RP:Definitely Not Their Dad

Summary: Bailey is characteristically drunk. Gorehilt is uncharacteristically sober. The two meet. Gorehilt decides to play the petty, hypocritical vigilante and take Bailey in for public intoxication. They almost have an altercation--almost.

Addl: The authors establish that Gorehilt is not Bailey's dad.

Kelay Way

Gorehilt has one of the old town drunks cornered outside a shop. The half orc wears dark spiked armor and rides a jet black nightmare with a flaming orange mane. He's ostensibly a knight. In one hand, he holds a fine spear, and in the other he holds the nightmare's reigns. The drunk is bewildered and trying to stagger away, but Gorehilt catches him at every turn, either blocking the greying old human man with flaming hooves or a glimmering spearpoint. "You've got some real nerve," says the half orc through a sneer. "If I wasn't feeling so darn generous, you'd be a shish kebab right now." Undaunted, the drunk growls back some slurred profanities. Gorehilt spits at his feet. "This is what I'm talking about. Why don't we see what the local constabulatory says," the black knight threatens, "about public intoxication, huh? I'd love to see you spend tomorrow in the stocks." The nightmare snorts a blast of fire, agreeing indignantly. Again, the insensible old man rattles off an intoxicated string of obscenities, calling Gorehilt every slur and insult he can conjure. "You just blew your last chance," Gorehilt laughs with clear condescension and whips his spear through the air, making an unnecessarily elaborate flourish. "You're coming with me, peacefully or in pieces."

Bailey arrives, as if on cue. Words like disheveled, unkempt, and haggard would be apt descriptors for Bailey as They emerge from the tavern in quite the little huff. The scoundrel yells something quite unkind about someone's mother over Their shoulder before staggering away from the door, a thrown beer mug only just barely missing Bailey's head before that door can fully close. A hand instinctively fell to the hand and a halfer that was sheathed at Bailey's hip but beyond that, They were content to not turn back around to retaliate. Bailey does the drunken dance, swaying this way and that as the world wobbles. And then bumps right into a Knight's horse, as if such a beast were hard to see. "Excuse me, miss…" The drunkard slurred as They stumbled backwards a bit. It was here that Bailey bothered to pause and attempt to blink the haziness away from Their eyes, with very limited success. It was enough for Bailey to register the nightmare's rider but the drunken man that rider was accosting may as well have not even existed as far as Bailey could be concerned. "Oh, sorry, sir." Bailey said with a bit of a cackle before hiccuping and burping at the same time. "Your wife is very pretty. You make a…" There was a brief pause, wherein the drunk dry heaved a little. "...a lovely couple." If one did not know any better, one might suspect that Bailey was intentionally being snarky.

Gorehilt twists the reins, trying to calm his rearing mount. The nightmare, already agitated by one drunk’s antics, is positively enraged when Bailey bumps into him. Gorehilt has to brace himself hard in the stirrups to keep from being thrown. Flaming hooves menacingly whoosh at and around Bailey’s head. Taking advantage of the distraction, the pickled old man throws one last volley of insults at Gorehilt and flees down the street into the night, staggering and tumbling as he goes. “Cinderback, whoa. Whoa!” In the precious few seconds it takes the knight to regain control of Cinderback, for that was the creature’s name, he loses his quarry completely. Bailey now finds Themself the object of Gorehilt and Cinderback’s unified, contemptuous attention. “And you,” the greenskin’s tusky mouth bends into a sneer, “you make a pitifully banal nuisance. Can you believe how this town is going to tatters?” Cinderback snorts a fiery blast in sound agreement. The two advance toward Bailey. “Well,” Gorehilt shrugs and shifts in the saddle to a more martial position, readying his spear again, “I guess someone has to be the voice of order around here.”

If Bailey took notice of those flaming hooves or even the general air of contempt now seething off of the horse and it's rider, then the lanky menace made no effort to show it. Instead, Bailey just blinked incredulously at the half-orc. Their face showed no emotion beyond that of sheer unimpressed boredom. This was, of course, nothing new for Bailey. But it was hardly likely that Gorehilt would know that this was just Bailey's default demeanor. Gorehilt's words did manage to get Bailey to raise an eyebrow just ever so slightly. Were Bailey ever so slightly more sober, then perhaps They would have recognized the danger and high-tailed it out of there. Instead, Bailey chose the low-road. "Bruh, you one of them hero plebs? Maybe you're the guy that killed the cultists. That'd be cool, yeah? Should I be…" Bailey paused mid-sentence and stared blankly out into space, bodily heaved and unloaded the contents of Their stomach onto the ground. Then those grey eyes immediately refocused on the half-orc. "...should I be thanking you?" The drunk finished without missing even a single beat. A hand did fall to the hilt of Their sword though, drawn there by instinct rather than conscious thought. Perhaps subconsciously, there was the hope that this intimidation tactic would inspire the knight to reconsider his approach.

Gorehilt and Cinderback flich in unified disgust. "Oh, come on," the half-orc begs, "do you really have to?" Feeling so much more repulsed than before, he waves the tip of his spear in a shooing motion, trying to spook Bailey off much as one might shoo a fly. "Get off the road at least. I'm telling you, really, you're going to pass out in a ditch at this rate." Suddenly exasperated, Gorehilt blows a tired sigh between his tusks. Flipping the spear over once, he starts trying to prod Bailey with the butt end. "C'mon. Knock it off. Get your hand off your sword." He swings and thrusts and baps around, trying to herd Bailey as harmlessly as he can. "Put that away. You're a hot mess. You need money for a bed or what?" Cinderback paces and paws impatiently. If Gorehilt has had a sudden urge to leniency, the nightmare doesn't share it. It blows rings of acrid smoke and bright jets of fire from its nostrils, trying to choke or singe the sloppy drunk should the opportunity present itself. "Here, I won't put you in the stocks," Gorehilt promises, still trying to sound gruff and rather failing, "if you just pass out somewhere decent."

There was a moment where it would appear that Bailey had fallen asleep in the standing position. Their head sort of slumped forward and They did not seem to react much to word or prodding, save for a bit of wobbling. These goodie goodie types were so annoying in their predictability. Always trying to save Bailey. Always trying to help Bailey. Always trying to convince Bailey to get on the straight and narrow. Then abruptly, Bailey's head flipped backwards as if They were staring up at the sky before returning to the proper upright position in a quick snapping motion. The straight and narrow was boring though and Bailey had little love for the whole damsel in distress thing. "You're not my dad…" The drunkard mumbled, stumbling forward just a bit. Bailey reached out to grab the pole of the spear for some stability. And provided that the half-orc made no effort to stop this from happening, some magic would leak from Bailey's hands into that spear. "You're not my dad!" Bailey screamed as they grasped for the spear. It was becoming increasingly clear that Bailey did not think that Gorehilt was Their dad. But that much was likely obvious just for the looking. Neither of them had matching features to speak of and Bailey, for the exception of Their wild locks, lacked the necessary greenness. But hey, at least Bailey no longer has a hand on Their sword, right?

Gorehilt's sympathies are very shallow, and the moment Bailey starts ranting and trying to grab his spear, it's back to violence and coercion. "Cool it! Hey! You crazy drunk." He whips the spear a couple times to keep it out of Bailey's grasp. Briefly, the spellblade manages to lay a hand on it, but the moment They do, the spear seems to bristle hatefully. Apparently, the weapon already has a fair bit of magic in it, some sort of disorienting charm or something. If Bailey actually manages to grasp it for more than a couple seconds, in Their drunken state it could give Them the full-blown spins. "That's it." Gorehilt gives the flexible spear several violent whips. The half orc is done playing games and ready to crack Bailey across the hand or the arm, batting it away if he can. "Public intoxication." He whips the spear again, and it whistles in a swift arc, one that hopefully connects with Their thick head. "Disturbing the peace." He aims a thrust at Bailey's chest, hoping to knuck Them on Their butt. "I'm taking you in."

By every metric, there was no reason that Bailey should have been able to move the way that They proceeded to move. And yet, despite being a complete drunken wreck and looking like the beanpoliest beanpole to ever beanpole, Bailey quite abruptly appeared to be quite the adept warrior. In a flash, Bailey drew steel. The sword slid free of its sheath and in the same motion, was sent arcing upward to intercept the first blow from the spear. It remained poised there for a moment, slanted across Bailey's with the tip angled just ever so slightly towards Gorehilt in what was clearly a threat. This was all, of course, made all the more impressive when one considered that the sword in question was of the bastard variety which were not known for their elegant drawing methods. One of those "come any closer and I'll gut you like a fish" threats. Bailey's normally dull and tired state even narrowed for a moment as if to suggest that perhaps play time were over. Then Bailey wobbled. Then Bailey wobbled again. Then Bailey fell quite cartoonishly to the ground and laid there face-down in the dirt. If one listened closely, one might have heard "your not my dad" mumbled against the ground.

Gorehilt is taken aback by Bailey's sudden alacrity. His heart jumps at the promise of a real fight. A creature of their size and their condition really oughtn't to be able to handle a weapon that way. Was this a burst of drunken genius? Was Bailey more than they appeared? Wrapping one hand tight in the reigns, clutching his spear fast in the other, Gorehilt grins and makes ready for combat. "Wait, no," and just as quickly as he'd gotten his hopes up, "you're gonna, oof, ouch," Bailey falls face first in the dirt. There's a second of awkward silence before Gorehilt dismounts. "Go get the night watch," he sighs and pats Cinderback's neck, "I'll watch this one." While the nightmare trots off to find a town guard, the half-orc stands over Bailey with his spear, keeping his legs out of sword reach and his spear pointed square at the small of their back. "I'm not your dad," Gorehilt agrees. "Sounds like a sore topic, if you ask me." Maybe a night in the drunk tank would give Bailey a little time to mull that one over and sort themselves out.