away, I'd rather sail away || OTA

[bunko]

WHO: SCIPIO + VARIOUS
WHAT: Paule di Simone is the best bard in all of Thedas and you can fight me on that. and this is ANOTHER CATCH-ALL, this one with a lute. Scipio has 1) stuff to get for people, 2) stuff to bring to people, 3) something that he's stolen, 4) a lute to play, 5) a song in his heart, 6) four loose gold teeth. I had some vague preplanned stuff with people but please feel free to be here. especially as an accomplice to petty theft.
WHEN: midway through the Fallow Mire plot + onward!
WHERE: SKYHOLD (battlements + tavern + on the run + wherever!!)
NOTES: prepare to be charmed. be an accomplice. you know you want to.



The people of Skyhold--the Inquisition, the pseudo-refugees, the fellow wardens, the mages, the Templars, the elves, the volunteers and the barmaids and the kitchen drudges and the stableboys and everything in between--have, to a man, never heard of the great bard and balladeer, Paule di Simone.

Unthinkable. Scipio has learned this unthinkable only after arriving in Skyhold. His frozen feet thawing out by a tavern fire, he had called for one of Simone's fine tunes, and had received... nothing. And while it would be too much to say that he would have avoided Skyhold, had only he known of this great gap of knowledge (which he might carelessly pronounce gap-e, in quick conversation), he still finds himself disappointed.

But disappointment, in Scipio the Marvel, is not a thing that lasts. Paule di Simone cannot bring his ballads from beyond the cold grave, and so Scipio will do the work for him, in his memory. In humming, in singing, in whistling, in playing. His quest, it is tireless, and of far greater worth than any task the Inquisition might set. All will know the ballads before the season's end.


[ diamante soles - Skyhold and its battlements, in the morning]

The morning is for humming.

Gone are the days when Scipio might sleep past the sunrise. Now he is awake long before that, plagued by nightmares whose theme he now well knows. Restlessly, he wanders, with his lute slung over his back and his six pairs of socks on his feet. In kitchens and beside bread ovens, he has made friends. No surprise there. He makes friends very easily, and his friends like to give him things: and so each morning, Scipio leaves with a little loaf of bread all his own. Sometimes there's raisins baked into it. Sometimes, there's cheese. Sometimes there's wine--it is never too early for wine--but each morning finds him on the walltop.

Above it all, he sits on the stone of the battlement and rests his back against the stone. The wall protects him from the worst of the wind, lets him peacefully eat whatever he's won by his charm. And as the sun rises, he takes up his lute and coaxes the tune back into her strings, so he might play a few snatches of some tune and hum to himself. The breaks in the music are so he can blow on his fingertips, trying to warm them.

"Gloves," he remarks, aloud, to no one in particular, "gloves without fingers. That would help."

[ la moglie del figlio di Robin - around Skyhold, in the afternoon]

The afternoon is for whistling.

Most of the company he keeps is the company of Rafael. Inseparable, they wander the keep together, fulfilling the tasks that have been requested of them. Unlocking chests, retrieving books, collecting valuables, bartering for socks--delivering the goods, waiting for their payment. Some of their work is innocent, and some of it is a little more treacherous, prying open shuttered windows so they can crawl over the sill--but all of it, Scipio does cheerfully, whistling as he works. The needs of the people are few and simple so far, like the games of children to two experienced thieves and brigands such as Scipio and Rafael.

Although...

Late afternoon sees him running, full tilt, head bent and some object wrapped in rough sackcloth under his arm. He is alone, he is desperate, he is being pursued, and he is still smiling, and as he careens around a corner, he finds some hapless soul and presses upon them the sackclothed object, with a gasped, "Here! Hold this--" And that hapless soul's only choice is to take the object, heavy, square, under the wrappings, take it and follow, as Scipio slaps them on the arm. "And hurry! Follow me, quickly!"

A shout from around the corner should do the rest, to spur his new partner in crime to action. Pursuit.

[ il suno del silenzio - a tavern, at night ]

A tavern is for playing.

Scipio's skill at the lute is legendary. Not here, in Skyhold. Not yet, anyways. In Antiva City, he knows only praise. Dita d'oro, and not just for his skill at the lute. The tavern at Skyhold is usually noisy, full of people, and warmth--and drink, most important of all, that which attracts people the most.

Scipio, installed at a corner table, plays. Not for anyone, and not for coin, but people stop to listen anyways. He can talk as he plays, and carries on a conversation without missing a note. He strums harder or softer by turns, when the topic requires punctuation or emphasis, plucks out light little melodies like lace at the edge of a shirtsleeve when the conversation turns sad.

When he sings, he sings under his breath. The words are all in Antivan, but the tune is wistful. A man who would rather be un gorrión, un basque--nonsense, even if you understand it, but pretty nonsense.

As the night goes on, as the crowd thins out and he is more assured of being alone, Scipio sets his lute aside and gets out some little treasure out of the pouch at his belt. The songs were to be shared. This is not, whatever it is. A secret. He should not look at it here, but he can't help himself, as he lays out four gold teeth on the scarred tabletop. One, two, three, and the fourth he keeps in his palm, to admire more closely.

Que bella. For teeth, anyways.

- OR - just write me something and I'll tag it.

Comments

la moglie

[eolasemah]

"what--"

Her basket dropped, a new burden in her arms, and a summons from the strange human who just darted passed. Sina looked back in the way from which Scipio had come, then confusedly followed him, unable to run at full-tilt due to both the weight of the object and her health considerations, but she obeyed as best she could. "Wait!!"

[bunko]

"No time!" he calls over his shoulder as he careens around the next corner. "We must hurry--"

Behind Sina comes another shout, this one closer. Get back here!. The heavy thudding of boots on cobblestones, the huff of breath-- Scipio reappears, briefly, pops his head back around the corner and picks up his sentence right where he left off:

"--We must hurry, or else you'll be caught! And he is a big man, very angry-- come along!"

And he takes off again, with a laugh. Not troubled in the least, despite his warning.

[eolasemah]

Well that was all she needed in the way of convincing. Seeing a large human barreling towards her gave Sina incentive to turn and book it after Scipio, her heart hammering in her chest.

morning

[serannas]

Ellana walks up on the battlements, taking in the view of the mountains. She's seen a bit of the world now, finally, but she wants to experience even more. It makes her wonder where she'll go next in the name of the Inquisition, and what good she can do there.

The strains of music from the lute catch her attention and she turns to see the man hiding from the wind.

"You have a lute! I'm learning to play. I already know an Antivan love melody." Thanks to Zevran's tutoring.

[bunko]

He looks up, at the sound of the voice. At the sight of the voice's owner, a smile splits his face--almost as if he knows her, though of course he does not. His fingers still do not stammer or stumble, but plucks out a curious melody on the strings as he observes her approach.

Antivan, though.

"Only one?" A long strum, inquisitive, disbelieving. "When there are so many? We Antivans love melodies of love."

[serannas]

"Well, it was my first lesson. I'm sure I'll learn many more with time!" She watches his fingers work, hoping to pick up a little something from it for her next lesson.

"I'm Ellana," she continues. "And I haven't seen many Antivans around here yet."

afternoon;

[foxsays]

The problem with Skyhold is that it's too damn quiet for the most part. There's no market, they're untold miles from any docks or ports, and people drilling in the yard becomes a constant background drone Araceli's learned to tune out once again.

Apparently that's about to change when something is thrust into her arms and she finds herself running, old thief instinct kicking in immediately when you ran like your life depended on it. And really, sometimes it did if the person chasing you was possessed of a rather vicious temper.

"Amico, if I am shot in the arse with an arrow here and not the Mire," she huffs as she runs, lengthening her stride to keep up because damn all you tall folk, "I will find someone who will pay a pretty sum for your hair."

[bunko]

"My hair?"

Despite the burden thrust upon her, she is quick enough to keep pace with him. This means she gets the full force of his look. It is a look of horror, and he grips at his hair with both hands, as if to keep it affixed to his head.

"You can't. And anyways," he adds, in a tone suddenly far more normal and far less terrified, "he hasn't got an arrow, or a bow. You will not be shot."

Behind them comes a bellow of rage, as their pursuer comes around the corner only to find Scipio--and Araceli, and the stolen property--already halfway down the street. He is a big man, and an angry man, with fists the size of cured hams.

"Perhaps torn apart," Scipio says, fairly, as the man shouts again.

[foxsays]

"All's fair in love and war amico."

It's hard not to laugh at the look on his face but she knows that if she does then she'll be caught by the bellowing ox behind them and no, she would rather not have her day go so south.

"All this over a box? I can understand if a lover had been stolen or you'd been found in bed with their darling of age child but-" Okay that man is shouting a lot but the good thing about really big men when you're slender is that big shouting men tire out. Eventually. Climbing with a box might be a bit of a challenge should it come to all that and it only makes her much more curious about the contents of said box.

Morning

[the_effect_she_has]

As if from the sky, a pair of gloves fall down and into the other man's lap. Above him, sitting on the inset of one of the towers, Katniss looks down with a faint smile.

Then she disappears inside of the tower, singing softly the song he had been strumming before. Lilting the notes with a pure and beautiful tone, as she practices her climbing down from somewhere.

[bunko]

Gloves. They land, softly, and Scipio stares at them a moment before he peers up toward the sky in confusion. He strums a long chord, one that lilts up at the end in a question. A gift from on high?

No. There is also singing--distant, but there. Scipio strains to hear, to make out the notes at least, if not the words. He manages to pick out a few, a strand of the phrase--not enough to be playing along, but she is singing inside of a tower. Even this is impressive.

[the_effect_she_has]

Katiss can still hear the lute playing, a few chords here and there, and suddenly she gets it. He is trying to make out the song she is singing as she moves.

So she drops down another level, and sings through an open window, and sings the first verse for him.

"I feel sun
Through the ashes in the sky.
Where's the one
Who'll guide into the night?"

[amygdalae]

Bruce, as almost with all mornings, is up bright and early, preparing himself for another day of treating the sick and injured as he had come here to do.

Before beginning the day's work, however, he had made a trip up to the ramparts first, though not because he wanted to take a walk there. He had come up here late last night to do a little extra brewing of his potions and this morning found that he had left something here. Hence him being up here, so that he could find it.

He pauses in his search though when he hears some music playing nearby. A quick look around shows that its coming from a person sitting on the battlements, and a closer look reveals a familiar figure.

"I haven't seen you in a while," Bruce says, just loud enough for the other to hear as he walks closer.

[bunko]

A man who plays in taverns must be a man who is used to interruptions, to the patter of conversation as a counterpoint, to accompanying men who sometimes stop the verse midway through to change songs entirely, or else to tell a tale, or start a fight, or call for another round. A man who must think on his feet, that is a man who plays in taverns, and so Scipio does not lose the thread of his tune as Bruce approaches, not even for a second.

Instead he smiles, and plucks out a tune for an approach in the morning: cheerful, light, with a bounce to it.

"You haven't? Good." The statement is punctuated by three short chords, trilled with triumph, before he resumes the melody. "We have been around, but not underfoot. Or else, so far underfoot we were not seen. Busy. Some work is best done in secret."

[amygdalae]

Bruce, in his own stride, takes the response without question, nodding as always. His guess was probably something to do with the Wardens, which as with other things, would not pry into because he knew better than to poke at things people didn't want to talk about. But as long as the other was fine, then so too was Bruce.

"I hope this is a well-deserved break, then." He glanced at the instrument that he was playing, silent for a moment as he heard the melody that was being played out. "That sounds very nice, by the way. Where did you learn that tune from?"

Il suno del silenzio

[ombranera]

From the next table over after a few strums of a particular song Scipio will find he was no longer playing on his loathsome, a harmonious counterpoint layering itself under his melody. If he looked to the source he would find Zevran perched happily on the table, legs crossed at the knee, picking away with a wink to the nearest girl and a tip of his head in Scipio's direction.

[bunko]

In all their long career, Scipio and Rafael have made a point pf avoiding consequences, in all areas of their trade. And it is not so long ago, that the sight of the Noodle Bandit sitting at the other table would have struck a chord of trepidation in Scipio, a chord to sour his own chords. Only that counterpoint is so lovely, like a delicate spool of lace--so that, even if he did not know the Bandit's true name, and even if they had not exchanged pleasant words, Scipio would still find his trepidation gently unseated.

After all, a man might have ill intentions and disguise them, by playing a lovely counterpoint. But that same man would not play the lovely counterpoint and also have offered the gift of a new shirt. Not a man of Antiva, anyways. Music and clothing are two things that can always be trusted, and so Scipio lets the volume of his song rise just slightly, a friendly overture, an invitation to keep playing.

[ombranera]

There are a great many wondrous things of Antiva that Zevran misses with all his soul; the spices, the women, the weather- but at least this time in his travels he has fellow countrymen that know the songs and language. The steps and unspoken, nuanced rules that govern the delightfully seedy underbelly of Antiva City. Now that his ire had been soothed by truth and exasperated glaring on Alistair's part he's more than pleased to look upon these pasta Brigands as his brethren.

Antivans unseated bringing a little slice of their home in with the strumming of lutes and the curve of their smiles. He winds his harmony around Sciopio's easily, skillfully- for this song is well known and well loved to him. To find someone else that enjoys it as much? Ah, joy.

the eighty-seventh accessory to his crime

[rathercommon]

There are problems with having been a thief. One of these - and it is a considerable problem, truly - is that it's never wholly a past-tense proposition. You might not steal any longer, maybe out of a desire to walk a better path or maybe just from a recognition that getting hung up on things is incredibly stupid and pointless and useless, but you don't ever forget the skills that served you well back when you were shimmying through cracked windows and lying in ambush for well-off passers-by. And often this is okay. Often it's good, truthfully, especially when you're a small girl who can't outfight ninety-five percent of what's out there. A thief's skills make for the ability to run the hell away.

But sometimes, someone shoves clearly stolen goods in your arms, and your instincts take over and instead of playing the part of the good, law-abiding, honest young maid, you find yourself running alongside him and searching your memory for the nearest bolt-hole, the location of which you'd of course instinctually memorized weeks ago.

"Here."

She pivots into a store-room. There's no time to consider loyalty or prudence; instead, she scans Scipio up and down and then jabs a finger at a half-hidden alcove off to the side of the room. Big enough to provide concealment.

"There."

like a Hello Kitty hairclip, she is the cutest accessory

[bunko]

Scipio is a professional, a mastermind, a criminal with great vision and style. But Scipio is also a follower, especially when his own skin is on the line. If there is a man with a decisive plan (usually Rafael), a man with a path in mind, then Scipio will follow.

In this case, the man with the plan is actually a young dwarven maid, who is very quick, despite her short stature, and whose path is a quick duck out of the path of their pursuer. Very clever, Kitty.

The decisive resolve with which she directs him is not the tone that she always puts on. There is steel under her smiles, steel that he has heard in her before she remembered to correct herself; steel that he saw in the narrow look she gave him when first they met in the tavern. Perhaps this duplicity should inspire distrust, but it is not so, for Scipio. Here, and he follows. There, and he's already starting toward the alcove, but stops about halfway.

"And you?"

And the package. The one she's still holding. They have mere moments. He holds out his hands, expectantly.

[rathercommon]

She hands it back to him without hesitation. What use is it to her? - All right, there's a little bit of use in that she really wants to know what it is that he's stolen, what he's risking trouble for. But if they're caught, she wants this thing to be in his hands, not hers. She doesn't want either of them to get in trouble, but if one of them has to, better the one who stole it rather than the one who is just for some reason helping him escape.

She already has a place picked out for herself. Amongst the many advantages of being a dwarva is your size. Oh, sure, people mock at it, they jeer at it, they make snide comments about not being able to reach high shelves, but being small and strong makes you an unpredictable fighter and an impossibly adept escape artist. So without a backwards glance, she alights up the scaffolding, onto a high shelf that easily bears her weight, and slips into an empty crate. Within seconds she's completely concealed. Which is good, because there are footsteps out in the yard, Scipio's pursuer pushing the door open...

night.

[paperwing]

She is not here by choice. Taverns are loud and noisy and unpredictable and far from her usual places of refuge, but Sabriel has found herself here more often since returning to Skyhold. First had been by suggestion, then as a meeting place, and then, even if she sat and did nothing, as a place to drown out the song in her head when concentration and focus failed her, and she allowed herself time to do nothing.

Tonight is different; tonight, a different tune given by a different player has her undivided attention.

Skyhold may not know his skill with a lute but she does, able to pick it out from long nights under the stars when it was the only fireside company any of the fleeing Wardens had. Sabriel is a few tables over, in the centre of things, many tables and heads and tankards and chairs over, but she can still listen. And notably, Sabriel still watches, even in the moments she can't see, and can only imagine. But she pictures it perfectly, and clearly -- the lute, his fingers, the curved smile.

She is young, and foolish, and charmed, not that she knows these things. But she could watch, and listen, and forget what troubles her, for the rest of the night - or however long this next song lasts.

[bunko]

A song can last a very long time. And so can the suspense of romance. Not exactly a will-they, won't-they, more of a could-they-and-why-don't-they. It isn't that Scipio is unaware, exactly. He is accustomed to being admired, and accustomed to teasing, and playing out the long dance of romance. Like the tune of a song, it is a pattern that can play itself out many ways, in the hands of a man who knows how. Some men have only a small gift, enough to learn a melody and play it to some definite end. Others can unspool a song and let it run along, with a few touches of decorative excess. And others still have a true talent. Take a song and turn it over in their hands, let it run through their fingers and loop back again, turn it from happy to sad, and back to happy again, flourish the line and let it conclude, nearly, before turning it back again--

It would be an unfair contest to guess which man Scipio is. The answer would be: the latter, of course, in so much of life. He knows how to play at life. And perhaps the calling's finite mark on his fate should have dampened his enthusiasm for doing so, and perhaps sometimes it does. But he can always rebound, resolve, just as he can resolve the minor melody of a song. Finding happiness has always been his aim. Temporary happiness is no less desirable. Take solace where you can.

As the night goes on in the tavern, it is to distraction that Scipio is playing. A break in the crowd lets him catch sight of Sabriel, seated at her own table. If their eyes meet, that is the hand of fate. He should be careful with Sabriel, and he is. But it is easy to forget, to get taken away with the melody, to let his fingers strum out two happy chords as they do now, interrupting the drifting line of the song. Because he likes her. Because she should take some solace, in pleasures more simple. Life is to be lived, stories are to tell, and the fact that he smiles when he sees her is no game. He is happy that she is here.

And she owes him a tale anyways. Purposefully, he lifts his foot off the floor and pushes out the empty chair across from him. Two more chords, loud and bold, to be heard over the din of the tavern. An invitation.

diamante soles, remixed.

[feckless]

Crossed-legged and decidedly alone, an elf sits where he can't be easily seen. Out of sight from those below, he has claimed for him the space necessary to sit knees bent and feet flat, his crafting materials to his left -- mostly, a bundle of rough but pliant, sturdy sticks, bound in string.

He has one in hand, running a knife down it, slivers of wood carved away to reveal its pale flesh.

This specific occupation along with a shock of scarlet hair rough-cut above his shoulders might make him recognisable, even if he doesn't expect to be recognised. Occasionally, a soldier on his way on an errand or on her patrol passes by him with a clank of armor, and these figures get furtive glances as if expecting to be told to clear away. He's ignored, for the most part -- invisible -- and he neither approves nor disapproves, a constant neutral.

It's fear. Always fear, even if Caliban would not put a voice to it. But for now, he is at least content in a familiar task, and eventually, he puts down his knife and starts to work the natural bending out of the stick made skinnier. He braces it with two hands against his knee, testing pliability, bringing it up again to look down its length, before continuing.

He doesn't actually look up at the sound of humming as it approaches. He ducks his head a little lower, ear knifing prominent out beneath a braid. Soldiers usually have things to do. Idle hummers might try to talk to him or something.

[bunko]

Four times now, Scipio has met someone from the past, here in Skyhold. The first someone is, of course, his own reflection, which does not really count. The second, well, that one counts just as little, since it is Rafael. The third was the Noodle Bandit, which was not exactly a welcome reunion, but has worked out perfectly well without any loss of limb or sleep. Plus the promise of a new shirt. Very well indeed.

Caliban has the honor of being the fourth, though he might not guess or grade it an honor. Who can say? The length of their employment together had not been very long at all, by some standards--a few months, a handful of weeks in their lives, in Kirkwall, of all places. Scipio had liked Kirkwall well enough. It smelled a little, and the stones always felt cold, and everyone dressed in drab colors. There is a little of Kirkwall in the cold stones and drab colors of Skyhold, though it lacks the salt-kissed breeze and the sound of seagulls. So in a way, Caliban--who is part of his memory of Kirkwall--fits right in.

But Scipio still spots him. His humming cuts off a moment, and his steps slow. Curiously, he peers at Caliban, before he interrupts his own scrutiny with a laugh.

"Sia lode! Can it be?"

They weren't particular friends. But they were not particular enemies, either, and doing jobs together involves some level of camaraderie--enough that he must approach, now that he has recognized Caliban. Eagerly, Scipio quickens his step, to draw closer.

"But you are so far from Kirkwall, my friend!"