And I can't navigate the stars like my father

[foxsays]

WHO: Araceli Bonaventura; open
WHAT: Coping, coping, absolutely coping with life at present
WHEN: Timestamp for Haring
WHERE: Kirkwall and the Wounded Coast
NOTES: References to Sina's death, will update with others. Actionspam is good, I'll switch up to follow.

Kirkwall; the docks
For a change, there isn't work to be done at the docks. Or not all the time.

Or even most of the time.

No, most of it is Araceli with her boots off, trousers rolled up to the knees or skirts tucked back so her feet can kick back and forth water cold enough that it'd sting if she weren't used to it. A flask is never far from her hand (the fox isn't far either, an unhappy pacing creature ready to bark in alarm with his fur puffed up twice his usual size) that she might share if you ask nicely. You might not want it, why would she need a sailor's ration right now?

Most days there's a stack of letters getting smaller as the days go on, all with the same name on them being slipped into the waters to be carried to wherever they're meant to go. It was always time to get rid of them but as she holds up one - fumbles it, numb fingers from the rum or the cold or both - she stops, looks it, sniffs away her smile at it.

"Two years. More than that. Time to go where he went too."

The Gallows;
Life carries on the way life always carries on. When Martel died and word came she was the one to pick through his room for things people shouldn't get their hands on, with Sina she doesn't have to do that but she does have actual work to do that might swallow her if she's lucky. There are always shipping reports and forecasts, any strange sightings even if someone might have been drunk or just seeing things compared against anything the books here know about the sea, progress on what the Inquisition actually has that she can pass on elsewhere.

A volume on spirits is tucked away somewhere in the stack, light reading. Everyone reads strange things when they're grieving and wondering where dead people go when it isn't their own don't they.

The lute is in the office for now though and the afternoons find the door closed most of the way so she doesn't disturb anyone working nearby while she plays and sings because you can't let the bard skills go rusty, and it's one of the better ways of working through it.

The Wounded Coast;
Some days and Araceli doesn't want to be in Kirkwall. Wants to be away from the bustle of the city, from a job she's not putting her all into presently if she's entirely honest about it (given the circumstances-- she could be blamed, someone could point fingers but Sina is dead and she's not about to turn her heart to stone to make another person happy) so she makes for the stabels to saddle up her nuggalope.

The Wounded Coast isn't particularly special she can ride there without someone being offended by a great overgrown nug thundering along the paths, down to the water. The black fox goes scampering over the shingle to hunt down anything that he can scavenge or pick a fight with, the nuggalope follows sedately to the patches of grass.

Out here though she can kick off her clothes, weigh them down with her boots and most of her weapons - one or two stay strapped to her, this is Thedas and she's not foolish - to swim. Or to take a deep breath and submerge herself for a worryingly long time if someone strolls past at the wrong moment but sometimes the only place to be yourself is where you're from, and this is as close as she'll get.

wildcard
Pick your poison if you want something different and I'll roll with it!

Comments

[foxsays]

"Sometimes I think I've made a life here you know? People can mistake me for Antivan so often if I'm careful that it bothers me less; we live here, it's easier to be part of things." Not to say that some people don't immediately treat her as a rifter but time passes, you grow. " Someone to swim or spar with? You favour the blade but have magic, and you--"

This is embarrassing, let her turn on her back to drift, cloak fanning out around her as she struggles with it.

"You're not so much bigger than me that I couldn't get away. And I trust you would know limits better than others." It's hard for her to get the words out, admitting that for all she can be friendly with big warriors, sparring with then frightens her.

[dashing]

"I would gladly do both," she replies, quietly. Her swimming is slow and cautious. She's still learning and correcting her form, still making her muscles move in a different way. She doesn't stray too deep, still, because though she's brave she isn't moronic.

(That, admittedly, could depend on circumstance.)

"Consider me at your disposal. I train most days in the early hours, before full light, and sometimes into the morning. You can join me on any day."