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]

His smile jumps quickly to his face, at her agreement. She could not possibly have disagreed, of course, but it is still a pleasure to hear. "I think there is nothing that would make me happier."

--Which is not strictly true, but nearly true. Now, in this moment, in their small forever? Very true. A moment is so contained, a brief escape--like a bolt-hole, but more comfortable.

To return to Antiva City, and the life that he has left behind? Yes, that would make him happy. To pick a lock one day and find behind its door a storeroom of gold and jewels and treasures, waiting to be taken? Yes, that would make him happy. To discover that the late Paul di Simone had written a ballad of Scipio and Rafael? Yes, that would make him very happy--but Sabriel's agreement is worth a great deal too, a different sort of happiness. Temporary? Perhaps. But that makes it no less sweet.

He plays her another chord, a long strum, a string of clear notes. "Then we are both in agreement. To return here each night, as we are able. For me, it will be the warmest spot in all the day." And that part he does mean, most fully. "But we must seal this deal of ours, bella, with the sweetest seal there is."

And just guess what that is. He lifts his eyebrows at her.

[paperwing]

Her own smile is brighter still. A showering of words and a want to spend that time with her? There is no mistaking it. It might be what she wants to hear, but he is saying it. Of his own volition. Even if she can note that this one might be a little of flattery and a small, kind lie; a lie that isn't a lie when it comes to this tavern, and them at this moment. But then, you cannot have everything which makes you happy.

And right now, it is Scipio and his smile and their forever that seems the brightest thing, an island out at sea in a storm that would not lift.

"As it allows. Even if the night is far colder than the day," she agrees, though her words falter as she echoes her part of the bargain, because she is not beyond imagining.

The sweetest seal there is.

She can guess. She pictures it. She wonders, not for the first time, but never so tangible. She realises her mouth is still fractionally agape, and closes it.

Surely that was just another daydream. Wasn't it?

"Tell me, Scipio." Her voice is quiet, could be easily lost over the drifting noise around them - or would have been, had she not subconsciously leaned forward to compensate. She hears none of it, her words thunderous, loud. "What is that?"

[bunko]

He leans forward when she does, his fingers resting on his lute, but still and loose. There is a little mischief in his face--not amusement; this is no joke. But mischief, yes, in the light of his eyes and the curl of his mouth. And he looks to her mouth first, before he lets his gaze slip quickly up, to meet her her eyes instead. Not with guilt. Where else would he look?

"A kiss," he proposes, his tone dropped low. She will know what he is saying, but still, she will have to lean closer to hear him, to make sure that she heard correctly, over the din of the tavern. "In Antiva, when we pledge such forevers, we always kiss on them. And I will confess, Sabriel. I have wanted to kiss you, even before this agreement."

And will. He lets the moment linger, a build of suspense.

[paperwing]

She doesn't assume, even with the visual indication, so much of her usual confidence replaced with a sudden nervousness, a sudden uncertainy. His intent was known, or as known as it could be; that wasn't it. It was the fact it could be real, and exactly what she thought it was.

He says it. She would have missed it if not for the fact she had been looking at his mouth. But she doesn't move forward, and nor does she move back, rooted to the spot. She imagines it again, repeats those two small, harmless words, over and over again on a loop, no idea what to think as a bubble of - panic? Anticipation? Intended suspense? - settles in her stomach. His words feel very far away but also close, words she never expected to hear but were being said all the same. She was from a Circle, where first kisses were not given away in the back of taverns far away from home.

"So have I." It slips out, and a second ticks by before she realises. Her cheeks flood scarlet, embarrassed, but she doesn't move away. She wants to. She won't flee. "But if that is the way of things in Nevarra, I have never known it. I have never- if I were to- I would not know how, if-"

Now she's overthinking it.

[bunko]

It is lucky, then, that Scipio does not overthink. Sabriel confesses her long-standing will; Scipio smiles again, quick and pleased and charmed. She keeps talking, and there is a table between them, but talk is no match, nor are tables. He lets his lute fall into his lap, the strap of it keeping it from falling to the floor entirely.

Her cheek is warm when he brushes his fingers against it, warm and colored pink by her pretty blush. With little other ceremony but for that touch, he leans across the table and puts his lips to hers, cutting off word and thought and anything else but the warmth of that kiss. He's a good kisser. He's had practice. Not too invasive and not too hard, not for this kiss, but yet it is not a passive kiss, and surely she will forgive him if he lingers at it, as the noise of the tavern melts away and the moment narrows down to them, just the two of them, and this kiss.

[paperwing]

Sabriel is silenced immediately as his lips press against hers, and any other of her many thoughts leave her. Everything goes, save for her heart hammering in her chest, something she wonders how he cannot hear; and then that goes, too, and there is silence. There is no tavern. There is no beckoning to the Deep Roads. There is only silence, and this.

No time has really passed, but it feels as though it were an age when she reciprocates, a spectator no longer as she leans back against him.

[bunko]

If it is an age, it is not an age that anyone would complain of living in. An age of kissing!

Yet it grows sweeter all the same when finally--finally! as if he were impatient, as if kissing her were so terrible a thing, even with her mouth still under his; he is not impatient, he would take this kiss and savor it, but even so--when finally she kisses him back, it is a sweeter thing by far. The table is between them, but that does not matter. Nothing matters, for this moment, and the next. All these distractions, they melt away--and if they melt for Scipio, who has kissed and been kissed a thousand times, a thousand upon a thousand, then surely they must melt for Sabriel as well.

When this kiss ends, for a breath, at least: Scipio smiles against Sabriel's mouth. He does not lean away just yet but remains where he is, leaned in close, and opens his eyes so he might look at her from these close quarters.

"There," he says, low, so their world still stays very small, "an agreement. We must end every agreement between us just like this, I think."

[paperwing]

How troublesome, to need to breathe. It ends, and the break away is small, but it seems, feels, much too far - a slight disappointment, as Sabriel was quite contended. She would continue to kiss him, or kiss him once more. But her lungs object, and even as she inhales air again, it pales in comparison to the moment that passed before. She feels lightheaded - probably the lack of air. Confused, slightly. Whatever she had to puzzle out over him was now only more complicated. Maybe this all is a dream after all.

But it's not, because he is still there, not vanishing to her subconscious. No one says her name, no one pulls her back to a lesson, to study, to reality. She opens her eyes and sees his own. This is reality, a reality she stumbled into, not as she expected. The smile against her mouth is contagious, as she smiles in return. She can't think of anything to say, not right away. What can she say? It says more for to meet his gaze, an intense thing. She will not shy away from that.

The hold over her breaks, though, as he speaks. "An agreement," she echoes, wonderingly, still short of breath. Her mouth quirks. "Does that apply to making agreements about making it so?"

[bunko]

He hasn't lost his smile, but at her comment, his smile renews, changes, touched at the corners with something a little more mischievous. It's one thing to be kissed back. It's another to have it hinted that there should be a second smile. This is a thing that he can appreciate, as he appreciates the crook of her mouth, that little smile.

"An agreement is an agreement, yes? And if we agree, to end our agreements with this seal, that is an agreement. You must say the words, so," and he pauses, for effect, leans in just that little bit closer but does not finish that movement yet, leaves a hairsbreadth of space between their mouths, "do you agree, Sabriel?"

[paperwing]

That answer pleases her, as she gives a soft and brief hum in return. His breath and words are warm, tasting of summer, afternoon sunshine. Her eyes flicker down and up again in an instant, a mixture of shyness and anticipation and a feeble attempt at preventing the quirk from turning to a true smile, teeth and all.

But he already knows, doesn't he? Yet even so, she appreciates that second, or two, and then she does as is bid. "Now and always, with this seal, I agree."

And that gap between his mouth and hers is much too far, considering. She doesn't wait for him to act. The gap is crossed, a ghost of a kiss, gentle and chaste and agreeable, as she is. A lead-in, to something more. Where he takes it? His choice.

[bunko]

Here is where Scipio takes this second kiss: he lets it stay chaste for a moment, a press of his mouth to hers that indicates a gentle enthusiasm. This is good, yes?

But better is the way that he lifts his hand to touch fingertips to the side of her face, a gentle gesture to match, one that goes firmer when he skims his fingertips along so that he has her face cupped instead, and then, to open his mouth against hers, just a little, is the natural thing to do. A move that deepens this kiss, and isn't that better still? It is, she won't argue. Can't argue, not when they are locked in this kiss, too good to part for breath, too engaging to remember the noise of the tavern around them. This is a forever, a silent moment narrowed down to only them.