faderift | In the summer, I remember

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In the summer, I remember

WHO: Thranduil, Legolas, anyone good with a bow or who enjoys the wine on offer.
WHAT: ROOTY TOOTY POINT N SHOOTY ARCHERY CONTEST
WHEN: 8th of Bloomingtide, midmorning until sunset.
WHERE: Valley
NOTES: log for a friendly wager!

The eighth of Bloomingtide began as a chilly morning; not quite cold enough to leave frost on the budding flowers and fresh-sprouted plants in the heights of Skyhold, but nearly, nearly.

By the time the sun was been in the sky for a few hours, most of the early-morning chill had burned off, leaving a day that promised to be nearly too-hot for those who would be stuck in full-plate and in direct sunlight. Thranduil wasn’t expecting any to come clanking down to his little fete, but had none the less secured a spot in the shade. Varric had apparently found him while he was still working on organizing—the target launchers are set neatly in line with everything else. Along the clay pigeon launchers were the standard, stock targets, blindfolds—and on a table off to the side was a few bottles of sweet wine beside loaves of brown bread and hard cheeses.

The contest did not pretend to be anything other than what it was; a chance to meet, and mingle, and possibly show off archery skills. The purses wrested next to the wine and cheese and Thranduil himself. He had found a chair to rest in while waiting for the contestants to arrive, dressed plainer than he had so far allowed himself to be seen. On his fingers, four rings glittered—but his confidence in Legolas was so absolute, he doubted he would lose even one before the days was out.

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Kirk, as it turns out, is one of those poor souls who is tested against the strength of Jayne's sad, puppy eyes. Truly, he makes a valiant effort of not giving in to those big, sad eyes, he does. One could see the struggle, but in the end he was not a monster nor was his heart made of stone, and he forked over half his sandwich to the dog.

He keeps an eye on the animal when it seems to decide he has nothing more of interest to give, noting whom it goes to and thinks from the reaction that might be the owner. He follows in the dog's wake and ends up beside Malcolm.

"That dog does not play fair" he declared, pointing at Jayne.

"No, no he does not." Mal isn't glaring at the Mabari- he ain't mad but he is disappointed. "I fed you. You know I fed you. I fed you 'fore we ever got here. You can't still be hungry you little walk'n void with teeth."

And yet it's all said with a measure of affection, Malcolm reaching down to scrub at Jayne's ears. "He's a war dog. All's fair in love and war. Or food and war, 'far as Jayne is concerned."

Kirk cannot help but grin at the way Malcolm berates the dog with obvious affection, and the dog seeming not at all sorry for taking food where it could get it using those unfairly large puppy dog eyes.

"Can't argue with that - or those eyes. Really, those things are weapons in their own right," he clucked his tongue at the dog as if in admonishment, but turns his gaze to Malcolm, holding out his hand. "Jim Kirk, the latest victim of Jayne."

"Big bad mabari begg'n like an Orlesian bag dog." Those tiny dogs the ladies carry around in their bags. Cotton balls with eyes, those. Jayne snorts in disagreement, Mal shaking his head. "Nope, that's what you do. Beg like a little bit a'fluff."

Another snort, a faint rumble. Malcolm rolls his eyes and offers Jim his hand. "Captain Malcolm Reynolds. Good t'meet you."

It's impossible to keep back the soft laugh at the exchange, amused by the dog's suggestion of affront. He had no idea what an Orlesian bag dog was, but he could take a few guesses (hint: he had the image of a Pomeranian running around in his head).

He takes Malcolm's hand, giving a harm squeeze with his own. "Captain, huh? Are you part of the Inquisition, or...?" He could never be sure here, but it did seem the mostly likely guess. Or maybe Mal was a Rifter? He didn't look it, but then he might come from a world closer to this one, and stand out far less than Kirk did himself.

"I signed on with 'em awhile back. Don't really run much of anything but around look'n for work. Call'n myself Captain's a habit. Got a ship and a Crew up north that's do'n their work up there while I settle down here and try to figure out how to get this bit o shine outta my hand without los'n the hand. Turns out it's good for help'n things what are open and shouldn't get shut." He shrugs. "Reason enough to stick around. I like my sky no fulla demons."

Kirk glanced down, noticing the 'bit of shine' as it were - a shard. His brow scrunched, because he had thought that only Rifters had them, then recalled what Korrin had said of a female mage. So, native peoples really did become afflicted with them.

"Ship and a crew, huh?" he grinned. "Looks like we have a few things in common. I captain a ship back home myself." He motioned to Malcolm's hands. "How did you get it - the shard I mean?"

"Well I was runn'n a job up by Haven, gett'n a girl home who got caught up with a rough crowd what didn't want to let her go. No biggie. Got her on the horse, we were rid'n down- suddenly the sky lights up like crazy, spooks my horse, throws us both. We're both fine but I get this in my hand. Hurts somth'n awful for a few days before it mellows out into nothing." Mal wiggles the fingers of his hand, shrugging. "Could be worse. Coulda lost the hand."

"Hmm, that's true," he admitted, looking down at his own for a brief second. "I didn't really look at it that way. Still, feels damn uncomfortable - like a loose tooth or something, but in my hand." But this subject was getting uncomfortable - mostly because it made him think about his shard, and when he did that it made him itch.

"So - you competing, or just watching?" he asked, motioning over to the competition area where arrows were currently being picked from targets and gathered up to clear the way for a new set.

"When it's all ach'n and whatnot? Yeah. Try clos'n a rift. Then it's like you got a coal inside your skin. Fun times." The way he drawled was proof enough that no, not fun at all. Opposite, in fact.

"Competing. Got a little break between my last round and the next. Shouldn't be long till I head back. Show these folks how it's done."

He liked it, Mal's drawl. It wasn't quite the same, but it reminded him a bit of Bones' southern charm, and he found himself smiling. Especially with the note of sour complaint.

A soft whistle escapes his lips at that and he grins. "That so? I'll be sure to keep an eye out for you in the next round then. If I place a bet or two on you, better come through." He reached out to tap his shoulder with his fist lightly. "You looking to take one of those rings?" He tipped his head towards where Thranduil sat.

"I do better when I'm on horseback- and you know I told the fella runn'n this thing 'bout that? You know what he said?" Mal chuffed a low laugh, not sure if it's more absurd that the man suggested it- or that he thought about it before say'n no. "He said 'we can get a crate for you to sit on.' Like that's the same damn thing."

It ain't nearly, and they both know it.

"I figure I'll give it a fair shot. Dunno how well I'll hold up against Mr. Tall and Pointy over there, but it can't hurt."

Kirk bursts out laughing at that, pressing a hand to stomach when it begins to pain him. He shook his head, because even though he was not much of a rider (at all), even he knew sitting astride a crate and a moving animal were not the same. At all.

"That's probably the most creative way of saying 'that sounds like a personal problem to me' I think I've ever heard," he chortled. "Well, I wish you luck. Don't know if it'll help much, but I saw him fight when I first arrived through the rift. He's good, and shoots fast. I would focus on just taking your time and lining up the shot. Who knows - maybe a long wait between shots will knock him off his game a tiny bit."

Psychological games, you know. Sometimes they were more important than the actual physical aspect of the contest.

"He was downright polite about it too, can't fault him for try'n." It's more than most would swing, given their druthers.

"Mmm. Thanks for the heads up. Now if it was a spear throw'n competition? I'd have 'em all beat." It ain't exactly a skillset most in the south have. Spears are for cavalry and half of the south don't rightly have a cavalry .

"Oh?" he arched a brow and grinned sharply at him, intrigued. "You throw that from the back of a horse too?" It seemed a plausible conclusion, given his earlier request for a horse and saying he was better on one in the first place.

"Or do spears come in handy on a boat?"

Edited 2016-06-02 02:23 (UTC)

"Well, yeah. That's how you hunt bears." Or boar. "Or kneecap a giant- if you don't got mages on hand."

HE's not JUST a captain, Kirk.

There is a brief pause where he has to squint at the man - not about bears, but about giants. Because... well, he doesn't know why he's surprised. There are "mages" in this world, after all, and a host of other things that don't make a lick of sense, including dragons. So why not giants?

"I'll keep that in mind if I ever have to go up against one," he said with the sincere hope he did not. "Did you need to kneecap a giant?"

"Coupla times. Hard t'make 'em go down otherwise. Could sit back and try to get 'em in the eye all damn day and that'll do noth'n but piss it off and make my arm tired. Get 'em on the ground, though? Makes it simpler." IT's just a question of how the giant got downed.

"I suppose I'll just be adding them to the list of things in this world that want to kill you on sight," he lamented, which was a pity. He would have rather studied giants, but they didn't sound particularly friendly did they? But he didn't know what he was expecting. This world was looking more and more like some fantasy novel come to life, and giants weren't good guys in any of those, were they?

"Any other tips on creatures to look out for?" he chuckled. "Zombies? Goblins? Trolls?"

"Undead, Genlock, Ogre. We got brontos and deepstalkers, massive bears and dragons. There's a lotta crazy stuff what wants t'eat ya at the end of the day. Trick is hav'n somth'n pointy to keep 'em far 'nuf back you can run." Or have a mage to zap 'em.

He had meant that question sarcastically, Mal, but the truth was he wasn't surprised when Mal just confirmed his latent suspicions. This whole world was like one giant fantasy novel made real, a Renaissance festival with a dash of actual magic. So why not have ogres and undead and the rest?

"I understood about three of those words," he informed Mal, shaking his head. "I guess I better get to the library and find a bestiary quick." He tilted his had at the man. "Or learn to use a crossbow."

"I think there are a coupla soldiers teach'n how to kill stuff good in Thedas to most of y'a rifters. It ain't easy and it ain't simple if you don't come from a place like this." He almost feels sorry for them. Almost.

Not all that much, though. Not terribly. They think quick and adapt better than most, no reason to feel pity.

"Maybe I'll have to look into it," he allowed, though frankly he didn't like the thought of having to kill creatures. Perhaps it was because of the strange fantasy attachment this world inspired, but it still left him slightly uncomfortable at the thought. He knew he should learn though, on the chance that he might come across them and his staff wouldn't be enough, or his hand-to-hand. As a matter of personal safety, it might just be necessary.

"Thanks for the tips. I might last a few more days here," his mouth twitched into a sardonic smile.

"Maybe more than a few if you get yourself a good crossbow and some range time. You ever need someone to spar with, gimme a call." He tapped his chest where the sending crystal hung around his neck, gaze tipping back to the range. "Looks like my break's up. Nice talk'n to you."

It ain't a salute and it ain't a bow, some sorta weird mix, a cant of the head and a click of the heel that may or may not be sarcastic before he slipped back to start shoot'n again.

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In the summer, I remember

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