With Carmichael at Bloody's
Location: Bloody's
Date: 10/23/16
Cast: Jhavid Carmichael

Log Title

[ Bloody Pedro's, et.al. ]------[ Amber City ]——

There is no better place to wash down a fish dinner with a bottle of
Bayle's Piss, so long as you don't mind a surly hack who passes for a
waiter shouting your order though a hole in the wall for all to hear.
The etiquette of seating is a bit different here than most places:
find a vacant table if you can and lay your sword belt on the chair to
your right, with the blade partly drawn. There is not much decor,
unless you count passed-out drunks and shifty-eyed individuals, a few
broken bottles and suspicious stains upon the floor, and some
not-too-subtle artwork of an amorous nature hung on the far wall.

Carmichael, Catriona, Corwin, Jhavid, and Sergei are here.

[ places ]----------[ Exits: Out ]——

Bloody's isn't so bloody tonight. There's the usual ruckus, of course, but there's a smattering of conversations. At a set of tables sits Corwin and Catriona, then not far from them at separate tables, Carmichael and Sergei. "A painting? Do tell," Catriona invites, shifting in her chair to grab a full tankard, the sword dancing at her back. "Catriona," she offers to Sergei, slurring more than a little.

Sergei nods to Catriona. "It is good to meet you." He is looking rather frazzled, but in a place like this, he's trying really hard not to show it. Because that just paints a big red target on his back. There is a sword on the chair next to him, as is the way apparently.

In though what passes for a door comes Jhavid, not really looking out of place here at all. He gives the place a once-over before heading in. Not really liking any of the empty tables, he chooses one nearer Corwin and Catriona, and Sergei and Carmichael that happens to have a passed out drunk occupying it. He very casually takes the passed out man and heaves him over one shoulder, heading towards the door.

An unceremonious thud outside moments later, and Jhavid comes back in. He takes a seat at the now emtpy table, props his feet up on the other chair, and signals the burly waiter. After that's accomplished he grins at the aforementioned people. "Nothin' but fuckin' royalty and nobility up in this shithole tonight."

"Is it?" Cat asks Sergei, a single eyebrow lofting high on her forehead. "It's not usually. It must be the alcohol." There's a leisurely stretch as her eyes follow Jhavid, and laughter at his pronouncement. "Sassy, aren't you? I'll have you know I'm neither of those things."

[ Sergei ]---------—[ idle 7m ]

A broad-shouldered man who stands a little over six feet in height. He has black hair that is just long enough for him to have put it back into a ponytail that sits at the nape of his neck. Wispy bangs slightly obscure a pair of eyes that could pass for hazel…but upon closer examination, it's all too obvious that they are a whiskey-gold color with flecks of emerald green. They seem perpetually narrowed with suspicion, their golden-emerald depths cold and distant.
The man has a thin, aristocratic nose, and his expression is a pensive one, lips drawn into a hard line across the bottom half of his face, as if the man is deep in thought. The man's face is dark complected, possessing a strong and well-defined jawline, though it is careworn, as if full of old sorrows long past, but not forgotten.
The long-sleeved white poet shirt he wears fits him loosely, and the top button is left unbuttoned. His black trousers are made of leather, and are rather snug on his lower body, telling of the lithe, athletic build of the man, despite his large size. He also wears a pair of knee-high boots of hard, black leather, with a low heel. They resemble standard riding boots.

-----------[ male trouble-ok/3 ]

[ Catriona ]---------[ idle 1m ]

A pale beauty is the best way to describe the woman you look upon. Everything about her, from the arch lift of her thin ashen eyebrows, to her full, bee-stung lips speaks of an intelligence lying in wait behind deep, evergreen eyes. Raised cheekbones have no hint of blush to them, and they are accompanied by a high, regal forehead, an aquiline nose just bordering on the side of thin, and a chin that is sharp and dainty all at once. Her high forehead ends at a mane of gilded silver, gentle waves reaching just past her waist.

Most often she wears black and gold, and most often it is revealing.

---------[ female pbg trouble-ok/3 ]

Sergei blinks as Jhavid rather unceremoniously evicts a drunken patron from his seat. Though at the statement of royalty and nobility? "I am… not quite certain I count as either one," he remarks. Although he is certain about one thing. "Definitely not the former." He also seems a bit confused at Catriona's words. "I have no real reason to believe it is not. I do not know you well enough to say the other way." It's at least honest, and spoken in a tone of voice so as not to be rude.

"Oh, it was just a perspective on Banyan that I painted. Something of a price for getting to examine a few things there and ask questions. My sister set me on that path, I don't think she actually thought I'd do it," Carmichael offers toward Catriona, flicking eyes onto JHavid, who is /also/ not the one he was expecting. There's a sigh. "We're an epidemic, I'm afraid. Good evening, Captain Flay… Jhavid," with a bow of his head and amusement at the eviction notice of the inibriated.

Jhavid seems about to reply when the surly waiter takes that moment to arrive at Jhavid's table. There's a somewhat tense and prolonged moment when the waiter looks like he wants to say something unpleasant, probably about Jhavid evicting the drunk. The two stare at each other for a few moments until Jhavid takes his feet off the opposite chair and puts a hand on one of his knives. Probably the waiter decides discretion is the better choice, and heads to the window calling in an order before moving to get a bottle of Bayle's. Clearly Jhavid is a regular.

He turns and looks back at Catriona, studying her for a minute. "Hmm, let me see. Pale hair and skin, expensive and very attractive clothes, definitely not a noble, and beautiful enough to stab a man over. If I were a betting man, and I am, I'd wager you be Catriona." He nods in greeting also at Carmichael and Sergei, "Evenin Prince Marshall. How goes it? Where's your little Republican buddy? He staying off the docks?"

"The scent of Chaos and brimstone hanging in the air?" Cat adds to Jhavid's introduction of her, laughter dancing in her drunken eyes. "Clearly, you should be a betting man, Mysterious Captain Flay. Captain Flay. Flay. Why do they call you that, hmm?"

"Presumably. I don't keep track of the bowler hatted fellow with his troublesome tongue," Carmichael replies to Jhavid, amused by the contratempt that almost occured there, his own boots on a chair, his seat tipped back a fraction. He glances from the captain to Catriona and back, knowing the answer to this at least in part, but it's not his rep to share. His fresh bottle of Bayle's piss is brought over, another glass poured out and he fishes for a snuff box full of rather white powder, which he inhales a thumbnail of up both nostrils. Miraculously -that- doesn't promote yet another sneeze. "It goes quite well though. Concerted effort to get drunk and perhaps get into a blood huge fight in the near future… it's a good evening all around."

Jhavid seems about to form a reply when the server shows up again with a bottle of Bayle's and a glass. He sets both on the table, which illicits a look of both shock and appall. This look continues for a few moments before the server picks up the glass with a disgusted look before walking off. Jhavid then takes a few moments to pop the cork on the bottle while muttering something about stabbing the waiter under his breath. Mission accomplished with the cork, and Jhavid begins to drink straight from the bottle.

He grins in the direction of Catriona and then looks at Carmichael, "You wanna tell her? I'm interested in hearing what the rumors say." He then looks to Sergei, "Or how about you? Care to take a guess? We can make a game of it. Guess right and a bottle's on me."

"Guess wrong and I'll gut you," Chimes Catriona, laughing brightly, drunkenly. "Let's make a true game of it!" She pulls her sword free from it's sheathe with a clarified ringing. "Who's our first player?"

Sergei tilts his head at Jhavid's words. "Tell who what? Guess what?" He blinks, replays the last few moments of conversation in his head. He'd been listening, just not expecting to need to reply. It's pretty obvious that he's not a part of 'the group'. Or if he is, it's only peripherally. He shakes his head. "Apologies, but I would have no idea sir. I have not heard the rumors about you. This is my first time hearing your name." And Catriona's threat makes the risk-reward ratio of the 'game' definitely not in his favor. "I will have to pass on that game then, Lady Catriona." He smiles…a small, subdued thing. He's a sort that doesn't show much emotion, it seems. Unless he's off his game, like he was earlier, and he seems to have recovered. He adds, "I rather like my guts where they are."

"Oh, you're so very kind, Catriona. A true bleeding heart… or that's what the other guy is, after you're done." Carmichael murmurs into his wine glass, looking to Sergei as the man declines to play that game, then to Jhavid and Catriona, back and forth. "Reputation. It's actually fairly simple to put together - you earn your name in Minos, by deed. You don't get second chances with Jhavid; hell most of the time you don't get first chances. That way lies to wrack and ruin and loose ends. Doesn't it, Captain?" he asks as he tips back the glass.

Jhavid just sort of shrugs at Carmichael's question. "Well you're not wrong, Prince Marshall. By the way, did you know that if we were in Minos I'd probably be calling you Captain Prince? See in Minos the sea captains are the nobility. Therefore our way of showing respect to those who command, but don't have a ship… well I think you get the idea." His gaze lingers on Sergei for a few moments, perhaps deciding if the man is just trying to be cagey.

He looks back to Catriona, "You see, before I was a captain I was an officer aboard the Leviathan. The captain of said vessel made a poor life choice involving the crew. So I took command of the vessel, with the crew's blessing. To repay the former captain for his loyalty," The sarcasm drips heavily from the word. "I flayed him alive while the crew watched. It seemed to strike a chord with the men. Later on it became my calling card, so to speak. When I take a prize if the opposing captain gives up his cargo with neither a chase nor a fight, I repay him by allowing him to keep his stores and leave everyoen aboard alive. If the opposing captain resists or runs, when I take the ship I flay him in front of his crew. Sometimes some of his officers too. Depends on my mood and how much of a fight they put up."

At Jahvid's pronouncement of Carmichael being not wrong, Catriona slides her sword back into its scabbard with a little pout. And then she listens. It's nearly impossible to miss the shiver that crawls along her small frame at the mention of flaying, nor the way her eyes darken. "I hear it is no easy feat, to part skin from flesh. Slippery. Are you any good at it?"

Sergei seemed to have delivered his statement to be the truth as he knew it. Jhavid will find no hint of subterfuge in his expression, and Sergei doesn't seem nervous. And surprisingly, as Jhavid relates this bit of information, of how he got his name, he doesn't flinch. Perhaps he's just hiding it— between the present crowd and the present setting, it wouldn't do to show such weakness as to seem disturbed by that, now would it? Instead he nods. "That would make sense." He sends a bit of a look at Catriona for the question, with just a bit of a frown. But he doesn't speak up, and turns his eyes elsewhere soon enough. Elsewhere turns out to be Carmichael, to whom he sends a small smile and a look that plainly says that's a risk he won't take.

Carmichael swirls fresh wine into his glass, cracking his neck back and to the side in a practiced gesture. That's the moment he catches Sergei's look with a glitter in his eyes that speaks of the white powder and a pleasant buzz at two bottles of wine. Show no fear. Show no weakness. Own it. He does though, nod to Jhavid. "I know less than I'd like about Minos, but I'm not entirely unfamiliar. After all, I've educated individuals that just don't seem to get with the program, several times…" and averted an outright bloodbath in the wrong places to have them. "Captain Prince… it has an odd sort of ring to it, doesn't it? I presume though, flaying is an artform. I've never managed that, although I have exploded enemies before - and blown things to smithereens. Less finesse there, though."

Jhavid nods at both Catriona and Carmichael as if they were talking about the weather. "I don't know how good others might say I am at it. I'm sure there are professional torturers out there who would probably dissect my technique as amateurish and sloppy. It is a little tricky. Cut too deep and they bleed to death before the process is over, which defeats the purpose. I have a good set of knives and a steady hand. So with a bit of practice I've become good enough to keep most of them alive the majority of the way through."

"Complete and utter destruction has its place," Cat assures Carmichael, lest his self esteem suffer in the face of the Captain's finesse. "If madness could be considered a style, that is mine." She stands, wobbling, executing a drunken perfidy of a bow. "Madness and Chaos. And I've been warned by Caine not to let the latter loose in the City of Amber, so gentlemen, since I am near enough to the precipice, I'll not tempt it by edging closer. Good evening."

Ironically, Sergei's need to seem unaffected is preventing him from getting as drunk as present company would like him to. As it is, he's had nothing to drink. The military-like control must be maintained, after all. This is the last place he needs to let his guard down. Ironic perhaps, but true. He doesn't comment on 'proper flaying technique'— he's sure others will do that. And it's not really a subject that he has much interest in. He'd say it's hardly something that should be discussed over food and drink, but he hasn't been asked. And if anything, he's keenly aware of how much weaker than everyone at this table he is. So let them direct the flow of conversation. Sergei can turn his attention elsewhere for the duration. He doesn't miss Catriona standing to leave though. He offers a respectful bow of his head as she makes her farewells. "Good evening Lady Catriona," he says politely. That stuff about Madness and Chaos? He doesn't comment.

"Ah, yes, please don't. I'd be most annoyed at you if you did," Carmichael offers Catriona as she makes her departure imminent, polite though and congenial in his request. There's even a light smile, ghostly faint again and an incline of his head in faretheewell. "Burn the cities and salt the earth," murmured that, he considers for a moment, then fishes cigarettes out, lighting one and leaving the silvered cigarette case open on the table in invite, the battered old zippo beside it. "I'm quite talented at evisceration though," he opines, almost wistfully as he takes a deep lungful.

Jhavid looks a bit disappointed at Catriona's announced departure. "Why is it always the prettiest always are the ones to leave first? Anyway, probably a good idea that. You know, not angering Caine. I have yet to meet another person in this world more skilled at revenge. Even I pick my battles there. See you around, I hope."

At that moment his food arrives. This time there's no altercation with the waiter. Maybe he heard the comment about getting stabbed. He looks at Carmichael in between mouthfuls. "Sounds like you need to let off some steam."

Catriona goes home.
Catriona has left.

"She did get quite a headstart on the rest of you in drinking," Sergei points out, regarding Catriona's departure. But he says nothing else in that direction. From the sounds of it, he doesn't have any intentions or expectations of getting drunk himself.

Carmichael clucks his tongue softly, no comment regarding Caine offered, wrinkling his nose as he glances over at Jhavid. "What gave it away?" he asks, sardonically yet without a trace of irony in his tone. There's a sigh to follow it, tracking Catriona's steps out of Bloody's. "I'm attempting to vent off steam by a calculated array of inebriations, mellowing drugs and situational possibilities of extreme danger. I've only had a moderate success rate there. Like a band-aid, rather than a cure." He watches Sergei a few moments, in idle thought, raising his glass again. "You probably should have a drink or two you know. Being tee-total in this place /also/ makes you stand out like a sore thumb. Just saying," he flicks ash from his cigarette, looking back at Jhavid. "Seething, churning needs to /do/ something and possibly lop heads off, simmering just under the surface and all that jazz. I'm probably becoming toxic with the urge."

Jhavid just kind of shrugs as he continues to wolf down his food. "Consequences of workin' for the man. Spend half your life tryin' to boost up them what you'd be happier defying, and the other half tryin' to babysit them what really needs to receive the consequences of their poor life choices."

Sergei nods to Carmichael. "Perhaps so," he agrees. Thus saying, he attempts to signal a waiter over. If successful he will politely put in an order for something that is NOT wine. He never really got a taste for the stuff. Besides, something that tends to be referred to as 'piss' isn't really something that sounds very pleasant to drink.

Carmichael chuckles voicelessly at this. "Yes, quite," he agrees to Jhavid, with a light incline of his head. "The problem I face though is this: Someone has to do it. And if not me, who else?" he shrugs a shoulder up, watching Sergei's attempts to signal and looking pointedly at one of the wait staff. NOT Jhavid's bestest buddy though, rather one of the slightly dirtyskinned womenfolk, he flicks his eyes from her to the mandrake, watching him pointedly until she approaches the man. "Besides which, occasionally in amidst boulstering and babysitting, things happen. Occasionally, I am strategic."

Jhavid shakes his head, obviously not convinced. "Too many cunts in this city for me to adopt that train of thought. There's no cure for bein' a cunt, but even a cunt can learn if you teach 'em right. Dirk finally got the message about callin' me brother once I stuck a pistol in his face. It's all fun and games to these wetnurse assholes, until you make it not fun and games."

He pauses for a few moments to pay his fish some real attention. Apparently Jhavid was pretty hungry. "You know what you do when Dirk sends a flock of penguins to your fuckin' house? Collect 'em up and go shove 'em up his ass sideways. Moxon starts actin' like a cunt and starts lettin' his mouth write checks his ass can't cash? Run him the fuck through. Same goes for anyone else. They'll eventually get the message. People stop tolerating the bullshit and there'll be a lot less bullshit to tolerate."

Jhavid stops to look over at Sergei for a minute. "He's right man. Loosen up a little and act like you belong here and most likely no one's gonna fuck with you. Keep actin' like you're the Prince Marshall's bodyguard and some dipshit out to craft a reputation will try you just for the experience."

Sergei politely asks the lady who comes over for an ale, providing also thanks and a small smile. Jhavid's words get a mirthless chuckle. "I am no bodyguard. The Prince Marshall can take care of himself, I am sure," he comments. "In fact he might welcome the chance to relieve some stress." The smile now has just a hint of teasing to it. "So perhaps if I do attract the wrong kind of attention I would be doing him a favor."

Carmichael's lips pull a crooked smile at this, one that inches further and further up, almost a smirk but not quite making it into that ballpark. Ash is once again flicked from his cigarette, as he listens to Jhavid's opinion and advice with both ears and his eyes wide open. "Dirk got the message when I pointedly informed him of the fate of his prank full of singing penguins that infested my suites. I don't put up with him either, it's simply that my methods differ from a gun in the face approach. I agree though, on the general level of maturity and responsibility that's utterly lacking." Another toke, another ashflick, the cherry burning bright in the dingy interior of Bloody's. He looks sidelong to Sergei, as if considering him trouble-bait for a moment, then shakes his head a little in that direction. "You wouldn't. You'd be undeserving of it, even if I did find some measure of satisfaction in handing someone their own ass on a platter."

Jhavid replies with a mouthful of food. "These assholes" a swallow of Bayle's to wash it down while making a general gesture in different directions, "don't really savvy too much on warnings. They're always testing your limits… always. You know, they think they're really clever. They pull some shit. You make a show of strength. They retreat and make apologies and promises to behave. What they're really up to is finding how far they can push little by little. You give 'em one inch? They want two. Give 'em four inches? They want five. Give 'em a rope? They wanna be a fucking cowboy. All the while they're finding where that line is so they can coast right along it. And what do they do when you're not around? Giggle about it like fuckin's schoolgirls, or go pull the same shit with somebody else. Crack. Fucking. Skulls. Trust me. You'll feel better."

He watches Sergei order ale. After the serving girl leaves he kind of leans his direction and says in a lower voice. "You know, there's a reason we drink the wine here. The shit comes in a sealed bottle, savvy? If you're new to Amber, there's actually a pretty benign reason we call it piss. It's one of Bayle's less quality vintages, which still ain't too bad. It's yellow and his emblem is a fucking dog. Guy's great at wines. Sucks shit at art. Savvy? Fucking dog emblem looks like it's pissing on the bottle."

"A great many people are undeserving of the fates that befall them, for good or ill," Sergei points out quietly, to Carmichael's words of his suitability as trouble-bait. Though he leans closer as Jhavid does, to hear the explanation. And yes, he does realize what's being said. "Ah. Less chance of something being slipped into it before being brought out, yes?" He too speaks quietly. He's taking no chances with that sort of thing, it seems. He'll ask the serving girl as she returns, "Ah, I hate to be such trouble, but I believe I will have some of the wine after all. I would have gotten your attention before you went through the trouble, but I was unable to. I am terribly sorry, miss." He seems contrite enough. And wine would likely be more expensive than ale anyway, right?

More expensive? Certainly, but it's hardly much of a nevermind. Bayle's piss is the cheapest wine that the House makes, but even cheap wine gets sold. The Bayles are quite rich, for a minor house, based on finery and the crates and crates of the worst, sold cheap and cheerful and in bulk. Carmichael watches the interplay with a laugh and shake of his head, mystified it seems, by the extreme good manners being displayed in such a place. It's so distinctly out of place, that it's quaint. He slips eyes onto Jhavid again though, at his recommendations. He simply smiles again, that not-all-the-way-to-a-smirk crookedness. "I wonder how many years you have to answer a slap with a crushing, before the sharks stop circling." He muses.

Jhavid finishes his food, and stands up. Tossing some coins on the table, he picks up the bottle. "Depends on how hard you step, I think. How many people were willing to step to Benedict?" Without waiting for an answer he heads towards the door. "See you two around."

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