The Gilded Flagon: Setting

The unannounced flurry of activity in the yard below his window dashed his train of thought like a ship upon the rocks of a foreign coast, and he found himself staring at the page that rest directly beneath his fist, barely able to complete the word he was in the midst of scribbling, let alone the sentence it occupied. The thought hung just beyond his grasp, dangling like the carrot that entices the horse, but the more he reached for it, the further it grew. The clatter of wooden implements continued outside, and in an instant he had discarded his quill, thrust out of his chair and come to stand, the hard scraping of its legs against the floor doing nothing to improve his mood.

Bringing himself to the window, he had the perfect vantage of the fight below, but unfortunately spectating was the furthest thing from his mind. Only seconds were spent observing the combatants prancing below before he bellowed out, the thought of potential for harm resulting from the interruption furthest from his mind.

"Captain." The voice was laced with condescension. A bubbling anger lay just below the surface of his bestial features, a near loathing in the narrowed gaze with which he regarded the familiar and unfamiliar figures beneath him. With his horns wedged into the narrow frame, his appearance could have easily been comical; one might wonder if he wouldn't end up stuck when he attempted to withdraw his head back into the building. "When you hold unscheduled training sessions I expect to be notified in advance!"

“Captain.”

Down below, Ryva didn't react. Not at first. Her slightly smirked attention was wholly on Janto, or rather the practice blade she held at bay. It was the Charr's continued words that shook her concentration. She brooked a snicker and her bracing arms shuddered, the weapon tip inching closer. There was no sustaining this.

She swung both legs up and heaved a flat footed kick at the sparring man's chest, only hoping that he was at least as distracted.

At the sound of shouting from above, I glanced in that direction without turning my head. I couldn't quite see the source, but it sounded like a disgruntled charr. Of course, they always seemed to be disgruntled, didn't they? The woman I currently had locked beneath me was lectured, ostensibly for the spar we were currently having. I couldn't help but feel like I'd been set up for this -- I had been told to come here and make this ruckus.

"Maybe he should be glad he didn't glance out the window before I saw you," I grunted. "Then I'd have been forced to fight -- oof."

Now, in a real fight. An honest to the gods battle for life and death, I'd have never fallen for a trick like that. I felt a little foolish as I stumbled back, kicked by the woman -- I'd let my guard down, but mostly because the entire situation was a little awkward and I was feeling sheepish, even a little responsible for getting her lectured.

I raised an eyebrow at her as I righted myself, and peered warily between her and the charr, who I could now see. Of course, in case she really wasn't going to pay the cat in the window any attention, I kept my sword leveled, and waited.

It was a cheap shot and she knew it-- grin childishly wide and unapologetic as she hiked to her feet and brushed off her trousers one-handedly.

"Aw, damn, I shoulda come in later. You an' him would've been somethin' to see."

She planted the tip of the practice blade in the dirt- apparently the match was over- and leaned at a jaunty angle before tossing a wave up to the window. The rebuke was rain on a duck's back, rolled off with a shrug as she replied cheerfully, voice lifted to carry:

"Apologies, tactician! S'a little hard to give notice on unscheduled sparrin'!"

And away she looked, lips nipped inwards and eyes wide as she struggled to keep down a snicker for the humorous scene of Charr-In-Window. Janto got a wink, as she recovered herself, and another offer for a handshake.

"Nah bad. I'd give it eight outta ten. Sorry 'bout your shirt." The garment- with its smudged, dusty bootprints - got an impish regard.

Apologies. Apologies. She mocked him. Too difficult a chore to spare the trip upstairs to caution him about the impending racket in the yard? His rebuttal came as a disgruntled snort, and his horns scraped the frame as he yanked his head back in, leaving fresh notches in the woodwork. With a slam that rattled the pane within, the fenestra was sealed, and he dropped into his seat with such weight as made the wooden legs beneath him creak and shudder. The most recent page stared up at him, scarcely a third filled, his last sentence dangling, unfinished. This, too, mocked him. He read the line aloud as he plucked up the quill and raised it, preparing to strike down again upon the waiting sheet. The words would not come.
Several times did he begin, only the falter, cross out and begin anew, and finally, as his frustration boiled over, the page fell prey to his claws. Its screams, as it was rent upon his blade-like nails, was as a symphony upon his ears, but all too brief. Collecting the bits now scattered upon his desk, he rose from the chair, depositing them in the bin with its other fallen brethren, and seized up his staff, slamming the study door behind him as he headed for the stairs.

The biting glare of daylight did little to improve the soured look upon the looming feline's expression as he emerged into the courtyard, squinting beneath his heavy, greying eyebrows as he waited for his eyes to adjust. Immediately through the door, he placed all of his weight upon the gnarled length of weathered oak, using it to brace himself as though it were all that kept him from collapsing from his own formidable heft. The captain and her guest were still there, and he regarded them both with scorn as he hobbled forward.

"Can this one handle a blade, or have you brought us another farmhand with aspirations of glory?"

"You're very generous," I said, my voice more dry than I had intended. I'd never been one to get wrapped up in duels, or their results. Unless someone was out to kill me, a duel just never really got me wound up. I'd been trained well by a number of masters, and their wasn't any shame in doing the best I could with it, win or lose. In this case I'd been given a number and it seemed good enough to me. I guess I really didn't have anything to prove.

Her hand was met with my own, and I shook it, responding unintentionally to her wink with a flattered grin. Really, it seemed like no matter how old I got some boyish reactions never went away. Women always seemed to have one way or another to get a leg up on a man, if they really wanted.

Putting that aside, I glanced down at my shirt and shrugged. It was dirty now, but I could fix some of that. Grabbing the shirt by the top I tugged it off over my head and gave it a few hard waves, up and down, trying to shake it out a bit. Leaving my own sword impaled just enough in the ground I pulled the shirt back on and looked down at myself.

"Well, good thing I decided to dress up like a peasant for my day off," I said with a laugh. "These clothes are meant to be worn out."

I gave my leg a stretch. My shin still heart like the gods had all taken a turn kicking it. I'd be feeling that one for a few days, but at least it didn't get any worse when I moved or planted my foot.

The charr walked into the courtyard behind me, and I felt my ire rising almost immediately. I turned and regarded him with a dulled expression.

"She didn't bring me. I was asked to come here by The Duchess. And now I'm leaving."

It's at this moment that the young duchess is heard coming into the courtyard, bidding the same fellow who had chased her across the street to go and fetch her lunch, at least it seemed to be the same voice asking if there was anything he could do. Mere seconds later, she was visible walking up the flagstone path through the simple garden near the entry, arriving just in time to see Janto, Bakshi'baal, and Worf standing together on the far side of the yard, just below the window to the charr's study.

His brief and partial nudity was met with the indifference of someone who'd seen enough of half-naked men that this one didn't really merit a second glance. Blue eyes focused past him, as he tugged his shirt back over his head, and instead watched the profile of the charr blink from window to window on Worf's trek to the door.

“Peasant as opposed t' what? I didn't really peg you for a nobleman.”

Enter the Charr and his quip, to which she grinningly replied, “Wulp, by your standards, I think this man would be far away from the frontlines.” By the tone of her voice, it's not meant as an insult for Janto, but with the man's tangible shift of mood, her smile tweaks to a dampened smile, voice discreet for the three of them:

“Don't tell me the man with gumption enough to flash a Duchess's courtyard is getting flustered over a big cat. ...heh, speaking of Duchesses, her grace has come a few moments too late.”

She turned towards the noble as she rounded the corner, snapping off a brief salute. “Your grace.”

The 'high praise' presented garnered still more of the Charr's attention for poor Janto, his narrowed blue eyes slowly roaming the man's figure, the difference between assessing a potential ally - or opponent - and sizing up a hunk of meat for the slaughter a blurred and highly indistinct line when performed by the Duchess' chief strategist. His conclusions, as well as his responses to both their remarks, arrived in the form of a guttural utterance:

"Hnf."

Just in time for the arrival of their hostess, no less, his ample girth shifting then to face full and proper the woman rounding the corner to join them. He was suddenly quite stiff and still, his tail remaining the only thing in motion, relaying his continued irritation in its swift, mechanical flicks.

"Your Grace." Then he was silent.