multiversallogs | 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

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.

there were stern stands

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