Swing Anna Miss

Title: Swing Anna Miss
Time Period: October 2, 135 A.E.
Characters Appearing:

Summary: It's your standard barroom brawl.

A tavern. Whatever would a pirate and company be doing in a tavern? Drinking. That seems to be the most likely answer. Individuals who responded as such when surveyed and picked this option would be rewarded with the warm fuzzy feeling of Being Right.

One particular pirate props up the bar, with a foot on the bottom of a stool to strike that manly pose that is so often associated with rugged men of the sea. The opposite elbow rests upon the counter-top, adjacent to an empty mug with his arm extending upwards so the hand can cup his chin in a pensive manner. The question of 'What do you want to drink?' is one that bears some serious thought at this point.

The stool, upon which his foot resides is home to a Carys who is being surprisingly patient while the exceptionally well-coated rapscallion takes his bloody time. "Wine." he decides, with some finality in the tone. Eyes glance to the woman, a brow arching upwards in query.

Though the taste of fine liquor has begun to give Jorn a vaguely bitter aftertaste, the cheap stuff seems to work just as well as it always did. Perhaps his tastes are telling him something, perhaps not. Whatever the case, he's withdrawn again, back to certain protocols when he starts his socializing. Not that he'll be telling what those are, of course. Personal notes. That table he recently would share with anyone who wanted to sit with him, is now empty more often than not. Something about that surly glare resurfacing.

Jorn is, in fact, thoroughly sloshed at this point- his current ale is still in his hand- though it can be hard to tell when his expression is the exact same as when he came in a couple hours ago. Thankfully, nobody has bothered him- under that bristle of white mantle, however, he is somewhat disappointed about that, on an emotional level. He was doing pretty well this year. Socially, anyhow.

"When in Scotland," Carys murmurs with a shrug and a smile for the tender. "Whiskey, that'd be." She's already made her feelings about most of the wine in the area known to Rhagfyr, but if there's one thing Scots do well, it's Scotch whiskey.

She turns on the stool to cast her green eyes on the room, taking in the night's patrons with an arched brow that seems just a touch cynical. "We should make a run soon, I think. I'm feeling a little landlocked," she murmurs to her captain before reaching for the glass pushed in front of her to take a swallow of the scotch within.

A night at a tavern is never a peaceful thing. When there's liquor, there's noise. There's sloppy dancing and riotous laughter. Layered over conversation and some music from a small band in a corner. Even the sound of raised voices isn't abnormal.

The argument could be one of the thousands that happen when too much drink mixes with bad blood. What really makes it stand out is when one of two men gives the other a firm shove. It sends a tall, wide-shouldered farmer stumbling into Carys, shoving her none-too-comfortably against the bar and — worst of all — makes her arm catch the drink freshly set in front of her. It slides toward the back of the bar, sticking a little on the very edge, like it might just be able to stay upright. But it's a moment's hope, only to be dashed upon the floor beyond, a shatter added to the din.

Rhagfyr's opinion on the local wine has also been voiced to anyone that will listen. However, it's gotten to that point where undoubtedly excitement will increase if drinks are mixed and everything goes to hell in a handbasket. Some knick-knacks and trinketry are slid across the counter in offerance for the beverages.

"I do like it when my missus forces me upon my mistress." the pirate muses as he gives his glass a skeptical look. Perhaps this wasn't the best choice after all. "Think we can arrange that, reackon it'd make Bernie happy. I've not stabbed a man in far too long; this town's been all too quiet since that old man got done in."

His timing is quite impeccable, it seems. Facing out across the room and not noticing the impending collision until it's all too late. Much like the game played with toddlers, where the hand crosses the face and brings with it a changing of moods, the rogue's expression darkens at the man's carelessness. Drinks can be replaced. But young ladies unpleasant impacting into the counter puts the action in the man.

The foot, that was on the stool, moves quick sharpish to place a well aimed blow in at the back of the man's knee with the intent of making him fall to the floor. A hand hoversdrunkenly wavering juuuuust slightly above the sword at his hip as he stares at the other man. It ranks as a Pol Pot rating in the 'if looks could were a mass murderer' chartings. "Best back the fuck up and apologize, sir." No smile.

The northman in the corner is halfway into opening a hunk of nutty, hard bread picked from the table, when things slowly begin falling into further ruckus. He is able to tell troublemaking from the usual racket, yet if you asked how, he couldn't say. His gut, maybe. He chews a corner from the harvest bread as men start getting shoved about, a drink shatters, and that wily little pirate captain takes offense enough to start flailing back.

Jorn stays put, for now, staring out across the room with that bit of bread still crackling under one cheek. There is a slim- large- chance that he wanted some time out alone without things getting smashed about. Five- four-

The petite form of Carys, no matter how fierce she is with her bow and arrow, is easily knocked by the larger man. She winces when her back contacts the hard edge of the bar top, and frowns as the glass shatters and liquid splatters her boots.

Slowly and deliberately, she reaches to brush off a couple of drops from her breeches as well, before angling her face upward to peer into the farmer's face through. "And you owe me a new drink," she says coolly, reaching up to tuck a piece of curly tawny hair behind her ear.

[OOC] Carys says, "afk a couple"

The shoved man goes down, knocking into stools before he hits the ground. Too drunk to manage to catch himself. But he's also too drunk to care about a little pain. So while pirates glare and swear, the farmer mutters things unintelligible as he starts to get back to his feet.

The shover, however, just sort of trundles over, ignoring the sea worthy couple to pick up the farmer by his shirt. When he goes to punch the first man, though, the target goes limp, sagging heavily out of the man's grip. And that punch, intended for a totally different face, swings toward Rhagfyr's instead.

And it seems with glass shattering and hits being delivered, other people in the bar have noticed, and while some of them might be trying to keep the peace, there's enough that seem ready to jump in once the fight comes their way.

It's not Rhagfyr's first time at this sort of dance, but it has been a long evening of drinking which may explain the slow reactions. There's a lean back, just a little slow which results in a satisfying thud of fist against cheek.

This is almost enough to make him drop his wine, but it's also not the first time he's been punched in the face. There's a grimace, at first. Then the pain sparks the imagination and the battle fever, bringing the man to life. He seems far more dangerous when he's got that smile on.

Obviously, this cad cares little for injuring bystanders so a plan of attack is quickly formulated. Eyes cut left, cut right as his body rolls to regain center. An arm snakes about Carys' waist, pulling her off the stool in a manner that she'll hopefully follow though on; wrap about the neck, swing out to the side. Either way, he aims to move her out of any further stray fists but also to free up the stool.

Step 2. Foot gets hooked around base of stool, quick lift, push forward; ideal outcome - stool goes flying toward attacker's groin.

Step 3. Never let an opportunity pass. With Carys up close and personal he attempts to steal a kiss from the lass while continuing with step 4, which is to smash the fellow in the face with the wine glass.

Threetwoone. Right. Watching this ensue is entertaining enough for most, though it would probably be less so if the farmer's attacker didn't decide to bring the pirates into it. Everyone knows who they are, to some degree, whether from clothing or commiserating. Jorn is one of those that appear more than ready to start into something if it comes close enough, but then again, his eyes are already red, and when he stands, it's quite like watching a topheavy column prop upright. A loom here, a sway there, yet both feet still on the ground.

He hasn't put down that bread, even so. It's not as helpful a weapon as Rhagfyr's sword, no. Not quite. Or as helpful as that- stool.

Close enough.

There's a dance-like quality to the way the two move, with Carys easily gliding out of the way so that Rhag can get even with the man who just punched him. "That's going to bruise," she points out as he moves to kiss her, but tips her head and does a playful little kick-up of her foot — it might be just to be cute and coy, but it serves another purpose — catching her original assaulter (if accidental) in the knee.

Carys disengages from Rhag's embrace to hook that foot around the farmer's leg and sweep him to the floor once again, if possible, to mop up the glass and Scotch. She's just helping out the inn staff, really.

With The Marquess of Queensberry rules being cast aside, chaos erupts. The man doubles over and crumbles to a knee, while the farmer gets up to receive the glass to the face whether it was intended for him or not. He clutches his face with one hand, but swings a punch toward Rhag and Carys, not seeming to care which one it hits. He's not sexist.

But it isn't just there. Bottles are swung and broken over people's heads, chairs are hefted and likewise broken. Jorn's standing up is taken as some sort of threat, because one of the chairs hits him across the back, sending chair legs flying and the bearman forward in his topple.

It would be terribly poor form to get hit again so soon, yet Rhagfyr almost nearly takes one for the team, in trying to further twirl Carys out of the path of the swing. It's a continuation of their routine, with elbows hooking about one another as though line dancing and twirling about before separating again while keeping a hold of her hand.

Bottles and chairs are one thing, but the dashing fellow isn't quite ready to actually stab or shoot anyone for their insolence. Everyone enjoys a good bar room brawl, after all. Instead, there's a little flicker of concentration to go with the smile and a hop, skip and graceful little jump takes the lightfooted pirate up onto the bar. Telegraphed for the girl with a little whistle so that hopefully she's ready to be pulled upwards and make the leap for glory herself.

The bar is somewhat like a shooting gallery, with drinks and empties all ready to be kicked out into the melee one after another. He's already let go of the hand now, shoulders rolling as he slips out of that long and flowing coat and flicks it around with a flourish to slap the face of a young man intent on savaging the female pirate. From this bar vantage point, he surveys the chaos with a self-satisfied smile and considers options.

Tilting forward is more alarming than tilting to the side or backwards. There's the omnious shift of gravity, and suddenly your face is liking the view below. In Jorn's case, his luck prevails when the table is still in front of him; he feels the wooden thud across his middle back, muffled by the white pelt and the rest of him. Still, it's a mentally sore spot, and it aches far more than is physically necessary. Another unnecessary mess is the one he creates when Jorn drops the bread, grips the edge of the table that caught him, and flips it head-over-heels into several men busy throwing punches at one another. Not before picking his drink back up, of course. He's still going to waste the rest of it.

Regardless of who actually decided to swing it at him, whoever is at his back by the time the northman turns around- gets the brunt of his temper. The mug is a better blunt force than the butt-end of a bread loaf when going in for a T.K.O., yes?

A couple of running steps sends Carys leaping up, catching Rhagfyr's hand, though it seems like she may not have actually needed it — it adds to the pas de deux quality of their fighting. Once up, she throws a kick to catch the jaw of one patron fighting another; he's a stranger to her and so is his opponent, so it's likely she's just helping out for the fun of it. And fun she seems to be having, a smirk on her face as she hops over someone's arm as they swipe for her.

Carys glances back at the bartender and then over to Rhagfyr. "We may get banned from another establishment. We're going to run out of taverns one day," she says in a quick aside.

The bartender sighs and drops behind his little barrier. This is probably why the good liquor isn't out on display. His hand can be seen now and then, sneaking out to slide back a glass that hasn't been broken yet, saving what he can. He doesn't bother with the furniture.

People who notice the table coming dive out of the way, although there are a couple who failed to notice before it landed on top of them and squashed them to the floor. But they're drunk enough to laugh at their situation, a bit uncontrolled. But others take it as an invitation. While the smarter (or soberer) folk make for exits, bottles come flying here and there, one or two of them aimed at Jorn. A few more passing close by even though they were aimed elsewhere.

The pirates seem to have an edge in their part of the bar, probably from being able to tag team, as opposed to the every-man-for-himself mess that is the rest of the tavern. But as Carys tosses her aside, she's tackled by another patron, landing back on the wood floor with a thud. But this one seems to be on the way out because he scrambles over Carys and toward the door. And it's easy to see why, as a larger woman is chasing after him, stool held over her head. Ready.

Well. Nothing makes Rhagfyr more annoyed that yet another person going for the girl. This is, after all, how it all got started. The smile takes a colder edge as he tries to prevent her falling and fails, then gets to witness her being trampled. OOooooh. A glance upwards, calculating odds and angles with a practiced eye is how the next act begins.

Twirling his wrist, the coat gets wrapped up like someone's about to get a beating with a wet towel and the Air infused feet go to work once more; pushing off from the bar in a graceful arc and planting a foot in the face of someone trying to rise from the floor in order to gain vertical momentum. Fingers latch on to the edge of the support beam, allowing him to swing forward.

The first order of business is to whip the coat around, aiming to swat and tangle and distract the woman with the chair so she doesn't also trample Carys. It's thrown out with abandon, benevolently since undoubtedly someone will snatch it up and tell tales of how they secured it from the dread pirate and it will become a much storied family hierloom. Rhagfyr improves the life of the small folk in his own way.

That done, he's carrying forward with his sweep, clutching the cord of a hanging light to direct himself forward in a final flying leap (nevermind that this rips the light out along the way). Hands splay out, aiming to wrap around either side of Mr. Tramply's head and smash his face into the floor.

Jorn lifts one arm to block incoming bottles from smashing into his face, though the ones directed at him specifically fall just a little short. It's all about trajectory, which drunks lose skill with rather quickly. What you don't want to do, is 1) pick a fight with a bear, and 2) make him even more angry than when you started. While his body is approximately proofed against glass, his hands are not- one is cut open along the side where he blocked off the bottle, and his wiping liquid from his face leaves a light red smear as it goes.

There is no swinging or punching from Jorn, at first. A seething pause takes placement there, followed up by a bellow of air from the nord's lungs, marbled by the unmistakable sound of an animal from deep inside of his chest. Dornians are more than familiar with the white bear, but this is something else- people are less intimate with the berserker, for better or worse. It is all in the eyes. And the teeth. And the bulge under the reddening skin at his temples.

One boot planting on the overturned table, Jorn wrenches a bat-sized leg from it; the next male antagonist to come within reach gets snatched around the neck- or collar, if he's lucky- with his other hand.

Boy — That Escalated Quickly.

Many young women might squeal or scream when flung to the ground, but Carys doesn't — there's a slight grunt of pain, but she's quick to move, scuttling out of the way of the woman with the stool and getting her back to the bar for some shelter.

There's a broad and toothy grin when Rhagfyr goes flying through the air; her eyes follow the coat when he parts with it, darting out to disentangle it from the woman with the stool if she can. If she has to fight for the coat, she will, of course, even if the woman looks like she outweighs her by quite a bit.

The coat goes flying. It tangles with the legs of the woman's stool and covers her face just long enough to slow her down. But only for so long, since Carys is there to snatch the coat away again. The woman might have fought her for it, but she's just too befuddled to react.

A lot of the brawlers have to stop and look as there's a man swinging about the place, jostling the lights if nothing else, so he has an audience as he brings the man's face to meet the floor. It's dirty down there. And dirtier for the blood splatter and teeth that rattle against the wood. But he's out in one swoop, to the laughter and clapping of those watching. It's all in good fun!! Mostly…

Where Jorn starts to take the fight to the Next Level. His hand grips around some poor fool's neck — a young man, as it turns out — and the younger man braces himself or whatever's to come next. It's likely this isn't even one of the people that went for Jorn, but that's how it goes in these things.

However, before he can do something drastic, there's the sound of gunfire that seems to stop most of the fighting and brings everyone's attention to where a few militiamen stand near the door. One has a gun out, aimed upward, rather than at anyone. A warning. But these are the men with the gun and the assumed authority. And on duty.

No officer, of course I don't have my hands on some gentleman's bloody hair after making him one of the least handsome fellows in Dornie. Not at all. Standing with affected innocence, Rhagfyr even breaks into a quiet whistle. Nothing to see here, as he absently brushes some plastering off his shoulder as it wafts down from the fresh hold in the ceiling.

Taking stock, the forced nonchalance continues as he checks upon the current status and undamagedness of Carys. His gaze then lingers on the bear for a moment, seeing what the man will do to his unfortunate young victim in the face of the militia presence.

"You alright there, annwyl?" he asks, of his companion, back over the shoulder as he sidles toward the bar and away from the men with guns in case they're feeling enthusiastic. Hand enters pocket in that slow way that cries out 'I'm not reaching for a weapon'. What's it got in its pocketsies? A bag of assorted payments, is the answer. No small amount, which is set upon the bar, just about over where the bartender might be hiding. Cough, cough.

There is a lurking presence just underneath of Jorn's face, and it isn't the angry vein on his forehead. His nostrils flare once as he takes stock of the man he's grabbed onto, only to be interrupted by the sound of a pistol. The poor fellow in Jorn's grasp is having a lucky night, that's for sure. Teeth gritting together, the skinwalker looks over the militiamen before shoving the young man abruptly onto the hard floor.

Could be worse. He could be missing a limb. A snarl of air and curse word comes next, and Jorn tosses the wooden rod across the floor as well. Any furry guests hiding under the surface are nearly gone, though that bloodshot rage in the rest of him is going to take some time to die down. All he wanted was a night out in town. Damned pirates, starting barfights that they can't properly finish. A good viking finish, at least.

Carys tosses the coat over her shoulder like some pose out of a magazine or catalog from eras long forgotten. She tries to look innocent as the militia survey the room. It's not hard for the small Welsh woman to look innocent, because she has that sort of doe-eyed and waifish look. But unfortunately, she's known to be one of the pirates, so most people know it's just a look.

"Bored now," she laments to Rhagfyr, stifling a yawn that is more dramatic than genuine.