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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 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. ]
no subject
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.]