He stood up, then, after deeming the conversation with the sad man at the bench completely useless. Turning, he made for the backrooms, he never knew exactly what time it was, but before knowledge of the reality around him returned, he found himself waking up, atop 'his' bed -It should be noted that, ofcourse, the bed wasn't at all his, but rather a rented bed within a rented room, within the rented accommodation of the tavern.
Quintyn was quite grateful, if anything, for atleast he hadn't found himself awake in a haystack yet again, outside the inn - But rather awake on top of a haystack, made to look like bedding, inside the inn. For a brief moment he smirked to the empty space above his head, 'in an inn' he thought. Sitting up, he paused for a moment, before standing completely, running his right hand through his hair several times, as to act a rogue combe.
Standing, he opened the door, to leave his room, but was instead met by the tall, Scarred Man. "Morning.", the Scarred Man said, "You know what that means, aye? Hunting's what it means. And hunt we shall, I managed to track down another... Deer. Only one, but his... Meat, it'll be payed for well, aye.", to this Quintyn smirked, though the expression was soon lost when the Scarred man grabbed him by the shoulder, dwarfing him. Quintyn was, by extreme, tall, ofcourse. He stood at six-foot-three, and could stand above most, if not all, he had met, but the Scarred Man was taller. He was, at the very least, six-foot-nine, or even more... It did occur to Quintyn, how exactly he ever managed to fit into rooms, or houses, without having to bend his head down several times.
"No, no, no. This time, you let -me- do the business, aye? I ain't having you promise release to some poor sod, then stick a knife in their throat again, aye...", the Scarred Man said, but Quintyn simply found the expression, a grin, and put it on.
"Oh, oh, my friend! Well, you can't still be wondering about that... Don’t you understand? I couldn’t let her go-", he began, being cut-off, as usual, by the Scarred Man.
"No. It was foolish - And you'll answer to the Gods for it, you bastard!", he roared out, before turning around to make sure no one heard, he had to tilt forward due to his height.
"Calm down. Besides, if what you say is true - Where were your gods, when I did what I did? If they truly do exist, you must realise that it was, too, in their will for the lady to perish like she did! Or they would have stopped me, surely? Unless you mean to say that your gods are unjust? If anything, I helped her - She had the quickest death of them all. I didn’t even flay a single one of them, like I promised I would.", he smiled, and paused for a moment as the Scarred Man contemplated, "And such a strange word - 'Bastard'. Hmm, yes. I -am- a bastard, and quite proud of it too, it means I'll never have to follow some strange custom, eh? Still, our history makes us who we are! Where is my father, then? I heard he would be coming on the morrow?"
The Scarred Man simply spat to his right, and began to turn, before stopping when he hear Quintyn continue.
"Ah. You aren't leaving, are you? My father wouldn’t like that, would he?", he said, causing the Scarred Man to grunt. "Look, fine. That's fair, yes - Very fair, ofcourse... I have an idea. You go to collect this 'deer', do with it what you want, while I stay here and prepare for my father's arrival.", he continued, as though he were stating it, and not suggesting as much.
"Hm.", the Scarred Man 'said' -Though it depends on your perception of what counts, and what doesn't count, as speech- before taking his leave, again bending his head down to leave the room, which made Quintyn laugh. Only one 'deer', he thought, let him have it.
Now, Quintyn, finally, stepped out of the room, and turned, beginning to walk down the thin hall-way, that he had to walk down every day for quite the while, though upon his father's return, that would all change.
The main hall of the inn was quite empty, though he did spot a few patrons, none much worth talking to. He approached Barliman, his face showing some sign of a smile, "Barliman!", he shouted out, most likely to the surprise of the barkeep, "Wine! Wine! Four casks! No. Five. My father will be arriving tomorrow, he's a ser too, so it'd best be... Well, your best.", he chuckled, leaving the inn.
As he opened the door to leave, a man ran in, with oddly 'perfect' timing, and crashed into Quintyn, sending them both to the floor, though Quintyn was in physical contact of it, while the other man simply lay atop him. "Damn it!", Quintyn shouted, struggling to understand what exactly just happened, though he could hear laughter, and his spine grew stronger, while his teeth clenched, and his face grew stern.
The man atop him simply laughed, too, crying out something impossible to comprehend, though his voice was heavily layered with alcohol, more so than his breathe was with the same substance. The reek made Quintyn wretch.
"Get off, you drunk bastard!", Quintyn said, as loud as he could manage to, with a man atop him, "Get off!", he said again.
This time the man said 'something', "Well... Thanksh... Me.. Thanksh you! Thanksh you for... Uh... Stoppings... Me from... Ah... Falling! Yesh! Falling!", now Quintyn grew ever more infuriated, as he heard even more laughter erupting. He flailed his right arm left, as to roll over - It worked, and now he was standing, breathing heavily, while the man that had just been ontop of him, was now shaking, drunkly, on the ground. Quintyn raised his right boot, clearly about to stomp the man, before he felt a shock of pain run up his back, he turned, and fell... On his back.
There he stood, Ser Brannoric 'Windgardens'.
"Get up.", his father said. In a voice that was flat, and left no clue as to where it was going. Quintyn did so, standing, looking down, with a face full of equal fear, and equal respect. His father now raised his right hand, and flung it across Quintyn's face, the back of his leather glove causing a loud, audible 'slap' sound. Quintyn fell to the floor, yet again, and his right cheek stung, turning red.
His father simply stood and stared, Quintyn trying not to make eye-contact. "Get up.", he said again - And though Quintyn could expect what was coming, he complied, and stood.
Quintyn stared at his father, the room seemed to go silent, and no one looked as though they were meaning to do anything. "Yes, father?", he managed, in the awkwardness. His father now flung his left hand, across Quintyn's face - Though Quintyn this time, simply jerked his head to the right, for a moment, before facing his father again. The drunk man was still on the floor, he noted, as now his left cheek began to sting aswell. "I...", he began, before Ser Brannoric 'Windgardens' struck him with a punch-like action with his right hand. This hurt the most, and when Quintyn opened his eyes, he was on the floor, staring up at his father, who was staring back down at him.
"Foolish.", his father said, in the same flat voice. "Get him up.", he ordered, and two men dressed in leather padding picked Quintyn up, though he, with no small deal of violence, broke free of their grasp, staring at his father, not wanting to look around to see if anyone had, which he already knew - They had, seen that. His father now beckoned him, "Show me your room, then. I'll be staying here for a single day, before moving on - And I have matters of great import to discuss with you.", he said - Quintyn nodded his, rather red from the beating, head, as he walked past his father, carefully - Not wishing to push him, and cause even more embarrassment. He approached his room, wondering why his father was a day early, and wishing he had just gone to collect that 'deer'.
Now entering his room, he stepped to the side, as his father and the two men in leather walked in. His father was, quite, tall as well - 6'4''. "Hm. Yes, this shall do.", his father turned to face the two men in leather, "Buy yourselves some rooms. No ale, no 'Friends' to share your beds. Your minds must be clear, here - Half the city will want me dead, and the other half will be persuaded to do the death-giving."
The two men left, leaving only Quintyn and his father. Quintyn was wearing the same black clothing, while his father wore a set of grey mail, atop leather, with a sword at his belt, which seemed to be made of some rich hide of sort, and a large, brown, cloak, which seemed warming, it must have been made delicately from some large bear skin, fur, and all.
"Welcome... Father.", Quintyn began, not sure about what exactly to say. As much was clear in his voice, and he pitied himself on just how confused, awkward, and irritated, he sounded.
"Hm. I am not used to such... Tremendous welcomes.", his father said, in the same flat voice, though it carried heavy sarcasm.
"How was the journey?", Quintyn asked, trying to find something, atleast one thing, that the two could talk about.
"It was short. Cold. Wet. I didn’t much like it.", his father said - Did he know that Quintyn was looking to create a conversation? He seemed to be avoiding as much, perhaps on purpose.
"Right. Yes... Oh, I... I have something, father.", he said, trying his best to move on. His father remained silent, so Quintyn left the room, re-entering with a lady behind him. "Best one there is.", he said, smiling.
His father didn’t smile. "I'm married.", he said, waving his hand dismissively at the lady, who seemed rather beautiful, if anything, young, with long, curled, hair.
"But...", Quintyn began - Not quite understanding. Why, Quintyn was a bastard, after all.
"But? Have you lost your words?", his father asked, aggressively, though in the same flat voice. "Tell me, boy, what is your name?"
"I...", Quintyn said, falling silent, as he looked down, towards his father's feet.
His father, with his right hand, grabbed Quintyn's face, his thumb and fingers pressing into the opposite cheeks, as he, rather violently, forced Quintyn to look at him, eye-to-eye. "I'll ask again, boy. What is your name?"
With some effort, as one can find out - It isn't easy to speak like that, Quintyn began, rather solemnly, "My name is... Quintyn.", his father smirked, letting go of his face.
"Exactly.", he began, "You have no surname. Now, what does that mean?", his father said - Quintyn hated this. He couldn’t understand the point, was it just for some crude mockery, or a joke that he couldn’t see?
"I'm...", he paused, "I'm a bastard.", Quintyn finished - His father nodding slowly.
"And who's bastard, are you?", his father questioned.
"Yours. My lord.", Quintyn said, adding the title for respect, and to avoid being hit across the head yet again.
"Indeed. You are. And that means a lot of things.", his father said, "You will not inherit anything I own, and you will die, rotting in the ground, in some far off hill, if you can afford even that, with no name of your own. You are nothing. Absolutely nothing. While, my true-born son, Wilham, will inherit my name, my titles, and everything I own. He will be buried accordingly in a true grave, with a true gravestone, and a true name."
Quintyn felt horrible. He had never cared, but to hear his father say such things...
"But.", his father continued, "I am not one to frown upon those with use. You will prove to me that you have that, 'use'."
Quintyn began, trying not to seem happy, nor sad, "How...?", he paused, "How will I 'prove' my use?"
His father simply remained flat-faced, and spoke bluntly, "You know that my House is not 'Windgardens'. A stupid name for a stupid House. I. We. We are of House Vesfyre."
Quintyn looked shocked, he knew his father's lineage and he couldn’t understand... "But... You, you're the lord of House Windgardens, father- I..."
His father seemed completely uncaring on the matter, "I am of House Vesfyre, my son."
… Something seemed odd. It was the first time he was labeled 'My son' by his father. My son, he thought.
My son.
