[OPEN] You've got your reasons / And me, I've got mine

[ragweed]

WHO: Kit + OPEN
WHAT: Back from the Korcari Wilds, Kit kicks about town finding trouble.
WHEN: Towards the end of August.
WHERE: The Gallows, Lowtown, Darktown.
NOTES: Will update as they become relevant.

The Korcari Wilds were strange, and the experiences had within them even stranger. Kit still can't completely shake the feeling of persistent dread that has hounded him since that night spent around the Chasind campfire listening to the words spun for him and the rest of his companions by the shaman. Since his return to Kirkwall, it has been easier for him to eschew the company of the friends he's made since arriving, though he knows it's beyond unreasonable to avoid them forever.



I. THE GALLOWS - TRAINING GROUNDS

About a week after his return from the Wilds, Kit rouses himself early enough to get to the training grounds before the sun has decided whether it's ready to drag itself above the horizon or not. There are a handful of dutiful Templars and other Inquisition soldiers at work there already, either engaging in sparring or in warm up exercises. Kit stands out like the sorest of thumbs among all the humans, but he's used to that.

He heads over to a rack of training war axes and examines them, picking them up to test the heft, then hanging them back up again. Truthfully, he's not even sure what he's doing here without an Inquisition scout trainee in need of remedial lessons to attend to; sleep just wouldn't stay with him.

It's a pity he isn't human; he can't even blame nightmares for keeping him awake.



II. KIRKWALL - THE HANGED MAN

It's easier to lose his money than it is for him to keep it, and he's doing a great job of proving that to himself again tonight. Card shark or not, there's always bound to be a night where even your best poker face isn't good enough, and this is one of those nights.

He's seated at a table near the back of the taproom floor surrounded by a number of other dwarves who, judging by the clean cut of their clothes and their absurdly coiffed beards, are likely representatives of the Merchants' Guild. It's not exactly clear when the stakes of this game got quite so high as to include Kit betting his tiny, exquisite carving of Paragon Hrildan, but that's where he's at now.

He sits very still in his chair, examining the hand of cards he holds in one hand while the other keeps a lit cigarette within easy reach of his lips.



III. DARKTOWN

He ends up in Darktown like it's ten years ago and he's in need of a spell of quiet. The darkness, the stink, the distance people give each other in lieu of making trouble, reminds him with a pang of bitter homesickness of Dust Town, and he almost can't conscience how much he misses it for one shitty moment.

There's a single rickety railing that exists to prevent the idle wanderer from tripping over their own feet and careening down into the depths of the channel leading into the city, and that is where Kit stands, smoking a cigarette and watching the small, distant shapes of the barges as they move through the gates.

Comments

I

[misdirection_hex]

The training grounds are not a place where Van is accustomed to spending any length of time. He looks, in his way, every bit as out-of-place as Kit, winding his way gingerly around the weapons and trying not to snag his robes on any of the equipment, but he maintains an air of being completely in his element. If this is where Kit's going to spend his time instead of sparing even a minute to come talk to him or see him, then damn it, this is where Van will come find him.

"A soldier's work is never done, huh?" he says, leaning against a stand of pikes that tower taller than he is. "That's some damn impressive discipline. Too busy to talk, but never too busy to train."

[ragweed]

Well this was inevitable, wasn't it?

"Yeah, well," Kit begins absently, doing a damned good job of avoiding eye contact with the elf who leans with such pointed, hostile grace against the stand of pikes. "You ever hear the saying, best way to avoid digging yourself a hole is to not pick up the shovel? This is me, not picking up the shovel."

He grimaces as soon as he's said the words, and still can't make himself meet Vandelin's eyes. Ancestors, he's made a mess of things. That didn't take long at all. "I'm sorry, for what it's worth."

[misdirection_hex]

Vandelin is accustomed to using eye contact as a kind of weapon, and it throws him off-balance already that Kit is so determinedly avoiding it. This is not a conversation Van trusts himself to have with the kind of cool detachment he would prefer. That hurts already--the distance in Kit's voice, as if this is all of very little consequence, and the confirmation of the worst-case scenario that's been creeping around the back of Van's mind.

He ignores the apology altogether. "Wow. That's a beautiful way to characterize a friendship, truly. I don't know why more poetry doesn't compare things to unwanted holes. I couldn't be more deeply moved."

[ragweed]

It isn't too little consequence that's the trouble--it's too much.

"Guess that's why Orzammar's not renowned for it. All we've got to write about is holes in the dirt." Kit closes his eyes and lets his head thump against the rack of axes. He's an idiot, that's not up for debate. But where the idiocy begin--with letting Vandelin so close so quickly, or with pushing him away now?

He makes himself pretend at courage and turns back around, makes himself meet Vandelin's eyes like a man who isn't on the cusp of cowardice. The look he receives is deserved, and he forces himself not to look aside from it, but whatever words he knows he should offer up in the face of Vandelin's justifiable anger, he can't find them.

III

[doneisdone]

Teren isn't in Darktown often, but she does make the occasional appearance on her, ah... shopping rounds, fitting right in with the shady populace in her dark, scuffed leathers and perpetual scowl. It lightens just a touch when she catches sight of a familiar face, and strolls over to Kit, looking him over. "Ah, you lived then," she observes, without any apparent pleasure or dismay. This is the first time she's seen the dwarf since they first picked him up outside the Deep Roads, and it's a genuine surprise to see that he hasn't died horribly in the meantime.

[misdirection_hex]

And the problem, likewise, is that Vandelin understands Kit's rationale a little too well, rather than not at all. He just hadn't expected to be on the receiving end of it for once. When he has made the decision to throw his usual caution aside and be vulnerable with someone--a decision predicated on the not-unlikely possibility that Kit might not have returned from the Wilds, admittedly, but Van had still hoped and planned for him to be all right--he doesn't expect to have it thrown back in his face. That's supposed to be his power to unleash as he sees fit.

He doesn't know how to regain the upper hand here. He can pretend he isn't wounded by Kit's dismissal, maintain that impassive Wicked Grace expression, but he's still at just as much of a loss for what to say. Something petty, incisive, something that will make him feel like shit--

"Do you do this with everyone?" The question is genuine enough that once he's asked it, he wishes he hadn't.

I

[judgemewhole]

"Good morning, serah."

Comes the voice of one of the Templars behind him, standing in his full-plate, sweat plastered on his forehead and his sword in hand but his shield slung back up on his back. The only changes are that instead of the traditional colors of the Templars, he is wearing green and gold - Inquisition colors.

Green eyes assess, from a narrow, hawk-like face for a moment, before he adds politely.
"Are you here for the demon defense training? We are about to begin."

[ragweed]

"Do you do this with everyone?"

"Just the special ones."

Kit's smile is pained, like the worst part of this whole encounter is how inevitable it feels, how very like greeting someone he knows, who he hasn't seen in a while. The steps to this dance are familiar, no matter how many times he wishes he could learn his lesson and not end up on the dance floor again.

He swallows. "I'm sorry, Vandelin," he repeats, willing himself not to do what some small instinct bids him to do and go to him now. What can a guy like him give someone like Vandelin anyway? Scratch too far below the surface and Kit knows what Vandelin will find--and he can't bear the thought of anyone seeing it--

"I know how it looks--it's not like that. But it's still--it's better, this way. I know how that sounds, but it is."

[ragweed]

"Looks like it." He taps the excess ash off the cigarette and glances back at Teren, cracking a barebones smile at her.

He gestures around them. "You come down here for the fresh air or what?"

[ragweed]

It takes him a moment to realize that the Templar is addressing him and not someone else, and so his response comes a fraction later than expected. Then he clears his throat and turns back to him, putting on his best easy-going grin.

"I was just out for the fresh air," he says, injecting levity into his voice, "but some extra training surely can't go amiss." Jokingly, he adds, "I don't owe you a fee or anything to participate, do I?" Kit himself is clearly not a Templar.

III

[circleprodigy]

The only reason Inessa enters Darktown is to volunteer at Anders' clinic, so her sights are limited to the route there and back. Despite the fact that some recognize her and her work, Inessa always takes care to come armed and accompanied by her faithful mabari. Darktown has a reputation, and she doesn't want to give the impression that she's an easy target.

It helps to see a familiar face, though. Keeping an eye out for signs of trouble, the elven woman brightens a little upon spotting the dwarf she met at the library earlier. Garahel seems to remember him, too, perking up and barking happily. As she angles her approach so as to stand upwind from the cigarette smoke, she nods politely his way. "Hello again, Kit. I'm glad to see you're still around."

She hasn't seen him since he'd left for that Korcari Wilds trip, and her erratic library schedule of late hasn't made it as easy to find her as usual.

[misdirection_hex]

I won't stay where I'm not wanted is as sacred a mantra to Vandelin as ever it was, even--or perhaps especially--in light of the bridges he has spectacularly torched with his cousin. At the moment, it feels all the more like a matter of pride.

"I do love to be special," he says. You know me well, he could add, all sarcasm again, but it's yet another thing that would ring too true for comfort. Not literally; they have not, after all, known each other long, but if Kit's already decided he doesn't want to get any closer, that says...something.

"It sounds like bullshit to me, but that's your business. You might consider giving the next guy some warning, though." He holds up his hands, unrepentantly patronizing, and turns to saunter away. "Good luck with the shovels and holes."

[ragweed]

Vandelin means for his words to wound, and they do. Kit doesn't flinch, though; he'd been bracing himself for this particular barrage, and he weathers it as well as can be expected. (As for the next guy, well. Kit's learned his lesson well. There won't be a 'next guy.')

He watches Vandelin walk away from him in grim, defeated silence, and only turns back to the line of training axes once he can no longer track his retreating figure with his eyes.

It's better this way.

[ragweed]

It's the bark that grabs his attention. Kit turns, spots Garahel before he spots Inessa, then smiles crookedly and holds out a hand towards the dog, encouraging him to trot over for some affectionate head scratches. It's hard to stay melancholy with a dog around for company.

"I'm glad to see you're still around."

He lifts his shoulders in the smallest of shrugs. "Still around," he agrees, and while he doesn't lose his smile, it's clear he's not in the best headspace. He takes another drag from his cigarette, then makes to put it out, clearing having noticed Inessa's distaste for it.

Small talk doesn't suit him, but he doesn't have the heart to push aside genial company right now. So, "You doing all right?" he asks her.

II [grumbling] friggin dwarves man

[faithlikeaseed]

After Kit hung up on him, Myr'd been of a mind to hunt his friend down right then and there. For once, practicality had checked him: Sounds of surf and seagulls didn't a definitive location make anywhere in Kirkwall.

Better to try ambush tactics. The Hanged Man's the usual Inquisition haunt and it's not so hard for him to find a group headed to it of an evening--or several evenings in a row--and each time linger there with them asking after any card-playing dwarves that might be on the premises.

One of those times, he finally gets lucky.

He isn't about to interrupt the game, of course. But he is going to lurk like a mage-robed haunt and wait for Kit to notice him.

[ragweed]

He doesn't notice Myr--probably because Myr is lurking off to his right, and it's been well over the requisite one week that the Dragon determined to be the outer limit of his hearing aid remaining functional. The little brass earring remains in his ear, but it's functionally useless at present.

Maybe he'll bet that damn thing, too.

He narrowly avoids losing the tiny figurine, but his money--all of it, every last scrap of earning he's managed to acquire over the past several years--now lines the pockets of men who surely don't need any of it. He watches them pack up to leave, and remains seated at the table with his face braced against the heel of the hand holding his cigarette. The other holds tight to the small figurine--though Myr can't know it, or how precious it is to him.

[faithlikeaseed]

While Myr can't see the players, he can follow the game well enough by ear--bets called and raised, lacunae of silence where someone must've pushed something into the pot without comment, little spurts of triumph or outrage when the Angel of Death's revealed and money's won and lost. He can't tell exactly how Kit fared by the end of it, but he suspects it isn't well.

Accordingly, he waits for the merchants to be well-departed before he approaches the table, feels out a chair, and takes a seat near his friend.

Still doesn't say anything, though, in part because he's got no idea what to say.

[ragweed]

Myr's approach catches him off guard--a timely reminder that he must force himself to pay a visit to the Dragon again, whether he wants to or not.

He watches his friend in uncomfortable silence, then picks up his ale and takes a slow gulp from it. He exhales when setting it back down.

"Want a drink?" He can't figure out what else to say, either.

[circleprodigy]

Yesss, head scratches at the best. Garahel grunts happily, his tail enthusiastically wagging in response to the attention. As long as Kit doesn't seem to mind the bottomless affection sponge that is her mabari, Inessa will refrain from calling him to her side.

"As well as ever, I suppose. The clinic is never overflowing with resources or volunteers. I do what I can, when time permits." At the bark, she smiles. "Well, 'we'. Garahel can be quite the morale boost."

His distracted demeanor doesn't go unnoticed, though knowing him a little as she does, there's no telling the source of it and Inessa doesn't want to overstep her bounds. Still, she doesn't seem offended. If he's not in a space to talk, she'll urge Garahel onward before long. No harm done. "And yourself? The Inquisition must be keeping you busy as well, no doubt."

[faithlikeaseed]

It's a start.

"Yeah. Think I could use one." Between the nightmares, the feud with Vandelin, the sick unsteady feeling of everything solid in the world slipping out from underneath him--and now this--Myr's long overdue for a drink. "Whatever you're having."

He sweeps a hand over the surface of the table, feeling for puddles of spilled ale before deciding it's safe enough for his sleeves and leaning in to rest his elbows on it.

"What happened out there?" It's not the question he'd meant to lead off with but it's the only one that feels charitable toward Kit. What happened? How did it lead to this?

[ragweed]

"What happened out there?"

"Nothing." It's not an attempt at evading the question, though he realizes as soon as he's said it that that's probably what Myr will think. He takes a steadying drag from his cigarette, then motions to one of the servers to bring over a couple of ales--yes, two, even though he's not finished with his current one.

"We didn't find anything--nothing useful, anyway. Couple of scraps with swamp wolves, but other than that..." He shakes his head, chews on his lower lip, then forces himself to keep talking. "There was this crazy old shaman down there, though. Some of the things she said, it felt like--"

Like she could see straight through him.

Kit swallows, then nods his thanks to the server who arrives with their drinks. Not a moment too soon, either.

[doneisdone]

She snorts, the corner of her lip twitching upward in a wry smirk. "Sentimentality," she decides, "closest thing to the Deep Roads in this shithole." Protip, she also hates the Deep Roads.

[ragweed]

"You know, I had the same thought. Smells worse, though." He takes one last drag off his cigarette, then flicks it over the railing. What a litter bug.

"I'd forgotten what a shit-hole this place is."

[doneisdone]

It's okay, litter can only improve Darktown.

"I'd never been until recently," Teren says, peering down over the railing just to see where the cigarette will land. "Not to this one, at least. These places are everywhere you go, and they're all the bloody same." Pits of wanton poverty and despair, nests of forgotten people. She knows the environment well.

[ragweed]

"Not much different from Dust Town," Kit says. It's part of why he ended up down here, and in the Deep Roads. "At least here, you see a bit of sky, time to time."

There's more he could probably say--maybe thank Teren for her help getting him out of his tangle with the darkspawn alive, ask her about herself, where she's been. He likes her well enough, and being a Grey Warden (and therefore an expert at killing darkspawn) is a point in her favour. But if he were in the right headspace for making (or maintaining) new friendships, he probably wouldn't be down here right now.

Already he looks like he's itching for another smoke. "Anyway," he starts, but sounds rather like he doesn't know what to say next.