[OPEN] now that you're living on the hill

[paladingus]

WHO: Simon and OPEN.
WHAT: Getting reacquainted with Kirkwall.
WHEN: Justinian, just like whenever.
WHERE: All over the city.
NOTES: I'm always happy to write up another starter if you'd like!

I. Hanged Man

Simon's never been a big drinker. He doesn't mind letting people size him up and assume he could drink them under the table, but on the whole, he thinks he has enough vices to atone for without being a lush on top of it all.

But some boredom needs the big guns busted out to take care of it. The Hanged Man has mostly lost the aura of forbidden mystery and excitement it had held when he was a teenage recruit in the Gallows, but the aura of shame and insufficient sanitation that's since replaced it isn't enough to keep him away when it's the only place in town he can afford. He's at the bar, on his third pint, cheering on the brawl that's begun on the other side of the room.

II. Living Quarters

There's plenty about the city that seems unfamiliar now that he's returning to it in his thirties, after nearly a decade and an intervening war, and on the whole, the strangeness isn't a bad thing. He hadn't liked the place to begin with. But all the same, there's something to be said for a little bit of familiarity here and there, and sharing the old templar rooms with Cade again isn't the bad kind of deja vu. It's certainly an improvement on the group quarters. He's on his way to move what few possessions he has into the room, whistling as he carries the box.

III. Markets

The marks from being electrically charbroiled by a furious lightning mage are beginning to fade, but the excruciating stiffness of having all his muscles involuntarily locked up and the bruises from the resulting deadweight collapse aren't quite so quick to dissipate.

Or perhaps they would be, if he were a little more patient with them, but Simon is not a man who takes well to any kind of imposition on his physical fitness. An injury that thinks it's going to keep him off the training grounds is an injury that needs to be taught a lesson and slapped right back into its place, damn it. To that end, he's wandering the market in his civvies, in search of some kind of potion or poultice that can teach his ornery muscle strain who's boss.

IV. Wildcard

Go nuts!

Comments

Markets

[theexile]

[ooc: Feel free to hit me up on plurk if you need me to edit anything!]

There were some rumors for Simon to hear that there was a woman who was offering things like potions and poultices. One that was an Avvar. Of course if he asked further about this there were sure to be people cautioning him against trying it but at least they were sure to point him in the right direction eventually. The Avvar woman would have a fennec with her. Probably her pet according to them.

Anyway, she was there at the edge of the markets. She wasn't selling so she didn't have a stall. Rather she was organizing goods she'd purchased to see what else she might need, a little fennec sitting at her feet watching her with curiosity. Still, she paused in what she was doing when she saw him, looking him over like she was trying to read his body language to find out what he was looking at her for.

It was hard not to be cautious in a place that was so wary of you.

[paladingus]

If he's honest with himself, Simon doesn't even need the excuse of finding a sprain remedy to seek out an Avvar to talk to. The excuse helps, of course, because he is self-aware enough to assume she probably wouldn't want to have much to do with him just for the hell of it, but still.

He's never met an Avvar, only read some translations of their poetry and an ethnographic volume or two and found it all very heroic and romantic. This, too, he knows better than to say out loud. (For the most part.)

The market is crowded, and when he doesn't see a stall that looks promising, he can't help but be discouraged--but the fennec stands out, even in a place as odd as Kirkwall, and searching the ground leads him to the pair of them.

He's not really sure how best to put her at ease--the templar armor is either great for that or terrible, but he's not wearing it now--but he'll try, with a bit of awkward throat-clearing. "Excuse me. I don't mean to bother you if you're not working, it's just I was told you were the one to talk to if I needed some healing herbs."

[theexile]

The lack of the templar armor was going to work in his favor as she relaxed some and gave a nod. Lifting her pack up to her shoulder, she gave a nod to have him come follow her to where there were fewer people. Not only would it make it easier to talk but that way she could have a better look at him. Catching her staff along the way, she hooked it to a strap on her back.

Kattrin was, well, short for an Avvar. Most, even the women, were well known for their height. She clearly hadn't taken after that portion of her ancestry but she still held herself with confidence as she waved for him to sit with her on the ground once she found a location she preferred.

"Usually I am with the other healers but I was in need of supplies," she explained, opening her pack again so she could start seeing what she had to offer even before he told her what was wrong. "What is it that ails you?"

Oh sure she could glance him over and guess but often it was best to have someone tell her what they required rather than assuming.

[paladingus]

Simon, conversely, is downright ogre-sized for a lowlander, and towers clumsily over her as they make their way out of the crowded square. Clumsiness isn't usually a problem of his, but the lingering injuries have him just that little bit off-kilter, and he can't help but move stiffly as he lowers himself carefully down where she indicates.

"Well," he says, glancing between her face and garb and the array of herbs she sets out, "I think I must have strained something around here." He gestures to his upper chest and left shoulder, managing not to wince as he does. "It's awful stiff and hard to move, and that's not ideal for sword work, obviously..."

[theexile]

Her eyes strayed to where he indicated and already she had an idea of what she wanted to give to him but felt it would be better if she got a feel for the strain he was enduring. So she removed her hands from her pack and paused for a moment before shifting closer to him.

"May I feel? I would need to place a hand under your clothes."

Some lowlanders didn't like the Avvar to touch them so she knew it was best to ask first.

II

[onlyhymns]

Cade's opinion is clearly a different one, gauging by his lurch of surprise upon seeing Simon enter the room with a box of what are no doubt belongings.
He was previously reclined on his bed and reading a book by the mid-afternoon light streaming through the window, but his repose has been violently interrupted, and he takes a beat before he speaks to swipe the book off the floor and get to his feet. He clearly wasn't expecting anyone, innocuous though his activity was. He's just weird.

"What are you doing here," he asks suspiciously. Welcome home!

[paladingus]

Simon hadn't expected a very warm welcome, nor would he have blamed Cade for the lack of one, but that's discouragingly even worse than he'd anticipated.

"I thought they would've told you," he says mildly. "I asked if there was any space free up here so I wouldn't have to stay in the common area, and they told me your room had a spot freed up. Sorry to intrude on your private quarters, but..."

He is not, incidentally, being sarcastic about this, but Cade could be forgiven for thinking otherwise.

[onlyhymns]

Technically the quarters aren't private, since there is another bed. Cade just... thought he was lucky. He looks strained as Simon talks, but doesn't argue, instead spacing out as he contemplates his various strategies for coexisting long-term with another person.
"All right," he decides, nearly cutting Simon off, and glances only briefly to him before turning away again. "Just keep it clean." He can't overstep their higher-ups' authority, but he's not talented enough to pretend to be happy about it.

[paladingus]

Simon wouldn't have been in a hurry to have the empty space filled up either, were he in Cade's position, but on his end, it's a notably better deal to have a comfortable bed in a room with one acquaintance who doesn't like him than a bunk surrounded by a dozen strangers. Accustomed as he is to having to compromise with his living arrangements, it doesn't occur to him to assert himself in response to the order.

"I don't think I've got enough stuff to make a mess with it," he says, hefting the box. It's rather small. "I hope you don't expect me to polish the furniture, though."

[onlyhymns]

Cade is about to get defensive, but the thought does finally reach him that maybe he's being a little bit of a dick. Instead of retorting, he just sighs, allowing himself a small, vaguely apologetic smile as he shakes his head.
"Sorry," he murmurs, and trails off there, leaving them in awkward silence.

III

[meds4sale]

There were a number of apothecaries (or their apprentices) scattered about the market among the jewelers, fishmongers, and other merchants, loudly competing against each other to entice others to buy their wares. Anything from cures to sore throat to baldness were enthusiastically on offer (though they were more discreet when it came to remedies to that peculiar rash that came about from one too many exciting nights at the Hanged Man).

The Medicine Seller stood out for a variety of reasons. For starters, he didn't actually have a stall. He'd just sort of inserted himself into a gap between them and spread out a blue bit of fabric over some planks of wood, and laid a display of wares on that. And he wasn't shouting. He sat politely, feet tucked under him and his hands rested on his knees, watching the passersby. His peculiar, brightly coloured clothes and wares got a few curious glances, though most continued on past. There was a subtle smell of some kind of incense that kept the stink of some of the other merchant's fishier wares at bay.

He spotted Simon in the crowd, oddly tense. Whether it was due to some injury or the general feeling of simply existing in a city like Kirkwall was hard to say by sight alone.

"I sell a tonic that will ease such tension," came a slow monotone from somewhere to Simon's lower right.

[paladingus]

He's never had to seek out a healer in a crowded marketplace before. There had only ever been one apothecary in the little village he'd grown up in, and a single well-stocked infirmary in each Circle he'd served in as an adult. But things are different now, and he's a little overwhelmed by the alchemists pushing potions of dubious efficacy at him from every corner. None of it looks quite like what he's searching for.

The Medicine Seller's voice cuts smoothly through the chaos, and Simon startles a little as he looks over at the source of it.

"You and everyone else," he gripes, but he doesn't turn away. This vendor is the first one who's actually taken note of what's bothering him, and that makes him worth a try. "What have you got?"

[meds4sale]

"Many things," he replied. Vague but true - as was most of what came out of his mouth.

"Though only some might be the answer to your troubles."

He narrowed his eyes in thought, though the effect only seemed to make his expression colder. His hand hovered over a lacquer box decorated with ornately patterned fans, and had various folded square paper packets in various colours.

"Is the cause stress, or injury?"

[paladingus]

"I've only got one trouble needs answering at the moment, so that works out just fine for me," he says. Simon is not especially patient with vagueness.

"I guess it's a bit of both. I think I must have pulled a muscle in my shoulder, and I need both arms to swing a sword, so it's impossible not to stress it even further."

No, he's not acknowledging that any problems could possibly exist beyond the physical.

[meds4sale]

"A pulled muscle," he repeated flatly, his scrutinizing stare wandering up from the brightly coloured packets to meet Simon's eyes.

"I imagine," he continued in that aggravatingly slow way of his, "that you do not have the luxury to simply rest it? Or perhaps..."

He turned away, instead opening the bottom drawer of his medicine pack. He rummaged a bit, selecting a moderately sized yellow silk pouch, embroidered with a pattern of red plum blossoms. He gradually filled it with various dried herbs and roots. Then, among a rack glass vials, he selected one, and held it up to the light for inspection. He finally seemed to remember he'd trailed off mid-sentence.

"...You did not consider it an option?" He cast a sidelong glance to Simon, before replacing the vial and selecting another, seemingly identical. This one seemed to fit whatever criteria he had, and he set it aside with the pouch.

"It is always better to treat such problems directly, rather than letting them fester after all."

ii

[sulena]

One very strange trip to the future aside, this is the first time that Saoirse has returned to the Gallows since everything went up in literal flames and this place more closely resembled a slaughterhouse. It had taken a lot to manage this much. It took more to just step back into Kirkwall again.

Now, she finds, there is only memories to find up and down the halls now filled with chatter and laughter; a much different sound from when she last called this place home. Caught up in her thoughts, she doesn't notice someone approaching until they almost collide in the hall.

She manages to just barely miss creating a disaster, pressing herself again the nearby wall and bowing her head. "Terribly sorry," she says. "I found myself rather lost in thought when I should have been paying attention."

[paladingus]

It's partly Simon's fault, having shifted the box up high enough in his grip that even he can't see over the top of it, but he looks startled and peers around the side of it when he hears her dive out of the way.

"Oh," he says apologetically, resettling his burden so that he isn't being quite such a walking traffic hazard. "No, that was on me. Almost bowled you over."

He's about to ask if she's all right, but on the subject of deja vu, her face prompts a fresh wave of it, and he can't help but study it for a moment as he tries to match it with the voice and the familiar accent. It might have been easier a few years ago, but the lyrium's been flowing as regularly as ever.

"I know you, don't I? I could swear I do."

[sulena]

At the question, Saoirse blinks once and then twice as she studies his face. The accent is familiar, welcoming even when all she hears is those from Ferelden and Orlais. Had this been a few years ago, when all she truly knew was the Circles, it might have been easier for her too. Since their fall though, she has traveled and truth be told— the faces tended to blur together.

"Mm... perhaps." She says, taking a step closer and brushing a loose strand of hair behind her ear. "Are you a Templar? I once lived here in the Gallows and at the Circle in Starkhaven."

[paladingus]

"That's it. We must have met here. I wasn't in Kirkwall long, but..." It's ringing a bell now, the pieces all coming together at once. "I think we've spoken before. On the, um, crystal thing. You're the one who likes to sing, right?"

He remembers that more easily than he remembers her name, but that'll probably come to him too if he tries hard enough. As long as he can put a face with the details. And the surroundings help; he remembers seeing her in these halls before, long ago though it was.

wild card.

[indocile]

Things Simon is expecting while performing the necessary maintenance of his weapons and armor: probably not Margaux, small and quiet and in that smallness seeming to almost materialise out of no where on the bench beside him, swinging her bare feet above the ground. This is a bench designed for someone his size to comfortably sit on, not hers.

"You served here, didn't you? A time ago? The Gallows."

Yes, baby, he knows where you mean.

[paladingus]

It's probably a good thing that he's not holding anything heavier or sharper than a gauntlet when she speaks, because he drops it promptly on the floor with a clatter and an uncharacteristic "Maker's balls" when she startles him. Simon's not a difficult guy to sneak up on.

He remembers her from the advance crew; it would be difficult not to recall someone with a face like that and hair like that, but the question has him looking confused and guilty in equal measure.

"I--yes, I did, but it's been years and years. I don't remember you from there." The should I? is unspoken and vaguely implied.

[indocile]

"No, no. Of course."

Before she skedaddled up the Frostbacks, she'd never left Orlais - there's always been plenty of Orlais, if she found herself in need of a quick exit somewhere. And she could have gone on that way, probably, if she preferred...but the Inquisition is a beacon of hope, and hope has been hard to come by. It's something she wanted to be a part of -

which hasn't turned out how she'd imagined, really. She hadn't envisioned her heroic escapades thwarting certain doom involving quite so much sitting quietly in the shadow of the Gallows, sorting through the effects of the dead and the simply gone. Feeling, for once, how truly small she is and how small they all are, really, how close to calamity.

"Are you afraid?"

Maker's teeth, Margaux, ask the man the easy questions, why don't you.

A moment later she corrects herself, holding up a letter written years ago, to someone she doesn't know; "Do you think on it? That it could have been your things, left behind?"

That he could have died here, like so many did.

[paladingus]

Before she produces the letter, Simon's expression is almost entirely blank, save for its tinge of slightly helpless bafflement and a not-imperceptible note of concern. 'Are you afraid' is not the sort of cryptic question one wants to be asked, out of the blue, by a mysterious woman who has appeared beside you without sound or warning.

The letter and the correction do help, of course, at least with the creeping unease that had come from the ambiguity of the question, but it doesn't make him want to ponder it any more. But she asked, and she has such an unenviable job to do. He can't blame her for wanting to talk about it with someone.

"Not really," he admits, after giving it due, fair thought. "The thing is, I left before the worst of it happened. I don't think I was ever in much danger. At least, no more than a templar is anywhere else. I should have been here for it all, to be sure, but--I wasn't." He tilts his head to give the letter another look, trying to make out the unfortunate addressee.

hanged man

[unbrokenoath]

Kaisa has spent most of her adult life classified as a big drinker, and a general denizen of shady taverns. Kirkwall may not be her hometown, or even somewhere that she'd stepped foot into before now, but the Hanged Man is no different from a thousand other seedy bars that she has found herself in. Which is probably why she looks so at home in the place, as if she'd spent a decent chunk of her life joining the rest of the denizens and ne'er-do-wells that seeped into the cracks of the wood.

But there's a fight! That's always fun. With no regard for who this random guy is, and whether or not he wants her company, she slides into the seat next to him. A relatively gentle elbow to his arm to ensure that she has his attention, and she's nattering away.

"If I were the betting kinda woman, which I ain't, so don't bother, I'd put money on the little one. It'd be a smart move. People see a little guy like that, put the odds against him. But I've seen little dudes fight. The thing is, dudes who're little have been little their entire life, yeah? Not like height goes in reverse. So they know they gotta disadvantage, and they gotta do something about it. Big lugs," Says the broad, muscley warrior woman who's nearly six feet, to the man who is just as broad and muscley, "We know that when we hit things, they stay down. Don't gotta think hard about it. That's why you keep your eye on the small guys. 'Cause they have to think about it."

[paladingus]

Simon, rather pleasantly buzzed right now, listens very intently to the stranger's philosophy on bar fights. He doesn't know her from Andraste, but nothing about her approach strikes him as odd. Regaling random strangers with one's opinion is just what one does in pubs, right? Right.

"It's probably good that you're not a better," he muses solemnly, when she's done. "Because I would've taken that bet, and you'd probably have won, since I don't know that you're wrong. I would've put my money on the big bastard, because I know what we can do, but I haven't fought a lot of scrappy little things--oh, look at him go!" The smaller of the brawlers has landed a blow that might in other circumstances be called below-the-belt, but it merits a few cheers from the crowd.

This provokes a question which Simon considers quite seriously for a moment. "So which one of them counts as the underdog, then? I feel like we should be rooting for the underdog."