no matter what you say or what you do

[khaleesipls]

WHO: Jorah Mormont and Rincewind the Wizard
WHERE: Nonah
WHEN: August
WHAT: Crabs on the beach.
WARNINGS: Pending.



[ Scrubby marra grass rattles in the dunes, low tide mirrored over flat sand without another soul in sight. For a while it looked like it might rain, but the wind never got around to bringing it ashore, leaving fat-bellied clouds to smother blue and grey at the sunset on the horizon.

Ser Jorah sits on a slab of driftwood downwind, as agreed, still rank enough for a few feet of extra distance to be worth it. He’s in jeans and a buttondown that he’s started to sweat through -- never without long sleeves.

At least the breeze is cool. ]

Some still call him ‘Littlefinger,’ [ he says, on the back end of another edition of the history of life the universe and everything. One that he probably shouldn’t be telling.

But that’s whiskey for you. ]

You’ve never had anyone here from your world?

Comments

[wizzardly]

Littlefinger, [repeats Rincewind, incredulous. He'd kicked off his sandals so he could bury his feet up to his ankles, a paradox sat sprawled in floral-print beach shorts and an oversized, dusky orange knit sweater. There's a near-empty bottle buried in the beach next to him, its peeling label the current fascination of a small but tenacious fiddler crab.] You're serious? You're not just having a go at me?

[oh, he's going to remember that one, the wizard determines privately. Even if the rest of tonight manages to get pissed away with the liquor, he's holding on to 'Lord Littlefinger'. Absolutely.]

Mm, but no, never. [a beat, and Rincewind lets his gaze drift down to the shoreline where the Luggage is chasing after seagulls, leaving an army's worth of footprints and prompting a cacophany of screeching squawks.] ...Unless murderous boxes count.

Not that I think it's a loss, mind you. I can't even think of who the Porter would think to bring. And to be honest, most of the ones I can think of I'd rather not. Everyone I tend to know either tries to kill me or drag me into danger.

[he reaches for the bottle, avoiding the tiny 'clack' of pincers in his direction when he brushes the crab and the sand away.]

...Except for the Librarian, I suppose, [he allows after a sip.] He's easy to get along with. Tends to keep to himself and the books but still enjoys a drink. You'd like him, I think. Unless you've some prejudice against apes.

[khaleesipls]

Deadly, [ says Jorah, on the subject of his own seriousness. Keenly aware that his half a grin isn’t likely to help his case, he pushes to his feet and weaves up the beach, stiff in the knees, elaborating as he goes. A great glass bottle stands tilted in the sand behind him, sunk up to the handle. Hard to see how much is left ]

I tried to warn Jon Snow off its use here in America, shortly after he arrived. I hadn’t even told Queen Daenerys, for fear the title might spread, with me as the only possible perpetrator.

[ he stoops to twist a fresh bottle out of the crate he dropped in no man’s land. Beer after liquor. Or between it. He hasn’t decided. ]

Now there are so many Starks I’m surprised it hasn’t turned up in graffiti.

[ Back to his post, he twists off the cap and lets it fall through his fingers. ]

You always think everyone’s trying to kill you, [ he says, as he settles, grunting. ] I’ve never met an ape.

[wizzardly]

Well I'll tell you what, if he asks, I'll say Dr. Chilton told me.

[who is still good friends with Lord Baelish, as far as Rincewind knows. He's in a better position than Jorah to weather any lordly discontent. Or Rincewind, for that matter, but the wizard knows himself well enough to know that there are some temptations even his cowardice won't let him resist.]

- And that's because they are, [he blurts back, and scrambles upright for emphasis just as Jorah settles.] People, monsters, the gods, bloody well take your pick! I've met Death enough times to -

[the wizard breaks off, yanking angrily on his hat. He's growing more animated by the moment, the topic of apes clearly shelved.]

It's not my fault this world's different. It's not safer but it's... I mean, when I first came here, the Russians invaded. And I've been around armies before, trust me, they're usually dangerously predictable, but instead of dungeons or warfare, they had us taking classes and getting tied to chairs and being electrocuted.

[the memory seems to knock some of the wind from Rincewind's animated sails. He frowns, staring at his feet, and then sinks back into the sand at Jorah's side. The smell's faded enough that he only sniffs a little, giving his nose a rub.]

Then the next month, I upset a god. And instead of trying to kill me, he branded me. Decided I'd be his servant. That's the sort of thing I mean. I've always had to be ready to dodge a sword, and here I'm always getting tripped up on ropes.

...I forget where I was going with that, [he admits.] But I'm not crazy for being alert, is what I think I meant. You're a knight - you should know better than anyone.

[khaleesipls]

[ Baelish will know who it was. The odds are high he’ll even guess how, for all that the ‘where’ might be a surprise. There’s nothing subtle about Rincewind, or his hat.

The time they’ve spent out on the town in Maurtia Falls isn’t a secret

Ser Jorah sighs, rather than offer a counter-suggestion, already resigned to whatever fate he set in motion by mentioning the name at all. If he keeps drinking he won’t remember he did it, and if he doesn’t remember he won’t have to worry.

So he drinks, and lets the sound of the sea blot out the lecture that rises after it.

But mention of Russian capture brings his head around like a bit, dizzy concern unfocused as much by proximity as it is his BAC. He’s not as addled as his nightmare counterpart, but his worry is starkly familiar, in that look. ]

They really electrocuted you?

[ In real life? Not in a dream? Hard to say if he registered any of the rest of it. ]

[wizzardly]

Oh, [Rincewind lets out a breath, nodding. He leans over awkwardly to take Jorah's bottle. At least, he tries to. It's harder when he's also trying not to meet the man's eyes.] Yes. When they decided you'd misbehaved. Or that you weren't taking to their classes well enough. Or if your suitcase ate a soldier.

[no need to even glance at the certain guilty party down the shoreline. A party still blissfully uninterested in their conversation, currently marching around with sand, kelp, and loose gull feathers stuck to its seawater-doused legs.]

Although, [the wizard amends, graciously,] they mostly preferred house arrest over shocks for me, after that one.

[Rincewind risks a sideways look then, blue eyes bleary with drink and a lack of sleep obscured beneath the shadow of his hat. He rubs absently at the goosebumps speckled across his arms - either the breeze is chillier than it was a few hours ago, or he's sobering some.]

...I don't know how you would have taken it, to be honest. It only lasted a week before they were driven off, but you wouldn't know it to have gone through it. Some people handled it better than others. Some got out before the start. I tried, of course. But I can't be fast enough every time.

[or even most.]

[khaleesipls]

[ Jorah is a helper: he hands the bottle Rincewind is after over as naturally as passing something down from a high shelf, long-faced and quiet through description of the occupation. No one he’s questioned in the past has been eager to get into the nitty gritty of electroshock and re-education, and to date, he hasn’t pressed for answers.

Sobered without sobering, he watches the Luggage caper in the oranges and purples and beachy blacks of sunset rather than speculate on his own handling.

In his sleep, he’d taken to it well enough to be useful. ]

You’re lucky it came with you.

{ His man-eating suitcase on legs, he means. To date he can’t recall seeing Rincewind with a weapon in his hands. And he’s seen him do magic even less. ]

[wizzardly]

[he takes a drink like it's cough syrup, necessary to knock back in a single gulp. Shudders. He breathes a scoff when he passes it back, his smile threaded with the sort of wry humor you'd find in a mortuary.

"Luck". Now there's a loaded word to use around Rincewind the Wizzard.]

Luck has nothing to do with it, that I can tell you. Sapient pearwood follows its owner. No matter where or when I'm thrown to next, I'm bound to have clean socks while I'm there.

...Eventually. [he shrugs. There's no accounting for promptness when you're dealing with the different trouser legs of time and space.]

I'd also argue it's caused as many problems as it's solved. It's a bit like why I try never to carry a weapon - you always get into more trouble when they're with you. People always swing a sword at someone they think is about to swing at them, but if you're unarmed there's a better chance they'll waste time talking. And that's when the swords don't have legs.

[khaleesipls]

Last time I tried to talk my way out of trouble without a weapon I was nearly beaten to death.

[ Quietly matter-of-fact in his contention, Ser Jorah takes the bottle back, eyeing Rincewind sidelong. Whiskey in one hand, beer in the other. The sheer number of shallow nicks and seams grooved into him above the collar is an effective counter in itsself -- evidence of the plenty of other times enemies have swung on him when he has had a sword in his hand.

Hard to say if he’s aware of the betrayal of his own mug.

Probably.

He’s seen it. ]

Is that what your world is like? [ He prompts, skepticism buoyed out the pit of his chest by a stifled belch without giving the wizard a chance to argue. ] Everything has legs?

[wizzardly]

Well, there's your problem. You aren't the one who's supposed to be talking. [just as matter-of-factly. He thinks (but decides not to voice) that this is especially true in Jorah's case, given the knight's propensity for deadpan disrespect.] You're supposed to let them do all the rambling, so you can get to running. ...Even if they're just rambling on about what they're going to do to you and how painful that's going to be.

[although, the more he considers it, the more the difference in their looks might have something to do with it as well - Jorah without a sword still looks liable to bash someone's head in with a rock instead. Rincewind without a sword just looks like... well, Rincewind.

The wizard makes some murmur of epiphany to himself, sniffing and then scooting a little closer in the sand. After a moment, there's another sand-dragging scoot, putting them knee-to-knee. He's done some quick, sloppy, and admittedly quite drunk calculation, and come out on the side that getting warmer trumps the interesting smells Jorah's wearing right now. They're already sharing a bottle, why not a bit of heat?]

Legs? - Oh, no, that's really just the Luggage, other things are normal. Well, normal amount of legs, anyway. On most things. My world's... [he considers this, staring upwards at the darkening sky.] ...vast. And I've probably seen more of it than anyone else, now that I think of it. Although a lot of that was blurred.

[either from running or falling.]

I've told you it's flat, haven't I? - I've seen the Edge myself, before you go doubting me. And fell off it. [he shudders, and it's not from the breeze.]

sorry y y

[khaleesipls]

[ Jorah sighs none-too-subtly while Rincewind begins to explain strategic cowardice to him, and his attention drifts. First to the sea, and then to the barely-there scatter of the first few stars in the twilight. There isn’t always somewhere to run; oftentimes he’s been cornered with others less capable of escape. Forced to stand his ground.

But Rincewind has the Luggage, and nobody’s depending on either of them for protection.

Probably.

He drains his beer, and seems likely to let it all go without comment -- running away, objects with legs, Rincewind’s blurry adventures -- until he gets to the part about falling off the edge of a flat world. There, with his spent bottle screwed down into the beach, skunky, rough with sand and warmer in proximity, Jorah squints back to the wizard, and says: ]

...What?

[ A little gruff. Like maybe they’ve had enough to drink. ]

no worries I'm worse

[wizzardly]

Oh, yes. Fell right off. [he nods, somewhere between matter-of-fact and faintly distressed by the memory. ] I shouldn't have been anywhere near there in the first place, but of course that's all a long story. I was traveling with this little idiot at the time, and we'd been on the Dehydrated Ocean having just escaped a ship of slavers, and he drifted us off-course and into the Circumfence.

[Rincewind pauses, looking up with tenuous concentration into Jorah's bewildered expression and calculating whether the knight would follow him without deeper explanation. Probably not.]

...It's a big fence wrapped round the Edge of the Disc.

[there, that should help.]

But the thing of it is, this fence was also put up for slavers, for this nearby country Krull! [he flings an arm up, nearly knocking his hat loose in the process.] So we're captured again, and - have we got another bottle?

[verifying that Jorah's emptied his, Rincewind cranes his neck for sight of the Luggage. There are plenty of tracks in the sand, but no sight of the little feet responsible for them. He grunts his disappointment - of course the thing's never bloody in sight when he needs it - and heaves a sigh so dramatic that his whole body slumps with it.]

Mmn, nevermind. Was I - ? I was talking about slavers, right? Absolute bastards, they are. Not dealing with their sort is one of the improvements to this world, I'll grant you.

NO ME

[khaleesipls]

[ Drunk as he is, Ser Jorah is not drunk enough for a flat world with a fence around it that Rincewind tripped over, once. His silence is critical, skepticism creased in stark at the corners of his eyes in the semidark.

Still.

He unplugs the whiskey bottle from its post near his boot without looking down after it, and offers it over. Damp sand dribbles from the base. ]

Aye, [ it’s easy for him to agree, especially in this state, his voice rough with drink. ] Scum of the earth.

[ Past time for a fire at the rate the glow of the sun is fading on the horizon, and Mormont creaks up onto his feet again. Breath steadier in than it is out after a rattling chill, he sways off a few meters to pick up a piece of driftwood -- the first one he sees. Also the only one he sees, on the beach proper.

He turns to drag himself back towards the dunes. ]

Suppose I never told you about my first exile.