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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.
no subject
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.]
no subject
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.]
no subject
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. ]
no subject
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.]
no subject
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.]
no subject
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. ]
no subject
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.]
no subject
[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!
no subject
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. ]
no subject
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]
no subject
[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.]
no subject
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. ]
no subject
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.]
no subject
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.]