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Tavern Hall - The Hawk and Dove Tavern, Trademeet


A relatively new establishment, the atmosphere of The Hawk and Dove is one of joviality and quaint ambience that is often crowded, smoke-filled and noisy with the banter of voices circulating within the room. It is here that locals come to drink, converse, game and generally relax and amusement themselves without the worries of their often hard and dreary life.
Like any good tavern, one can find refreshment or ease at the long expanse of the finely polished bar or perhaps at one of the many tables that await a friendly visitor.
Looming large within the far wall rests a fireplace where the average man could stand clear within. The furniture is clean, comfortable that has been made of highly polished wood with the chairs having upholstered seats.
All of the furniture looks brand new, or nearly new, though some already show signs of a few nics and scraps from fights or clumsy customers. The wooden floorboards are regularly swept clean and are polished to perfection. At the far end of the room is a long bar with a large menu hanging upon the wall over head.
Off to the left side of the bar is a door leading to the tavern kitchen where succulent aromas waft through the doors into the main room. A pattern of roses intricately carved upon the rails of a wooden staircase leads guests up to the rooms on the second floor where exhausted travelers can rest and relax. The walls have been white washed which adds contrast to the darkly stained timber crossbeams over head.


Marisa holds the door for the other two before stepping in after them. The blonde removes her cloak, shakes it off a bit, and looks for a nice corner table. "'S been a while since I's been 'ere," she remarks to Dalayna lightly, "Las' time were a righ' mess."


Thayndor Zahir steps in after the girls, wordlessly, and moves off to the side, where he teases at the clasp of his cloak. He pauses mid-motion, looking at the brooch in his hands, facing away from them with his soaked cowl up over his head.


Dalayna shakes her head as she follows, pulling back the hood of her own cloak, to reveal a wet mass of braids and loose hairs flitting near her face. "I dunnae tha' I e'er set foo' in 'ere. Th' only time I were ou' this a way, was when we wen' pas' th' aegis."


Finding a suitable table, the blonde girl hangs her cloak over the back of a chair and sits, "'S a good place. A L'masa owns 't, dough I's ne'er met 'er. 'Ard te b'lieve dis town 's L'masa terr'toreh now... Shoul' prolleh nae be 'ere, but 's nae realleh dat big a deal I's guessin'."


"Those were the days, weren't they?" Thayndor says over his shoulder, tugging off his cloak. He's still cupping the raven brooch when he turns around, the garment dripping on the floor. "When things were as simple as a journey by boat into uncharted territory or a fight with Wildlings." He smiles wanly at Dalayna. "Hello, healer. It's good to see you again." There's a spot of blood on his left shoulder.


((Note from KallynLake - There was a pose that had nothing to do with the scene here... No idea where it came from.))


Dalayna, who of course had barely noticed the man before just then, quite quickly tunes in to the signs of injury. Her look of surprise quickly turns to concern, the two emotions warring with eachother. She does finally remember to curtsey quickly, "M'Lord", looking at his face before her gaze traces his entire form, and then returns to his shoulder.


And she's not the only one. Marisa stands again and frowns, brows knitting as she looks at the spot of blood. Her tone is low for the sake of privacy, but worried as she asks, "When'd dat 'app'n te ye's?" She forgets greetings entirely, or perhaps just skips over it for the sake of convenience. She, too, scans over the man for other signs of injury.


"Hmm? Oh." The Zahir looks down, touching the drop. "A scratch. From the, ah, other day," he explains to Risa. "I must have been rubbing at it. We can tend to it later." He looks around the room. "Let's find somewhere quiet to talk."


Dalayna looks about the room suddenly, her eyes widdening as some thought occurs to her. "Per'aps we ought t' go upstairs m'lord?"


"Aye, 'pstairs soun's good," Marisa remarks with a nod. She retrieves her cloak and then talks to the innkeeper for a bit, before procuring a room key and returning to the others. The teen smirks at Dalayna, then, "R'lax, aye?" and starts for the stairs.


Thayndor Zahir chuckles. "I would say that sounds untoward," he quips, drily, "but I think that is no longer an issue." Wringing his cloak out first, he hangs the garment near the door and moves to follow up the stairs.


Dalayna stops at the bar, where she receives a few tankards of liquid before following last, balancing things carefully.


The Hawk and Dove Tavern and Inn - Guest Room - The Hawk and Dove Tavern, Trademeet


A rather simple sleeping chamber, sized for economy of space, with a pine-framed bed, polished oak wardrobe and an angled writing desk and chair. Oil lanterns provide light at night, while round glass windows allow daylight in during the day.


The teen leads the others to the room and leads them inside. Her cloak is rested carefully in the wardrobe (a temporary arrangement) and her packpack hefted from her shoulder and lowered to the floor. Marisa rubs at her shoulders where the straps were at and mumbles something involving the word 'heavy', before finding herself a spot on the wall to lean against.


Thayndor Zahir is last in the room, and closes the door behind them. "I appreciate the effort, and will reward it when I can," Thayndor tells Marisa, fumbling with the lock. "You were successful, I take that to mean?"


Dalayna sets the mugs on the top of the wardrobe, watching carefully how Thayndor moves. She says nothing at this time.


Thayndor Zahir might be a bit stiff in the back, but isn't moving with real trouble.


Marisa nods, "Aye, I's gots ev'rehin' but a weap'n fer meh. Ye's din' 'ave anehtin' I's aneh good 't usin'." She tilts her head, then, "Lor' Esv'n was dere. Show'd up nae long af'r meh. I's tol' 'im I's was gittin' ye's some clodes an' yer moneh... 'E 'ad a mess'ge fer meh 'n de ud'rs wut work fer ye from de Duch'ss..." The teen doesn't elaborate just yet, instead smirking at Dalayna and remarks, "'E's shoul' 'ave stay'd a bit long'r te git te ye's 's well, Mis'ress."


"Oh really," Thayndor says, drily. "What was the message?" He fiddles with something at his waist, and offers a sheath to Marisa. "Take this. I can do without it."


Dalayna frowns slightly, though she seems to be more looking at Thayndor than actually thinking on Marisa's words. "I ne'er met th' lad. M'lor', woul' ye do m' conscience th' favor of removing your shirt?"


"Tank ye," the teen says, taking the blade and looking it over, before going back to the topic. "Basic'leh... She wants us te be pickin' a side. 'Ouse Za'ir o' ye's... if'n we's be stayin' wit ye, well... Lor' Esv'n mensh'n'd sumtin' 'bout lettin' a loy'l s'rv'nt die wit deir mas'r," Marisa says, her tone rather soft. There's a strange coldness around her for a while, but when she continues it is gone, "She's piss'd, aye. An' 'pparent'leh she's was gon' give ye's 'er answ'r te ye's mess'ge 'n pers'n. Don' like de sound o' 't, mehself."


Thayndor Zahir gives Dalayna an odd look. "Again, it's a scratch," he says, but, after a brief look at Marisa as well, tugs off the shirt. "I believe she is behaving irrationally," Thayndor notes. His scarred torso has been bandaged about the midriff with what looks to be the remnants of a tunic. "Hysterically, in fact. But it is, of course, entirely my fault. Neither you nor the members of my House should suffer the consequences of my troubles or her poor judgment." He glances up at the both of them. "If you insist on tending to me, Dalayna, then by all means I shan't refuse it. And if you've questions about how we came to this point I will answer them. After that, I would encourage you to make yourself whole from whatever coin Marisa brought from my vault, then disassociate yourself from my memory. That goes for you as well, Marisa."


Dalayna frowns, then immediately begins removing the tunic remnants from Thayndor. She occasionally run her fingers over scratches here or there, frowning at spots, before moving back to the chest, and beginning to pull a number of small pouches out of her pocket.


"Aye, I's 'greein'... Nae meh place te speak, min', an' I's were nae dere, but she's seemin' te ov'rreact," Marisa remarks. She regards the man thoughtfully, almost wistfully, before shaking her head with an odd smirk, "I's nae goin' aneh'ere. Ye's dun too much fer meh te jes' turn meh back 'n ye like dat."


"It wouldn't be turning your back," Thayndor replies. "It'd be doing what I told you." The man's back, chest, stomach and ribs are pocked in an almost complete sleeve of scar tissue. Dalayna, being well-versed in stab wounds, could certainly identify rapier slashes, claw marks, stab wounds. The two fresh ones -- one in the back and one in the shoulder -- look like they were caused by arrows that didn't quite go deep enough to cause serious harm. "I"m not sure how much help you'd be. I'm not sure what she intends to do, exactly, except make threats."


Dalayna's eyebrows are furrowed as she stares at Thayndor's chest, her fingers working quickly to open a number of small to tiny pouches, and adding a pinch of this or that to each of the mugs in front of her without actually watching what she does. At some point, so picks up one of them, sniffs it, then nods and pulls out a small piece of cloth. "This mae stin' a bi' m'Lord." Is the only commentary she has on the conversation at all as she dips the small white piece of cloth, immaculately clean compared to her outer garments, into the mug, before applying it to the arrow wound in the shoulder, almost digging into the wound with the liquid soaked cloth.


"Well, ye's did say I's nae good 't followin' ord'rs unce," the teen remarks to Thayndor. "I's nae much 'elp 'n dis, aye, but I'd rad'r be dere den nae. 'T de leas', if'n she tries te folluh de threats wit acsh'ns, I's kin 'elp d'fend ye's." Marisa grins, then, "Ligh', an' 'ere I's though' I's 'ad a migh'eh good c'llecsh'n o' scars."


"I know," Thayndor says, nonchalant. Then he hisses a quick breath as she digs in, grousing. "Shades," he breathes out. "-Every time- ...." The outcast sighs, looking up at Risa from under his eyebrows as Dalayna tends to him. "I've led a significantly longer life than you have. And I'm just as bad a learner. I'm sure you can do the arithmetic."


After sufficiently tormenting. . . er tending the wound on his shoulder, Dalayna moves around to Thayndor's back, and begins doing the same to the hole in his back.


"Aye, but I's liv'd 'n de Shaduh Distr'ct fer de firs' 'alf o' meh life an' were a band't fer de las'," Marisa points out, "'Less ye's been goin' out 'n lookin' fer trouble ye's 'ole life... which I's kin see ye's doin, all told...," the blonde teen winks and then continues, "Ye'd tink we'd 'ave 'bout de same o' sumtin'. Dough I's kin nae see anehtin' 'n dere quite like wut Godr'c did te meh." She stretches out, raising her arms, and declares proudly, "I's kin lif' meh arm ov'r meh 'ead 'gain!"


"I haven't had a real drubbing in years," Thayndor replies to Marisa, by way of explanation. "Although that might change." His look grows serious again. "I'm not kidding. There are times when I don't think twice about expecting people to put their lives before mine, you know that. But this isn't one of them." He winces again at Dalayna. "Shadow's bite," he curses. "Are you this rough with -everyone-?"


Dalayna shakes her head, though as she's behind Thayndor the gesture isn't overly effective. "Nae, canna ye smell th' infection? Wha' di' they do, rub th' arrows in th' dirt afore fireing them?"


"That's the most you've said all evening," notes the outlaw, over his shoulder, at Dalayna. "Did Marisa tell you what I've done?" He sniffs the air, as if searching for the scent of the infection she mentioned. "Is it really infected?" He cranes his neck, twisting as if he'd ever really manage to get a look at his back.


"An' dere was a time when I's tol' ye dat I's woul' nae put ye's life afore mine," Marisa points out, "I's don' do dat fer meh boss's. Save ye's breath. I's chang'd meh min' 'bout dat fer a reas'n." She shakes her head, then, and adds, "I's din' tell 'er, nae. I's tol' 'er ye's sit'ash'n, wut she'd know from de news criers, but nae wut ye's acsh'leh done."


Dalayna's glare is quite visible as Thayndor turn's his head. "Nay, I know naug a bi' o' wha' ye 'ave done, cept left yer keep t' run itself, meanwhiles the Imperials decided tha' they wan' th' royal navy t' be runnin' th' rivers, an' order 's to disband." She then steps back to the chest, grabbing the second mug, and moving Thayndor's head back forward gently with her hand as she moves behind him again.


"It's worse than I thought, then," Thayndor says, hanging his head. "You've known I was touched by Shadow." He swallows. "Several moons back, when I disappeared, it was because I had gone out to test myself against that ... part of me. It was a fight that has been raging ever since. I wandered Fastheld as a beast that Voreyn Zahir had seen and that I had promised never to show her again. But thinking the only way I could win ... I was losing ... was with help, I moved the battleground to her doorstep." He rubs his face with his hands before adding, "which I subsequently fled amidst a hail of arrows."


The teen listens to the retelling, pale green eyes drifting off in no particular direction. Marisa has gone cold again, and remains silent for a time, before crouching down to shuffle through the backpack. She pulls out a suit of obsidian ringmail and moves the pack to the wall. "Ye's lett'rs an' 'nud'r suit o' arm'r 's 'n dere. Also -" Risa starts unloading. Quiver and bow are set beside the pack, and some spare clothes from the nobleman's closet find their way to the wardrobe.


Dalayna sighs and shakes her head as she slathers a wet paste that smells slightly minty into the wound, covering it with a fresh wrap. "Tha' means ye likely gave th' infection t' yourself, livin' as ye were. I only hope I caugh' i' afore i' could spread inside ye. You'll need t' be drinken th' contents o' this mug, an' I dunna wish t' hear a single word abou' th' taste." She moves in front of him, holding out the third mug from the table with an expectant look as she waits for him to take it before she can salve and bandage the shoulder wound.


Thayndor Zahir eyes the mug suspiciously. "I expect I've had worse," he says, taking it and downing it. Lowering the mug from his lips, he coughs. "I take that back," he quickly says, wiping his hand with the back of his mouth. He looks across at Marisa. "Thank you for fetching my things. The letters are especially important to me." As Dalayna ministers to his shoulder, he turns the mug over in his hands. "I'm not sure if the fury in your eyes is directed at her or at me," he says to Marisa. "In truth I think we may both deserve it."


"'T her," Marisa says, "Ye's need'd 'elp an' she's turn'd 'n ye. Don' care wut ye's were, dere's nae 'xcuse fer 't." She lets out a bit of a sigh and then rubs at the back of her neck, "I's... tinkin' I's shoul' git 'nud'r room an' try te git some sleep. Jes' gon' piss mehself off if'n I's keep tinkin' 'bout 't, aye." She retrieves her cloak and folds it about her arm before looking around to make sure she covered everything.


Dalayna slathers the salve into the shoulder wound, covers it with a small wrap, and then begins to wind a long, skinny stretch of fabric around Thayndor's arm, across his shoulder to his midsection, and around his chest and back, then back again, varying the route until all the wrappings are secured. The strange conglomeration still allows full arm movement, unless extreme sports tricks are attempted. "I dinnae thin' I had time t' 'ide th' flavor m' Lord. There. Tha' should 'old ye, though i' would 'elp iffen ye could stop gettin' sho' a' for th' time bein'."


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