Post by The Smith on Jun 1, 2008 20:19:22 GMT -5
"Boy," Varuz said, his speech slurred from all the ale he'd drank,"boy, you maay bee -hick!-, shite with a lance, but, but um,...you show sword with the promise..er, ah, you know what I mean..."
He waved his hands airily and began to hum to himself, as Rowyn hefted the old drunk over his shoulder and proceeded to stumble down the alley. It led off one of the busier alehouses in the seedier part of King's Landing, and the pair received many strange glances as they staggered through the filth.
The young Reachman was perfectly sober: he'd had but one cup of wine at the feast, but the following trek around the shadow city as he searched for his old companion had wearied him immensely.
He grimaced at the stale stench of sweat and alcohol as it wafted forth from Varuz' armpit, warily eying the beggars and thieves around him, looking in their hungry, blank eyes for just a hint of ill-intent. He heard a clinking behind him as the old man muttered. "Just one more flagon of ale...that's all son..then,-hick-, then we go home...." He craned his neck around to see Varuz fumbling with his money pouch, which he had somehow managed to wrestle from his doublet. "Ooopss-" he giggled, as he overturned the pouch, the coins raining downwards in a glimmering cascade of bronze and silver. Silence fell across the alleyway, which suddenly seemed a lot more crowded and menacing to the Reachman than it had seconds before.
Shit! he cursed to himself as Varuz managed to wriggle free of his grasp, diving down to retrieve his coins. "Shit," he swore aloud, as the looming shadows advanced. They were intent on reaching the fallen money, and Rowyn was in the way. He stood his ground, blocking a glancing stroke from an arm wielding a heavy cudgel on his forearm.
Falling backwards, he scrabbled for a weapon, anything. His hand met the hilt of a sword, and he frowned in puzzlement, but grasped it nonetheless, swinging it hard and low at his closest attacker's legs. It met flesh, but instead of shearing through, it sent the man's knee bending the wrong way with a crack.
A tourney blade! he realized with a start. Varuz had been wearing it still: he must have gone in search of an alehouse directly after their sparring match earlier in the day. Rowyn thanked all the gods for the old man's drinking problem as he surged to his feet, blade swinging. The first slash knocked the offending cudgel from, breaking the wielders fingers, and Rowyn sent him stumbling back into the mass of bodies with a kick. They converged on him once more, but the Oakheart's blood was up. His fierce strikes were tempered by hard-earned skill, and the unwashed crowd could not touch him. Any who tried were thrown backwards, screeching from broken limbs or teeth.
There was lull in the violence, as a deathly silence fell over the alleyway. The would be thieves gasped in unison, their fearful eyes trained behind the knight of the Reach. He whirled around, and met the eyes of a grinning goldcloak. The man was handsome, and he removed his gloves as he stepped forward, flanked by two of his command.
"You wield that blade well, boy, but I would thank you not to bloody my peasants. They are so very fragile." He stepped over Varuz, and one of his followers gave the old man a cruel kick as he passed. "Who the fuck are you?" Rowyn snarled as Varuz went sprawling in the filth. The handsome man's eyes widened in mock surprise. "Easy boy, best not speak to your betters that way, else you might lose your tongue. Here for the tourney, I imagine?" he queried, still advancing. "You hedge knights are so very coarse, and yet you are allowed to compete in the tourney, while us noble defenders are left to deal with the scum."
Rowyn brought his blunted blade up defensively as the man continued to approach. "I am quite renowned among my fellows you know," he remarked casually. "Master swordsman of the regiment, and all that. Would've fared quite well in the mêlée, I imagine, but sadly us goldcloaks are prohibited from entering, unless knighted. Shame really, but never fear, ser! I expect a noble knight such as yourself would have no objections to a friendly sparring match?" He raised one eyebrow at Rowyn's hesitance. "Surely you do not fear, brave ser? I promise not to hurt you." The last was accompanied by a rasp of steel as the man bared his blade.
Rowyn glanced from the mans companions as they leered at Varuz, laughing cruelly as he rolled around in the dirt, to the terrified peasantry. They fear him for a reason, he thought, as should I. But a small part of the knight longed for the challenge. A master swordsman, to truly test his worth again. Plus, there was Varuz to think about. Rowyn did not see the handsome goldcloak just letting them leave. "Fine then," he said through gritted teeth, and rushed forward. The goldcloak side-stepped easily, and his blade slashed through Rowyns tunic, drawing blood.
The Reachman staggered, but turned to face his opponent once more. As they clashed anew, Rowyn found his rhythm, and met the goldcloak blow for blow. His opponent was stronger, but Rowyn had the advantage of speed, rage and a bastard trainer in Varuz. After an exchange that lasted for what felt like an age, Oakheart shouldered forward, blade swinging high and right. The goldcloak made to block it, a look of scorn on his face, but Rowyn suddenly changed direction,turning as he did so and bringing his sword whipping around. It made contact with Handsome's ribs with a satisfying thud. Snorting in pain, the goldcloak brought his hilt down on Rowyn's head, hard. The young man stumbled dazedly backwards, and his opponent advanced for the kill.
But Rowyn was not so dazed as he had let on. Instead of backing off as his attacker expected, the knight leaped forwards. A flick of his wrist sent the goldcloaks blade spinning from his hand, and Rowyn shunted to the side as he brought his blunted weapon down on his adversaries collarbone, breaking it with an audible crack. The man fell wailing to the floor, and the watching crowd surged forward onto their despised tormentor. The other goldcloaks brole and ran, and amidst the confusion Rowyn managed to drag Varuz free of the press of bodies.
As he slumped against the wall of a nearby side alley, Rowyn cursed at the old man. "What the fuck were you doing?! You near killed us, you old fool!" But all he got in return was a burp and a childish grin. "-Hick!-...Aye, boy....fear not..-hick!-...I retrieved our coin!" He grinned happily. His expression became thoughtful. "Now, uh, where can I find me an alehouse? I'm parched!"
He waved his hands airily and began to hum to himself, as Rowyn hefted the old drunk over his shoulder and proceeded to stumble down the alley. It led off one of the busier alehouses in the seedier part of King's Landing, and the pair received many strange glances as they staggered through the filth.
The young Reachman was perfectly sober: he'd had but one cup of wine at the feast, but the following trek around the shadow city as he searched for his old companion had wearied him immensely.
He grimaced at the stale stench of sweat and alcohol as it wafted forth from Varuz' armpit, warily eying the beggars and thieves around him, looking in their hungry, blank eyes for just a hint of ill-intent. He heard a clinking behind him as the old man muttered. "Just one more flagon of ale...that's all son..then,-hick-, then we go home...." He craned his neck around to see Varuz fumbling with his money pouch, which he had somehow managed to wrestle from his doublet. "Ooopss-" he giggled, as he overturned the pouch, the coins raining downwards in a glimmering cascade of bronze and silver. Silence fell across the alleyway, which suddenly seemed a lot more crowded and menacing to the Reachman than it had seconds before.
Shit! he cursed to himself as Varuz managed to wriggle free of his grasp, diving down to retrieve his coins. "Shit," he swore aloud, as the looming shadows advanced. They were intent on reaching the fallen money, and Rowyn was in the way. He stood his ground, blocking a glancing stroke from an arm wielding a heavy cudgel on his forearm.
Falling backwards, he scrabbled for a weapon, anything. His hand met the hilt of a sword, and he frowned in puzzlement, but grasped it nonetheless, swinging it hard and low at his closest attacker's legs. It met flesh, but instead of shearing through, it sent the man's knee bending the wrong way with a crack.
A tourney blade! he realized with a start. Varuz had been wearing it still: he must have gone in search of an alehouse directly after their sparring match earlier in the day. Rowyn thanked all the gods for the old man's drinking problem as he surged to his feet, blade swinging. The first slash knocked the offending cudgel from, breaking the wielders fingers, and Rowyn sent him stumbling back into the mass of bodies with a kick. They converged on him once more, but the Oakheart's blood was up. His fierce strikes were tempered by hard-earned skill, and the unwashed crowd could not touch him. Any who tried were thrown backwards, screeching from broken limbs or teeth.
There was lull in the violence, as a deathly silence fell over the alleyway. The would be thieves gasped in unison, their fearful eyes trained behind the knight of the Reach. He whirled around, and met the eyes of a grinning goldcloak. The man was handsome, and he removed his gloves as he stepped forward, flanked by two of his command.
"You wield that blade well, boy, but I would thank you not to bloody my peasants. They are so very fragile." He stepped over Varuz, and one of his followers gave the old man a cruel kick as he passed. "Who the fuck are you?" Rowyn snarled as Varuz went sprawling in the filth. The handsome man's eyes widened in mock surprise. "Easy boy, best not speak to your betters that way, else you might lose your tongue. Here for the tourney, I imagine?" he queried, still advancing. "You hedge knights are so very coarse, and yet you are allowed to compete in the tourney, while us noble defenders are left to deal with the scum."
Rowyn brought his blunted blade up defensively as the man continued to approach. "I am quite renowned among my fellows you know," he remarked casually. "Master swordsman of the regiment, and all that. Would've fared quite well in the mêlée, I imagine, but sadly us goldcloaks are prohibited from entering, unless knighted. Shame really, but never fear, ser! I expect a noble knight such as yourself would have no objections to a friendly sparring match?" He raised one eyebrow at Rowyn's hesitance. "Surely you do not fear, brave ser? I promise not to hurt you." The last was accompanied by a rasp of steel as the man bared his blade.
Rowyn glanced from the mans companions as they leered at Varuz, laughing cruelly as he rolled around in the dirt, to the terrified peasantry. They fear him for a reason, he thought, as should I. But a small part of the knight longed for the challenge. A master swordsman, to truly test his worth again. Plus, there was Varuz to think about. Rowyn did not see the handsome goldcloak just letting them leave. "Fine then," he said through gritted teeth, and rushed forward. The goldcloak side-stepped easily, and his blade slashed through Rowyns tunic, drawing blood.
The Reachman staggered, but turned to face his opponent once more. As they clashed anew, Rowyn found his rhythm, and met the goldcloak blow for blow. His opponent was stronger, but Rowyn had the advantage of speed, rage and a bastard trainer in Varuz. After an exchange that lasted for what felt like an age, Oakheart shouldered forward, blade swinging high and right. The goldcloak made to block it, a look of scorn on his face, but Rowyn suddenly changed direction,turning as he did so and bringing his sword whipping around. It made contact with Handsome's ribs with a satisfying thud. Snorting in pain, the goldcloak brought his hilt down on Rowyn's head, hard. The young man stumbled dazedly backwards, and his opponent advanced for the kill.
But Rowyn was not so dazed as he had let on. Instead of backing off as his attacker expected, the knight leaped forwards. A flick of his wrist sent the goldcloaks blade spinning from his hand, and Rowyn shunted to the side as he brought his blunted weapon down on his adversaries collarbone, breaking it with an audible crack. The man fell wailing to the floor, and the watching crowd surged forward onto their despised tormentor. The other goldcloaks brole and ran, and amidst the confusion Rowyn managed to drag Varuz free of the press of bodies.
As he slumped against the wall of a nearby side alley, Rowyn cursed at the old man. "What the fuck were you doing?! You near killed us, you old fool!" But all he got in return was a burp and a childish grin. "-Hick!-...Aye, boy....fear not..-hick!-...I retrieved our coin!" He grinned happily. His expression became thoughtful. "Now, uh, where can I find me an alehouse? I'm parched!"