ANotEntirelyWelcomeVistitCorrynSince the conquest of Dorne, the Goose & Gander had served as a bastion of untamed revelry for the northern territories. Its brewer was greatly renowned and only five guests had yet to die of intestinal failure in the inn's long history. For a small amount of coin, travelers could be assured that the rats were clean and the beds were warm. As such, the common hall was regularly crowded and unruly with merchants, trappers, and men-at-arms. During festival, however, the smoke-filled den was positively lawless, verging on the murderous. Only a fool or a villain would brave the crush of drunken souls on such a night. Perhaps a fool, and most definitely a villain, Corryn Manderly delighted in the quaint atmosphere of the place. He stalked through the pressing bodies with a predator's confidence, slapping backs and trading smiles. The regular crowd recognized his handsome face and feral hair, raising their tankards and voices in welcome. Recent arrivals looked the wiry figure over, sizing up his fine cloths and brash manner. At the flash of his dark eyes, they quickly acknowledged the road-worn stranger as one of their own and returned to their business of drinking and dreaming of fortunes yet to be made. Odette, the plump red-haired matron of the Goose & Gander, noticed Corryn approaching through the crowd. She straightened her green apron and waddled over to him hurriedly. "Lord Manderly, if I live and breath!" she called. His infectious smile brightened at the sight of her, "Dearheart!" Corryn slipped his arms around her wide hips, pulling her close to kiss her soft neck. She giggled at his ticklish beard, slapping his chest. He kissed her nose and held her tight. "Mrmmm, my love, you smell like rosemary and hops." She wrinkled her nose, leaning back to slap his chest again. "And you smell like horseshit and old leather." "You wound me, m'lady! Tis but the perfume of the road. I thought you northern women less discerning than the timid girls of White Harbor." She touched his chin and chuckled, "No woman enjoys a man that smells like a horse's arse, m'lord Manderly." He reluctantly let her go with a playful pat on her rounded behind. "Then I shall concede to your olfactory prejudices and indulge in a bath posthaste. He paused, lightly brushing his long fingers over her wrist. For a moment, his dark eyes softened. "It's good to see you again, my dearheart." "And I you, m'lord," she said, blushing. "Your room is prepared as usual. Will you be eating in the common room tonight?" "No," he sighed. "If you would bring my meal to me after my bath, I would be forever grateful. The road was difficult." He brushed the side of his neck, which was still bruised from his earlier encounter. "I would rather retire early, as I am sure Lady Hardy will send for me soon enough. Considering her love for me, I will need to rest beforehand." Odette's face saddened, "So, I suspect you will not wish to be disturbed, then?" She regarded her feet, eyes downcast. He immediately raised her chin, gazing down at her with an impish smile. "Madame," he chuckled, "I have thought of no one but you since last we kissed. How can I face the morn without you breathing some life back into me?" She blushed brightly, slapping his chest. "Well, then, I'll, umm... get your food and hot water then." Corryn watched her waddle off and sighed contentedly. Odette wasn~Rt like the women of White Harbor. She was soft and warm where they were scrawny and cold. She was joyously honest where they were painfully proper. He enjoyed her laugh and the sounds she made in the dark. Ah yes, he mused, it is good to be back again. Half lost in the shadows, the man with a cast in his eye leaned back against the wooden partition that covered the lower half of the wattle and daub walls. There was something uninviting about him, something that meant he kept his table alone, despite the crowded inn around him. Even Arney, the potboy who was held to be moon-touched, slammed the ale pot down on the table without his usual slightly vacuous grin, and instead turned quickly to more agreeable customers. But the man with a cast in his eye seemed unaware of the veiled hostility of the patrons. His attention seemed focused on one man in particular - the River Wolf himself. Distracted, as he typically was, by the sway of Odette's hips, it took the sharp rap of a tankard on wood to call Corryn's attention elsewhere. He'd frequented the Goose & Gander enough to know Arney's moods. Although the boy was crazed as a Harrenhall rat, he was a masterful judge of character. Corryn's gaze drifted over the drunken and ruddy faces to find eyes watching him in return. Predators sensed their ilk wandering into their territory, and this was no different. The man certainly didn't belong here. It wasn't so much his appearance as the aura surrounding him. The others had noticed it too, but had chosen to ignore it. Corryn, on the other hand, rarely ignored such things. Except when a woman was involved, but that was another issue entirely. Never one to shirk from a threat, Corryn cut through the crowd toward the figure. He grinned in welcome, but kept his hand on his sword; loose and ready to impale the man to his chair. "Well met, friend," Corryn chimed. The other nodded, and then shifted slightly in his seat. For one moment it looked as though it might be to drawn a weapon from his boot - but then his leg jerked, shoving the chair opposite him backwards so that Corryn might, if he wished, take a seat. "It might be well met," he said. "Or it might more timely met than well. I've been seeking the River Wolf." Without pausing, Corryn grabbed the offered chair and spun it around in place. He straddled the chair in a fluid motion, resting his arm against its back. From his years of gambling along the Knife~Egambling, mind you, not cheating as some, perhaps many, had said. Corryn thought it best to have an easy escape when first meeting with others. Besides, it felt nice to have a solid piece of furniture between him and his new acquaintance, lest he be acquainted with a sharp piece of steel in the belly. "Well, found him you have, it would appear," Corryn boasted. "Although I must admit I am at a loss as to your name, my friend." "Ser Fouchon," said the other. A hedge knight then. Possibly a sellsword, on hire to the highest bidder. How he came by the 'Ser' was, perhaps, a matter open to question. Inwardly, Corryn sighed. Sellswords were rarely without purpose or patron. That he would seek Corryn out did not bode well. Considering that he was in Hardy territory this did not bode well at all, in fact. "Surly Toilet" still had a grudge against him after their previous altercation. And his spiteful type was certainly not above hiring someone to do in his enemies and he possessed the gold to do so. Stranger's Balls, he thought. Why does everyone want to mount my head on their mantle place? [Corryn] cocked his head, smiling stupidly. "Firstly, I must ask if I have offended thee in some form or fashion during my youthful year, have I? I do have that tendency, and if it is so, it would be best to be honest and avoid the blithe lilly-lollying that interferes with the prompt making of amends and the comradely inebriation to follow. Otherwise, I, Corryn Manderly, a man of few words or pageantry, am at your service." "Good," said the other man. "Good." Now that he had Corryn's attention, he seemed less certain about carrying the conversation further. He signalled Arney, who brought over two mugs of the hoppy ale that the Goose and Gander sold, and waited until the boy had gone away again. Then he said, "They call you the River Wolf. But how good are you on still waters?" A thin eyebrow went up at that. Perhaps Ser Fouchon was a client and not a killer after all. Corryn wet his lips with the ale and wiped the form from his mustache. "Certainly more than fair, good Ser. I have sailed every type of water, from the Seven Kingdoms to Long Lake, and know their ways and tricks. The Long can fool a man with its glassy sheen and calm days. Once the Northerly begins to blow, however, she transforms into another creature entirely. Is that were you intend to go, then? Or do you have other waters to ply?" "The Long Lake," said the other, slowly. "They say... there are marshes. Hidden ways. Dangerous paths to those who don't know how to keep themselves safe." He shot a glance at Corryn - although the cast in his other eye made it seem as though he was glancing around the room as well. "You know those paths?" This particular question did not sit well with Corryn; nor did the man’s furtive nature. Few had heard of the Ghost Fens, also called the Hungry Path by those that knew it well. And those that did know them avoided the Fens whenever possible. Even Crannogmen shied away from the choking maze of reed beds and thick grass. The mists /whispered/ there and sickly lights danced amongst the sedge. The bones of a hundred souls moldered beneath the black water; traitors, deserters, thieves, villains all. To actively seek the Fens out took a certain level of desperation. It was truly a place touched by the Others. Of course Corryn knew the Ghost Fens, and he had traveled them a dozen times. Certain cargoes and missives demanded exceptional levels of secrecy. But like a great many things in his past, he wasn’t about to reveal this to a virtual stranger. At least, not without a significant amount of coin being involved. He leaned forward, his smile fading into cold mistrust. “I know of them, Ser Fouchon,” he admitted. “But before I speak further, you must elaborate upon your interest in them. The question you asked carries great weight to it. So, let us hope the weight of your purse is greater.” "The Long Lake," said the other, slowly. "They say > ... there are marshes. > Hidden ways. Dangerous paths to those who don't > know how to keep themselves > safe." > > He shot a glance at Corryn - although the cast in > his other eye made it seem > as though he was glancing around the room as well. > > "You know those paths?" This particular question did not sit well with Corryn; nor did the man’s furtive nature. Few had heard of the Ghost Fens, also called the Hungry Path by those that knew it well. And those that did know them avoided the Fens whenever possible. Even Crannogmen shied away from the choking maze of reed beds and thick grass. The mists /whispered/ there and sickly lights danced amongst the sedge. The bones of a hundred souls moldered beneath the black water; traitors, deserters, thieves, villains all. To actively seek the Fens out took a certain level of desperation. It was truly a place touched by the Others. Of course Corryn knew the Ghost Fens, and he had traveled them a dozen times. Certain cargoes and missives demanded exceptional levels of secrecy. But like a great many things in his past, he wasn’t about to reveal this to a virtual stranger. At least, not without a significant amount of coin being involved. He leaned forward, his smile fading into cold mistrust. “I know of them, Ser Fouchon,” he admitted. “But before I speak further, you must elaborate upon your interest in them. The question you asked carries great weight to it. So, let us hope the weight of your purse is greater.” "The Long Lake," said the other, slowly. "They say > ... there are marshes. > Hidden ways. Dangerous paths to those who don't > know how to keep themselves > safe." > > He shot a glance at Corryn - although the cast in > his other eye made it seem > as though he was glancing around the room as well. > > "You know those paths?" This particular question did not sit well with Corryn; nor did the man’s furtive nature. Few had heard of the Ghost Fens, also called the Hungry Path by those that knew it well. And those that did know them avoided the Fens whenever possible. Even Crannogmen shied away from the choking maze of reed beds and thick grass. The mists /whispered/ there and sickly lights danced amongst the sedge. The bones of a hundred souls moldered beneath the black water; traitors, deserters, thieves, villains all. To actively seek the Fens out took a certain level of desperation. It was truly a place touched by the Others. Of course Corryn knew the Ghost Fens, and he had traveled them a dozen times. Certain cargoes and missives demanded exceptional levels of secrecy. But like a great many things in his past, he wasn’t about to reveal this to a virtual stranger. At least, not without a significant amount of coin being involved. He leaned forward, his smile fading into cold mistrust. “I know of them, Ser Fouchon,” he admitted. “But before I speak further, you must elaborate upon your interest in them. The question you asked carries great weight to it. So, let us hope the weight of your purse is greater.” The hedge knight gave a short laugh. "Not my purse, truly." Indeed, Corryn could have guessed as much from his threadbare, shabby appearance. But Ser Fouchon went on, "But there's one ... who is willing to pay a great deal of money for something from the Long Lake. Someone with purses long and deep - and filled with golden coin. "Something went into those waters, long years ago. And something may come out - for those who know how to look. And where to look." “And I suppose you know where, then?” Corryn said skeptically. He knitted his fingers together, leaning on his elbows as he talked to the man. Although more relaxed, he still didn’t trust the man one whit. “Just what is this ‘something’ that was lost, may I ask? Forgive me, but I am not so much the fool as to escort anyone, knight or no, into the Ghost Fens on half rumors and tantalizing tales of gold to be had.” "There's a map," said Ser Fouchon. "Half a map ... the best half. And I know ... I know where to buy the other half." He leaned forward, and Corryn caught the stench of foul breath - an odour of rotting teeth, sour ale - and something else behind; a lingering sickly sweetness. Corryn’s sensitive nose wrinkled at the hint of foulness. He’d smelled death more times than he certainly wished, and recognized its scent on his new associate. Wonderful, he thought. The old bastard will be likely be dead by the time we reach Long Lake to begin with. Corpses rarely paid their debts and were generally poor company. "You have silks to sell, I hear. But maybe ... I could buy your company on your journey back. And maybe that could yield a profit for us both." “Aye, that I do,” Corryn admitted, leaning away from Fouchon’s fetid breath. “Her grace and light of Holdfast possesses a taste for the finer things, it would seem. The transaction should be thankfully expedient and handsome, indeed, baring interference from her headstrong brother. SO yes, I will be free to take you to this place you seek within a matter of days.” His lips curled faintly; a half smile, half snarl. “Simply know this. I am a fair and honest man, Ser Fouchon, although many would attest otherwise. If you are true with me, I shall be true with you. My sword will be yours, and we shall share equally in whatever fortune we uncover. However… “Be false with me. Try to take what is mine. And I will feed your soul to the hungry ghosts and sell your bones as trinkets to the Harbor’s whores. If my frankness offends thee, I apologize, but my last companion tried to take from me and I we had a permanent parting of ways. I pray we shall not have the same?” Ser Fouchon smiled, showing teeth of a yellowed corruption. "We'll hang true together. My word as a knight on it ... " He extended a wrinkled hand. "We can talk more in the morning, if you want ... Sleep on what I've said." He glanced over to where Odette was standing, pretending to polish a tankard but in reality keeping an eye on him. "Or stay awake if you prefer ... " And he winked. |
