Manners Maketh Man

Posted on 05 Sep 2020 @ 4:01am by Rogue Cainan Sauvage

2,275 words; about a 11 minute read

Mission: Prologue
Location: Jader

Manners Maketh Man


Tap Tap Tap.

Cainan rolled his eyes as the burly Ferelden mercenary banged his hand down on the table as he guffawed, the heavy ring around his finger banging against the wood. Punctuated three times just in case you missed its presence in the first two taps. The man was always reminding people about its existence - it had been a gift from the Empress, given to men of a mercenary company who had reinforced a key strategic location during the civil war in the Emerald Graves. It had been a particularly vicious part of the war, and the men who had lived through it had earned a commendation or two, at least in the empresses eyes. That ring marked him as a war hero, and a man of great skill at arms. As did his mouth.

Constantly.

The average clientele of the Rose of Orlais were traders, naval-sailor types and the usual middle-class Orlesians that were wealthy enough to own waterfront properties, but not the good kinds of waterfront properties, as Cainan himself had. It was, in his opinion, no great accident that the Ferelden was the only soldier in the place; he clearly revelled in the attention, which admittedly had been well-received early on, but by now even the women who were drawn to burly men in full, completely-superfluous-for-a-social-function armour were starting to tire of his wandering hands and vulgarity.

Cainan sat listening at the gaming table; three other players with their cards, silently measuring each player in turn as they collectively ignored the loud, offensive Ferelden.

“You’re bluffing, Monsieur Sauvage,” the elderly player, Monsieur Espirit claimed, suddenly, leaning forward as if he had just seen a bead of sweat on Cainan’s brow. Cainan, on the contrary, was leaning back on his chair in the most relaxed and barely-appropriate-in-company lean, his boot on the table to prop the chair on its back two legs. His dark blue ring velvet and samite coat he had casually draped over the back of his chair, leaving him in his white cotton shirt, the laces of which he had left undone - without the coat, he looked like any sailor, albeit one with a little coin in his pocket.

“Am I?” Cainan drawled, not looking up from his cards. The Ferelden was banging the table again, and Monsieur Espirit winced, looking darkly over at the soldier for a moment. “This would be news to me,” he replied, earnestly.

“You could not have any more Angels,” Monsieur Joubert said, eyes narrowing as he revealed more about his own hand than Cainan’s. He was an older gentleman, but younger than Monsieur Espirit; the sort that would have been a man when Cainan was born. The third opponent, Monsieur Richelieu, was a captain of a trading vessel; Cainan hadn’t expected to see him, the man was an awful gambler, but he had obviously had some successes on the sea recently as his debts were paid and he was back at the table. He was uncharacteristically quiet, however, as he watched Cainan along with the others. He had a greying, oiled moustache, and the shiniest bald head in the tavern.

“I have at least one angel,” Cainan replied, his eyes following her as the barmaid, Camila, returned with the jug of wine. It was a full-bodied Antivan, as was she; Cainan always ordered the same wine from her, even though it wasn’t the best in the house, the symbolism amused him as he put the full-bodied Antivan to his lips. She looked at him with an amused, sultry look as she refilled his glass, leaning over a little further than necessary so he could see down her blouse. She didn’t blush; he liked that. He returned his eyes to her as she stood up, and blew her a soft kiss as she retreated back to the bar.

“Call,” Esprit announced, drawing his attention back to the game. Cainan blinked and laid his cards down, the small pile of money in the middle of the table glinting in the setting sun.

“Three knights singing two songs,” he announced, laying them down - the knights of mercy and ages and the songs to match, with the knight of dawn. It wasn’t the most amazing hand, but it was clearly better than Captain Richelieu’s, who swore as he threw his cards down. Esprit looked sour, as well, and Joubert sniffed, laying his cards face down. He clearly didn’t have the angels on his side, either.

“Take your money,” Joubert sighed, waving at the table. “I’m afraid I am done losing for the evening - adieu, gentlemen,” he said, as he stood and collected his coat. Cainan slowly counted up the coins, sliding them into his coin purse. While the other two opponents looked ready to continue, Cainan’s eyes narrowed as he heard the tapping Ferelden again.

“Always a pleasure, gentlemen,” he said, leaning back in his chair, and looking back to the soldier. He was telling yet another tall tale, or perhaps the same one but with more embellishment now he was suitably drunk. The issue Cainan had was not the story, however. The dog’s hand slapped Camila’s rump as she passed, and there was a sharp intake of breath from Espirit.

“I assume we are done for the evening?” he asked, wearily. Cainan nodded, darkly, as the other two gentlemen knew well what was to come. “Monsieur Sauvage… Captain…” Espirit said as he stood, nodding to them politely in turn.

Captain Richeleiu sighed, staring a moment at the empty space where his coin had resided until it had disappeared into Cainan’s pocket. Cainan’s gaze was not leaving the Ferelden’s hand, that was still grabbing Camila’s behind.

“You should reconsider,” the captain advised, quietly. “Camila does not need you to intervene with every lout.”

Tap Tap Tap.

Cainan took out a silver from his pocket, and danced it between his fingers.

“Monsieur,” Richelieu persisted. “You know Robert will not allow you on the premises if you instigate yet another fight,” he tried, once more. He was, of course, correct; Robert, the landlord of the Rose, had been very clear on his stance on Cainan’s penchant for escalating disagreements. Cainan paid well, but the lost business from other patrons was racking up.

When Cainan didn’t respond, the captain sighed. “Good fortunes, boy,” he said, tapping his forehead in farewell; a naval tradition. Cainan nodded in thanks but did not look up; his eyes never left the back of the soldier’s head, even though Camila had, with practised ease, already danced away from the brute.

“More ale!” the Ferelden cried, suddenly, and Camila’s smile faltered. Cainan could see her from his seat, could see her eyes look to him. She saw the look in his eyes and the coin on his fingers. She was torn, he could tell, between wanting him not to intervene, and wanting the dog to be taught a lesson. She reached for the jug as the uncouth brute said something less than gentlemanly, and gestured to his lap (or groin) suggestively.

She never made it to the table, as the silver coin zipped through the air and smacked into the back of the Ferelden mans’ head. The sound of the coin meeting his skull was unmistakable in the room, and there was a sudden hush as the soldier reached behind his head to feel for blood, and stood after inspecting his hand, his chair skittering away as he rose and turned to the side of the room Cainan was sitting on.

Cainan didn’t need to say anything to let the brute know who threw the coin; he held the soldier’s gaze, challenging him with a look.

“You got a deathwish, sailor?” the Ferelen growled, starting towards him.

“Gentlemen!” Robert cried, running into the room, trying to place himself between them. Cainan remained in his seat, leaning back as he had throughout the game. He already knew how this would go down; how Robert’s table would be upended as the brute threw him aside. It was not a surprise therefore when the mercenary pushed him out of the way, coming to loom over Cainan with surprising quickness for a man his size. Robert was helped up by Camila, looking over to the two with a resigned and pained expression on his face. Cainan took that for a tacit form of consent.

“I’m not a sailor,” Cainan replied, sipping his wine. He already knew the man was contemplating slapping his glass away, and that it might spill on his shirt if he did so; it was written on the mans scarred and grubby face. He placed it back on the table before the idiot could try, drained of contents. “I am just a gentleman, which you, monsieur, are clearly not.”

“You think I care what you are? You’re just a dead man,” he announced, reaching back to deliver what would have been a skull-splitting punch, had it landed.

But it didn’t. Cainan was a lithe man, but not a weak one - and he was quick. His foot left the table and his chair fell forward to land on all four legs as his other foot launched him off the floor, almost bringing him to eye-level with the taller man as Cainan brought his boot down and into his knee, buckling the armoured leg with a crumple of metal, bone and muscle. The man collapsed in a fit of screams as he instinctively scrambled to get back on his feet, immediately regretting it as the bent-the-wrong-way leg collapsed further.

“Au contraire,” Cainan hissed, calmly as he retrieved his coat from the back of the chair and took a moment to put it on, smoothing out the wrinkles on his sleeves as he did. The time taken on his appearance mid-fight further enraged the heavily armoured man, and Cainan smiled mockingly at him.

The swearing Ferelden was reaching for his sword, a heavy longsword that was a bit small for the burly man, but still much heavier than Cainan’s own rapier, which rested in its scabbard against the heavy wooden pillar that supported the floor above, one of six that littered the large room. He leaned back sharply as the Ferelden’s sword swung out in a wild arc, sailing clear over his chest as he bent under the blow, his hand simultaneously in range to retrieve his own sword and, as he straightened after the sword had passed over, bringing it up to meet the second attempt to cut him in two.

As the man swung wildly, Cainan stepped lightly out of range to regain his footing, regretting not taking the man outside for this lesson in manners. The sword smacked into the heavy wooden pillar that supported the floor above, and while the damage was purely cosmetic, he could tell from Robert’s eyes that it had sealed Cainan’s fate with regards to the Rose as his drinking and gambling spot in Jader.

Well, in for a copper, he thought as the soldier tried to lunge at him again, this time Cainan casually deflecting the blade with his Rapier, still in her scabbard. He slapped it three times, the first deflecting the blade from his person, the second turning the blade to expose the hand holding it, and the third bringing the sheathed sword down on the mercenaries hilt-hand - hard. There was another cry of pain and rage as the bones of the fingers cracked, and the longsword dropped with a clang to the floor.

“You bastard!” The Ferelden spat, and Cainan tutted his poor sportsmanship. He slapped the man in the face with the Rapier, the loud thwack echoing in the room and drawing blood from the man’s nose, and another curse from the man’s mouth.

“Language,” Cainan admonished, calmly, bringing the sword to rest and leaning on it as if it were a cane.

“Monsieur Sauvage,” Robert said, harshly. Cainan sighed, as the landlord pointed to the door, through which many of his patrons had now left. Cainan nodded, bowing to the injured soldier, with a flourish.

“Monsieur, the pleasure was mine,” Cainan said, with a small smile, as he looked down at the struggling man. “...Obviously,” he added, stepping past him. To his credit, the soldier had seemingly lost interest in trying to eviscerate him and was now sobbingly trying to cradle his hand and knee while restricted by his armour.

As Cainan passed the bar, he bowed his head courteously to Camila, who tried not to smile, but failed. He left with a spring in his step, even if the only time he would see Camila now was if he tried to catch her after work, and while he was interested, he wasn’t sure if he wanted to come across that interested.

He’d have to find a new place to gamble, he decided. He had been thrown out of all the waterfront taverns for much the same shenanigans; he wondered if one of the more… rustic establishments might be a good fit for him.

After turning down three alleys he came to the nearest one he knew of - The Raven’s Roost. Even if it wasn’t somewhere for the duration, it would certainly do for the evening; he entered to see how much more interesting he could make the night to come.

 

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