you're nobody, 'til somebody

[khaleesipls]

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.

Comments

[khaleesipls]

[ The gawping black void of the Luggage’s interior shocks fear through instincts older and more primal than human arrogance might otherwise allow for. Jorah the bear rears up from the sight and sense of it partway through an awkward side step, bristled and bloody as a piece of overgrown roadkill on the defensive.

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. ]

[wizzardly]

[the Luggage is a force to be reckoned with - a monstrous terror with more kills to its legacy than legs, of which there are a hundred. It has devoured leaders and usurped gods; it has left broken, flaming swathes of ruin in the wake of its travels.

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.]

[khaleesipls]

[ Jorah the bear grunts like an ox against Rincewind’s impact without doing anything to soften it, bone claws and stone scales scraped clear of the lid in the same roll. It’s tempting to lie down.

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. ]

[wizzardly]

Bloofy fest, [Rincewind complains into Jorah's fur, lifting his head enough to resettle his hat. Behind him, the Luggage has already marched off from both of them to kick viciously at the jukebox. He winces as the music gives way mid-note to a groan of metal and the crash of glass. Well. At least it isn't Jorah, he supposes. And nothing's on fire. That has to be worth something.

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.]