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

[andyoullmissit]

"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.

[thethingsidoforlove]

"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.

[andyoullmissit]

"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.

[thethingsidoforlove]

"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."

[andyoullmissit]

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."

[thethingsidoforlove]

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."

[andyoullmissit]

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.