(514-08-03) Welcome to the Family
Summary: Rickard and Morag try to retrieve Caerwyn, and wind up meeting someone unexpected.
Date: 514-08-03
Related: None
creirwy caerwyn rickard morag 

Pendragon - Thursday, February 11, 2016, 6:09 PM

The Cony Sarum
May of the year 514. — Fri Feb 12 22:48:40 2016

Even at night, when the main wagon gate shuts and the guards tentatively let the few honest pilgrims on the road in after a thorough examination, the Cony is still open. It has had a reputation for being one of the finest inns in Sarum proper, catering to the likes of Italian merchant princes and French dignitaries for ages as Sarum Castle stood on the hill and overlooked the area with its usual gloomy foreboding air. Night in Salisbury is not a silent affair - crickets chirp in the summer heat, their leg-fiddles accompanied by the spare hoots of owls. A fire crackles anemically within the inn, the embers more for tradition than for the heat. Warm, muggy and alive with life, merchants trade war stories and price estimates over a mug of chilled ale, made with local barley and Salisbury-lordling-approved.

Speaking of which, Caerwyn de Burcombe - the Black Burcombe, heir to an unholy name, a ragged reputation, and some thirty or forty of the finest fighting men the Saxons never lived to see - is morosely sitting at the end of the bar, wearing the same silver-embroidered black tunic and a drab expression. His hair is lank, black and hanging off his head, while his scruffy beard - never one to grow a full beard in the grandest of times - has likely not seen a razor in ages. This is a man on the edge of desperation, staring straight into the abyss and seeing his reflection looking back at him at the bottom of his ale cup. Muggy, thin, honey-brown, a lank fellow with a melancholic expression. Like a forlorn gargoyle, he sits there, unmoving, staring at a spot behind the bar. His sword is at his waist, but he is otherwise unarmored or armed - the sword, covered with a fine layer of grit, looks like it has seen better days. He lets out a little *hic* before raising his mug to his lips. It's empty. He glances sideways down the bar and thumps his mug once. Not a single word exchanged. Ale is poured. Caer reaches into his pocket and slaps a single copper denarius on the table, before drinking again.

Rickard has recently had the current wedding edicts handed down, and by the gods, if HE got saddled with what he did, his older brother is going to man up and face the music as well. Which means grabbing Morag and beginning a Hunt For The Heir. By the time they reach the Cony, they've been a couple places already, but when Rickard ducks his head in and glances around, he almost misses the drunken lump in the corner, stops, then sighs and calls back outside, "Yes. He's in here. Come on, this isn't going to be pretty." With a sigh, Rickard straightens up and heads in, weaving around tables as he heads for Caerwyn.

"Are we going to need a bucket of water?" Morag hasn't even bothered with a cloak, it's such a warm summer night. The Cony isn't a dubious place, but Caerwyn, well, he's somthing of a dubious person. "Because I have a feeling this may require a bucket of water." Don't ask her how. Stepping in and up to Rickard's shoulder, she sighs when she espies the aforementioned drunken lump. "Oh. This is going to be so much fun." The corner of her mouth quirks in dismay. "And bound to get no better once we're home."

Caerwyn checked his recognize of 5, he rolled 15.

Out of the corner of Caerwyn's eye, he spies a shorter young man coming his way. Reaching within his belt, he suddenly pulls out a dagger - a cutting knife, that most knights or men reserve for cutting bread, meat or the like - and then slams it, blade-first into the bar. "Not another step, whoever the feck you are." Through groggy, ale-lidded eyes, Caerwyn peers over at Rickard and Morag coming at him. "You and the Furies - you can bring -all- of them, but I willnae go. Here I stand." He stands briefly - finding himself wobbling, before sitting back down. "… Here I sit. Back off."

Rickard throws up his hands when Caerwyn draws on him and stops his advance for a moment, though the voice he brings up isn't tinged with fear - its irritation, "Caer, for the goddesses sake, put that pigsticker down. Do you have ANY godsdamned idea how angry Father is right now? Have you even come up for air?" He places his hands on the table and leans in, risking getting cut, "He's MARRIED US OFF, Thanks to you." Well, apparently he's going for the Shock And Confuse tactic to slap Caer out of his daze, with a glance back to Morag in exasperation.

"I'm…fairly certain we're going to need a bucket." concludes Morag, staring at Caerwyn. "It's never been this bad that I've ever seen." Aside to Rickard, "You shouldn't have told him about Father. It'll only make him harder to manage." Caerwyn she means, not Roaman. She takes a step forward, eyes dropping to the knife. "The Furies will be Cat and your mother. By comparison, I'm one of the Christian angels. We need to get you home." Her nose wrinkles, "And into a trough."

Luck, bad-luck….fate. Who knows what reason it is that Creirwy has chosen this time, and this place, to enter. She's got a leather bag slung over one shoulder, and appears to be looking for some place to get lost in a crowd in for a little while, perhaps. She's unaccompanied by anyone else, and seems surprisingly comfortable being such, despite the attacks and all manner of other nonsense that has been happening recently. Without actually looking to the left or right she begins to wind her way in the direction of a table that seems to be empty for the moment.

"Cat— you're my brother? And izzat you, Mo'rag?"

Caerwyn squints. Ah. There is some resemblance there. Mostly the dark hair. That's mother's. The hard-assery on him comes from the other side. "… You've gotten -fat-, Rickard." He lets out a little hiccup before turning to Morag. "… I'm not getting married. Not unless it's -her-." The Burcombe heir is tall and thin, compared to Rickard's stockier build, but the coloring is the same. And with Morag, they share a similarity that's uncanny. He digs his blade out of the countertop and then buckles it before finishing his mug once more in record-time. And then he turns to Morag. "No bucket needed, I've got a room upstairs." He pauses and then turns to the bartender before whispering (loudly) to him: "Vincenzo, don't tell them I don't make it up there most nights." He clicks his tongue and winks at Vincenzo - thinking himself awfully slick, for sharing his secret with his man Vinny - before turning back to the Burcombe troupe. "No. I'm nae moving. Let me suffer in peaces."

Rickard shakes his head at Morag a little before looking back at Caerwyn. No, he probably shouldnt have mentioned it, but the littler Burcombe is pissed himself about the wedding declarations. His upcoming wife wants to burn him at the stake! "Like the hells you aren't. Look. I supported you. I covered for you. When you snuck out before I went for training to see that little tart, I told Father our room was cold because I needed the window open, not because you snuck out. You are NOT getting drunk and leaving us both high and dry now." He pauses, "LOOK at me, Caerwyn." Another pause, then to Morag, "Maybe we can drag him up to his 'room' and dunk him."

Morag lets out a soft sigh. "Master Vincenzo, you should know that my brother's expenses have forthwith been held by our father; he hasn't the means to pay beyond what he already has." And that being said, she considers thoughtfully. "I think trying to get him up the stairs would just be a waste of energy. We could always wait for him to pass out drunk and then deadlift him home." It's at the path of least resistance. "Caerwyn. You know that's not going to happen." Her tone is tinged with regret. "You have to move forward."

Perhaps thankfully unaware of the situation at the bar Creirwy finds her way to the table that she had originally chosen, only to have a couple of merchants cut in front of her to sweep it out from beneath her. She stands there for a moment, indecision written clearly across her face as she stares at the two offending men, considering her options. With those options then weighed she just simply turns on one heel, and starts to very slowly make her way in the direction of the bar, her fingers almost nervously fidgeting with the strap to her bag, brows drawn inwards in the most thoughtfully painful expression a single person could wear.

It's the sort that eventually causes wrinkles, afterall.

"Forward? -Forward-?" Caerwyn turns to Morag, and - abandoning his dagger on the countertop - grips her by both shoulders. "There is no forward. No backward. Only the stars, the moon, the darkest darknesses, the space in between thoughts that we dared not utter. There was only that, simply looking into her eyes. Brown, murky and mysterious, like some forbidden brackish marsh. There is -nothing- else, but everything," he says, swallowing a sob that wells up from the bottom of his lungs. He breathes it in and weeps earnestly, before taking his mug and drinking from it again. Except there's no more ale. "There is -not- enough ale in this world /or the next/ to drown my sorrows, sister. I cannot move forward, because there is no such thing anymore. I can't see four feet in front of me, Morag. How could Father do this? Marry me to some wicked wench homebody when he knew I was hurting? That—" He breathes in deep and then sits back down again, as if a large gust had knocked him down. He holds the edge of the bar.

Finally, Caerwyn lets out a little giggle of sorts. "If Da' found me a terrible lass, he must've saddled Rickard with a cow turd." He turns to Morag and grins, between half-sobs: "… Tell me, Morag, how bad is Ricky's dearly beloved to be?"

Rickard blinks for a moment, then frowns. He actually looks like he might try to save himself and his half sister some trouble and deck his brother right there…a fist is certainly clenched, but he has the pause to turn his head and look at Morag, lifting one brow at her. Perhaps he's acknowledging she seems to be doing better at getting Caer to respond than he is. Instead, he pointedly licks his lips and mutters, "I can save us some time. It'll be quick. I /promise/."

"SHIELD WALL." declares Morag while looking her eldest brother full in the eye, somewhat overloudly, and definitely wryly. "You, dear brother, have the fortune of marrying a pagan lady of Tisbury, who by reputation is sweet tempered and beautiful." Of course Morag did some nosing around on his behalf. "Our brother? Gets to marry the woman who declared the likes of all our family and a goodly portion of Salisbury's population only worthy of being burned at the stake. You remember Bronwen de Bodenham? So I would encourage you to count your blessings, get yourself upright, and prepare to bend over and kiss Father's arse with an effort unheretofore seen."

Even with the natural noise found in an inn Morag's voice is heard, and it brings Creirwy up short, as though SHE just ran smack into a shield wall. Her attention turns down the bar towards the three, one solid blink made before she takes it upon herself to gravitate that way. Not a sound, though. Quiet as a mouse, this one. Whatever had her fingers nervously messing with the strap of her bag and that overly thoughtful expression on her face has fled in the face of this new situation, and curiosity with just a tiny flair of a stubborn set to her jaw has replaced it.

"I will kiss no arse under the bidding of another," Caerwyn swears before turning to look at Rickard. And then back at Morag. "… -How and why-? What in the seven blazes does Father want an alliance, never mind the marriage of a true-born son, with Bodenham? Her brother is Idris, the loudmouth braggart?" He rubs his jaw and suddenly it seems as if it were back to old, calculating Caerwyn - making deductions, tallying accounts, the shrewd logistician and taskmaster at Burcombe. Not known simply for womanizing (or at the very least, flirting very aggressively) and drinking fine wine… this is the Caerwyn groomed for command. Finally, he stops and then turns to look at the approaching Creirwy. He can't help but give her a long onceover, before turning to Morag. "… Do you know her?"

You check your recognize at 3, you rolled 5.

Rickard thumps his fist on the table and straightens back up, pursing his lips while he listens to the exchange between Caerwyn and Morag. He finally mutters, "We need you back home. There is more than just YOU at stake right now, Caer. I…" and again, he closes his mouth before he says more that is going to wipe out all the good Morag has done. Instead? He just looks at Morag pointedly, shooting a glance to Creirwy but offering no greeting.

Morag holds up a cautioning hand to Rickard to prevent exactly that. She turns, gaze darting toward Creirwy, as she asides to both her brothers, "I don't know. But," and then her attention turns to Caerwyn once more. "You're in a sorry state to go find out, so I'll make you a bargain. I'll go speak to her and find out, if you come home with us tonight. Please?" The last is a dirty trick, involving a widening of her eyes. Maybe a lip wobble. Not too much, though. Morag doesn't want to oversell it.

Spotted! She was very much not going in their direction, really. As soon as she notices she's been noticed Creirwy turns first one way, then the other, then back towards the bar and just steps right up to it like she was meaning to this entire time. Which, does her no good because she wasn't, not really, so is rather ill-prepared for the next move in her ill thought-out attempts at eavesdropping.

"… Well. I believe I shall retire to my room upstairs, brother, sister. G'ood night to you both," Caerwyn declares loudly, as he starts sauntering in the wrong direction. The stairs are -back- there, Romeo. He pauses and then turns to regard Morag and Rickard a moment longer. "… It's impolite to stare, Ricky. Stop staring at me. I'm going to get myself another mug and then -maybe- I'll feel up for the trip back to Burcombe. In any case, I need my horse, and I think I gambled him off to a gentleman who bet me the sun rose in the east. I was -sure- it rose in the west!"

A pause, as Caerwyn considers again. "… Then again, my directions were topsy-turvy. I'd fallen over a bit," he adds.

Rickard takes a deep, slow breath when Caerwyn gets up to leave and heads the wrong way. A soft sigh escapes him and he shakes his head, stepping around the table to approach the taller man, "Look,. Caerwyn. We'll get the horse. And we have better ale than this place serves at home. I'll even get you a mug IF you come home with us now. Then you can wash up and enjoy your own bed and not a rented room." He shoots another look at Morag, lifting a brow. they may indeed just have to carry him.

Morag's mouth twitches in irritation. No love, it would seem. "Rickard, let him have his drink." Between the two of them, they'll find a way to get him home. "I'm going to go talk to the lady." And just like that, Morag is on her way to Creirway, and within moments is settling at the bar next to her. "Hello," she greets affably. "I'm Morag. That very drunk but undeniably handsome young man over there? Is my brother Caerwyn. Fortunately he had the good sense to realize he is quite the sot at the moment and send me as his ambassadress, which should be a reflection of his occasional sound judgement. May I have your name?" Okay, so Caerwyn didn't technically agree, nor did he ask for the woman's name, but well. Morag does what she wants. When she's allowed.

When Morag approaches and settles next to her she glances very slowly towards her, then forward once more for a second. It can be said that Creirwy is not rushing to answer this question and make the introductions, given the circumstances. But, eventually, and in reality quickly enough that the pause isn't hopefully considered a rude one, she glances back towards Morag to offer her a smile that is just a bit crooked before answering, "Creirwy." Pause. "…de Tisbury." Despite the awkwardness of the entire thing the response, though hesitant, is said with a faint twist of amusement to it.

"I think I'm marrying your cousin or somewhat," Caerwyn says loudly - still drunk - before returning to his buddy, Vincenzo. The bartender, an import from the distant lands of Italy, leans forward and tips his ear in Caerwyn's direction. "Vinnie, I'd like - if you please - a hot bowl of barley and beef stew, along with another mug of your fine chilled ale." He saunters over to Creirwy and then dips into a foppish, floppy bow - kind of like a flag flapping in the wind. "M'Lady, would you care for a drink or vittles? My treat." A pause. He glances sourly back at his brother. "… My father's treat, if you will, or my brother's. But my offer stands. Drink with me?"

Rickard mutters, "Fine." and guestures wildly with one hand in an 'I give up' sort of guesture when Morad says let him have another drink. Aaannnd then the girl is revealed. He blinks and lifts a brow and looks at Caerwyn, then Creirwy, then Morag, then back to Caerwyn. His eyes close. Both hands reach for his face and rubs it for a moment, while he sits back down at the table Caerwyn was at, leaning against to just watch, "Well, might as well get a tankard while we're here, hmm, Morag?"

Morag's brows lift in delight. "Are you, really?" she says, and then the delight turns into…well, she sighs. "Please don't judge him too harshly. He's had an unfortunate round of fisticuffs with love." Across to Rickard, she gives him a nod, before going back to a quiet conversation with Creirwy. "So…do you think it would be better to leave him clueless for the moment? It is rather comedic?"

"Really." Creirwy replies with a nod, glancing at Caerwyn a moment when approaches an makes his eloquently drunken move. Instead of responding to him, she looks straight at Morag, taking a very serious half-second to consider it before she answers, "I think it would." That decision is reinforced by a nod that seems determined for a moment before she turns towards Caerwyn to respond to him, "Certainly, but…first…" She slings the bag down off her shoulder, shoving it into his direction, "I don't suppose that you could hold this for me, it's been getting rather heavy, and I'm obviously not going to be getting much chance to put it down otherwise. Dangerous sorts around here, you know." Trusting him to either grasp the bag when she thrusts it at him, or risk the contents in a tumble, she turns back to Morag again, "It's quite the pleasure to meet you, Morag, truly it is."

Caerwyn checked his str of 12, he rolled 19.

The bag is handed over, but Caerwyn nearly drops it. Actually, he sets it down aside on the barstool next to him. "I've got this," he promises, before turning to Morag. "… What's comedic? I'll tell you what - that bard Iolo - he's a riot." He grins before leaning against the table. "Tell you what — I'll take this bag and I'll put it upstairs in my room, and I'll be right back. Sound good?" He shoulders the bag and starts heading off. This time in the right direction.

Morag almost reaches out to press a finger against Caerwyn's forehead, but doesn't. He might try to lop it off. "Hilarious." she agrees with him archly, and instead turns her attention to Creirwy. And once both of her brothers have wandered off, she inquires, "It's likewise lovely to meet you. I was actually very pleased when I heard, but…I'm not in the thick of it." Creirwy watches Caerwyn as he wanders off, a slightly worried look for the safety of whatever happens to be in that bag crossing her face. Then with a mental shrug she turns her attention back towards Morag, "Were you?" She seems to be a little surprised by that, but accepts it easily as well. "I admit I was a bit surprised. I figured that one of my cousins would be first to be set up. If you don't mind…is he always like that?"

"I was." Morag acknowledges, and then hesitates to think before answering the question. "It's true that Caerwyn enjoys his pleasures." She admits. "But none of this was about pleasure, you see. This was about pain."

Creirwy considers the answer, plus what Morag said earlier about his unfortunate round of fisticuffs with love. It's a far longer pause than she has made thus far, the sort that might worry those prone to worrying. Then, finally, she states quietly, "I'm sorry that it was about pain. I wont hold this incident against him, I wouldn't have anyways. But…doubly so in consideration for the reasons. I can imagine how matters of the heart might cause such a reaction in some people." She takes a deep breath, then lets it out in a huff before it occurs to her to ask, "Why were you pleased when you heard?"

"A few reasons." Morag admits. "First and foremost, you are pagan. I had occasion to know your kinsman Sir Hadyn, and he respectful of the Mother who I serve, and kind and generous to me as her priestess. I have great respect for the Tisbury family. I heard also that you were pleasing to the eye, and truth be told? I hoped that might serve as some distraction, a means to part him from his pain. I can hope, at any rate."

At the mention of her cousin there is a shadow of sadness that crosses her face before she nods, accepting each of those reasons rather easily, and quickly. "I can certainly try to serve as a distraction, I'm not sure that…" She pauses momentarily, considering her words carefully before she continues, "I'm not sure how to distract from pain like that, but I will do my best to do so. One way or another there must be a way to at least distract him, if not part him from it."

"Parting would be best," Morag admits, "For everyone involved. Such things take a great deal of time though, and I suspect the banns will not wait." She offers a gentle smile. "You may come to love Burcombe. I have a little hut my father had build for me where I make my medicines, and there's a grove in the forest sacred to Danu."

"I may…" Creirwy admits, that slightly crooked smile appearing once more, "Are others allowed to visit the grove?" The matter of the trouble ahead of her with matters of the heart are left for another day, it seems. A day well after she's had the time to truly process the mess she's been thrust into, likely. "If so, I would very much like to see it. At home I'd go sit near the river, in the woods…it was good for thinking."

"Mother Danu always welcomes the faithful." Morag assures her. "You'd be very welcome." She considers. "You should probably know that my father is…well, he's quite fierce. But very honorable. And his wife prides herself on being a good hostess and honoring the gods." His wife, not her mother.

"Fierce, but honorable, and a good hostess and honors the gods." Creirwy repeats that back thoughtfully before she nods, "My father is a good man, he is quite loyal to the family and has strived hard to honor the family and the gods. My mother…she is very proper, as befitting a lady." Why share that? Well…the second part that comes may help explain. "My grandfather, however, was not so very honorable, and paid the price for his dishonor."

"That might mean any number of things," Morag notes, "But everything I know of Tisbury is well and good. Despite what you may have heard of Burcombe, I promise you that once you are a kinswoman, you will be honored, and quite likely loved." Bronwen of Bodenham likely won't be so lucky.

Creirwy's smile widens just a little, "I will settle for liked and accepted, to be honest. I know that I am lucky to have that, and anything more is a blessing by the gods." She lifts one shoulder, a very faint shrug offered before she glances towards the stairs, considering something before looking back, "At least he is very nice to look at, which is also more than I could have asked for. And, perhaps this is wrong of me to say…but at least possibly entertaining?"

Morag laughs at that. "Yes! I can promise you that he is. I'll tell you this much; I don't think he's so often the fool he plays at being. Which doesnt mean he's not quite the fool at times. But he's also the heir, and that means that barring accident, you will be the next Lady of Burcombe."

Now that realization causes just a bit of alarm and a faintly squeakish, "Me?" She quickly clears her throat, trying to cover for the alarm and the squeak as much as possible. "Right…I'll be sure to um…not…underestimate his foolishness. You don't think he realized who I was, do you…and all that….foolishness?"

Morag snorts. "I'm fairly certain he didn't. And you'll need to go see him if you want to get your bag back. Don't worry," she assures, "People may think Burcombes like to stab people in the back, but we don't stab each other." Despite Caerwyn's waving about of a dagger earlier.

"That's….nice to know." Creirwy admits with a bit of a relieved laugh, perhaps at not getting stabbed in the back, or that he hadn't quite yet realized who she was. As for the bag, she looks a little more amused after a moment. "I don't know…he might eventually come find me when the contents start to stink."

Well, color Morag intrigued. "What's in the bag?" she asks curiously. "Someone's head?" Jokingly offered.

"Oh, no. Noth…well…I guess someTHINGS head…since it's still attached to the body." Creirwy replies after a moment, her expression turning a bit thoughtful for the moment. "There's a few rabbits in there."

Morag chuckles. "Yes, better to get that promptly, or the meat will go bad in swift fashion. Do you hunt, then?"

"I probably should…as amusing as it might be to let him try and figure out where the smell is coming from, it wouldn't do to waste it." Creirwy admits, starting to get to her feet, adding, "Yes, I do hunt. I hope that's not going to be a bad thing.."

"Caerwyn's twin sister loves to hunt." Morag says brightly. "It'll be quite splendid."

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