Come away little lamb come away to the water

[infomodder]

WHO: Jorah Mormont & Will Graham
WHERE: a river a stream a creek
WHEN: early September
WHAT: Part two in the adventures of a bear and a dog who only ever run into each other at inopportune times. It's fun for the whole family.
WARNINGS: gore at the very least; will update if needed




He cut these organs out. It's only fitting he's the one to get rid of them. And he can't bring himself to just stuff them down the garbage disposal like someone else without Cannibal Issues might, which means it's time for a trip out.

...with a bunch of mostly hacked up, thawing organs in the trunk. Good thing he's a careful driver. No one has reason to pull him over. That's the last thing he needs. In plain sight isn't quite the goal here. Not like that, anyway.

He pulls up to one of his usual fishing spots. It's away from the road but he's not the only one who's ever used it. This isn't his secret, unlike the fact he's hauling a different cooler to the edge of the water this time. Dressed in vest and waders, hat, the whole nine yards, he looks like he's ready for just another day of fishing. He's thought of that, too, using the contents as bait. Tempting, tempting. But then if he ate anything he caught...not so tempting.

He sits on the bank, boots dangling into the water. Most of the contents have already been sliced and diced; a horrible sort of food preparation, but necessary. Because Will's plan is to simply toss chunk by chunk, perhaps small handfuls, at a time. Into the water. He's sure there are alligators around who'd appreciate the free meal. He's just a guy with several bags of weird organic chum, nothing to see here. Goddamn hipster. Probably can't even fish.

Except, well...the heart of the matter. The heart, that is. Dorian's heart. It's still whole, carefully placed in the middle of this zombie dream dinner. He wasn't sure what to do with it, only knew it had to go as well. So of course it's the thing he's just grabbed out and is squinting at fondly when he smells someone else. When he turns...

An eyebrow goes up. That's it; he doesn't scatter or try to cover anything up. He doesn't hunch. He doesn't offer an explanation. He's just there.

In fishing wear.

Holding a heart in his hands.

As you do.

Comments

[khaleesipls]

What Will smells when the wind changes is very distinctly the scent of an old man in old leather who’s just finished having a piss in the river.

Jorah’s still hiking his belt up when the silhouette of a man turning ahead stops him fast as a tiger in the reeds.

This particular beast is familiar, both in the flavour of his stink and the grizzle touched in wiry at his ruff. Horse sweat and warm steel and beer that’s had all night and half the morning to go stale. Were it not for the teal of the scarf tucked in under his collar, he’d blend in well enough with dead grass and river rot: all earthy green and bronze in the overgrowth.

Direct eye contact doesn’t help. Slow-dawning recognition can only make things worse -- not just of Will, but of what he’s holding.

The change in wind also brings voices, but they’re farther away round the bend, underscored by the distant rustle and clank of boat to mooring.

Much closer and much more personal, a long, sinister scrape accompanies the motion of Jorah drawing his sword in the brush.

[infomodder]

Jorah may have just taken a piss in the river but Will doesn't ease his boots out of the water. He has fished for far too long to be unaware that sometimes there's more in the water than water and plant life and animals. Sometimes there were bodies, hallucinated or otherwise. Now he was just following in that fine tradition of using waterways as a disposal. Now, actually, he was squinting, craning his neck, making sure he was seeing what he was seeing...

Apparently the whole disposal thing wasn't understood; or with understanding, it wasn't appreciated. He still didn't scurry or seem overly worried, but his face...well, it changed. Disbelief, surprise, the fuck. At least they weren't in public. Poor guy, this world must have been quite the shake up for him and his sword? Jesus.

He looks back at the heart, the thin layer of bag protecting his hands from touching it. Then it's tossed back in the cooler and Will moves to stand, all parts of him quite visible. Just a guy in waders and vest and hat with lots of pockets he isn't reaching into in an effort to make sure Jorah knows he isn't a threat.

Currently, anyway. Currently not a threat, next to a current...haha.

"You know how to fish?" he asks, as casual as can possibly be, walking back to the car. He did, of course, bring a rod along. He isn't using Dorian's bits as bait, no, but that doesn't mean he can't get in a few line tosses before he heads back after the deed is over. It just happens that the boundary-crossing confused pug guy is here, too.

With a sword drawn.

And Will is trying to just. Ignore that. And swim along. Like he might ignore a dog barking in an effort to condition it not to—no attention for barking, eventually it might stop. No horror or questions or attention for sword drawing, eventually Jorah might.

Put it away.

Forever.

Maybe.

[khaleesipls]

Hands kept in plain sight are a good start.

Will steps away and Jorah pushes out into the open with his sword raised at ready. It’s a mean instrument, steel low on ornamentation, with a sharp edge.

“I know how to fish,” he says. Like, doi. “Keep away from the car.”

As orders go, this has the ring of one he’s only going to give once, rumbled below the threshold for easy overhearing from afar. The linen of his tunic cloys at his hide; his hair is dark with sweat. He’s left his armor at home and he’s still suffering, limited to leather bracers and the heavy sweep of his skirt.

If Will makes a break for it, Mormont won’t beat him to the driver’s side. He’s already done the math, breathing a shade harder than he should be.

Maybe they can talk about this instead. Less cardio intensive. Less Spanish Flea pursuit in the Florida heat.

[infomodder]

Order heard.

But Will's never been very good at following orders exactly. Maybe he does for a while. Or appears to be doing just that. Eventually, however, he'll break away and do things his own way, or he'll have been doing them his own way on the side all along. Being his coworker isn't an enviable spot.

So he keeps away from the car. In fact, he stops entirely. He even goes so far as to lift his hands as though he's got something far more powerful than a sword pointed his way. Though, knowing this place, that sword could have some magical something or other to it. Grow ten times its size. Shoot fire. Shoot piranhas. Shoot kittens with piranha instincts. Whatever.

"All right." His facial expression, his voice, his body language past the hands up don't really align with the hands up. He's too relaxed, giving Jorah more a mockery of obedience than actual obedience. "We never exchanged names...somewhat rude of me. Will Graham. And you?"

They can definitely talk about this. Will's got time and absolutely no fear. Not now. He's curious, too. Curious if Jorah has to touch him to screw up his powers or not. Curious if he can ask or find out from something more hands on.

[khaleesipls]

Jorah’s sword does not grow ten times its size or collapse into a mess of ravenous catfish. It reflects the dull greens and browns of the bank, and the grey of the sky.

A mockery of obedience will do just fine. Jorah keeps his eyes on Will and the point of his sword up as he circles sideways for the cooler. The friction flat in his stare is his only concession for the lack of concern in 'Will Graham’s' posture. Twenty-first century skepticism is becoming very familiar.

“Ser Jorah Mormont,” he says, as he reaches to draw out the baggy Will just dropped in.

It’s fine. They haven’t invented fingerprints in Westeros.

A long glance seals the deal. He holds it up like a sack of leftovers opposite his sword, heart-muscle lumped heavy to one side. His brows are lifted, eyes cool, one curious prick to another.

“Where did you get this?”

[infomodder]

The mockery worsens as Will's elbows droop slightly. He can't help the aching shoulder pains he's got to go with all those scars, all right? And the point has been made enough. He doesn't need to keep up this perfect facade. Especially not when he's being confronted with his organic dime bag. Innocent he is not, playing otherwise is just insult.

Doesn't seem to him like Jorah's all that innocent, either. Hm. Pricks abound.

"I got that from a man. From inside a man." He nods in the direction of what's left in the cooler aside from the heart, chopped into chunks. Neatly. With a knife, in cubes and squares like so much dog meat. "Rest of that, too. Same guy. He recovered, but I can't just keep all that around the house."

An elbow droops some more.

"Some of us can do that. Heal. Instead of turn into dogs and choke powers."

[khaleesipls]

This isn’t a pitfall Jorah has previously considered -- living through having your own heart carved out of your chest. Bits and pieces. His throat closes around a swallow that feels thick; the furrow of his brow takes on a more critical knit -- a sort of sympathy clench. It’s hard to read, at odds with his bravado.

It’s equally hard to tell whether or not Will is telling the truth.

“Some of us aren’t packing around with boxes of human remains.”

He opens his hand and the heart falls, plop, back into the cooler. Muscle and jelly.

[infomodder]

Plop goes the heart, and Will's hands drop shortly after. He crosses his arms over his chest. He has a feeling that putting his hands in his pockets might be a bad move. Might seem a casual, easy way for him to pull something out on Jorah and he's not really angling to put the guy on alert any more than he already is.

"Some of us aren't carrying swords, either."

Just angling to be a smartass, apparently. Nothing wrong with that. Being a smartass is preferable to being a dumbass in plenty of situations. Except sometimes the two can go hand in hand, hm? Will doesn't notice the ripple in the water a ways off, doesn't spot the momentary flash of eyes and scales. He should be looking out. He's in the fisherman's get up, after all. But no. He's more focused on Jorah and Jorah's sword and being a smartass.

[khaleesipls]

That sounds like a personal problem.

Steady on his feet with a sword in his hand, Jorah stands with his back to that ripple, watching Will fold his arms with veteran suspicion. He doesn’t reply. The wind ripples at linen around patches soaked through to his skin. Tracks of sweat bleed into the bristle at his chops.

The blue of his eyes is just a little too keen to read rough as the rest of him, assessing Will’s attitude against his own investment in this human casserole.

He’s already been gone for too long.

“Who is he?”

[infomodder]

"Dorian."

That tone is generally reserved for less than admirable family members. The little brother who sells weed to kids for a high price, the alcoholic uncle who gets free meals via jail or hospital stays, the cousin who thinks they can pay back borrowed money by giving discounts at the local waffle or soft serve spot. That is how he speaks of the man he apparently hollowed out in a physical sense. Will claims him, yes, but it seems he does so only because he absolutely must. Dorian is possibly in a similar boat at this point. If not, Will expects he'll be there when he realizes Will moved his portrait. Quid pro quo, snooty immortal bitch. Surely Jorah's heard a few folks use this exact sort of grugh before. The sort they can't even bother to hide.

"He's an imPort, too. Been around for a while."

For shame there isn't a ticking clock to be heard. That would be more helpful when it comes to sneaky predators, huh.

[khaleesipls]

Jorah brings his elbow in closer to his side, allowing the blade of his sword to sink into a more relaxed slant before him. His shoulder has scars of its own.

“A friend of yours?”

He clarifies, without much feeling, one brow hiked up past the other. Only slightly judgmental.

Makes sense.

There’s a buzz at his belt, vrrr, vrrr before the ringer starts, muffled: -- what do we have here, now, do you want to ride or die? La dadada da --

He switches his thumb down to decline the call, unruffled by the interruption. It’s a decisive gesture, made without thought, with a look like you’re lucky I’m a chill guy. No need for him to alert the masses.

Everything seems to be in order, here.

[infomodder]

Will isn't caught off guard by Jorah's totally chill response. No. It's his choice of ringtone (or perhaps the ringtone someone else gave him and he suffers through) that startles him the most. He is, however, more interested in what makes Jorah consider this so...casual, if not normal. He's about to answer and segue into Jorah (never a fan of the topic being him for too long) when the ripple they've been ignoring turns into something more.

His mouth opens at the exact same time a large, powerful, scaly mouth opens, alligator popping right out of the water. He blinks and steps back slightly as he realizes his cooler is probably a lost cause. If it's not dragged away, it'll definitely be mangled. But then he realizes, too, that there's a man with a sword nearby and he might not have experience with alligators. He might try to kill the thing when getting its chompers on an organic buffet is what it's after, not them.

"Don't—just back away."

He gestures to go with the advice, one hand encouraging instead of, like, reaching out to grab the guy. Because Jorah has a sword and Will isn't a stranger to the real damage pointy ends can do.

[khaleesipls]

The muscle, skill and sheer instinct required to face down multiple assailants are just some of the many reasons Jorah’s lived to be as old and grizzled as he is (not the least of which is knowing when to run for his life). At the surge of river water behind him, he wheels into a hard pivot back and aside, shoulders bowed, sword brought up to bear on this latest arrival.

There’s fire in him, now, adrenaline scorching through the warning look he holds on Will after his advice, rife with distrust.

What does a dog-man know about lizard-lions?

Enough to know what they like to eat.

He yields one slow, slinking step.

[infomodder]

One step is better than none, shows a willingness to listen. To let the lizard-lion live. Will watches in rapt fascination as the alligator makes quick work of anything like organization. First an array of those carefully cut chunks go flying, plopping in the water behind it. Then it seems to to treat this as a living thing and the cooler is lost, dragged into the water by the growling beast. Absorbing that cost is far better than absorbing gator teeth to the...well, anything.

The lid sort of half-bobs on the water's surface. Will watches it a few moments, sighs quietly, and turns his focus back to Jorah.

"You need a ride?"

Will's done what he needed and now has a good reason to not fish. At least in this spot. Maybe it's best to just go home. Take the sign and get gone.

[khaleesipls]

Jorah watches it go. Tension takes its time in unwinding from between his shoulders, fingers stretched open around the grip of his sword. He keeps his eyes on the lid bobbing in the reptile’s wake until Will calls his attention back inland.

His answer is a plain not with you, conveyed at a glance.

“I have a boat to catch,” is what he says aloud. Half a turn sees him headed roughly in the direction from whence he came from, one eye still on Will as he sinks his sword back into its scabbard.

“Be somewhere else before we round the bend.”