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

[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.

[bunko]

His overture is answered by harmony, the sort that both deepens and brightens the tune. Scipio brightens in kind. Of course Zevran would know this song. It is a song of Antiva, a song of camradarie and love, to be sung while deep in the cups. Later at night, usually, when wine has soaked out all the fight and bitterness--but in this instance, its warmth is welcome early.

The tavern is the warmest place in all of Skyhold, and the place where it is easiest for Scipio to feel at home. He is not a man who complains, or a man hard-pressed to find happiness. But he does miss Antiva. And so he plucks out the melody, weaves it against the harmony. The notes wind together, and their sound is like the plush of a deep velvet, the way it feels when pressed against the hand.

They are not seated so very close, Scipo and Zevran, but close enough that he can call out (in Antivan, of course, for the chance to speak the language cannot be missed), "You play beautifully, my friend."

[ombranera]

Isabella, for all that she had her shades of safety and familiarity and home of it's own sort, was no Antivan. A woman of the world, certainly, but no Antivan. It has been a rare thing for Zevran to find such people that weren't out to kill him for the Crows- as such he is doubly pleased to have not only a song and sense of home, but someone that spoke his mother tongue. If he closes his eyes and strains his hearing perhaps there would be the calls of the fishwives by the dock, the rattle of dice and the sharp clatter of blades against a hot grill from the vendors preparing their snack carts.

"As do you, Scipio, as do you." He picks his way through the last strains of the refrain before he grins wickedly. "Tell me, do you know Guillermo's Dance of the Bulls?"

[bunko]

"Know it? My friend." This time with more emphasis, and the subtext of: please. Scipio skips right out of the refrain into the prelude to the the Guillermo tune, bold summoning strums. "It was I who helped to make it popular again, in the taverns of Antiva City. I could play it blindfolded. And I have."

[ombranera]

"Upside down while swinging from a chandelier?" Zevran slid right into the secondary part as written, picking through the rhythm he'd memorized in his last rounds in Antiva City. "Then you have heard of his rather controversial Dalish homage, yes?"

[bunko]

Naturally upside-down while swinging from a chandelier. Scipio acknowledges this statement with an incline of his head.

Yet this cool act is rather interrupted by his keen interest at the second bit. He sits forward a little, to bridge the gap between Zevran and himself. "I have not. What homage is that?"

[ombranera]

The picking of his lute changes to a roll of his knuckles upon the body followed by a subtle shift in key and strumming. The rattling of the hooves, the sharp cry of the beast at a gallop. "The dance of the Halla. It is similar in it's meter and the bridges are not terribly difficult, but he somehow thought that taking a line of melody better suited to a flute and having it played upon the body, thusly-"

Half a hand strums out the rhythm in precise little flicks as he fingerpicks the tune. "While playing your own backing would be a simple enough task for most."

Truly only trained musicians such as they could manage.