there were stern stands

[thethingsidoforlove]

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.

Comments

the arena ; jaime, seoraj, sonja ; closed.

[thethingsidoforlove]

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.

[serjeant]

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.

[thethingsidoforlove]

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.

[tropfatale]

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.

[serjeant]

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.

[thethingsidoforlove]

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.

[tropfatale]

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.

[thethingsidoforlove]

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?"

[tropfatale]

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.

[thethingsidoforlove]

"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.