(1312-02-08) If You're Looking for Trouble
Summary: Trouble at the Kraken's Den
RL Date: Sun Feb 02, 2020
Related: Happens after this scene.
andrei gal jeanne tancred 

The Kraken's Den — Port of Marsilikos

A tall-tottering inn with a variety of rooms to let on the upper floors, from three fine suites just above the main floor to a collection of ramshackle one-cot rooms that sway with the harder gusts of wind in off of the sea in the upper levels. It has seen its share of fires and renovations, and every time it falls in ashes it seems to rise higher in the aftermath. Outside, proudly burnt-carved signage displays a huge black-tentacled kraken winding its limbs about in repetitive knotwork patterns. It hangs from a post on four links of bronze chain, and creaks when the wind hits it.

The main floor is part restaurant, part lobby, with a warm hearth next to a counter at which guests in the rooms above can pay their bills or ask after vacancies, many fine chairs and some a little less fine to fill out the number. Small tables amid all the seating provide room just enough to have a tea or a beverage and maybe play a game of cards with your mates. A low bannister-fence separates off the dining area from the lobby, to keep some semblance of order among the diners and to keep out the riff-raff.

Riff-raff, of course, is welcome to make its way downstairs, or else to descend into the alleyway behind the tavern and find the rear entrance into the half-basement, where a bar slings some of the hardest-scorching liquor known in Port Marsilikos, and attracts some of the roughest elements of society. It's dimly lit, with rough stonework walls and flooring and sturdy oaken furniture which must have been built in order to best resist any effort to shatter said furniture over someone's head. Fights are the nightly norm here, black eyes and sopping intoxication, and for those without the coin to attract the contract of a proper courtesan, some affable ladies are usually present in the evenings in case any gentleman wants to buy one a drink.

Many ships are harboring in the port of Marsilikos, some of them forced by the threat of treacherous winter storms to linger. As a consequence, certain public places at the port are rather packed on evenings as this one. Tables are crowded, benches and seats packed with sailors, and sometimes even a lovely tavern wench sitting on the lap of someone adding extra weight. A fire in the hearth is burning, but even without it, the common room would be adequately heated by the people. There is that distinctive scent in the air, of ale and sweat and tobacco, given that some of the skippers are in lucky possession of a pipe. The smoke adds an extra layer to the scene, reminiscent of fog on the high seas, but definitely less humid, but that doesn't keep the men and women here from laughing and chatting and flirting. Most of the people encountered here are commoners, but even so, nobles are not unlikely to frequent the place, even if in definitely plainer attire than they would usually wear.

The man at the bar is busy filling huge tankards of ale, and with a wry twist of a smile and a somewhat affectionate swat to a tavern wench's rear he sends her on her way to serve drinks to whomever has coin to pay — the prices are cheap though, adequate for the nature of the tavern which is known under the colorful name Kraken's Den.

Amidst that throng of people, one particular young woman has managed to gather a spot at a table. Despite the heat within the room, Jeanne leaves her dark green cloak on, and even its hood is drawn over her head, to conceal most of her features — the skin of which has more of an olive tone. Where the cloak drifts apart, one can glimpse a plain bown dress, looking perhaps a touch too neat for the setting; neat, in the sense of 'proper' and a neckline that sits rather high. The young woman is engaged in low conversation with another woman, one of the tavern wenches obviously, keeping her from her duties for a moment for a chat.

A man in a long coat trimmed with silver fox-fur wanders in from the cold outside, accompanied by an even larger man. He nods at the barkeep with the air of someone who is obviously at least somewhat familiar with the place — familiar enough, at least, that the barkeep grunts and reaches for a bottle of burnwine and a glass; and then, to be on the safe side, another glass. Meanwhile, the Carpathian fellow heads for the table nearest the fire, nodding in recognition at Jeanne as he walks past.

That even larger man happens to be a Skaldi who often haunts this place, at the heels of the long-coated man and looking almost like his bodyguard, though if that were so he does a somewhat half-assed job of actually keeping watch for threats - at least to his charge. He follows to the bar and onwards to the table, but Jeanne gets not a nod, but a familiar pat on the head with Tancred's massive mitt.

Gal's here, too, as commonly enough. He must be a guardsman, to look at his boots and the baldrick which crosses his chest to his hip; but the blade is part and parcel of the standard kit, and the trousers and rusty red knit tunic below are citadel-issued. A raw commonborn recruit or possibly in his first year as a full guardsman. Certainly nobody to get fussed about, especially when he's here draped at the counter, ordering up his wineskin refilled with the cheap stuff they pour here, just a mite harder paid than the ale. Not wearing the blue cloak, nor the full armor, nor the duty polearm, he's definitely not on rounds, either. Which is… well, considering the wine.

That she is recognized despite the hood might baffle Jeanne a little, but as it is, she takes both nod from Andrei and pat to her head with a wry twist of a smile, pausing in her conversation to pull the hood off all the way, as apparently it does not serve any purpose. Turning a little in her seat on the bench, she follows the pair Chowatti and Skaldi with her gaze, shaking her head a little to herself.

The man at the counter takes care of refilling the wineskin, inasmuch as he hands the skin over to another of the barmaids to take down to the cellars.

Anghelescu, a man who secretly prides himself on his observational skills, heads for the table near the fire where indeed, the burnwine is delivered. Pouring a glass for himself he nudges the bottle across the table to the Skaldi, should he please to join. "I find this may not taste quite like I am accustomed to, mein Herr, but at least it warms the bones almost as well as slivovitz. To your health, and to the bizarre customs of the d'Angeline, indeed."

A large man shoulders his way into the Kraken's Den, a sailor in his late thirties, by the looks of him, and a dusky skinned sort too. He walks over to the counter, even as more people enter after him before the door can close again, a veritable wave of new arrivals seeking refuge from the cold.

"Aye, to this land and their odd customs," Tancred toasts, although he uses their very language, drinks their wine, and dons their skins. But it's the thought that counts, right? He accepts his wine from the Carpathian and pours himself a generous cup, but before he can drink his attention is drawn to the new arrivals. He sits back, curious.

<OOC> Eisheth says, "Feel free to +roll Perception"
<FS3> Andrei rolls Perception: Success. (3 7 5)

"Thanks," is from Gal for the barman, with an affable smile, though his eyes are for the barmaid on her way down the stairs. He rests his cheek on his fingers and then angles them across his mouth to hide a yawn. Standing up straight will help, and he turns around to rest his elbows against the bar behind him, instead, attention immediately captured, as is natural, by Tancred, as he speaks, and he lifts a hand to wave.

<FS3> Gal rolls Perception: Good Success. (3 8 8 2 2 3 1 5 6)
<FS3> Tancred rolls Perception: Great Success. (7 5 7 4 2 8 7)
<FS3> Jeanne rolls Perception: Good Success. (8 1 3 5 3 5 6 1 8 4 4 2)

<OOC> Eisheth says, "Andrei sees: in the wave of people following in the sailors wake is a man, a local commoner, at least he does not look foreign."
<OOC> Eisheth says, "Good success (Gal and Jeanne): You note that the commoner who is of muscular built heads right after the sailor, with a grim expression"
<OOC> Eisheth says, "Great Success (Tancred): You notice a shadow following after the local commoner, another cloaked shape, with a hood drawn to hide any features, who, after having a quick glance about the place, begins to head further into the room, looking here and there."

Jeanne looks up towards the door and seeing that dusky-skinned sailor walk right for the bar, she instinctively pulls her hood over her head again. Something seems to disturb her, as she murmurs something to the tavern wench she had been talking with, and then moves to stand, turning around to look to Gal standing at the bar. Her eyes flicker a little, as she tries to make her way over — not to the bar, but to the table where Tancred and Andrei are sitting.

Anghelescu in turn has observed nothing out of the ordinary; locals are entering a local tavern, that's about as mundane as it can possibly get. He is perceptive enough, however, to recognise the fact that the seamstress probably does not consider herself enough of his close personal friend to absolutely have to join him for a drink — there must be another reason that she draws close. He nods at her and gestures at the chair next to himself; two men meet a woman whom they happen to know, nothing to see here, move right on along.

<OOC> Gal says, "Can I roll to see if I know this particular local commoner?"
<OOC> Gal was going to go with Carousing since these are the people he parties with in his off time XD
<OOC> Eisheth says, "Okay! Go for it, +roll Carousing"
<FS3> Gal rolls Carousing: Good Success. (8 8 4 6 4 5 6 2 8)

Tancred, however, seems to have figured Jeanne's intent; he's not really paying attention to her or his table companion at this point, but instead his bright blues focus on the first newcomer - or rather, at closer look, the veritable assortment of faces right on his heels. His right hand moves just under the edge of the table to grip at his sword and make sure it's loose in the scabbard. While he's hardly dressed for battle, sometimes one doesn't have the option. The Skaldi eases his chair back a couple of inches. "Odd," he notes, to no one in particular.

The sailor has almost reached the bar, when the local commoner reaches out and grabs the sailor by the shoulder. "You shoved me," the latter tells the sailor with a grim smile. "You speak d'Angeline, no?" Something in the manner of the local suggests he is rather short-tempered at the moment, and probably out for a fight.

"Hmm?" The foreign sailor turns and regards the man with dark eyes that would bore through the man if they could. "I do." He says to the latter. In d'Angeline with a thick accent. "I didn't shove. You were in the way.", he admits with a shrug of his broad shoulders, straightening before the local stablehand.

There's a sailor coming up to the bar by him; that's fine, Gal can scoot down a little bit. But there's Bernard, bearing down like someone stung his ass, and Gal slants a shoulder downward, trying to catch his attention with a little grin. Just to throw him off the track, maybe, or else to alert the sailor he's got company incoming. "Hey, Bernard. What's what?" he calls, casual, though maybe with a little tension in his voice to betray a little bit of a warning.

"Odd?" Jeanne murmurs, repeating Tancred's statement with a bit of worry showing on her face. "I think there may be a brawl coming up, so… if you want to stay safe, Monsieur," this she says towards Andrei, "you should better leave at once."

Eisheth: Tancred notices that the cloaked figure is heading towards the stairs at the back.

"I'm not in the habit of looking for trouble but I do not run away from it either," the Carpathian murmurs mildly and not very loudly at all, and scans the crowd with sharp blue eyes. He may not have spotted the source of the potential trouble to be, but he certainly intends to notice when things start flying through the room.

"The good man is no stranger to blood," the Skaldi notes to the seamstress. And neither is he, apparently - not on edge, but perfectly in the mindset to deal with this sort of situation. He releases his grip on his sword to keep his right fist open and then swiftly rise. He clears his throat and navigates a path to the stairs, muscling through if need be, but of course not right through the impending fight. Something's caught his eye.

Tancred: Tancred will try to shadow or intercept

<OOC> Eisheth will make a coin toss to decide whether the stablehand will heed Gal's nonverbal warning
Eisheth flips a coin: Failure

Bernard recognizes Gal and grins briefly, raising his hand in casual greeting. Before that grin dies, as he turns to reply to the foreign sailor. "I was… IN THE WAY? Hmm? I'm not sure how they do things in your country, but here in Marsilikos it's pretty rude to shove someone out of the way AND NOT CARING TO APOLOGIZE." The stablehand straightens as well, crossing muscular arms before him as he considers the foreigner darkly.

The foreigner holds that gaze, snorting before he spits out onto the floor. "Here's your apology. Stupid guy."

<OOC> Eisheth says, "Tancred, +roll Stealth, please."
<FS3> Tancred rolls Stealth: Success. (3 8 6 2 6 3 1)

Crossed arms are good, as far as Gal's concerned. Crossed arms throw no punches. More posturing than pummelling. He turns his attention from Bernard to the sailor. "I mean, he's not wrong, my guy. There are a lot of people around the docks, you can't just move anyone who's in your way," he reasons. Then the foreigner spits on the floor, which has, be fair, seen worse. But still, it's sort of the principle of the thing, right? "Alright, dude, that's … gross. And enough. You're not the only person in the world, get your head out of your ass." He crosses his arms, too. A safety precaution. It's never a good look to throw the first punch.

When Tancred reaches the stairs, he will find that this 'something' he saw is already on its way up to the first floor, a figure with a dark hooded cloak hastening with surefooted steps. If he follows sneakily (which he does), he can glimpse a door closing at the far end of the hallway, when Tancred reaches the upper floor. That, and another flutter of dark cloak, before the door is shut.

Jeanne accepts Tancred's explanation in regards to Andrei, still, she cannot help but shake her head a little, as the large Skaldi manages to dive into the crowd and head off towards the stairs. She looks to the Chowatti gentleman, and then towards the bar where things go as they must, probably.

At least it's easy to tell where the trouble is starting now. Anghelescu does not get up; adding more voices to the imminent shouting match is only going to lead to punches being thrown faster. Instead, he stays alert, and because he is the Chowatti that he is, says softly to Jeanne, "If push comes to shove, slip behind me." Because women don't fight. No, don't mention Lady Philomène. She was obviously disqualified from the gentle gender for indiscriminately stabbing people.

Meanwhile, Tancred is doing something that one does indeed associate with the male sex. Charging down the hallway after a disappearing figure and skidding to a halt on his stout leather boots. He rips his sword from the scabbard this time, just in case he'll need it - and tries the door before he does anything truly worthy of property destruction.

"Hmm?" The sailor is distracted for a moment, when Gal addresses him. His gruff expression softens a little, as the man allows himself a grin, as he considers the comparatively young and perhaps inexperienced lad before him. "Can't I?" He shakes his head and laughs, it is a loud and barking laughter. He glares at Bernard. "You apoligize to ME, for being stupid guy who likes to insult."

<FS3> Jeanne rolls Perception: Success. (5 5 1 3 4 6 1 4 4 8 6 5)

"I can't really place his accent," Jeanne murmurs to Andrei, sitting down indeed but keeping close to the foreign gentleman. "Hah. Men." She rolls her eyes and shakes her head. "Stupid. At least these two are." A thoughtful glance is given the direction in which Tancred vanished, but for now, Jeanne stays where she is.

As Tancred tries the door, he will find that it is locked.

Locked! Tancred should not be surprised, but barely a moment's hesitation and he opts to use his boot and body weight instead.

Anghelescu nods slightly, accepting the reproach; he's not been here two weeks yet but if there's one thing he's learned already it's that everyone is rather eccentric and it's easier to just roll with it. He gets up at last and wanders towards the barkeep and the counter.

"Hoi, barkeep! There's too much arguing and not enough drinking in here! Let us have a bottle of your best burnwine and some glasses, and these gentlemen can settle their differences in a peaceful fashion on my tab!" He's got an accent, and he's being bloody -obvious- about it, hoping perhaps to buy Tancred some leeway to do whatever Tancreds do upstairs.

<OOC> Eisheth checks whether Bernard loses his temper (success: he does!)
Eisheth flips a coin: Success

"I mean, OK, you can," Gal yields to the foreigner being technically correct on that score. "It just makes you kind of a cunt, so," he shrugs his shoulders helplessly, tsking from between his molars like 'what can you do?' "If you want to go around being a cunt the rest of your life, that's between you and your own self," he philosophizes like young men only do in bar-rooms, keeping a remarkably even keel, as though the shame of acting like the sailor is is punishment enough. Will it convince Bernard? Probably not. But he tries.

The Chowatti's intervention comes perhaps a tad too late. Foreigner spit graces the floor of the Kraken's Den, and insults are being tossed back and forth. And truth be told, Bernard had already been quite worked up when he came in with obvious intention to pursue the man — and to use him as sort of an outlet, should things escalate. Which they do. Gal has just made his comment, as the stablehand throws a punch at the sailor, aiming for his chin. It just happens, without any word of warning,

<FS3> Opposed Roll — Bernard=7 Vs Sailor=7
< Bernard: Good Success (6 7 5 7 4 5 4 3 2) Sailor: Success (7 2 2 6 1 5 5 4 4)
< Net Result: Bernard wins - Marginal Victory

What? Andrei first offers her some sort of shelter, and then moves right into the zone of danger? Jeanne rises from the table and backs away, heading then towards the stairs as well.

"Rahat", Anghelescu murmurs, a lovely Chowatti term which the narrator shall refrain from translating out of respect for PG13. On the up side, he's now standing behind Bernard of the small intellect and he's got a walking stick. Those aren't worth much as weapons but when used in a fashion not unlike a riding crop they do rather pack a sting. He raps it across the man's shins hard from behind him. "I thought I said have a burnwine and settle your differences!"

<FS3> Tancred rolls Body+Body: Failure. (2 1 6 4 6 1 6 3)

The door upstairs holds, when Tancred makes a first attempt at bashing it.

Damn den builds its doors tough. Tancred slams into the door and it's a solid wallop … for him. Something's rattled and he might be smarting in the bones later, but for now he's too set in his task to give up that easily. "Scheiße," he curses, drawing in a breath to prepare for the next attempt. No doubt everyone in the room knows there's someone after them. Hopefully there's no windows.

The Chowatti attacks the stablehand from behind, and the attack truly came unexpected. "What? What do you want…?", Bernard roars, whirling around. He blinks for a moment, perhaps recognizing Andrei from some days ago at the stables. Nevermind, that the sailor seems hardly pleased with the fist that managed to connect with his chin. "Stand still, you…" And his fist rushes forward to pay Bernard back in kind.

Gal is a little put out that Bernard broke rank— but what can you expect of a civilian, especially one with a perpetual bug up his bunghole? But the sailor is answering back fist for fist, and Gal takes it for a sign to act, stepping in behind the Sailor and trying to grab him into a headlock to subdue him.

Gal spends 1 luck points on subduing the sailor (not, in this case, a euphemism)..
<FS3> Opposed Roll — Gal=Unarmed+5 Vs Sailor=7
< Gal: Great Success (6 7 1 6 1 2 3 4 8 8 2 8 3 6) Sailor: Success (6 2 8 4 4 6 2 3 4)
< Net Result: Gal wins - Solid Victory

The sailor manages a rather solid hit to Bernard's chin, enough to make the stablehand's head snap backwards and cause him to stumble, before he falls to his knees.

<OOC> Eisheth says, "Tancred: +roll Perception"
<FS3> Tancred rolls Perception: Good Success. (8 2 5 1 3 8 3)

Even as Tancred prepares for his next attempt at bashing the door with brute force, he can hear sounds from inside of the room. A muffled cry, and then a thud, of something heavy hitting the floor.

Tancred spends 1 luck points on Used on doorbash roll.
<FS3> Tancred rolls Body+body+5: Good Success. (4 4 1 7 1 2 1 5 6 8 1 5 6)

Now this inspires greater urgency on Tancred's part. Someone might be dying or dead in there. He backs up to the opposite side of the hallway to build up what momentum he can for his charge. Either his first hit weakened the frame or he used far too much force, but the doorframe splinters and the lighter interior door cracks down the middle, slamming right into whatever's immediately on the opposite side. He does not immediately barge in, disadvantaged in such close quarters due to his bulk, but has his blade still at hand, poised to strike.

Well, Tancred doesn't go in any deeper, having to recover and rise from that property-demolishing blow.

In the moment the door breaks out of its hinges, Jeanne arrives from the stairs. Her steps slow immediately, as she tries to gauge the state of things. She approaches cautiously, her dark eyes wide, as she arrives at Tancred's side to stare into the room beyond the door.

Anghelescu stares Bernard down, or at least tries. It's possible this is made easier by the socking Bernard just got from the sailor that the young fellow has in a headlock — good job, carry on! — but regardless, he's got command experience and a natural air about him that says, Obey me. Mostly because, well, for most of his life before he decided to play merchant in Marsilikos, that's exactly what it's been like — he gave orders, people obeyed. "Sit. Down. And. Have. A. Drink."

Bashing through the door hasn't been a silent affair exactly, so everyone downstairs will easily be able to hear the sound of splintering wood upstairs.

Gal is on the sailor from behind like he was his new boyfriend. Well. Not quite. But with remarkable ease and conservation of movement, he snags the man's neck in a headlock and bends his swinging arm around behind him with his other hand, by the wrist. He doesn't take him to the ground, but he obviously could, and he's fastened on such that the sailor trying to swing with his off-arm will only compress his airways further. "Okay, guy, we're going to go outside and cool down. Um," he hesitates. "Miggie's coming back soon with my wine. Mind holding it for me?" he asks the barman, eyes all apologetic and somewhat sheepish, as though he weren't hugging that sailor like a python. "What in the?" Gal is distracted, duly, by a noise of shattering wood from upstairs. His wine might need coming back to later, he supposes. He's still going to escort the guy outside. With a knee to the bum to get him moving, if he won't.

Through the splintered doorframe, those upstairs can have a good look in the room beyond. There, lit by the flickering light of an oil lamp sitting on a table to the right, they can see an open window, swinging in the night breeze that brings in the chill of the season and causes the rather worn curtains to move as if they had a life of their own. On the wooden floor lies the shape of a man, still and unmoving. He is laying on his stomach, head turned towards the window. Beneath him, a pool of blood is growing slowly in diameter. The man looks like a sailor, if one goes by his clothes, worn shirt, breeches and old leather boots.

No stranger to bloodshed, Tancred gets right in there, stepping over the fallen form of the man - right in some of that pooling blood - to look out the window and curse mightily in Skaldic, all kinds of foreign ways to express 'whoreson', 'shit', and 'bastard.' There's likely no catching up at this point, so he does not try. Instead, he looks round to investigate.

Downstairs, Bernard obeys. Coming up to stand, he manages to slip onto a benchm and especially with the ruckus now from upstairs, he looks far too intimidated and dazed to try anything funny. But rather obliging to have a stiff drink. Or two.

The scene continues here.

Unless otherwise stated, the content of this page is licensed under Creative Commons Attribution-ShareAlike 3.0 License