faderift | [Open] "Bored."

Just as the smiley face is about to be finished, an arrow streaks out from behind Sherlock somewhere on his left, and slams into place - the mismatched fletching giving the smiley face a mis-coloured tooth.

The archer grins as he steps up to Sherlock's side, admiring the man's handiwork.

"Not bad at all. Though now I'd feel a bit bad firing into it again. It's so happy - why ruin it?"

He doesn't start when the unexpected arrow flies past him. It's more going still — the action of drawing his bow back interrupted and stopped. The surprise has mostly faded out of his expression by the time the other archer joins him.

He lowers the bow a moment, considers. Then:

"Fire as much as you like." He flings off the arrow he'd been preparing. Something of a wild shot, not precisely aimed. It still hits the target, but off-center and out of line with the face. Somewhere around the territory of a nostril, perhaps.

"It'll keep smiling."

Gavin winced in sympathy for the target as it was hit.

"Just because it's smiling doesn't mean it isn't hurt," he pointed out. "You created life! I don't think I could go and destroy it so quickly." There was a heart beat's pause before Gavin was striding out across the range to grab another target and drag it to the first one.

"I know. I'll make it a friend."

Sherlock hasn't exactly been making a count of the Dalish among the Inquisition's ranks. They're present enough to be noticed as a group, but he hasn't bothered to sort through them as individuals.

Still, he's immediately put in mind of the various doodles and misspellings and entreaties of friendship and food that had followed that one irritated elf's posting. Just how given are the Dalish to producing fools?

He arches an eyebrow. Then notches an arrow. Less than ten left in his quiver by now; he might as well finish it out and move along before the elf decides to make a whole family of target-people.

Thunk. This one lands just inside the bright dot of the bulls-eye.

He didn't flinch as the arrow whizzed by him, but did arch an eyebrow, before sighing.

"Ah," Gavin said sadly, his face falling as his hopes were dashed. He turned to the target already with a face on it and petted it. "Alas, I seem to have found the rare breed of human without a sense of humour. Looks like you'll be lonely for a while." He walked back over to where Sherlock was standing.

"Alright, alright," He said, pulling three arrows from his quiver and sliding them between the fingers in his right hand, arranged almost like a hand. "If you're going to play it that way." He notched the first of the three, pulled his bow up and fired - the second one barely a split second after, since he could slide it into place with a flick of his fingers, and then the third.

He'd hit the smiley-faced target so that instead of eyes, it now had a vee'd brow shape, making it look like an evil grin. "See what you've done? He looks like he's going to kill us, now."

The eyebrow that was previously arched notched up slightly at the display of skill. All right, so the idiot had some utility. That, at least, explained what he was doing here in the first place, despite all those burns and scuff-marks on his person.

"Well, you did just shoot him three times in the face." On some level, he disliked the idea of giving this premise any credence, but it irked him that the elf wasn't even keeping things consistent with his little game. He wasn't the one who made the face look angry, after all.

Gavin turned to grin at him, immediately pleased that he seemed to have broken through whatever had been holding Sherlock back from actually playing the game. The fact that the game had absolutely no consistency, rules, or sense, was somewhat beyond the point.

"Shooting people does seem to have that effect, doesn't it?" He asked cheerfully. "See? I told you it would. But now that he's angry I might as well put him down, before he tries to get me in my sleep."

His tongue slipped out between his lips as he concentrated - firing another arrow to land just off the target, narrowly missing one that was already there, and scraping its fletching.

A small legion of five or so Templar come galloping into the Skyhold upon horseback after spending most of the early morning in search of someone. It's a somewhat noisy but organized affair ad each Templar stable their horses. Alayre is amongst them and he looks particularly grim as he pulls his white steed by its reins.

He passes briefly by the training grounds to catch sight of the archer hard at training. At first, he doesn't give the man a second glance until he spots the bulls eye. It's then that he stops with a slight smile upon his fatigued face.

"Feeling cheerful?" He calls out to the archer.

The accent is unmistakable, but Sherlock's dealings with Orlesians have been few and far between. Before now, he had rarely set foot outside of Amaranthine. Most of what he knows comes from histories and drawings.

Here in Skyhold, he has more than enough opportunity to observe living examples. The glance he gives the man is sidelong, but a little more than cursory, as he adds the details of what he sees to his mental catalog.

"Passing the time," he answers, with the tonal equivalent of a shrug, just before launching the final arrow.

The answer receives a chuckle from Alayre as he regards the archer with a hint of amusement. "Merely passing time, hm? Certainly sounds like something much like boredom." The Orlesian says before offering Durandal's reins to one of his officers. Once his horse is lead away, the Templar returns to the archer again.

"I take it you're a scout." He says judging from the other man's mastery with bows. It's been years since Alayre used such a weapon and whenever he has, it was only in leisure. Who has time for bows and arrows when you train with blades? Certainly not him.

Boredom is exactly what it is. Sherlock is as unsettled by the appearance of these new heralds or whatever they are as anyone — meaning he wishes they would work it out soon and get on with the Inquisition's actual business. Having a fortress means little when it's still in disrepair and can't even offer proper space for brewing elixirs...

He sighs hard out of his nose, examining his handiwork one last time. A scout... among other things, but considering the context, not inaccurate.

"I take it you're a Templar." So long as they're stating the obvious.

The Knight-Commander would begrudgingly agree with those thoughts considering how ridiculous it is that Skyhold is in such a state. Progress is often slow but it's at a snail pace now with the coming of these new visitors. Alayre is almost grateful for the distraction that Fallow Mire will bring. It gives him the excuse to take leave of Skyhold for awhile while the Magi plot their fate. He's done enough political maneuvering so far. The man needs a break.

A chuckle escapes Alayre again. "I certainly cannot deny it." He replies curtly. "Much like many others, I have yet to be fully inducted into the Inquisition but I stay abreast upon topics well enough to know this period of stagnation is bound to end." A momentary pause follows.

"...Are you bound for Fallow Mire?"

"I expect so." Tamping down the feeling of ice in his veins that surfaces whenever he thinks about darkspawn will be a more thrilling challenge than staying here and waiting on the repairs.

He steps forward at an even pace, set on retrieving the arrows from the target. If the man wishes to follow, he is welcome.

"Little to do here but watch the walls go up."

Edited 2015-11-05 14:49 (UTC)

From what little Alayre knew of the darkspawn, the Templar views them something akin to demons. They're no different than fiends but their blackened blood is said to drive men to madness. Whatever the darkspawn touches becomes ash. They're the walking personification of evil, a nightmarish horde of crude beasts who lust for destruction. The more Alayre learns about these beasts from books catering to the lore of the darkspawn, the more he realizes why all parties here at Skyhold must be unified under one banner.

"You could assist in helping those walls go up." The Templar says as he trails behind. "Though, I certainly understand. Hiding within the grand halls of this hold is something of an unwanted luxury at this point. I much rather spend my time battling the Blight rather than linger inactivity."

Skyhold is quite dull.

Bruce always kept himself busy in Skyhold as much as he could; being busy meant more reasons to not deal with people he'd rather not have to talk to, and he was here to do a job in the first place, anyway.

The particular spot where Bruce needed to go to at this time did involve him having to pass by what counted as the Inquisition's archery range, or something like that. Normally at this time there really wouldn't be much people around, but today clearly something had changed.

Bruce blinked at the sight of multiple arrows stuck onto the target, blinking again when a new one jabbed itself in along with the others. He turned his gaze on the direction it had come from, eventually getting to the point where the shot was fired. He looked at the man (archer?) as he nocked a new arrow and shot it without even pausing for a moment to aim. Either he was very good or, well, just wanted to shoot for the heck of it.

The truth was in fact somewhere in between — he was decently good, and didn't care enough about his aim in this case to carefully plot out each shot. It only had to be good enough for the shape to make sense.

If he noticed he was being watched — and he did — he didn't give any indication until his work was finished. Just after the face came into being, he fired off one more arrow. This one landed in the bulls eye.

Sherlock lowered the bow, admiring his handiwork. His mouth twitched, and expression that was neither a smile nor a frown.

Then he stepped forward to retrieve the arrows. The first one was pulled out of the target relatively easily, but the second proved to be stubborn. Sherlock tugged once, twice, then placed his other hand against the target's face to give a bit more leverage.

Well if he was going to do this in the open then it was only natural that people were going to look. Although Bruce was trying not to stare too much, since that'd be rude. But considering everything, it was proving to be a bit hard to take his eyes away. There were... a lot of arrows. Was he going to take them out and shoot them all again?

--then again, he supposed it wasn't as the arrows could just be left there.

He continued to watch the archer (he certainly looked... spry, for an archer, Bruce noted mildly) take out the arrows from the target, keeping a mental tally on them each each arrow that was taken out. Just how many did he shoot into there?

Edited 2015-11-10 18:27 (UTC)

Nearly twenty - nearly an entire quiver. Which gave Sherlock more than enough time to think on the man who was watching him. A little mental exercise, based on the few details he'd spotted out of the corner of his eye.

Slight bruising on his face. Older scars, too, on his hands, but not from fighting. The blow to the face was recent, and there was no sign of his having fought back. A pacifist who got punched was probably standing up for something that made the other person angry. That last bit was conjecture, but it wasn't as if there'd been a lot of rowdy carousing at the tavern. If someone was throwing punches, they had a reason apart from being drunk.

"Was it the mages, or the elves?" he called out.

Bruce blinked at the question, abrupt as it had been, and took another second to realize that the man was actually asking him.

"I--sorry," he started, looking pretty confused with how suddenly it had come up. "What?" Mages or elves? Was he asking him what he was supporting? That certainly would be kind of blunt, in Bruce's honest opinion. Of course, ignoring the fact that his feelings on both of those subjects were complicated at best. Well, mostly about mages. Elves he was entirely neutral on.

"The person who hit you was taller than any elf, so you could have been defending the Dalish." The next arrow made a dull, woody thunk as Sherlock yanked it out. He gave the man a definitive glance - yes, I'm talking to you. "Then again, maybe not. There's enough tension surrounding the mages to make them a possibility."

Or it could have been both. But there was really no way to tell that.

At least now Bruce could see that he was the one that the man was addressing to. Idly he reached up and touched the fading bruise on his head; the pain had long faded, leaving only the mark, and even that would go away in time.

"It wasn't anything as noble as that," he replied, doing his best to give a smile as he replied. "Somebody I knew was being threatened. I just wanted to prevent anything else from happening." Of course, Pel just happened to be an elf and a mage, but that didn't really factor into why he did it.

Semantics. The man had to be equivocating.

"Balance of probability; there's barely any other reason for a person to be threatened around here." Unless — oh, there were Tevinters skulking around here somewhere, weren't there? That could be a reason to stay cagey about it... and just there, Sherlock found he didn't particularly care enough to dig. The information would out eventually, if it had to.

"After all," he went on, with a subtle air of faux-cheeriness, "we're all in this together."

There was truth to what the man was saying, but Bruce himself wasn't one to go into the politics of the issue. For him, it didn't matter - all he saw was somebody he knew being unjustly threatened, and tried to help.

Still, he frowned a little at how obvious the fake-cheeriness was, not entirely approving of that. Of course he knew he had no right to really give any opinions, but false words as such never rubbed him the right way. "We're all here to help, regardless of our opinions on several matters." He tried his best to choose his words carefully, wanting to sound as neutral as possible - stepping on toes was never want he wanted to do. "Otherwise we won't even have a place to have our differences on."

Gorse was going to get some practice in as well, but seeing Sherlock in the middle of his work gave the tall Vashoth some pause. There was clearly a reason to his missing, so Gorse was of course curious. Nothing better to do, he watched. When the smiley face began to take a visible shape...

Gorse laughed, delighted, and gave an impressed whistle.

"Well wouldja look at that! That's clever!"

Sherlock had almost never encountered a qunari in his life before joining the Inquisition. They tended to stay up north, bothering Tevinter and the Free Marches. When Amaranthine saw any at all, they got the scraps — and everyone had been much more concerned, in recent years, with either darkspawn or mages.

So he didn't know what to make of the few that were in Skyhold yet. But if one of them was offering up conversation...

"That's boredom," he corrected, opting to begin as though this were a perfectly ordinary discussion. "No dragons, or darkspawn, or supposed ancient gods to fight. Nothing to do but watch the vines creep up the walls."

Most would say that Gorse wasn't exactly the standard Qunari. He laughed, in any case, as though Sherlock had said something cleverly witty, too genuine to be faked.

"Oh, sure, not right now anyway. I guess even this seems like a lot of excitement for the likes of me though. Rebuilding a keep practically from the ground up, makin' sure none of the walls get torn down by the vines and all the preparing for the eventual dragons, darkspawn, and ancient gods. Things more exciting where you're from?" He asked, and... there was absolutely no trace of sarcasm in the statement. He genuinely was curious.

Sherlock's eyes popped slightly, a silent commentary on the question. More exciting than rebuilding walls and attempting to fortify. Low bar to clear.

"Murder, thievery, missing nobility... the occasional darkspawn rebellion," he added, tossing the reference over his shoulder. "Amaranthine sees its fair share of excitement, albeit of the more ordinary kind."

"That definitely sounds like a more exciting place than here when you put it that way." Gorse said agreeibly, casting his gaze out across the comparatively downright sleepy courtyard. He was trying to imagine living in a place that Sherlock described, with the addition of all of those happening at the same time.

"That would probably be too scary for the likes of me, you must be real brave for that kinda life."

That got another scrutinizing, semi-amused look. Too scary. Then again, he may have been approaching the details from the wrong angle. The qunari was big, as they all were, but on a second glance... those were not well-developed muscles. The scar and the broken horn denoted some sort of violence in the past, but that didn't mean battle. Not necessarily.

"Well," he concluded, landing on a tone that managed to be simultaneously congenial and dismissive, "Someone's got to do the grunt work."

Gorse certainly didn't hold himself like a fighter. More like a farmer. He knew how to shoot and arrow and skin and prepare hunted game but he'd likely break his thumb if he tried to ever throw a punch.

Not that he ever would, that could seriously hurt someone.

"How's that sayin' go? 'It's a dirty job but someone's gotta do it'?"

Sherlock gave a cat-like smile over his shoulder, a sort of bow with his head.

"And the Inquisition thanks you for your service."

Cyril watches him with some curiosity when he realizes what Sherlock is, which is sometime after the mouth starts to form shape. He grins and waits for the human to finish.

"Imagine how'd that look in the back of a demon. They could probably use some cheering up."

Now that's a thought. Sherlock isn't typically one to make flourishes in actual combat — not, that is, except as a distraction technique — but that thought takes some of the sting out of the prospect of facing a demon. One corner of his mouth twitches toward a smirk.

"Letting them die with a smile? Probably more than they deserve," he remarks, starting on his way to retrieve the arrows.

"Definitely," Cyril replies. "But no less hilarious." He comes a little close and takes out his own bow. "We'll have to fire rapidly to make it work in the heat of battle though."

It's clear he's going to try to make the smiley face himself and see how quickly he can manage it.

Sherlock turns over his shoulder at the sound of the bow being drawn. Well. If the elf wants to try his hand at the game, he isn't going to stop him. He steps aside, out of the way of any potential wild shots.

"Rapidly while running and ducking, most likely," he points out. Though it wouldn't be impossible, necessarily...

Cyril chuckled just a bit. "Of course, but that's half of the fun." He takes a bit longer than Sherlock did to make the entire smiley face bit he manages without really missing any.

When he does he tilts his head a bit to the side. "The mouth is a little crooked... I'll have to work on that."

While their currently limited supplies underlined the needed, the truth was all equipment needed to be maintained at some point or another. So while training is all well and good, today Maria had taken a seat in the courtyard to clean her training swords and shields over putting them into use. Which means she's there to witness the creation of the smiling horror from inception to completion, even letting out a small scoff of a laugh when he's about half way through and the ultimate shape becomes clear. But she waits until he's done to call out across the short distance between them.

"It can't be bad as all that."

There's something to be said for her interpretation of the symbol. It doesn't do much to help his ennui, but his response is relaxed.

"Cooped up in a crumbling fortress, running low on Elfroot..." He steps forward to start retrieving the arrows, but casts a glance back at her on the way.

"Suppose it could be worse." His eyes are pointedly trained on whatever Templar regalia is involved in her current outfit. Rationing his Elfroot has nothing on lyrium withdrawal, should their supply run low.

He'd been watching carefully as the man created his pattern. He didn't understand it, but it did amuse him to see this smile created. Oddly enough, he could understand something of the sentiment behind it.

"An interesting use of arrows," he decided, walking closer, his own great sword on his back, nearly as big as him. He'd been on his way to blow off some steam by using training dummies himself.

There's a faint light of recognition in Sherlock's eyes when he turns to see who's speaking. More subtle, perhaps, than some of the other looks Fenris has gotten walking around Skyhold, but present.

Sherlock hasn't read Tale of the Champion. Word travels, however. Some things you can't help overhearing.

"Mn," he hums, giving the target another glance. "Most darkspawn don't come with a bulls-eye." There's always value in practicing unorthodox shooting patterns, isn't there?

Yes. He'll go with that.

A subtlety he appreciated. He'd had so many outright stares, both in Kirkwall, and here in Skyhold, that someone even trying to be subtle was going to put Fenris in a better mood with them before he even started talking.

"No, they don't." He knew that only too well. "Though I've found chopping their heads off works well. No need for... is that a smile?"

Sherlock shrugged a shoulder. You had him there.

"Perhaps not, but it passes the time." The weariness and sense of tedium in his voice was palpable. An edge of irritation sneaked in when he added: "Better than watching the vines creep up the walls."

Edited 2015-11-17 21:57 (UTC)

"Why that particular face?" Oh now you had him curious. "That is true. For all there are a lot of people, there doesn't seem to be much going on." He'd heard of a trip to Fallow Mire, and had no desire to go there. For him, without killing slavers, it was quiet.

That there is the sharp smile of a cynic. Not friendly but humorous in its way, dry as stone. Smiles as weapons? Perhaps. Wouldn't work as well the other way around...

River's gaze is rather unerring from the ledge she's found to perch on top of, bare feet dangling. She's obviously studying him and not being at all subtle in the process, but if he's noticed -- of course he has, he's very observant -- he appears to be focused still on his little project.

For lack of anything better to do. There's some sympathy there. She had to get out and away from the medic tents or risk winding herself up into a knot.

He's focused enough to finish the job. He sees her there, though, in the periphery: a skinny little blur with long dark hair and dangling feet. Staring. More openly than most would. And her focus isn't on his 'project,' either, but on himself.

What could she be looking for? If he looked at her directly, acknowledged her presence, would she duck away like a nervous cat?

Possibly. More important, though, and more certain, is the fact that glancing over there would break the game of overt-covert mutual observation they have going already. So he simply finishes the face, pauses to admire it with a look of quiet satisfaction, then straps up his bow and goes to retrieve the arrows.

Things aren't quiet around him. They skitter, like drizzle hitting a pond. Things fit and come apart again like cog wheels, everything in its place, sharp and gleaming. It makes for a pleasant change from the fear radiating off of those who came here for refuge, the desperation of those in charge, or the anger between mage and templar.

He's neither. He has no stake in any of it. He brow wrinkles as she listens, past the soft, low-pitched strains of bored bored bored that run in monotone just beneath. That doesn't mean he wants people or interaction.

Doesn't mean he doesn't, either. Curious.

Her gaze follows the grip of the bow, the way he tugs the arrows free. It's still just observation, idle curiosity at best, no need for commentary. The silent shared company is actually pleasant in its own way. She hasn't been this occupied by something that wasn't a spirit in weeks.

Her fascination is in itself fascinating. It can't be that she knows him. Who outside of Amaranthine would have heard of him, much less be able to recognize him on sight?

It's possible she sees something that's unseeable. The thought causes mild irritation to prickle up his spine, ripples underneath the drizzle. He's never had a desire to come in close contact with magical dealings. Even at home, he keeps his interaction with mages to the minimum required by necessity.

(Yet here he is, inserting himself into a situation where he's bound to run across demons and things associated with the Fade. The boundaries of necessity have changed, and that, too, is troublesome.)

[Open] "Bored."

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Apologies for the late tag back!

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Apologies for the late tag back!

Hope you don't mind a late tag!

So long as you don't mind a late tag back ._.;

We'll go with a slow as molasses thread...

Sounds goooood

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