Post by The Smith on Oct 11, 2013 22:59:56 GMT -5
Flea Bottom is an area of the city just below the Street of Flour at the bottom of Rhaenys’ Hill. It is a maze of unpaved, narrow alleys and streets that twist, turn, and crisscross each other in a confusing pattern. The building that line this section if the city lean across the streets so far that the upper floors nearly touch and make the entire area shadowy even at noon. Day and night it is bustling with activity. During the day, its pigsties, tanneries, and stables are busy doing their smelly business. The odors of the place are so strong as to be nearly overpowering, and they stick with visitors and residents even after they leave. At night, it’s no less odorous, but then the bars and taverns are the center of attention and usually packed with laborers looking to enjoy their time away from work with a drink and a pot of brown from the ever simmering potboils. Flear Bottom is known as a haven for criminals and less savory elements of society. Considering even the children from this part of town are tough and vicious, the criminals are the true dregs of the society. It’s not safe to be in Flea Bottom any time of the day unless you’re a local or you have guards, business, or someone who will vouch for you.
Amid this den of poverty and grime sat Lord Oswyn Baratheon, Master of Ships and heir to Storm’s End, though he was hardly recognizable as such. Rupert Kellington, his aid, had procured him garb customary for his temporary abode on the street corner next to a tavern and butcher shop. He wore a ratty brown cloak that stank of mildew and sweat, that scratched against his skin. His untrimmed beard was caked in mud, a gift from a gambler who had taken out his lack of luck at dice by mistreating the “urchin” he thought worse off than himself. As per the instruction of his task, the proud man lifted his wooden bowl meekly to those that passed as they entered the tavern, usually met with stares of revulsion. Only a single copper rested inside, hardly enough for a bowl of brown.
Despite the hardship, Oswyn took a queer solace in the penance. With Amelia expelled, home was hardly a place he wished to be. Better the harsh realities of Flea Bottom, than the chill of his empty bed. Most times he stared forward, overcome by a tumultuous mix of self-pity and self-loathing, wondering if this was not a fitting vigil for the man the Gods seemed to have cursed. Other times he wept, just another miserable wretch in this pit of despair. Time passed slowly, more so since he was unable to watch the passing of the sun in the sky due the claustrophobic shade offered by the crooked buildings above. His back ached from lying prone upon the cobblestones at night, a painful reminder of the injury his former wife had helped him heal. He longed for her gentle embrace as he drifted off into a fitful night’s sleep, wracked by equal parts misery and anger.
“Yer goin’ about this all wrong.” a cheery voice said, awakening Oswyn form his light slumber.
He opened his eyes groggily, and reached instinctively for the weapon that was not at his side. Realizing it was not there, he studied the individual that had disturbed him. Before him sat the strangest man he had ever seen. He was old and wrinkled, with a long beard that tickled his bare feet as he sat beside the disguised lord. His eyes were wide and wild, the color of mud, yet sparkled with an odd confidence. He wore a wooden bowl upon his head as a monarch would wear a crown, globs of gruel still stuck to the inside, likely from a bowl ‘o brown still festering in a pot somewhere.
“New to this life, aintcha?” the man prodded, when Oswyn just stared at him in bewildered silence. “Old Pappy knows. Pappy ‘o the Porridge knows, yes siree!”
“You could say that…” Oswyn replied evasively, the man before him a curiosity.
“Injured in the war werentcha?” the eccentric old beggar queried. “Plenty ‘o newcomers to Flea Bottom lately with a hitch in their step. Lifted their swords for the Crown and now can only lift their wooden bowls to feed their bellies. Pappy knows ‘em all.”
“Not the same man as I was then.” Oswyn replied glumly, not truly talking about his physical injury.
“Now now, you won’t be gettin’ any coppers with that attitude.” the old man chided. “But do not fret, Pappy is here to help. Things aren’t so grim and you’ll be catching coppers in no time. Still got all yer teeth and everything!” he exclaimed optimistically, inspecting Oswyn. “What’s yer name?”
Oswyn blanked for a moment, not having prepared for this eventuality. He had not been expecting to carry out a conversation among the muck of Flea Bottom.
“Earl…my name is Earl.” he said quickly, remembering that one of the stable boys in his youth had born the name.
“A fine name!” the old man exclaimed, with unexpected glee. “Had a friend named Earl once. Went to the blacksmith with two coppers once when I was a boy. Forged Earl and I a copper ring, put em on too quick and burnt both our hands. Earl took a hoof to the head not a week later and met the Stranger. I pawned the ring for a bowl a brown a year after. It was a Tuesday…son was out…best brown I ever tasted.” the man rambled, recalling details with surprising clarity for a man his age.
“Tell me more of your time here.” Oswyn queried, fascinated to learn how one could survive for so long in a slum such as this.
The two talked through the day and into the night, Pappy regaling the beleaguered lord with tales from his long life. Though eccentric, the old man was sharp of mind, recalling events with perfect clarity, down to the weather on particular days and the meal he had eaten. Oswyn nearly choked when the old man told him of the tourney twenty years ago, how he had seen the young knight triumph in the field from the peasant stands. He shrank back into his robes to hide his anger when the old man revealed that Oswyn’s generous donation to the people of his winner’s purse had been misappropriated. The Crown had taken 40% from the top as a tax and distributed most of the rest to business owners to pay for any damages incurred during the tourney. What was distributed had been quickly taken by the local cutthroats, not happy with their fair share. Pappy was crestfallen when the few coppers he had intended to purchase a bowl a brown with, were taken from him under threat of death.
When the tales had run dry, the old man selflessly shared some of his tricks of the trade, in a sort of beggar’s bootcamp. A smile and a jest went a long way in the streets, especially when begging coppers from those on their way out of the tavern. By the end of the night both their coppers had multiplied, and the two shared a bowl of brown and some alcoholic beverage Pappy referred to as Pisswater Wine. Oswyn could hardly keep the bowl down and the wine tasted of ammonia, but he was happy to have the companionship and knowledge of one that had lived so long in somewhere so hostile.
When the morning came, Oswyn’s 48 hours of begging done, Pappy awoke crestfallen wondering where his companion had run off to. Instead, there was a bookish highborn standing before him with a face like a weasel.
“Are you…Pappy ‘o the Porridge.” Ruper Kellington asked, grimacing as he had to say such a ridiculous byname aloud.
“Aye, and who’s asking?” Pappy replied, fearful that no good could come from this encounter.
Suddenly, the weasel-faced noble pulled a coin from his pocket and flicked it to the old man. To his amazement, Pappy saw that it was not copper, but a silver stag.
“The Master of Ships, who requests your keen eyes and ears for his employ.” Kellington said, with a thin smile. “He bids me to request you buy a bowl of brown on him, one long owed.”
[Oswyn advances to Noteworthy Charm]
[Oswyn advances to Noteworthy Intrigue]
Amid this den of poverty and grime sat Lord Oswyn Baratheon, Master of Ships and heir to Storm’s End, though he was hardly recognizable as such. Rupert Kellington, his aid, had procured him garb customary for his temporary abode on the street corner next to a tavern and butcher shop. He wore a ratty brown cloak that stank of mildew and sweat, that scratched against his skin. His untrimmed beard was caked in mud, a gift from a gambler who had taken out his lack of luck at dice by mistreating the “urchin” he thought worse off than himself. As per the instruction of his task, the proud man lifted his wooden bowl meekly to those that passed as they entered the tavern, usually met with stares of revulsion. Only a single copper rested inside, hardly enough for a bowl of brown.
Despite the hardship, Oswyn took a queer solace in the penance. With Amelia expelled, home was hardly a place he wished to be. Better the harsh realities of Flea Bottom, than the chill of his empty bed. Most times he stared forward, overcome by a tumultuous mix of self-pity and self-loathing, wondering if this was not a fitting vigil for the man the Gods seemed to have cursed. Other times he wept, just another miserable wretch in this pit of despair. Time passed slowly, more so since he was unable to watch the passing of the sun in the sky due the claustrophobic shade offered by the crooked buildings above. His back ached from lying prone upon the cobblestones at night, a painful reminder of the injury his former wife had helped him heal. He longed for her gentle embrace as he drifted off into a fitful night’s sleep, wracked by equal parts misery and anger.
“Yer goin’ about this all wrong.” a cheery voice said, awakening Oswyn form his light slumber.
He opened his eyes groggily, and reached instinctively for the weapon that was not at his side. Realizing it was not there, he studied the individual that had disturbed him. Before him sat the strangest man he had ever seen. He was old and wrinkled, with a long beard that tickled his bare feet as he sat beside the disguised lord. His eyes were wide and wild, the color of mud, yet sparkled with an odd confidence. He wore a wooden bowl upon his head as a monarch would wear a crown, globs of gruel still stuck to the inside, likely from a bowl ‘o brown still festering in a pot somewhere.
“New to this life, aintcha?” the man prodded, when Oswyn just stared at him in bewildered silence. “Old Pappy knows. Pappy ‘o the Porridge knows, yes siree!”
“You could say that…” Oswyn replied evasively, the man before him a curiosity.
“Injured in the war werentcha?” the eccentric old beggar queried. “Plenty ‘o newcomers to Flea Bottom lately with a hitch in their step. Lifted their swords for the Crown and now can only lift their wooden bowls to feed their bellies. Pappy knows ‘em all.”
“Not the same man as I was then.” Oswyn replied glumly, not truly talking about his physical injury.
“Now now, you won’t be gettin’ any coppers with that attitude.” the old man chided. “But do not fret, Pappy is here to help. Things aren’t so grim and you’ll be catching coppers in no time. Still got all yer teeth and everything!” he exclaimed optimistically, inspecting Oswyn. “What’s yer name?”
Oswyn blanked for a moment, not having prepared for this eventuality. He had not been expecting to carry out a conversation among the muck of Flea Bottom.
“Earl…my name is Earl.” he said quickly, remembering that one of the stable boys in his youth had born the name.
“A fine name!” the old man exclaimed, with unexpected glee. “Had a friend named Earl once. Went to the blacksmith with two coppers once when I was a boy. Forged Earl and I a copper ring, put em on too quick and burnt both our hands. Earl took a hoof to the head not a week later and met the Stranger. I pawned the ring for a bowl a brown a year after. It was a Tuesday…son was out…best brown I ever tasted.” the man rambled, recalling details with surprising clarity for a man his age.
“Tell me more of your time here.” Oswyn queried, fascinated to learn how one could survive for so long in a slum such as this.
The two talked through the day and into the night, Pappy regaling the beleaguered lord with tales from his long life. Though eccentric, the old man was sharp of mind, recalling events with perfect clarity, down to the weather on particular days and the meal he had eaten. Oswyn nearly choked when the old man told him of the tourney twenty years ago, how he had seen the young knight triumph in the field from the peasant stands. He shrank back into his robes to hide his anger when the old man revealed that Oswyn’s generous donation to the people of his winner’s purse had been misappropriated. The Crown had taken 40% from the top as a tax and distributed most of the rest to business owners to pay for any damages incurred during the tourney. What was distributed had been quickly taken by the local cutthroats, not happy with their fair share. Pappy was crestfallen when the few coppers he had intended to purchase a bowl a brown with, were taken from him under threat of death.
When the tales had run dry, the old man selflessly shared some of his tricks of the trade, in a sort of beggar’s bootcamp. A smile and a jest went a long way in the streets, especially when begging coppers from those on their way out of the tavern. By the end of the night both their coppers had multiplied, and the two shared a bowl of brown and some alcoholic beverage Pappy referred to as Pisswater Wine. Oswyn could hardly keep the bowl down and the wine tasted of ammonia, but he was happy to have the companionship and knowledge of one that had lived so long in somewhere so hostile.
When the morning came, Oswyn’s 48 hours of begging done, Pappy awoke crestfallen wondering where his companion had run off to. Instead, there was a bookish highborn standing before him with a face like a weasel.
“Are you…Pappy ‘o the Porridge.” Ruper Kellington asked, grimacing as he had to say such a ridiculous byname aloud.
“Aye, and who’s asking?” Pappy replied, fearful that no good could come from this encounter.
Suddenly, the weasel-faced noble pulled a coin from his pocket and flicked it to the old man. To his amazement, Pappy saw that it was not copper, but a silver stag.
“The Master of Ships, who requests your keen eyes and ears for his employ.” Kellington said, with a thin smile. “He bids me to request you buy a bowl of brown on him, one long owed.”
[Oswyn advances to Noteworthy Charm]
[Oswyn advances to Noteworthy Intrigue]
Hope you all are well and happy.