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maskormenacelogs2017-02-22 12:15 am
khaleesipls) wrote in maskormenacelogs2017-02-22 12:15 am
you're nobody, 'til somebody
WHO: Jorah Mormont, Rincewind the Wizzard, Viserys Targaryen
WHERE: A bar in Maurtia Falls
WHEN: February
WHAT: Conflict resolution.
WARNINGS: Violence, others pending.
So she turns to face him, before eight-thousand Unsullied and the Masters of Astapor, and she says -- ‘I am Daenerys Stormborn of the House Targaryen, of the blood of Old Valyria. Valyrian is my mother tongue.’
[ Ser Jorah Mormont laughs, wheezy with scotch, teeth bared impossibly white against the grizzle of his beard. He claps a hand broad and heavy over Rincewind’s shoulder to brace himself, and pushes to stand.
Blind drunk, he has to breathe deep to steady himself once he’s up. Fortunately, in a scuffed leather jacket and blue jeans, he blends right in, virtually indistinguishable from any other beaten down biker in this dive. ]
She ordered them to kill the Masters, [ he continues, absently, brow furrowed -- half with affection for the recollection, and half for the spinning walls. It’s dark in this bar, neon lights smearing bleary in his periphery, no matter how hard he squints. Some comedian’s chosen Down Under on the jukebox. Again.
It’s on its third rotation. ] It was a bloodbath. I have to piss.
WHERE: A bar in Maurtia Falls
WHEN: February
WHAT: Conflict resolution.
WARNINGS: Violence, others pending.
So she turns to face him, before eight-thousand Unsullied and the Masters of Astapor, and she says -- ‘I am Daenerys Stormborn of the House Targaryen, of the blood of Old Valyria. Valyrian is my mother tongue.’
[ Ser Jorah Mormont laughs, wheezy with scotch, teeth bared impossibly white against the grizzle of his beard. He claps a hand broad and heavy over Rincewind’s shoulder to brace himself, and pushes to stand.
Blind drunk, he has to breathe deep to steady himself once he’s up. Fortunately, in a scuffed leather jacket and blue jeans, he blends right in, virtually indistinguishable from any other beaten down biker in this dive. ]
She ordered them to kill the Masters, [ he continues, absently, brow furrowed -- half with affection for the recollection, and half for the spinning walls. It’s dark in this bar, neon lights smearing bleary in his periphery, no matter how hard he squints. Some comedian’s chosen Down Under on the jukebox. Again.
It’s on its third rotation. ] It was a bloodbath. I have to piss.
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And yet, what else does he have? Nothing, no one, at least—no one who he knows, who looks as they should. No one who doesn't, whether they say it or not, think of him as anything more than a mad fool.
Everybody betray him. Even liquor.
Still, he goes out. He has little understanding of this world's fashion but had made an attempt, for the moment, and in doing so continued on with dark colors. No red, just darkness (no parents because sister killed mommy). The hair gives him away regardless, this evening brushed and then left alone. The moment he walks in, he spots a familiar face. He thinks, anyway. Too fast, turning just as Viserys laid eyes on him, the garments new and different.
But he had the same frame. The hair, the beard, what of it Viserys could see.
Best off if you hang outside,
Don't come in, I'll only run and hide.
Who can it be now?
No, no. He must be wrong. Targaryens definitely see things. And now he sees an open spot — miraculously, magically, by the will of Fate and all the Old Gods and New Gods and Drowned Gods, he takes the seat Jorah had just occupied.
His buttocks do not register that this seat was recently warm.
He wastes no time when the bartender notices him, ordering quickly.]
Whatever is smooth and bitter. Dark in color.
[(no parents)]
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Sounds absolutely horrifying, but good f'them. Good on them, I mean, taking things back for themselves. Well, at someone else's order, but y'know. Still good. That's still a springboard. They'll have meat carts in the street and be selling - selling tacky baubles t'foreigners before they know it.
[Rincewind nods absently when Jorah leaves, primarily concerned with making sure his hat stays on his head as he leans into his next pull of ale. The Luggage is still somewhere in the sparse crowd behind him, judging by the roar of disappointment and cheering emanating from a cluster of bikers near the wall. When Rincewind first started visiting this dive he'd tried to dissuade the regulars' inane need to challenge the Luggage to various bar feats of strength and stupidity... but then they'd bought him a round and Rincewind had shut up about it. Oh sure, every now and then someone loses the tip of a finger or is otherwise mangled, but they've outright told him that's what makes the games more exciting. The Luggage seems to enjoy it, anyway, if the insufferable way it tends to swagger home afterwards is any suggestion.
A nasal voice settles at Rincewind's left. Buzzing too pleasantly to notice the voice has specifically filled a Jorah-shaped absence, he passes its owner an absent smile and a half-eaten bowl of pretzels.]
You're going t'want to be more specific with him. [helpful advice from the redhead dressed like the escaped host of a children's show. He pops one of the pretzels in his mouth.]
They've lots of different sorts in these places. If you don't say you mean ale, you're as like to get a pint of their finest mop water.
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After a few seconds...]
Ale. I would like the ale.
[He slides the pretzels in; crunch crunch crunch. His salt levels begin to rise, slowly, which is always good. He watches Rincewind like he's appraising something but doesn't have all the information he needs to really do a proper appraising. That hipster kid who took one art class and thinks he can talk circles around the art museum coordinator but really can't levels of lacking information.]
You can perform magic?
[He lifts his chin to indicate the hat. Observation +10]
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[well done, blonde man, well done. Excellent modern bar ordering, Rincewind is proud of you. Stick with this wizard, Viserys, and you'll save so much on your alcoholism.
Rincewind's just tipsy enough to stand this eyeing-over with a muzzy sort of acceptance. Elbow on the bar, glass to his lips, he mirrors the young dragon's consideration with idle musings about whether he's seen purple eyes on a person before, and whether that means this is an imPort he's staring at, or if the man's just got a condition (because let's be honest that pale hair stands out as well), and only refocuses with a blink when Viserys motions towards his hat.]
Hmm? [Rincewind sends a glance up to the brim.] Oh, yes. I'm best at vanishing.
[/ba dum tish.]
I'm Rincewind. Shall I hazard a guess that you're an imPort?
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He does not understand the joke here but smiles a bit more anyway. Vanishing is absolutely a useful skill, magic would only enhance it. What a well-spoken and helpful individual Viserys has come across! This night is already looking up.]
I do not recognize the name. [Meaning, he doesn't take it on his own, but he definitely is one. Any confusion Rincewind may have about the matter is quickly cleared up.] I am Viserys of the House Targaryen, the Third of His Name.
[Sound familiar, Rincewind?]
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Oh, right. Daenerys, the queen he'd spoken with. The one Jorah just told him that story about. The one with the hair the exact same color as - oh.
Rincewind's lazy, tipsy smile widens and tightens, making room for nervous uncertainty. It's admittedly difficult for a person to focus with several pints of ale inside them, but the wizard has a remarkable ability to maintain attention on things which have the potential to harm him.
Royalty perpetually floats near the top of that (sizeable) list.]
Ah.
[Rincewind's mouth suddenly feels dry (which is funny considering how wet he's kept it over the past hour).]
I, er, think I recognize that one, though. Are you possibly related to Danerys Targaryen?
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Viserys reaches forward and seizes Rincewind by the collar, fists balling the cloth up. Beneath any anger lies a great deal of paranoia, of fear, masked by a snarl and wild purple eyes. If Rincewind is skilled at vanishing this shouldn't be a cause for concern, no?]
What do you know of my sister? Have you fucked her?
[p o s s i b l y]
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Sorry, [ he says.
Sorry.
A biker with a beard gnarled nearly to his belly in a leather vest waves him off -- Mormont’s still craning to squint at the patches sewn into the man’s leather vest when his hand finds the bar at Viserys’ back -- close to where he was sitting. Looks like Robert, he thinks, in the instant before he swings his attention around to his Wizzard friend.
And down, down to the silver-haired dragon whose clutches he’s currently in.
Recognition cools in the bones of his face like glass, hard edges set in from muzzy, liquid heat. At a loss, he hangs silent over Viserys’ shoulder -- a six foot piano on a rope with slitted eyes, unsure that he’s seeing what he’s seeing. ]
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What? I didn't - ! I wouldn't - !
[he scrambles for distance and a thread of coherence, both tangled, balancing on his tilting bar-stool. There's a gruff protest from the barman at this excitement, noticeably absent of any real interest to intervene; he seems more concerned about errant elbows near his glassware.]
Your - [Rincewind seizes on the desperate, linguistic connection of sister to brother, queen to king, in an attempt to appeal.] - your grace, your kingship, really, I don't know anything more than her name.
[Not entirely true, but now's hardly the time for particulars.
Casting for inspiration, Rincewind's eyes scamper from Viserys' contorted expression to the room around them. An exit would be lovely; the Luggage would be better. Surprisngly, what he finds instead is Jorah's hard, glazed gaze. Rincewind freezes on it like an animal caught in the sudden beam of a flashlight.
In what might be a familiar motion, he darts a look from Jorah to Viserys and back again.
Helpfully.]
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He turns, slowly, hands still taut around cloth. Jorah will see more of that telling hair. Then a jaw he knew, once, long ago. Nose, profile, familiar purple eyes that flash horrified and scared briefly before running back to the usual impotent detestation.]
You've been talking about my little sister, haven't you, Mormont?
[No title, still clutching onto Rincewind, words more venomous than ever. Well. As venomous as a snake who only looks deadly can be.]
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I have, [ he says, as a matter of fact, breath sharp -- smothering with whiskey on the point of Viserys’ nose. He’s too close, and looking even closer, weathered rough around the edges as the Khal Rhaggat will remember. Shades of familiar stink cling to his coat beneath gasoline and smoke.
Were his eyes always purple?
Maybe it’s the light. ]
Let go of him.
[ He enunciates very clearly. So that there can be no misunderstanding. ]
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No.
[Concentrated Snoot, dished out in horribly toxic levels. Toxic enough to make some eyes turn purple hot damn!]
You're little more than a knight in dishonor. I take no commands from the likes of you.
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Right. Well. Since that doesn't seem to be immediately forthcoming, and as Viserys' grin is about a shade too close for comfort to the smile certain unhinged sorts give right before they lick the edge of a blade, he'll just handle this escape attempt himself then. Don't mind him.
In a maneuver perfected by toddlers and certain species of lizards, the wizard jerks backwards with a ducked head and bowed spine. His star-spangled sweater sheds off him like some sequined second skin and his hat knocks to the dirty floor, leaving Rincewind a lean figure with mussed hair and a scarred back. Immediately, he dives off his stool, the metal legs screeching protest as he makes a low play to save his hat from what's surely days' worth of pretzel crumbs and streaks of lager.
Feel free to keep the sweater, Viserys - it flatters your eyes.]
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This is the moment Rincewind chooses to make like a skinned rabbit and turn inside out.
Jorah snaps a look late aside for the sudden movement, too smashed to be certain some dark imPort power isn’t at work, here. He claws a hand into the front of Viserys’ shirt and staples him to the bar in the same beat, jaw undershot, squint searching the floor for some sign that Rincewind hasn’t been incinerated, or vaporized, or transmogrified into a toad.
The fixed grip of the dagger at his belt is tempting, with his jacket lifted up to expose it.
Rather than reach for it, his free hand gropes up to close itself around Viserys’ knobbly throat, spittle flushed hot through his teeth in what little space is left between them. ]
Rincewind!! [ he cries. Two exclamation points. He is very drunk. Pls respond. ]
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Viserys hits the bar like a sack of bricks. Very thin bricks meant for a slender wall but bricks nonetheless. He squirms and writhes and, without several men on him and a broken arm, feels he might have a chance. This potential outcome is helped along by the fact Jorah has had a fill of drink already; he isn't necessarily going to be at his best right now, and that is the only way Viserys could ever hope to best him, even if besting just meant creating an open so he could b o l t t h e f u c k o u t.
Having his throat touched is the final straw, and he manages to avoid trying to kick him when he feels all about blinded by several colors gleaming directly into his eyes — a wine glass. Not much but enough to daze. Or, well, maybe just anger. But if he breaks part of it, the stem can impale. Could he kill anyone, even if that person had watched his murder and did nothing to stop it? No. Probably not. Not with his own hands, not purposefully. The scattered eyes fits their current situation; he always did look for relief from anyone but himself, at least when Jorah knew him. He adds a pathetic, horrible whimper-whine to drive home the idea he's just so helpless and scared. They're both not untrue.
Grasping fingers latch onto its base, roll over the stem, and move to smash it against some soft and vulnerable part of Jorah, temple or cheek or neck. He may get just as much glass in his own soft skin but he'll deal with that later.]
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Rincewind's story takes a turn, this time. Partly it's the distress in Jorah's voice, which tugs a tiny, treacherous, and previously unknown to him heart-string. The other part of it's the gathering wall of interested bikers, who are filtering out from the adjacent pool room and blocking the door. Rincewind flicks a look between their various furrowed, bushy brows and the struggle happening at (and at least partially on) the bar.]
Er, here. I'm still here.
[although he sounds unsure on that point, and potentially uncomfortable with it, given the arms crossed high over his skinny torso. Gruff laughter and scattered commentary litters the background. The corner jukebox croons a demand to "play that funky music" while Viserys writhes between Jorah's grip and sticky wood, lending the scene even less credibility. Quite the mess, really.]
I'm all right, if that's what you were -
[Rincewind sees the attempt coming the moment the young dragon's fingers fumble over the glass stem. Before any second thoughts can get a word in edgewise, he reacts, darting forward.]
- Jorah, look out!
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It’s Viserys’ whimpering that truly affords him the luxury of an adrenaline letdown -- and carelessness -- hackles sinking, choking grip stayed shy of a murder attempt. A thread of drool drips off his chin, leftover from shouting. He blinks hard. This is fine.
He hasn’t fully had a chance to parse Rincewind’s warning when a wine glass folds itself flat into his face.
His head snaps away with the force of the blow.
When it turns back down on Viserys, for an instant it’s neither Jorah or bear, but something in between, teeth a lacerated jumble of thickening fangs and little ears laid back from a broad, flat skull. His fingers curl into thick claws, his shoulders muscle tall over the crowd, and in the moment his secure grip lurches into a clumsy, brute force effort to gore the second to last dragon against the bar top like a piece of tofu, he bellows down on him with force enough to rattle glassware all the way down.
Check please. ]
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Rincewind is not the only one capable of vanishing. It's so much easier when Viserys has a wounded hand instead of a broken arm, when he isn't being held by blood riders, when he doesn't have a room full of people mad at him for only wanting what was promised.
Clumsiness results in Viserys taking that opening, slipping only to flip over the bar, landing on knees and elbows and nearly his face with all the grace of Domeric Bolton's harp-playing compared to the natural majesty of Rhaegar's talented fingers. Not the wisest of move, but does put a huge chunk of wood between them.
Roaring, glass threatening to shatter, Viserys ignores any bartender running about and stuffs himself beneath the counter, too afraid to look over it and crouched just enough that bear claws will not be able to get at him. At least, not without serious reach and skills.
Now this? This feels more like home.]
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Fancy that.
Rincewind screams. He's largely drowned out beneath the roar and the music and the sudden, swear-filled shouting. A bottle of liquor shatters on the floor as the bartender abandons it and his post, phone already in hand as he flees; not all captains elect to go down with their ships.
The scream helped. Rincewind doesn't feel any better, mind, but he does feel more focused as he scrambles backwards, gibbering with fear while desperately trying to reconcile this hulking, ursine figure with his only sometimes unkempt friend. He'd clearly been too late to stop it, whatever happened. Maybe the glass rammed into Jorah's face was laced with a potion, and that transformed him. If that's the case, Viserys would probably kick himself later for not choosing a smaller animal. ...Well, provided he still has legs to kick with by then. Chances are looking increasingly slim.
All of this commotion manages to claim the attention of a chest on legs. The Luggage bursts out violently from between two men in its path, causing the first to drop his beer when the second trips and cracks his skull against him. The response is a vulgarity, followed by a shove, which is in turn followed by a left-hook from a third party because these fuckers are blocking his view of the fight. Things domino quickly from there, leather jackets turning on leather vests, bandanas barreling down on braided beards. Even on the laziest afternoons this group's a powder keg waiting for a spark, and a grizzly bear mauling a blonde twink makes for one hell of a bonfire. The Luggage, as always, ignores any havoc it strews behind it as a hundred feet rush to reach its master. It decides to take a shortcut.
Said shortcut runs behind the bar and (inconveniently for Viserys) through a dragon.]
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It’s the Luggage that sees him recoiling back into a stand upright over broken glass and blood and spilled peanuts -- a reflection of brass studs and heavy wood barreling into his periphery.
Something in him more sophisticated than the average bear lights up at the realization that the Luggage he initially saw was in a mirror behind the bar, little eyes ringed intent in his head. In addition to this second Luggage, and the brawl, and the grizzly bear reversed back at him, there are flickers of Viserys Targaryen.
This time when he dips to reach, it’s with more care -- bear butt lifted up on tippy toes, meathook claws walked carefully along in pursuit of a glimpse dark denim.
At the same time, mounting frustration sees his jaws wrapped around the edge of the bar, great fangs popping through polished planks to the frame. His growls reverberate down through to the floor. ]
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He's full of hot air on a good day; this does nothing to make him any bigger. He is a thin man, with very thin skin in spots, and quickly pulls his legs up closer to his chest, turning himself into a ball. Eyes, again, focused on claws. Not the mirror that gives him away as he tries, very carefully, to begin a quiet crawl out of reach. A crawl that puts him right in that mirror. And of course the moment he notices the whole mirror set up has him making eye contact with Jorbear, looking for all the world like he's being presented with super fast melting Dothraki gold AGAIN.
Once more he is suffering BEARTRAYAL!
Jorah might have time for a swipe, a good one that catches skin with hair or clothing before the Luggage ruins everything. Truth be told, Viserys would much rather be ran over by a footed chest and left with bruises than he would suffer a Mormont-style mangling, so hey.
Making it out with some scratches and bruises is just fine with him.]
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It's the young dragon's luck that he's not much to react to, at least in body. The Luggage finds it easier to jump over what thin parts of Viserys line the short passage, little feet pedaling briefly in the air before it lands heavy and makes the curve around the bar.
Rincewind, meanwhile, finds his escape complicated. Jor-bear sends two stools flying, causing the wizard to dodge and some poor biker to trip in his attempt to shove a pool stick through another man's face. The entire bar has seized on the opportunity to brawl, as though the absurdity of a grizzly in a pool hall means open season for everything else. The wizard wouldn't really care if it weren't currently so damn inconvenient. Particularly when (after vaulting with some surprising deftness over a broken table) he catches a punch to the cheek himself, his bare chest apparently enough for someone to mistake him for a combatant. Or maybe the bastard just likes punching wizzards, who knows? Not Rincewind, who's currently seeing stars less poorly-sewn than the one's adorning his hat. Before he can recover (or possibly throw up) he's shoved by a second set of hands, sent staggering back like a stray pinball until he hits - not the bar, surprisingly. Unless that bar has suddenly gotten a lot warmer. And softer. ...And has a furry handle?
With increasing reluctance, Rincewind's dizzied gaze slides up from the nub of bear tail in his hand to the much larger, more recognizable bear back bent over the bar and fishing for wild-caught Targaryen.]
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A diesel grunt labors under his ribs -- a low, belching bass rumble muffled by muscle and fur, still alive in Rincewind’s grip when the bear swings its head around to see.
Flecks of wood sink down on drool cables; the longer he looks -- the longer he looks. There’s no rising tension, or collapse of hostilities. Blood mingled with saliva has spined thick into the ruff around his throat, where an old scar carves a familiar trackway up under his jaw. Grey muscle stands out under the mangy hide of his left forearm, deep cracks cragged into the flesh there.
A thrown bottle that goes arcing between them sees his hanging jaw snapped shut, and his hackles lift in a sticky crest.
The state of the crowd only just now seems to have registered.
On the torn side of murderous, one eye on Rincewind, he leans to reach blindly after where he last caught a glimpse of terrified Targaryen. Like maybe the wizzard won’t notice if he gets a quick murder in before things really get out of hand. ]
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This is good, really, gives Viserys some time to recover from that brain-rattling (normal day) and get on his feet. Sort of. Things are a madhouse (normal day) here and he's sure there is some blood running down his neck. He puts a hand to the side of his face as if that will keep out the noise and keep himself together.
Jorah-the-bear is distracted. He registers that, even as he's fighting off this strange appearance of the chest with feet. Clearly if he pretends that is not a thing he is seeing and is not happening it will be true.
It has to be. For now, anyway. Viserys manages to pull himself up. Then he realizes that's a poor idea and it's back to the ground he goes, head feeling much better when it's not so high in the air. This is fine, honestly. He's gotten very good at crawling.
The brawlers are not paying attention to Targaryens scurrying about, and Viserys acts as an obstacle to one burly man. He trips over that scrawny frame, going down hard and sprawling out in the last place Viserys had been. Meanwhile, Viserys has kicked it into high gear and is literally crawling for the back exit, because fuck everyone in this room.]
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[Rincewind draws both hands to his skinny chest like a scandalized school marm.]
That was an accident.
[there's something surreal about apologizing for inappropriately grabbing a friend who's become several hundred pounds of bear. Not that Rincewind's life has ever made much sense. Somewhere in the celestial cosmos of the multi-verse is an author deserving of a harsh editor, in this wizard's opinion. (Or more preferably, a punch to the mouth.)
While Viserys makes like an infant around one side of the bar, the Luggage comes galumphing around the other. It doesn't see a battered ursine wishing humbly to take a stab at an old friend; it doesn't see that Rincewind, while several different shades of frightened, isn't actually the animal's target. What it does see is a giant bear with a snoot full of saw blades and paws ending in dagger points, and in this chest's experience, those are the makings of a good time. That it believes stomping Jorah into a bear pelt will also protect its master is really just a bonus.
Rincewind sees the multi-legged trainwreck coming. With a start, he tries to yell for the Luggage to stop, or slow down, or just don't, but his protests fall on deaf... hinges? Possibly? In any case, Rincewind fails to halt the brass-bound charge. He pedals backwards from the resulting clash, dragging both hands down his face with a miserable groan and scrambling for an idea to save his currently nine-foot-tall friend - when he sees a flash of blonde near his feet. Rincewind whips down a look at Viserys.]
- You!
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His reach over the bar leans into more of a slouch, muzzle set down heavy to rest.
At the wizard’s back a brawler wheels a biker ass over ears backwards over the bar top, and Jorah reaches to hook one claw over the rim of a nearby bowl. The mangy, disease-ridden stretch of zombie hide to his elbow would dissuade against sharing, if the fat roll of his tongue deep into mixed nuts didn’t.
He’s just started to masticate through his first mouthful, shells and all, when a wave of renewed upset rises in his warlock friend. Stricken by the desire to close his eyes and dig in all the deeper, he lifts his head instead, reluctant, ears at an unsure slant.
Broken glass flies out of his face with the force of impact; he leaves a vaguely bear-shaped blood smear swiped across the bar behind him when he goes rolling over the Luggage’s hood like a rug on tumble dry.
Sheer instinct sees him digging in to come up on all fours, bristled, braced, and breathing ragged.
The same instinct has some reservations about what he sees that he’s up against, here.
Jaws parted, he rumbles a bowel-watering warning, froth flecked with peanut husk, teeth bared like a bulldozer’s behind the rubbery bluster of black lips. The other fighters around him have already scrambled back out of the way, leaving little room to hide. ]
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All right, then. No, really. All right! Thank all the gods! Hoorah! Something else has Jorah's attention, and Viserys will later take time to wonder if that bear is actually Jorah or if something had replaced him somehow, but for now he thinks it must be the former. He is certain Jorah would like to have his paws on him instead of watching. Dying horribly once would not be enough for most from their world, so he can't even consider the exiled sister-loving dingus particularly cruel for it all now, not when he really thinks about it.
But there is a battle now. Something real, and mighty. Viserys? He is not mighty. He holds no obligations to see to Jorah's safety.
Viserys Targaryen hear that warning sound and, in the few precious seconds it might take Rincewind and the rest of the bar to see this new revelation, put it to good use.
A bloody hand-print is all that rests in the spot where Rincewind laid eyes on him. He pushed up to a stand so he could bolt for and out the nearest door while those scrambling beefy fellows took the time to gape.
Beggar King OUT]
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[much like full sentences, Viserys escapes him. Rincewind watches with no small amount of insult as the blonde uses Rincewind's own tried-and-true running trick against him, out of sight well before the wizard can even consider what he'd do if he'd gotten a hand on him. Belatedly, he finally decides he'd have thumped the little prat in the mouth, and this thought does make him feel slightly better.
The crack of a broken stool reminds him there are other, more pressing matters for now. Rincewind whirls back around, his stomach plummeting into knees which knock together as the grizzly's roar reverberates through him. More bikers and bar staff stream past and out the door now, and for the life of him Rincewind can't fathom why he's not following. By all accounts (most importantly his own), it's the perfect moment to run.
Except, of course, to that part of him which doesn't want to see his friend trampled to death, or eaten. Surprisingly, that part of him's an insistent bastard.]
Stercus, [he mutters angrily, half-whining under his breath.] Stercus, stercus, stercus, I'm really going to die this time, I hope I'm happy with that.
[the Luggage whirls back to face Jorah again like a matador, if matadors were also bulls. The disturbance of Jorah's roar fails to phase enchantment and bloodlust-soaked wood, which is instead excited into a furious stamping of feet, revving the gears for another pass. It opens its lid in answer, unfurling a pulsing tongue the color of redwood and teeth white as bleached beech. Beyond both, black void lies within, battle-hungry and eager to be filled. The Luggage is quick, and it moves.
Rincewind is only slightly quicker.
Like some scrawny alley cat, the wizard throws himself atop the Luggage, momentum and surprise carrying what weight can't to force its lid halfway shut, providing enough leverage for him to get an arm on a handle and a leg spread across a hinge. It would be tempting to call his terrified yowl a battle-cry, but even the most poetic of bards would have to concede that such a misnomer for "Stop it, stop it, stop it, oh gods, don't kill me, it's Rincewind, oh shit, stooooop!" would be too much fiction even for a ballad.]
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Beyond the door lies the street.
Whether or not that’s more or less dangerous for a bear than being shut in a bar with this thing is the subject of some internal debate.
Viserys’ escape slips his notice entirely.-- he startles to surge forward in in an abortive ursine noo when Rincewind makes his dive, and then again when the wizzard is immediately nearly thrown clear of the chest’s charge. Like a dog at the end of an invisible chain, he lunges and stops short two or three more times before he can override deep and terrible animal fear enough to lend his bulk to the effort.
He lands one heavy paw down onto the lid in territory not already occupied by Rincewind, and then the other, radiating heat and stink as he slides inevitably down into a sort of smothering, sumo hug on his end.
A bear hug. ]
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And now, now, it's had its lid pinned shut by a bear it should have eaten, and a master is also probably should have just eaten. This is a terrible afternoon.
Rincewind dares to open an eye only once the Luggage stops pulling under their combined efforts. The chest sags under him, disgruntled but seemingly, finally obedient. If it wanted to, Rincewind's sure, it still could have probably dragged them both across the room; he's incredibly grateful it doesn't. Rincewind looks up. Jorah's close enough that every hot, animal breath blows wisps of hair from Rincewind's face.]
That... [he swallows, clearing his voice and turning his head from a waft of stale beer and bile.] ...That was incredibly stupid of us.
[Rincewind loosens his grip and surveys the damage from his new vantage point. He counts crushed nuts and upended tables, and the last few boots of stray bikers crunching over glass as their wearers rush out the door. The jukebox, perhaps the only undamaged object left in the room, switches to a track called "Wayward Son", with a melody accompanied by the wail of distant, approaching sirens. Recognizing them, Rincewind groans and starts to slide to the ground.
Before he can reach it, the Luggage, having officially reached the daily limit of its tolerance, rolls its weight sharply and throws the wizard toes over tits to clear him off its lid and into Jorah.
It's not the sort of bloody victory the box is used to claiming, but it'll take it.]
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He looks at the floor for a long moment, head heavy and eyes slitted, clearly considering it. One last dagger of bloody glass pushes itself out of his brow and tinkles to the floor at his claws, among peanut shells and splintered wood. The glistening cavity it leaves behind begins to seal itself shut, and he reaches gingerly to give Rincewind a push towards the fire exit.
Gentle as a tractor. ]
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While grateful for his bear-friend's apparent disinterest in mauling him to death, Rincewind still clears his way back onto his feet and gives Jorah's wounded face a sympathetic look. He'd offer some help for that if he had any to give. Or if... it weren't... stitching itself back together, apparently. Ah. So that's also something Jorah can do. Good to know.
But a helpful (if firm) bear paw reminds Rincewind where his priorities should be with the police approaching. He stumbles, catches himself, and then scurries out without further prompting, pausing only to swipe his crumpled shirt up from the floor. With some reluctance (and only because it's finished dealing with its frustrations by mulching the music box), the Luggage follows its master and exits.
Pursued, one must assume, by a bear.]