The Mermaid's Teat

[Ollie]

An all in one tavern and whorehouse located near the King's Landing harbor that looks as seedy as it smells.

[Ollie]

A trio of sailors in salt stained trousers make their way into the tavern and take a seat in the center of the room. A mutton-chopped, burly man named Motts pinches one of the wenches a shade too roughly on the ass when he orders a drink, earning a sharp scowl. She returns after a moment with three full tankards. Motts flicks a coin to the server, landing it between her breasts, causing a rousing holler of amusement from his fellows. Pounding the table, he calls for a game of bones to be rolled, drinking heavily of his watery ale.

[Erik]

Three Lannister men-at-arms make their way into the bar, eying the sailors warily. They all get mugs of beer, and it's not long before a second and third round are ordered. One of them pulls the wench serving them down onto his lap, running his hand up her leg and under her skirt. The other two, their waitress incapacitated, make their way up to the bar, keeping their eyes on the sailors.

[Ollie]

The sailors hoot and holler amongst themselves as the dice are tossed and coppers are swapped from winner to winner. Even in the noisy atmosphere of the tavern, their voices carry loudly on over all else. Motts, Belfry, and Kirke seem to be their names, for they say them loudly and often, mostly following or preceding a slew of curses after a roll of the dice.

Spitting in his hand for good luck, Motts heaves the dice to the table. A simultaneous cheer of victory and holler of defeat go up as the dice land double sixes. Kirk, the sailor with a blue and white stocking cap, lets fly a stream of curses dripping with filth as he shoves over the last of his coppers. Spitting on the floor at his misfortune, he grabs the dice and hurls them away from table. The bones fly across the room and hit a man in gold-and-red livery square in the back of the head.

[Erik]

The man turns, slowly, then kneels to pick up the dice. He walks slowly to the sailors' table, rattling them in his hand.

"You seem to have misplaced your dice, friends," He tells them, letting them roll out of his hand onto the table. "Should be more careful with these things. Wouldn't want to gamble yourself into a night of being buggered, like usual."

The man at the bar watches the exchange carefully. The third remains busy with the wench.

[Ollie]

"Fuck you!" Kirk shouts in the face of the Lannister soldier, drunk as much on ale as he is on the anger at a poor night of gambling. "Go fuckin' FUCK yerself, you prissy HORSE FUCKER!" he continues to bellow inarticulately, jumping to his feet and ripping off his stocking cap to throw it in the face of the man-at-arms, fuming.

Motts continues to laugh, louder now at his friend's frustration as he pockets his winnings. Belfry sits by idly, not half-so much amused as Motts, sipping his ale and casting leery glances at other Lannister men across the tavern.

[Erik]

The Lannister man distracted with the woman notices the yelling, throwing her off his lap and standing, or rather staggering to his feet. He does his best to look imposing, keeping one hand on the dagger at his belt.

"Seems I've touched a nerve," The offending Lannister man replies to Kirk, "But you know, it isn't very kind to call your mother a horse. The mare went to the trouble of birthing you, after all."

The man at the bar's hand tightens around his mug.

[Ollie]

Unintelligible syllables spew from Kirk's mouth as he scrambles over the table to tackle the man-at-arms to the floor in a fury. Motts manages to utter a curse before he climbs to his feet, placing a thick hands around his friend's arms to peel him off the Lannister. Belfry slipped out of his chair as well, but stepped away from the table as he kept an eye on the other two, his mug still in hand.

[Erik]

The man formerly occupied with the wench, known to his friends as Syl, stumbles forward and grabs Motts, digging his thumb into the man's eye socket while his other arm goes around his neck.

The man at the bar, Wilt, hefts his mug and throws it half-full at Belfry's head. It flies wide, but showers the sailor with beer.

The man being pummeled, Allon, defends himself as best he can, landing a few shots on the other man.

[Ollie]

Motts bellows in surprise and wrenches back like a wounded bear, blindly stumbling to and fro as Syl hangs from his back by his neck, gouging the sailor's eye. His thick arms and powerful looking hands do little damage the Lannister hanging from his back, so instead he flings himself backwards against the wall, crushing the man behind him.

Belfry ducks late, and though the pewter mug misses his face, the mugfull of ale still drenches his head. Wiping the drink as best he can from his eyes and brow, the whipcord thin man hurls his own mug in turn, missing Wilt entirely and instead striking the barman square in the jaw.

Kirk takes the pounding as good as he's giving it, grappling Allon to the ground and punching him repeatedly in the kidney with a fist full of squat fingers.

[Erik]

Syl has the wind knocked out of him, and his thumb slips out of the other man's eye, though he remains attached to Motts' back. He tries to push off from the wall with his legs, resulting in the both of them stumbling forward and onto the ground.

Wilt grabs another mug and charges Belfry with it, swinging hard at his crotch.

Allon rears back and head butts Kirk square in the nose, knocking the other man back and giving the smarmy son of a bitch a quick respite. He starts to pull himself to his feet, drawing a dirk with his right hand.

[Ollie]

With a grunt, Motts hits the floor hard, thick motes of dust rising from the dirty wooden planks. "Get... th' fuck offa..." is all he can manage to croak out while the spry westerman strangles him. His hands roam the floor before him for something -- anything that he can use to dislodge his foe. Finally Motts' fingers brush against something and he takes it into his hand... a fallen lantern. Smashing behind his head with it, the lantern shatters against the back of Syl's head, showering them both with shards of glass.

Belfry twits away from the mug, but not enough. Wilt's swing catches the sailor low in the gut, sending him stumbling away. He finds a platter on a nearby table and sends it hurtling at Wilt, half-eaten chicken and greasy rashers of bacon spinning off to the floor.

Kirk's nose is a red ruin, the squat sailor tumbling aside and off of his foe. He writhes around on the floor some clutching his face, steady stream of curses still spilling forth. "You brotherfucking whoreson, I'mma fuckin' bugger your arse with a fuckin' seven foot rusty cutlass, y'shit eating nancy dusty cunt faced cock monger!" Obscenities continue to spill forth as he leaps to his feat, the dirk duly noted. A bar stool quickly finds its way into his hands, and then swinging through the air at Allon's face.

[Erik]

Syl stumbles back onto his feet, clutching his now-bloody face. "My fucking eye!" He yells, "You've put out my fucking eye!" He stomps at the ground repeatedly, but most of them miss, only one taking Motts on the leg.

Wilt, meanwhile, manages to bring an arm up to block the platter, but he lets out a cry of pain when it connects, and drops the tankard. However, he ducks low to grab the platter, and hefts it with both hands, charging Belfry with a wild, angry shout.

Allon sidesteps the stool, though just barely, and opts to fall back slowly, toward Wilt and Belfry, his eyes never leaving Kirk.

[Ollie]

Kirk advances on his foe with a berserk, reckless abandon, cursing all the time. He cuts a wide swathe before him with the stool, not single blow connecting, but still pushing Allon backwards as he avoids the heavy wooden legs.

Belfry retreats swiftly as Wilt charges him, but suddenly goes down with a cry as his boots fly up from underneath him, slipping in a thick puddle of split ale. He hits the ground like a sack of meat, and can only barely raise his hands up to defend himself as Wilt descends upon him with the platter.

As Syl's stomp smashes into the sailor's knee, Motts gives a wild howl of pain, his leg spasming wildly from the blow. One of the nearby patrons who hadn't managed to back up far enough from the brawl catches Mott's foot in the shin, sending him stumbling into the arms of the blinding Syl.

[Erik]

Wilt, on top of Belfry, hammers at him with the (Rather flimsy) platter, laughing all the while.

At least, until Allon, still walking backwards, falls back on top of them. His arms go wild, and the dirk goes flying, nearly stabbing the hapless barman who had just gotten up from the tankard-to-the-jaw. Wilt begins cursing whoever has just landed on him, doing his best to swing at everyone around.

Syl's left eye is gushing blood, and it leaves quite a mess on Motts as they tumble backwards. Syl's head cracks against a support beam, and though he's still breathing, he likely won't be getting up anytime soon.