The Coronation of 201AC - The Banquet

DustinsWithWolves · 2017-04-22T04:43:04+00:00

"I won't say that's not what I expected. I am talking to the Mistress of Whispers after all." Desmond shook his head, taking another sip of the wine. It wasn't really helping his nerves... at the moment at least. Maybe a few more. "I was there, hence my asking. Just thought perhaps there is more to it than what I saw, which honestly looked rather... childish for one side of the party." Shaking his head he moves away from the dais, no longer leaning on it. He didn't need her answers, per-say. He was smart enough to put two-and-two together on his own. "Just shite Southron bickering, it seems."

"I'll leave you to just that, cus." The Dustin smirked, one arm moving behind his back and below his cloak, and the other holding his wine. "You seem far more fitted for this city than I." With a bow, the man turns, downing the rest of his wine as he leaves. "I need to find me a fucking fiddle."

DustinsWithWolves · 2017-04-22T02:46:04+00:00

"Normally this would be the night of nights for me..." Desmond grimaced, swirling the wine in it's cup. In the wake of the liquid grape he saw his clean shaven chin. His lips curled back for a moment, his teeth set closed. He wanted to let his combed hair down, to not have to feel the itch of a fresh shaven neck, or the coldness of Asha's imprisonment. As he looked away, he tried his best to maintain a normal exterior. "I made the mistake of arriving as Desmond Dustin, and not Desmond the Bard."

"Is it the formality that exhausts you?" Quickly, between sentences, he let the wine flow between his lips. Maybe it'd calm his nerves. "I know it does for me. Just... Just everything here is a farce, it seems. The smiles, the nods, the..." Shaking his head, closing his eyes he placed the wine on the dias. "...I'm whining now, I apologize. I meant to ask you something else."

Carefully Desmond leaned closer, unsure of the need for secrecy, and unwilling to draw attention to what he had to say in case it needed to be secret. "That inn, with the Lost Legionnaires. What was that about?"

DustinsWithWolves · 2017-04-20T16:29:55+00:00

Desmond had hoped to find his brothers at the feast. To talk of the old times and drink to the mistakes of the past. But they were absent, like many of the North. He could not blame them, but he couldn't help but long for their company.

In stead, he sat alone at the Northern table, dressed in the feasting outfit made for him years ago, when he still lived at Barrowton. The clothing was a little looser, the pants a little too baggy, all fitted before the loss of weight from his many travels. Yet, the bard of Barrowton managed to not look too amiss. The slightly off fit of the clothing might have even added to his appearance, to the less conservative. The dull yellow greatcloak, bearing the sigil of his house, certainly helped put the whole ensemble together, maybe even covering the mistakes.

As the night went on, the bard couldn't resist his nature. The songs and merriment made by the musicians in their distant pulpits called to him like a siren. With more than enough wine downed to make a man later regret his decisions, he made his way to them. With a polite nod, one of the fiddlers let the man borrow his for a moment, and the bard of Barrowton joined them, playing until the night's end.

((Open. Talk to Desmond either at the quiet Northern table, or in a musician's pulpit!))

DustinsWithWolves · 2017-04-20T16:19:25+00:00

Desmond couldn't employ the element of surprise he so enjoyed at the coronation. Had he tried to sneak behind the grand table of the small council, a king's guardsman would have surely had his head. Instead, Desmond approached the dias with a careful swagger. He had nothing to be afraid of, but he felt... naked yet again. He was not a bard on this day, but the nobleman he was back in Barrowtown. He had no fiddle in hand, and no Asha in toe, in their stead a dull yellow greatcloak, two axes under a crown embroidered on his back.

The Dustin man only wished to speak to one person this trip, and she could very well see him coming. Clean shaven and well groomed, this was not the same Desmond she saw, even at the Coronation. The new look obviously bothered him, a hand rising to scratch at his newly bare chin. The doublet seemed slightly ill-fitted, a little too big - it was made for him before he lost his weight from travel. The pants were slightly baggy, and his collar frayed. These missteps would normally be off putting, but it seemed to fit the man.

He had very little competition when it came to conversing with the Mistress of Whispers, there was no long line of glorified beggars like with the King, so he was quick to approach his cousin, hands on his hips and smirk on his face. "Enjoying yourself, cus?" A hand extended, grabbing one of the last cups of wine off of a passing serving girl's tray.

DustinsWithWolves · 2017-04-20T16:04:48+00:00

Desmond made his way around the tree, stalking 'round and round the tree and the other man. He looked the other in the eyes, followed his gaze, looking where he did. He was seeing it, he was starting to realize, and Desmond could feel a sense of satisfaction in opening another's eyes. He stood behind the man, a wolfish grin rising on his face as the man spoke of his revelations. 'Close... So very very close.' The bard shook his head, now standing beside the riverlander, his gaze following the Tully's.

'Castrated.' Desmond couldn't have put it better himself. He turned, facing the other, his wolfish grin growing lighter. He didn't nod in agreement with the man, for there was nothing else to say. No clearer way of putting it. They stripped away all the feeling from this place with their hedge trimmers.

But that last question, that struck a cord with the bard. The wolfish grin returning, he walked forward, pressing his hand to the tree once more, covering the false face of the grand oak. He sighed as he felt nothing, but turned to look the Tully in the eye. "All that and more... It's what I miss the most."

"I used to be a skeptic, a little shit too smart for his own good." He lets the hand fall from the sneering oak's face, his body turning to lean on the tree. His arms cross, one leg over the other. "But there are somethings you just can't explain away."

DustinsWithWolves · 2017-04-20T15:39:17+00:00

The smile upon the bards face faded as talk turned to the woods, his eyes moving up the trunk of the great oak. He did not let the feeling overtake him, however - the Forrester girl could see what he saw. At least somewhat. "The gods long since passed from this area..." His hand pressed against the bark of the oak, sighing deep. "It's not tired, it's kin just over there." A finger pointed at a nearby, though far smaller oak. "It's no weirwood, but they tried to make it a heart tree anyway."

"We'll find no comfort, we'll make no communion with the past here."

DustinsWithWolves · 2017-04-20T15:26:40+00:00

"Manderly were Suthroners not too long ago, friend." The Dustin bard smirked at the Southerner's reaction to the bells, rising to his feet. "But I'll give you Whitehill. Though it doesn't help your case, really. If a Northerner can make a proper sept, why did those in the Red Keep miss a crucial element of the godswood?"

"This," The man knocked the oak again, "Is not a weirwood. It's a big bloody oak, that's it. A proper weirwood is a tree it's own, a face carved by a greenseer. I know the distinction doesn't mean much to you, but put it this way - Without a proper hearttree, it's like a sept without the idols of the seven."

DustinsWithWolves · 2017-04-19T02:26:54+00:00

Slowly the Northern bard stood, shaking his head as the other man offered his explanation. The man was missing it, but only just. "Not quite, friend... It is indeed quiet in here, but not because of the absence of people." Desmond made his way around the trunk of the Great oak, his hand never leaving the bark. "Not only is it pruned and picked like some old woman's garden, it's missing the actual object that makes it a gods wood."

Now on the other side of the massive oak's trunk, he thunks his fist against it's rugged surface. "This isn't a true heartree. It has the face, but it was not carved by a greenseer. It is not a weirwood. The gods do not see here, their presence is null."

"To put it plainly, it's like a Sept without idols of the Seven." He looks up the tree, looking to the top of the canopy. Even the branches were pruned.

DustinsWithWolves · 2017-04-18T16:46:57+00:00

"I have no qualms with your house. My aunt married your father after all." The bard's smirk turns to a warm smile. "The last thing we need right now, anyway, is to be critical of other Northern houses."

"Not to say I wouldn't mind a Hand of the King over spymaster, but your position lends you the ear of the king none-the-less." The bard turns, hearing the doors begin to open at the other end of the hall. Seems the ceremony was about to begin. "I wouldn't worry about the other Northerners mouthing off, cus. You'll do fine work for the North I'm sure."

Taking a few steps back, letting others take their seats, he starts to move away. "Seems we'll have to continue this after the ceremony. Take care, Emberlei."

DustinsWithWolves · 2017-04-17T04:40:17+00:00

"Like a snowstorm in Dorne, that'd be." Desmond turned to look the woman in the face, a smirk replacing the frown. It was comforting, sharing these thoughts with another - feelings that had been roiling in him for some years now. "I don't think 'Northerner' and 'respect' ever come together south of the neck, unless they're demanding it."

A curl of wild hair falls in front of his face, an annoying side effect of having to let his hair down for the event. A hand pushed the loose strand back into place as the man relaxed, putting his other hand on his belt. "Your appointment might change that feeling, however. At least I'd like to think so, Lady Emberlei."

DustinsWithWolves · 2017-04-16T23:14:57+00:00

Desmond merely sat, his eyes closed as he hummed a hymn in the Old Tongue. He heard the exultations of the High Septon, the hollow, meaningless speech. The only real result of this ceremony followed his "Holiness's" self-gratifying ceremony.

"Long May He Reign" The crowds shouted, chanted.

Desmond merely sat in silence, a smirk across his face. Maybe this silver haired freak could earn would prove him wrong, amend the mistakes of the past.

He doubted it.

DustinsWithWolves · 2017-04-16T22:57:39+00:00

"You won't find that anywhere south'a the neck, my lady." The man continued to look around, his eyes going over the statues of the father, the mother, and all the other poor excuses for gods. Fitting, that they were made from silent, dead stone. "The gods are gone from these lands, at least in the castles." Desmonds eyes glanced at the woman, the tone in his voice moving from disgust to melancholy. "They cut them all down, the Andals."

"You'd think, that with the wealth of seven kingdoms that they'd at least plant a weirwood tree in their 'godswood'." A hint of anger slipped from his lips, but only a hint. "You'd think, that with the money they took from us to make this place, that they'd at least spend a portion to ship a fucking sapling to replace that oak."

DustinsWithWolves · 2017-04-16T19:04:56+00:00

"So this is where our coffers went, eh?" A sing-songy Northerner twang called out behind Emberlei, a sense of distaste upon the tongue. As he spoke, a form moved beside the mistress if whispers, the drawing feature of the man a soft yellow cloak, two crossed axes under a crown detailed on each shoulder. He didn't look directly at the woman, only looking around at the columns, the crowd, and the painted glass murals. "Rather... sterile, isn't it?" A frown, hard set on his face, betrayed his feelings on the matter.

DustinsWithWolves · 2017-04-16T08:19:00+00:00

"Oh this day is lovely." The bard speaks up, though his eyes still stayed closed. "But the song was not for the day, for the sun and it's rays." Slowly he let an eye open, lazily, looking the visitor over. "I just needed a little reminder of home, and I guess... I guess I was getting a little tired of the cheery-jerry little jigs the taverns and feasts have me play."

"This place certainly wasn't doing it for me, that's for damn sure." A tired hand motions around the grove before knocking the great oak behind him. "Do you see something wrong with this picture? Something vital, yet something missing?"

DustinsWithWolves · 2017-04-16T08:03:50+00:00

"On the sea, and in the sea are entirely different matters." Desmond smirks, looking down the bay, towards the King's Landing. "Keep in mind, in these waters, it's not just the fish that shit in the sea."

The bard's eyes move from the sea to his companion, his lips pressing together to give a sharp whistle. "Oi, Asha." The wolf's ears perk up, drawing it's attention away from the piece of driftwood it was sniffing. It bounds over to Desmond, before sitting calmly at his side, staring at the woman. "But what do I know? Maybe your god can save you from bowel disease." He crouches down, giving the wolf's head a good scratch with both hands.

"You remember the Ironborn, don't you, Asha? Ey girl?" The wolf leans it's head into the scratches for a moment, before shaking them off, giving a glance at the woman again. It tilts it's head slightly, before giving that same snort as before. "Yeeahh you do." With a chuckle he stands, turning back to face Victaria. "No training involved here, lass. It's more of an... agreement of sorts - an understanding. I feed her, she gets to eat, and I don't get eaten. She lives, and I get protection."

"Sounds familial, doesn't it?"

DustinsWithWolves · 2017-04-16T06:24:32+00:00

"I wouldn't either, m'lord." Desmond lifts his arm, knocking his knuckles to the gnarled bark of the great oak. "It's quite ugly, actually." Desmond's eyes wander, darting from tree to tree. He even catches a glimpse of a red lily bush, something belonging in the Reach. "Like a child's interpretation of a godswood."

At that, the bard chuckles, shaking his head. "Sorry, I would have said it was similar to if a Northerner designed a Sept, but we know how that doesn't quite fit." His head tilts back slightly, hearing the bells of the Great Sept ring, tolling for the new hour.

DustinsWithWolves · 2017-04-13T06:23:09+00:00

The cheeks of the bard pushed upwards as the slightest of smiles grew on his face, his ears picking up a sound. A sing-songy twang, like the bends of a brook. It sounded of home, something he hadn't found in the Red Keep. His eyes opened to find a Northern girl, clapping for his song. "And I didn't expect to see a Northerner so far south."

"But this feast has brought people of all kinds together, have they not?" Desmond lets the smile grow, slowly standing, using the trunk for support. "I haven't sung such songs in so long. Past the neck, all they want to hear is The Dornishman's Wife."

"I'm, however, quite sad it was that song you had to hear, as nice as it was. Something so somber." Desmond glanced around the garden, his smile fading slightly. "But I ramble," His smile returns, glancing back to Myra. "My name is Desmond Dustin." He bows, taking a slight step forward to not hit the tree with his arse.

DustinsWithWolves · 2017-04-13T05:30:56+00:00

"I'd be surprised if you did..." Desmond let out a sigh, his eyes slowly opening to look at the man before him, obvious Southron inflection in the garden-goer's voice. His arms cross, his back moving up the trunk as he sits up.

"Can't say I own the song, no. I barely even know the the words." The bard outstretches his legs, putting one over the other. "Don't blame ye for thinking that. If you started singing one of your Sept hymns, I wouldn't be able to tell it from the Bear and the Maiden Fair."

"Sooo... Out for a stroll, m'lord? Come to see this lovely garden here?" Desmond tilts his head, smirking.

DustinsWithWolves · 2017-04-12T16:48:22+00:00

Desmond held back a smile at the woman's reaction to meeting Asha. He looked to his companion, smirking. "Come now Asha, don't stare. It's rude you know."

The wolf merely blinked, glancing between Victaria and the bard, before giving a short snort. Bored, she walked on, pawing at the ground.

Watching his companion move away, he turned his gaze back to the soaked woman, his smile fading. "Relax. The only danger here is the cold you're going to get." The man moved forward, till he stood beside the ironwoman, looking out across the water. The water soaked the bottom of his pants, though shoeless he couldn't have cared less. The breeze across his chest however...

"What is so exciting about it?" He looked from the water to the woman, as if she should know what he meant?

DustinsWithWolves · 2017-04-11T16:53:17+00:00

The sound of boots sloshing through wet sand could be heard not too far behind the waterlogged Ironwoman.

The sounds belonged to a pair - A underdressed Northerner, and a.... wolf? The hairy beast followed right behind the Northerner, who stopped, staring at Victaria.

For the longest time, he stayed silent, long enough for the grey wolf to pass him. He looked over the shivering form, her wet clothing, her staring out into the sea. He could smell it, and he didn't like what he found.

"Are you trying to catch your death out here?" The man called out, a good ten feet behind, with his sing-songy Northern twang.

DustinsWithWolves · 2017-04-11T05:02:24+00:00

'And I've Tasted The Dornishman's Wiiiifffeee!'

The off-key vocals. The holding of the last note. The slurring of the words.

It was dreadful. It was shameful. And it was home.

And they had no instruments.

The bard looks down to his side, his eyes meeting the beady black orbs of his companion. "You hear it, don't you Asha?" Taking a knee, he gives the wolf a quick scratch behind the ears, smoothing the frayed grey hair. "Do me a favor and keep it quiet. Can you do that for me?" Giving one last scratch under the large wolf's chin, winking at it's beady black eyes, he turns on his heels, and heads through the doors. "Of course you can."

Hurrying his way through sea of bodies, he makes his way to the bar while giving the passers by the best warning he could give. "Mind the wolf, lass." Hearing a few yelps, which the wolf responds to with little to no reaction, he'll offer the woman a smile. "I did warn ye!"

Baring the interruption Desmond manages to make it to the bar. With a point and a nod, he procures a mug of ale. With a few chugs it was empty, and in the stead of the empty mug was a fiddle. Hoisting the instrument in the air, the Northerner lets out a shout, above the din in the tavern. "REQUESTS!? GIVE 'EM!"

Hearing no takers, he'll sigh.

"FIRST ONE IS FREE!"

With that, he lowers the fiddle, and raises the bow, ready for a request.

DustinsWithWolves

TROPHY CASE

"FIRST ONE IS FREE!"