Brienne of Tarth (![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
brienne_the_blue) wrote in ![[community profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/community.png)
exsiliumlogs2012-05-19 07:44 pm
brienne_the_blue) wrote in exsiliumlogs2012-05-19 07:44 pm
Open
Date and Time: May 19, afternoonish
Location: Wandering around the complex somewhere
Characters: Brienne and anybody, really.
Summary: Brienne has just gotten here, and has been through the debriefing. Now she's wandering around more or less aimlessly, looking for someone who'd be good enough to stitch up the grotesque and recently inflicted wound on her face..
Warnings: Gratuitous references to alcohol because they amuse me. Others to follow if applicable.
So Brienne has been debriefed. One moment she was about to be hanged, and the next moment she's here. In this Hold. She has a pouch of coins of a substantial weight, and she has Oathkeeper. It's the sword, Valyrian steel and the most important thing in her life, that makes her feel as if she hasn't gone entirely insane. If she has Oathkeeper, she reasons, she can't be dead or dreaming. It's faulty logic, but it's working for her, and anyway, she doesn't want to think about the last few hours.
As if in response to this thought, she is aware of the various aches and pains of her body. Her cheek has been bleeding from the wound Biter inflicted. She's torn off a strip of cloth and is more or less using it to staunch the bleeding as much as she can, but she knows it needs tending, and she's going to have to find someone who can stitch her up. Asking for this bit of help when she knows no one does not make her particularly happy, which is putting it mildly. Nor does she even know where to start. She probably should have asked her guide about maesters, but in the end she had decided against it, since she didn't know whether she could trust anyone here. Still doesn't, but her face will not stitch itself.
She's filthy. Long days of traveling, plus recent fighting do not make for a pretty picture. Not that she was any great prize to begin with, but it's worse now.
Ahead, she spies a bottle of a kind she has never seen before. It was just laying there, on the ground, and she picks it up. Nowhere in the vows she has sworn has there been any mention of littering, but she figures even the refuse could tell her something, if only she knew what to look for.
She opens the bottle and sniffs it. It smells of alcohol, but there is also the underlying odor of… sweet tea. She supposes it could be used to disinfect her face, but there only appear to be a few swallows, and she decides to keep it, just in case it's her only option.
She sets her jaw and marches grimly on, looking for all the world like someone who has been set a task they do not relish but who is doing it anyway. It never occurs to her to use the strange machine she was given. Had she done so, she might not be in this predicament, but one look at all the buttons and strange images and she decides she simply can't process any more right now. So she'll have her first encounter with the people in person here, thank you very much.
Location: Wandering around the complex somewhere
Characters: Brienne and anybody, really.
Summary: Brienne has just gotten here, and has been through the debriefing. Now she's wandering around more or less aimlessly, looking for someone who'd be good enough to stitch up the grotesque and recently inflicted wound on her face..
Warnings: Gratuitous references to alcohol because they amuse me. Others to follow if applicable.
So Brienne has been debriefed. One moment she was about to be hanged, and the next moment she's here. In this Hold. She has a pouch of coins of a substantial weight, and she has Oathkeeper. It's the sword, Valyrian steel and the most important thing in her life, that makes her feel as if she hasn't gone entirely insane. If she has Oathkeeper, she reasons, she can't be dead or dreaming. It's faulty logic, but it's working for her, and anyway, she doesn't want to think about the last few hours.
As if in response to this thought, she is aware of the various aches and pains of her body. Her cheek has been bleeding from the wound Biter inflicted. She's torn off a strip of cloth and is more or less using it to staunch the bleeding as much as she can, but she knows it needs tending, and she's going to have to find someone who can stitch her up. Asking for this bit of help when she knows no one does not make her particularly happy, which is putting it mildly. Nor does she even know where to start. She probably should have asked her guide about maesters, but in the end she had decided against it, since she didn't know whether she could trust anyone here. Still doesn't, but her face will not stitch itself.
She's filthy. Long days of traveling, plus recent fighting do not make for a pretty picture. Not that she was any great prize to begin with, but it's worse now.
Ahead, she spies a bottle of a kind she has never seen before. It was just laying there, on the ground, and she picks it up. Nowhere in the vows she has sworn has there been any mention of littering, but she figures even the refuse could tell her something, if only she knew what to look for.
She opens the bottle and sniffs it. It smells of alcohol, but there is also the underlying odor of… sweet tea. She supposes it could be used to disinfect her face, but there only appear to be a few swallows, and she decides to keep it, just in case it's her only option.
She sets her jaw and marches grimly on, looking for all the world like someone who has been set a task they do not relish but who is doing it anyway. It never occurs to her to use the strange machine she was given. Had she done so, she might not be in this predicament, but one look at all the buttons and strange images and she decides she simply can't process any more right now. So she'll have her first encounter with the people in person here, thank you very much.
no subject
no subject
Bloody hell. Robin carefully kept his expression neutral, though inside he was seething. The depths to which men could sink, given power over others, never ceased to appall him - and one would have thought he'd seen enough by now to harden him to that reality.
But Brienne was of a stoic nature, it seemed, and so he did not pry for detail. Likely he would never know the truth, and maybe what she needed was to forget as quickly as possible.
"If you would rather see the back of me, lady Brienne, I will find something else to do; but I would like to accompany you, if it does not trouble you."
He hesitated, rubbing a hand over the back of his neck. "There is something else you should know. It seems we are to share living quarters from now on." Robin could feel the color creeping up his neck and cursed softly. "The presumption is not my own," he went on in a hurry. "The apartments are assigned, and they do not make distinctions of sex. We would share common quarters only, not a b - not a room. If it causes you disquiet, you could request a change."
Still blushing, he looked at her frankly. "But I would not object. I think... I think we are each in need of someone to trust in this place. I know I could use a friend." Robin smiled faintly. "We could try, anyhow. If you are willing."
no subject
"If you'd like to come, I won't stop you," she replied neutrally, and then it occurred to her that she owed him more than that. "You have my thanks for all your kindness, Ser Robin."
His comment about their living quarters startled her. She hadn't thought much about where she would go other than the fact that eventually, once she saw to her face, she wanted a bath and bed, and she hoped that these people could provide her with both. He seemed uneasy about the arrangement, though not for the reasons most men would have been uneasy in her company. He seemed... embarrassed.
She wanted to touch him, but she did not. But she did offer him a small smile, which didn't last long because it hurt her face too much. "I have no objections, Ser Robin," she said quietly. "I have shared quarters with far worse than you, I am sure, and I would welcome your friendship." She meant that sincerely.
no subject
"The clinic it is, then."
She had the map, and she was the lady, so he allowed Brienne to lead the way, though his body language would have made his protective escort clear to any observer.
[[ooc: Brienne has permission to touch Robin as she sees fit. He promises not to mind.]]