farsickness | (no subject)

WHO: Jon Snow & open
WHEN: March
WHAT: Day-to-day things
WHERE: around Gazin
WARNINGS: none, will update if necessary

[At the stables]

It hadn't taken him long to settle in, once he'd gotten over the shock of being here, because in a lot of ways this place isn't that different from what he's used to. He's mostly been keeping to himself since his arrival, but all that means is that he hasn't approached many people or started many conversations. He's simply taking time to sort through some things, and figuring out what he wants to do now that he doesn't have any responsibilities to anyone else.

For the moment his only responsibilities are to the horses in the stables, above which he lives. It's not an uncommon sight to see him leading a horse to the blacksmith to be shod, leading horses to pasture, or tending to saddles or tack. He seems, for the moment, content with such tasks.

[At the tavern]

The other place he can be found most often is the tavern. In the first place, he'd never learned how to do much more cooking than roasting something over a fire, so the tavern is a good place for a meal. In the second place, on the nights when he has trouble sleeping (which, to be honest, is most nights), he likes having somewhere like the tavern to go so that he doesn't have to sit and face his ghosts alone.

It's not uncommon to see him in the common room of the tavern late into the night, nursing a pint and smelling of horses.

Flat | Top-Level Comments Only

One day there's a Chinese man dressed in blacks and dark greys with a sword sheathed at his back who wanders in. He starts looking over the horses, earning him a few snorts and stomping of hooves which has him laugh before soothing whatever horse he'd poked a little too much at.

Hearing someone come up the aisle, Xue Yang calls out in a cheerful, somewhat flippant way. "Can just anyone take a horse out for a ride? For a day, maybe two?"

To a Westerosi, Jon's accent gives him away as being from the North, but it means nothing to most people here. Nor does it really matter, since they're not in Westeros.

Jon stops in front of the door to the next stall over; the horse occupying the stall reaches its head out and snuffles at his hair, prompting him to push the head away playfully.

"There are fees associated with it, and some horses belong to specific owners who stable them here, but otherwise anyone is welcome to ride them."

Sleep was such a blessing to most, but to people who have seen to much in their lives, sleep wasn't always the sweet escape. The young looking man had been coming in late at night the past few nights, ordering a tankard of ale and taking himself to a corner where he would write in a new looking book.

He had been working since the day of his arrival having found work fast, but also offering his services where they could be useful to get a little gold in his pockets. He hadn't made his rent for the week, but that seemed less important than a book and some ink, and a drink for the night. West had never hurt for money, even when he was disinhereted, now he had to learn to live all together. Those were problems for later. Tonight he carried the book under his arm with his tankard as he moved past Jon silently. Jon to him looked like he belonged to this world, so he tried not to bother natives to much, but he was still in most of the suit he had arrived in, simply down to his dark blue pants, baby blue shirt which was winkled now, nice shoes, and suspenders.

Jon spends most of his time in the tavern just watching the others in the room, and tonight is no exception. The man just walking past him is dressed in a manner that suggests he doesn't quite fit in here, and Jon does know something about not fitting in. It hasn't been so bad since he arrived here, because it's close enough to home to be familiar but with some major differences.

He stands up to go to the bar to get a refill on his drink and when he does so, it's apparent that he's armed. There's a knife stuck in his belt. He's still not comfortable going around without at least that much.

On his way back to his table, he nods at the man in greeting.

Herbert was a paranoid type after years of experimentation and war. These were part of why he didn't sleep much at all. Even a man as cold as West was not immune to the horrors of war. So when Jon was passing with his refill, Herbert's eyes took in the knife and the man as he walked. Before nodding in return.

"Can't sleep?" He took a chance, if it was someone from this world he could fake interest for awhile, for now he knew he wasn't going to be sleeping anytime soon, and as solitary as he was, sometimes company was better than none. "Or a night type?"

"Can't sleep," he replies as he settles back at his table. "The same as most nights." So he spends a lot of time here, instead of at home trying to fight off the images of knives wielded by people he thought he could trust. Here he tends to find kindred spirits, or at least people who are content to be left alone. "You?"

(no subject)

Stables

no subject

Tavern

sorry this took so long

Annnnd I apologize to.

more apologies