Post by kentonisme on Dec 11, 2007 2:48:38 GMT -5
Kentyn sat alone at the rough-hewn table, sloshing the sour red ale around in his cup, a distant and unengaged look in his blue eyes. He was close to Raventree Hall, closer than he had been in years, and due to arrive on the morrow. He wondered what he would find there. He had not seen his father in years. As he sat pondering, he realized that he knew Lord Cox, his foster father, far better than he ever knew his own. He glanced across the small common room and saw his friend, Patrek Cox, dicing in the corner with a commoner and a hedge knight. He was glad that Patrek had decided to join him at Raventree Hall. He was unsure of what type of reception he would receive from his cousin, Lord Warren, and the rest of his family.
He watched as Patrek slammed his fist down hard on the corner table, and bellowed a curse. Patrek dropped a gold dragon on the table, and sauntered toward Kentyn. Patrek was a stark contrast to Kentyn, where Kentyn was tall and fair skinned, Patrek was short and swarthy. Where Kentyn had long, fair hair and a clean face, Patrek kept his black hair cropped short, and wore a thick black beard upon his jaw. Where Kentyn was levelheaded and dependable, Patrek was rowdy and unpredictable. As Patrek approached, Kentyn could tell that he was deep in his cups. His walk was unsteady, and his dark cheeks had gone ruddy. He made a great habit of drinking, and would often become boisterous. Kentyn had been required to defend him in a great many drunken brawls, once even going so far as to run his sword through a Braavosi sellsword. As different as the two men where, they were nearly inseparable.
“I take it you lost,” Kentyn said, as his friend pulled a chair to the table and poured a glass of the sour red.
“Aye, a dragon no less,” Patrek replied, glancing back toward the hedgeknight in the corner. “Ah, such is life though, and gold dragons will do me no good in my grave.”
“That much is true, at least,” Kentyn replied, a smile spreading across his smooth face. “Do you plan to drink yourself to death, then?”
“It could be so; though, I’d like a title first, and a few more maidens to boot,” Patrek laughed, before draining the rest of his cup. “Gods, this wine tastes like goat piss, I see why they call this inn the Sour Crone. You look lost, Maiden Cheeks, are you unwell?”
“Not unwell, I’ve just been thinking about the morrow. I wonder what awaits me at Raventree.”
“A knighthood, and some comely wenches, no doubt. Come now,” Patrek continued, dropping a coin on the table, “take this and get yourself a wench. One of them is fair enough, even for your lordly tastes. I think she’s even managed to keep most of her teeth.” Patrek laughed heartily, and Kentyn could not help but join in. Despite the mirth, he pushed the coins away, and poured himself another glass of the sour wine.
He watched as Patrek slammed his fist down hard on the corner table, and bellowed a curse. Patrek dropped a gold dragon on the table, and sauntered toward Kentyn. Patrek was a stark contrast to Kentyn, where Kentyn was tall and fair skinned, Patrek was short and swarthy. Where Kentyn had long, fair hair and a clean face, Patrek kept his black hair cropped short, and wore a thick black beard upon his jaw. Where Kentyn was levelheaded and dependable, Patrek was rowdy and unpredictable. As Patrek approached, Kentyn could tell that he was deep in his cups. His walk was unsteady, and his dark cheeks had gone ruddy. He made a great habit of drinking, and would often become boisterous. Kentyn had been required to defend him in a great many drunken brawls, once even going so far as to run his sword through a Braavosi sellsword. As different as the two men where, they were nearly inseparable.
“I take it you lost,” Kentyn said, as his friend pulled a chair to the table and poured a glass of the sour red.
“Aye, a dragon no less,” Patrek replied, glancing back toward the hedgeknight in the corner. “Ah, such is life though, and gold dragons will do me no good in my grave.”
“That much is true, at least,” Kentyn replied, a smile spreading across his smooth face. “Do you plan to drink yourself to death, then?”
“It could be so; though, I’d like a title first, and a few more maidens to boot,” Patrek laughed, before draining the rest of his cup. “Gods, this wine tastes like goat piss, I see why they call this inn the Sour Crone. You look lost, Maiden Cheeks, are you unwell?”
“Not unwell, I’ve just been thinking about the morrow. I wonder what awaits me at Raventree.”
“A knighthood, and some comely wenches, no doubt. Come now,” Patrek continued, dropping a coin on the table, “take this and get yourself a wench. One of them is fair enough, even for your lordly tastes. I think she’s even managed to keep most of her teeth.” Patrek laughed heartily, and Kentyn could not help but join in. Despite the mirth, he pushed the coins away, and poured himself another glass of the sour wine.
Hope you all are well and happy.