( OPEN ) it's empty in the valley of your heart

[eruit]

WHO: Hanzo Shimada & open
WHAT: Catch-all for Hanzo related things
WHEN: Throughout the month
WHERE: Kirkwall, various places listed inside
NOTES: N/A other than shirtless Tevene

I. GALLOWS TRAINING

After a disappointing result in the Tourney, Hanzo has decided to dedicate himself to his training in a way he has neglected since he had left Tevinter. It might not be magically focussed anymore - those days are long behind him, even if he can still feel the burn of his power under his skin - but his dedication is much the same, to the point of it being almost ridiculous. He wakes up, he meditates, calms himself, strides out of the Gallows and makes his way to the archery targets, where he spends hours doing what he can to perfect his aim.

Day in, day out, Hanzo spends between three to five hours working on his archery. Most of the time he hits his targets on the mark, the arrow hitting the bullseye and sinking through into arrows that had been there previously, cutting through it.

When the days get warmer, Hanzo shrugs off what remains of his shirt, everything that isn't the left hand side of his body, and lets it hang around his hips. Shirtless, he continues to practice, drawing his arm back and shooting the targets, time and time and time again, before he goes and collects his arrows and repeats the process. It's almost disturbingly mechanical, practiced movements that are akin to routine more than anything else. The few arrows that Hanzo misses - because he hears something, because he's distracted, because something draws his attention - makes him curse quietly in Tevine, his teeth gritting tight.

II. GARDENS

When he's not training, Hanzo spends a great deal of his time sitting in the gardens in the Gallows, legs tucked under him in something that seems like it must be uncomfortable for extended periods of times. He doesn't look particularly put out by it, however, more comfortable like this - with something familiar, something almost like 'home' - than he is in any other way. He sits that way for long hours of the day, basking in the warmth of the sunlight, letting himself enjoy the peace and quiet and the solitude more than anything else, his head tilting this way and that to enjoy the sun.

It is rare that Hanzo Shimada allows himself this kind of peace or comfort, not with the things that he must atone for.

Other hours of the day are spent with him sitting with bits of paper and ink at his side, writing letters that will never be sent. They are all titled with a name, the curl of his lettering formal and practiced, clearly well taught and well educated. He writes and he writes, almost as if he is dictating his life in a diary entry, pieces of parchment building a pile at his side. When he's done, or it seems as though he's done, he puts the paper to one side and bows his head, overcome by something, his hands shaking a little before he begins to fold them all, meticulous and careful. When he is done folding them he turns, creating a small circle of rocks before he starts a small fire.

Then, one by one, he burns all the parchments until nothing remains.

The fire burns out as Hanzo sits, watching it.

III. GALLOWS ROOM

When he's not out training or in the gardens, Hanzo spends a great deal of time in his room reading any scouting reports he can get his hands on and doing his own studies and investigations. He's still investigating his own things, thanks to the confusing mess that Benedict had him dragged into, but he does what he can to keep himself quietly involved in whatever he can stick his nose in. It means that he's often surrounded by papers, making notes and adding to his own maps of Kirkwall and the areas beyond the city, as much as he can.

His door is open, if only because it's so warm, and when he settles in his chair there is a bottle of something that smells very, very alcoholic set at his desk as he works.

It takes him a little while to lift his head and respond to anyone calling for him, but he always does, in the end.

IV. OPEN / WILDCARD

( Feel free to wildcard your own prompt or message me at aziraphale for a prompt of your own! )

Comments

i; gallows training

[earthbones]

No matter how long Brónach might live, there's never a reason not practice the bow. True, most of that is out on the hunt where the results of it are easily measured: does she strike her quarry quick and clean, does the shot veer wide and give her away, does she spoil some of the hide she might put to use later. Sometimes though there's the Gallows.

Today is meant to be for fletching, to find a quiet spot after the hunting trips left her with enough to fashion more arrows to replace those lost in the Tourney, traded away to talk armour, or damaged, and for those she was down on the hunting trips, and being by the targets makes sense to her. In Valenwood this is how it would've been done. High in the treetops, all of them together with people on watch, or people chatting, bows to be strung, and in Skyrim there was always someone coming and going.

Brónach ties off the dried sinew on one arrow from her spot on the ground where she's been sat for some time, lost to the quiet noises, glancing up now and then, only to say--

"You shot well. Not many humans I've seen look as Jaqspurs do."

[eruit]

Hanzo could spend hours like this, he thinks, and he does. He stands for hour upon hour, the sun moving across the sky time and time again, a ritual as much as it is training. It helps him to focus, helps him to stay alert and prepared, helps him to bond with his spirits. When he uses Storm Bow he can feel the flood of them around him, curling against his mana, against his skin, warm and soft even now. He had done so much to harm them but, still, they reach for him. All he can do is reach back.

It's rare that anyone speaks to him or interrupts him. He's not sure if it is because they are afraid of him, unsure of his dedication, unconcerned or judging, but Hanzo relishes in the peace and quiet for the most part. He doesn't register the movements of people around him when he's walking back and forth to the target, splitting his arrows, sometimes pausing to make himself more.

Hearing a voice, he pauses, staring for a moment before he nods his head.

"I have spent many years practicing. I would hope I shoot well by now."

[earthbones]

"Some can spend years practicing and still fire arrows as if to pierce the sun, only to wonder why they stick out of their own heads when they land."

Maybe it's the sort of thing she'd be more likely to say to Iorveth, but there were always archers around in Skryim who professed to have spent years honing their craft only to have her wincing at the technique. Guards, often enough. Men and women to keep some hold safe - dragons, so many dragons when she came to warn them - and how often their arrows dotted the land for miles wide of the mark when the flesh burnt free of the bone before her.

Or it could be the Bosmer in her. Finest archers in all of Tamriel because that's what a life in the graht-oaks demands, and even if this isn't bone or horn, supple from careful acid treatments, it's still a bow shaped in her own two hands the way Bosmer have learnt to bend bows to their particular will. "The ones who get good," she continues, up on her feet to stretch out her spine with a crack and a pop, arrows gathered into one hand, "have reasons. Hunger. Hunger's a good reason for most."

Hunger was hers. Not the kind to be putting food on the table but that's what people would go thinking of with a Bosmer anyway as her smile slants into a smirk, thumb testing the sharp edge of one arrowhead.

[eruit]

That makes Hanzo snort; it's not untrue, after all. He's seen people practice at archery and blame the bow, the weather, the tilt of the sun, anything but their own stance and their own arm movements. It takes skill and precision and working hard and Hanzo knows that because he had put the time into it. He had learned and he had studied because he had been given no other option; it seems foolish for others to think that they could become masters through a single night.

"They are fools and suffer for it." A simple enough statement, because it is true. They are foolish and unwise and idiots besides, and Hanzo will not suffer them - though there are few people he suffers these days.

It takes him a moment or so to lower his bow, to adjust his stance, feeling the warmth of Storm under his fingers. The spirits are there, as they always are, and he can feel their energy brush against his own, soft and sure. He would brush back, but he squashed his magic a long time ago. It is archery and blades for him now, no matter what the cost. He is in control. He is the master of his own strength.

"Hunger, pride. Choice. No choice." He hums absently, pursing his lips. His fingers trail along the string of his bow, gentle and sure. "But few care about the art, the honour, the power. They want to slow or stop, not do something better." He speaks as though it's an art - and, to him, it is. It's something that has brought him peace, even in the painful times of a thousand and one emotions.

[earthbones]

More than a few Inquisition scouts are in desperate need of pointers from what Brónach has seen around the Gallows or at camps when they have free time, but if no one is going to pay her for the privilege, only one or two chosen folk might get the pointers she could give out. Old Bosmer lessons from her father, from his family, from his family, generations of them until the times when none of them were Bosmer. Were something older.

"Not just them suffering for it these days." This place is, unfortunately, a sorry state no matter where she looks, and she does a lot of it. Creeps about the Gallows at odd hours. Slinks through Kirkwall keeping to the shadows out of sight. None of what she's seen has inspired much hope in her if any were to be found.

Nodding, she considers the idea of it. Tries to weigh it against the lives she's lived before the rift took her only to find her mouth pulling tight at the corners.
"Where I come from it was hunger and survival. Enough things to eat or kill you, I can't believe how many people don't know how to hunt their own meals here, how many days it takes." How it gnaws at you if you get out of practice. Pulls the shot wide. The frustration. "Archery was never art. I've never heard it called that before. What it can do? Yes. To some. Maybe I've been around too many warriors with swords and shields or something as large as they are to bludgeon, those were art somehow. Not the moment when you might fire an arrow through the sun if you drew the breath long enough."

Not-- well she's one who loves Sithis, who serves Sithis. Her answers are always going to be weighed accordingly. Will always heavily in her. She shakes herself, nods to his bow since a smith is ever curious: "Did you forge it yourself?"

[eruit]

Perhaps it is time for Hanzo to begin to spend more time with his fellow scouts - he is a loner at heart and prefers isolation, hiding himself away and tucking himself into shadows and corners away from eyes that might see too much. He doesn't want anyone to pry too much, to ask too much, to assume anything about him, and because of that he slips into silences and loneliness that is more common to him than he'd ever be willing to admit.

"That number is few, I think." Fools are fools, even if they're discussing talent in archery specifically. Hanzo's met his fair share of those and he's more than content to think back on them unkindly. He thinks the same of himself, too, often enough, but he can shake that thought to turn and focus on the woman beside him.

She's unique, certainly, and nothing like Hanzo has encountered before. It's rare that people come and talk to him in the first place, given his obvious heritage and the clear distrust of his people in the Inquisition, but he respects it. She's come and she's speaking about something that he cares about, so it encourages him to reply. That's rare in itself.

"It can be art when it is not done simply to live. When it is training. Practice. Calm." Something to focus on, something to bring peace in turmoil. Hanzo is familiar with that, at least; there's a reason he's been here for hours upon hours and it isn't just to work on his form. There's more to it than that, but he's loathe to talk about it.

His fingers grip tighter around his bow at her question.

"No. It was a gift from my family."

[earthbones]

Most of the Inquisition is human. Too many of the elves are-- a problem. Looking to forests they will die in for the loss as children who have learnt nothing and never will, city elves closer but the saddest of the Gray Quarter everywhere she looks. Rifters like her who could be if not Thalmor then the lost perfection reached for with both hands, all of Ayleidoon. Without humans there's no one.

(The things that look like Dremora? The dwarves nothing his she imagined dwemer?)

"It was life. Up in a tree, people joke we're born with them in our hands, our poor mothers," her mouth just about manages to twist upwards with the joke that maybe isn't told so much now. Hard to say what goes on outside Falinesti, how it all changes when the new power has their own bent to it as plants towards the sun; the Third Aldmeri Dominion, Valenwood and Elsweyr never pushed them out.

(There is a dragon stretched over part of him, a question a shadow under her tongue.)

"You were loved, to be given such a gift." Were is a good word. Were covers her same as Nocturnal's blessing covers thieves; were loved then, might still be, might not. "I'm a smith, I appreciate craftsmanship-" her own bow lifted out as the arrows are replaced, glowing red in her hands, red as the heart of the dremora it was torn from. "But Thedas sometimes...lacks ambition. In some weaponry at least, the staffs are more elaborate than what I've seen but craft bows of glass or ebony, press enchantments into them, hard not to look for something that catches the eye. More when it was given. I think the bow my father gave me is covered in thistles by now."

Caught by a patrol, rounded up, all her goods stripped and tossed in a cart same as the rest of the prisoners. She never did make it back to where they took her, the last of Valenwood not found in her bones or in her veins gone just like that. That it hurts to remember after so long surprises her, and her thumb catches a sharp corner of the bow.

ii

[tactical_alert]

It isn't Hanzo himself that catches Malcolm's attention, making his way slow but sure in the garden--his own meditation, of a sort. The fire is certainly unusual, but contained, a curiosity and little else. No, it's the rustling of parchment, of the steady and careful and meticulous burning of what must be messages or letters of some kind. Surely not reports? The intense way he stares at the pages curling, gleaming bright along the edges before turning to blackened ash...

It's familiar. And he ought to turn away, but then, this is a public area. He makes a point of making noise and becoming visible, if Hanzo has not already noticed his lingering, before speaking up.

"Catharsis?" he ventures with a wry smile.

[eruit]

The fire is soft and highlights Hanzo's face with a gentle glow; it's nothing dangerous, not a wild fire or a bonfire of any kind, but the intensity to which he stares at it makes it seem as though it is more dangerous than it is in reality. He lets them all burn, watches as the parchment curls and twists, the flame engulfing it and changing the paper to charcoal. He'll gather that later and do something with it, writing or maps or something like it, but for now it doesn't matter. What matters is the paper burning.

He doesn't look up when Malcolm approaches, of course he knew he was there, but when the man speaks he does let his eyes flick over. Hesitant, but...

"Something like that." He leans back, staring at the fading flames. "It is under control."

[tactical_alert]

"I can see that." Reminiscent of the popping fireplaces where he and Aleron would on occasion set fire to letters from family.

He only knows this man by reputation, from his skills in the archery segment of the tourney. He should turn away. "Do you mind company?" Companionable silence is what he offers. A crackle of fire is soothing to mind and soul, after all.

[eruit]

It's a heavy burden he bears, Hanzo thinks, writing letters to a man who will never read them, as if it will be enough to rid him of his guilt. It never will be, of course, but the uncertainty he feels is more than enough. Doing this is helpful; it softens the weight of his pain, makes him feel better, even for an hour, as if his sins are burning with the paper. For now, he is content.

"If you wish." He has no complaints either way. Perhaps he will appear less of a madman if he is not burning paper alone. "I cannot promise anything interesting."

[tactical_alert]

"This is interesting enough. Frequently I find that 'interesting' is conflated with something nasty happening causing a scene. Everyone tittering and threatening violence. Kirkwall has a history of 'interesting'. No, I think I should prefer the comfort of a contained fire and a quiet moment of seclusion."

Malcolm settles himself nearby, within range of the flame but not suspiciously close for a relative stranger. It's true, though there are usually people tending to the gardens, it tends to be quiet and peaceful. Clears the head to be among the soil and plants and pretend that the city is far and away. Makes him think of being within Skyhold's bounds again.

[eruit]

Hanzo spends time in the gardens when he can because it makes him feel a little more at peace - it makes him feel comfortable, warmed by it, content and able to meditate in a way he cannot in the gallows or in his room. It feels safer, almost, to let himself relax, to allow some of the tension to fall from his shoulders. With Storm Bow at his side and paper burning in front of him he feels something like calm, something that is often out of reach for him.

"I have heard of Kirkwall's history, but I have yet to experience it." His voice is soft, low and quiet in the near silence of the garden. "I only arrived here recently." Because, obviously, he is not Ferelden and is making no attempts to appear like a native of his particular region.

iv

[strangel]

"Archer man."

She knows his name, remembers it. They found side by side in the melee, them and Iorveth and one of the tin-can soldiers with the silly armour skirts. She remembered the soldier's name, too, but she wasn't sure she wanted to use it.

Helena is watching as he trains, her gaze intent as she crouches in the shadows, and begins to move closer. She has a few things bundled in her arms, some of which rustle, and she's scrunching up something in her hand as she chews.

"You are looking less flimsy than last I saw." To be fair, they were all wrecks after that fight. Helena is not terribly interested in accurate reflection.

[eruit]

Archer man is hardly the worst title he has been given, so Hanzo accepts it with barely a word.

He knows Helena, of course he does. She had been his teammate and impossible to forget, even if the event had left him a little worse for wear and a little broken in the end. He had been exhausted, tired and broken down, but they had succeeded and won which was the most important part of it all. After his losses in the archery he had been determined to prove his worth as best as he could, even with the victor at his side.

He makes no comment on the strangeness of her behaviour - he's from Tevinter, he's seen far worse than this - but nods his head, lowering his bow and adjusting his body to turn to look at her properly. He's still polite, after all.

"I am rested." It comes with a wry smile. "You are looking more alive as well."

[strangel]

Her grin is somewhere between bright and wicked. "Yes. Much vitality."

The way she moves is odd, a slight sway to her movements, a misleading sort of laxness to it that makes her seem softer and weaker than she is, and certainly less alert. Tossing the plastic wrapper of her rift-gifted peanut butter candy aside, Helena rolls her shoulders.

"We should fight. Training to be better against teammate will be... interesting."

[eruit]

He's not foolish enough to mistake her laxness for laziness or softness, at least, not when he has seen her perform already, has heard about her from her sister. Hanzo knows that their conversations have been short so far, but he finds himself more inclined to like this woman than he is to dislike her.

... He stares at the wrapper. What is that? It's nothing he's seen before, and for a moment it's the only thing that has his attention before he turns back to her, lips twitching just a little.

"Hand to hand?"

[strangel]

"Hand to hand," she agrees with a nod, drawing a dagger from where it was hidden away in the back of her trousers, and tosses it aside into the dirt, sliding, and the dust rising in a little cloud.

Helena settles, sinking lower, knees and elbows at angles, a sort of... spidery boxer, ready to strike.

"When I beat you I will make it up with candies. You can even get head start."

[eruit]

Hanzo watches her for a moment as she removes all her weapons and it takes him a second before he does the same. He puts Storm Bow to one side gently - almost reverent in the way he handles it - before he takes two daggers from his boots and places them down. A third from his belt is added to the pile before he turns back to look at her, almost amused.

"Hand to hand it is." He flexes his arms, cracks his knuckles, and looks at her with a grin. "What should I give you if I win, then?"

He adjusts his stance, watching her, eyes flicking over the shape of her stance, her movements, her body. He's ready for her strike, focussing on her face for now.

anders & alacruun.

[eruit]

It hadn't taken Hanzo a huge amount of time to track the movements of the elven runaway; she was not a professional scout and didn't seem to be doing a great deal to hide her tracks or act as though she was attempting to be sleuthing. He followed the path to Rialto and then Ayesleigh, discovering as he does that he's trying to make contact with the Qunari. It makes him scrunch his nose up in frustration, irritated at the very idea of getting tangled up in Qunari business, but there's very little he can do about it now.

The only thing he can do is try to find a means of making sure that meeting does not take place.

What does take a little time is finding someone in the Inquisition they might be able to use in order to prevent the information from leaving Inquisition hands. He manages to find a Qunari in the Inquisition that's agreeable to his plan and with the aid of Anders - an unlikely ally that he hadn't expected to find - he begins to organise things to his liking. A false letter, send in code, an arranged meeting, an elf waiting for them... And a job for Alacruun.

"All you must do is tell him that you work for the Qun," Hanzo says, voice low and careful. "And that you are willing to exchange a meeting for his documents. If he refuses I will have an arrow ready." He glances at Anders. "If that is... Agreeable."

[coiledscales]

Honestly, this was a little exciting. Alacruun hadn't gotten his hands dirty with the actually nuts and bolts of skullduggery in a very long time, so he was enjoying this little excursion as much as he could. The fact that his present form was actually helpful was a bonus. The fact that they were probably going to kill some poor elf didn't seem to matter to him too much, either. There were, after all, probably hundreds of thousands where this one came from.

"Yes, yes, the Qun," Alacruun replies with a nod, "I've read up on it, but sadly all accounts seem to be from the outside. Which makes sense, I suppose. But he won't know any more than I - probably less - so I expect getting him to believe me won't be all that difficult..."

Easy. Right?

[justice_is_blond]

"Let's hope it's not that difficult. But if it is, I see no problem with the suggested plan." While he's not eager to take a life, he's actually eager to keep the qunari from gaining an advantage. The agent can't reach them. It's not acceptable. He'll accept the loss of an elvish life if it lessens the chance of his people being enslaved by the qunari, lips sewn shut and all.

"I'll have a spell ready as well. No idea what yet, I want to see the situation first, but one way or another, he won't survive this."

A Tevinter, an Anders, and a Rifter-qunari walk into a bar, and the agent won't be laughing at this punchline.

[eruit]

"He will be looking for someone large, stern and calm. I am sure you can manage that." Hanzo is already scanning the area, drinking it in, adjusting his weight as he looks over the meeting point. The escaped agent should be showing up soon and it won't take very much for them to get their hands back on the stolen information. Alacruun, even if he fails in obtaining the information properly, is a distraction at best; Hanzo is ready to take down the man if he needs to. It wouldn't be the first time he had taken part in an assassination.

"We will be prepared to defend you if necessary. All that we need is the information - if you cannot convince him to hand it over then we will intervene." He doesn't think that the Qunari is particularly worried about being attacked, but it's best to make sure that he feels as well guarded as possible. It's only then that Hanzo turns back to look back at Anders.

"If we are ready then Alacruun may begin."

[coiledscales]

"Large, stern, and calm tends to describe me rather well, honestly..." Alacruun laughs in a low tone, "Although I try not to be too grim most of the time."

That's hardly the point and he'll need to look a bit more native qunari-ish if he's going to pull this off, though. So he rolls a shoulder, trying to think of what he's going to say and do, counting out the private plan in his mind as he bends an ear toward the ongoing conversation.

"I appreciate the protection. I am not a skilled combatant, physical size to the contrary. But - yes. Shall I?"

He dusts his hands off and straightens his clothing a bit - this shoulden't take too long, right?

[justice_is_blond]

Anders nods in agreement, rubbing his hands together briefly to keep himself from reaching for his staff. They don't need to alert the guy to any trouble and a mage with a staff in his hands might do that. Besides. He's the backup. These two might well have it handled, and he's here in case things go wrong.

Or in case someone starts talking in Anders. One of the two, with the former being more likely.

"Yes." He jerks his head to the side. "I'll be right over there. Just don't lose any appendages to her, please. That's one of the few things I can't heal." With a flash of a grin, Anders steps away. They don't need the scout to see them together.