[renly had hated hunting, and grandmother saw it as the province of lesser warriors, so of course loras had no time for it. he could pull a longbow, and he'd practiced in the training yard of storm's end until he hit the bullseye every time, as he'd felt a knight should be able to do so, but he'd never bothered to try a moving target, and more importantly he hasn't got one right now.]
Does anyone have a bow?
[his courtly mask slips even as he puts himself between the huddled campers and the bear. he deftly unhooks his nice white cloak, only a little muddy, and tosses it towards someone who looks both cold and capable of catching it. he hopes they at least manage to give back the cloakpin. the bear hulks on two legs, and loras doesn't bother to wait for the bow he's requested, drawing his sword and stepping forward. how does one fight a bear? he holds out his free hand cautiously (a shield might help).]
Nice bear.
[he eyes the claws nervously. his kingsguard armor is only a little better than tourney armor, mostly intended for standing about the castle looking important. he doesn't know how well it'd stand against a sword, let alone a bear's...claws? teeth? exactly what did bears do to people? loras is acutely aware that everything he knows about bears he learned secondhand (renly was right, they do smell foul).
he takes a breath. surely it can't be much worse than the slog of men and swords that was the blackwater (he tries to forget he'd had garlan beside him then). it's only a beast and he is quick and he is clever. one blow to the skull is all he needs. he shifts into a fighting stance.]
mud guard
[loras looks like a wet cat but he's surprisingly good at maneuvering armor in muddy wet weather--he's had almost a decade of practice in the stormlands. still he wishes he had a horse. the dwarven merchants are walking all the horses of their caravan on leads. he thinks it's only fair they offer him a horse, but of course he's too polite to ask. instead he trudges passive-aggressively, wholly unaware of the pout on his face.]
loras tyrell | asoiaf (rifter)
[renly had hated hunting, and grandmother saw it as the province of lesser warriors, so of course loras had no time for it. he could pull a longbow, and he'd practiced in the training yard of storm's end until he hit the bullseye every time, as he'd felt a knight should be able to do so, but he'd never bothered to try a moving target, and more importantly he hasn't got one right now.]
Does anyone have a bow?
[his courtly mask slips even as he puts himself between the huddled campers and the bear. he deftly unhooks his nice white cloak, only a little muddy, and tosses it towards someone who looks both cold and capable of catching it. he hopes they at least manage to give back the cloakpin. the bear hulks on two legs, and loras doesn't bother to wait for the bow he's requested, drawing his sword and stepping forward. how does one fight a bear? he holds out his free hand cautiously (a shield might help).]
Nice bear.
[he eyes the claws nervously. his kingsguard armor is only a little better than tourney armor, mostly intended for standing about the castle looking important. he doesn't know how well it'd stand against a sword, let alone a bear's...claws? teeth? exactly what did bears do to people? loras is acutely aware that everything he knows about bears he learned secondhand (renly was right, they do smell foul).
he takes a breath. surely it can't be much worse than the slog of men and swords that was the blackwater (he tries to forget he'd had garlan beside him then). it's only a beast and he is quick and he is clever. one blow to the skull is all he needs. he shifts into a fighting stance.]
mud guard
[loras looks like a wet cat but he's surprisingly good at maneuvering armor in muddy wet weather--he's had almost a decade of practice in the stormlands. still he wishes he had a horse. the dwarven merchants are walking all the horses of their caravan on leads. he thinks it's only fair they offer him a horse, but of course he's too polite to ask. instead he trudges passive-aggressively, wholly unaware of the pout on his face.]