Open Shippin' Up To Crown's Hold

"Good, good..."
He patted his body down as if looking for something but he wasn't, he was just idling.

Took a step, almost lost his balance but caught it.
"Good!"

Something in his mind, some animal part of him recognized the unsteadiness of his social situation and it got his hackles up. You did not survive by staying around folk who did not want you. The primal brain screamed at the unspoken threats it interpreted.

"Hmmm maybe not so good!"
Eyes cast down watched the other's feet. Shuffle, cold, steady, wary...
Hawkflesh threw his head back and let out a long breath that misted from his lips. The stars were gone, eaten by the city lights. It felt like a wrongness in the world.

"Maybe..."
Slumped forward now he pushed passed the armoured woman and walked back towards the alleys they had fled and the Boosters, his hand on the longsword at his side.

"... I'll go for a walk!"

For a moment his dark eyes flashed at the horned one as he passed.
"See you around!"

A grip grabbed at the worm man's shoulder. Tilda, brow scrunched, and lip twitching. "Wait a bloody minute, you miserable git," she growled. Huffed. Let him go. "You go that way, you are getting thrown in the fucking slammer," jammed a thumb over her shoulder. "You come with us,"

Adelard dragged on his pipe. Whiskers bobbing some as the long View attachment 885stemmed tool to his vice crackled with a flame's promise. Smoke trailing from its bowl. "Zhat zhettles it zhen," he said through pipe clutching teeth.

"When in the bloody fuck did you strike that up, you long whiskered alley cat?"

Adelard shrugged. "You lot were having a moment," looked about. "Figured I would make myself comfy," Offered the pipe to the rowdy rouser. "Here," he said. "Bladeleaf," he explained. "Might help settle the stomach some, what's your name, son?"
Tilda huffed, hands about her cloak clasps. Undid them, and in a whirl, draped them over the horned maiden.

"There," she said with a chuff. "F'ore the chebs fall off," she grinned, and strode forward.
They would make their way to the Planter.

Dim shroudlight could be seen glowing steady through the windows and the cracks in the door.

View attachment 886Setting behind a desk with her boots kicked up, knife hilt all balanced on the tip of her forefinger by the pommel, was one Marta Martigan, Sworn Knight of Dusk. Killing time, whilst not trying to kill herself. Though, she supposed it would make things a tad more interesting.

There were some Ten Sworn Knights stationed at Planter Baracks. Only four squires. Beds fore near five times that number, though much of the grounds were in need of repair.

Come the thwunk open of the door, and Marta's eyes near popped out of her head. Knife almost wobbled off balance, but she caught it just before it fell.

"What in the mirrored hells?!" she called out, looking to the door. "Oh," she laughed, Settled back down in her chair. "Just you lot," Grinned. "Have fun on patrol then? Oh, what's this?" she craned her head to spy the newcomers. "Fresh recruits?"

Adelard chuffed. "Guests is all,"

Tilda walked through the entryway with little to do. Armor clinking and rasping as she moved. Down the hall toward the bunk rooms.

Adelard moved toward the mess. "Still got that chowder goin?" he asked.

Marta raised her brows. "Aye, still plenty left," she smirked.

The older dawnling nod. "I'll go serve some up for us," he said, voice trailing down the way.

The Planter was sparsely appointed. Few things in the way of decorations. A bookcase, well stocked, and the main desk, behind which Marta sat, was surrounded by cabinets and drawers. Stacks of paper, inkwell and quills, along with maps rolled and well stashed.

It was clear. This was a place of work. Only just touched by the minor comforts of things that whispered at a home. A plant on a high shelf. Green and well tended. A dog eared romance book, left just out of line with the other texts that surrounded it. And the odd little painting, almost looked like two people embracing against the stars.

Almost.

The running and the cold night are had woken Hawkflesh up and as he watched in grim silence as his new companions did not seem to either want him nor be rid of him he felt the thick malaise of his drunken stupor leave him somewhat and harsh reality bombarded his temples.

The pipe smell got him though.
"What? Me?"

Thankfully he was too drunk to be embarrassed by how long it took him to remember his own name.
"Hawkflesh... just Hawkflesh."

His hand flopped in dismissal of rebuttals that never materialised but he welcomes the pipe.
"Cheers..."

He coughed and sputtered and wretched and gagged in revoltion of the foul smoke as it tore at his throat. Drying him from the inside out.
Still coughing and eyes weeping red he handed the pipe back.
"Not... *cough-cough* for me... *cough*!"

Following along he welcomed the warmth and quickly found a spot on a usable couch to sit on and massage his aching brain as his body struggled to sober up.

He was already forgetting how the night started. Good, he was sure he'd regret it if he didn't.

"It's called the Sun and the Moon... it's by... Erks, Valtorv or something... It's about unity through diversity or so the scholars claim."
He'd seen the painting of two nights before. It was touted to be a great work and idly he wondered to himself how it ended up in this dump.

"'Tcha, you ain't sweetin me none with your flattery, hon," she grins back. "Sides, I'm more an appreciator of the finer things in life than one who goes and makes em," eases back in her chair.

"By Eriks Valtrovo, aye" the raven haired woman said with a cocksure smile at the gangly man. "Not a bad eye you got there, uh," she scratched her nose some, and looked to the lantern eyed pan devil, as if she might be in on something Marta had missed.

Not two beats after, come the return of Syr Von Hammersmark. Stripped of her armaments, and left in not but a sweat stuck tunic she flapped to catch the chill winter air that still lingered about the Planter. "Got your bunks ready," she said matter of fact to the pair of them. Eyes started on Xenovia. "You are both welcome to stay as long as you like, save, after tonight, you'll be needing to pull your weight around here proper any time you fancy yourself a stay," she leaves no room for rebuke, but is sure to measure each of them in turn. "Is that clear?" she shifts her sight to Hawkflesh.
"Ease up on them just a ta, Syr Tilda," old Adelard tuts. A pair of steaming bowls and ladles there dipped in them. Smell of cheesy stew and tatoes hunked with bits of chicken and pork belly filling the room with their utter richness. "Let the pair of rousers get a bite in them at least, fore you start hammering them with the lines and expectations,"

Marta made a sound. "That's the only way I got in, if ya don't recall, Tilda dear,"

Tilda clicked her teeth. Shook her head. "You need not remind me, Syr Martigan,"

Just another day come to end at the Planter.