Open Shippin' Up To Crown's Hold

[Hawkflesh]

"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!"

 

[Tilda von Hammersmark]

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.

 

[Xenovia]

Xenovia was glad Tilda deigned to stop Saer Lanky -a working title, granted- before he went and got himself caught. Empathy was a rare thing to find in Crown Hold's streets, mostly 'cause it was very rarely rewarded. Didn't pay to be kind unless you kept some Upholder from getting shivved. In the past, shivving upholders got the guards on your arse, and everyone knew blueblood was worth more than a Sinker's crimson.

Or a Deva's bright.

'My thanks,' Xenovia grinned, her chebs suitably swathed, and hidden beneath the knight's cloak. Abelard's gruffness had a warmth to it too. Couldn't wear it, mind. But signs of life trumped silence hands down, and Xen sometimes grew tired of her own voice.

What she didn't grow tired of was potato chowder.

The Planter wasn't as green as she expected it to be. Lots of blacks and browns and greys. A few star-studded blues. The lanterns produced heat though, and the hearth was blazing away nicely by the time they entered, kept that way by the raven-haired knightess manning the front desk. If I had to guess. Xenovia couldn't see anyone else milling about, and fires didn't keep themselves going. Well. Unless they got hungry.

Banging the snow from her boots, Xen took off Tilda's cloak, gave it a shake. Old floorboards creaked as the knight wandered off. Least Abelard had the grace to let them know he'd be back. With food, hopefully.

Folding the cloak across the bridge of her arms, Xen laid it out before the fire to dry as she got a feel for her environs. Her pack and greatsword pressed into her back as she studied the bookcases and shelves, the banners and paintings. Moonlight caught the spine of a romance novella, and the devahni smiled to herself, pleased to find she wasn't the only beating heart in the room.

'Love what you've done with the place,' tiptoeing about the Planter, Xen pirouetted from point to point, tail sweeping the air as she came to stand before the painting of two knights, presumably lovers or brothers. Maybe both, if they were anything like the rest of Altalusia's nobility.

'A work of yours?' She asked the remaining knight, firebug eyes flitting to behold hers, the tatts she wore so well. A smile, a turn. 'What do you reckon, friend? Reckon you could replicate this?'

 

[Hawkflesh]

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.

 

[Tilda von Hammersmark]

"'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.

"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."​

"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.