Drunk and Disorderly

Title: Drunk and Disorderly
Time Period: December 24, 134 A.E.
Characters Appearing:

Summary: Two warriors, lots of alcohol, two swords. Don't worry, they have a medic.

It's been a good night. Bridget's attempts to be more social generally come with copious amounts of alcohol, and this one was no exception. By the time she and Jorn stumble home, it's a wonder she can hold herself upright at all.

And like all ideas that spring into the drunken mind, it's hard to say why sparring sounded like a good idea to either of them, but at the moment, the grounds around the manor have been appropriated for practice grounds. Bridget is still clearly off balance, given the way her sword is sort of holding her up between attacks, but the smile on her face does give away that she is enjoying herself. Even if there's a cut or two on her person.

Sparring is not a safe game, kids.

So it's a wild swing when she picks up her sword and steps toward Jorn to continue. At least adrenaline is decent at clearing the mind.

It may be more of a problem if Jorn should begin teetering in his balance- there is twice as much to come a-crashing down to earth. Thankfully, he has not reached that point, and happens to become the place where others might put themselves back onto feet. He is much less averse to being grabbed, when he has had his fill of ale. Being that he was with someone of likeness, she only seems to make it that much more effective. They all but sprawled out of the pub.

Even in the chill of the season, the warmth of his heavy cloak was a bit much for the occasion; the mantle sits atop a nearby stretch of stone wall, part of which borders some of the grounds. The empty hood overlooks such drunken events with what can only be called rumination, paws crossed against the granite. Still, Jorn's armor lends him a haze, and when his breath puffs, it comes like a cloud from a bellows.

Jorn does not use his bastard blade as a prop, his slight favor of the right leg seems to be using his left for it. He all but drags his left boot when he shuffles back from the wild swing, hefting up his own sword with one hand to take tip to edge and push her swing even wider and towards the ground.

"Kommer pa, Bridget." He tends to say her name in two halves, even when he's sober- and this time the slurry 'bridd-gett' is accompanied by a laugh.

Neither drunk nor wielding a sword, Cordelia comes around the corner of the yard; it is Argyle who notices the sparring before she does. As dogs are wont to do, the deerhound notices the activity and goes loping in that direction, barking with excitement.

Unless someone's crying, he's apt to think of it as a game — luckily for the two fighters.

The dog jumps up and down around the two, tail whipping the air as it kicks up snow.

Cordie is dressed for bed in her nightgown and a hooded robe, though she wears boots for mucking about in the snow to let the dog out. She stares at the two grownups in their play — taking a moment to determine that yes, indeed, it is play and that no one has gone insane on this winter's night.

"Are you drunk?" she calls, not very discreetly, hearing Jorn's slurred syllables. "I don't know that you should be playing with swords when you're drunk…"

Bridget's sword getting knocked aside causes her to follow it around a bit in a turn, and she has to sort of reorient herself a bit before she picks up her sword again. "Is that laughter, I hear over there, old man?" Of course, she, too, is laughing by this point, which doesn't help her sound at all intimidating. "You should be so grateful that I'm—"

Oh, there's a dog suddenly. Bridget rests her sword against her shoulder - on the flat side, thank you - and looks up to fine the young girl coming along with it. "What? Drunk? Us pair of upstanding examples of citizenry, why I never, Cordelia."

"I would not be laughing if I did not have something to laugh at-" The northman huffs back, cheeks as ruddy as if he had been outside for the entire day. The barking gets Jorn's attention faster than the mutterings of the girl, somehow, and he lowers his sword, point into the ground, his other hand slapping at one knee to call the dog. "Hei, hund, hvordan har du?" His hand ruffles the top of the hound's head.

"Dunnae about her, but I am." Jorn lets out a short guffaw, lifting himself away from patting the tall dog, He teeters back a couple of steps in the process. His face suddenly creases at the sides of his mouth and eyes, giving a squint to Cordelia. "What are you doing out of bed, muna?" She isn't nine anymore, unfortunately.

The dog wriggles under Jorn's hands at the pleasure, tail lashing the cold air. When Jorn stands away, the dog bounds over to Bridget for his share of her attention.

"Oh, like anyone could sleep with you two clanging blades out here," she says, though she's clearly not upset about any disturbance to her sleep. "And Argyle needed let out. It's not that late."

Her words are belied with a stifled yawn, and she makes her way to a bench in the yard to sit and apparently watch. "Who's winning?" she asks brightly, pulling her feet up onto the bench with her to keep them ou of the snow, and wrapping her robe tightly around her knees.

To her credit, Bridget is careful about where her blade lands as she kneels down to ruffle the dog's fur herself. No doubt riling the hound up even more. As if he needed it in the middle of the night.

"Practice makes perfect, little cousin," she says as she tries to pull herself to her feet. It takes a moment. "Oh, I think the whiskey is winning, technically," she reports, pulling her blade up with her, "But! I stand by the idea that it's good to know how to fight with a little fire in the blood. You never know when you'll have to draw a blade, after all." Eventually, she even manages to get into a ready position.

"Tha's one good thing about being an old man." Jorn takes his hilt again, drawing his sword up from the ground. No wonder she has a few knicks- that thing is sharp as the wind, and looses from the earth with ease. "I've had more practice." Being a fool drunk with a sword, that is. He wipes the tip on the opposite leg, before tipping it upwards into the air and readying it again. His feet plant firm, despite the favor of one over the other.

"Whiskey's winning and Bridgie's losing."

Cordie whistles to the dog to get it out of harm's way, unintended as it would be. When he bounds over to her, she loops her fingers through the collar it wears to keep him from re-entering the fray.

"God save Dornie should we ever get attacked on a night of revelry, is about all I have to say on that note, practice or not," Cordie says a little impishly. Clearly she doesn't put a lot of stake in her cousin's ability to fight while under the influence of rum, Scotch, or whatever else Bridget might have been drinking.

"Neither of you are a vote of confidence just now," Bridget notes, not even in her right mine enough to object to the nickname. But she takes a moment to crack her neck before fixing Jorn in her gaze.

When she charges forward this time, it's still not as skilled or smooth as she usually is with a blade, but there is more focus there. She was fine embarrassing herself with Jorn, but perhaps less so with the girl about. Her swing is lower this time, aiming for a spot his sword isn't, at the moment.

He is right, though. This wouldn't be the first time that Jorn has a sword in his hand and a hand in his liver, and certainly not the last. The young woman's crack of neck and glare seems to at least make its way past the initial layer of his thoughts, and the man cracks his lips in a half-smile, half-grimace. He won't bother goading her, she does it on her own.

The greatsword arcs to the side and away, meeting the other blade when it arcs back up, Jorn's free hand partly on the hilt to effectively steer the strike. The steel rings like a bell, and he pushes upwards to deflect her back those few steps she'd made.

The teenager gives a little bit of a squeak, covering her eyes and peering out only when she hears the clang of steel on steel instead of a softer, more sickening sound of steel on flesh.

"Please don't do anything that makes me have to work tonight," Cordelia murmurs a bit wryly. While she trusts both Bridget and Jorn not to kill one another, one can't blame her for not wanting to practice her new trade on her family members.

When sword hits sword, Bridget presses her hand against the flat of her blade, too, and while Jorn slides her back a bit, she takes the moment to land a sharp kick against his gut.

Of course, being suddenly on one foot makes her stumble back, and she only just manages to keep herself upright. "It's just some friendly sparring, Cordy," she says, apparently not worried abotu them seriously injuring one another, either.

She is probably lucky that she didn't kick lower, come to think of it. Jorn grunts and falls a step back. "Vennlig, ja." He comes forward once Bridget is paying proper attention again. It isn't a true battle, so he waits the few seconds. Supposedly worth it. Jorn's horizontal swing is short, with an abrupt burst of power behind it, and from his slightly higher level.

"It's not the sparring but the drunk part that worries me," says Cordelia in a cheerful tone, now that she's satisfied they have enough sense to pull their punches so to speak, and enough blood in their blood stream (as opposed to alcohol) not to impale themselves on their own weapons.

She has no alcohol to warm her and shivers a little, pulling the hood of her robe tighter around her neck and head to block out the wind and keep the heat from leaving her small form.

Bridget manages to block the swing, but the angle and power behind it are enough to make her lose her grip in her current state. When her sword hits the ground, she looks down at it for a moment, and then back at Jorn and she is just drunk enough to opt for a more hands on approach.

She barrels in, ducking under his sword arm to plow a shoulder into his torso in an attempt to knock him down. Or at least surprise him enough to turn the sparring to a weaponless exercise.

Jorn certainly isn't one to spar with a sword when his partner is using a shoulder- it does surprise him that she does resort to it, but not enough to make him defend himself with a pointy object. She hits him rather hard, and between his attempt to drop the bastard sword, and his trying to get back, one of his boots has had enough of an awkward gait and slips out from under him. The rest of him goes down, and when he grabs Bridget by the arm, she undoubtedly will too.

"Waugh-" The coast is not one for snow on the ground during the day, so the ground is soggy, and the fresher evening snowfall makes keeping upright after such a shove- a special task. Jorn's sword, thankfully, has been dropped to the side as intended.

Cordie's booted feet crunch down into the snow as she hops up from her perch. "Jorn!" she calls out, hurrying toward the fallen man's side. She lands in her knees in the sodden, snowy ground to peer into his face, and Argyle follows to lap the Norseman's face with a slobbery tongue. The girl pushes the dog aside, reprimanding him with a Chht before looking back to Jorn.

"Are you hurt? Can you breathe? Did you break anything?" she demands.

Bridget does fall over as well, landing almost directly on top of him before she rolls herself off to the side to land on her back on the muddy, slick ground. She doesn't mind.

She also doesn't seem worried until Cordy does, and she sits up suddenly, too suddenly not to make herself a little dizzy, but she pushes that aside to look Jorn over as well. "Come now, that fall couldn't hurt a great brute like yourself, Jorn," it's a special way of showing concern, but her face shows it better than her words.

Jorn sputters out from behind the hound's licking, swatting the beast away as he is pulled off. He gives a bit of a breathless laugh to the teenager, waving her away and smiling all the while. When he sits up, it is with a clearing of his chest with a growl. "Glem det." Jorn twists to push Bridget back onto the damp ground, pale blue eyes mischievous. "I am not that old yet, you two." His reprimand is punctuated with drunken sniggering, but all in all, it is a serious notation.

"I smell mongrel spit." Well, yeah.

"It wasn't an old thing," Cordelia protests, brows still knit with worry. "Mister MacEvily is just Da's age and he slipped on ice last week and broke his tailbone." The teenager is full of stories about other people's laments and maladies these days.

Still, she trusts him to know his own body and rises from her kneeling position to step back and offer a hand to each of the fallen warriors. "Maybe you should both get to bed before someone breaks something for real," she says in her solemn manner that makes her seem 15 going on 40.

"Oh good, then I don't feel as bad declaring myself the winner," Bridget says with a grin across her face. She looks over at Cordelia, and she doesn't laugh at the girl's mothering of two older (much older in some cases) people, but there is a crooked smile by the time she's used Cordy's hand to get herself upright.

"It sounds like we're being ordered to bed, Jorn," she says as she scoops up her own sword to slide it back into the scabbard. Carefully. "I think she's trying to start a scandal," she adds, her hand ruffling Cordy's hair softly.

There's something precarious to using Cordelia as leverage- Jorn doesn't want to pull her down, anyway. He tries to right himself onto a knee before he entertains the girl's notion. He does, however, give both of them a wide look when Bridget intones that the girl meant the same one. The motion he makes to grab up his sword deftly misses, and he gets a handful of grass, left to try a second time and lift the blade to sheath it.

"I certainly hope not." Jorn tries to sound affronted, but he is once again laughing, effort falling flat.

The dog in the meantime has finally gone to do its business, so when he trots back, Cordie turns her feet toward the house, apparently having deemed that the adults will behave themselves if she is not there to chaperone.

Maybe.

She reaches to shove her hair back out of her face — it's messy enough without ruffling, though it's not like the ruffling makes a difference. "Goodnigh-," she manages, failing to stifle the yawn that overtakes the rest of the word and with that she heads back to the house, with a whistle for Argyle to follow.

Bridget just can't help a laugh, really. Aided by what's left of her alcohol buzz, it is a much more lighthearted sound than she ever gets sober. "Need help there?"

When Cordy turns to head toward the house, Bridget calls a goodnight after her and watches a bit just to make sure she really is going back toward the house. And while she doesn't help Jorn get up, she does wait around until he's on his feet before she heads for the house as well. "We'll do this without the drink next time, I promise," she says with a nod toward their recent sparring field. It probably isn't the first time she's made such a promise, either.

"We'll do what without the drink next time?" Jorn laughs warily, perhaps too loudly in his lessened state; he is half-stumbling to the stonewall to heft his cloak up across one shoulder, and then takes off after Bridget towards the house. "We need to use the servant door… we're covered in highland shite." Something something mud, which is incidentally smeared up and down his backside.

"Frue Ross would murder us while we slept, if we tracked it in…" A pause. "No, no, she would not wait until we were asleep."

"Sparring, Jorn. Tell me it wasn't so easy to forget," Bridget says with a laugh of her own. In truth, she'd be far more upset by someone insulting her fighting than most other things.

She swings back around at his advice, and she throws a sloppy salute his way before turning back around and adjusting her aim to head for the servant's side instead. But only a few steps in, walking isn't nearly fast enough and she breaks out into a run, jacket fluttering out behind her. The clang of her sword against her legs makes it the least stealthy run she could manage, but that isn't at all the point.