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OOC: Krummolt scene, mostly with Cheyanna; due to some connection issues on ALL sides, Decadre and Ginette each stopped in only very briefly.
Living Caverns
The rough-hewn majesty of this cavern far outpaces any delight in the multitudes of curves that form its enclosure. The glabrous grey granite is shot through with translucent obsidian, lending subtly-veined sparkle to the walls and the foot-trodden smoothness of the floor that shows centuries-old placements of the scarred trestle tables; carven hollows give homes for the glow baskets and the coat-pegs that line the walls. No mosaics, no painting, no tiles: just a few well-done tapestries mark the pathway that lead to the kitchen to the north and the inner caverns to the west, and frame the nighthearth's stew and snacks, while a heavier strip of oiled canvas shields the unwary from the wind... [look closer]
Scattered about in various perches and niches are forty-nine firelizards.
You see Llaammaa here.
Cheyanna is here.
Krummolt has finished with the day's duty and has settled back in the living caverns with with two mugs of ale and a plate of meatrolls. He appears to be just beginning to unwind, leaning back in his seat and crossing his ankles on another, unself-conscious about taking up an unnecessarily large area.
Cheyanna tumbles into the room with her father, both of them looking wet and cold and muddy and unspeakably cheerful. Cheyanna is laughing at something said apparently just outside, flushed with pleasure and pride. "You want to have a few drinks?" she asks diffidently. "Got to get back on duty," says her father, lifting a hand to rub at Chey's buzzed hair. Cheyanna ducks her head away with that embarrassed 'Daaaaaad,' body language. "Later," he promised, then heads back out of the caverns. Cheyanna's eyes sweep along the caverns until she spots Krummolt, then heads over to join him. "Want to have a few drinks?" she asks cheerfully. Her eyes fall on his mugs. "A few /more/ drinks?" she amends easily enough.
Krummolt looks around when Cheyanna shows up at his table. "Uh...Oh. Yeah, sure, pull up a chair, get buzzed! Again." He grabs one of his mugs and takes a hearty swig, then plops it casually on the table so that the ale inside sloshes dangerously close to the rim. "I'll even share my meatrolls."
Cheyanna makes a little face at the joke, scrubbing her head vigorously with one hand. But she crosses to claim a mug and a pitcher, bringing them back to the table and setting them down with a bit less gusto than Krummolt. "I threw my father today!" she announces, because we all know everyone cares deeply about this fascinating news. She pours herself a brimming mugful of ale and takes a good-sized sip, then adds, "When he wasn't letting me," as a clarifying amendment.
And then, belated realization: "I think..."
Krummolt chuckles at Cheyanna as he goes for a meatroll and munches happily. "Nice one." Well, Krummolt cares about violence, even in training. "Pretty soon you'll be able to get him back for all of those, I dunno, whatever kids are pissed off at their parents for these days."
Cheyanna has to think about that one for a moment, and comes up blank, which is a sad commentary on someone, whether it be her or her father. "I guess." She takes another swig from her ale. "It was fun, though. It was like I was almost a real guard for a minute. And then he flattened me, and everything was normal again." She plucks a meatroll from Krummolt's plate, though a bit hesitantly, as though afraid the invitation might have been retracted in the two minutes since it was offered.
The only reason Krummolt might be tempted would be to disconcert Cheyanna. In any case, he doesn't think of it. "Ha," he replies. "He'll probably flatten you for a while after you make full guard," he warns Cheyanna. "Don't worry, though. I 'spect you'll be holding your own before much longer, even if you generally lose to the old geezers eventually."
Cheyanna takes a bite of the meatroll, washes it down with a gulp from her mug, and then pops the rest of the roll in her mouth, chewing entirely too few times and swallowing with a bit of effort. "Yeah, maybe," she says. "Feels like I've been a guard kind of forever, but I know I'm barely halfway done with recruit. Did Crom have a long recruit period?"
"Yeah," Krummolt replies as he contemplates the remains of his meatroll. "But they kinda threw you into things more. Like a month in, they'd have you in the tavern after the miners got off work. That was maybe a little more brutal it shoulda been. Nothin' teaches like bruises, and you always had some good backup, though."
"Yeah..." Cheyanna says thoughtfully. She goes to sip from her ale, but finds her mug drained of everything but some residual foam. Fortunately, she has a pitcher to hand. She pours herself a refill. "That would be kind of good," she says. "I mean, we mostly just get bored here. But I guess the scale of things at Crom was different. Maybe to you, breaking up bar fights was kind of the same thing as making sure that no one steals the star stones is for us?"
Krummolt drains the first of his mugs as he listens to Cheyanna's analogy. "Heh. Maybe so," he replies. "But it ain't like someone's trying to steal the star stones every week." Figurative thinking is not really Krummolt's strong suit. "But I guess it's like that. I gripe about it being boring here sometimes, but it's nice not to be trying to break up a fight every week."
"I guess," Chey says dubiously. "It would be nice if we ever got to do anything for real, though." She blows foam off the top of her mug, watching it splash down on the table. "But I guess it would be kind of scary if we were actually in danger at all." She glances behind her, then wipes up the splatter of alefoam a bit guiltily.
"Well, yeah," Krummolt replies. "But the bar fights weren't usually that dangerous. If a knife came out, the guards would start beating the crap out of people with their staves, and that usually ended things pretty quick. Mostly, it was drunk miners blowin' off steam, which meant bruises. Prob'ly better to start off with a few fights like that befor eyou get someone wavin' a sword around.
Cheyanna sucks down around half of her mug in a single long sip as Krummolt speaks, peering at him with a great deal of interest now. "Huh," she says. "Have you had t'beat up a lot of people?" The alcohol is beginning to buzz her very slightly; she's far from drunk, but her body language is a bit looser.
"/Oh/ yeah," Krummolt replies, rolling his shoulders. He has that attitude of a man who's started into boast-mode. Between the influence of his personality and his alcohol, that mode is rarely far away. "Had t'do it a lot in Crom. Beat up three miners at once, one time."
"Wow." Cheyanna is appropriately impressed, and refills Krummolt's first mug as she tops off her own. "I've never beaten anyone up. I threatened to spank a brat a few weeks ago?"
Krummolt grimaces. "Yeah, I hardly beat up anyone since I've been here," he replies, looking down into his second nearly empty mug. "People don't just get drunk to blow off steam and get into fights the same way here. Back in /Crom/," and from the sound of it, in the Golden Age, "people'd knock each other silly and then it'd be fine. Shoulda spanked that brat." Not that Krummolt has the slightest idea what the brat was doing, of course.
Cheyanna sighs, hard-put-upon. "He ran away," she says glumly. She gazes into her ale mug, then says, thoughtfully, "Maybe we should go on, like, a mission to Crom. We can try to get miners to attack us so we can practice fighting them off. Or we could try Bitra."
"Hah," Krummolt says, switching mugs again. "In Bitra, no one'll give a flying fork about getting beat up so long as they get to put a bet on it. Or get a tip. Buncha criminals..." He scratches at his chin, which is beginning to look just a bit stubbly. "I'm likin' this idea."
Cheyanna grins genially at Krummolt. "An' you can back us up if we need it," she says languidly. The level in her mug is dropping alarmingly, and she reaches for another meatroll, chomping into it and talking around the mouthful. "Id be a learnin' 'sperence."
"Yeah!" Krummolt agrees enthusiastically. "We need a learnin' experience! With big heavy sticks!" He clamps the mug down on the table and it sloshes again. Then he grabs another meatroll and brandishes it like a cudgel. "Bitrans," he spits out bitterly.
"Sticks," Cheyanna repeats. And then her eyes widen. "We don't know how to use sticks!" she says, alarmed. "What'll we do with 'em?"
"Bitrans? Sticks?" Decadre seems to have walked in on something of an interesting conversation! Not that he minds. "What have bitrans done with sticks?" He doesn't imediately realize that his fellow guards are drunk yet.
Krummolt swings his meatroll. "/Hit/ the stupid little dice fiends!" he says as the meatroll goes flying out of his grip. Whoops. He grabs another off the platter on the table. "Hah," he says as Decadre comes up. "It's what we're gonna do /to/ the Bitrans." He takes a firmer grip and swings his meatroll again, then goes to take a bite out of it.
"For practice," Cheyanna explains further to Decadre. "Cause we don't have anyone to beat up." She finishes off her mug and gazes glumly into it. "So we need to go find people."
Decadre has disconnected.
Ginette appears in the caverns beneath a soft haze of sawdust, absently maneuvering in and around the sprays of bustle. Electing to seat herself at a smaller table with fewer occupants, the young woman sets down a small bundle and begins unwrapping it with tidy industry. Bits and bobbles of wood slowly pour into focus, followed by another puff of resin-scented dust.
Krummolt waves Decadre away as the young recruit goes off to seek greener and perhaps less drunken pastures. "Bitra's a better idea'n'Crom," he confides to Cheyanna, just getting to the point where his articulation is suffering. "Don' wanna go pickin' a fight in Crom." He frowns down at his mug which seems to have emptied again. "Hmm. Y'got any more?" he wonders of Cheyanna.
Ginette turns intent away from her pet project as a slurred rendition of the word 'Bitra' nabs the former Bitran's attention. Scarred fingers continue their mechanical removal of the wood from it's protective cloth but attentions have been diverted- for the moment.
Cheyanna leans forward with the pitcher, slopping some ale into Krummolt's mug and some onto the table. "'v never been to Crom," she muses. "Or Bitra. You been there?" She tilts sideways a bit, arresting the slide by propping her chin on a balled fist, elbow planted on the table.
"Never been to Bitra," Krummolt admits to Cheyanna, "but I known a lotta Bitrans. Ain't an honest one 'mongst the lot." Krumolt has no idea that a Bitran can hear him, though in his increasingly inebriated state, he might not care. "Good place to find criminals to beat."
"Um, excuse me?" In no way tentative, Ginette's tone conveys a sort of casual irritation that suggests an imminent correction. "I'd say there's a couple honest ones. I think I saw one once, but you know it's hard to tell, she ran off before I could swindle her money and sell her baby for parts." Looking perfectly frank, Gin continues her task, lightly brushing away the worst of the dust as she begins piling her tiny wooden jumble.
"Mm-hmm," Cheyanna begins to Krummolt with some gusto, but then someone else is entering into her considerations. She turns her head to blink blearily over her shoulder at Ginette. In her current state of vague intoxication, she has a hard time parsing what the woman said, so turns back to Krummolt for edification.
"She was a smart woman," Krummolt says darkly to Ginette. He takes a slug out of his mug, nearly draining it. "'course, if she was ...was really Bitran, you shoulda checked yer marks purse, too." So saying, he pats at his belt for a minute and finds his own purse, still safely concealed.
"Being Bitran myself, I know better then to carry a marks purse." The young woman fixes the burly guard's previously fingered purse with a dramatically calculating stare paired with a sudden spray of sinister muttering, a few theatrical cackles end the tiny production as Ginette turns back to her craft.
At Ginette's words, Cheyanna eyes her with a bit more suspicion. She turns her eyes back to Krummolt and hisses in what is meant to be a whisper: "Sh'we arrest 'er?" She sounds genuinely curiously. Her eyes flick back to Ginette, then to Krummolt again. "I don' wanna beat 'er." She says this as if it is a personal failing, mournful and apologetic.
Krummolt glowers at Ginette as she goes back to her work. Then he turns back to Cheyanna. "Nah. We're off duty," he grumbles back at her. "An' I dunno 'bout you...But I'm drunk." Krummolt might pick fights when drunk, but at least he doesn't seem to be so drunk that he wants to act like a guard again. "An' she'd be too easy, anyways. T'beat."
Cheyanna nods assent to that, then slumps a bit forward again, staring at her empty mug. She gives an expansive yawn, then plants both palms firmly on the table. "Goin' t'bed," she declares, heaving herself up and swaying only a bit. "'ll see you t'morra."
"Have a good nigh'," Krummolt replies, lifting his mug in salute, then downing the little bit left in the bottom. "We'll fin' you someone t'beat up! Some time." Then he is left to stare downward into his mug.
Living Caverns
The rough-hewn majesty of this cavern far outpaces any delight in the multitudes of curves that form its enclosure. The glabrous grey granite is shot through with translucent obsidian, lending subtly-veined sparkle to the walls and the foot-trodden smoothness of the floor that shows centuries-old placements of the scarred trestle tables; carven hollows give homes for the glow baskets and the coat-pegs that line the walls. No mosaics, no painting, no tiles: just a few well-done tapestries mark the pathway that lead to the kitchen to the north and the inner caverns to the west, and frame the nighthearth's stew and snacks, while a heavier strip of oiled canvas shields the unwary from the wind... [look closer]
Scattered about in various perches and niches are forty-nine firelizards.
You see Llaammaa here.
Cheyanna is here.
Krummolt has finished with the day's duty and has settled back in the living caverns with with two mugs of ale and a plate of meatrolls. He appears to be just beginning to unwind, leaning back in his seat and crossing his ankles on another, unself-conscious about taking up an unnecessarily large area.
Cheyanna tumbles into the room with her father, both of them looking wet and cold and muddy and unspeakably cheerful. Cheyanna is laughing at something said apparently just outside, flushed with pleasure and pride. "You want to have a few drinks?" she asks diffidently. "Got to get back on duty," says her father, lifting a hand to rub at Chey's buzzed hair. Cheyanna ducks her head away with that embarrassed 'Daaaaaad,' body language. "Later," he promised, then heads back out of the caverns. Cheyanna's eyes sweep along the caverns until she spots Krummolt, then heads over to join him. "Want to have a few drinks?" she asks cheerfully. Her eyes fall on his mugs. "A few /more/ drinks?" she amends easily enough.
Krummolt looks around when Cheyanna shows up at his table. "Uh...Oh. Yeah, sure, pull up a chair, get buzzed! Again." He grabs one of his mugs and takes a hearty swig, then plops it casually on the table so that the ale inside sloshes dangerously close to the rim. "I'll even share my meatrolls."
Cheyanna makes a little face at the joke, scrubbing her head vigorously with one hand. But she crosses to claim a mug and a pitcher, bringing them back to the table and setting them down with a bit less gusto than Krummolt. "I threw my father today!" she announces, because we all know everyone cares deeply about this fascinating news. She pours herself a brimming mugful of ale and takes a good-sized sip, then adds, "When he wasn't letting me," as a clarifying amendment.
And then, belated realization: "I think..."
Krummolt chuckles at Cheyanna as he goes for a meatroll and munches happily. "Nice one." Well, Krummolt cares about violence, even in training. "Pretty soon you'll be able to get him back for all of those, I dunno, whatever kids are pissed off at their parents for these days."
Cheyanna has to think about that one for a moment, and comes up blank, which is a sad commentary on someone, whether it be her or her father. "I guess." She takes another swig from her ale. "It was fun, though. It was like I was almost a real guard for a minute. And then he flattened me, and everything was normal again." She plucks a meatroll from Krummolt's plate, though a bit hesitantly, as though afraid the invitation might have been retracted in the two minutes since it was offered.
The only reason Krummolt might be tempted would be to disconcert Cheyanna. In any case, he doesn't think of it. "Ha," he replies. "He'll probably flatten you for a while after you make full guard," he warns Cheyanna. "Don't worry, though. I 'spect you'll be holding your own before much longer, even if you generally lose to the old geezers eventually."
Cheyanna takes a bite of the meatroll, washes it down with a gulp from her mug, and then pops the rest of the roll in her mouth, chewing entirely too few times and swallowing with a bit of effort. "Yeah, maybe," she says. "Feels like I've been a guard kind of forever, but I know I'm barely halfway done with recruit. Did Crom have a long recruit period?"
"Yeah," Krummolt replies as he contemplates the remains of his meatroll. "But they kinda threw you into things more. Like a month in, they'd have you in the tavern after the miners got off work. That was maybe a little more brutal it shoulda been. Nothin' teaches like bruises, and you always had some good backup, though."
"Yeah..." Cheyanna says thoughtfully. She goes to sip from her ale, but finds her mug drained of everything but some residual foam. Fortunately, she has a pitcher to hand. She pours herself a refill. "That would be kind of good," she says. "I mean, we mostly just get bored here. But I guess the scale of things at Crom was different. Maybe to you, breaking up bar fights was kind of the same thing as making sure that no one steals the star stones is for us?"
Krummolt drains the first of his mugs as he listens to Cheyanna's analogy. "Heh. Maybe so," he replies. "But it ain't like someone's trying to steal the star stones every week." Figurative thinking is not really Krummolt's strong suit. "But I guess it's like that. I gripe about it being boring here sometimes, but it's nice not to be trying to break up a fight every week."
"I guess," Chey says dubiously. "It would be nice if we ever got to do anything for real, though." She blows foam off the top of her mug, watching it splash down on the table. "But I guess it would be kind of scary if we were actually in danger at all." She glances behind her, then wipes up the splatter of alefoam a bit guiltily.
"Well, yeah," Krummolt replies. "But the bar fights weren't usually that dangerous. If a knife came out, the guards would start beating the crap out of people with their staves, and that usually ended things pretty quick. Mostly, it was drunk miners blowin' off steam, which meant bruises. Prob'ly better to start off with a few fights like that befor eyou get someone wavin' a sword around.
Cheyanna sucks down around half of her mug in a single long sip as Krummolt speaks, peering at him with a great deal of interest now. "Huh," she says. "Have you had t'beat up a lot of people?" The alcohol is beginning to buzz her very slightly; she's far from drunk, but her body language is a bit looser.
"/Oh/ yeah," Krummolt replies, rolling his shoulders. He has that attitude of a man who's started into boast-mode. Between the influence of his personality and his alcohol, that mode is rarely far away. "Had t'do it a lot in Crom. Beat up three miners at once, one time."
"Wow." Cheyanna is appropriately impressed, and refills Krummolt's first mug as she tops off her own. "I've never beaten anyone up. I threatened to spank a brat a few weeks ago?"
Krummolt grimaces. "Yeah, I hardly beat up anyone since I've been here," he replies, looking down into his second nearly empty mug. "People don't just get drunk to blow off steam and get into fights the same way here. Back in /Crom/," and from the sound of it, in the Golden Age, "people'd knock each other silly and then it'd be fine. Shoulda spanked that brat." Not that Krummolt has the slightest idea what the brat was doing, of course.
Cheyanna sighs, hard-put-upon. "He ran away," she says glumly. She gazes into her ale mug, then says, thoughtfully, "Maybe we should go on, like, a mission to Crom. We can try to get miners to attack us so we can practice fighting them off. Or we could try Bitra."
"Hah," Krummolt says, switching mugs again. "In Bitra, no one'll give a flying fork about getting beat up so long as they get to put a bet on it. Or get a tip. Buncha criminals..." He scratches at his chin, which is beginning to look just a bit stubbly. "I'm likin' this idea."
Cheyanna grins genially at Krummolt. "An' you can back us up if we need it," she says languidly. The level in her mug is dropping alarmingly, and she reaches for another meatroll, chomping into it and talking around the mouthful. "Id be a learnin' 'sperence."
"Yeah!" Krummolt agrees enthusiastically. "We need a learnin' experience! With big heavy sticks!" He clamps the mug down on the table and it sloshes again. Then he grabs another meatroll and brandishes it like a cudgel. "Bitrans," he spits out bitterly.
"Sticks," Cheyanna repeats. And then her eyes widen. "We don't know how to use sticks!" she says, alarmed. "What'll we do with 'em?"
"Bitrans? Sticks?" Decadre seems to have walked in on something of an interesting conversation! Not that he minds. "What have bitrans done with sticks?" He doesn't imediately realize that his fellow guards are drunk yet.
Krummolt swings his meatroll. "/Hit/ the stupid little dice fiends!" he says as the meatroll goes flying out of his grip. Whoops. He grabs another off the platter on the table. "Hah," he says as Decadre comes up. "It's what we're gonna do /to/ the Bitrans." He takes a firmer grip and swings his meatroll again, then goes to take a bite out of it.
"For practice," Cheyanna explains further to Decadre. "Cause we don't have anyone to beat up." She finishes off her mug and gazes glumly into it. "So we need to go find people."
Decadre has disconnected.
Ginette appears in the caverns beneath a soft haze of sawdust, absently maneuvering in and around the sprays of bustle. Electing to seat herself at a smaller table with fewer occupants, the young woman sets down a small bundle and begins unwrapping it with tidy industry. Bits and bobbles of wood slowly pour into focus, followed by another puff of resin-scented dust.
Krummolt waves Decadre away as the young recruit goes off to seek greener and perhaps less drunken pastures. "Bitra's a better idea'n'Crom," he confides to Cheyanna, just getting to the point where his articulation is suffering. "Don' wanna go pickin' a fight in Crom." He frowns down at his mug which seems to have emptied again. "Hmm. Y'got any more?" he wonders of Cheyanna.
Ginette turns intent away from her pet project as a slurred rendition of the word 'Bitra' nabs the former Bitran's attention. Scarred fingers continue their mechanical removal of the wood from it's protective cloth but attentions have been diverted- for the moment.
Cheyanna leans forward with the pitcher, slopping some ale into Krummolt's mug and some onto the table. "'v never been to Crom," she muses. "Or Bitra. You been there?" She tilts sideways a bit, arresting the slide by propping her chin on a balled fist, elbow planted on the table.
"Never been to Bitra," Krummolt admits to Cheyanna, "but I known a lotta Bitrans. Ain't an honest one 'mongst the lot." Krumolt has no idea that a Bitran can hear him, though in his increasingly inebriated state, he might not care. "Good place to find criminals to beat."
"Um, excuse me?" In no way tentative, Ginette's tone conveys a sort of casual irritation that suggests an imminent correction. "I'd say there's a couple honest ones. I think I saw one once, but you know it's hard to tell, she ran off before I could swindle her money and sell her baby for parts." Looking perfectly frank, Gin continues her task, lightly brushing away the worst of the dust as she begins piling her tiny wooden jumble.
"Mm-hmm," Cheyanna begins to Krummolt with some gusto, but then someone else is entering into her considerations. She turns her head to blink blearily over her shoulder at Ginette. In her current state of vague intoxication, she has a hard time parsing what the woman said, so turns back to Krummolt for edification.
"She was a smart woman," Krummolt says darkly to Ginette. He takes a slug out of his mug, nearly draining it. "'course, if she was ...was really Bitran, you shoulda checked yer marks purse, too." So saying, he pats at his belt for a minute and finds his own purse, still safely concealed.
"Being Bitran myself, I know better then to carry a marks purse." The young woman fixes the burly guard's previously fingered purse with a dramatically calculating stare paired with a sudden spray of sinister muttering, a few theatrical cackles end the tiny production as Ginette turns back to her craft.
At Ginette's words, Cheyanna eyes her with a bit more suspicion. She turns her eyes back to Krummolt and hisses in what is meant to be a whisper: "Sh'we arrest 'er?" She sounds genuinely curiously. Her eyes flick back to Ginette, then to Krummolt again. "I don' wanna beat 'er." She says this as if it is a personal failing, mournful and apologetic.
Krummolt glowers at Ginette as she goes back to her work. Then he turns back to Cheyanna. "Nah. We're off duty," he grumbles back at her. "An' I dunno 'bout you...But I'm drunk." Krummolt might pick fights when drunk, but at least he doesn't seem to be so drunk that he wants to act like a guard again. "An' she'd be too easy, anyways. T'beat."
Cheyanna nods assent to that, then slumps a bit forward again, staring at her empty mug. She gives an expansive yawn, then plants both palms firmly on the table. "Goin' t'bed," she declares, heaving herself up and swaying only a bit. "'ll see you t'morra."
"Have a good nigh'," Krummolt replies, lifting his mug in salute, then downing the little bit left in the bottom. "We'll fin' you someone t'beat up! Some time." Then he is left to stare downward into his mug.