Prelude in Braavosian

[Eccles]

Spoiler: player-character Alerio

"It is said amongst the Braavosi that the night belongs to bravos and courtesans. When night falls, good citizens of Braavos retreat indoors, closing shutters and barring doors. Bravos swagger through Braavos in their parti-colored finery, looking to pick fights and prove their skills."

Name: Alerio
Age: 20
Birthplace: Braavos
Ethnicity: Braavosi/Crownlander
Social Status: Bravo.
Current Profession (Prior to Contract.): Why, none.

Kin:
- Aella Mermeia (mother) deceased.
- unknown Crownlander (father) fate unknown.

Appearance: A soft strawberry blond beard completes the contrast between a besmutched suntanned face and clear adventurous blue eyes. Alerio is young and judging from the ragged state of his fancy dress clearly looking for the quick rush, though he tends to hide the latter by enveloping himself into his thick red cloak.

Personality: Alerio is a typical bastard like so many others in the Free City of Braavos, a son of a courtesan who thinks himself too high and mighty for a mere job as a fisherman yet is not well enough educated to get anything else. Unemployment and vanity makes him one of the Bravos who dare challenge others of ill-luck and ill-repute to fight an ill-fated duel over trivial matters like the names of their favourite courtesans. Courtesans, I might add, with whom they cannot ever hope to afford even a hasty kiss on the cheek. It is a life of sleeping long hours into the afternoon, of an almost exclusive consumation of wine until the common bursting of the liver and the daily rush of gutting a friend who due to the red-ish cloud of alcohol momentarily seemed his greatest foe. Even now, exiled from the city of Braavos for acts committed after an excess of drink, Alerio seems unable to leave the vane and prideful nature of a Bravos behind.

Background:

Equipment:
1. A slender sword, edged and balanced for the thrust
2. A flamboyant red cloak of sturdy fiber, usable to parry

Languages Spoken:
-Common Tongue
-Braavosi
-Broken Valyrian.

​

"In this play there is a scene where the fat merchant shats on the Sealord's head as he passes underneath in his gold-and-purple barge. Only in Braavos could something like that happen, it was said, and only in Braavos would Sealord and sailor alike howl with laughter to see it."
​

The time of dusk was nearing and the Braavosi were going home after watching 'The Merchant's Meloncholy Daughter' in the Mummer's Ship playhouse near the Purple Harbor. For most guests it was only a short walk to their impoverished shacks overlooking the dark brackish water of the canals, but a few lads with plenty of coin cued up for some favors of the carnal kind performed by the lady mummers as something of an interactive epilogue, though it was reserved for those with hefty pouches. Most notably the Sealord's barge defied the narrowness of the drowned city's canals as it made its way back to the palace in the quickening darkness of Drowned Town. On the streets the normal folk were already hastening their steps, for soon the Bravos would come out from their slumber and roam the streets with sword in hand.

Alerio, one of the many bastard born sons of less pleasing courtesans that saw their life's worth only in a moonlit duel or a serenade sung to perfection, was in the Spotted Cellar shouting angrily at Fredo the Eel, who was losing his fight to Mickel the other Eel. Eel fights were a daily pastime until it was too dark to make them out, at which point the young men with short fuses and quick tempers took their swords to the streets where people called them 'Bravos'. Not a title of either fame nor infamy, but the sad reality of men who not yet have reached their full potential. Alerio was one of them and when Fredo floated to the surface and his blood filled the basin he had no choice but to leave the cellar and blow off some steam. Certainly there was someone in this wretched, yet majestic, city that would dare not to recognize the superior beauty of the Nightingale.​

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@Pureblood-Sin @Tristar @Necris @Dominus
Eya fellas, in case y'all still interested. I was hoping to do some fighting, whether in words, poetry or the sword. Write whatever you want, but please don't let me play alone :(​

 

[Necris]

While games of the sword were common on the streets of Braavos Errik had little time for it, well in debt with the bar tender we was now engaged in paying for his nights drinking with a contest of skill, he'd challenged any archer or marksman in the small open to courtyard to an archer contest, a dragon to enter and the winner took the pop.

There had been a dozen sign up eager to take a drunken Westerosi's coin the target had been set thirty paces away a barrel with a target hastily painted on it a little bigger than a man's heart, the rules simple one shot hit the target to progress, already seven had taken their turns only two had hit Dornishman with a short horse bow and a Pentoshi with a recurred bow, a Braavosi with a finely worked cross bow of ivory and gold was taking his shot now and the gathering crowd exploded with cheers as his bolt hit the target the next three all missed which left Errik the last man to shoot.

Finishing his wine he stood feigning unsteadiness on his feet he scooped up his bow a long war bow of iron wood making a clumsy show of stringing it he scattered his arrows like a drunken fool as his drew one checking it carefully notching it he overheard one of the spectators.

"Ha the drunken oaf will never hit the target."

He drew the string back to half draw and loosed the arrow strict the target right on the edge narrowly missing it, cheers erupted as he clumsily turned and bowed.

Now onto the next stage the remaining four stood beside one another and the barrel was moved another twenty paces away they would shoot together now the closest to the centre taking the prize. They all drew their strings and took aim, loosing together the Dornishman and Braavosi were off centre by two finger widths and both men cursed loudly as they saw that the Pentoshi and Errik's arrows were in the centre side by side.

The Pentoshi declared loudly that they should shoot again and that Errik's shoot was pure luck he notched and arrow and plug it perfectly between the two already there, belching loudly Errik squinted at the target the with a fluid action drew an arrow notched it drew the string to full draw and loosed, his arrow struck the centre between all three arrows with enough force to shatter the end of the barrel they had been using. The cheering crowd declared Errik the winner and he staggered off to collect his winnings paying his tab with two of the coins he slumped back into his seat to enjoy more drink laughing loudly with those around him.

The Pentoshi came over three friends in tow.

"You cheating northern bastard, I want my money back and the rest."

He drew a short sword from his belt as he drew closer.

"You act the drunken fool, but you're not drunk you swindled us."

He sighed setting his drink down.

"Now lads I can assure you I am drunk, drunk as a mule in summer to be told, the simple truth is..."

He moved like liquid using his unstrung bow he stabbed it out into the guts of one of the Pentoshi's friends before swing it round into the other,s neck the brought the back end across the back of the Pentoshi's wrist send his sword scattering across the floor.

"We northerners can hold our drink better than you, and I'm a better shot than you."

He spun the bow resting it on the ground.

"Now do you want to bugger off or am I going to have to draw my sword?"

His hand drifted over to the bastard sword hanging at his hip, the three men back away quickly then turned and ran, Errik turned back to the table and sat down again.

"Now who's up for some serious drinking!"