faderift | I Said What What

WHO: Samouel Gareth and OPEN
WHAT: Not amused by certain works of "art" and everyday life in Kirkwall
WHEN: Mid-Harvestmere on
WHERE: Kirkwall
NOTES: Whole lot of arse

I. Another Man's Treasure is Another Man's Arse

Sam groaned lightly in distress under his breath, hand purposefully resting over his mouth in thought, as he stared at the newest piece of art that had been hung in the Inquisition's headquarters. It was a "generous" gift to the Inquisition, or that was what the letter he received that morning said, informing him of it's addition - the writing had been very Orlesian and very, clearly, excited.

Even if it wasn't on display in the heavier trafficked part of the room, the gleam from the bronze certainly did its job in drawing the eye and thus negating any attempt in trying to hide it in plain sight; it didn't help that it was positioned just so, so that the light reflected on it during the day, and at night there was a torch to do just as much.

There hanging on the wall was a bronze casting of an imprint of an ass. HIS ass. He doesn't know why such a thing exists, and doesn't know how the artist had managed to even get it. Sam even questions if it is actually his ass - course he's not about to see if there is a fit - but it really doesn't matter because the plaque clearly states his name.

II. Whistle While You Work

The majority of Sam's work consisted of helping patients at the infirmary, the work load seemingly having increased with the weather getting colder. From time to time there would be a serious injury, but for the most part it was mostly someone needing something for a cough or a cut. Being a healer was easy at those times. There were the times though where it wasn't so easy, namely the more recent incidents where the locals were being slightly hostile with the increase of Rifter leadership; and still expecting you to treat their wounds while they did it.

In Sam's other line of work there was less exposure to that sort of thing, mainly because customers weren't allowed to get close to the forge, and partially it seemed like a bad idea to get close to a man hammering hot metal. Despite it being tough physical labor, the mage often favored those moments where he could get away.

III. Stables

Whenever he found time in the week, Sam always made a point in going to the stables to spend time with Conan. While the stable-hands were taking good care of him, the nuggalope still preferred it when Sam came to give him attention. The mage always felt bad that they weren't out riding as much as they were back in Skyhold, but with how the locals were acting lately it was safer to go on those sporadically, in case anyone was trying to figure out a schedule. For compensation Sam always made sure to bring extra treats and long brushing times, which in turn always earned him getting his shirt chewed on by Conan.

IV. Wildcard

Have another idea? Hit me with it.

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It's not that Sam's ass draw the eye. It's actually much worse than that-- there are times of day when the autumn sun slants into the bronze cups like a perfectly laced beacon, so that the light, richly golden-bronze, reflects directly into Sorrel's face. It's impossible not to notice. And, once you notice the enshrined imprint of a grown person's ass upon the wall, you might ignore it once.

Oh yes, even then you might ignore it.

But the second time ? The third? After a day's time, you'll grow weak, your resolve will crack, and you'll read the plaque proudly declaring this to be...

"Samouel Gareth?" It takes him a moment to realize-- oh creators. Oh no. That's Cyril's human, "Samouel Gareth?"

Why this? He wouldn't have expected this in anthing but a bad joke. It probably would have gone something like, does everything you touch inevitably lead to bronze-plated ass trophies, Cyril?

Apparantly, it does.

".....But why?"

It's bad enough that he can see his name on the plaque, but when it starts being said out loud? Sam's hand travels from his mouth to his eyes, lips pursed. When his name is said again, like it was stabbing at his gut, his shoulders slump.

He's not sure who the person is, but Maker have mercy, did they have to read it out loud?

"That's... a very good question."

Sorrel whirls, sees Sam himself, and then just-- he doesn't know what to do with his hands. He tries to wave an exaggerated confusion, to point at the bronze buttocks, to point at Sam, as much in accusation as anything else. The gestures combine tto form an undignified panoply of flailing.

"...You. This," He stops, draws himself up to his full height and tries again; "Listen. I know shelmen tastes run a little strange, but this can't be normal."

At hearing the flailing, Sam finally looks up from behind his hand, only for his eyes to go wide at seeing who was standing in front of him. Oh, it was... shit, Beleth's brother... Sorrel for short.

Well this was fantastic.

"An Orlesian did it." As if that explained it all. Well, it did, but really only if you knew Orlesians; thinking about it, he's not sure if Sorrel does.

"It's your arse!" He cries, outrage raising his volume to match his pitch. He continues more quietly, "It's your damn-- how do you explain a bronze sculpture of it on the wall by.... is it accurate? Did you pose? I--"

He has so many questions.

And suddenly realizes that he's asked Cyril's Sam if the ass is accurate. It's times like this that Sorrel longs for the cool, soothing embrace of death. Perhaps a sinkhole will open up beneath his feet, or a demon sublimate from the fade and cut him down at one stroke. This is Kirkwall, after all, that sort of thing is supposed to happen quite a lot. His ears are decidedly pink.

"... Nevermind, I don't want to know. Don't tell me."

Sam cringes lightly at the volume of Sorrel's voice, hearing it echo through the room; he purposefully doesn't turn around to see exactly how many people were probably looking their way now.

He continues to be silent as Sorrel starts to bombard him with questions, all of which have made the faint pink on his cheeks turn a little bit darker. Despite how embarrassed he is, it is a bit of a relief to see someone else just as embarrassed by the display - so far everyone has been laughing or rather proud of it.

Just as he was considering what to say though Sorrel tells him not to say anything. "Um..." So was he supposed to not say something? "It was taken without my knowledge," he offers.

Slowly, as if in great pain, Sorrel puts both hands on his face, and drags them downward. Taken without his knowledge. Without his knowing that it was happening, someone had made a bronze ass, lovingly detailed.

"Of course it was," He mutters from underneath, then drops his hands, briefly regarding the ceiling with a silent plea for strength, "This is not how I wanted to meet you again, just so you know."

It definitely looks like Sorrel is a lot more bent out of shape about the whole bronze ass thing then him, which is rather amusing and brings a cautious smile to Sam's lips.

"You wanted to meet me again?" Probably not what Sorrel meant, but anything to possibly get the subject away from... that. "Wasn't exactly planning on meeting you like this either."

"Why shouldn't I?" this, perhaps more petulant than he intends, "You're Cyril's..."

He does not say 'Cyril's Shem' even if he thinks it pretty loudly. Give him some credit, he has a little tact. He also just doesn't know what else to call it. Boy....friends? Bond....partner??? Romantic bronze ass?

It's a very distracting form of art, truthfully.

"...Person," he finishes, lamely, "Anyways, it not as if I know so many people here that I can afford to turn away a probably friendly face. Even if I now know more than I really needed to about your-- you."

Cyril's... Person? Sam tilts his head to the side curiously at that, not quite sure what to make of it. Was he trying to say friend in some sort of way? To be fair he doesn't make the actual connection seeing as he wasn't aware Cyril had introduced them past being friends the last time he was at the Clan.

At the subtle mention of his ass decorating the wall next to them, Sam raises a hand and coughs into it. "Ah, yes. It's more then I wanted a lot of people to know... Perhaps we should talk away from it."

"Please," Sorrel replies, in a mutual embarrassment, "Anywhere else."

Please take him away from all this, Sam. Please rescue him from the horrors of this world. Or at least this wall.

"I'd offer my own space, but of the two one is a sickroom and the other is hosting some kind of debrief. So please, lead the way."

He wouldn't list his ass as a horror of the world, but he can certainly agree that they need to get away from it for the sake of their mutual embarrassment.

"Ah-huh. Well, hm..." As he considers Sam already motions for the entrance as he starts to walk away. "We could go back to my place? I'm really not interested to find out just how much of the public already knows about... that." That being his ass in bronze.

I Said What What

I. unasspectected

Haha, noice

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