multiversallogs | there were stern stands

Entry tags:

there were stern stands

Who: Jaime Lannister, Seoraj, Sonja Garin, and YOU
What: Various encounters with Jaime in Baedal.
Where: The Arena, Griss Twist generally, the Twelve Point divinity temples, other places your heart desires.
When: Whenever you want.
Notes: An open log and one closed thread! Tag in however otherwise, hopefully the above is a guide. But if you would like to do a thing and want me to kick off a thread, I am happy to open one, just let me know.
Warnings: Maybe language, possible medieval dickbag behaviour and the like. Probable violence in the case of the Arena.

Jaime alternates between taking it with him wherever he goes to keeping it safe inside a drawer. The hair comb, that is, the one he received a few days ago, one he would recognise anywhere. It slots into the category of things of value he could trade for money, and he's been thinking like this ever since he had the gold chipped off his Kingsguard armor. But unlike his Kingsguard armor, which he had quite merrily assaulted and defaced (via a smith, granted), the comb and its finery is kept instead, quite useless, and quite pretty.

His neighbours (he has them, now) in Griss Twist have more or less gotten used to that weirdo who insists on wearing a sword and a knife almost everywhere he goes.

That doesn't quite mean that Jaime has become used to them. The political nuances of Baedal are not quite as intuitive as the CiD he has slowly become accustomed to, able to send a message without first squinting at the pamphlet for reminder and instruction. There is less detail when it comes to the population of Baedal he has come to wryly describe as the dragons that vote, less instruction, certainly. And at the end of the day, less of a concern than everything else he must think about; his brother, their well-being, and the next round at the Arena.

Despite the pressures of modern society and a little bit of nagging from certain cohort members, Jaime is often in archaic dress, in breeches, leather doublets, suede jerkins, cotton shirts; everything modern seems frail and simple to Jaime's tastes and thus, cheap, even when it is not. He hasn't undergone the re-education.

The times he does not spend either hiding in his room (for all that he will not nor cannot admit to doing any such thing) or watching and participating in the events of the Arena, they are spent in simple exploration. Travels to Salacus Fields where he's seeing a man about a horse, riverside wanders, explorations to where the land stops and the ocean begins. Quiet nights spend with boots kicked up in taverns turning rowdy with petty bar brawls, retreats to woodlands where the city noise is dim (and he is used to city noise, but a different kind), market streets to acquire things he needs at cheaper rates where his last haggling move can no longer be that a Lannister pays his debts. Sometimes, he visits the temples, and usually manages to keep his peace, torn between cynicism and belief.

He avoids the visible xenians, when he can. Sometimes it isn't possible.

Flat | Top-Level Comments Only

By the standards of his home in King's Landing, it is a cold winter. Baedal's light snow fall and brisk winds have nothing on the northlands of Westoros, but that is nowhere Jaime liked to remain for any length of time. Still, he tolerates it, and wears the collar of a leather coat high against the chill.

"Mostly just horse leather and bravery," Jaime's saying, leaning against the wooden railings and watching the combatant field. There is a light rain coming down, cold enough to be sleety, but that wouldn't stop the Arena, and it's massive walls block some from the elements in their shadow. He is speaking to Seoraj on topics that concern or otherwise brush against them both. "The Dothraki consider any sort of armor to be cowardly, and steel plate to be slow. It is, of course, but it's a matter of favouring speed over strength and durability. And as for here, I'd favour a middle-ground."

He tips his head a little towards the current brawl. The large field has been sectioned off for smaller tournaments, fist fights, knife fights, sword play, although to call these litte battlefields 'small' would be a disservice to space given and the people that have come to watch.

The weather is no never mind to Seoraj, accustomed to harsh mountain winters; the chill is comfortable enough where Baedal typically feels a bit too warm for his blood. (Summer in the forge is enough to have him dowsing himself in barrels of cold water, which some of his neighbours don't actually seem to mind, funnily enough.)

“Choice of weapons, then?” after a considering pause, mildly inquiring; Jaime can interpret it for himself or for the Dothraki or both, and Seoraj would be satisfied with any or all of these answers. His curiosity is a consistently easy thing, and it's evident enough in watching him move through any space that he has a knack for conversation, for letting others share in that ease without much in the way of artifice. Some people, from time to time, see that simplicity and imagine it means he's a fool.

He doesn't let it worry him. They learn better or they don't, and either way, it's usually their problem and not his.

As someone who assumes space and attention without ever really fighting for it, Jaime matches easily with Seoraj's easy concession of talking room without really thinking about it. Jaime assumes the angle of the question as; "Spears, and curved blades. I was gifted one, once. I thought it looked a bit of a farming tool, but when you consider that they war on horseback, with no heavy armor to contend with, it does make a sort of sense, for barbarians. Ours are designed to pierce."

His hand comes to settle on the hilt of his own blade, the sidearm of the sword world in its reasonable length, able to be used with one hand if you have some strength to your arm. "My preference," he adds.

The light winter rains are missed, bringing up a hand to rustle away flecks of fallen, melting ice out of blonde hair. "I yearn for a decent swordsman, in the Westoros style. They let damn near anyone in here." Not that they aren't formidable foes, but it's harder to be a sword prodigy against, say, a battle axe, or a magical staff. Also, girls.

Edited (betta words) 2012-02-18 02:43 (UTC)

Speaking of girls, there's a young woman of about twenty-one summarily handing out what can only be described as an ass-kicking to a red-headed challenger close to twice her size; she's not petite, exactly, all long sharp edges and lean olive-complected sinew, but she is so slender she hardly seems like she could hold her own against another woman, much less a well-trained man. There is a sense of playfulness in her strikes, like she's toying with her opponent just a little, but there's also none of the reserved fair play characteristic of most arena spars: she's absolutely willing to kill him, if she thinks he's being lazy, which is Sonja's version of "asking for it", with "it" being "a sword through the throat". So it's good she doesn't think that, even if she trips him onto his ass a few minutes later.

When she chastens him, she slaps her ginger adversary lightly with the flat of the jagged, vicious-looking sword she carries. It's humiliating, and it's meant to be. The only thing that keeps her from finishing the game is something he says to her, earnest and harried, not quite audible to anyone else. She smiles, faintly, not particularly nicely, and relents. When she turns away, she spots Seoraj, maintaining eye contact for a moment--Sonja's form of greeting an acquaintance--and then moves back to wait for her next opponent.

Damn, girl.

...Seoraj does not say, because that's just not his speech pattern, but the sentiment remains; Sonja's handed his arse to him tied up in a bow a few times, which means he's had enough experience of her temperament to know that she'd eat him alive, and yet. A man can dream.

Or, in Seoraj's case, take hilarious satisfaction in getting someone else bent over her knee.

“They let in them as can keep their feet,” he says, mild as you please, and though he's speaking to Jaime, he's grinning at Sonja. “Best keep clear of that one if you want to keep yours.”

He dares you, bro.

Jaime notices less Sonja's glance for Seoraj as he is watching with mute disdain the loser vacating the field. Something sarcastic is on the tip of his tongue, but his current conversational companion has something to say firs, earning back Jaime's attention before it squares upon Sonja.

"Cautioning me against the combative prowess of a wench," he says, with the affect of thinking out loud, even as he sweeps a look about the immediate field. Sonja is not an unfamiliar presence, and so there aren't immediate volunteers to take the ground with her, which brings about a genuine reaction; a wrankling of his nose at the cowardice of it. "Well, I'm not sure what sort of craven you think me to be," he says, flippantly, "but you ought to think again if you wish to win some gold."

Because as he's saying this, he's levering himself over the railing. He isn't bigger than her last opponent, nor is he decked out in the shining steel that Seoraj reworked for him, but that doesn't seem to phase him. He has a sword, after all, a long and traditionally shaped thing; pommel, stop and hilt fancy and glinting gold.

Well, well. Looks like they have a new entrant after all, and he's straight out of King Arthur's castle. Sonja, not being much for chit-chat by nature, observes Jaime's approach, acknowledging him with an arch of her eyebrows but nothing else. She has the stillness of stare and body language that suggest at something not quite right (though it's hard to tell if it's abnormal psyche or abnormal species, since in her case, it is frankly a little of both in play), but she's moderately expressive, at least, even if most of her expressions veer toward detached amusement.

There is some murmur of curiosity from the crowd assembled. Looks like they'll have an audience.

Drawing his blade does not appear threatening unless you view a sword as inherently so; it's done casually, a movement he's actioned thousands of times in the past. It is handled well, but not with particular reverence; almost loose, like it was a mere extension of his arm and treated as such, which may or may not work in his favour.

He is watching her, too, her amusement almost matched by his own visible in green eyes and the constant verge-on-smirk shape his mouth generally takes. He knows there's an audience, but really, this victory won't be one to take to the tavern to brag about.

"Might I have this dance, my lady?"

She's going to enjoy this, she decides. (But she always does, but something about a big blond guy right now sounds damn good. Maybe it's the slight resemblance to a certain someone from home.)

There is a brief inclination of her head, acquiescing, in a way; she's not tense, not hostile, but patient. There's some shifting of body language, which is preparatory, as even Sonja will adapt to hold the sword properly, even if her confidence trespasses into sinful arrogance. She suspects he's pretty good, which is always a nice change.

"Fair warning," she says, "I don't stop just because you bleed."

Someone strikes a bell, just behind them. Time to play.

"You'd have to begin, first."

Apparently, both players are keen to enjoy it.

Judging by the prompt clash of blades, their reasons probably differ. Their swords are the heavy kinds, calling for heavy handling, sweeping blows that clang violent and loud; one hand for speed and two hands for strength. She's right; he's good, but he probably judged himself to be (comparatively) better. Attempts at toying with her convert, swiftly, into solid defense, moving backwards more often than he counted on.

He lands a blow with the intent to knock her aside even with a defensive block, sudden aggression, but his sword scrapes as momentum is cast aside with a sliding parry, steel screeching. Jaime moves with it, blade cutting in a swoop near her ear to turn the point for her torso.

At first cautious in socializing or going out, preferring to wait for Jaime's company, Tyrion has in some ways ranged farther than his brother. It's not that he's never stared at or hassled, but it's rare, and it's never personal — he isn't Tyrion Lannister, the Imp, the demon Hand who whispers in the boy-king's ear (as opposed to clouting it). It isn't kindness, but indifference, something he is startled to find he cherishes.

He visits the library often, where they allow him use of the rolling stepladder with merely a grunt, and talks Jaime's ear off about everything he sees and reads. While it doesn't escape him that Jaime is less happy about being here, it's hard for him to relate, even if he intellectually understands the loss of purpose and the loss of Cersei. Missing Shae is not the same. She had been solace in the middle of a viper pit, she had been kind and willing and delightful. But he's not in that viper pit anymore and he doubts she'd be half so enthusiastic without his high position, as much as it pains him to think that. Whatever Cersei is to Jaime (this is not a topic he ever plans to think deeply about), it's not the same.

Which is why, now that he has some manner of wages as assistant to a lobbyist — a fascinating education in how Baedal's governing system works or doesn't work, though given the governing system he came from, he supposes he has no room to criticize — he has accompanied Jaime to an Arena outing, and may even place a bet, especially if Jaime fights.

"I hear there's an annual tournament," he says, staring out at the field where various combatants are readying themselves. "Will you put the gold back on your armor if you enter and win?"

If Jaime fights is dependent on who else is fighting; he watches with keen green eyes, sitting with Tyrion and his elbows rested upon his knees. For now, he is content to spectate and watch other men throw themselves against magic users, demon-things, whatever might be on the field at any given time if only so he can see how they do it and learn off their mistakes.

The fortunate thing is that they don't necessitate the use of a tourney sword. He can just hack away--

"When I enter," he corrects, with the same sort of glossy confidence not unlike the gold that adorned his armor, sending a glance sidelong and then back upon the field. "I'd be awfully tempted; certainly less swords aiming to scratch it here than was true in Westoros. But better competition." Of course he'd phrase it that way.

If anyone fancies them an odd sight, then it is one that Jaime is used to. From childhood and adolescence through to spending more time with his fellow Lannisters upon Cersei's marrying into his liege's family, Jaime would more readily allow double-takes to slide off've him than he ever did names like 'Kingslayer'.

There is a brief lull in conversation as Tyrion purchases something roasted on a stick, because why not. He doesn't have the same appreciation for combat or even viewing combat as Jaime does, but he is paying attention, even if it looks like he's only fiddling with one of the many legs of this tiny roast beast.

"Just give it time," he says with black cheer. "Or I could have a cloak of roses made for you. —What the fuck kind of weapon is that."

He is probably referring to a sort of sword-flail, one which a would-be combatant carried onto the field like a whip but has now uncoiled, revealing the numerous blades.

Jaime makes a sound at the back of his throat, derisive at the memory of said cloak of roses. He hadn't looked up when Tyrion had distracted himself with acquiring snacks, but glances now, then back to the field. "Keep the roses," he as dry as Tyrion's tone, before he squints towards the weaponry that's captured his brother's eye.

"Interesting," is-- both observation and answer.

He's always considered the sword to be the weapon closest to his heart, and that of any true warrior. The standards are stranger, here.

"No, I'll expect I'll find something responsible to fritter away my winnings on; a good horse or armor of my own design -- or buy you a cunt or three at that Vault place I hear so much about. Ones with real, human women attached."

"That is generally the way I like them, yes," Tyrion says, eyeing Jaime and then popping a leg into his mouth. It takes him a moment to mentally get away from dismemberment and to the more likely meaning. "But you'll deny me if I lose my heart to a lizard-skinned lady of the night? Very well, they're your winnings. I will give them the roses."

He takes a contemplative bite, quieting as the fight begins, though he doesn't think this conversation is over.

That second meaning is caught in the tone at Tyrion's first remark, an adolescent wrinkle developed at Jaime's nose before it smooths again, mouth in a thin, smirking line. His intent will be focused squarely ahead, but people rarely go completely silent when watching these little tournaments. "Well, you're a peculiar man, so I wouldn't be shocked to know you have peculiar tastes. But spare me any lizard-skinned bastard nephews and nieces, especially on my generousity--"

His words break off there at a drawn-in hiss when the biting blades find the opponant's face, hands coming together not in a clap, but to shape palm against palm in a sort of restless gesture that feels over the roughness of his own hands. Usually before his own game battles.

It would be a shame to ruin Jaime's focus by saying learned from experience, eh?, so Tyrion refrains; the fight is sufficiently fevered that even a casual observer like himself can watch without complaint for several minutes on end.

Several minutes is all it takes, though, as is sometimes the case with armed combat. One fighter goes down, the other is victorious, and people move in to set the area to rights again for the next match.

"I assure you that were I to get a lizardwoman with child, I would marry and support her. With my job. The thing that only one of us has."

The recent fight is finished and forgotten, Jaime free to give Tyrion a look side along that has little appreciation for that particular remark. Despite hearsay, he is relatively slow to offense, especially from family, but he doesn't have any smart remark in automatic response either. Finally;

"You know, I don't perform down there for your personal amusement, dear brother."

He does it because he likes it, too, because he rarely ever feels more real and valid and alive than when he is fighting, but that is! Not the point. The point is it earns. Alongside criminals. "Or would you see me become a sellsword?"

"If you were so moved. For in fact it doesn't amuse me to see you here. I would only loosely call this a living, Jaime."

He hadn't intended to broach the subject so quickly, but his remark had been misjudged, and he might as well.

"More like a maiming waiting to happen. Hopefully somebody else's, but possibly yours, however much faith I have in your skill. And then what? Difficult to fight, difficult to work. It's fine for now, and they say Gediron favors the fearless, so win the tournament — be the champion — but find something else, too. The personal guard for a rich patron. A master-at-arms. Sheriff of some section of the city. Would it be so terrible?"

"You would think that way."

Which is arguably a pragmatic and practical way of thinking, in all fairness; Jaime sees it as coming from a man who likes it here and has been telling him all about it, this and that book, the position Tyrion's won for himself, the more fascinating corners of a given neighbourhood. Jaime has responded variously. Tolerant and simple answers, generous attempts at shared amusement, cynical remarks, and on the worser days, a plea for Tyrion to shut up.

His shoulders roll a little in his own defensive slouch, returning his attention to the field. "Jaime Lannister seeks employment. Submits, if you will. I'm content as I am - hitting things."

Edited (rar werds) 2012-02-17 05:21 (UTC)

Tyrion twiddles the legs of his snack a bit more, watching Jaime out of the corner of his eye.

"Well, in time, I shall hire you, and pay you very well, I might add. Once I've learned more about the system of politics here," he grudgingly allows. "Then I can use you to intimidate or flirt with my opponents. Maybe both. Some people like that sort of thing."

He too watches the field, but half his attention is on this vague set of plans, its pleasant ridiculousness.

His tension eases a little, mouth twisting in only just suppressed amusement. "Such aspirations," Jaime says. "It's a fortunate thing that Father isn't here for me to care about what he'd think of us."

Or anyone, really, and Cersei is exempt from this pondering because Jaime lists between thinking of her and determinedly not thinking of her, and right now is engaged in the latter thing. "There can't be worse patrons than the late King," he adds, in a gentle sort of concession as he leans back a little, watching the next fighters size one another up as someone buries spilled blood with a handful of sand. "You'd make for better company."

"That's very kind, I've always longed to be more personally entertaining than a man of his particular interests," Tyrion says, skirting the specifics of Aerys' reign, as it's hardly necessary to reference them to someone who'd been there personally. Forgoing addressing the comment about their father is more absentminded than deliberate; it's as easy as letting water flow through his fingers, even if there had been a conscious decision not to shut his hand.

The delicate phrasing has Jaime considering that perhaps they aren't both talking about Robert, but really... the same goes for Aerys, for all that enduring Baratheon's sharp comments and whimsical attempts at mocking, often drunken soldier-talk with 'the Kingslayer' were certainly a different kind of offense to the things Jaime stood by and watched under Aerys' rule. He is silent as this comparison runs through his mind, watching the field.

Would it be so hard, for the kingdom to have a good king? But truly, his only attempt at caring enough to do something about it had only favoured him so much - 'escaping death and/or the Wall' is not actually a positive outcome so much as it is a near miss. Somewhere, across dimensions, Joffrey sits on the Iron Throne.

"I've been meaning to introduce you to someone," he finally says, after a time. "Jack Benjamin, a landowner, seems inclined to befriend me. If you've high ambitions, little brother, you might enjoy his company too."

There are places in Baedal, it turns out, where a person can purchase a sword for themselves if they're so inclined. And they aren't replica swords one finds in comic book shops or at conventions where they're fashioned out of cheap metal and certainly not made to be properly fought with. No. The swords that a person can find in Baedal are functional, and this brings a smile to the lips of a small woman with blonde hair.

Odessa doesn't look the sort to be interested beyond an aesthetic level, like the type of person who looks for something to display above their fireplace. A conversation piece. The ceramic knife strapped to her thigh (if a person knew it was there beneath the drape of a heavy wool skirt) might tell a different story about Doctor Wander's relationship with bladed weapons, however.

Jaime looks like the kind of person who would be interested on a practical level.

He has already turned the salesman away, content to look; the perilous living he makes means he has enough to consider further weaponry, which is probably wise. Should his sword ever get ruined, it will perhaps be during a time he has squandered his fortunes away on rent, food, and beer, although that it is of Valyrian steel means he shouldn't need to worry very much. But still. He stands, now, in front of a wall-mounted display of blades of more variation than he's ever truly encountered previously.

For all that he is a little narrow-minded when it comes to cultural difference, he can't help but be a little starry eyes as he slowly looks the display over, hands to himself if only so as not to attract the attention of the salesman.

When Odessa enters, well-- it is a small store, making it difficult to ignore someone else without awkward silence. He glances her way, ready to dismiss, but it is a mix of both her gender and her scars that snag Jaime's attention a little longer, dealing her a once over.

Odessa can't help but be a little astonished by the array of weaponry herself. She's not familiar with most of them, to be honest, but she does have a desire to change that.

And she's used to people staring. It used to be worse. She ignores it most of the time, but she's also found that engaging is a quick way to stop most people. There's something about Jaime though, and she isn't sure what it is. She smiles faintly. "Hello." Rather than immediately let her gaze drift away and move on, she holds steady on him for a moment to see how he responds.

Yes, he was looking, and yes, at her scars; direct address fails to make him abashed, as anything would, and her gaze is met with a smile half-twisting at the corner of his mouth. "You must fight with some dainty blades to earn the wrath of one in return," Jaime says, which is a lot like hello. "Did you lose?"

It isn't just specific to being in Baedal and feeling no kinship towards it that Jaime is inclined to treat others as fascinations like one might in a zoo, but it's a good excuse should he ever need it.

That is not typically how people respond. That being said, it still reminds her of someone, which both sets her on edge and feels familiar at the same time. "I used to fight with smaller blades." The handiwork on her face was done by a scalpel, though there are some older exceptions. "I favour larger knives these days."

Thought to answer his question - because to leave it unanswered is to admit that yes, she did lose - she smiles tightly, like she's just tasted something sour. "I left her blind. I'd call us even."

"I've often heard that women fight above the throat," Jaime quips, leaning some against a glass standing. Glancing into it and studying the mounted, ornamental blades and their fancy hilts, golden casing, tassels, and briefly his own ghost-clear reflection before looking back at her. "But I can't say the sentiment takes physical blades into account."

Words and insults, the kind of daggers assigned to glaring, poisons consumed. The work of the female, typically.

"That may be true," Odessa admits coolly. She has to turn her head to see him properly, but it resembles fuller attention rather than compensating for a blind spot. "Are you always this charming?" isn't particularly a compliment.

Clarice is in Griss Twist, hood up as is habitual pretty much everywhere but Mafaton and out in the fog.

Their first conversation had been in video for him, if audio for her, and she certainly notices Jaime on the street. He isn't a man who avoids notice, even without his unusual clothes.

"You didn't get out on horseback, then, sir?" He might or might not remember the voice - she isn't counting on him to - but maybe he'll remember the conversation. "I trust you at least took a few of the things in the fog by surprise."

The voice doesn't twinge as familiar, as that first flurry of strangers is hardly ever truly remarkable, but the context does. Jaime, more than likely, knows the kind of foolish he seemed now that he's had a chance to breathe and step back into the flow of the city, removed of his conviction, but-- he's done worse.

He is standing outside a store, which has a row of worn books on display, shoved tightly into boxes, discounted. Jaime is not illiterate, or even very shy when it comes to the realm of reading, but doing so for pleasure has never been his skill. Still, these covers, this blatant waste of paper, is fucking fascinating, and he holds what appears to be a B-grade scifi novel, with a robot woman shooting lasers at fleeing humans.

Glances, easily distracted from this distraction, and he squints automatically both in an attempt at recognition and the glimmer of the unusual beneath the shadow of her hood. "I never made it that far, fortunately for the monsters," he says, flopping the book back onto its kin. "I forget; did we trade names?"

"You told me Lannister, but no other name," she says, easily. She can't help a little smile at the cover of the novel she's holding, but doesn't comment. "I warned you about the fog when you first arrived, and wished you luck, but you seemed to have other things on your mind then." Escape, for one.

"Clarice Ferguson," she adds, to make up for the deficiency. Her face is shaded, but she's not hiding it so actively he'd miss the tattoo-like markings on her face, even if the color isn't clear.

"It's all coming back to me," Jaime assures, somewhat richly to make the sentiment dry. He's better at remembering faces than strange, detached voices that go without names, and as he receives one, he tilts his chin up in acknowledgment. "I am Lannister, but you'd best call me Jaime or I'll think you mean my father. Even all the way out here."

He did have other things in mind, and a mess of new voices, names, and faces to handle coming out of one source. A surreal thing for those of medieval inclinations to take in. "I was forcibly removed from the fog, thanks to a magician. I can't say I've ventured out since.

"The horse was borrowed," he adds, as if to explain his only obstacle. Borrowed is another word for stolen.

"I'm not offended - it was a short conversation. Did the horse ever get back where he belonged, or did the magician not take him too?" If the thing was still alive, she might be able to find it.

"If recollection serves me right, the horse was returned to its original owner," Jaime says, talking broad strokes over what was a most irritating incident, and not just for losing a horse he might feel he fairly won for himself.

With an instinct towards veering attention off of himself when it suits, he asks, "Why wear your cowl so low, wench? It's hardly a harsh winter."

She considers him, then says, "My face gets people's attention. Sometimes I like not to have to deal with that, when I'm out." And, because she gets the sense his curiosity will probably just be piqued anyway, she cautiously lowers her hood.

"No more usual where I'm from than here, if that's your next question."

It's what he thought, and she can probably feel the prickle of judgement as he looks over her face. Not wholly negative, but there isn't much positivity in picking out what is visually pleasing, that shape and dimensions seem sound, that colour is tolerable. He is at least keeping commentary to himself.

Not that inquisition isn't for show, anyway. "But off enough in Baedal. You aren't ugly, so you've that advantage."

Her smile has a little twist. "That's damning with faint praise if I've ever heard it. I happen to like my face, but it's not what I rely on to make my mark."

She's pretty sure she can kick your ass, Jaime. Even if you aren't.

Without much background in skilled combat himself, Jack has never quite developed a taste for it. He's more of an archer for sport, or a hand-to-hand fighter when necessity dictates (and he can't just have a damn gun). Still, there's something nostalgic about the mix of sand and blood in the Arena that reminds him of people he's left behind. (Stelios would be rich as a king here and twice as happy, and Alexander– well, somehow it seems like this would suit him.)

He isn't here to ruminate over the past, however, much as his mind keeps slipping that direction after his own St. Kelley's memento. There are some people he's to meet, some business to be done of the shadier variety down in the covered private seating. Of course, that doesn't mean he can't spare a moment to follow his own whims. He remembers Jaime had mentioned looking into the Arena, and so he finds his way down toward the fighters during a lull, keeping an eye out for a familiar face.

"Still alive, are you?" he heckles when he spots Jaime, leaning over the rail.

For a baseline human with a pointy metal stick as his weapon, Jaime appears to be faring quite well; in that, he suffers no visible injury save for bandaging that ties around the knuckles of his right hand where something sharp caught it. He turns at the sound of a familiar voice, casting an automatic half-smile to Jack in response. "Such surprise, whenever that observation is made of me," he remarks, moving closer.

He is probably not the oddest sight in the Arena, dressed as he is in his steel plate, a flatter tone of metallic colour than the gaudy gold he'd flashed on the network that one time. It looks heavy and slow in contrast to many, but it helps that he knows how to move in it. It's also something of a character, one he isn't discontent to assume.

"Come to place a bet?"

Jack appreciates the value of showmanship, and so the armor earns a slight wry smile from him when he glances it over. Oh, you.

"Among other things," intentionally vague. (Though of course if he was truly intent on hiding what he's up to, he could have said nothing at all.) Then, with a faux-skeptical air, "Why, should I be betting on you?"

Oh, me.

"That depends on if you like money, your highness," is about as wry as the once over Jaime gets, moving to stand in a more comfortable conversational proximity. Though not completely out of place among more old fashioned means of battle, he is shinier. "I did have a favour to beg of you, in fact."

Jack bobs his head to the side and back again, as if he quite can't decide if he does like money or not. (He'll never make much of a gambler, really; money just doesn't mean enough to him.)

"Anything," settling his elbows on the rail. "Well, nearly anything. What is it?"

Money is an odd sort of thing on Jaime's half as well. Earning such a material is a new experience rather than counting on some endless supply, but the same can too be said for reputation. It is for one more than the other when he says--

"I would introduce you to my brother," he says, the crooked facetiousness of his smile remaining mostly as a default, but he isn't, now, saying lines. "He's currently under the employ of a politician of some kind--" Jaime didn't actually collect all of the details, there. "--and perhaps you too would enjoy a conversation. He's attempting to learn the higher ways of Baedal's governance."

Jaime sounds-- a little amused, as he speaks, for all that the topic is legitimate, his request serious.

"I don't know that there's much 'higher' about Baedal's ways of governance," wry, though not without a certain fondness. Monarchy still has his heart; representative government can have his lazy and occasionally begrudging respect. "But I'd be interested to hear how he's finding it. You didn't tell me you were lucky enough to bring family with you."

'Lucky' being a term that can go either way, from the sound of it. (Masking genuine envy with slight sarcasm is one of Jack's many gifts.)

"Did I not? Well, fortune saw to it that my little brother arrived in Baedal some days after I did." Jaime, too, sounds a little sarcastic, but judging by his tone, it's probable his sarcasm speaks more of how no one should consider it a fortune to be here; he is glad for the company of kinship. Even if he never talked about it. He had some reasons not to talk about it.

Losing Cersei is an older ache, however, and he can ignore it for now. "His name is Tyrion. I can pass you the communications number once I'm done here."

Jack, being one of those for whom Baedal is, in fact, a welcome escape (practically a vacation), just gives noncommittal nod. He knows he's in the minority.

"Do." A nod, decisive. "I'm curious to see what a sibling of yours is like in any case." There may be a hint of scandal behind that smile, just because. You can't honestly expect him to be introduced to your family and not dig around for dirt, can you?

Flat | Top-Level Comments Only

there were stern stands

the arena ; jaime, seoraj, sonja ; closed.

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject