Post by Nash Lydden on Aug 20, 2012 14:08:43 GMT -5
Some travelers had a habit of likening the ports they visited to women. While one Nash Lydden didn't have the heart of a poet, as they claimed was required to see such things, he did ask himself of how he would see Braavos in that light; after some time, he decided that she was a beautiful girl indeed, slender and purple-eyed, if a little easy - and she definitely needed to wash between her legs. A thousand and one different smells assaulted his nostrils as he made his way through tight alleys and winding streets akin, his features as stoic and lacking expression as ever, but there was an unmistakable spring to his step as he did so, even if he still had a number of worries. His vessel was moored and ready; he had sent his lads along with six of the ten Dornishmen given to him by Prince Josmyn Martell to buy supplies and he was also the owner of a most interesting Lyseni contraption - a 'spyglass', they called it - that allowed those who looked through it to see further into the horizon. That one he'd left to his captain, a gaunt-faced Tyroshi by the name of Moreo Arvanites, so he could get better acquainted to it; the man had appeared more tempted to lock it in one of the nailed-down coffers and pad the walls, so it wouldn't break, but as the man behind their expedition had left his new ship he could see the man perched on the tallest mast, scouting their surroundings.
Even with such good tidings, there were still concerns that the knight needed to address soon. They were still some sailors short ; the Dornishmen could have taken to the oars in a pinch, if they had any such things to speak of, but they didn't; they relied solely on the wind and the skill of the men at the rudder and on the sails. The captain assured him that they would be able to find good slaves as close as Tyrosh or Lys, which would also have solved the problem of the cook, but Nash, who was 'too Westerosi for these lands', as Arvanites sometimes said, preferred all his men to be with him of their own accord. They had also been able to acquire maps that estimated the contour of what was left of Old Valyria, but he still knew too little about the actual risks that awaited them there; he had to find someone who knew more about the Smoking Sea or even the nimblest ship to ever brave the waters, as his new vessel was boasted to be, would surely find itself destroyed. She was a true beauty, that one, small, lateen-rigged and narrow of keel; it had been built for travelling far and away from the sight of land, pushed by strong winds and guided by the able mind of a captain who could read starry skies as well as he did maps. Times were changing for shipwrights and sailors and they were right there, in the vanguard - but it was his job to worry about the needs of his men and the requirements of their voyage, so worry Nash did... if only to keep everyone else focused on their tasks.
A few hours and several taverns later, the setting sun found our hero in better spirits. He had been able to enlist a cook, a large hulk of a man who made even the simplest of dishes he'd tried taste delicious, as well as a young rapscallion who'd used to be a tailor's apprentice and had taken to mending sails. They would both be highly useful, the knight told himself, but it still seemed as if the most important part of the journey would have to rely on luck, skill and hearsay - he didn't like that final part at all. He also didn't like the bravos who seemed to pop up everywhere his steps took him; one in particular, a small man of slight build, stood surrounded by three fresh corpses as Nash ducked into an alley; careful not to move his hand toward his blade nor to even look at the cove directly, the Lydden heir hadn't managed to take more than three steps away from him when he heard the bravo call after him, along with the familiar sound of steel being drawn from its sheath. As the shorter man advanced on him, likely to issue a challenge, Nash acted quickly. Pivoting on his right foot, he sent his shin crashing into the bravo's thigh, following up with a firm grasp on both his shoulders and a coarse knee to the man's gut, dropping him to the ground, where the Braavosi immediately proceeded to throw up a vast amount of wine and some remnants of his dinner.
"Yield, I have no quarrel with you," he growled in the Common Tongue as he drew his own sword and pointed it at his would-be foe.
"For shame!" The slighter man hawked, spat, coughed a few times and threw Nash a sorrowful look. "Three good foes has Cossomo Dothare bested at once, THREE, and now a barbarian takes him down like some child!" He seemed quite coherent and he spoke in the Common Tongue as well; thankfully, his rage was mostly directed at himself, but something about his name made the knight's eyebrow arch.
"You wouldn't be a relation of Narbo Dothare, the shipwright, would you?" he enquired, some amount of curiosity obvious in his voice.
"His nephew, what of it? He does not build for the likes of you." The smaller man's bright blue eyes measured Nash from head to toe, from his simple Westerosi tunic to his dusty boots. "No! Oh-ho-hooo, this is rich!" With that, the bravo burst into laughter. "You are he!" he declared, pointing an accusing finger at the knight. "The fool who would take the most beautiful ship in the world to a fiery grave!"
"Just so," said Nash, plainly, mimicking something he'd heard a lot during his time there. "I am Ser Nash Lydden."
"No, Ser Fool is who you are and fooler I for doing so. Have you maps? A helmsman?" He paused, studying the older man's face for a few seconds. "Just so," he sighed. "Put away your club, fool, and help me up. We go to the Poetess, find you Moredo Antaryon. He is the man you seek without knowing."
Nash duly delivered and it was so that they made their way to the more beautiful parts of Braavos, where few foreigners trod - an area that made Nash, in his simple garb, appear even more out-of-place, but the blustery bravo by his side seemed to be enough for them not to have any trouble. Cossomo would join him on the voyage as well, after all, and he had been talking the knight's ear off about the benefits of having crossbowmen at sea for a while until Nash, visibly annoyed, felt obliged to ask him whether he knew any crossbowmen as well.
"Lhana. That is the name of my love. I am one, but I am no crossbowman without her. For wine from Yi Ti I have pawned her and I am a man lost now. Two dragons, two from your pocket, and I get her back!" His tone grew increasingly pleading as he spoke, the look of confusion on Nash's face finally disappearing when he figured out his companion was speaking about a weapon, not a woman. "Two dragons from my pocket," he replied, taking the sum from a pouch on his belt and pressing them into the bravo's hand, "and buy yourself bolts and a few changes of clothes with what's left after you get Lhana back."
"Perhaps you are not Ser Fool after all," Cossomo replied, with a grateful smile. "Come!" They ventured within a building that seemed more like some rich man's home than a whorehouse, but they weren't in Westeros anymore; in Braavos, they had courtesans and they were not only for pleasures of the flesh, even he knew that. However, he wasn't ready for the enticing floral scents that clung to every piece of furniture, just as he hadn't been ready for the slow, melancholic song carried by three diaphanous voices accompanied by a high harp. "That is he," or so the bravo whispered, breaking the enchantment, as he subtly pointed toward a bald-headed man who had at least a decade on the knight; he kept peering at a young lass who stood unmoving, looking as if he was drawing her likeness on a piece of parchment he had before him. "I will join you here when my love is in my arms once more," he added, taking his leave.
With the echoing of the song's final notes, Nash moved toward his target in his usual stealthy way, accepting a slender goblet of wine from a nearby beauty with a curt bow of his head and a whispered thanks. As the singers took pause, he approached the man's table. "Moredo Antaryon?" A simple question that, from most men, gained the asker a simple answer. However, Antaryon was not most men; indeed, the torrent of clipped words in High Valyrian that he offered was yet another thing that Nash found himself unprepared for.
"And who are you? Not from here. Qohor? No beard. Westeros? Has to be. Clothes from there. Assassin? No. Paid my debt. Pirate? No. They have their own men. Trader? Own routes. Nobleman? Too well-armed... ah-ha. Sit, sit!" Dumbfounded, our hero did as he was told, taking a seat to the older man's right. "You are a knight on a quest." Gods be good, how many people know of my journey? the new arrival had to ask himself. "I am Ser Nash Lydden - and you are a wise man," he stated, in the same language.
"I am only Moredo, the navigator," the bald-headed man replied as he took a fresh piece of parchment and dipped his quill in the perfumed ink pot by his side. What he started drawing the knight could not tell at first, but then he began recognizing the shapes - they were his maps, painstakingly put together from a dozen different sources, but what he had wasn't even a third of what his latest acquaintance showed him - and out of memory, no less. "What is this?" the Braavosi triumphantly demanded, turning the drawing toward him. "The Freehold," came Nash's reply, no more than a surprised whisper.
"Yes, the Freehold," Moredo agreed, blowing on the parchment and rolling it, presenting it in that fashion to the knight, who gratefully took it and put it in his sleeve. "That is yours. For a boon, I will come with you."
"If it be in my power to offer, it is yours," came Nash's reply, perhaps a bit more flustered than he'd have wanted, with a learned flourish; he saw, much to his satisfaction, that the older man smilingly acknowledged it.
"I would walk those cursed lands with you. I would tell their ghosts this: Behold, the masters are vanquished, the dragons lie dead and the slaves have risen. Behold, for Moredo pisses on your ashes and Nash plunders your cities and learns your secrets." The older man seemed quite sober, but the glimmer in his eye and the sheer hatred in his voice had to make the knight wonder. Nevertheless, those truly smart were often addled in some way; Archmaester Pendleton had said as much in one of his tomes. "This boon I grant unto you, upon my word," he replied, earning himself another smile from the older man. "We leave as soon as I'm done," the navigator decided, returning to his drawing of the girl and allowing Nash to finally enjoy his sweetened wine and yet another few songs.
No sooner had they left that they encountered Cossomo, with a large grin on his face, dressed in new clothes from head to toe and caressing an ornate crossbow; on his back he sported a full quiver and he proudly informed his new employer that he had also sent a few other crossbows, although none as good as his beloved, as well as sufficient bolts for them to the ship with the money from his generous donation. It was so that the three of them finally left and made their way to the dock meant for foreigners, where the Hope, as he had named his vessel, was alive with the cheer of a feast. As the two latest additions to the crew went up and introduced themselves, Nash took a few moments to admire her once more. She was the crowning achievement of his efforts up to that point and, with some luck, she would be well enough manned to survive a journey to Valyria and back.
When he finally set foot on the deck, Arnulph, the son of his man Blueberry, who had learned the letters, rose to greet him and presented his leader with the lists of supplies they had obtained for that night's celebration as well as the Hope's hold. They were well-stocked in meats and fruit alike, with barrels of wine and casks of rum that, with some luck, would suffice to satisfy a crew like theirs for a journey twice as long. Nash had opened his pockets graciously and even so he was still not close to ruin, as so many others would have been, thanks to the aid of Josmyn Martell. Things were good; only one thing remained until he could enjoy his feast.
"Captain," he addressed the Tyroshi, clapping him on the shoulder with a friendly gesture, "let the men enjoy themselves, but not too much. We sail on the morrow, as soon as the wind is good."
Total word count: 2299
Even with such good tidings, there were still concerns that the knight needed to address soon. They were still some sailors short ; the Dornishmen could have taken to the oars in a pinch, if they had any such things to speak of, but they didn't; they relied solely on the wind and the skill of the men at the rudder and on the sails. The captain assured him that they would be able to find good slaves as close as Tyrosh or Lys, which would also have solved the problem of the cook, but Nash, who was 'too Westerosi for these lands', as Arvanites sometimes said, preferred all his men to be with him of their own accord. They had also been able to acquire maps that estimated the contour of what was left of Old Valyria, but he still knew too little about the actual risks that awaited them there; he had to find someone who knew more about the Smoking Sea or even the nimblest ship to ever brave the waters, as his new vessel was boasted to be, would surely find itself destroyed. She was a true beauty, that one, small, lateen-rigged and narrow of keel; it had been built for travelling far and away from the sight of land, pushed by strong winds and guided by the able mind of a captain who could read starry skies as well as he did maps. Times were changing for shipwrights and sailors and they were right there, in the vanguard - but it was his job to worry about the needs of his men and the requirements of their voyage, so worry Nash did... if only to keep everyone else focused on their tasks.
A few hours and several taverns later, the setting sun found our hero in better spirits. He had been able to enlist a cook, a large hulk of a man who made even the simplest of dishes he'd tried taste delicious, as well as a young rapscallion who'd used to be a tailor's apprentice and had taken to mending sails. They would both be highly useful, the knight told himself, but it still seemed as if the most important part of the journey would have to rely on luck, skill and hearsay - he didn't like that final part at all. He also didn't like the bravos who seemed to pop up everywhere his steps took him; one in particular, a small man of slight build, stood surrounded by three fresh corpses as Nash ducked into an alley; careful not to move his hand toward his blade nor to even look at the cove directly, the Lydden heir hadn't managed to take more than three steps away from him when he heard the bravo call after him, along with the familiar sound of steel being drawn from its sheath. As the shorter man advanced on him, likely to issue a challenge, Nash acted quickly. Pivoting on his right foot, he sent his shin crashing into the bravo's thigh, following up with a firm grasp on both his shoulders and a coarse knee to the man's gut, dropping him to the ground, where the Braavosi immediately proceeded to throw up a vast amount of wine and some remnants of his dinner.
"Yield, I have no quarrel with you," he growled in the Common Tongue as he drew his own sword and pointed it at his would-be foe.
"For shame!" The slighter man hawked, spat, coughed a few times and threw Nash a sorrowful look. "Three good foes has Cossomo Dothare bested at once, THREE, and now a barbarian takes him down like some child!" He seemed quite coherent and he spoke in the Common Tongue as well; thankfully, his rage was mostly directed at himself, but something about his name made the knight's eyebrow arch.
"You wouldn't be a relation of Narbo Dothare, the shipwright, would you?" he enquired, some amount of curiosity obvious in his voice.
"His nephew, what of it? He does not build for the likes of you." The smaller man's bright blue eyes measured Nash from head to toe, from his simple Westerosi tunic to his dusty boots. "No! Oh-ho-hooo, this is rich!" With that, the bravo burst into laughter. "You are he!" he declared, pointing an accusing finger at the knight. "The fool who would take the most beautiful ship in the world to a fiery grave!"
"Just so," said Nash, plainly, mimicking something he'd heard a lot during his time there. "I am Ser Nash Lydden."
"No, Ser Fool is who you are and fooler I for doing so. Have you maps? A helmsman?" He paused, studying the older man's face for a few seconds. "Just so," he sighed. "Put away your club, fool, and help me up. We go to the Poetess, find you Moredo Antaryon. He is the man you seek without knowing."
Nash duly delivered and it was so that they made their way to the more beautiful parts of Braavos, where few foreigners trod - an area that made Nash, in his simple garb, appear even more out-of-place, but the blustery bravo by his side seemed to be enough for them not to have any trouble. Cossomo would join him on the voyage as well, after all, and he had been talking the knight's ear off about the benefits of having crossbowmen at sea for a while until Nash, visibly annoyed, felt obliged to ask him whether he knew any crossbowmen as well.
"Lhana. That is the name of my love. I am one, but I am no crossbowman without her. For wine from Yi Ti I have pawned her and I am a man lost now. Two dragons, two from your pocket, and I get her back!" His tone grew increasingly pleading as he spoke, the look of confusion on Nash's face finally disappearing when he figured out his companion was speaking about a weapon, not a woman. "Two dragons from my pocket," he replied, taking the sum from a pouch on his belt and pressing them into the bravo's hand, "and buy yourself bolts and a few changes of clothes with what's left after you get Lhana back."
"Perhaps you are not Ser Fool after all," Cossomo replied, with a grateful smile. "Come!" They ventured within a building that seemed more like some rich man's home than a whorehouse, but they weren't in Westeros anymore; in Braavos, they had courtesans and they were not only for pleasures of the flesh, even he knew that. However, he wasn't ready for the enticing floral scents that clung to every piece of furniture, just as he hadn't been ready for the slow, melancholic song carried by three diaphanous voices accompanied by a high harp. "That is he," or so the bravo whispered, breaking the enchantment, as he subtly pointed toward a bald-headed man who had at least a decade on the knight; he kept peering at a young lass who stood unmoving, looking as if he was drawing her likeness on a piece of parchment he had before him. "I will join you here when my love is in my arms once more," he added, taking his leave.
With the echoing of the song's final notes, Nash moved toward his target in his usual stealthy way, accepting a slender goblet of wine from a nearby beauty with a curt bow of his head and a whispered thanks. As the singers took pause, he approached the man's table. "Moredo Antaryon?" A simple question that, from most men, gained the asker a simple answer. However, Antaryon was not most men; indeed, the torrent of clipped words in High Valyrian that he offered was yet another thing that Nash found himself unprepared for.
"And who are you? Not from here. Qohor? No beard. Westeros? Has to be. Clothes from there. Assassin? No. Paid my debt. Pirate? No. They have their own men. Trader? Own routes. Nobleman? Too well-armed... ah-ha. Sit, sit!" Dumbfounded, our hero did as he was told, taking a seat to the older man's right. "You are a knight on a quest." Gods be good, how many people know of my journey? the new arrival had to ask himself. "I am Ser Nash Lydden - and you are a wise man," he stated, in the same language.
"I am only Moredo, the navigator," the bald-headed man replied as he took a fresh piece of parchment and dipped his quill in the perfumed ink pot by his side. What he started drawing the knight could not tell at first, but then he began recognizing the shapes - they were his maps, painstakingly put together from a dozen different sources, but what he had wasn't even a third of what his latest acquaintance showed him - and out of memory, no less. "What is this?" the Braavosi triumphantly demanded, turning the drawing toward him. "The Freehold," came Nash's reply, no more than a surprised whisper.
"Yes, the Freehold," Moredo agreed, blowing on the parchment and rolling it, presenting it in that fashion to the knight, who gratefully took it and put it in his sleeve. "That is yours. For a boon, I will come with you."
"If it be in my power to offer, it is yours," came Nash's reply, perhaps a bit more flustered than he'd have wanted, with a learned flourish; he saw, much to his satisfaction, that the older man smilingly acknowledged it.
"I would walk those cursed lands with you. I would tell their ghosts this: Behold, the masters are vanquished, the dragons lie dead and the slaves have risen. Behold, for Moredo pisses on your ashes and Nash plunders your cities and learns your secrets." The older man seemed quite sober, but the glimmer in his eye and the sheer hatred in his voice had to make the knight wonder. Nevertheless, those truly smart were often addled in some way; Archmaester Pendleton had said as much in one of his tomes. "This boon I grant unto you, upon my word," he replied, earning himself another smile from the older man. "We leave as soon as I'm done," the navigator decided, returning to his drawing of the girl and allowing Nash to finally enjoy his sweetened wine and yet another few songs.
No sooner had they left that they encountered Cossomo, with a large grin on his face, dressed in new clothes from head to toe and caressing an ornate crossbow; on his back he sported a full quiver and he proudly informed his new employer that he had also sent a few other crossbows, although none as good as his beloved, as well as sufficient bolts for them to the ship with the money from his generous donation. It was so that the three of them finally left and made their way to the dock meant for foreigners, where the Hope, as he had named his vessel, was alive with the cheer of a feast. As the two latest additions to the crew went up and introduced themselves, Nash took a few moments to admire her once more. She was the crowning achievement of his efforts up to that point and, with some luck, she would be well enough manned to survive a journey to Valyria and back.
When he finally set foot on the deck, Arnulph, the son of his man Blueberry, who had learned the letters, rose to greet him and presented his leader with the lists of supplies they had obtained for that night's celebration as well as the Hope's hold. They were well-stocked in meats and fruit alike, with barrels of wine and casks of rum that, with some luck, would suffice to satisfy a crew like theirs for a journey twice as long. Nash had opened his pockets graciously and even so he was still not close to ruin, as so many others would have been, thanks to the aid of Josmyn Martell. Things were good; only one thing remained until he could enjoy his feast.
"Captain," he addressed the Tyroshi, clapping him on the shoulder with a friendly gesture, "let the men enjoy themselves, but not too much. We sail on the morrow, as soon as the wind is good."
Total word count: 2299
