| Women of all Trades |
| Summary: | The Roost's tradeswomen meet outside the Rockcliff, joined by Mortimer. |
| Date: | 05/Sep/2012 |
| Related Logs: | None |
| Players: |
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| Town Square, Terrick's Roost |
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| The town square of Terrick's Roost was once considered well-kept. The stone streets run right up to the building fronts around the edge and the locals have kept the spaces between free of grass and weeds that might otherwise sprung up between them, although dark streaks of stubborn soot have crawled in between the stones. There are several homes and shops located here which show the scars and cinders of the sacking of the town at Ironborn hands. The ruin of the town's Sept can also be seen from here with its ornate stone front rising above the surrounding structures just down the cobblestone road. |
| Wed Sep 05, 289 |
With Justin away from the Roost, Mortimer has once again found himself playing Sheriff, only for a few days this time though. Thankfully the town has been relatively quiet and there have been no incidents larger than one of the local labourers needing to be shown home after inbibbing too much in the Rockcliff. And it's that same inn where he finds himself now. Sticking his head in the door near the end of one of his rounds he slowly scans the room, he's not expecting to find any trouble mind, but it's become habit these days. Satisfied that all is well he heads over towards the bar for a quick chat with the barman, see if there's anyone new around, that sort of thing.
Maggie Huntington has lived in the Roost for seven long years, suffered its ups and its down, its pleasures and its hardships and every Wednesday, like clockwork, their wagon can be seen out to the side, unloading the latest shipment of ale. It's been hard in coming, these past few months, with the reavers taking surpluss and damaging the brewery both; though if asked she'd say the most important thing they stole, was her husband. But things are slowly getting better; the crops due in this turn prime, the building itself repaired. All in all, despite the gleam of new wood, rather that which was faded and old, everything seems exactly as it was. Except for Maggie. Maggie still wears a widows weeds, despite being only three and twenty. A wind-blown tousled look to the short golden curls, she's still quick to cast smile towards those who're familiar and even those who aren't before making her way towards the bar and waiting politely for her turn to speak with the barman over coin.
Being another long-term native, Mortimer has no trouble identifying the brewer's wife, or brewer as it now is. As she approaches the bar he catches sight of her out of the corner of his eye and turns to greet her with a nod and a "Mistress Huntington." It seems the barman has very little news to impart so he takes a step backwards to allow Maggie to say wht she needs to before asking conversationally, "need a hand with any of those barrels?" She might not have said it yet, but he knows the routines well enough to know her reason for visiting.
"Master Trevelyan," Maggie greeted, with a respectful low curtsy and an easy smile for the low rumble of her voice, "But a moment," the widow implored before she turned her attention to the barkeep; animation touched her then and she spoke with much relief of the change in things, of the way that despite the land being thick with wars tensions, those of the Roost were slowly recovering on their own. A quick prayer then, that the Seven have mercy and the conflict doesn't spill before it's towards Master Trevelyan her attentions return and she chuckles, fussing hands into the settle of an apron slate gray. "Am I truly that transparent then?" She chuckles, "The boy," her stepson, "..was supposed to come and lend a hand but he'd other duties, so he said. I'd not turn away the offer, if you're sure there's naught that calls you."
Mortimer smiles back at the question asked then replies amiably, "Transparent? No, but six years with the Sheriff," or sheriffs, plural since Justin is the second he's worked for, " have at least taught me something about spotting patterns." Not mind, that in his twenty years in teh garrison prior to that he hadn't known when the beer was delivered. As for other duties though, he glances around one more then shrugs, "seems quiet enough that it shouldn't break out into bedlem if I turn my back for a few minutes. I reckon we're safe enough."
"So I am simply predictable," it's given with a sigh, but her eyes still seem to dance with quiet humor. An easy soul, Maggie. One who still looked for a silver lining, no matter how dark the clouds may seem. "And you, Master, pay remarkable attention. I don't suppose it has anything to do with the crowds getting impatient if they're short when I'm late, hmm?" A little grin at that and when he offers of a certainty she gives a nod of her head and steps off towards the door, "How is your wife doing, these days?"
Mortimer follows towards the door at an easy pace. "You think this lot are bad," he answers, "you should see the lads in the garrison. Seven help me but I'd not like to have to tell them that the kegs are empty." Reaching forward in an effort to hold the door open for her he thinks for a moment, then answers more soberly, "she's doing well. It's still difficult for her, for all of us I suppose, and there are certainly bad days, but on the whole the good outway the bad."
At his explination, Maggie laughs and it's an easy sound; one given over to amusement in full. "I would prefer not. And by the by, let me just thank you again, for the wheat rations or we'd not have had anything to offer at all. Chrix had been doing a run to Stonebridge, buying when things got real real tight but…we're grateful," offered, as she dipped her head in thanks and slipped on out the door when he held it for her. Though a measure of her humor faded when he spoke of what she knew to be the missing child. "You'd come by and tell me, wouldn't you, if there was ever anything that I could do to help," implored; a sad smile touching her lips.
Mortimer shrugs slightly as he heads for whatever cart or wagon is being pressed into use transporting the barrels. "T'wasn't me Mistress, Lady Anais and some of heres were dealing with the sort of thing up in the keep. I'll pass word along though if I find out who in particular. I'm just glad Lord Jerold was able to strike an agreement with the Charltons." What joyous conversation. Still, it got sorted, but it still worries him just how close they all came to starving. As for the rest? He takes a breath, not exactly a deep one, but maybe it's just a tad deeper than usual, "I would, or she would, but only on the condition that you'd do the same." It's an offer he's made before, to others, although thankfully it's being less needd now, with things oh so slowly starting to return to normal.
Outside, the widow Maggie is walking with Master Trevelyan towards the corner of the building, where a wagon sits loaded with several barrels of ale. The two appearing to be in quiet conversation. "I'd be appreciative, regardless," she offers when he mentions passing along word. "Though I tell you, for as pleased as I am that things settled well, I worry yet about how they come." Quiet words, a fretting topic but her head dips lower still with his mention. "I may at that, Master, I may at that. The boy's a help, but he's still young and…things go easier for them, I think. As if they just don't feel as deep as the rest." Maggie sighed, "But we are managing, though if you hear of anyone who's lookin' for a bit of honest work, you send 'em out our way, wouldja?"
A young woman walks through the town slowly. Though the reason for her slowness might have to be with a sack that has been thrown over her shoulder, the contents outlining the fabric of the back and it only looks to be heavy. When she reaches her destination, the sack is shifted and dropped on the ground at the feet of a young man. "There it be! Dont go sayin I never did nothin for ya! I dragged this thing all the way out here." Drusilla puts her hand on lower back and stretches herself out a bit as she eyes the young man before her. "Leavin a woman to come and bring these for ya all the out here…Bah!" that sound of distaste clear in her voice, though the look of her doesnt seem like she isnt use to hard work. "Fifty-two horse shoes! You tell your master, I was on time now! Dont go makin up lies. I know where to find ya iffin you do."
"I reckon my lads a little young yet for another other than poking worms with sticks and trying his mother's patience," Mortimer replies with an actual smile, "bu if you can wait a few years it might do him good to get a taste of an honest trade before he gets any thoughts about following his father into soldiering." The boy is, after all, only six. He leaves the topic of the kids not feeling it so deep well alone though, still very wary of the effect the loss of the lads twin is having on him. He's used to reading people, comes with the job, but children when they're quiet is beyond him. Moving on though he notions towards the wagon, "So, what delights do we have in store this week?" He's just examing the load to ensure that lifting one isn't going to upset the balance of the others when he hears the sack hit the floor. It's an odd enough sound to attract his attention so he turns to watch the not-quite confrontation. "WHy is it always when Lord Justin is away," he mutters to himself before giving Maggie a faintly apoloetic smile and stepping towards the new arrivals. "Is everything all right here?"
"When he's older then," Maggie agrees, dipping her head, "If you've a mind to see him steered towards craft, you just let me know." And her smile then was as easy as her words; for all she eyed the wagon with a sigh. It still wasn't the best that they were capable of. There were still working on getting back to that level of production. And any answer that she might have given, fell short to the sounds of the woman who'd approached in the distance, the sound of her muttered complaints drawing a grin to the widow's lips. "You take your time, Master Trevelyan, I'll just see 'bout getting these squared on away. Be back round tomorrow, if you've a mind for a decent drink and a lack of complaints," she winked and with that, set herself to work.
Her hands transfer from supporting her lower back, to her hips as she is ready to go toe to toe with whomever she needs to. "Dont you give me any lip! I was here /on/ time! You try walkin all the out here with a load that weighs more than you do!" The small framed Drusilla says. Tossing her long braid away, over her shoulder, before that finds its place on her hip again, eyebrows knit together. At the strangers voice that raises a question, she turns her head to look at Mortimer, "Everything be just fine once this man here pays me my coin for the work I did for him." Gaze snapping back to the man in question, "Well?" she says to him expectantly, lifting her hand in waiting for her sack of coin to be dropped there.
"I've a mind for him to grow old having lived a happy and prosperous life," Mortimer replies with a faint smile, "I've seen what war does to men and boys and I'd rather him well clear of it." Hence craft, although if the lad turns round and says he wants to be a Septon or such, then that'd work too. "I'll let Freya know," he then adds, "she might want to get out for a bit too." That done and sorted he turns back to the situation before him. He's not interveening yet, he's just watching, in case he has to.
"I'll look forward to seeing you both," Maggie replies and with a nod to the woman and a gleam of kinship in her eyes; from another who knows what it's like to have to argue for a wage, the widow slips on in the back, a barrel of ale juggled on each hip. She'd a wagon to unload.
A sigh and the young man drops a small puch of coin in Drusilla's hand. Her smirk is enough to know that she's won, even if it was a small battle of nothing really. It might have been because there were on lookers or because Drusilla was a girl, but for whatever reason the young man says nothing more, eyes both Drusilla and Mortimer then snatches his bag up and stalks off in the other direction. She watches him go as she clamps her hand around the pouch. "Everyone wants to short change the girl! Aint going to happen!" she remarks to no one particularly, but she turns to look at Mortimer for a moment. Eyeing him carefully to see how he'll respond to all thats just transpired. Her body is still tense and looks to be on guard to be on defense. Shifting her eyes toward the woman with the barrel and then back again, when the woman moves on.
With it all appearing to be settled and sorted without the need for his professional intervention, Mortimer simply watches the departing man for a few moments, just enough to ensure he actually is departing, then turns back to the woman concerned. He doesn't really have much to say, he hadn't even had to reach for his dirk, let along draw it, but he figures he can't really just turn round and go back to the cart without saying anything. "Afternoon Mistress," he offers as a standard greeting, "some people'll try anything these days."
"Even more with a female." Drusilla says with disdain, "Aint the first time I've had to fight for coin that was mine. Sometimes its just the men that dont like to have to purchase metal from a woman, others thing I'm too stupid to notice they are trying to short change me." The words come out bitter and she knows it, she feels it. Taking the small pouch she ties it to the rope on her dress for secure keeping. Feeling much the way Mortimer is in the way of needing to say something else, when the man came all the way over to check on her. "Kinda of ya to come and check though." she rubs at an itch on her check and smudges a bit of dirt there.
"It's all part of what Lord Jerold pays me for," Mortimer admits, a quick glance up towards the keep as he does so. He almost leaves it there, but then decides that that might actually need a little more of an explaination to actually be a useful response. "Mortimer Trevelyan," he introduces himself, "deputy to the Lord's sheriff, Ser Justin Terrick," and with Justin out at Heronherst a the moment, that leaves him.
"Nice to meet you, Master Trevelyan." realizing this was the part she needed to insert her name she returns with, "Drusilla Black. Blacksmith." she knows how that sounds and she eyes him, "No jokes. I know, its like a song. Nothing I can do about it though. Its my name and my position. At least whereever I'm hired to be one." she does bow or curtsy or anything like that, she isnt use to formal greetings and none of that is familiar to her. "Deputy, aye? Fancy." she says. "I heard the whispers around here about Ser Justin Terrick takin on the position."
"Mistress Black," he replies, inclining his head ever so slightly as he does so. He's just been around nobles for too long, not his fault. "Aye, he took the post a couple of months back, the previous one having being killed by the Ironmen at teh start of the year." NAsty business that, and not one he particularly wants to think too much on. "You here looking for work?" he asks, changing the topic of conversation, "only you'd be wanting to ask up at the tower if so."
Drusilla nods at the mention of the killed ex-sheriff, not appearing to be discomforted by the idea of death. "We all has to go at some time. Some times it just is too soon for some." Thats probably the best of sympathy that you'd get out of the woman. The mention of business has her shoulder shrugging out, "I'm around if I'm needed. No need to go bothering the higher ups for the likes of me. If I do a good job, my name will reach them." a small grin touches the corner of her lips, "If I do bad, I think they'd hear about it too." another shrug. "I got a place way out that way." she motion in a direction outside of the Lands. "I go where I'm needed is all."
Mortimer nods at that reply, knowing well enough how some craftsmen prefer to work. "If anyone in Terrick lands ever does short change you, just let us know Mistress. Stopping that sort of thing is one of the reasons we're here." He sort of already mentioned that, but still,doesn't hurt to reiterate. "I'll let you get on though," he offers, glancing back to the now significantly less laiden wagon. "Good day to you Mistress."
