RP:Bro Bonding (and a Bit of Blood)

From HollowWiki

Part of the The Day I Tried To Live Arc


Summary: Amarrah tracked an awful lot of blood into the tavern after her little murdering spree, and Drargon blames Khitti for the damages. Hudson overhears Brand arguing with him about it and steps in to save the day. The men seem to bond over booze and wings and incomprehensible womenfolk afterwards, but both of them hold some cards closer to their chest than others.

Frostmaw Tavern

Brand is at the bar. Everyone is always at the bar. That’s how half of Lithrydel’s stories of old begin, isn’t it? Step one: sit at bar. Step two: either make googly eyes at people or brood into your drink until something happens. But Brand is doing neither of these things. In fact, he is quite sober (for once) as he leans over the bar, arguing with Drargon. Well, it's a one-sided argument, really. The bartender and owner is quite calm, actually, shooting back responses to Brand’s ranting in a tone quiet enough to be inaudible to most others over the din of the tavern’s patrons. Brand, though, not so much. “Well, we’re not payin’ for it! … Yeah, I know what you saw, an’ I’m tellin’ you, it wasn’t her. She’s got a…” Brand gestures, finger pointed to temple in a circular motion. “...a thing in her head. But it ain’t her. S’not her fault… Yeah, well, whose big idea was it to make the gorram carpets cream-colored in the first place? This is Frostmaw, you really tellin’ me you -weren’t- expectin’ people to get blood everywhere?! ...Look, we’ve been here how long, near a year now? Nine, eight months at the least? How many renters you get stayin’ here that long an’ pay their bills on time? Or at all? … I’m jus’ sayin’, we’re the best frakkin’ tenants you’ve got and you and I both know it…”


Hudson is sitting next to Brand, actually, and has been paging through a men's magazine and drinking a beer. Now that an argument's erupted around him, however, he's passively listening, while staring at a masterful 2-page illustration of famous singer Rijanna in her skivvies eating an ice cream cone. (On the next page is an interview of Rijanna, you see...) Hudson's in a bad mood himself and seems to take comfort in the fact that other people, namely this guy next to him, can be having bad days too. "Excuse me," he inserts himself into the exchange, mostly so he can reach around Brand and procure the bar nuts. What, he'd like some. He exchanges a look with both men and pops a handful of cashews into his mouth. "Cream colored carpets are a dumb idea," he agrees, as if he'd been appointed magistrate to decide the dispute. He reaches for his pint, drains some of its contents, and swipes away the foam mustache that results with his thumb. "Let me at this carpet," he says, figuring what the hey, he's got nothing better to do, not like his woman hasn't STOLEN HIS CHILDREN and refused to see him, or anything. "If I can fix it, I want a large basket of hot wings." Drargon gestures impatiently at Brand, as if to say, up to this guy.


Ah, see, this guy gets it. By bar rules, now they’re friends, right? Sort of? Maybe? “Aye, hot wings. You fix it, s’on me.” It’d be a lot cheaper than the outrageous price Drargon is asking for. And come to think of it, maybe Brand ought to try their hot wings, too… later, though. Brand pushes himself off of the bar and gestures to the stairs before taking the lead up them, two at a time. They’re wooden and varnished, because at least Drargon has -some- interior decorating sense, but at the top the surface becomes a carpeted hallway that wraps around the walls. A series of doors -- rooms for rent -- line the hall, and a bloodied trail of footprints and spatters leads all the way to the door at the end. “Took care of the carpet in the room already,” Brand informs his new bar friend, “but kinda forgot about the hall while it was still fresh.” The blood dried several hours ago, perhaps a day at the most. “Personally,” opines Brand, scratching at rusty blonde stubble, “I think he oughta leave it be. Gives the place a little extra character, y’know?”


Who doesn't want hot wings? Plan of action decided, Hudson takes his beer 'to go' and follows Brand. "For Sven's sake, this is a tavern not a luxury resort, cream carpets," he comments, as they scale the stairs. "Damn, wow," he pronounces upon viewing 'the carnage.' He can't help himself, he laughs into a fist. "No joke there's blood on the carpet." He crouches low to it, getting a sense of how shallow the stains are. Relatively shallow, which is good enough. If the entire rug were soaked with blood it'd be a different story (also maybe it would just no longer be a cream rug). Hudson drains his beer, sets it aside. "Can you get a towel you don't care about, man?" he suggests, rubbing the beard that's been growing on his face ever since Alvina threw him out. Yeah, he's got this. He clicks his tongue. "Incoming hot wings."


Brand likes to think he knows a thing or two about removing blood stains. Granted, that’s mostly from clothes. Being sort of an ex-assassin type, he’d learned real quick to just… try not to bleed people out on the carpets he wanted kept clean in the first place? Yeah. So, he’s not real sure what one towel is going to do against all this blood, but… “Errr… Sure thing, aye.” Hell, maybe he'll learn a new trick. Brand makes his way to that lattermost door, pressing an ear to it before he enters. There’s a wince, but it’s probably not clear what about until after he opens the door and sidles in. From within, a woman making a sound that can only be described as ‘ugly crying’ emanates from the crack Brand’s left behind. A quiet exchange of words interrupts that sobbing after a moment or two, then shouting (“ ‘AM I ALRIGHT’? DOES ZHIS -LOOK- LIKE MY ‘ALRIGHT’ FACE TO YOU?!”) and Brand eventually slithers back out of the room with a bug-eyed expression. He's remembered to grab a pair of worn towels, at least, and hands them over, clearing his throat. “She's not normally -this- crazy, she's just had a rough time of it lately,” he says to Hudson, defensively. Wait, defensively? Since when does he care what people think of Khitti? He’s definitely not going to let himself dwell on that thought too long, nope.


Hudson gets on his knees to properly make this happen. While Brand vanishes to fetch the towel, and sounds of Unhappy Woman are heard, Hudson winces and turns his own bug-eyed look at the door like, Sven (said like "Jesus"). He has failed to banish the expression by the moment of Brand's return. "Yikes," he says in response, at a low volume for just the other guy to hear. "Yeah, I've a woman at home," actually not true, she kind of left, but he plans to fix that and therefore this is 'basically true' per his rules for the purpose of this commiserating, "I know what you mean." Taking the towels, Hudson runs his hand along the length of them, his gaze going unfocused as his lips move with a soundlessly pronounced word: the alchemical word for water. It takes a moment, and after it he wraps them around his hands like boxing gloves. "To catch the blood," he says, as if this made complete sense. "OK." And with no further explanation for what's about to happen, Hudson assumes that look of distant concentration once more, and slowly hovers his towel-wrapped hands over the bloodied carpet. His mouth is moving, calling the name of the wind, speaking to it. Dyson wishes they could make a vacuum that did this: the alchemical wind moves on a molecular, unseen level, between the blood, separating it from the rug fibers, lifting it onto his towel-mitts, which catch it and slowly begin to stain red. This is a slow process, and Hudson is dead to the world while he does it, slowly crawling across the carpet and literally lifting the stain.


Brand blinks. A lot. A new trick, indeed. He’s not so sure he caught that mouthed word, though, or could even reproduce these effects if he had. Ah well. It’s entertaining enough to watch, he supposes. Brand produces a flask from an inner coat pocket and takes a heavy swig -- what? No. He doesn’t have a problem. That woman would drive -anyone- to drink. He can quit anytime he wants, etc. etc. The man -- Brand suddenly realizes he hasn’t learned his name -- hoovers across the carpet, and Brand surveys in silence; he looks pretty caught up in his work. It’s not until he’s wrapping things up that Brand decides to comment. “Heh. See, if I’d’ve been taught somethin’ like that years ago, there’s a whole frakkin’ -mess- of problems I could’ve avoided.” He’s thinking of one incident and the resulting cascade of unfortunate events in particular, but they’re all probably better left unmentioned. One of those ‘you had to be there’ things.


Hudson gets into a groove. He is thinking, not seriously, maybe he should quit his day job to clean rugs for rich housewives. He'd like that. In another world. It has the makings of the plot of one of those stories he'd read in a men's magazine, that's probably why....... but hey maybe Alvina would hate him less than she presently does. Grim line of thought. He takes one more pass over area - to the best he could recollect, as it does look much better - and sinks back onto his haunches. He shows Brand his bloodied mitts, as if the finale of a magic act, and then unwraps the towels to hand them to the other guy. "Can't turn lead into gold but I am handy around the house. Stains and clogged drains, what up," jokes Huds, kneeing himself upright to survey the carpet. He nods, satisfied with his work, and then extends a hand to Brand, who presumably is clutching the bloodied towels and probably has to free up a hand to shake the alchemist's. "Hudson Landon," he introduces himself, his mouth twisting into an easy grin. "...Wings?"


Brand is studying the towels with some interest when Hudson makes his introduction. Yep, they’re as good as gone now -- but better them than the carpet. The Catalian lets Hudson hang for just a moment as he twists to one side; in a flash of white-hot flame, both towels turn to ash in his hands. Brand brushes them off over the balustrade (onto the head of a passed-out patron who, thankfully, will be oblivious to such shenanigans) before finally catching Hudson’s hand in a single firm shake. “Name’s Brand.” He has no last name to offer, and it’s clear in the pause that follows that he’s not quite sure what to put in its place. Formalities aren’t really his thing. “Elementalist, on the occasion a label’s required. But mostly, just Brand. And, aye.” He jerks his head back toward the bar and then descends the stairs ahead of Hudson. As a bargirl prepares the ticket -- an order of wings for each of them, however Hudson likes them made -- Drargon gives the pair a skeptical glance and departs to scrutinize Hudson’s work for himself.


Hudson watches with awkward confusion and then interest as Brand incinerates the towels. "Word," he says, once that's done, and the men complete their introduction. "Let's do this." And with that, they barrel down the stairs and install themselves. Hudson's wing instructions aren't very elaborate: make them spicy. They order more beer, to celebrate, and Drargon returns in short order to mutter and otherwise express surprise but fall short on gratitude. Hudson waits until they've both their proper pints before angling himself toward Brand and thereby cutting Drargon out of their conversation (honestly how much can one discuss removing a carpet stain...). "How does that, what you did, work?" That's what Hudson wants to know, he meant the trick with the towels. "Maybe tell me about being an elementalist, I'm an alchemist myself so curious about what I saw there."


Brand is all too happy to exclude Drargon from further conversation -- though the topic that conversation has turned to is another matter. Frowning, Brand contemplates over the top of his pint before answering, “Dunno. You’re askin’ the wrong guy, really. Was so gorram young when I was taught, I don’t rightly recall the theory of it anymore. It’s all a sort of muscle memory at this point.” It’s a plausible enough statement; Brand appears to be in his late 30s or early 40s. His sleeves are rolled up past the elbow, revealing scar-littered skin and a ring around his left wrist that appears only very lightly suntouched relative to its surroundings. His face is significantly less marked up than his arms, though it hasn’t entirely escaped the ravages of the past handful of decades. Green eyes peer out at Hudson from under furrowed brows as the man tries to formulate at least a slightly more useful response. “Gettin’ properly attuned to an element is one part of it. That part, I wouldn’t know how to help you you with. From there, different things affect your efficacy.” Brand stumbles somewhat over that last word, given that he’s only learned it recently from one of Khitti’s books. “Your environment, for one. Mental state. Even your frakkin’ posture, heh.” He gorges himself on a wing and washes it down with another glug of beer before carrying on. “Leastways, that’s how it’s always worked for me, an’ how I see it tend to work in others. Can’t say if there aren’t other ways -- it was hardly a formal teachin’.” The thought conjures up an image of Xalious’ mage tower, and of students poring over tomes in its associated library. Brand’s education was not so… voluntary.


Hudson sips at his beer, nodding along to Brand's explanation, his own mental dialogue doing a bit of contrasting against the apparent upbringing the other man's had. Started young, eh? Hudson was in private school getting 'well rounded' on all matters of useless humanities. He hadn't started to study alchemy until later, it's hard for him, although in the last few years he's gotten much better after working consistently at it for his drug trade business. Anyway, what Brand had done had seemed familiar. He wonders, briefly, if not all magic is really the same, in the way that people sometimes wonder if all gods at the same. "May as well put it to use," he comments, about Brand's abilities. Their wings arrive, and Hudson drags the basket in between them for sharing. He reaches for one and curses as buffalo sauce drops onto his shirt. Ah well. He'll make one of the dancers help him with the stain. "You staying here in Frostmaw with your girl for awhile, didn't mean to eavesdrop but it seemed that way?" he asks.


‘Your girl.’ Hudson spouts those words so casually, but to Brand it’s enough to momentarily break his brain. His girl? -His- …? No, if anyone, she’s Dominic’s. Brand’s got his own complicated relationship with the woman -- half arguing and half saving her from herself, with a side of frakking -- but… -his-? Well, putting Hudson to rights requires explaining Dominic, and a whole host of other things Brand has no intention of divulging. This entire thought process forms and reaches its conclusion over the course of several swigs of his pint, before Brand sets it down with a sigh and a satisfied smack of the lips. “Yeah, somethin’ like that. Helped Queen Hildegarde out in her war and ended up stayin’ here after. Wasn’t s’posed to be for so long... just sorta happened.” Yep, those thoughts were a lot of preamble for Brand to reveal nothing much at all. And now, he flips the question back on Hudson, eyes squinting as he tries to recall if the man’s at all familiar. “And what of you? I like to think I’ve got a thing for rememberin’ faces, ‘specially those as show up at the bar, so if you’ve been ‘round here before we must’ve missed each other.”


Hudson is stuffing hot wing in his face. This was definitely worth the small trouble associated with cleaning the carpet. "Frostmaw's nice, I do work here but get tired of the cold always," he says, somewhat with his mouth full, not noticing the strange tremor of thought that had crossed Brand regarding Khitti. "I'm in the Eyrie," he clarifies. "Also my kids and their mother are staying in the fort right now, so I have been coming up here to see them." That's a new and unfortunate development, but he acts like it's not. He reaches for his ale, washes down the spicy flavor of wings. The burn remains in his throat. He might regret that...later. "We live in Larket though," he adds. Not actually true at the moment, though he does own a large mansion with his things in Larket. It's just there's problem with the local mobsters, so he's currently sleeping on his couch in a strip club in Cenril. It's... complex. "Got some problems with the house at the moment so displaced," he explains. It sort of sounds as if there's a plumbing issue and the house is just full of sewage now. Fine. Whatever. "Tell me something," continues Hudson, reaching for another wing. He's decided not to linger on the subject of his home, since it's a dodgy one, "what's the attitude in Frostmaw right now toward Larket and the political situation?"


Brand nods along while digging back into the wings and picks up on a number of things worthy of note. Lives in Larket and works in Frostmaw -- well, that's got to be a bit awkward lately, what with current politics and all. The Eyrie -- the man likely knows Pilar, then. The fort, the kids, and the wife -- it really is a wonder they haven't met before. Has he seen a family at the fort, with kids that look like they could be this guy’s? He's been so busy avoiding Lionel’s advisor Esche whenever he's there, he can't recall. Ah, but Lionel himself would maybe know of them (and little does Brand know just to what degree he is correct). “Depends on the person,” Brand states, once Hudson’s made his inquiry. “Plenty of tension, to be sure. But… Frostmaw’s gorram tired of war. An’ our Thane is Larket’s queen now, isn’t she? So I’d say… cordial, if a bit icy.” There’s a faint smirk on his face as he concludes his thought; Frostmaw provides plenty of opportunities to work in puns about the cold.


Hudson wonders if he's not building a house of cards here by misrepresenting him and Alvina as still together, but he's too embarrassed by the present state of affairs to tell the truth right now. Whatever, onward: hot wings and beer and politics, yesssss. "Hah," he's picked up on the pun. He chuckles all the way into his ale. "I think the marriage with King Macon might actually be ... not just political anymore, I know the queen from way back and she seemed a woman in love to me," he remarks. "Kinda weird, she's been with both sides of the Larket drama, eh?" He means, of course, Kelovath, fugitive at large, blamed for a Great Many Horrible Things that have happened in Larket. "I haven't met the King, but Kelovath was... a nice guy, shame about the truth. These days I'm learning that it's the 'nice guys' that have more than meets the eye." He tears off a piece of chicken from a wing, remarking further, as he chews, "Since you live here, can I ask you a dodgy question? Where might I score some red dirt? For science, seriously."


Brand merely shrugs at the talk of Josleen and Kelovath. “S’all hearsay to me. I’ve not seen either of them since Hildegarde’s coronation. Spent some months, eh, indisposed. Sittin’ around in some frakkin’ dragon’s cave doesn’t lend itself well to keepin’ up on anyone’s social life, y’know?” That and, well, Brand hasn’t yet seen reason to care. Their business is their own until and unless war is brought to Frostmaw’s borders, because Khitti seems to attract enough trouble to her even without a war afoot. Exhibit A: the aforementioned dragon. Exhibit B: that shadow creature in her head and its gorram murderous frenzies. Those haven’t all been so easy to clean up as that carpet. Brand finishes the wing he’s been chewing on and sums that train of thought up with a relatively simple: “It’s not like where I’m at is a secret. If the Queen or Lionel need my aid, they’ll have it. Otherwise…” Brand trails off, shrugging again. “And speakin’ of, might wanna ask Firesword Boy about your red dirt. I heard somethin’ vaguely about it bein’, eh, explosive? I dunno, wasn’t really payin’ attention to the story other’n that part, to be honest.” Brand’s vice of choice is the beer before him, the whisky in his pocket flask, and the wine hidden away upstairs; for better or worse, he’s oblivious to the drug trade and Hudson’s role in it.


Hudson is only slightly disappointed that Brand doesn't like to gossip about people he knows as much as he does, but then Brand appears to have a good reason for it: being trapped in a cave. Fine. His eyes go wide at the admission but he doesn't pry, rather continues eating wing in attentive silence, because Brand is moving on to the subject of the red dirt. Who is Firesword Boy? Wait a minute... The 'speakin' of' gets him there. Hudson almost chokes into his beer. TALK TO LIONEL! AWIFUAOIWEFUOWEF!!!! That's the guy that he assumes Alvina's left him for! Nice upstanding citizen Lionel who doesn't arrange to have people murdered (outside of the formal system of warfare) or make narcotics. Hudson keeps his face in 'thoughtfully considering' mode, nodding along, but privately he's thinking that there's gotta be someone else who knows something about red dirt. "Thanks, I'll look him up," he manages to say, picking the bone clean on one of the last wings. "I know a little something like that from Alvina, just wanted to dig into the stuff from an alchemical perspective." He gestures at the last of the wings. "That's all you, man. You need the fortitude to go confront the peril," meaning the hopping mad woman, "in the room you have upstairs."


Brand hasn’t particularly seen a reason to scrutinize the man before him; he’s too wrapped up in his own problems, at the moment. So, for better or worse, he misses the almost-choking and any hesitance regarding Lionel. “No kiddin’,” says Brand about the wing and Khitti, tearing into the former the way the latter hopefully won’t later. Through a mouthful, he adds, “Alvina… Think I’ve heard that name before.” It was the first time Hudson had mentioned her by name. Green eyes draw to the wooden crossbeams in the vaulted ceiling, looking for an answer there, but… he doesn’t find it. Hudson’s house of cards is safe for now. “Nope, I’ve got nothin’. Maybe it’ll come to me later.” It won’t. He’s never actually met the woman, only heard her name once or twice in passing.


Hudson watches Brand blank and, although it's against his interests, decides to be forthcoming because he's already knee deep in this lie, whatever. "She's the Royal Blacksmith," explains Hudson, hoping that this isn't all potentially leading up to an awkward encounter wherein Alvina corrects the record to reflect that they are not, in fact, together as Hudson had advertised. He reaches for his coat and threads his arms into the sleeves. "Speaking of," he cants his head as he pulls the collar up, squares himself to face Brand. "I should be going." He claps Brand on the shoulder. "Nice meeting you, thanks for the wings. Maybe see ya 'round, since apparently I'll be coming here more often in the meantime."


Brand adopts that same alarmed expression he held earlier. He’s -not- ready to face Khitti again, not even remotely. Well, she might not realize if he just… hides down here a little while longer? “Right, see ya. Thanks again for the, er, stain removal.”