Ficlet: Another Brawl
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the_five_armiesTitle: Another Brawl
Author: Raederle
Characters: Eärnur, Mardil
Rating: PG
Disclaimer: don’t own ‘em, not for profit
Mardil sighed glumly into his pint. Standing nursemaid over the young prince was his most dreaded chore, particularly when Eärnur was in the mood to drink himself silly. Mardil could never understand why the prince was so enamored of this inn. The beer was excellent but the atmosphere tended to have a negative effect on Eärnur’s uncertain temper.
Eyeing the buxom serving wench appreciatively, Mardil thought that perhaps he could interest Eärnur in a little friendly sport and then drag him back to the Citadel before things got out of hand.
Mardil studied the broad shouldered man standing at the bar, wondering if the prince would like to do a little skirt lifting. Eärnur was telling some long-winded, filthy barracks tale for the benefit of a group of farmers from the outlands. Some of the rustics looked positively ill at the hair-raising exploits of the soldiers.
A man in the uniform of a southern trooper jeered at the story and Eärnur responded with an insult to the man’s parentage. The soldier put down his tankard and advanced on the prince. Mardil stood up as well, hoping to avert a fight, but he ducked his head as a pair of leather gloves came flying in his direction.
He sat back down, resigned. If Eärnur had taken his gloves off, then a battle was inevitable.
“I was really hoping it would be wenching tonight, not fighting,” he grumbled.
Eärnur gave the soldier the chance at the first punch, as Mardil had known he would. “Must be noble even in a tavern brawl.”
The soldier’s friends tried to intervene after Eärnur landed a punch on the man’s ear that seemed to have knocked his brains loose. The other patrons of the pub joined in and soon the melee was general. “Is it too much to ask that I get a little pretty fanny for my efforts? Why is it always a fight?”
“Perhaps riding patrols on the western edge of Calanardhon would be better than this,” Mardil speculated, absentmindedly pulling his tankard out of the way just in time as a body came sliding down the table.
“Maybe we could send the prince away for some tactical experience.” Mardil took his chair and moved to the back corner to avoid that writhing mass of fighting men who kept jostling his arm, making it impossible to enjoy the delicious brew.
“He is not the King yet and I am not the Steward, so I don’t see why it is my responsibility to keep him out of mischief.” He looked sadly at his mug which was unaccountably empty and as the serving maid was hiding he could not get another.
Mardil spied an unattended pint on a neighboring table and stood up to retrieve it. One of the combatants saw the movement as an act of aggression and aimed a punch at his head. Mardil dodged it without thinking and then distractedly bashed his empty flagon on the idiot’s head. The man dropped without a sound and the young lord was able to secure the other pint. “After all, there is no one on life would could keep this prince out of trouble. Why should my reputation have to suffer for his misdeeds?”
By the time Mardil had finished his stolen tankard, the only man standing in the pub was the prince.
“You’re bleeding,” he said shortly to Eärnur, whose left eyebrow was split open and dripping gore onto the rush floor.
Eärnur grinned, fierce and wild like a bird of prey. He turned to the irritated publican, who stood up from his hiding place behind the bar, and flipped a bag of coins to the man. “Very nice little fight. Quite refreshing. Thank you for the hospitality.”
The man glared, but took the money.
“Come, my Steward,” Eärnur gestured grandly to the door. “Let us repair to the lofty heights of our fair city and contemplate the stars in grave studiousness.”
“I don’t know why I don’t just throw you off the Tower,” Mardil growled.
“Because you love me,” Eärnur said smugly.
Mardil merely grunted and stalked away.
Author: Raederle
Characters: Eärnur, Mardil
Rating: PG
Disclaimer: don’t own ‘em, not for profit
Mardil sighed glumly into his pint. Standing nursemaid over the young prince was his most dreaded chore, particularly when Eärnur was in the mood to drink himself silly. Mardil could never understand why the prince was so enamored of this inn. The beer was excellent but the atmosphere tended to have a negative effect on Eärnur’s uncertain temper.
Eyeing the buxom serving wench appreciatively, Mardil thought that perhaps he could interest Eärnur in a little friendly sport and then drag him back to the Citadel before things got out of hand.
Mardil studied the broad shouldered man standing at the bar, wondering if the prince would like to do a little skirt lifting. Eärnur was telling some long-winded, filthy barracks tale for the benefit of a group of farmers from the outlands. Some of the rustics looked positively ill at the hair-raising exploits of the soldiers.
A man in the uniform of a southern trooper jeered at the story and Eärnur responded with an insult to the man’s parentage. The soldier put down his tankard and advanced on the prince. Mardil stood up as well, hoping to avert a fight, but he ducked his head as a pair of leather gloves came flying in his direction.
He sat back down, resigned. If Eärnur had taken his gloves off, then a battle was inevitable.
“I was really hoping it would be wenching tonight, not fighting,” he grumbled.
Eärnur gave the soldier the chance at the first punch, as Mardil had known he would. “Must be noble even in a tavern brawl.”
The soldier’s friends tried to intervene after Eärnur landed a punch on the man’s ear that seemed to have knocked his brains loose. The other patrons of the pub joined in and soon the melee was general. “Is it too much to ask that I get a little pretty fanny for my efforts? Why is it always a fight?”
“Perhaps riding patrols on the western edge of Calanardhon would be better than this,” Mardil speculated, absentmindedly pulling his tankard out of the way just in time as a body came sliding down the table.
“Maybe we could send the prince away for some tactical experience.” Mardil took his chair and moved to the back corner to avoid that writhing mass of fighting men who kept jostling his arm, making it impossible to enjoy the delicious brew.
“He is not the King yet and I am not the Steward, so I don’t see why it is my responsibility to keep him out of mischief.” He looked sadly at his mug which was unaccountably empty and as the serving maid was hiding he could not get another.
Mardil spied an unattended pint on a neighboring table and stood up to retrieve it. One of the combatants saw the movement as an act of aggression and aimed a punch at his head. Mardil dodged it without thinking and then distractedly bashed his empty flagon on the idiot’s head. The man dropped without a sound and the young lord was able to secure the other pint. “After all, there is no one on life would could keep this prince out of trouble. Why should my reputation have to suffer for his misdeeds?”
By the time Mardil had finished his stolen tankard, the only man standing in the pub was the prince.
“You’re bleeding,” he said shortly to Eärnur, whose left eyebrow was split open and dripping gore onto the rush floor.
Eärnur grinned, fierce and wild like a bird of prey. He turned to the irritated publican, who stood up from his hiding place behind the bar, and flipped a bag of coins to the man. “Very nice little fight. Quite refreshing. Thank you for the hospitality.”
The man glared, but took the money.
“Come, my Steward,” Eärnur gestured grandly to the door. “Let us repair to the lofty heights of our fair city and contemplate the stars in grave studiousness.”
“I don’t know why I don’t just throw you off the Tower,” Mardil growled.
“Because you love me,” Eärnur said smugly.
Mardil merely grunted and stalked away.