faderift | [OPEN] you don't know my brother he's a broken bone

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[OPEN] you don't know my brother he's a broken bone

WHO: Flint, Marcoulf & YOU
WHAT: Catch-all for Solace
WHEN: Solace generally, backdated or forward-dated as is convenient.
WHERE: Kirkwall, various
NOTES: N/A, will update as necessary.

FLINT
i. a tavern

Kirkwall rises out of the sea, shaped like Tevinter and the Qun both. In the shadow of the Gallows, there can be no shaking the reminder of either nation. Flint thought it first from the Walrus' quarterdeck as the ship had made its way into the harbor under full sail and no colors at all. The city which finally greets them looks for all the world as if it could promise only one thing. You do not matter, whispers every old stone in Kirkwall - even the ones under the shadow of the Inquisition's banners. But maybe if the stones can't be convinced, there are people in the city who might be. That's the trick.

--and the trouble, seeing as they can't very well show up and start making demands of the Inquisition's local leadership. No, his job at present is to seem non-threatening enough so as not to induce panic and so pointedly ever present so there can be no choice but for someone who should to pay some attention to the anchored ship, to the men on it, and to Max and her money and to what she will eventually ask for.

To that end, Flint's acquired the use of the back room of one the grimy taverns along Kirkwall's docks. He keeps the dividing screen between it and the rest of the floor poorly extended so that he might go about his work - perfectly legitimate bookkeeping and discussion of revictualing - in sight of the other patrons and vice versa. Surely it takes no time at all for gossip to do its business:

There is a ship in the harbor which flies no nation's flag. Her crew has only been allowed ashore in small numbers which must mean they have a secret worth guarding and tongues loose enough to ply. Meanwhile, her captain does business from The Boar & The Bat. He speaks with the unmistakable accent of a Vint, asks lots of questions, and might just be persuaded to pay for the answers.

ii. the library

It's late, but there's a light burning in the library yet. It illuminates a table where Flint has seemingly taken up permanent residence, presiding over a mountain of charts, pamphlets, papers, and reports deemed unimportant enough to be shelved rather than locked in someone's desk drawer. Given the prodigious range of reading material at hand, it's not immediately clear what exactly he's looking for. It must be of some importance though as he's been at it for hours tonight and in days prior has combed through more than his fair share of the stacks.

He keeps a small ledger at hand, noting down names and places and figures as it pleases him. In the rare intervals where he steps out for some much needed fresh air, the light is left burning to ward off any ambitious late-night clerk from clearing away his collection and the notes are taken with him - folded twice and tucked away into his pocket. When not bent over his work or stretching his legs in the nearest half-lit courtyard, he can be found picking through the library's collection: pulling books out, then re-shelving them if they don't suit.

MARCOULF
i. the training grounds

The flash of his sword is one among a dozen in the yard. Marcoulf works quietly and systematically with the rapier, running himself through a series of lunges and pulls and side steps against his own shadow as the sun rises high and hot over the Gallows. For anyone with an eye for swordmanship, he's not poor with the blade; and for anyone familiar with an Orlesian chevalier or two, the exercises are like enough to doubtlessly be informed by some sensibly trained hand.

Marcoulf's clearly no teacher though despite the smattering of green hands swinging swords and maces around their more experienced peers in the training yard. He's too tight lipped to be useful to his neighbors, largely reliable only for trouncing unsuspecting victims and for accepting any challenge.

ii. notice board

The Inquisition might house, feed and clothe its ranks, but mostly what that boils down to is a lot of linen for washing, potatoes for peeling, and seams for mending. Even given the toll the delegation to Minrathous had taken on the stabels' population, Marcoulf's found plenty to busy himself with. Today that means patching shirts in the shadow of the Gallows' notice board. He's made himself perfectly comfortable on the stone step with a cushion that looks suspiciously like it might belong to one of the more well-appointed state rooms and has been steadily working his way through the basket of linen with his ear tipped toward anyone grousing about whatever they find posted on the board.

He's far too busy diligently closing holes from pulled threads and reinforcing fraying cuffs to read anything himself, you see. And it takes his attention to thread a needle, of course. And naturally it's much cooler in the shadow cast back here than standing in the sun squinting at tacked up bits of paper. All very logical reasons for why he might ask the next person who happens to examine the notice board's postings:

"Anything interesting?"

WILDCARD
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She doesn't mean to disturb, truly, but she steps up to him because he is a familiar face and one she would like to spend more time with, if only because he has been kind to her without reason. She's still on the edge of uncertainty about that, uncomfortable with the knowledge that kindness came because of some illusion rank or title, but if it means that she can begin to make something like friends in this world she can hardly dismiss it.

"Only if you'd like to. I wouldn't force you if you'd rather train alone."

Six wouldn't be offended if that were the case; Marcoulf has certainly done enough for her that she would give him that without question. She moves to heft her greatsword off, stepping around to a space to place it down, giving a sharp command to Two to settle down by it.

"It's fine. I could use the practice." He's lapsed into what must be clearly a habitual flatness, a stiff-jointed stiltedness laced into the lines of his limbs and the hinges of his joints where moments ago he'd been perfectly capable of smooth, decisive action. It's not unlike a wary dog: an obvious competence couched in a consistently tipped head and perked ear.

He walks far enough back from the practice dummy to give them both some room to maneuver in - and some distance from which he might have a moment or two in which to judge that long sword at the end of her considerable reach. He'd seen her at the tourney and before, working in this self same yard, but observation is a different animal from being on the receiving end of her blade.

Regardless (of the over-calculated thinking, of his lopsided everything), Marcoulf stays light on his heels. Shifts absently, wrist flexing. Light glints up the length of the fine rapier.

"Whenever you're ready, Ser."

For a moment, Six doesn't know how to react to him; their interactions thus far haven't been the most easygoing and she still finds him one of the most confusing people she's ever had her eyes laid upon, but she shakes that off and instead focusses on the fact that she might get a good fight out of this. She had been travelling alone for so long before waking here once more, which is a benefit rather than a hinderance.

Two settles down, at least, and Six is gentle with him, curling a hand under his jaw and stroking his head gently. She is not someone made for tenderness, she thinks, but she is determined to be a better trainer and mother to this hound than anyone had been to her in her childhood. It means when she steps away and commands him to guard he sits, intent, before her greatsword, watching her with a fierce intelligence that still surprises her even now.

Turning back to - dare she call him a friend? - Marcoulf, she nods her head, holding the shorter blade in one hand.

"You do not have to call me Ser," she corrects, voice stern. "Six will be enough."

His hand at least is steady, the line of his blade decisive where his expression - briefly and unmistakably pained - is anything but. Still, she can hardly be the first person of some kind of rank or significance (whatever it is and however she insists otherwise) to want to pretend at being anything but. If that's what she wants today, in this moment, then who is he to argue otherwise?

"Whenever you're ready, Six."

She wonders if she will ever understand the rank and title he has offered her when she knows well enough she does not have one - she is no knight, has no position of power within the Inquisition, barely has a name of her own. The title of 'Six', too, isn't truly hers, and she bites her tongue to stop herself questioning him and his actions, to query why he gives her more respect than she is due. She certainly doesn't feel as though she is entitled to it.

"Thank you." Moving forward, she adjusts the blade in her hand before she draws herself up, tall and careful, eyes taking in the shape of his body and his movements. "Rules?"

"Whichever ones you prefer," he says automatically. Though a moment later, Marcoulf offers a delicately worded addition purposefully made to sound like an observation rather than a suggestion: "Most matches between people with skill here seem to either be until one yields or is disarmed. Blood to be avoided, of course. And most fight clean, but that may be more to do with the space than a lack of ingenuity. Respectfully."

He'd rather she not throw dirt in his eyes, but maybe that's just him.

Clearly, politeness comes before thought in this man and that makes Six stop, listening when he speaks. He seems not to he the type to say what is on his mind in front of her, and she can't fathom why; she can't wrap her mind around what she has done to inspire this from him, when she has done no more than ride in a joust and fight in a tourney. Hopefully, she thinks, they can become friends of a sort and he will no longer see her as someone so high.

"A clean fight, with no blood. Respect should be given no matter what the rules." She hefts her sword, nodding her head. "Until yield, then, with no blood. An honourable match."

Simple enough. Nodding in mute agreement, Marcoulf shifts the grip on the fine silver rapier by some minor degree. With his spare hand, he draws the long parrying dagger from his belt. The two weapons are clearly at odds with one another. The rapier's much repaired hilt remains a stunning silvered metal, its pommel and guard laid with curling leaves and lilies; the dagger is plain steel, its grip wrapped in leather cord. However his hands are easy around both, some invisible certainty finding his fingers even if it can't reach as far as his face.

It's only when he's certain she's ready that he moves: a swift lunge forward meant less for striking and more for closing distance as rapidly as he's able. Her arm and sword are considerably longer than his, her height his better by nearly a hand. To hope for any chance of striking, he will need to be very near indeed.

Six's sword - the borrowed one, at least - is not even close to being on the same level as the fine rapier and she's well aware of it. It doesn't make it any less well made, true enough, but it is also not something that she could boast having the best and finest craftsmanship. It's something impressive, something she makes a note to ask him about later - or, at least, to gently pry, to see if he is willing to discuss it. Neither of them are the kinds of people to speak idly of things that are important to them, after all.

Six shifts and moves, twisting her body to avoid the strike before she adjusts her weight. There's no point carrying a shield when you're more accustomed to two handed warfare, so she adjusts with her single sword, pulling it forward and arcing it to bring it down towards the side of his body, aiming for his midsection as she pushes forward with her feet.

He moves forward into the arc of her swing, rapier hand flashing around to parry the stroke against the solid perpendicular line of his blade. --Though, Maker, she's strong, isn't she? He'd meant to strike out at her middle under the squared angle of his arm with the dagger and instead finds himself throwing his weight into the block more than he does the secondary lunge.

As tempting as it is to fall back, Marcoulf forces himself to stand his ground - to press the advance. No other part of him is any kind of brash, but his footwork at least and the line of his sword is stubborn to the point of daring. At the same time, it's easy to see why he might have only lasted one round in the tourney'd individual bracket; it's the kind of enthusiasm that's unsustainable.

Despite her height, despite her bulk, Six gives the impression of not being as strong as she truly is; muscle is hidden below armour, her greatsword the only sign of just how well versed she is in using her body to fight, to guard, to move and push. She might appear flowery and weak to those who do not know her - who see, perhaps, a prejudiced woman with a solemn glare on her face - but to those that do? They know that years of mercenary work and Paladin training have not gone ignored.

He's strong too, at least, holding his own against the swing of her blade, and Six can't deny that she's impressed. She could push down and break his line, she thinks, but instead she shifts, pressing down a little with the power of her arm on her blade, adjusting her stance so that she can try and aim an awkwardly shaped kick to his legs.

The kick might not land, but it cripples his advance. He's finally forced into a wide sidestep, giving to the weight of her sword arm and grudgingly ceding ground to her. She'll be back for a second swing, he thinks. Overhand? Maybe. She's used to two handed weapons and will want to keep him from going for her unguarded side, won't she?

The thought eclipses a beat, no more. The moment he's found his footing, Marcoulf comes at her again with a flurry of attempted high strikes. Best to keep her hand high to shorten her swing. The more momentum he allows her to build by reaching the end of her dangerously long swings, the more likely she is to break or stagger his own rhythm.

He's quick and clever, Six notices that; he moves with a swiftness that she didn't expect, her eyes widening for a moment before she moves to adjust her own stance, to try and figure out what he's going to do next. Fighting men is different from fighting monsters or creatures - a wyrm might share a man's intelligence, but does not move in the same way. This is why she trains, why she spars, why she practices; she needs to be able to keep herself strong, keep herself a worthy fighter.

The strikes go high and move her back, her arm dropping down as she shifts to dodge them. For once, her height isn't an advantage and she's forced to move away to avoid his strikes, lifting her arm up high to try and parry them. It's awkward, and the determined look on her face shows how much focus it takes to avoid being hit.

Quick and clever only gets any man so far - especially in a position where he's otherwise obviously outmatched. She's stranger than he is; her step is longer. When she moves to dodge his strikes, the distance is puts betwen them is enough to delay the rapid flash of the silver rapier. Marcoulf lunges after her, slashing wide in a bid to keep her moving. If she takes that second step out, it might allow him to make up the lost ground and resume his assault. He might even drive her guard high enough to slip the dagger in under it.

And if she doesn't? If his wide forward feint doesn't drive her farther off balance and Six instead pushes her own offensive? Well, then he is over extended - leading so far with his swordarm that the parrying dagger in his offhand has been rendered all but useless.

It's a gamble. He takes it anyway.

Relying on brute strength will only get her so far, and learning to fight without her Paladin abilities has been something of a hard adjustment; waking up after dreaming of having them once more has been just as much of a struggle. Admitting that she is, perhaps, not as great as she once was is something that is easy enough for her - she knows when she has met her match and is more than willing to put in the effort to become better, to become stronger, to prove herself.

Strength may not be the issue here, however. It may be tactical.

Six keeps herself steady, refusing to give him more ground, deciding to rely on her strength once more. She digs her heels into the ground and pulls her sword in front of her, angling to parry his blow with her own sword and push him backwards in retaliation, to lean forward with all her upper body strength to push him entirely off balance.

Shit.

He thinks it before the length of her sword even rises to parry his strike, but not quickly enough to modify his long lunge thats carrying him straight into the heft of her strength. Maybe if it wasn't a longsword or if her footing weren't so square, he might find a way to carry it through regardless. But the rapier and his arm can't compete. He staggers, wrist twisting sharply in an rough attempt to keep up the guard of his own blade even as he's tripping backward.

Relying on strength isn't, perhaps, the best remarkable of tools when it comes to fighting, but this is a spar and it's what Six knows she has. The stagger is all she needs to move forward - his guard keeps up, but she moves with her free hand, twisting to try and grab at his wrist to stop him parrying again, to drag it down with a sharp pull so that she can have him dropping to his knees; hopefully, to ask mercy.

It's not a delicate attempt, but it will have to do.

Her hand closes on his wrist and she pulls. In the same moment, he lashes out with his spare hand and hooks her blade in the curved crossguard of his parrying dagger. He twists his hand as she pulls him off balance. It locks the longsword in place, pinning it between two points even as Six hauls him to his knee. Were the sword shorter, he might be able to use the leverage of both points to pry it from her hands. As it is, he's downed to a knee in the hard dusty courtyard and manages only to drag the line of her blade down with him.

It's not much of a stalemate. She could wrestle her trapped blade free and he'd likely still be scrambling to his feet and for distance. But it isn't her blade at his neck either. Still, after a moment's sustained tension Marcoulf huffs out a low sound and opens the angle of the parrying knife in a clear give. Squints up against the sun at her.

"Nicely done."

They come to a stalemate and Six is more than happy to accept that for what it is - she has used her strength, but he has fought back and parried, kept her at bay. He might be on her knees, but it would not take a great deal to twist her own limb and body to make sure that she stumbles and falls, dropping her own weapon and leaving herself bare and ready to be cut down.

She would call this a draw if anything and she's pleased to see it, to feel the prickle of a well done fight and the contentment at having found someone to match her. Travelling alone as a Paladin, growing in strength... She might not admit it aloud, but she had been lonely. Tired. Aching for someone to spar with, to talk with, to be around. Marcoulf might not be the best person to speak to, considering the awkwardness of their encounters, but he's something.

Something better than she thinks she deserves.

"Well fought." Six's fingers drop from his wrist and she leans back, flexing her hand a little. She smiles, if just. "You have my thanks for it."

There's a kind of pleasure in this even if it does involve being downed to his knee and the strain of his wrist required to pin her blade against his in that brief moment. The style isn't right of course and Six's longsword is entirely the wrong form, but the rest is reminiscent enough of some distant, cherished thing to breed contentment. Marcoulf nods. He sheaths the parrying dagger and moves to stand.

"You're welcome, Se--er." It's an awkward verbal stumble. He gets only as far as catching himself, stalling before he reaches correcting the verbal tick into calling her 'Six.' Instead Marcoulf clears his throat and focuses on sheathing the fine rapier.

"You've a good, sturdy arm," he says. There's a ring of approval in it even though he's now squinting at the other fighters in the yard as they hack and slash and practice dummies and one another instead of at her. He sets his tongue against the back of his teeth in his mouth and thinks very hard about not expecting anything. About not wanting anything. Keep your mouth shut, he thinks.

Marcoulf gives her a crooked sidelong look. His wording is painfully delicate. "I could be here most mornings. If you found yourself needing someone reliable to work against."

It takes time to adjust to a new name, so Six cannot fault him for the use of 'Ser' even if she had asked him to avoid it. It might be more appropriate, she thinks, if she had truly any claim to the titles of knighthood in this world. Being a Paladin is something holy in her own world, true enough, but in this place where there is no sign of Sarenrae and nothing that would dictate her having any rank or station? It seems foolish to give her credit where she has not earned it. She is a soldier once more, strong in blade and heart if not in power.

Moving back, she gives Marcoulf space to rise and stand, putting her sword to one side and lifting her hand to brush her hair from her eyes, the tangle of blonde freed from her bun prickling at her forehead. He speaks and she smiles again, that same wary, strained thing, but she nods her head and seems content, almost pleased, even if she's not entirely capable of expressing it properly.

"I've been training since I was a young girl and working since I was fifteen," she admits, voice low and quiet. She had to learn to defend herself fast, in case... In case. There's a pain in her chest that she forces aside, shaking her head. "I was not always as strong as I am now and there was a time where my blade was all I had. It is good to practice with it again."

She had chosen the greatsword when she had left with Adrian, but before then... Any weapon had been enough in her youthful anger.

The offer makes her pause and finally, finally, a real, genuine smile settles on her face, her expression almost warm as she looks at him.

"I would be glad to have a reliable partner to practice with, if you truly have the time to give me."

It isn't a matter of whether he has time or not, he could say. Had he not offered and she'd asked for his arm, he would have agreed anyway. Whether she understands her place here or not and no matter that he has no real concept of where she came from or what role she'd played there, he's at least certain of one fact: someone, somewhere had recognized whatever she was as someone of significance. That's the rule of jousting and knights and titles - someone important believes it and it becomes truth. Who is he to argue with that? Whoever had decided on Six's importance knew better than he did.

Still, he could have said kept quiet. He could done absolutely nothing to encourage the invitation. If he really minded her company, he could have been rid of it.

(He should, he thinks. Mind it. Because she's just a Rifter. She isn't important and assigning her any privilege is a stupid mistake someone made. He has absolutely no obligation to respect it. And yet--)

"It's no trouble," he says. That's like rank and titles too: if he says it, it's true.

Edited 2018-08-02 22:57 (UTC)

He says it is no trouble, but Six isn't so sure. She feels as though there's a weight to the words, as though there is something she is missing. It is clear, at least, that he still thinks of her as being someone with power, with titles, even though she is not. Six has never claimed it to be so; she was born to a sailor; a man who she can barely allow herself to think about. She carries a weight that words cannot express, the phantom feeling of dirt under her fingertips and the weight of scars across her back. She is not worth this treatment, she thinks, but she says nothing.

Let him treat her well. A quiet, sour part of her wishes to have earned it, wishes to have deserved it. She wishes she were a knight, so that she might better protect people. So that she might better take care of those who could not care for themselves.

"It would be welcome." Her reply is soft. He sounds so sure of himself, so sure it is no trouble, Six wishes to believe him. "Thank you, Marcoulf."

He nods. It's a curt gesture, some kind of nonverbal 'Of course,' softened by the easy hook of his wrist across the pommel of the silvered sword. He laces his fingers together, studying the miscellaneous fighters swinging their weapons in the yard. "How often and when would be best?"

In the morning, he thinks. Before the heat of the summer becomes too extreme. Four days a week, maybe. Five seems extreme if they're both on rotation, if they're both doing work for the Inquisition that might require a sword or a strong arm. No need to be impractical.

"I am here daily, but I would not expect that from you." Six shakes her head, looking out at the people. She spends as much of her time as possible training and fighting and practicing, and she knows that she has no right to demand that anyone follow her schedule. It won't be too much of an issue to have him a handful of times in the morning, she thinks.

"No more than three, for both our sakes. I would not have you get tired of my sword arm." Eventually they would begin to learn one another better, she thinks, and that might make their bouts even more enjoyable. "But you may call upon me when you wish."

[OPEN] you don't know my brother he's a broken bone

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