Clang! Clang!
I've been MUSHing for nearly ten years, and this is the sort of scene you'd happily wait ten years to reach. Roa gave us the most phenomenal NPCs, and we'll be forever in her debt. This one's so big, it gets two quotes at the front.
Wash: "Well, it's a dangerous mission, sir. I can't stand the thought of something happening that might cause you two to come back with another thrilling tale of bonding and adventure. I just can't take that right now."
-- War Stories
Mal: "There's just an acre of you fellas, ain't there?" (to Zoe) "This is why we lost, you know. Superior numbers."
Zoe: "Thanks for the re-enactment, sir."
-- The Train Job
Background: Ashwin won a ride with F'sair, a greenrider, in a game of cards. He, Jensen, and Vej (one of Jensen's men) decided to take their knots off for the evening and go for a quiet drink, away from the stress and strain of the weyr.
Cast: Jensen, Vej (by Jensen), Ashwin, F'sair (by Ashwin), Girta, a one-eyed man, assorted brawlers and ladies of negotiable affection (by Roa).
Adult themes within, y'all.
Inside The Miner's Find Tavern
Fading glows fail to cast their light into the corners of this dingy place, darkened corners made darker by the addition of turns upon turns of smoke from the wide fire that ranges along the left hand side of the room and wreathes the ceiling in a constant haze. A broad bar crafted from what must have been an enormous, ancient tree runs along the back, ingrained with dried on rings left behind by past drinks; bottles, wineskins and kegs of beer line up on shelves behind it, barstools run along its length. Between the door and that bar, a series of tables scattered about, chairs grouped loosely around them. The walls reflect the profession of the majority of the clientele, adorned with bits and pieces of old mining equipment, twisted and mangled beyond all repair. To the right, a stairway winds up in a tight spiral to the second floor; an open balcony does a complete circuit, looking down on the room below. Dimmed by smoke, a number of doors are visible running off it.
Outside, the dark of night. Inside, a healthy buzz of conversation from the patrons crowded into the bar. High up in the mountains of Crom, only three types of man make up the clientele: miners, traders, and those with access to a dragon and the foolish inclination to find themselves here. Smoke curls up to wreath the ceiling in a haze of grey as the door opens, revealing the High Reaches contingent: Jensen, Ashwin, Vej and F'sair. Only the fourth man wears a knot, marking him a greenrider, the other three having shed theirs. Their entrance momentarily dulls the buzz of conversation, as every head swivels to face them.
Jensen is dressed for warmth. Of course, as soon as he steps into the crowded bar he's starting to regret that choice almost immediately. It's amazing how much the press of bodies can affect the temperature of a place. Stopping just inside to take in his new surroundings, he definitely realizes almost every eye in the place is trained on him and his companions. His eyebrows lift and he casts Ashwin a Look. "Good thing we lost our knots. They mighta drawn some attention to us." Then, to the room, a bright, /chipper/, "Hi," accompanied by that trademark boyish grin.
In one grimy corner sits a skinny fellow bent over an instrument that seems to be some sort of three-tiered xylaphone. Brown hair is plastered against an oily forehead and small eyes squint over a long nose as equally leggy limbs tap little batons over the keys to plink out a plucky little tune. This music, too, stops as the new arrivals come in and the entire room collectively holds its breath.
From behind the bar, a rather plump, rather robust, rather busty middle-aged woman with blond hair piled up into wilting curls, leans forward over the counter and eyes these newest or arrivals. Her gown is red, it's cut is alarmingly low, and parts of her wobble as she leans. Her gaze slinks over each of the men, settles on the one knot, and then back up to the faces. "Y'boys got marks?" is all that is asked in a voice a little too deep to be pleasant.
Ashwin reaches up slowly to peel his appallingly orange hat off his head, curling one large hand around it and slowly bringing it down to his side - as though a sudden movement might scare the locals. His pale gaze does a circuit of the room, landing on their hostess just as she wobbles for their benefit. He swallows, clears his throat, and produces a reply that's loud in the silence, despite his quiet tone. "Yes, ma'am," he responds promptly, the hand that's not keeping hold of his hat digging into one pocket as he starts forward towards the bar. By the time he gets there he's produced a fraction of a mark, setting it down on the sticky surface. "Beer, to start."
Jensen is putting up a fine display of not being at all concerned with the numerous persons very very focused on their foursome. On the inside though there's likely a few nice plans of action forming should the locals become less than welcoming. He shares that grin with a nearby grizzled man, who glares back at him with his one eye. Jen looks away slowly, widens his eyes at Vej, and motions at the other guard to precede him. Vej does so, and Jen follows, bringing up the rear. "Vej." "Yeah, Cap'n." "Take your hand off your handle. You're makin' 'em nervous." "Just returnin' the favor."
The woman behind the counter, one Girta by name, eyes Ashwin, eyes the hat, eyes the marks. Jensen and Vej are given another sample of her watery-eyed scrutiny before she straightens up again, bosoms swaying like a pair of tankards about to overflow. "Won't have no trouble in my bar." But a meaty hand lifts and slaps down hard against the ancient wood of the bar. "Beer!" she bellows, sending a short thick fellow who was previously 'washing' mugs scurrying to get the requestd beverages. The quaarter mark is slipped from the counter and tucked...well...you know where. With this shout, the other occupants return to whatever they were previously doing and the xylaphonist's plunky tune starts up again. Conversation returns, shoulders relax, and the tension in the air eases, if it does not wholly dissipate.
"No, ma'am," Ashwin agrees, rattling his pocket briefly. Marks inside rattle together, promising patronage, if not peace. He leans against the bar, then pauses, slowly lifting his below up. There's a distinct unsticking sound as his leather jacket peels away, and a flicker of something crosses the lieutenant's face ever so briefly. "What about a table, Vej?" The question is quiet, for Ashwin's still investigating their surroundings. He does not share the tension of his colleagues, though, rather having shed something - some line has left his shoulders as they walked into the filthy, smoky room. Beside him, F'sair leans against the bar, heedless of Ashwin's lesson in that department, then peels his own elbows off with a disturbed sound.
Jensen's eyes meet Girta's, but only for a moment. He turns quickly, his back on the bar, er, lady, lifts his eyebrows at Vej. He scratches the side of his nose with the tip of his forefinger; Vej leans in. "Like lookin' into the end of my life," Jen mutters. Vej, "Weird." "Yeah." Table? Vej straightens, glances at Ashwin, then at Jensen, and nods once. "Uh, sure. I'll, uh, see about that." And the big man is gone, winding his way through the crowd to find someplace for the lot of them to sit. Maybe it'll be lacking in the sticky department, even. Jen lifts one eyebrow at F'sair. Uh, sticky? "Y'know, this is why I got int' this job in the first place. All the perks." He grins at Ashwin. "Least I finally know all it takes t'loosen you up is a dark, creepy bar in the middle at the corner o'no and where. Lookit you, you're practically giddy."
While the tables are less sticky, there is not a one that doesn't seem to have at least one leg shorter than the other three, so each has a rocking wobble to some varying degree. Take after their owner, it seems. Chairs too are a curious affair, most of the non-broken ones already taken by the regulars who know the ins and outs of this particular sinkhole bar. As the men wait for their drinks, they are greeted with another sight: a flurry of colors and skirts that come skittering down from upstairs, all smiles and winks and suggestive hip twitches. One, a lanky, darkhaired thing who is pretty until her smile reveals a missing front tooth, and whose skirt is an orange bright enough to compete with Ashwin's hat, gives the long, pale guard a wink. The rest of the girls disperse amoung the familiar miners, knowing, it seems, who will and who won't be interested in their offerings.
Ashwin watches Vej retreat, turning his head for a moment to eye F'sair, where their slender transport for the evening is attempting to get a good look at whatever's just stuck to his elbow. Ashwin observes that effort in what might be fascination for a few seconds, then blinks, turning away with a quick shake of his head. "Yessir, giddy." And doing so well with the titles. Really, people will never guess. "Grew up in a bar. High Reaches, before Tillek." These nine words provide more autobiographical information than the Captain has ever been offered before. Perhaps more might have come, but Ashwin's distracted, tilting a glance sideways as female company arrives. Several moments prolonged inspection finally yield to a glance up the bar, in search of their drinks.
"That so? Well. Wish I could say that explains so much, but it don't." Jen's grinning enough to show he's teasing. And he is. "Seems t'me a fella grown up in a bar might be more, uh... Talkative." If not personable. His own attention is very quickly caught and held by the flittery bright things coming down the stairs. He watches as they add little spots of color to the otherwise dreary room, his head tilted; a backwards step has him lined up with the stool behind him and he sits. That stool suffers from three legs, wobbles, and he vacates it quickly, almost toppling over in the process. Right then. Vej is standing by a table. It looks empty, even if it is surrounded on all sides and angles by people. He lifts his arm to wave at Ashwin and Jensen, then blinks as he finds himself caught by a small blonde creature with a long nose. Cue awkward foot shuffling and blushing as the big man tries to untangle himself.
From behind the bar comes the stocky man with a tray, carrying four tall cups of beer, or maybe 'beer' over to the table claimed by Vej and whatever frilly thing is twined around his person. The tankards are set down one at a time. Thunk. Thunk. Thunk. Thunk. Each one sloshes over a little, and the one settled relatively near F'sair has a dead vtol bobbing listlessly in the froth. Stocky man doesn't seem to notice and is, his job finished, retreating back behind the bar. One of the girls has sidled up besides the xylaphone player and her fingers skip along his back. "Play us a song we's can sing to, sweetie." "That'd require you being able to sing inna first place," the player mutters, but a sharp elbow to his side quite literally changes his tune. The new ditty plinkity-plunks its way through the air and the girl stands, swishes her skirts and begins, well, there *are* sounds coming out of her mouth, even if they aren't good ones. A communal groan arises from the regulars.
"Learn a lot by watching, sir," Ashwin replies, doing just that - he's watching the women as they fan out across the room. "Man has his mouth open, what's he learning?" The drinks arrive, and Ashwin claps the visibly distressed F'sair on one shoulder as he claims his own, then one for Vej. The greenrider dithers, leaning forward to peer at the vtol with visible distaste. "I don't suppose they'd do a decent white wine here, would they?" His query is saved from general distribution by the sound starting up in the corner, but the nearest of the regulars turn their heads to study the man. "Drink up, man," Ashwin encourages their ride. "Protein." And so saying, he claims Vej's tankard as well, beginning to weave his way through to their table.
Jensen catches movement, spots Vej easily enough - the man does tend to stand taller than those sitting down - and simply stares for a moment, cherishing Vej's utter awkwardness with something akin to dull shock on his face. "Hey, drinks." Indeed. That snaps him out of his funk and he reaches for a mug of his own. He spares a glance for the insect in F'sair's, then meets the greenrider's eyes after Ashwin's gotten a few steps away. "Aw, don't look so down. You've likely eaten lots o'bugs in your time, didn't even know it." That said, and with a clap to the man's shoulder, he too starts off for the table Vej has staked, leaving F'sair to follow. When he's near enough he asks, in his best 'I'm not being at all sarcastic' voice, "Vej, gonna introduce us to your friend?" "Uh." Vej, for his part, is still trying to keep his arm from that blonde girl's shoulders, even though she clearly wants it there. And then, as if just now hearing the 'singing', he looks around, tries out a lopsided grin, aims it at a fella sitting nearby, and takes a few long, deep gulps from his mug. Drunk, please. He sits, nearly topples out of his chair, steadies himself - if he holds his arm just so he's balanced - and continues drinking.
The singing stops abruptly as one of the regulars rises, grabs the 'singer' by the hand and begins walking determinedly over towards the stairs. There's a triumphant grin on the woman's face and an enhanced swish to her hips as the pair vanish to the second level. The blonde dangling determinedly onto Vej laughs a low warbly sound in his ear. "Works every time," she murmurs. A few of the other girls rotate tables and a cluster of three are speaking together and eyeing the new group. There's some hushed arguing, some slapping of hands and shaking of heads as the four hapless arrivals get bartered over. But, agreements finally made, another blonde, a black-haired girl round in all the right places and a redhead round in too many places, join the woman that clings so tenaciously to Vej. "Hiya there," quips the round one. "Me an m'friends here were thinkin' we don't much get to see new faces round here." The second blonde, who has ended up closest to F'sair, eyes the knot and shoots a scathing glare to the dark haired woman. In return, dark-hair only offers a wide-eyed shrug. Who knew?
Ashwin thumps his two tankards down on the table, slopping them slightly. F'sair's hugging his to his chest, and surveys the approaching women with a sort of horrified fascination. "No new faces?" It's a squeak. "What, you mean the same ones come back twice, then?" Ashwin's hand on the greenrider's shoulder has him buckling at the knees, and he drops into a chair, spilling beer down his chest. This, the lieutenant has achieved without even a sideways glance - his survey of Vej's bad luck complete, he's now conducting a quiet survey of their company, quietly turning his hat over in one hand. It might have a bit of beer on it. "Ladies." That's the extent of his greeting, as he sinks down into his chair, remaining propped on the edge to avoid forgetting himself and leaning back - a fatal move, should he try it, for the chair lacks most of its back.
Jensen's tankard is empty. That happened quickly. And, with a wince, he sets it down on the table and swallows more than would be necessary with a, er, thinner drink. "That was different." Yum, liquid bread. He grins over at F'sair, leans over precariously on his wobbly chair to say, "Might be the new faces never quite escape. There might be little hope for us." Oh look, females. Sort of. He puts on a polite expression, gives them as a group a little smile. "Hi." Yeah, that'd be the same greeting he came in here with. It's universal. Then he casts a rather woeful look at his empty mug. "Could use s'more o'that ale tastes like dinner."
It's the round girl that swipes up Jensen's tankard. A hand is held out, palm up, and stubby eyelashes flitter. "Can't get no ale from Girta less I bring her coins first." Oh, the poor dear. The black-hair girl settles her hands squarely on Ashwin's shoulders as the blond behind F'sair attempts to maybe sidle over to the behatted guard. No. Hers. The skinnier darker-blonde coils even more tightly around Vej. Which leaves second blonde still stuck behind the sqeaking rider. "That's right, doll," this girl atempt to croon, "We're used to our regulars. Don't much get your...sort here." "Not that we mind," interjects dark-hair, leaning forward a bit so her chin gets close to Ashwin's shoulder. "Bit o change ain't a bad thing."
The blonde isn't the only one trying to sidle over towards Ashwin - F'sair's making an effort as well, looking nervously up and over his shoulder at the girl. "No bad thing at all," Ashwin puts in quietly, draining his own mug, eyes closing for a moment in the wake of that effort as he shifts his jaw. Chewable beer. "You done, Vej?" The greenrider's nowhere near done for his part, busy trying to fish the vtol out of his glass with one finger, repeatedly stabbing the surface of the drink in his efforts to catch the insect. For his part, the lieutenant pushes his glass across to the round girl making eyes at his Captain, shifting slightly so he can fish another fraction of a mark out of his pocket. This, too, is pushed across in the wake of his glass.
Jensen's eyes lift to the round girl's and he stares at her, somewhat horrified. "Uh." Ashwin saves him with that fraction, and Jen shows his appreciation via a grin, then another widening of his eyes. Are these girls even real right now? He's had his experiences with womenfolk, but this is an entirely different species. Vej has become shifty-eyed, looking around him with little darting glances. He tries to smile at the blonde attached to him, but it ends up looking more like he's trying to swallow his dinner down. "Think I could get t'likin' this place. Has a certain feel to it. Atmosphere, y'know? Real homey'n, uh, warm. Yeah. There's a real warmth here." Jen's looking around while he's talking, his attention for detail going wild as he scopes out this unfamiliar territory.
The round one gives Ashwin a disapproving *tsk* as the money handed to her ends up being enough to refill the mugs and no more. Still it's curled into her palm and both empty mugs are gathered up. Swishing and flouncing, she weaves through the tables and over to the bar to get more bread..er..beer. Her posterior is given several quick visits by the flats of various hands, but this seems to go unnoticed. "Homey, huh?" says blonde-behind-F'sair who is now no longer behind the greenrider, but behind Jensen. And, oh, look, she wants to give him a shoulder massage. "I could help you make yourself at home. Get you real comfortable-like, hmmm?" The other two girls titter and blink and otherwise display their charms. Vej's new petticoated growth is attempting to squirm her way onto his lap.
See, this? This is the ideal environment for a man who doesn't so much deal with talking. Ashwin knows this code, he understands how this place works. There's a gleam in the pale man's eye as he surveys his companions: Vej and the blonde staking out a claim to real estate, F'sair, who's given up on fishing the insect out and is now trying to pour it free of the mug by tipping a little onto the filthy ground, and the man to whom he has pledged his loyalty, who's set on a course to wear his blonde like a muffler any minute. There's a gleam that might well be amusement, for Ashwin is relaxed, tilting his head back to give that black-haired girl (round in all the right places) a grin.
Vej tries another smile, this one a little less feeble, and downs the rest of his ale in one gulp; his arm is around the girl now in his lap, and he's looking pretty proud of himself. He'll need the buzz that quick drink will give him. Or, judging by the thickness of the beverage, the concussion. And Jen, for his part, is grinning up until the point at which the blonde girl touches him. All humor drains from his face rather quickly and he clears his throat. "No, uh. Thanks." He isn't moving at all, in fact he's become quite tense under her hands, and he gives her a small smile. Still trying to be polite, despite obvious discomfort. "Feelin' comfortable enough."
"Heeeey there, Sugar," this comes from the dark-haired girl who peers down at Ashwin's tipped-up smile. A man who knows his way around such a place may also know just what a smile to one of these girls implies. Hands that were previously resting on the back of Ashwin's chair (well, what parts of the back remain) now slide up to his shoulders. "Thought you were just gonna maybe ignore me all night." The grin returned to the man is beautific. Especially when viewed upside down. The girl in Vej's lap gives a delighted titter as the once-terrified man seems to reciprocate with an arm around her waist. Her head lowers onto his shoulder and one can only hope whatever she puts in her hair to keep it so unnaturally slick-looking won't leave a stain on his tunic. Blonde number two behind Jensen sort of freezes up at the man's friendly but obvious rejection. "There a little green string in the knot you ain't wearin' too, doll?" comes the cool mutter. The round one returns, setting mugs down and seems about to get into it with the blonde what Stole Her Man when said blonde moves away from the table entirely to try her luck with some huge and solitary figure sitting off to the corner.
As Jensen passes up on entertainment for the evening, one of Ashwin's brows hikes up slightly - he tilts his head to watch the retreating blonde for a moment, and there's something of a shrug in his manner as he leans back slightly (not too far) into the dark-haired girl's touch, sliding his beer across the sticky surface of the table until it rests in front of him. A mouthful of the beer perhaps has him wondering why he ordered more, for he shifts slightly in his seat so that he can look back at the girl behind him, words almost too quiet to be heard over the noise of the crowd. She'll have to lean in - woe. "You want to see if there's anything harder to drink behind the bar, there? Find a tray full." From that pocket - has he got an endless supply of cash in there? - another coin, this one considerably larger. Captain could use a bracing drink, perhaps.
"No. No strings. I, uh-" Oh look. The drinks are back! Jensen reaches for one of those mugs, brings it in, begins gulping immediately. It's like a giant shot. Tastes terrible, but the faster you drink it the quicker it's gone. So he obviously doesn't notice when the blond deserts him for possibly more willing fellas, with his head tilted back and his eyes on the ceiling. The mug is back on the table again maybe a minute later and he's caught up in swallowing. "Ugh." Indeed. Staring at the table now, his shoulders are slightly slumping. Vej, for his part, notices not much outside the bubble that contains him, his mug, and the blonde in his lap. His chin lifts as he takes a not very discreet peek at the woman's cleavage.
Needing to lean in closer to Ashwin is not anything dark-hair seems to have any worries about doing. She bends down, in fact, so that her lips are on level with his cheek. Or, it would be his cheek except that he's turned towards her and her heavy eyes and her slightly parted mouth as he makes his request and holds out the large mark. Instead of taking it directly, one hand slides down his chest and across his arm before fingers curl around the mark and snatch it away. "Let me just go see what I can do for you, sugar." Then it's her turn to sway off towards the bar with a confident smirk to the round one. *She's* nabbed *hers*. The blonde in Vej's lap nuzzle-nuzzles on his shoulder and her breasts, if not particularly bountiful, are laced in and up in such a way that they look nice, if a little squashed together. And since they're sprinkled with a cloying perfume, they smell...uh...not like beer or coal. "Hey baby," she murmurs against Vej's neck. "Wanna take a walk upstairs with me?" The round one just observes the impressive way in which Jensen's drink vanishes and rewards him with a low whistle. Whooo. "You either got a rough night ahead or put a rough night behind, right there. Want another?" Hand out, palm up again. If she can't get coins one way, hey, she's versatile.
Ashwin tilts his head for a moment to watch the girl retreat with his money, distinctly speculative. His expressions still pale in comparison to the ways in which others express thoughts and feelings, but this much at least can be said - that one can at least discern to some extent what's going on in his head. And early indications are that despite the location, the company and the quality of the beer, Ashwin's not unhappy. As the dark-haired girl weaves out of sight, the lieutenant sets his orange hat down on the table, and props himself on his elbows to study Jensen and his latest admirer. "Rough night behind," he tells her, the beginnings of a smile turning his mouth up. "Plenty of them. You'll notice he's got his knot off, but," and Ashwin pulls one hand from under his chin to tap the side of his nose, "they call him a hero, where we come from." Now, of all times, he decides to speak - and this is what he chooses?
Jensen gives round girl a dubious eyeing, swallows again, winces, and lets a small, silent belch escape. He's just about to say something, perhaps, when Ashwin speaks up. And the look he gives his lieutenant is a shocked one indeed. Er. "Yeah. Real hero. Vanquish all kinds o'evils." Sarcastic is possibly an understatement. Vej, for his part, is looking rather delightedly at the girl in his lap. "Oh, you bet I do, darlin'." He's on his way up, unaware that he might be depositing the blonde on the floor with his sudden movement; his arm is around her though, so she should be steady enough. His other hand remains firm around that mug. "Cap'n, permission t'-" "Don't," Jen lifts his eyes, brow furrowed, "go too int' the details. Just," a wave of his hand, "just go. You got two hours." "Right. Two. Two hours." Sing-songing, he nudges the girl to go ahead of him and, once they're heading up the stairs, he gives her rear end a hearty slap.
Needing to lean in closer to Ashwin is not anything dark-hair seems to have any worries about doing. She bends down, in fact, so that her lips are on level with his cheek. Or, it would be his cheek except that he's turned towards her and her heavy eyes and her slightly parted mouth as he makes his request and holds out the large mark. Instead of taking it directly, one hand slides down his chest and across his arm before fingers curl around the mark and snatch it away. "Let me just go see what I can do for you, sugar." Then it's her turn to sway off towards the bar with a confident smirk to the round one. *She's* nabbed *hers*. The blonde in Vej's lap nuzzle-nuzzles on his shoulder and her breasts, if not particularly bountiful, are laced in and up in such a way that they look nice, if a little squashed together. And since they're sprinkled with a cloying perfume, they smell...uh...not like beer or coal. "Hey baby," she murmurs against Vej's neck. "Wanna take a walk upstairs with me?" The round one just observes the impressive way in which Jensen's drink vanishes and rewards him with a low whistle. Whooo. "You either got a rough night ahead or put a rough night behind, right there. Want another?" Hand out, palm up again. If she can't get coins one way, hey, she's versatile.
Ashwin tilts his head for a moment to watch the girl retreat with his money, distinctly speculative. His expressions still pale in comparison to the ways in which others express thoughts and feelings, but this much at least can be said - that one can at least discern to some extent what's going on in his head. And early indications are that despite the location, the company and the quality of the beer, Ashwin's not unhappy. As the dark-haired girl weaves out of sight, the lieutenant sets his orange hat down on the table, and props himself on his elbows to study Jensen and his latest admirer. "Rough night behind," he tells her, the beginnings of a smile turning his mouth up. "Plenty of them. You'll notice he's got his knot off, but," and Ashwin pulls one hand from under his chin to tap the side of his nose, "they call him a hero, where we come from." Now, of all times, he decides to speak - and this is what he chooses?
Jensen gives round girl a dubious eyeing, swallows again, winces, and lets a small, silent belch escape. He's just about to say something, perhaps, when Ashwin speaks up. And the look he gives his lieutenant is a shocked one indeed. Er. "Yeah. Real hero. Vanquish all kinds o'evils." Sarcastic is possibly an understatement. Vej, for his part, is looking rather delightedly at the girl in his lap. "Oh, you bet I do, darlin'." He's on his way up, unaware that he might be depositing the blonde on the floor with his sudden movement; his arm is around her though, so she should be steady enough. His other hand remains firm around that mug. "Cap'n, permission t'-" "Don't," Jen lifts his eyes, brow furrowed, "go too int' the details. Just," a wave of his hand, "just go. You got two hours." "Right. Two. Two hours." Sing-songing, he nudges the girl to go ahead of him and, once they're heading up the stairs, he gives her rear end a hearty slap.
The blonde is somewhat used to being quickly deposited. Off laps. Onto floors. Onto beds. She takes it in stride, landing on her feet and leaning up against Vej as he...heh...rises and starts to lead her upstairs. At the swat to her bottom, the blonde emits a squeal that has been honed over many months to sound giddily delighted. Her fingers are already playing with the buttons around his collar as Vej and the blonde dissapear to the second level. Now that a chair has opened up, round girl plops herself down and appears to be immune to sarcasm. "Heros, huh?" she says with a smirk. "Protectin' little lost colts and scarin' away the big bad folk, huh? Mighty thirsty work." Dark-hair has spent her time well it seems, and she returns to the table with a small clay pitcher of something clear and sharp-smelling. Since the glasses that come with it are only the height of a man's finger and only the width of three, it can only be assumed this alcohol packs a stronger punch that the beer that eats like a meal. Change for that big mark? No, there is no change.
Ashwin lifts his head to observe the girl's return, wordlessly sliding his chair back, one hand resting on his thigh for a moment in invitation. "He scares away all sorts," he tells the round girl solemnly, eyeing her for a moment before dropping his gaze to that small pitcher. He leans forward to claim it as he continues, carefully pouring out the first thimbleful to push it towards Jensen. "Don't let his good looks fool you, he's got a fearsome reputation." Another thimble is poured. "You girls drinking?" Look at that, he's generous, too.
Colts and big bad folk? Jensen rolls his eyes expressively and leans on one elbow. He doesn't seem to care if it sticks to the table or not, in the end. A sticky elbow is quite possibly better than what's going on around him right now. He remarks, to F'sair since Vej is now gone, "I would say I wish I'd eaten 'fore drinkin', but." The beer was practically food, so. And Ashwin continues, and Jen heaves a sigh. It takes him maybe a second to realize that little glass might just be full of /medicine/ and reaches for it instantly after. Down the hatch. Wincing, he slams the empty little vessel down and shakes his head, hair in his eyes. Whatever they're drinking /now/ apparently packs quite a punch.
Dark-hair doesn't have to be suggested at more than once. She slides onto the incognito Lieutenant's lap with a whisper of blue skirts and a sly little grin. "If you're pouring, I'm drinkin', sugar," is her purr of a response to the invitation. The round one shakes her head. "Nah, I keep away from the sharp stuff when I'm workin'. I get a mite sassy when I'm drunk." Her own grin is something between playful and malicious. Old memories of 'sassing', perhaps. Over in the corner, where the rejected blonde wandered, there's a gruff, snorting noise from the hulk of a man she now courts and a quick, sly glance in the direction of Jensen, Ashwin, and F'sair's table.
F'sair is eyeing the rocket fuel as though it's some sort of poison - which may not be an unfair assessment - and shaking his head rapidly. "Still drinking here, still drinking here," he replies, brandishing his nearly untouched beer by way of proof. Behind him, a man leans sideways to make a sound in his throat that recalls a dying animal, then spits mightily upon the floor. The greenrider's distaste only grows, and he shuffles his chair slightly closer to Jensen, away from the pool on the floor. For his part, Ashwin demonstrates an admirable ability to multi-task, wrapping one arm around the waist of the girl in his lap, and using his other hand to continue pouring, sending a small thimble across to Jensen's admirer, then presenting one to his own.
Jensen doesn't hiccup, let it be said, but he does sort of twitch as some things reorganize themselves in his throat. Ugh. "Oh, me too." Apparently he agrees with the 'sassy while drunk' idea. "Too bad 'm well on my way." F'sair's scooting closer has Jen looking around at whatever has the greenrider so disgusted. Oh look, a puddle. And he doesn't know what it /is/. His nose wrinkles very subtly. "'Kay." Indeed. "Huh." His attention has wandered, settled on, well, /something/, and he stares without shame. It's either that girl on that other man's lap over there, giving him quite the passionate kissing session, or that table over there at which a card game is happening.
Dark-hair scoops up her thimble and knocks it back, swallowing the brew down with nary a wince. She can multitask too, for her arm has come up and around Ashwin's shoulders, fingers settling on the back of his neck. They don't do anything yet. Just rest there. The round one catches the thimble and places it in front of Jensen. "Well, s'all right doll. We like 'em sassy round here." She gives Jensen a playful wink, perhaps hoping that the increase in alcohol also increases her chances of a sale. F'sair is given an assessing glance as he scoots closer to Jensen. "Friend's sort'a twitchy there, innit he." From upstairs comes the thump-thump of feet padding down the stairs and onto the first floor appears, uh, dark-hair in Ashwin's lap. Only she isn't in Ashwin's lap and she's wearing a pale green dress instead of blue. With a small roll of her shoulders and a discreet yawn that sugests she might actually have been *sleeping* upstairs, she sways her way in the direction of the table and her look-alike.
"Hear that, sir?" Ashwin, completely deadpan. "They like 'em sassy." He knocks back his drink with a flicker of a grimace, but that burn is evidently not enough to put him off, for he's pouring another round. Fairly successfully, too, until his lapful's double is spotted making her way down the stairs. It's at that point that the jug's forgotten, and it's only when F'sair yelps an alert that Ashwin tilts it back up, halting the stream of liquid that was slowly overflowing from one small cup. A beat, and he sets the jug down with a thump, reaching for his cup in one motion to toss the thing back. "Uh, sir? Permission to..." Unlike Vej, he shows no sign of wishing to elaborate. It's left to F'sair to do that. "They're... are they exactly the same?" He's leaning into Jensen to hiss that question.
"Yeah, Ashwin, I heard." Jensen sends his Lieutenant a glare, albeir a mild one. He's inebriated, and his brain isn't the only thing being softened. Apparently his facial expressions are under attack as well. Friend's... sorta... "Who, him?" Jen's brow furrows and he looks at F'sair as if just noticing him there. "Uh, well, he's a timid sorta fella." Right. Ashwin gets his attention again. He hadn't seen look-alike coming, but when the greenrider next to him points her out, and what with the Lieutenant's question, now he just can't help but see her. "Uh. Fine. Yeah. Go." And maybe he won't have to deal with snarky remarks. Hmph. "Yes they're exactly the same, likely in all the ways two ladies can be." He's /looking/ at F'sair when he says that, his tone of voice rather direct. "All the parts'n everything. Bet they're even equal parts soft. Hey, let's play a game. 'S called how much drinks it takes t'get F'sair drunk." He tosses back that shot the round one gave him; his chair wobbles and scrapes against the floor as he turns it so he can face the rider, his hand reaching for the pitcher so he can pour one of those little glasses.
The dark haired duo have surely been insulted worse in their time and first one, than the other, lifts shoulders in a shrug. "Come back again, sweetheart, and maybe you'll find out," says the one in a green dress in the direction of F'sair and Jensen. Hard to tell who is actually being addressed. Maybe both. Dark-hair in a blue dress is standing and she gives Ashwin's earlobe a little tug with her fingertips before releasing it. "Come on, sugar. I hear he's got you on a time table." They'll wait until the Lieutenant stands before heading towards the stairs. And then it'll be the round one, F'sair, and Jensen left. And in the corner, the hulk of a man with the rejected blonde woman slowly shoves his chair back with a grating scccccrape and rises.
F'sair watches with open mouth as Ashwin comes to his feet, the small cup dropped on the floor as he follows in the girls' wake without even a backward glance. Very much at home, it would seem, in a bar. Meanwhile, the greenrider's tilting his head sideways, as though he might better comprehend the situation on an angle. "So he's going to..." Outrage. "He won those marks off /me/ you know. All this he's spending, this was..." He sputters out, turning back to Jensen with a frown, ignoring his round companion in favour of addressing the Captain. "Absolutely, give me a drink, Captain. Pour me one of those little glasses, please."
Jensen is already pouring. He needed little to no encouragement. Once filled, the little glass is sent F'sair-wards. "There ya go, champ. Drink, drink, drink." He'll have another one too, please. His own glass ends up going clink on the table after he's drained it. He spares a glance for the departing Ashwin, arms folded atop the table, his shoulders hunched. "He's gonna go get himself laid, F'sair, yes," he mutters in a long-suffering tone. Then, grinning, he adds, "Might be it'd do you some good too. You're pretty uptight. Someone needs t'undo your laces." Oh so many implications. "She's nice." The round one is indicated with a jerk of his chin. "We're becomin' fast friends."
The round one beams at the compliment. She's *round*. She doesn't get many of those, usually just what's left over after the others are booked. "S'true. I'm awful nice. Sweet and warm like a bubbly pie." And Faranth willing, she is still discussing her personality. "I'd be glad to help you out, fella, assumin' you swing my way." A less-than-discreet glance at the greenrider's knot before brown eyes return to his face. That big man in the corner? Well, now he's swaying his way over to the happy table, ham-hock arms swinging at his sides, rejected blonde following a few paces behind him and looking oh so smug. Watery black eyes, red-rimmed, regard Jensen. Regard F'sair. Regard the orange hat discarded on the table. Fat hand reaches down, picks up the ornage thing from one of its little chinstrings and holds it up. It dangles and twirls and is stared at like maybe it's a dead tunnelsnake. "Fine hat, ladies."
"It just doesn't seem physically..." F'sair waves one hand vaguely, and yet far too descriptively, before reaching for his drink. The greenrider throws back the contents of the small cup, his face screwing up in protest in the wake of the drink. There's a round of soundless wheezing before he recovers entirely, and he blinks rapidly before he addresses the girl beside Jensen. "Thank you, but no. I'm quite happy here with my friend." A nod indicates that Jensen is the one who fits this description. "We're really just getting to know each other." He tilts his head back then to view their enormous visitor, then back a little further in order to study the man's face. Then down again, to look at the hat. "Oh no, that's not a lady's hat," he contributes, reaching for the jug. "Man's hat."
"Oh it's physically." Jensen's voice is full of wry amusement now. At least now he gets to torment F'sair a little. And maybe if he concentrates hard enough he can pretend he likes being here, amidst ladies of the evening and sticky tables. He nods slowly, approval, when the greenrider knocks his drink back and is already reaching to pour another glass when big guy shuffles up. His eyes lift to the man's face, eyebrows quirking upwards, and then lower again almost in perfect unison with F'sair. Hat... "Oh, right. 'S a man's hat. Made by a lady though. Hey, hey, wanna sit with us? Y'can help me get this guy drunk. F'sair, here." There's another glass for him. And if the guy Jen's just invited to their table is looking like bad news, he doesn't seem to notice. Of course, his eyes look a little too clear, not bleary like they should be considering his slur.
"Can't be a man's hat," growls the meaty interloper. "Don't see no men here." The hat is held out to the side and dropped, falling directly onto that nice little puddle of whatever came out of the fellow patron's throat a bit ago. "Now Darshon, don't be gettin' testy," murmurs round one. But she's slowly standing and making a tactical retreat. The blonde is given a cool glare. She knows who's really behind this. Yes. "Ain't gonna drink with you," Darshon continues, flat-out glaring now. "Y'ain't welcome here, and it's time for you t'go." On the word 'go' Darchun reaches out and gives a sharp push to the front of F'sair's shoulder. Considering the man's tipped back chair and leaning state, this might be enough to send him careening backwards and meeting the floor. Conversation again stops, as does the xylaphone music. From behind the bar, Girta mutters a single word. "Shit."
F'sair's nodding along with Jensen right up to a point, and his eyes are just rising once more when that hand hits his shoulder. Despite his slender build, he's a rider, and there's muscle in there somewhere, not to mention a decent sense of balance. His arms windmill wildly, and for a moment it seems the greenrider might save himself from disaster. It is not to be, however, and just as a door shuts behind Ashwin up on the balcony, the greenrider hits the ground, breaking the silence suddenly sweeping around the room. His arms are flailing all the way down, and they clip a swarthy fellow with a missing as the greenrider passes him. Then, into the silence, F'sair's outraged response. "Well, I..."
"Hey." That would be Jensen's voice, small and surprised, protesting the treatment of Ashwin's hat. The insults, though insulting, he's willing to tolerate. But mistreatment of a homemade article? That's uncalled for. His brow furrows and a tensing of his jaw happens as he looks up, just in time to see that hand shoot out, connect with F'sair. It takes a second for Jen to be out of his own chair which, without him to stabilize it anymore, thinks down onto its stubby fourth leg. "Hey," he says, a little louder, just before the greenrider's chair hits the floor. His own hand reaches to push at Darshon, not roughly but enough to maybe back him up a step. Maybe. The silence in the bar goes unnoticed. "No need for hands on, friend, we're just drinkin'. F'sair, you okay?" His head turns, his eyes on the rider on the floor. He doesn't move to help him up yet.
Darshon trips a step forward at the push and turns on Jensen, red-rimmed eyes narrowed, lips twisted up into a sneer. "P'tectin' your girlfriend? We know his type. N' yours." A menacing step it taking, bringing the hulk of a man close enough that his unpleasant breath is quite easy to smell. Meat and alcohol and very bad teeth. "Y'get outta here. Y'don' come back." The one-eyed man, at being clipped, jumps up with a shout. His own chair clatters to the ground and one of the other girls peppering the room emits a shrill shriek.
"I'm fine, I'm fine," F'sair calls from the floor, where he's hauling himself to his feet, pausing to remove what might be a fossilised beer mat from his backside. "I'm..." There's a pause from the slight man then, as Darson's meaning registers, and the greenrider swallows, then draws himself up to his not-too-impressive full height. "I'll wait outside, Captain." Suiting action to word, the man lifts his chin in an attempt at dignity - not helped by the fact that he has to blink twice to focus - and then turns for the door.
Jensen straightens, tense and tall, when Darshon gets all up in his face. His expression changes very subtly, from angry to smirking. "It'd be my own type I'd be concerned with, I were you." And now a pleasant smile. "We're just gonna stay here'n have our drinks, we paid for 'em, we're gonna drink 'em. And you're gonna go on back t'your seat with your friend." He flicks his eyes at the blonde, still behind him or not. "No, you'll pick your seat up off the floor and you'll sit in it. We ain't goin'." That was to F'sair of course. Then, focus, back to the surly man in front of him. His voice is soft and growled when he murmurs, "We ain't goin'."
"You ain't stayin'." And Darshon's arm draws back, fist formed. Now, this is where one can tell a good fighter from a bad. A good fighter would worry about keeping his torso protected and his body turned to create the smallest target. A good fighte rkeeps his arms close, punches from his center and withdraws the hit as fast as it comes. A man who has relied on his bigger-than-othersness, on the other hand, swings his arm allll the way back, and sends it flying alllll the way forward, much as Darshon is doing now, fist on a collision course with the Captain's pretty face. The round one shrieks, "Girta!" The blonde one shrieks, "Get him!" The one-eyed man spins around and now just seems hungry for any chance to get in on the disaster that is about to unfold.
All around, men are beginning to come to their feet, some to move clear of the combat zone, the disturbing majority apparently making ready to join in. F'sair's retreat options are abruptly cut off when he finds a wall of muscle standing in his path - the greenrider tilts his head back once more to look up at the man in his way, only to find his hair grabbed from behind by a scrawnier fellow, well versed in dirty fighting. Turns out, so is F'sair, for as the scrawny fellow pulls him backwards, a knee comes up to connect with the beefy fellow in front. The shrieks have had one other effect than mobilising the men at large. Upstairs, a door is opening.
There is a split second in which Jensen simply grins. It isn't his usual boyish grin, no, this is a wicked, low-down dirty grin that curves his mouth up on one side. If that's how Darshon wants it, that's how he's gonna get it. The big man's swing is easy to dodge, and dodge he does, ducking to the side. Only takes a moment for him to come back at Darshon with a hit of his own, one that connects with his jaw and follows through. And, shaking his hand, Jen turns to see what's happened to F'sair and promptly gets a fist in his face from the guy who was behind him. Captain doesn't go down, but he does go back, into two other guys who shove him roughly away from them. Jen ends up having to duck another swing, receives another, and gives another. And so the all out fighting breaks out.
Nw it's just a big angry pile of men and fists. The xylaphone player has dropped down to the ground and is cowering beneath his instrument. Chairs are toppling, tables too, and now it might become clear why so many of them seem to be missing bits and pieces. The orange hat, trod underneath many feet, is becoming flatter and less orange each passing moment. Behind the bar, Girta is gesturing and shouting to her short squat barman who seems unwilling to go out and fix it. The girls still on the first floor are peeling out. Some pick the front door, some escape upstairs and a few scramble behind the bar with Girta. "No fightin' in my bar!" the wobbling matron bellows, but it goes unheeded. Darshon is shaking his head and looking around for Jensen again. F'sair is all but getting lost in the crowd, what with his being so much shorter.
F'sair is certainly lost in the crowd, but he's found himself a good spot. Backed into a corner, he's got a broken chair leg, and he's brandishing it at anyone who tries to come near. He's collected a small group of men more his own size, who're taking it in turns to try and goad the greenrider into action, but for now, he's holding ground, practically snarling. Through that open door up above comes Ashwin, hastily buttoning his shirt - he abandons that effort to lean over the balcony for a moment, hands wrapping around the bannister. He takes his time over his survey of what's below, pale blue eyes settling on each group in turn. Then he spots his hat, ground down beneath the muddy heel of one combatant. His eyes narrow, and in two quick strides he's along the balcony, banging on a door with one fist, head in close to it to holler to those within. "Vej! Report!"
The door Ashwin is yelling at doesn't open at first. However, after a moment not only does it open but the blonde girl who had lured Vej up the stairs before comes scampering out, ducking around Ashwin and heading for another of the rooms at a pace that could best be described as a run for her life. Vej stumbles out a beat later, one hand working at keeping his pants up on his hips, the other maintaining his balance as he works at shoving his foot into his boot. "She stole my marks! Ruttin' whore stole my marks! Oh hey, a tussle!" Suddenly missing money just isn't important. "Is that the Captain?" Yes, that's the Captain. Getting a punch to his stomach that has him bent over, then an elbow between his shoulderblades that has him crashing to the floor. Oh hey, a hat. He snatches the poor beaten orange thing, uncaring about its mysterious new coating, and grins woflishly. He wins! Someone kicks him, ow, keeps kicking him, ow, and he winces every time; finally he tosses himself off to the side and into the legs of another man, who, toppling over, knocks down several more brawlers. Roaring ensues.
Chairs are getting involved now. Darshon goes down, kerflop, as one shatters over his thick head, the round woman standing on a table and breathing heavily, eyes narrowed. "Never liked y'anyhow. Too short where it counts and too quick by half." Then the table's knocked over and she goes flying to the ground to make a scrambling escape behind the bar. Girta has, by this point, hefted a large frying pan and jumped onto the counter. "NO FIGHTING IN MY BAR!" She screams. "YOU BOYS QUIT IT NOW, OR THE GIRLS ARE GETTING THE NEXT MONTH OFF!" That, at the very least, seems to have a cluster of fighting men, a few who were crowding around F'sair, skulking away. Some men, however, bloodlust more appealing than the other sort, are charging up the stairs and onto the second floor, towards the newcomers still trying to dress themselves.
Ashwin watches the girl run past, but his immediate interest is in Vej, and he turns his head from where he's leaning on the balcony railing to watch the fight. "That's the Captain," he confirms, turning back to watch. "Looks like he'n F'sair might be on the wrong end of things. Reckon we should?" A tilt of his head indicates the melee below. Indeed, as the girls fly up the stairs, Ashwin's straightening up to take a proper survey of what's going on below. Girta is spotted, and quite uncharacteristically, his lips twist to a wolfish grin. "That's a frying pan, Vej. My kind of fight." Downstairs, F'sair suddenly finds himself alone, and he pauses, bewildered. Then a beefy fellow's spotted making for Jensen, chair-back in hand. What to do? The greenrider lowers his head, and cannons towards his new adversary. And up above, Ashwin gives the balcony a quick shake to check for stability, then with a wink for Vej, he jumps over it, knees bent to take the force of his landing a floor below. There's also a pair of miners to break his fall, they probably help.
Vej is staring down at the writhing mass of bodies with something like hunger on his face. Oh, and shock. Cap'n's in a /fight/? That hasn't happened in like forever! When Ashwin hops on over that balcony the other man lifts his eyebrows. "Reckon we should." And with that he's walking quite calmly down the stairs. One of the bar's men spots him, rushes to meet him, and is stopped by a fist to the head. He topples backwards, Vej continues onwards; man rushes at him again, this time Vej clotheslines him, grabs a chair, and heads into the fray. "Cap'n!" Jensen is standing again, sort of, though another kick nearly has him on the floor again. He turns just in time to see the guy with the chair coming at him, his eyebrows lifting. His face? Says oh, shit. Oh, but F'sair saves the day! Jen watches chair guy get shoved off to the side by that charging greenrider, grins when he yelps. He ducks another punch, grabs the assailant's shirt, pulls its hem up and over the wearer's head and introduces his knee to his skull. Hat? In a death grip. And Girta? Ignored.
Clang! Clang! Lady has a frying pan and she knows how to use it. Those who get too close to the bar are met with swift kitchenware justice. Girta is panting and seething and wobbling all at once. As Ashwin leaps over the balcony, the two dark haired girls come rushing out of the room to peer down. One has her hair half-down, the other has her dress on a little askew. They both squeal somewhat delightly as their man leaps and lands on miners, obviously enjoying the show. A man nearby, the one-eyed one who now also seems to have a broken nose, leaps for the Lieutenant with a roar.
Flushed with victory, F'sair lifts his head, panting as he looks around for another adversary. What the greenrider lacks in style, he makes up for with enthusiasm, wielding his chair leg with an abandon that has his opponents backing up more nervously than Ashwin's slow prowl. The one-eyed man's roar alerts Ashwin to his presence a moment before he makes contact, and the lieutenant is already ducking, even as he turns to meet the man - a fist goes over his head, and as the momentum of the action carries his adversary past, he has not the slightest hesitation in turning to follow through with a kick that sends him stumbling towards one of the supports that holds up the balcony to fetch it a mighty crack with his head. F'sair follows up with a club across the man's shoulders, howling with delight. "He's our lift, Vej!" Ashwin's roar comes with a finger pointed toward F'sair, who's biding fair to wade in again. "Keep his head together, it's a long walk." And with that instruction, he's wading in towards Jensen, pausing to stomp on a hand that reaches for his ankle.
One of the men, a lanky blonde person, decides it might be a good idea to attack Vej with a punch to the stomach. Unfortunately for him he's much shorter than the guard, and Vej even sober has a high pain tolerance. Intoxicated? He's feeling not a thing. So though that fist finds its mark, Vej simply snorts and follows up with a whack upside the head with his chair. Blonde guy goes away, and Vej looks at Ashwin, then at F'sair. Wearing one of those wicked grins, the big man makes for the greenrider and the fellow trying to find a way around his chair leg. Jensen meanwhile straightens, nearly loses his balance, and turns just in time to see Ashwin coming. The Captain's nose is bleeding, so is his head, apparently, and he has a nice cut on his cheek. Not to mention bruises probably everywhere, and if it hasn't happened yet it will. He grins at his Lieutenant and then goes down when a chair explodes on his back.
Some of the men are clearly losing, some of them unconscious. The ranks of the still-fighting are thinning, but those left standing are the folks that are the best at such brawls. Oh yes. And Girta. As the chair crashes down over Jensen, there's booing and screaming from the upper floor. "Cheatin'!" cries one of the twins. "He weren't lookin'!" calls the blonde who's dressed now and likely secreted away Vej's marks. But it's the second of the dark haired duo that runs into the room and comes out with a lantern of glows, a bucket, and a stool. These are, one at a time, launched down below and aimed for the men still swarming towards Jensen and Ashwin. One cannot say, however, that their aim is very good.
One man has the good sense to get out of the way of the flying missiles, and that's F'sair, who promptly retreats under the balcony. He's watching one of the support struts, though, which is looking decidedly bowed where the one-eyed man collided with it. Ashwin has nearly reached Jensen when the other man goes down, and he's returning Jensen's grin with his own wolfish version when the other man goes down. That gets rid of Ashwin's grin, and he drives an elbow into the man next to him to create enough room to turn around, backing up so he's side by side with Jensen. "They were twins, sir." Stomp, kick - he follows the greenrider's example, and finds himself a chair leg as he leans down to grab Jensen's shirt with his free hand to begin heaving the man up. "You couldn't have held on a little longer?"
Jensen grunts, pushing himself up and wincing. Ashwin helps. He straightens carefully, wincing more, and groans while saying, "I'll make it up t'you," in a rather breathless voice; he hands over that hat and hazards a look up at the balcony just in time to see the rain of objects sailing on down. "Shit." Cries of pain and thunks resound. The stool ends up knocking one of the men standing very near to Jen in the head and as he goes down the Captain reaches over for the piece of furniture. Brandishing that like his life depends on it - which it might - he lifts his chin to spot Vej mowing folk down with his chair. "Vej!" "Cap'n! You're alive!" "Grab F'sair. Think we might be-" Jen has no time to finish. Darshon is alive too, and has just tackled him around the midsection and into a table. Which collapses, of course, under the combined weight, and Jen's skull hits the floor when they land and makes a nice cracking sound. Hey, deja vu.
There's squealing and applauding from up above as the impromptu plan of 'fling some things' works out well for the girls. One of the twins runs back into the room to get more items, but a fat grunting man charging up the stairs has them all running into their rooms shrieking and slamming the doors. Girta has had more than enough and she's jumped down from the bar to join the fray. Her passage can be marked by the sound of metal hitting brainpan and the small trail of collapsing men left in her wake. She's not being particular. If you're moving and you're fighting, Girta and her frying pan are coming for you.
"Get F'sair out!" Ashwin's command is added to Jensen's, although the slender greenrider might take some getting. He's snarling, charging through in Girta's mighty wake to finish off whoever's left reeling behind her, his chair leg waved in every direction. "Son of a..." Ashwin wades in after his Captain - not his best move, as it leaves Girta behind him, and Ashwin, of all men, should know the power of a frying pan. The lieutenant is doing excellently in the stomping stakes, and he takes out another set of fingers with one big boot. The satisfied pause there is his temporary undoing, for a man behind him scrambles to his feet to deal the man a great whack to the kidneys. Doubling over, Ashwin braces hands on knees for a moment with a gasp, turning his head sideways and up so he can trace the source of the screaming as his last two hopes of getting laid flee, door slamming behind them. "I would have taken just one," he informs the possibly unconscious Jensen and Darshon, beginning to straighten up. Blissfully unaware of Girta's progress.
Jensen should probably be unconscious. Then again, he always has been stubborn. Darshon's limp body is shoved off and he rolls over so he can push himself to his feet again. A rather strangled sound happens and he looks down. Oh hey, part of the table is embedded in his side. A nice sized splinter of wood, that is, stuck out through his shirt. He presses fingertips to his side, draws them away red. "Why's it always gotta be somethin' stuck in me?" he asks of nobody in particular. Vej has joined up with them by now, panting and heaving. His chair is gone, likely shattered to bits, and he scans the room. "Might be time we get outta here, Cap'n." "You think!" "Where's that rider gone..." "Ashwin! Getaway, if y'don't mind?" Girta? What Girta?
Clang! Clang! Ask not for whom the pan tolls. It tolls for thee. Particularly if 'thee' is Ashwin as Girta, in her one-woman rampage, has made it over to the cluster of guards and lets loose a hearty whack upside that blonde-haired noggin. Then she blinks slowly. Oh. The newcomers. "Now," she says, lowering her frying pan and glaring. "I ain't sayin' you boys started this a' purpose. But I am sayin' that if you don't clear out right now, you ain't clearin' out at all. Scoot." Her chin lifts, "And the rest o' you!" she shouts and, adrenaline draining, this call seems to stop the rest of the brawlers. "Git home to your women what deserve their right to beat you more'n I do. And if there ain't a passel o men back here in th'mornin' to clean this up, I'm telling wives whose thighs it was their husbands were between t'night!"
"Yessir, absolutely, I can..." Whatever Ashwin could, it's not recorded for posterity, for that frying pan connects, and the man goes staggering across, stopping himself just short of the hearth, one hand on the mantlepiece for a moment before he drops to his knees. Into the heaving silence that now grips the tavern, F'sair emerges, stepping out from behind a pillar that's now groaning audibly. "I'll just, ah..." One hand jabs towards the door, and that's just the way he heads, picking his way daintily over fallen bodies. Bloodlust receded, it would seem. There's a groan from Aswhin as he sways for a moment on hands and knees, but it would seem High Reaches territory produces hard skulls, for like his Captain, the man retains consciousness. And after a moment, begins to try and climb to his feet. "Yes, ma'am."
"Hey!" That'd be Jensen's indignance as his Lieutenant is clobbered. He watches Ashwin stagger off, his eyebrows drawn down, then focuses a glare on Girta. "We're goin', lady, ma'am. So just... Put the kitchen utensil down. Ow, damn it." He sucks in a breath and limps across the room to where Ashwin is trying to recover himself. He slips a hand under the man's arm and lifts. Vej, meanwhile, has picked up the orange hat from where it fell to the ground again and inspects it now with a dubious look on his face. Huh. Then, as F'sair leaves, he glances around and says, for the room to hear, "It was just a hat. What harm did it ever do you? Jays." Shaking his head, he follows in the greenrider's wake, though he ends up pausing just outside to wait for his fellow guardsmen. His marks? Forgotten about, or he just doesn't want to waste the time tracking down that blonde.
Girta just glowers, frying pan resting by her side. As the guards and F'sair make their way out, the bowed pillar finally cracks and with a roar of wood and plaster, the whole upper walkway comes crashing down. From outside, a wind of rolling dust billows out from the bar as well as a final furious shriek.
Wash: "Well, it's a dangerous mission, sir. I can't stand the thought of something happening that might cause you two to come back with another thrilling tale of bonding and adventure. I just can't take that right now."
-- War Stories
Mal: "There's just an acre of you fellas, ain't there?" (to Zoe) "This is why we lost, you know. Superior numbers."
Zoe: "Thanks for the re-enactment, sir."
-- The Train Job
Background: Ashwin won a ride with F'sair, a greenrider, in a game of cards. He, Jensen, and Vej (one of Jensen's men) decided to take their knots off for the evening and go for a quiet drink, away from the stress and strain of the weyr.
Cast: Jensen, Vej (by Jensen), Ashwin, F'sair (by Ashwin), Girta, a one-eyed man, assorted brawlers and ladies of negotiable affection (by Roa).
Adult themes within, y'all.
Inside The Miner's Find Tavern
Fading glows fail to cast their light into the corners of this dingy place, darkened corners made darker by the addition of turns upon turns of smoke from the wide fire that ranges along the left hand side of the room and wreathes the ceiling in a constant haze. A broad bar crafted from what must have been an enormous, ancient tree runs along the back, ingrained with dried on rings left behind by past drinks; bottles, wineskins and kegs of beer line up on shelves behind it, barstools run along its length. Between the door and that bar, a series of tables scattered about, chairs grouped loosely around them. The walls reflect the profession of the majority of the clientele, adorned with bits and pieces of old mining equipment, twisted and mangled beyond all repair. To the right, a stairway winds up in a tight spiral to the second floor; an open balcony does a complete circuit, looking down on the room below. Dimmed by smoke, a number of doors are visible running off it.
Outside, the dark of night. Inside, a healthy buzz of conversation from the patrons crowded into the bar. High up in the mountains of Crom, only three types of man make up the clientele: miners, traders, and those with access to a dragon and the foolish inclination to find themselves here. Smoke curls up to wreath the ceiling in a haze of grey as the door opens, revealing the High Reaches contingent: Jensen, Ashwin, Vej and F'sair. Only the fourth man wears a knot, marking him a greenrider, the other three having shed theirs. Their entrance momentarily dulls the buzz of conversation, as every head swivels to face them.
Jensen is dressed for warmth. Of course, as soon as he steps into the crowded bar he's starting to regret that choice almost immediately. It's amazing how much the press of bodies can affect the temperature of a place. Stopping just inside to take in his new surroundings, he definitely realizes almost every eye in the place is trained on him and his companions. His eyebrows lift and he casts Ashwin a Look. "Good thing we lost our knots. They mighta drawn some attention to us." Then, to the room, a bright, /chipper/, "Hi," accompanied by that trademark boyish grin.
In one grimy corner sits a skinny fellow bent over an instrument that seems to be some sort of three-tiered xylaphone. Brown hair is plastered against an oily forehead and small eyes squint over a long nose as equally leggy limbs tap little batons over the keys to plink out a plucky little tune. This music, too, stops as the new arrivals come in and the entire room collectively holds its breath.
From behind the bar, a rather plump, rather robust, rather busty middle-aged woman with blond hair piled up into wilting curls, leans forward over the counter and eyes these newest or arrivals. Her gown is red, it's cut is alarmingly low, and parts of her wobble as she leans. Her gaze slinks over each of the men, settles on the one knot, and then back up to the faces. "Y'boys got marks?" is all that is asked in a voice a little too deep to be pleasant.
Ashwin reaches up slowly to peel his appallingly orange hat off his head, curling one large hand around it and slowly bringing it down to his side - as though a sudden movement might scare the locals. His pale gaze does a circuit of the room, landing on their hostess just as she wobbles for their benefit. He swallows, clears his throat, and produces a reply that's loud in the silence, despite his quiet tone. "Yes, ma'am," he responds promptly, the hand that's not keeping hold of his hat digging into one pocket as he starts forward towards the bar. By the time he gets there he's produced a fraction of a mark, setting it down on the sticky surface. "Beer, to start."
Jensen is putting up a fine display of not being at all concerned with the numerous persons very very focused on their foursome. On the inside though there's likely a few nice plans of action forming should the locals become less than welcoming. He shares that grin with a nearby grizzled man, who glares back at him with his one eye. Jen looks away slowly, widens his eyes at Vej, and motions at the other guard to precede him. Vej does so, and Jen follows, bringing up the rear. "Vej." "Yeah, Cap'n." "Take your hand off your handle. You're makin' 'em nervous." "Just returnin' the favor."
The woman behind the counter, one Girta by name, eyes Ashwin, eyes the hat, eyes the marks. Jensen and Vej are given another sample of her watery-eyed scrutiny before she straightens up again, bosoms swaying like a pair of tankards about to overflow. "Won't have no trouble in my bar." But a meaty hand lifts and slaps down hard against the ancient wood of the bar. "Beer!" she bellows, sending a short thick fellow who was previously 'washing' mugs scurrying to get the requestd beverages. The quaarter mark is slipped from the counter and tucked...well...you know where. With this shout, the other occupants return to whatever they were previously doing and the xylaphonist's plunky tune starts up again. Conversation returns, shoulders relax, and the tension in the air eases, if it does not wholly dissipate.
"No, ma'am," Ashwin agrees, rattling his pocket briefly. Marks inside rattle together, promising patronage, if not peace. He leans against the bar, then pauses, slowly lifting his below up. There's a distinct unsticking sound as his leather jacket peels away, and a flicker of something crosses the lieutenant's face ever so briefly. "What about a table, Vej?" The question is quiet, for Ashwin's still investigating their surroundings. He does not share the tension of his colleagues, though, rather having shed something - some line has left his shoulders as they walked into the filthy, smoky room. Beside him, F'sair leans against the bar, heedless of Ashwin's lesson in that department, then peels his own elbows off with a disturbed sound.
Jensen's eyes meet Girta's, but only for a moment. He turns quickly, his back on the bar, er, lady, lifts his eyebrows at Vej. He scratches the side of his nose with the tip of his forefinger; Vej leans in. "Like lookin' into the end of my life," Jen mutters. Vej, "Weird." "Yeah." Table? Vej straightens, glances at Ashwin, then at Jensen, and nods once. "Uh, sure. I'll, uh, see about that." And the big man is gone, winding his way through the crowd to find someplace for the lot of them to sit. Maybe it'll be lacking in the sticky department, even. Jen lifts one eyebrow at F'sair. Uh, sticky? "Y'know, this is why I got int' this job in the first place. All the perks." He grins at Ashwin. "Least I finally know all it takes t'loosen you up is a dark, creepy bar in the middle at the corner o'no and where. Lookit you, you're practically giddy."
While the tables are less sticky, there is not a one that doesn't seem to have at least one leg shorter than the other three, so each has a rocking wobble to some varying degree. Take after their owner, it seems. Chairs too are a curious affair, most of the non-broken ones already taken by the regulars who know the ins and outs of this particular sinkhole bar. As the men wait for their drinks, they are greeted with another sight: a flurry of colors and skirts that come skittering down from upstairs, all smiles and winks and suggestive hip twitches. One, a lanky, darkhaired thing who is pretty until her smile reveals a missing front tooth, and whose skirt is an orange bright enough to compete with Ashwin's hat, gives the long, pale guard a wink. The rest of the girls disperse amoung the familiar miners, knowing, it seems, who will and who won't be interested in their offerings.
Ashwin watches Vej retreat, turning his head for a moment to eye F'sair, where their slender transport for the evening is attempting to get a good look at whatever's just stuck to his elbow. Ashwin observes that effort in what might be fascination for a few seconds, then blinks, turning away with a quick shake of his head. "Yessir, giddy." And doing so well with the titles. Really, people will never guess. "Grew up in a bar. High Reaches, before Tillek." These nine words provide more autobiographical information than the Captain has ever been offered before. Perhaps more might have come, but Ashwin's distracted, tilting a glance sideways as female company arrives. Several moments prolonged inspection finally yield to a glance up the bar, in search of their drinks.
"That so? Well. Wish I could say that explains so much, but it don't." Jen's grinning enough to show he's teasing. And he is. "Seems t'me a fella grown up in a bar might be more, uh... Talkative." If not personable. His own attention is very quickly caught and held by the flittery bright things coming down the stairs. He watches as they add little spots of color to the otherwise dreary room, his head tilted; a backwards step has him lined up with the stool behind him and he sits. That stool suffers from three legs, wobbles, and he vacates it quickly, almost toppling over in the process. Right then. Vej is standing by a table. It looks empty, even if it is surrounded on all sides and angles by people. He lifts his arm to wave at Ashwin and Jensen, then blinks as he finds himself caught by a small blonde creature with a long nose. Cue awkward foot shuffling and blushing as the big man tries to untangle himself.
From behind the bar comes the stocky man with a tray, carrying four tall cups of beer, or maybe 'beer' over to the table claimed by Vej and whatever frilly thing is twined around his person. The tankards are set down one at a time. Thunk. Thunk. Thunk. Thunk. Each one sloshes over a little, and the one settled relatively near F'sair has a dead vtol bobbing listlessly in the froth. Stocky man doesn't seem to notice and is, his job finished, retreating back behind the bar. One of the girls has sidled up besides the xylaphone player and her fingers skip along his back. "Play us a song we's can sing to, sweetie." "That'd require you being able to sing inna first place," the player mutters, but a sharp elbow to his side quite literally changes his tune. The new ditty plinkity-plunks its way through the air and the girl stands, swishes her skirts and begins, well, there *are* sounds coming out of her mouth, even if they aren't good ones. A communal groan arises from the regulars.
"Learn a lot by watching, sir," Ashwin replies, doing just that - he's watching the women as they fan out across the room. "Man has his mouth open, what's he learning?" The drinks arrive, and Ashwin claps the visibly distressed F'sair on one shoulder as he claims his own, then one for Vej. The greenrider dithers, leaning forward to peer at the vtol with visible distaste. "I don't suppose they'd do a decent white wine here, would they?" His query is saved from general distribution by the sound starting up in the corner, but the nearest of the regulars turn their heads to study the man. "Drink up, man," Ashwin encourages their ride. "Protein." And so saying, he claims Vej's tankard as well, beginning to weave his way through to their table.
Jensen catches movement, spots Vej easily enough - the man does tend to stand taller than those sitting down - and simply stares for a moment, cherishing Vej's utter awkwardness with something akin to dull shock on his face. "Hey, drinks." Indeed. That snaps him out of his funk and he reaches for a mug of his own. He spares a glance for the insect in F'sair's, then meets the greenrider's eyes after Ashwin's gotten a few steps away. "Aw, don't look so down. You've likely eaten lots o'bugs in your time, didn't even know it." That said, and with a clap to the man's shoulder, he too starts off for the table Vej has staked, leaving F'sair to follow. When he's near enough he asks, in his best 'I'm not being at all sarcastic' voice, "Vej, gonna introduce us to your friend?" "Uh." Vej, for his part, is still trying to keep his arm from that blonde girl's shoulders, even though she clearly wants it there. And then, as if just now hearing the 'singing', he looks around, tries out a lopsided grin, aims it at a fella sitting nearby, and takes a few long, deep gulps from his mug. Drunk, please. He sits, nearly topples out of his chair, steadies himself - if he holds his arm just so he's balanced - and continues drinking.
The singing stops abruptly as one of the regulars rises, grabs the 'singer' by the hand and begins walking determinedly over towards the stairs. There's a triumphant grin on the woman's face and an enhanced swish to her hips as the pair vanish to the second level. The blonde dangling determinedly onto Vej laughs a low warbly sound in his ear. "Works every time," she murmurs. A few of the other girls rotate tables and a cluster of three are speaking together and eyeing the new group. There's some hushed arguing, some slapping of hands and shaking of heads as the four hapless arrivals get bartered over. But, agreements finally made, another blonde, a black-haired girl round in all the right places and a redhead round in too many places, join the woman that clings so tenaciously to Vej. "Hiya there," quips the round one. "Me an m'friends here were thinkin' we don't much get to see new faces round here." The second blonde, who has ended up closest to F'sair, eyes the knot and shoots a scathing glare to the dark haired woman. In return, dark-hair only offers a wide-eyed shrug. Who knew?
Ashwin thumps his two tankards down on the table, slopping them slightly. F'sair's hugging his to his chest, and surveys the approaching women with a sort of horrified fascination. "No new faces?" It's a squeak. "What, you mean the same ones come back twice, then?" Ashwin's hand on the greenrider's shoulder has him buckling at the knees, and he drops into a chair, spilling beer down his chest. This, the lieutenant has achieved without even a sideways glance - his survey of Vej's bad luck complete, he's now conducting a quiet survey of their company, quietly turning his hat over in one hand. It might have a bit of beer on it. "Ladies." That's the extent of his greeting, as he sinks down into his chair, remaining propped on the edge to avoid forgetting himself and leaning back - a fatal move, should he try it, for the chair lacks most of its back.
Jensen's tankard is empty. That happened quickly. And, with a wince, he sets it down on the table and swallows more than would be necessary with a, er, thinner drink. "That was different." Yum, liquid bread. He grins over at F'sair, leans over precariously on his wobbly chair to say, "Might be the new faces never quite escape. There might be little hope for us." Oh look, females. Sort of. He puts on a polite expression, gives them as a group a little smile. "Hi." Yeah, that'd be the same greeting he came in here with. It's universal. Then he casts a rather woeful look at his empty mug. "Could use s'more o'that ale tastes like dinner."
It's the round girl that swipes up Jensen's tankard. A hand is held out, palm up, and stubby eyelashes flitter. "Can't get no ale from Girta less I bring her coins first." Oh, the poor dear. The black-hair girl settles her hands squarely on Ashwin's shoulders as the blond behind F'sair attempts to maybe sidle over to the behatted guard. No. Hers. The skinnier darker-blonde coils even more tightly around Vej. Which leaves second blonde still stuck behind the sqeaking rider. "That's right, doll," this girl atempt to croon, "We're used to our regulars. Don't much get your...sort here." "Not that we mind," interjects dark-hair, leaning forward a bit so her chin gets close to Ashwin's shoulder. "Bit o change ain't a bad thing."
The blonde isn't the only one trying to sidle over towards Ashwin - F'sair's making an effort as well, looking nervously up and over his shoulder at the girl. "No bad thing at all," Ashwin puts in quietly, draining his own mug, eyes closing for a moment in the wake of that effort as he shifts his jaw. Chewable beer. "You done, Vej?" The greenrider's nowhere near done for his part, busy trying to fish the vtol out of his glass with one finger, repeatedly stabbing the surface of the drink in his efforts to catch the insect. For his part, the lieutenant pushes his glass across to the round girl making eyes at his Captain, shifting slightly so he can fish another fraction of a mark out of his pocket. This, too, is pushed across in the wake of his glass.
Jensen's eyes lift to the round girl's and he stares at her, somewhat horrified. "Uh." Ashwin saves him with that fraction, and Jen shows his appreciation via a grin, then another widening of his eyes. Are these girls even real right now? He's had his experiences with womenfolk, but this is an entirely different species. Vej has become shifty-eyed, looking around him with little darting glances. He tries to smile at the blonde attached to him, but it ends up looking more like he's trying to swallow his dinner down. "Think I could get t'likin' this place. Has a certain feel to it. Atmosphere, y'know? Real homey'n, uh, warm. Yeah. There's a real warmth here." Jen's looking around while he's talking, his attention for detail going wild as he scopes out this unfamiliar territory.
The round one gives Ashwin a disapproving *tsk* as the money handed to her ends up being enough to refill the mugs and no more. Still it's curled into her palm and both empty mugs are gathered up. Swishing and flouncing, she weaves through the tables and over to the bar to get more bread..er..beer. Her posterior is given several quick visits by the flats of various hands, but this seems to go unnoticed. "Homey, huh?" says blonde-behind-F'sair who is now no longer behind the greenrider, but behind Jensen. And, oh, look, she wants to give him a shoulder massage. "I could help you make yourself at home. Get you real comfortable-like, hmmm?" The other two girls titter and blink and otherwise display their charms. Vej's new petticoated growth is attempting to squirm her way onto his lap.
See, this? This is the ideal environment for a man who doesn't so much deal with talking. Ashwin knows this code, he understands how this place works. There's a gleam in the pale man's eye as he surveys his companions: Vej and the blonde staking out a claim to real estate, F'sair, who's given up on fishing the insect out and is now trying to pour it free of the mug by tipping a little onto the filthy ground, and the man to whom he has pledged his loyalty, who's set on a course to wear his blonde like a muffler any minute. There's a gleam that might well be amusement, for Ashwin is relaxed, tilting his head back to give that black-haired girl (round in all the right places) a grin.
Vej tries another smile, this one a little less feeble, and downs the rest of his ale in one gulp; his arm is around the girl now in his lap, and he's looking pretty proud of himself. He'll need the buzz that quick drink will give him. Or, judging by the thickness of the beverage, the concussion. And Jen, for his part, is grinning up until the point at which the blonde girl touches him. All humor drains from his face rather quickly and he clears his throat. "No, uh. Thanks." He isn't moving at all, in fact he's become quite tense under her hands, and he gives her a small smile. Still trying to be polite, despite obvious discomfort. "Feelin' comfortable enough."
"Heeeey there, Sugar," this comes from the dark-haired girl who peers down at Ashwin's tipped-up smile. A man who knows his way around such a place may also know just what a smile to one of these girls implies. Hands that were previously resting on the back of Ashwin's chair (well, what parts of the back remain) now slide up to his shoulders. "Thought you were just gonna maybe ignore me all night." The grin returned to the man is beautific. Especially when viewed upside down. The girl in Vej's lap gives a delighted titter as the once-terrified man seems to reciprocate with an arm around her waist. Her head lowers onto his shoulder and one can only hope whatever she puts in her hair to keep it so unnaturally slick-looking won't leave a stain on his tunic. Blonde number two behind Jensen sort of freezes up at the man's friendly but obvious rejection. "There a little green string in the knot you ain't wearin' too, doll?" comes the cool mutter. The round one returns, setting mugs down and seems about to get into it with the blonde what Stole Her Man when said blonde moves away from the table entirely to try her luck with some huge and solitary figure sitting off to the corner.
As Jensen passes up on entertainment for the evening, one of Ashwin's brows hikes up slightly - he tilts his head to watch the retreating blonde for a moment, and there's something of a shrug in his manner as he leans back slightly (not too far) into the dark-haired girl's touch, sliding his beer across the sticky surface of the table until it rests in front of him. A mouthful of the beer perhaps has him wondering why he ordered more, for he shifts slightly in his seat so that he can look back at the girl behind him, words almost too quiet to be heard over the noise of the crowd. She'll have to lean in - woe. "You want to see if there's anything harder to drink behind the bar, there? Find a tray full." From that pocket - has he got an endless supply of cash in there? - another coin, this one considerably larger. Captain could use a bracing drink, perhaps.
"No. No strings. I, uh-" Oh look. The drinks are back! Jensen reaches for one of those mugs, brings it in, begins gulping immediately. It's like a giant shot. Tastes terrible, but the faster you drink it the quicker it's gone. So he obviously doesn't notice when the blond deserts him for possibly more willing fellas, with his head tilted back and his eyes on the ceiling. The mug is back on the table again maybe a minute later and he's caught up in swallowing. "Ugh." Indeed. Staring at the table now, his shoulders are slightly slumping. Vej, for his part, notices not much outside the bubble that contains him, his mug, and the blonde in his lap. His chin lifts as he takes a not very discreet peek at the woman's cleavage.
Needing to lean in closer to Ashwin is not anything dark-hair seems to have any worries about doing. She bends down, in fact, so that her lips are on level with his cheek. Or, it would be his cheek except that he's turned towards her and her heavy eyes and her slightly parted mouth as he makes his request and holds out the large mark. Instead of taking it directly, one hand slides down his chest and across his arm before fingers curl around the mark and snatch it away. "Let me just go see what I can do for you, sugar." Then it's her turn to sway off towards the bar with a confident smirk to the round one. *She's* nabbed *hers*. The blonde in Vej's lap nuzzle-nuzzles on his shoulder and her breasts, if not particularly bountiful, are laced in and up in such a way that they look nice, if a little squashed together. And since they're sprinkled with a cloying perfume, they smell...uh...not like beer or coal. "Hey baby," she murmurs against Vej's neck. "Wanna take a walk upstairs with me?" The round one just observes the impressive way in which Jensen's drink vanishes and rewards him with a low whistle. Whooo. "You either got a rough night ahead or put a rough night behind, right there. Want another?" Hand out, palm up again. If she can't get coins one way, hey, she's versatile.
Ashwin tilts his head for a moment to watch the girl retreat with his money, distinctly speculative. His expressions still pale in comparison to the ways in which others express thoughts and feelings, but this much at least can be said - that one can at least discern to some extent what's going on in his head. And early indications are that despite the location, the company and the quality of the beer, Ashwin's not unhappy. As the dark-haired girl weaves out of sight, the lieutenant sets his orange hat down on the table, and props himself on his elbows to study Jensen and his latest admirer. "Rough night behind," he tells her, the beginnings of a smile turning his mouth up. "Plenty of them. You'll notice he's got his knot off, but," and Ashwin pulls one hand from under his chin to tap the side of his nose, "they call him a hero, where we come from." Now, of all times, he decides to speak - and this is what he chooses?
Jensen gives round girl a dubious eyeing, swallows again, winces, and lets a small, silent belch escape. He's just about to say something, perhaps, when Ashwin speaks up. And the look he gives his lieutenant is a shocked one indeed. Er. "Yeah. Real hero. Vanquish all kinds o'evils." Sarcastic is possibly an understatement. Vej, for his part, is looking rather delightedly at the girl in his lap. "Oh, you bet I do, darlin'." He's on his way up, unaware that he might be depositing the blonde on the floor with his sudden movement; his arm is around her though, so she should be steady enough. His other hand remains firm around that mug. "Cap'n, permission t'-" "Don't," Jen lifts his eyes, brow furrowed, "go too int' the details. Just," a wave of his hand, "just go. You got two hours." "Right. Two. Two hours." Sing-songing, he nudges the girl to go ahead of him and, once they're heading up the stairs, he gives her rear end a hearty slap.
Needing to lean in closer to Ashwin is not anything dark-hair seems to have any worries about doing. She bends down, in fact, so that her lips are on level with his cheek. Or, it would be his cheek except that he's turned towards her and her heavy eyes and her slightly parted mouth as he makes his request and holds out the large mark. Instead of taking it directly, one hand slides down his chest and across his arm before fingers curl around the mark and snatch it away. "Let me just go see what I can do for you, sugar." Then it's her turn to sway off towards the bar with a confident smirk to the round one. *She's* nabbed *hers*. The blonde in Vej's lap nuzzle-nuzzles on his shoulder and her breasts, if not particularly bountiful, are laced in and up in such a way that they look nice, if a little squashed together. And since they're sprinkled with a cloying perfume, they smell...uh...not like beer or coal. "Hey baby," she murmurs against Vej's neck. "Wanna take a walk upstairs with me?" The round one just observes the impressive way in which Jensen's drink vanishes and rewards him with a low whistle. Whooo. "You either got a rough night ahead or put a rough night behind, right there. Want another?" Hand out, palm up again. If she can't get coins one way, hey, she's versatile.
Ashwin tilts his head for a moment to watch the girl retreat with his money, distinctly speculative. His expressions still pale in comparison to the ways in which others express thoughts and feelings, but this much at least can be said - that one can at least discern to some extent what's going on in his head. And early indications are that despite the location, the company and the quality of the beer, Ashwin's not unhappy. As the dark-haired girl weaves out of sight, the lieutenant sets his orange hat down on the table, and props himself on his elbows to study Jensen and his latest admirer. "Rough night behind," he tells her, the beginnings of a smile turning his mouth up. "Plenty of them. You'll notice he's got his knot off, but," and Ashwin pulls one hand from under his chin to tap the side of his nose, "they call him a hero, where we come from." Now, of all times, he decides to speak - and this is what he chooses?
Jensen gives round girl a dubious eyeing, swallows again, winces, and lets a small, silent belch escape. He's just about to say something, perhaps, when Ashwin speaks up. And the look he gives his lieutenant is a shocked one indeed. Er. "Yeah. Real hero. Vanquish all kinds o'evils." Sarcastic is possibly an understatement. Vej, for his part, is looking rather delightedly at the girl in his lap. "Oh, you bet I do, darlin'." He's on his way up, unaware that he might be depositing the blonde on the floor with his sudden movement; his arm is around her though, so she should be steady enough. His other hand remains firm around that mug. "Cap'n, permission t'-" "Don't," Jen lifts his eyes, brow furrowed, "go too int' the details. Just," a wave of his hand, "just go. You got two hours." "Right. Two. Two hours." Sing-songing, he nudges the girl to go ahead of him and, once they're heading up the stairs, he gives her rear end a hearty slap.
The blonde is somewhat used to being quickly deposited. Off laps. Onto floors. Onto beds. She takes it in stride, landing on her feet and leaning up against Vej as he...heh...rises and starts to lead her upstairs. At the swat to her bottom, the blonde emits a squeal that has been honed over many months to sound giddily delighted. Her fingers are already playing with the buttons around his collar as Vej and the blonde dissapear to the second level. Now that a chair has opened up, round girl plops herself down and appears to be immune to sarcasm. "Heros, huh?" she says with a smirk. "Protectin' little lost colts and scarin' away the big bad folk, huh? Mighty thirsty work." Dark-hair has spent her time well it seems, and she returns to the table with a small clay pitcher of something clear and sharp-smelling. Since the glasses that come with it are only the height of a man's finger and only the width of three, it can only be assumed this alcohol packs a stronger punch that the beer that eats like a meal. Change for that big mark? No, there is no change.
Ashwin lifts his head to observe the girl's return, wordlessly sliding his chair back, one hand resting on his thigh for a moment in invitation. "He scares away all sorts," he tells the round girl solemnly, eyeing her for a moment before dropping his gaze to that small pitcher. He leans forward to claim it as he continues, carefully pouring out the first thimbleful to push it towards Jensen. "Don't let his good looks fool you, he's got a fearsome reputation." Another thimble is poured. "You girls drinking?" Look at that, he's generous, too.
Colts and big bad folk? Jensen rolls his eyes expressively and leans on one elbow. He doesn't seem to care if it sticks to the table or not, in the end. A sticky elbow is quite possibly better than what's going on around him right now. He remarks, to F'sair since Vej is now gone, "I would say I wish I'd eaten 'fore drinkin', but." The beer was practically food, so. And Ashwin continues, and Jen heaves a sigh. It takes him maybe a second to realize that little glass might just be full of /medicine/ and reaches for it instantly after. Down the hatch. Wincing, he slams the empty little vessel down and shakes his head, hair in his eyes. Whatever they're drinking /now/ apparently packs quite a punch.
Dark-hair doesn't have to be suggested at more than once. She slides onto the incognito Lieutenant's lap with a whisper of blue skirts and a sly little grin. "If you're pouring, I'm drinkin', sugar," is her purr of a response to the invitation. The round one shakes her head. "Nah, I keep away from the sharp stuff when I'm workin'. I get a mite sassy when I'm drunk." Her own grin is something between playful and malicious. Old memories of 'sassing', perhaps. Over in the corner, where the rejected blonde wandered, there's a gruff, snorting noise from the hulk of a man she now courts and a quick, sly glance in the direction of Jensen, Ashwin, and F'sair's table.
F'sair is eyeing the rocket fuel as though it's some sort of poison - which may not be an unfair assessment - and shaking his head rapidly. "Still drinking here, still drinking here," he replies, brandishing his nearly untouched beer by way of proof. Behind him, a man leans sideways to make a sound in his throat that recalls a dying animal, then spits mightily upon the floor. The greenrider's distaste only grows, and he shuffles his chair slightly closer to Jensen, away from the pool on the floor. For his part, Ashwin demonstrates an admirable ability to multi-task, wrapping one arm around the waist of the girl in his lap, and using his other hand to continue pouring, sending a small thimble across to Jensen's admirer, then presenting one to his own.
Jensen doesn't hiccup, let it be said, but he does sort of twitch as some things reorganize themselves in his throat. Ugh. "Oh, me too." Apparently he agrees with the 'sassy while drunk' idea. "Too bad 'm well on my way." F'sair's scooting closer has Jen looking around at whatever has the greenrider so disgusted. Oh look, a puddle. And he doesn't know what it /is/. His nose wrinkles very subtly. "'Kay." Indeed. "Huh." His attention has wandered, settled on, well, /something/, and he stares without shame. It's either that girl on that other man's lap over there, giving him quite the passionate kissing session, or that table over there at which a card game is happening.
Dark-hair scoops up her thimble and knocks it back, swallowing the brew down with nary a wince. She can multitask too, for her arm has come up and around Ashwin's shoulders, fingers settling on the back of his neck. They don't do anything yet. Just rest there. The round one catches the thimble and places it in front of Jensen. "Well, s'all right doll. We like 'em sassy round here." She gives Jensen a playful wink, perhaps hoping that the increase in alcohol also increases her chances of a sale. F'sair is given an assessing glance as he scoots closer to Jensen. "Friend's sort'a twitchy there, innit he." From upstairs comes the thump-thump of feet padding down the stairs and onto the first floor appears, uh, dark-hair in Ashwin's lap. Only she isn't in Ashwin's lap and she's wearing a pale green dress instead of blue. With a small roll of her shoulders and a discreet yawn that sugests she might actually have been *sleeping* upstairs, she sways her way in the direction of the table and her look-alike.
"Hear that, sir?" Ashwin, completely deadpan. "They like 'em sassy." He knocks back his drink with a flicker of a grimace, but that burn is evidently not enough to put him off, for he's pouring another round. Fairly successfully, too, until his lapful's double is spotted making her way down the stairs. It's at that point that the jug's forgotten, and it's only when F'sair yelps an alert that Ashwin tilts it back up, halting the stream of liquid that was slowly overflowing from one small cup. A beat, and he sets the jug down with a thump, reaching for his cup in one motion to toss the thing back. "Uh, sir? Permission to..." Unlike Vej, he shows no sign of wishing to elaborate. It's left to F'sair to do that. "They're... are they exactly the same?" He's leaning into Jensen to hiss that question.
"Yeah, Ashwin, I heard." Jensen sends his Lieutenant a glare, albeir a mild one. He's inebriated, and his brain isn't the only thing being softened. Apparently his facial expressions are under attack as well. Friend's... sorta... "Who, him?" Jen's brow furrows and he looks at F'sair as if just noticing him there. "Uh, well, he's a timid sorta fella." Right. Ashwin gets his attention again. He hadn't seen look-alike coming, but when the greenrider next to him points her out, and what with the Lieutenant's question, now he just can't help but see her. "Uh. Fine. Yeah. Go." And maybe he won't have to deal with snarky remarks. Hmph. "Yes they're exactly the same, likely in all the ways two ladies can be." He's /looking/ at F'sair when he says that, his tone of voice rather direct. "All the parts'n everything. Bet they're even equal parts soft. Hey, let's play a game. 'S called how much drinks it takes t'get F'sair drunk." He tosses back that shot the round one gave him; his chair wobbles and scrapes against the floor as he turns it so he can face the rider, his hand reaching for the pitcher so he can pour one of those little glasses.
The dark haired duo have surely been insulted worse in their time and first one, than the other, lifts shoulders in a shrug. "Come back again, sweetheart, and maybe you'll find out," says the one in a green dress in the direction of F'sair and Jensen. Hard to tell who is actually being addressed. Maybe both. Dark-hair in a blue dress is standing and she gives Ashwin's earlobe a little tug with her fingertips before releasing it. "Come on, sugar. I hear he's got you on a time table." They'll wait until the Lieutenant stands before heading towards the stairs. And then it'll be the round one, F'sair, and Jensen left. And in the corner, the hulk of a man with the rejected blonde woman slowly shoves his chair back with a grating scccccrape and rises.
F'sair watches with open mouth as Ashwin comes to his feet, the small cup dropped on the floor as he follows in the girls' wake without even a backward glance. Very much at home, it would seem, in a bar. Meanwhile, the greenrider's tilting his head sideways, as though he might better comprehend the situation on an angle. "So he's going to..." Outrage. "He won those marks off /me/ you know. All this he's spending, this was..." He sputters out, turning back to Jensen with a frown, ignoring his round companion in favour of addressing the Captain. "Absolutely, give me a drink, Captain. Pour me one of those little glasses, please."
Jensen is already pouring. He needed little to no encouragement. Once filled, the little glass is sent F'sair-wards. "There ya go, champ. Drink, drink, drink." He'll have another one too, please. His own glass ends up going clink on the table after he's drained it. He spares a glance for the departing Ashwin, arms folded atop the table, his shoulders hunched. "He's gonna go get himself laid, F'sair, yes," he mutters in a long-suffering tone. Then, grinning, he adds, "Might be it'd do you some good too. You're pretty uptight. Someone needs t'undo your laces." Oh so many implications. "She's nice." The round one is indicated with a jerk of his chin. "We're becomin' fast friends."
The round one beams at the compliment. She's *round*. She doesn't get many of those, usually just what's left over after the others are booked. "S'true. I'm awful nice. Sweet and warm like a bubbly pie." And Faranth willing, she is still discussing her personality. "I'd be glad to help you out, fella, assumin' you swing my way." A less-than-discreet glance at the greenrider's knot before brown eyes return to his face. That big man in the corner? Well, now he's swaying his way over to the happy table, ham-hock arms swinging at his sides, rejected blonde following a few paces behind him and looking oh so smug. Watery black eyes, red-rimmed, regard Jensen. Regard F'sair. Regard the orange hat discarded on the table. Fat hand reaches down, picks up the ornage thing from one of its little chinstrings and holds it up. It dangles and twirls and is stared at like maybe it's a dead tunnelsnake. "Fine hat, ladies."
"It just doesn't seem physically..." F'sair waves one hand vaguely, and yet far too descriptively, before reaching for his drink. The greenrider throws back the contents of the small cup, his face screwing up in protest in the wake of the drink. There's a round of soundless wheezing before he recovers entirely, and he blinks rapidly before he addresses the girl beside Jensen. "Thank you, but no. I'm quite happy here with my friend." A nod indicates that Jensen is the one who fits this description. "We're really just getting to know each other." He tilts his head back then to view their enormous visitor, then back a little further in order to study the man's face. Then down again, to look at the hat. "Oh no, that's not a lady's hat," he contributes, reaching for the jug. "Man's hat."
"Oh it's physically." Jensen's voice is full of wry amusement now. At least now he gets to torment F'sair a little. And maybe if he concentrates hard enough he can pretend he likes being here, amidst ladies of the evening and sticky tables. He nods slowly, approval, when the greenrider knocks his drink back and is already reaching to pour another glass when big guy shuffles up. His eyes lift to the man's face, eyebrows quirking upwards, and then lower again almost in perfect unison with F'sair. Hat... "Oh, right. 'S a man's hat. Made by a lady though. Hey, hey, wanna sit with us? Y'can help me get this guy drunk. F'sair, here." There's another glass for him. And if the guy Jen's just invited to their table is looking like bad news, he doesn't seem to notice. Of course, his eyes look a little too clear, not bleary like they should be considering his slur.
"Can't be a man's hat," growls the meaty interloper. "Don't see no men here." The hat is held out to the side and dropped, falling directly onto that nice little puddle of whatever came out of the fellow patron's throat a bit ago. "Now Darshon, don't be gettin' testy," murmurs round one. But she's slowly standing and making a tactical retreat. The blonde is given a cool glare. She knows who's really behind this. Yes. "Ain't gonna drink with you," Darshon continues, flat-out glaring now. "Y'ain't welcome here, and it's time for you t'go." On the word 'go' Darchun reaches out and gives a sharp push to the front of F'sair's shoulder. Considering the man's tipped back chair and leaning state, this might be enough to send him careening backwards and meeting the floor. Conversation again stops, as does the xylaphone music. From behind the bar, Girta mutters a single word. "Shit."
F'sair's nodding along with Jensen right up to a point, and his eyes are just rising once more when that hand hits his shoulder. Despite his slender build, he's a rider, and there's muscle in there somewhere, not to mention a decent sense of balance. His arms windmill wildly, and for a moment it seems the greenrider might save himself from disaster. It is not to be, however, and just as a door shuts behind Ashwin up on the balcony, the greenrider hits the ground, breaking the silence suddenly sweeping around the room. His arms are flailing all the way down, and they clip a swarthy fellow with a missing as the greenrider passes him. Then, into the silence, F'sair's outraged response. "Well, I..."
"Hey." That would be Jensen's voice, small and surprised, protesting the treatment of Ashwin's hat. The insults, though insulting, he's willing to tolerate. But mistreatment of a homemade article? That's uncalled for. His brow furrows and a tensing of his jaw happens as he looks up, just in time to see that hand shoot out, connect with F'sair. It takes a second for Jen to be out of his own chair which, without him to stabilize it anymore, thinks down onto its stubby fourth leg. "Hey," he says, a little louder, just before the greenrider's chair hits the floor. His own hand reaches to push at Darshon, not roughly but enough to maybe back him up a step. Maybe. The silence in the bar goes unnoticed. "No need for hands on, friend, we're just drinkin'. F'sair, you okay?" His head turns, his eyes on the rider on the floor. He doesn't move to help him up yet.
Darshon trips a step forward at the push and turns on Jensen, red-rimmed eyes narrowed, lips twisted up into a sneer. "P'tectin' your girlfriend? We know his type. N' yours." A menacing step it taking, bringing the hulk of a man close enough that his unpleasant breath is quite easy to smell. Meat and alcohol and very bad teeth. "Y'get outta here. Y'don' come back." The one-eyed man, at being clipped, jumps up with a shout. His own chair clatters to the ground and one of the other girls peppering the room emits a shrill shriek.
"I'm fine, I'm fine," F'sair calls from the floor, where he's hauling himself to his feet, pausing to remove what might be a fossilised beer mat from his backside. "I'm..." There's a pause from the slight man then, as Darson's meaning registers, and the greenrider swallows, then draws himself up to his not-too-impressive full height. "I'll wait outside, Captain." Suiting action to word, the man lifts his chin in an attempt at dignity - not helped by the fact that he has to blink twice to focus - and then turns for the door.
Jensen straightens, tense and tall, when Darshon gets all up in his face. His expression changes very subtly, from angry to smirking. "It'd be my own type I'd be concerned with, I were you." And now a pleasant smile. "We're just gonna stay here'n have our drinks, we paid for 'em, we're gonna drink 'em. And you're gonna go on back t'your seat with your friend." He flicks his eyes at the blonde, still behind him or not. "No, you'll pick your seat up off the floor and you'll sit in it. We ain't goin'." That was to F'sair of course. Then, focus, back to the surly man in front of him. His voice is soft and growled when he murmurs, "We ain't goin'."
"You ain't stayin'." And Darshon's arm draws back, fist formed. Now, this is where one can tell a good fighter from a bad. A good fighter would worry about keeping his torso protected and his body turned to create the smallest target. A good fighte rkeeps his arms close, punches from his center and withdraws the hit as fast as it comes. A man who has relied on his bigger-than-othersness, on the other hand, swings his arm allll the way back, and sends it flying alllll the way forward, much as Darshon is doing now, fist on a collision course with the Captain's pretty face. The round one shrieks, "Girta!" The blonde one shrieks, "Get him!" The one-eyed man spins around and now just seems hungry for any chance to get in on the disaster that is about to unfold.
All around, men are beginning to come to their feet, some to move clear of the combat zone, the disturbing majority apparently making ready to join in. F'sair's retreat options are abruptly cut off when he finds a wall of muscle standing in his path - the greenrider tilts his head back once more to look up at the man in his way, only to find his hair grabbed from behind by a scrawnier fellow, well versed in dirty fighting. Turns out, so is F'sair, for as the scrawny fellow pulls him backwards, a knee comes up to connect with the beefy fellow in front. The shrieks have had one other effect than mobilising the men at large. Upstairs, a door is opening.
There is a split second in which Jensen simply grins. It isn't his usual boyish grin, no, this is a wicked, low-down dirty grin that curves his mouth up on one side. If that's how Darshon wants it, that's how he's gonna get it. The big man's swing is easy to dodge, and dodge he does, ducking to the side. Only takes a moment for him to come back at Darshon with a hit of his own, one that connects with his jaw and follows through. And, shaking his hand, Jen turns to see what's happened to F'sair and promptly gets a fist in his face from the guy who was behind him. Captain doesn't go down, but he does go back, into two other guys who shove him roughly away from them. Jen ends up having to duck another swing, receives another, and gives another. And so the all out fighting breaks out.
Nw it's just a big angry pile of men and fists. The xylaphone player has dropped down to the ground and is cowering beneath his instrument. Chairs are toppling, tables too, and now it might become clear why so many of them seem to be missing bits and pieces. The orange hat, trod underneath many feet, is becoming flatter and less orange each passing moment. Behind the bar, Girta is gesturing and shouting to her short squat barman who seems unwilling to go out and fix it. The girls still on the first floor are peeling out. Some pick the front door, some escape upstairs and a few scramble behind the bar with Girta. "No fightin' in my bar!" the wobbling matron bellows, but it goes unheeded. Darshon is shaking his head and looking around for Jensen again. F'sair is all but getting lost in the crowd, what with his being so much shorter.
F'sair is certainly lost in the crowd, but he's found himself a good spot. Backed into a corner, he's got a broken chair leg, and he's brandishing it at anyone who tries to come near. He's collected a small group of men more his own size, who're taking it in turns to try and goad the greenrider into action, but for now, he's holding ground, practically snarling. Through that open door up above comes Ashwin, hastily buttoning his shirt - he abandons that effort to lean over the balcony for a moment, hands wrapping around the bannister. He takes his time over his survey of what's below, pale blue eyes settling on each group in turn. Then he spots his hat, ground down beneath the muddy heel of one combatant. His eyes narrow, and in two quick strides he's along the balcony, banging on a door with one fist, head in close to it to holler to those within. "Vej! Report!"
The door Ashwin is yelling at doesn't open at first. However, after a moment not only does it open but the blonde girl who had lured Vej up the stairs before comes scampering out, ducking around Ashwin and heading for another of the rooms at a pace that could best be described as a run for her life. Vej stumbles out a beat later, one hand working at keeping his pants up on his hips, the other maintaining his balance as he works at shoving his foot into his boot. "She stole my marks! Ruttin' whore stole my marks! Oh hey, a tussle!" Suddenly missing money just isn't important. "Is that the Captain?" Yes, that's the Captain. Getting a punch to his stomach that has him bent over, then an elbow between his shoulderblades that has him crashing to the floor. Oh hey, a hat. He snatches the poor beaten orange thing, uncaring about its mysterious new coating, and grins woflishly. He wins! Someone kicks him, ow, keeps kicking him, ow, and he winces every time; finally he tosses himself off to the side and into the legs of another man, who, toppling over, knocks down several more brawlers. Roaring ensues.
Chairs are getting involved now. Darshon goes down, kerflop, as one shatters over his thick head, the round woman standing on a table and breathing heavily, eyes narrowed. "Never liked y'anyhow. Too short where it counts and too quick by half." Then the table's knocked over and she goes flying to the ground to make a scrambling escape behind the bar. Girta has, by this point, hefted a large frying pan and jumped onto the counter. "NO FIGHTING IN MY BAR!" She screams. "YOU BOYS QUIT IT NOW, OR THE GIRLS ARE GETTING THE NEXT MONTH OFF!" That, at the very least, seems to have a cluster of fighting men, a few who were crowding around F'sair, skulking away. Some men, however, bloodlust more appealing than the other sort, are charging up the stairs and onto the second floor, towards the newcomers still trying to dress themselves.
Ashwin watches the girl run past, but his immediate interest is in Vej, and he turns his head from where he's leaning on the balcony railing to watch the fight. "That's the Captain," he confirms, turning back to watch. "Looks like he'n F'sair might be on the wrong end of things. Reckon we should?" A tilt of his head indicates the melee below. Indeed, as the girls fly up the stairs, Ashwin's straightening up to take a proper survey of what's going on below. Girta is spotted, and quite uncharacteristically, his lips twist to a wolfish grin. "That's a frying pan, Vej. My kind of fight." Downstairs, F'sair suddenly finds himself alone, and he pauses, bewildered. Then a beefy fellow's spotted making for Jensen, chair-back in hand. What to do? The greenrider lowers his head, and cannons towards his new adversary. And up above, Ashwin gives the balcony a quick shake to check for stability, then with a wink for Vej, he jumps over it, knees bent to take the force of his landing a floor below. There's also a pair of miners to break his fall, they probably help.
Vej is staring down at the writhing mass of bodies with something like hunger on his face. Oh, and shock. Cap'n's in a /fight/? That hasn't happened in like forever! When Ashwin hops on over that balcony the other man lifts his eyebrows. "Reckon we should." And with that he's walking quite calmly down the stairs. One of the bar's men spots him, rushes to meet him, and is stopped by a fist to the head. He topples backwards, Vej continues onwards; man rushes at him again, this time Vej clotheslines him, grabs a chair, and heads into the fray. "Cap'n!" Jensen is standing again, sort of, though another kick nearly has him on the floor again. He turns just in time to see the guy with the chair coming at him, his eyebrows lifting. His face? Says oh, shit. Oh, but F'sair saves the day! Jen watches chair guy get shoved off to the side by that charging greenrider, grins when he yelps. He ducks another punch, grabs the assailant's shirt, pulls its hem up and over the wearer's head and introduces his knee to his skull. Hat? In a death grip. And Girta? Ignored.
Clang! Clang! Lady has a frying pan and she knows how to use it. Those who get too close to the bar are met with swift kitchenware justice. Girta is panting and seething and wobbling all at once. As Ashwin leaps over the balcony, the two dark haired girls come rushing out of the room to peer down. One has her hair half-down, the other has her dress on a little askew. They both squeal somewhat delightly as their man leaps and lands on miners, obviously enjoying the show. A man nearby, the one-eyed one who now also seems to have a broken nose, leaps for the Lieutenant with a roar.
Flushed with victory, F'sair lifts his head, panting as he looks around for another adversary. What the greenrider lacks in style, he makes up for with enthusiasm, wielding his chair leg with an abandon that has his opponents backing up more nervously than Ashwin's slow prowl. The one-eyed man's roar alerts Ashwin to his presence a moment before he makes contact, and the lieutenant is already ducking, even as he turns to meet the man - a fist goes over his head, and as the momentum of the action carries his adversary past, he has not the slightest hesitation in turning to follow through with a kick that sends him stumbling towards one of the supports that holds up the balcony to fetch it a mighty crack with his head. F'sair follows up with a club across the man's shoulders, howling with delight. "He's our lift, Vej!" Ashwin's roar comes with a finger pointed toward F'sair, who's biding fair to wade in again. "Keep his head together, it's a long walk." And with that instruction, he's wading in towards Jensen, pausing to stomp on a hand that reaches for his ankle.
One of the men, a lanky blonde person, decides it might be a good idea to attack Vej with a punch to the stomach. Unfortunately for him he's much shorter than the guard, and Vej even sober has a high pain tolerance. Intoxicated? He's feeling not a thing. So though that fist finds its mark, Vej simply snorts and follows up with a whack upside the head with his chair. Blonde guy goes away, and Vej looks at Ashwin, then at F'sair. Wearing one of those wicked grins, the big man makes for the greenrider and the fellow trying to find a way around his chair leg. Jensen meanwhile straightens, nearly loses his balance, and turns just in time to see Ashwin coming. The Captain's nose is bleeding, so is his head, apparently, and he has a nice cut on his cheek. Not to mention bruises probably everywhere, and if it hasn't happened yet it will. He grins at his Lieutenant and then goes down when a chair explodes on his back.
Some of the men are clearly losing, some of them unconscious. The ranks of the still-fighting are thinning, but those left standing are the folks that are the best at such brawls. Oh yes. And Girta. As the chair crashes down over Jensen, there's booing and screaming from the upper floor. "Cheatin'!" cries one of the twins. "He weren't lookin'!" calls the blonde who's dressed now and likely secreted away Vej's marks. But it's the second of the dark haired duo that runs into the room and comes out with a lantern of glows, a bucket, and a stool. These are, one at a time, launched down below and aimed for the men still swarming towards Jensen and Ashwin. One cannot say, however, that their aim is very good.
One man has the good sense to get out of the way of the flying missiles, and that's F'sair, who promptly retreats under the balcony. He's watching one of the support struts, though, which is looking decidedly bowed where the one-eyed man collided with it. Ashwin has nearly reached Jensen when the other man goes down, and he's returning Jensen's grin with his own wolfish version when the other man goes down. That gets rid of Ashwin's grin, and he drives an elbow into the man next to him to create enough room to turn around, backing up so he's side by side with Jensen. "They were twins, sir." Stomp, kick - he follows the greenrider's example, and finds himself a chair leg as he leans down to grab Jensen's shirt with his free hand to begin heaving the man up. "You couldn't have held on a little longer?"
Jensen grunts, pushing himself up and wincing. Ashwin helps. He straightens carefully, wincing more, and groans while saying, "I'll make it up t'you," in a rather breathless voice; he hands over that hat and hazards a look up at the balcony just in time to see the rain of objects sailing on down. "Shit." Cries of pain and thunks resound. The stool ends up knocking one of the men standing very near to Jen in the head and as he goes down the Captain reaches over for the piece of furniture. Brandishing that like his life depends on it - which it might - he lifts his chin to spot Vej mowing folk down with his chair. "Vej!" "Cap'n! You're alive!" "Grab F'sair. Think we might be-" Jen has no time to finish. Darshon is alive too, and has just tackled him around the midsection and into a table. Which collapses, of course, under the combined weight, and Jen's skull hits the floor when they land and makes a nice cracking sound. Hey, deja vu.
There's squealing and applauding from up above as the impromptu plan of 'fling some things' works out well for the girls. One of the twins runs back into the room to get more items, but a fat grunting man charging up the stairs has them all running into their rooms shrieking and slamming the doors. Girta has had more than enough and she's jumped down from the bar to join the fray. Her passage can be marked by the sound of metal hitting brainpan and the small trail of collapsing men left in her wake. She's not being particular. If you're moving and you're fighting, Girta and her frying pan are coming for you.
"Get F'sair out!" Ashwin's command is added to Jensen's, although the slender greenrider might take some getting. He's snarling, charging through in Girta's mighty wake to finish off whoever's left reeling behind her, his chair leg waved in every direction. "Son of a..." Ashwin wades in after his Captain - not his best move, as it leaves Girta behind him, and Ashwin, of all men, should know the power of a frying pan. The lieutenant is doing excellently in the stomping stakes, and he takes out another set of fingers with one big boot. The satisfied pause there is his temporary undoing, for a man behind him scrambles to his feet to deal the man a great whack to the kidneys. Doubling over, Ashwin braces hands on knees for a moment with a gasp, turning his head sideways and up so he can trace the source of the screaming as his last two hopes of getting laid flee, door slamming behind them. "I would have taken just one," he informs the possibly unconscious Jensen and Darshon, beginning to straighten up. Blissfully unaware of Girta's progress.
Jensen should probably be unconscious. Then again, he always has been stubborn. Darshon's limp body is shoved off and he rolls over so he can push himself to his feet again. A rather strangled sound happens and he looks down. Oh hey, part of the table is embedded in his side. A nice sized splinter of wood, that is, stuck out through his shirt. He presses fingertips to his side, draws them away red. "Why's it always gotta be somethin' stuck in me?" he asks of nobody in particular. Vej has joined up with them by now, panting and heaving. His chair is gone, likely shattered to bits, and he scans the room. "Might be time we get outta here, Cap'n." "You think!" "Where's that rider gone..." "Ashwin! Getaway, if y'don't mind?" Girta? What Girta?
Clang! Clang! Ask not for whom the pan tolls. It tolls for thee. Particularly if 'thee' is Ashwin as Girta, in her one-woman rampage, has made it over to the cluster of guards and lets loose a hearty whack upside that blonde-haired noggin. Then she blinks slowly. Oh. The newcomers. "Now," she says, lowering her frying pan and glaring. "I ain't sayin' you boys started this a' purpose. But I am sayin' that if you don't clear out right now, you ain't clearin' out at all. Scoot." Her chin lifts, "And the rest o' you!" she shouts and, adrenaline draining, this call seems to stop the rest of the brawlers. "Git home to your women what deserve their right to beat you more'n I do. And if there ain't a passel o men back here in th'mornin' to clean this up, I'm telling wives whose thighs it was their husbands were between t'night!"
"Yessir, absolutely, I can..." Whatever Ashwin could, it's not recorded for posterity, for that frying pan connects, and the man goes staggering across, stopping himself just short of the hearth, one hand on the mantlepiece for a moment before he drops to his knees. Into the heaving silence that now grips the tavern, F'sair emerges, stepping out from behind a pillar that's now groaning audibly. "I'll just, ah..." One hand jabs towards the door, and that's just the way he heads, picking his way daintily over fallen bodies. Bloodlust receded, it would seem. There's a groan from Aswhin as he sways for a moment on hands and knees, but it would seem High Reaches territory produces hard skulls, for like his Captain, the man retains consciousness. And after a moment, begins to try and climb to his feet. "Yes, ma'am."
"Hey!" That'd be Jensen's indignance as his Lieutenant is clobbered. He watches Ashwin stagger off, his eyebrows drawn down, then focuses a glare on Girta. "We're goin', lady, ma'am. So just... Put the kitchen utensil down. Ow, damn it." He sucks in a breath and limps across the room to where Ashwin is trying to recover himself. He slips a hand under the man's arm and lifts. Vej, meanwhile, has picked up the orange hat from where it fell to the ground again and inspects it now with a dubious look on his face. Huh. Then, as F'sair leaves, he glances around and says, for the room to hear, "It was just a hat. What harm did it ever do you? Jays." Shaking his head, he follows in the greenrider's wake, though he ends up pausing just outside to wait for his fellow guardsmen. His marks? Forgotten about, or he just doesn't want to waste the time tracking down that blonde.
Girta just glowers, frying pan resting by her side. As the guards and F'sair make their way out, the bowed pillar finally cracks and with a roar of wood and plaster, the whole upper walkway comes crashing down. From outside, a wind of rolling dust billows out from the bar as well as a final furious shriek.