i can hold my liquor

[khaleesipls]

WHO: Jorah Mormont and YOU
WHERE: Maurtia Falls and the outskirts of Heropa to start
WHEN: November
WHAT: Security, indecency, a shooting range. Action and prose are both fine -- I will switch up to accommodate.
WARNINGS: Public urination, others pending.


Maurtia Falls - The Iron Throne

On nights he’s working The Iron Throne, Mormont’s armor is miles more authentic than some of the costumes the dancers use to more artistic effect, scuffed and dented, leather heavy with the stink of horse. There’s no mistaking him for a patron, either -- he avoids the bar and roosts in dark alcoves when Baelish is in, with eyes only for the crowd.

Occasionally a guest will get rowdy (or strange) enough to earn his undivided attention. Maybe even a one-way trip through a side exit into the darkness beyond, if they’re feeling froggy.

On slower nights, he hauls more literal garbage out into the same alley, dawdling amidst old bloodstains to check his messages.


Maurtia Falls

On nights he isn’t working at all, he’s usually sober by the time he makes it back into Maurtia Falls through the porter. Liquor doesn’t stay in his system for long -- as 3AM rolls around, he's on the back end of it, a rough-shorn man in jeans and a leather jacket walking home alone in the dark.

Over an hour after last call, even in Maurtia Falls the streets are empty -- traffic lamps set to blinking red at intersections, headlights few and far between.

Most of these nights, he walks straight home from the bus stop.

Tonight, he’s taken a detour, one hand planted square to a shadowy corner of the face of Frederick Chilton’s psychiatric hospital, the other fumbling in past his zipper. It takes him a few seconds of concentration to start peeing.


Outside of Heropa - Outdoor Firing Range

It’s a brisk November morning in Florida -- clear, windy and early enough on a weekday to avoid crowding despite the season. Even so, there’s a scattering of occupied stalls, most of them host to hunting rifles pointed at targets one and two hundred yards down range.

At the farthest end, Ser Jorah Mormont is as nondescript as he’s liable to get in a camel leather jacket and dark jeans, shooting glasses and bulky earmuffs. Scruffy, grizzled, he’s older than most of the others here, and having more trouble pushing the last round into a fresh magazine. It’s an awkward movement, with awkward resistance, and he inspects the finished product with distrust before bumping it up into the butt of his gun and racking a round in.

His target is 50 feet away, paper over plywood already peppered with bullet holes; his pistol is of practical size and heft, with a steel finish and a dark grip.

Clumsy thumbs and substandard stance aside, he’s doing just fine firing on his own until he’s three shots deep into the next magazine and the fourth jams. Awkward, he turns the weapon over to inspect it. Shaking it doesn’t seem to do anything. Testing the slide feels dangerous.

Practical options exhausted, he looks down the line of stalls beside him. Help.


???

If you’d like to do something else more targeted, PM or hit me up on plurk!

Comments

The Iron Throne!

[cleptes]

It was the second time this month that Bela had been in this establishment. Chilton's celebration evening was a roaring success and it had left a good impression upon Bela. Aside from that, she was good friends with the owner; Lord Baelish was supportive of her business so Bela felt that she ought to do the same.

Her first stop after she entered the room was the bar. Bela flashes the bartender a confident smile before ordering top shelf scotch and a glass of water- she doesn't want to overdo it too much.

Ignoring any possible looks from other patrons she makes herself comfortable in a corner booth. It's a good vantage point to people watch, not that Bela was going to do that. She was just going to slowly sip her scotch and soak up the atmosphere.

Bela wasn't adverse to company though.

[khaleesipls]

The Iron Throne caters to all types and all tastes -- it’s seen its fair share of women through the front door, and down the stairs into more secluded quarters. Bela’s presence here isn’t in and of itself unusual.

But her placement does lend her a convenient view of the side door that swings open to admit Ser Jorah a few minutes into her stay. He’s burdened like a pack horse under his armor, all in shades of brown and black and grey, sweat lank in his hair and dark at his collar. Blood’s crusted dark at a pair of his knuckles and under his nose; he proceeds to a dark corner of the bar to create a miniature biohazard between a moist toilette and a few damp napkins spent rubbing the blood off.

Bela’s familiar enough to earn a lingering glance down the bar in the process. He might’ve bumped into her at the party, or seen Chilton looking his way while he was speaking to her.

Whatever it is, it didn’t make enough of an impression for him to invite himself over to her table. He disposes of his mess, and leans into a stool to wait on a glass of cold water.

[cleptes]

She glances up at the sound of a door opening and watches as Jorah emerges through it, looking more than a bit worse for wear. Between the sweat and the blood...all in all, it isn't a pretty sight. Her best guess is that Jorah found himself in a fight outside. Maybe with a customer. Who knows?

Bela continues to watch Jorah as he makes his way to the other end of the room, likely to tend to any possible wounds that he may have had inflicted upon him. She's almost certain that she has seen him before somewhere - Chilton - Chilton had pointed Jorah out after their conversation earlier this month.

Interesting.

A moment or two passes before Bela decides to make herself known to him. She downs her scotch and uses that as an excuse to go to the bar.

"Another one. And one for the gentleman down there." Bela instructs the bartender, gesturing to Jorah.

[khaleesipls]

Mind elsewhere, the old knight pulls in his glass of water, all systems normal until the bartender plants a second glass in front of him. He pauses, then, brow furrowed even once the bartender has nodded to Bela down the bar in answer to a back and forth it’s too busy to overhear.

Jorah turns to look, of course. The dissolution of his confusion into distrust is pale in his eyes, once he’s picked her out, clear at a distance.

He doesn’t have much of a poker face.

But he makes his way over to join her anyway, scotch and water set down in turn on the barspace next to her. He doesn’t take a seat just yet, eyes forward, focused on the process of drawing in coasters for his glasses.

“Have we met?”

Chilton wasn’t exaggerating about the way he smells -- somewhere halfway between a musty saddle and warm steel, with sweat sharp in between. She brought this on herself.

[cleptes]

He had every right to be distrustful of her. Jorah didn't know who she was nor her intentions; if anything, she would likely feel the same way if the roles were reversed. But at least she had gotten his attention.

As for the smell, it hit her more than the average person, all thanks to the enhanced senses she was given as part of her abilities. She doesn't visibly react to it though, maintaining her composure.

"No, we haven't." Bela replies casually, taking a sip from her glass. "But we have a mutual friend in common- Doctor Chilton. I was at his celebration not so long ago."

How good of friends the two men were was a mystery to Bela. He was free to volunteer the information of course, but that was at his discretion.

"The good Doctor pointed you out to me that evening, though I did not have the chance to introduce myself then. For some reason he thought that you and I should meet." She nods to the glass of scotch he had. "I figured buying you a drink would be a good way to break the ice."

[khaleesipls]

Jorah listens at a flat remove as he places his water glass square and center upon its coaster, and lifts the whiskey for a sip. Any friend of Frederick’s is a friend worth drinking before dealing with, even if the taste sees his jaw clamping hollow behind it. Evidently it’s one he’s still in the process of acquiring.

“I can only assume he has his best interests at heart,” he says, and finally turns his head to look at her directly.

Any possibility that he might have misspoke is betrayed by the fourth of a smile he manages at ‘The Good Doctor’s’ expense, bitter at its edge. ‘Friend’ might have been a strong word.

“You have my attention.”

[cleptes]

There was no doubt in Bela's mind that Chilton almost always had his best interests at heart. Raina's as well, she imagined. He also seemed to extend the same courtesy to Bela and, to the best of her knowledge, hadn't done anything to jeopardise their friendship. Hopefully that would never change.

"Good." She nods, offering him a smile. "I'm Bela by the way. Now that I have the opportunity to properly introduce myself to you."

An introduction that could have been facilitated by Chilton himself, but that was not the case.

"Do you live in Maurtia Falls?"

A simple, non-invasive question to begin with. Bela doesn't know how long they will keep each other company for; ideally, she would like to keep the conversation going as smoothly as possible.

the pee one

[raw]

Elliot found himself in Maurtia Falls about twenty minutes ago with no idea how he got there — a bad sign. Time for a new journal. Maybe a body can. It's hard for him to tell if this is a deliberate attempt to rattle him (since he has no idea how to get to the Porter and thus de Chima) or if he's accidentally interrupted Him doing something, if there are plans in motion he's unaware of, can only imagine based on vast shadows on the surface of the water.

Fucking finally he detects someone else's phone with his weird mental bluetooth or whatever the fuck, heads that way. As much as he doesn't want to talk to anyone (ever) he needs directions or just to use their tech for five minutes to look up a map, and as much as he hates all the us v them rhetoric another imPort seems like his best bet.

It's chilly, and he has his hands tucked tightly into his black hoodie, hood up, face made moon-pale in the late night trickles of light, eyes just wide dark pits. He probably looks younger than he is like this, kicking around back streets all hunched and nervous. Approaching the silhouette of a man hesitantly, fists clenches in his pockets, and — oh. Oh.

Ha ha.

"Don't mind me, man," he murmurs, turning away until he hears everything zipped up. "You just finish what you're doing." Looks up at the building, smiles a little to himself, wonders if this is deliberate or if it's just a case of the nearest wall looking good. Not that he wouldn't appreciate the former: he hates psychiatrists too.

good choice

[khaleesipls]

Past a turn of his ear to the sound of a voice behind him, Jorah doesn’t seem to mind at all -- too deeply engaged in the great steaming piss he’s scrawling onto the side of Doctor Chilton’s pride and joy. His breath steams too, churned out in a surge of visible relief once he’s back on empty.

Better.

It’s a few seconds more before he’s packed away and zipped and turned round to size Elliot up in the dark -- a grizzled old brute of an imPort, scruffy, scarred at the neck, still bleary about the eyes. He stands with his shoulders rolled back and his hands open at his sides, ready to rumble well short of an open invitation. It’s very late.

“Fair warning,” he says, and sniffs. “Last time I was mugged I turned into a bear.”

If it’s all the same to this spooky little bastard, he’d rather not.

[raw]

Elliot is genuinely unsure for a moment if he means the animal or if it's some kind of joke he isn't getting, but ... no. Only for a beat. A flicker of confusion. "Okay," he says, deciding to accept that people can turn into animals. This guy already kind of looks like a bear — grizzly.

Anyway, he doesn't actually move either way, tense like a wound spring with the potential for action but otherwise still. "I'm just," he tries, bad at talking, at explaining himself to strangers in the dark. "I'm kinda lost, man."

Embarrassing. Probably not all that believable despite being the truth. If this was New York he'd be pepper sprayed by now. He flicks a glance back to the hospital like he escaped from it, mostly concerned about security cameras. "You know how to get back to the Porter?" of. Whatever city he's in. Maurtia, he's pretty sure but not certain.

[khaleesipls]

Dismay creeps in flat along the bones of his face, resignation already weighing into the heavier slope of his shoulders. Hard to say if he’d do a better job of hiding it stone cold sober. As is, he has a firm idea of the hour, and the temperature, and how close he is (was) to rolling himself into bed.

The cameras don’t concern him. He takes his time considering his options, and Elliot as a complete picture: hoodie, unlikely story, coiled tension.

He nods, at length, manners struggling to keep up with grudging resistance. Weary as he is, his eyes are keener than the rest of him, narrowed to slits in the dark, at odds with rough edges and scuffed leather. It’s not that far of a walk -- even here the rush of the canal can be heard in the distance.

He knows the way. But first:

“Take your hands out’f your pockets.”

[raw]

Despite of his dislike of being told what to do — especially by anyone who acts like age is equivalent to authority — Elliot does actually take his hands out of his pockets. He gets it, you know? Arabic features, dark hoodie, late night approach. He takes his hands out of his pockets and lifts them up, open-palmed, empty. Jazz hands. "Look ma, no gun." Then he lets them drop to his sides again.

[khaleesipls]

The old knight’s expression doesn’t change; humor in vernacular breaks over him like the sea over a cliff face. It’s the absence of any steel-and-lead weight in Elliot’s pockets that he’s interested in. His eyes search down when the boy’s hands go up -- procedural distrust. Learned agnosticism. This is definitely Maurtia Falls.

Satisfied that Elliot lacks the traditional tools of a local robber, he starts forward to lead the way, leaving it to so-and-so imPort to fall in.

It’s late for gentle handling. His hooded friend probably didn’t lose his way at this hour putting in overtime in his knitting circle.

“How long have you been here?”

Firing Range

[prostheticbody]

The Major usually does most of her shooting in her home city of Maurtia Falls, but the changing seasons make outdoor ranges, well... less enticing than they once were. So she's made her way to Heropa, firing a handgun in one of the stalls down the row from Jorah. Normally, practicing wouldn't have much benefit since her aim is carefully controlled by multiple software suites. But her secondary prosthetic body still has some kinks to work out.

She's reloading one of her guns--a purely utilitarian handgun without any visible flourish--when she notices Jorah. She knows that look anywhere: the look of someone that doesn't know what they're doing. Placing her gun in her holster, she abandons her stall and makes her way toward him.

"You're not used to firing one of these, are you?" she asks, smiling softly and offering an open palm for his gun.

[khaleesipls]

“More moving parts than I’m used to.” He doesn’t have any trouble admitting as much, either, his weapon offered out with enough caution to convey that he understands the basics. Finger well away from the trigger, business end down range, he holds it out for her to take.

There’s no safety or external hammer, a single .40 round jammed in the chamber.

Ser Jorah himself has seen more fighting than the gun -- there’s a scar hooked in long under his jaw on one side, and his face is nicked like an old tomcat’s, all hard angles and rough edges. His hands are worse, calluses thick under his fingers, knuckles split and healed over too many times to count.

But his eyes are bright, and there’s nothing smug or skeptical in the way he watches her work. She seems to know what she’s about.

[prostheticbody]

His face could charitably be called characterful, speaking to a hard life in a hard land. She's seen her fair share of battle as well, though you can't tell by looking at her. Any scars were mended with replacement bodies, always in their physical prime, though she is older than she looks.

She accepts the gun and ejects the magazine before turning it to the side and pulling back the slide to eject the jammed round. "Judging by your hands, I'd say you're used to wielding something with a bit of weight behind it."

[khaleesipls]

Jorah’s attention falters when he sees how simple a fix it is, self-reproach stifled into a grimace. Stupidity doesn’t suit him.

“A sword,” he says, with a touch of apology, as if he expects that’s all the explanation that’s needed.

“Ser Jorah Mormont.”

It’s hard for him to tell at a glance if she’s an imPort at all. He appreciates the help regardless, using the few seconds it’ll take her to slap the piece back together to look her over. Every once and a while he’ll recognize someone from the network.

[prostheticbody]

He probably comes from one of those worlds, then. Not that she looks down on him for it, but it does make finding common ground a little more difficult. She's used to incredibly advanced technology, after all--and in fact, she herself is incredibly advanced technology. And if he finds the workings of a handgun a bit intimidating...

She places the round back into the magazine and slides it into the gun before offering it back to him. "Well, these certainly have more moving parts than swords. But I'd rather take one of these to a gunfight any day."

It probably doesn't take too much deducing to determine that she's likely an ImPort, from her purple hair to her unusual red eye color. "Major Motoko Kusanagi."

[khaleesipls]

Purple hair is one thing. The eyes he doesn’t register until he looks up from taking the gun back -- there’s a distinct pause before he drops the magazine right back out into his waiting palm. Whatever associations red eyes might evoke, he breaks out of them before his hesitation can become a stare.

“I’d prefer to avoid the gunbattle altogether.”

And he smiles, barely there.

A few months in America have been enough to convince him of the practical necessity for education nonetheless. Chamber locked open, he places the gun down and reaches for a box of ammo in its stead. “Thank you for your help, Major.”

marsha falls

[idesof]

It's late. Or early, depending on who's looking at the time. Either way, it's that odd sort of hour where Things Happen. Things like hotel doors bursting open as Jorah is about to walk past them. Art deco, beautifully designed things, about to fly out the damn handles with how quickly they go from still and closed to just the opposite. It's obvious why soon enough, as a man who hasn't held his liquor and anger well is all but tossed out onto the sidewalk like so much trash, followed by James Patrick March. He's dressed down in slacks, shirt, and suspenders, his dark ascot tugged away from his neck enough to reveal something different. An angry, deep scar can be glimpsed in hiding, the sort one doesn't survive. It screams of a lethal wound, and yet he stands there, carefully kept to the hotel's property, staring down with displeasure as Drunky McDrunkface pushes himself to an unsteady stand because he is clearly ready for round two.

Except he's not, at all. Not against March, anyway. He aims a too-powerful punch to March's jaw and misses when March just. Vanishes. He's there one moment and then not the next, but then he is, just inside the doorway. This "trick" certainly doesn't please Drunky, who hasn't noticed March's reappearance, and in his swirling anger decides that the closest target is the best...the closest target, of course, being Jorah.

He yells, so very very mad about something or other, and hurls himself right at the grizzled old knight, fists raised.

Welcome to the Hotel Castile, bro.

[khaleesipls]

It’s a narrow miss -- Mormont stops just short of being plowed into when the drunk’s cast out like a bucket of slop. He already has one hand around the back of his jacket, thumb catching a latch at his belt.

The drunk may not have noticed the back end of March’s vanishing act, but Jorah has, recognition muddled with unease. As many tricks as he’s already seen in this world, this one is new. In the awkward beat it takes the drunk to decide on a new target, Jorah reflects upon Pyat Pree and his House of the Undying. He can see the scar from here.

Meanwhile this ass in the street is coming for him.

He leans to avoid the first wild swing with ease enough to look lazy doing it, dagger abandoned in favor shoving the man headlong into a valet parked car with his own momentum. When he makes like he intends to haul himself up for another round, Jorah sweeps one of his legs out with a hook at his boot.

The drunk bounces his head off the side of the car as he goes down.

Jorah watches to see that he’s still breathing before he turns back to throw shade March’s way.

[idesof]

Well now.

March watches without making a move to intervene, only because he doesn't see a need for intervention from beyond the grave. This fellow has it covered all on his own. Much better for March to stand back and watch, not even bothering to fix the fabric about his neck. What's seen has been seen. What's happened has happened. The future, though, that is what matters. And there's something bright to it, at least in March's eyes.

He catches that shade and grins. He spares the determined drunk not a single second of attention as he walks to Jorah, hair slightly ruffled from the initial physicality but still looking like he came out of some advertisement.

"Good show! Very quick on your feet, aren't you?" He approves completely, no need to hide it. "Say, I know you, don't I? Ah! You work for our lovely Lord Ambassador, that's right. Come in, won't you? The least I can do to repay you is drinks on the house, a meal, a tour. Hm?"

[khaleesipls]

Very quick on your feet, aren’t you? Jorah squares himself around into March’s approach. Nothing about him seems especially quick in the castoff light -- his eyes are dim with the hour and with the lingering effects of his own drink. Even his breath is winding down into a slow spiral, heart rate hardly elevated for the drunk’s attempt.

March operates at another speed altogether, and Jorah looks him over with suspicion, not unlike an old dog being coaxed closer to a freshly run bath. If he had a watch he’d check it.

But being recognized complicates matters.

He hasn’t yet asked Baelish if March is actually important or just someone who thinks he is.

“Bit late for a tour,” he observes, squinting. It’s not a no.

[idesof]

"It is at other hotels," he agrees, lets that hang in the air, present but without any further pressing on the matter. With any luck, this bodyguard with some morality to him may end up passed out within the hotel, and then a tour won't really be necessary. He isn't quite Sally's type. But she could have fun with him nonetheless.

When he nods and steps aside to properly hold the door open for his guest, nothing is too off except for the gaping wound in his neck. The freshly run bath is ready, warm, with just the right amount of bubbles and soak added. Beneath those bubbles, however, is naught but despair and rot and suffering hands ready to drag the world down with them. Not all baths are created equal.

"I was actually about to have a myself little snack when I found our dear boy there making mischief at the bar." Drunky is finally acknowledged in the same way one acknowledges a busted trash bag the garbage people left instead of dealing with. That shit over there, ugh. And just like busted trash bags no one wants to deal with, March would be more than fine if passing cars just scattered Drunky about for the next few weeks while people ignored everything but the smell. That would be great for business. "I'd hardly mind company. Better to open the kitchen for two than one anyway."

[khaleesipls]

Jorah considers his options, one hand at his hip while he takes the hotel in from the curb. With any luck, March’ll let him pass out here and he won’t have to walk the rest of the way home. He’s likely to be poor enough company that an extended conversation with Lord Moustache won’t be an issue.

It’s not like he’ll mind excusing himself if it becomes one.

A glance at the time on his communicator is enough to sell him on the appeal -- he tucks it away and starts in, with a shrewd look at March’s ruined neck along the way.

He knows a thing or two about opening throats.