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.

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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.

there were stern stands

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