[Open] "Bored."

[seesobserves]

WHO: Sherlock Holmes and Open
WHAT: Working off some steam by way of target practice
WHEN: Early Firstfall
WHERE: Skyhold training grounds
NOTES: Either prose or brackets welcome!

The first arrow seems to land wildly off-course, on the very edge of the target, but the archer who fired it keeps an impassive face while he raises the next one. To anyone who happens to be watching, it's clear this time that he actually is taking aim.

The second arrow hits the entire other edge of the target. Sherlock draws the third, notches it, takes aim.

Thunk. Thunk. Thunk. The arrows fly in more rapid succession as he goes on. While the lines aren't perfect, it soon becomes apparent that instead of aiming for the bulls-eye, he's firing a pattern into the target: specifically, a smiling face.

Comments

[seesobserves]

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.

[girlinthebox]

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.

[seesobserves]

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.)