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.

Threaded | Flat

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.

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?"

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.

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."

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.

the arena ; jaime, seoraj, sonja ; closed.

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