her slender fingered hands quickly dance over the silk in an attempt to straighten the fabric from its mussed state, particularly after sliding off of the Knight's lap. Mustering dignity, despite a flushed face, Briallyn clears her voice loudly. "Ser Knight, you've been a gentleman. Thank you for your company." She curtsies in way of apology, eyes slipping over Garett quickly, appreciatively, before she whips around, storms over to Ilaria and stands next to her with a stony expression. "Not even five minutes, Ilaria? Really! That boy over there is at least half way over the bloody moon about you, the way he keeps shifting about in those blasted pants, and you can't leave me be?" Her voice, although hushed, is acid. "I hope you really do end up in a damned Sept."
Ilaria has had at least a good two or three minutes to compose herself, but her expression remains wide-eyed and—well, /tortured/. She honestly cannot decide whether to be flabbergasted, frightened, enraged, or amused. She settles for extremely confused mixed with just a touch of 'flustered'. In fact, the young girl is nearly as red-cheeked as Briallyn as she automatically reaches out a hand to the guard to accept the still-lit torch she managed to fling to the ground in her one moment of overdramatic reaction. Her expression alters minutely with Bri's venemous hissing, and her hazel eyes fill with a glistening sheen that looks very suspiciously like tears.
"I don'tI justI was told—he asked…" Several attempts to form a reply are continually overwhelmed by Briallyn's chiding until finally Ilaria is driven into a cold silence. A few tears escape her wide-open eyes to roll down her cheeks, and rather than draw attention to them she looks away and holds the torch aloft in the opposite direction. Her gaze lands on Desmond completely by accident, and the sight of him is enough to drive her to full-on crying. With the first choked sob, she whips about and stumbles her way out of the circle of light apparently headed toward the docks and the path back to the square.
Desmond is no longer amused. Ilaria is /crying/. And despite Garett's advise, Desmond /must/ step in. He is to be a KNIGHT. "My Lady!" he snaps at Briallyn, stepping forth to face the unruly girl. "First of all, I'm not… hnn, over the moon for anyone. Secondly, how dare you make your concerned cousin cry!" He gestures broadly to Ilaria, far too dramatically. "I think you'd better go home and leave us in peace. You shan't be invited back for wine again!"
"It's fine." Garett says in reply to Bri admittance. "Perhaps it was just be to…" Aaaaand then Bri goes off on her rant to Ilaria. Aaaaaaand then Ilaria starts to cry because of what Bri said. Aaaaaaaaand Desmond yells at Bri because Bri yelled at Ilaria. Aaaaa, oh for the love of, screw this nonsense. That's exactly the expression on Garett's face, apparently the only person here with a with enough wherewithall that he hears the little voice in his head, screaming at him 'PICK YOUR DAMN BATTLES'. He doesn't say anything to those gathered, he just quietly, picks up his mulled wine bottle and his backpack, leaving Desmond to carry all the practice gear to the inn. "You all have a plesant night." he notes in his usual stoci tone. And just as he's about to head out, he stops. Could he be changing his mind about everything?
He looks at the guard of all people. "You have my condolences." And -then- he's off.
"Why, you cowardly little mother's boy!" Her cry rings through the air sharply as she whirls to face Desmond with a heated expression. "Why are you here when better men are dying?" Her voice hasn't reached hysterics, yet, but the tone is certainly climbing with each inflection. "When my brothers could be dying! And I can't even bloody have this, either!" Oh, there it is. The shouting. "I don't /want/ to drink with you! You're about as interesting as a bloody dung heap! And here to rescue my dear coz? Are you going to write some poetry for my dear cousin, too? After thinking about her so poorly? And then not even having the bravery to claim it. You aren't even good enough for her." Her voice breaks, and her harsh words are nearly a whisper, a dagger, aimed at the young man.
Tears are welling up in those dark, moss green eyes even before Garett does the wise thing and gets to his feet. "I can't even have a flaming conversation with an interesting, handsome, decent man without some noxious presumption made on my part!" And then Garett is swiftly moving away, without a glance, without a word, save for a spare few for the guard. His back is turned, and that seems a good time for the young woman to collapse with her hands covering her face and the combs to tumble out of her hair while the silk spreads out around her. Briallyn is clearly crying from the violent way with which her shoulders shake, though she makes not a sound but the ragged breathing that escapes the prison of her fingers.
And who is left to clean up this awkward mess? The poor house guard who is probably going to demand the world's biggest raise from his captain after all this crap is finished. He glances to Desmond first, brows knitted together in consternation, but after the scathing words he is unlikely to find assistance from this quarter. The man then looks over his shoulder to watch as Ilaria retreats down the hill with her torch held aloft to keep her from stumbling and falling while also suffering her own fit of tears.
"Women," the guard mutters beneath his breath as a few long-legged strides bring him to Briallyn's side. He's not particularly fond of the female creatures, most especially when they're playing at being weepy and weak. "Come along then, Lady Briallyn," he announces gruffly, leaning down to encircle one of the girl's upper arms with his rather meaty paw. He hauls her upward onto her feet without exerting much effort in an attempt to get the girl moving /homeward/ so he can get some goddamn sleep. "Good night to you, Ser," he calls to Desmond with a respectful bob of his head.
<FS3> Briallyn rolls Body+Unarmed: Failure.
Oh sweet Seven. Desmond should've listened to wise, bitter Garett! Girls are crazy! The hysteria in Briallyn's voice puts him in fight-or-flight mode. Mother's boy, dung heap! Then she rails about his evidently obvious interest in Ilaria, and he pales several shades, reduced to stammering. He can take on brigands and shrug off a smash to the skull from Garett himself, but damned if he can endure /this/ type of hellish wrath. Her verbal daggers pierce him. Rendered absolutely speechless, stands rigid for a long moment, watching her collapse to the ground. Thank someone's god that the guard steps in to… subdue Briallyn. Desmond hastily moves to pick up all of the gear and packs before /running the fuck away/.
The reaction the guard gets as he tries to haul Briallyn to his feet may not be one he's expecting. "Take your damned hands off of me," she demands, voice roughened considerably by tears and shouting. She aims a surprisingly solid right hook for the man's jaw, but tears blind her, as does the man's reaction ability. He looks at her as though he's never quite seen her like before, disturbed, and more than annoyed. To his benefit, rather than hers, the man is stronger and she relents. Eventually. And only because she's desperately trying to get rid of any evidence of tears, even if those pretty eyes are glaringly red.
