nexus_sages | made waves with some friends I know

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made waves with some friends I know

The season is a'changing, the weather is warmer. The forecast calls for high temperature, low humidity and a light breeze. A near perfect day. What better reason to gather the friends and have a good time with a bonfire? Grab a beer, have a seat. Cheery tunes fill the salty air. There's plenty of room and so much to eat.

Matt Murdock is actually dressed for the beach. Still likely more than usual. He burns so easily. There's no way he could have done this alone. Anyone who is anyone in Nexus knows that there is that distinct Verity Willis touch on everything. If the sounds and the sights don't get you, it is going to be whatever Clint has on the grill. That man is magic.

[ooc; Come on in, guys and gals! Hop threads, twist time for sooner, later and all things in between. It's a real party. Don't be shy!]

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Brienne might change her mind if she saw how quickly Clint could nock, draw, and fire.

"If my cookin's any good, you will," Clint puts in. It totally won't be your fault if you're still hungry, Brienne, it's just that the food is so good. Right?

"Brienne. Nice to meet you." Hanging his tongs on one of the grill handles, he extends a hand.

Westeros is lacking skilled archers. They talk about them in the age of heroes. Now it is all about swords, swordsmen and mounts. Someday they'll give away to something else.

Yes, would it be grand if it were the food to blame and not the one eating it? At least these aren't rations. That would be dreadful. "It does smell enticing."

She spares a hand from her plate to shake his with a solid grip. "Pleasure to meet you. I hope that you will be able to enjoy what you're preparing."

Swords, swordsmen, and mounts share one critical vulnerability: a glaring lack of ranged capability.

There's no rationing here--Clint is a proponent of that most American of vices, holiday-justified gluttony. "Well, thanks."

He doesn't seem put off by the strength or weathering of her hand; his own is fairly strong, itself, with no shortage of calluses. "Oh, I will. I've already got my first burger picked out, and it's a beauty."

So true! Many rely on being able to lash out a the distance of a lance or blade. In the North they still use bows, perhaps a wildling or two could even begin to contest skill with Clint in that department. Brienne has not yet had the pleasure to meet any yet.

"You haven't eaten yet?" Well, now can he now that she sees. No reprieve in sight.

"I wanted to get the first round cooked off before I had some," he explains. "Don't wait for me, though, or yours'll get cold."

"Ah," she nods and it seems good manners to her to take a bite of appreciation and because he is bidding her to do so. "You are," wait needs more chewing. Mmm. Good. "In the servitude of the hosts?"

"Servitude? That doesn't sound right." He gives a shake of his head. "I'm Verity's brother, sorta. She and Matt put this thing together, I'm helpin' out where I can."

"You're family." Oh that was not an option she considered. Her eyes widen. "Apologies." Things are enjoyable here in Nexus but very... different. "They put the right man in the right place." Because if she's going to put her foot in her mouth at least there's delicious eats to follow.

Clint's not sure what she's apologizing for, and that confusion reflects in his expression, but she likes the meat so it's all good. "Glad you like it. If you're around next winter, don't miss the chili cook-off; last time, it was Verity and I, head-to-head. Good times."

At least she didn't outright insult him though she did think he were lowly. Whoops. That was entirely reliant on the fact he was serving to others. "Does that happen every winter? The season sounds to be mild in this place."

Don't worry, Brienne--Clint is totally lowly. White trash from Bumfuck, Iowa, who grew up in a circus. He is, at best, one of the more stylish breeds of hobo.

"Well, we've done it the once so far, but it seems like a good start to a tradition," he admits. "The winter was pretty rough, here, but I've seen worse growin' up. Why, what's it like where you're from?"

Brace yourself, Clint.

Low born but not baseborn is better than nothing. Clint of House Barton of Bumfuck in the kingdom of Iowa is a man of fantastic feats and works that are not limited to select cuts of meat.

"We're coming close to the second longest summer in recorded history according to the maesters. They reckon that the upcoming winter will be twice as long. Winds cut to the bone and men and women alike freeze in place from the cold. I've...not yet lived to see winter."

Winter is coming, Clint!

Clint wouldn't know the difference between low born and baseborn. He'd probably make a baseball joke, though, and then smack whoever was giving somebody a hard time about being baseborn with an improvised bat.

"Wait, your winter is longer than your summer?" Clint's confused. "How does that work?"

Sean Bean is already dead!

Low born means that you get a gold star because the family tried and just is not really noteworthy. Baseborn, welp, the only way to go is up if you go anywhere at all. Baseball bats of equality would do a world of good for bastards back where she's from.

"Usually it is about even but they say it is to compensate the long, long summer. Ours has been close to twenty years." Is it really that weird?

Well, Clint is thoroughly American--all that classist, born-to-it bullshit sounds suspiciously like the kind of noise a Hydra goon makes when you punch 'em hard enough. Seriously, he'd be as bad for Westerosian politics as he is everything else he touches (steaks and one dog aside).

Brienne's saying something shocking, though, and Clint is shocked. "Twenty years?! Where I'm from, we get a summer and winter every year--and a couple other seasons, besides. How do people make it through a twenty-year winter?"

Ah but Clint, everything about Westerosian politics is similar to shadowy organization works. Hydra would really be an out and about thing. For sure. It's wonderful that there is no such thing in these parts. Hydra or just... anything from where Brienne is from.

"Frea has told me so much. That sounds like it could be nice. All the seasons organized like a pattern or a wheel." She takes a thoughtful bite off of her plate. "Well, as well as they possibly can, that's how. It is a hard and terrible time they say."

Clint would have to do so much punching if he ever visited Westeros. So much.

"It's pretty good, yeah," he admits. "It doesn't sound like people really get much wintertime fun, where you're from."

Many leaders get far on punches alone in Westeros. He could be a lord by now with it. Or dead. Brienne has been very tempted to punch her way to reason. Manners beg that she not outside of the field of combat.

She is a melee winner.

"No. Focus is turned to survival. Revelry is for the spring and summer."

"Okay, well, you come back here in the wintertime, you're gonna get chili and snow forts," he promises. "Just a warning." It's totally not a warning.

"That would be a much better arrangement," she says softly, almost sadly. "I should like to think that winter can be enjoyable."

"Come back here," Clint insists, "and we'll do it up right. Promise."

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made waves with some friends I know

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