faderift | CLOSED | one minute you say we're a team

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CLOSED | one minute you say we're a team

WHO: Darras & Yseult
WHAT: A random courier mission
WHEN: Before news from Tevinter
WHERE: A road into the Vinmarks
NOTES: Pirate language probable. Maybe giant spiders. Who knows.

[ It's not exactly a glamorous mission, which is fine. The problem--Yseult thinks to herself but does not say when she is handed the assignment--is that it's also not a good use of her skills. Yes, the agent needs to be met in the pass midway from Wildervale, the message needs to be collected and delivered the rest of the way to Kirkwall. But surely they could send someone else, like an actual messenger, or anyone with two legs and a brain, and not a highly-trained spy? At first she'd thought perhaps there must be some other dimension to this, some suspicion about the courier, or some potential threat. But no. This is the Inquisition, and as it turns out their rumored egalitarian leanings are both very much true and also seem extend even to their internal assignment structures. It's all very different than she's used to.

So her horse is not the only one champing at the bit to get going and get this over with as she waits just outside Kirkwall's northern gate. Even this early, the road toward Wildervale is busy, merchants and farmers coming and going, wagon traffic stirring up dust to make the already-sweltering day even less pleasant. Her horse is a big grey mare who immediately ate every green thing in reach and has now taken to snorting impatiently, head tossed as much as the reins tied to a tree branch will allow her. Yseult leans against the trunk out of biting range, arms crossed, squinting at the gate. "Someone from Forces will meet you," she was told at the last second, over her protests (not in so many words) that sending two skilled agents was even worse than wasting one. But it seems there have been reports of animal attacks, and they are taking no chances.

She doesn't expect to see Darras, and even shades her eyes with a hand to be sure (as if she could mistake him). She doesn't expect him to come towards her, either. What are the chances, after all, that out of everyone in Forces, his name was pulled? And that he actually turned up to do the work? Slim, but here they are. She pushes off the trunk and lifts her hand in a little (awkward, ill-advised) wave. ]

Good morning.

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Fine, [stilted, by the movement of Horse, the jostle that comes of the trot Horse has broken into, his own teeth rattling around in his head,] yeah, right--

[Fine for now, fine until the bloody beast jostles him off for good and all, rids itself of a burden--which is all a rider must be to a horse, Darras can't imagine otherwise. He's hanging tightly to Horse, hands knotted around the reins and legs clutched tight, hunched a little as if to present a small target, or decrease his weight or something equally unlikely. A courteous burden, if he's got to be a burden at all.

He does not give chase, when she pulls ahead, but keeps his same pace. Surely it's good enough.]

Do a handstand!

[--A challenge, yelled at her back, as she moves ahead of him.]

[ Yseult's eyeroll can surely be felt if not seen when she looks back and finds that Darras has immediately abandoned his attempt to outpace her. It's definitely not good enough. She slows and waits for him to catch up, riding alongside again. ]

If I can do a handstand [ she asks, slowly, a not-entirely-certain proposal, ] while the horse is moving, will you pick up the pace to my liking until we hit the forest? Then I will have actually risked my neck as much as you feel like you're risking yours, so we can call it even.

Not exactly as much as I'm risking mine, is it. 'Cos you were probably doing handstands on horses before you could even bloody walk--

[Hrk, is how the K sound in that word ends, 'walhrk', as Horse jostles Darras particularly. He doesn't throw himself flat over the beast's neck and wrap his arms around it, or anything so foolish. The instinct is there.]

--but, I'm a betting man. I'll take it. If only because I want to see the trick. Never made it to the circus, when I was a kid.

I could walk [ is not really much of a denial. Yseult awaits his agreement and then nods smartly. ] Deal.

[ She considers, looking closely at the saddle in a way she had not bothered to before, and standing up in the stirrups to tug on it, side to side, testing how much it moves. ] One of the last times I did this [ she tells him as she prepares, leaning down to tighten a buckle, and then pulling her feet up out of the stirrups to kneel in the saddle, still holding on with both hands, just getting the feel of it ] I was about ten? I fell, and I accidentally tugged the horse's mane hard trying to catch myself. The horse was understandably angry about that, and bit me. Hopefully this will go better.

She could walk.

[Confided, sarcastically, conspiratorially, to the back of Horse's head. The effect is somewhat spoiled by the jostling still very much present in his voice, as Horse trots briskly along.

Her story gets a bit of a grin out of him, though it does nothing to assuage his apprehension. In many ways, the rare story of Yseult's youth is to be savored. She doesn't talk of it much. She would have, probably, had Darras asked it of her--asked it of her more than he did, those times when wine sweetened both of their mouths, when they were together, in the dark--sat on the beach, with a little fire burning between them, and the tide rolling in, black at night, brilliant azure by day. Then it seemed like something to be asked, something they could speak of.]

You're doing nothing to make me feel better about this, y'know. Truly gifted and trained at this, and you'll still be maybe falling from your horse. And being bitten, which proves my point about ill-will and all that.

You could still stop me. [ Yseult points out, with a little tip of her head, almost a shrug. ] If you agreed to ride faster there wouldn't be any need to risk my neck to persuade you.

[ But that's not going to happen, and anyway, she kind of wants to see whether she can, now. She's never been a show-off, or even much a thrill-seeker, but that doesn't mean there's no enjoyment to be found in exercising her skills, especially when the alternative is as unpleasant as a plodding hours-long ride in miserable weather. And if it makes Darras smile, that one where his eyes go a little wide like he can't quite believe what he's looking at, well. There's that. ]

This would be easier without boots. [ But he'd have to release his double-handed deathgrip on the reins to hold them for her, so she leaves them on, getting a good grip around the front corners of the saddle. Legs dangling on either side of the horse again, she presses up and takes a testing swing, forward and back, the momentum helping throw her legs up into the air behind her as she rolls her weight forward onto her hands. She doesn't quite get all the way into a handstand, but the potential seems there. Her horse makes a confused whuffling sound but continues plodding onward. ]

Alright [ Yseult says, tucking the front of her shirt into her trousers ] That was only a test, it didn't count. This next one I'm going to do it.

Could stop you, but for all my fears, I believe in you--

[And he does, that's true. More than anyone. It isn't fear exactly, either. If he were pressed, truly pressed, by some threat or some real burning need, then Darras would put heels to Horse (if that's truly what drives the beasts on, if there's not some secret and better way) and send it leaping forward. This is apprehension, and apprehension is what keeps you alive, with your teeth in your head and your bones whole, your boots without horseshit on them and your arms unbitten by horseteeth.

Now, if she were to have dared him. That would have been something different. A dare is a winning hand, with Darras. Sort of childish, when put like that, but a dare is what keeps you alive in a different sort of fashion.

She's turning herself up before he's even finished any of those thoughts, properly--and when she nearly swings herself off, Darras makes this sort of grab for her, like he'll keep her from falling, or catch her if she does.]

Yseu, [is all that he gets up before, as usual, she proves to need no catching. Cuts off the errant move, resolves it on her own, and Darras remembers that he's to be holding to his own reins--which he does, hurried--]

Andraste's tits, thought I'd be seeing your--

[Brains dashed out, but superstitiously, he cuts those words off.]

Slow your bloody horse at least, eh--when's the last time you did this?

That's why I tucked my shirt in, [ Yseult jokes, ignoring his very real concern with a roll of her eyes over toward him, amused, dry. ]

Darras, if I ask the horse to go any slower than this she'll just stop, and that isn't the deal that we made. I'll be fine. It isn't even that far to fall.

[ She's determined now, and not about to be swayed by his sudden misgivings, not after she got the feel for the possibility of it on that first half-attempt. She takes a wider grip on the saddle this time, prepares the same way as before, back and forth in time with her mare's slow walk, and then all at once kicks her legs up, pushes both arms straight, and there it is: a handstand. It's far from perfect form, legs bent and shifting to hold her balance, head at an odd angle, but she holds it for several full seconds before awkwardly lowering herself back down, half-kneeling on the back of the horse, still gripping the saddle before hauling herself back into it, red-faced.

She smooths her hair back with a hand, and straightens the collar of her shirt and pretends she isn't pretty proud of that. ]

It turns out that getting back down is the hard part.

Edited 2018-08-12 09:00 (UTC)

Disappointing, the tucking-- [Too familiar; the caution barely registers, a flicker on his periphery--] but you know what I mean--and you're not going that slowly--

[But of course--of course--she does as she pleases. And despite his apprehension, Darras would have to admit, if forced, pressed, otherwise coerced, that he wold have it no other way. There should be no one that stands in the way of Yseult doing as she pleases. If she could just not dash her brains out as she was doing it, that would be lovely.

But of course (of course) she manages, brilliantly, hauls herself up into a bloody handstand on the back of a moving horse. With that peculiar mixture of apprehension and pride and some other more difficult emotion muddying it all up, Darras feels a seize in his chest--and he grins, he can't help himself. The moment hangs, a few seconds, and then she's hoisted herself back down again, graceful as anything, and Darras, like a fool, is still wearing a smile.]

Marvelous. [Dry, in contrast to that expression. He takes firmer hold of the reins, ready for her to demand he make good on his promise.] And you with your brains still in your head. Is this what the Inquisition hired you for?

[ She catches that grin--sees it but is caught by it, too, a smile of her own forming that she doesn't quite help, bright and proud and pleased by his reaction. ]

Yes, [ she confirms, ducking her head to fiddle with her shirt and unwind the reins from the saddlehorn where she'd looped them ] Clumsy circus tricks, to improve morale in the ranks. You can join me and put your card and coin tricks to similar use.

[ Once she and her horse are settled again, it is, as he fears, time to call in her prize. She gathers the reins up again and looks over, brow lifting in question. Deeming him ready enough, she urges her horse into a trot, determined to speed up but willing to at least ease him into it. ]

Oh, aye? Thanks for the permission, but I don't know if I'm quite on your level--a true professional and all, born to it. I can impress pirates, and girls in taverns. Women in taverns, too.

[Women called Yseult, is the unsaid qualifier, implied by his deliberate separation of that third category.]

Real men and women of the Inquisition, now. They might be tougher to trick.

[Probably not. Yseult is a different story--no easy mark, her, not when it counts--and so he takes his reins more firmly and tries to imitate her. Horse starts a brisk trot, jarring Darras' teeth in his head. He turns his grimace to a forced grin.]

Don't s'ppose I can talk my way out of this.

[ He gets a little roll of her eyes for his half-demurral--he knows full well he's more than capable of holding a crowd's attention, and any skill he might lack in sleight of hand will be more than made up for in showmanship. The fine men and women of the Inquisition wouldn't stand any better chance than she did.

But nothing's getting him off the hook now. She's won the wager fair and square. His question gets a quick and unsympathetic shake of her head. ] No. [ She smiles, and urges her horse faster. ] Keep up now.

[ The road stays flat for only another mile or so before it begins rolling upwards, gentle isolated hills at first, but they grow in size and frequency, until they are hardly down one before beginning to climb the next. The farms along the road give way to forest and eventually the trees overhang the road enough to provide some shade, and persuade Yseult to give the horses (and Darras) a break. ]

[The rise of the hills is unwelcome. The gait of Horse changes, with the new challenge, which changes the way that he has to hold to the creature, and the specific way that it jars him is different, too. The rise should be nothing compared to the swell of the sea, but the relatively slowness of their rise throws him.

When they're out of the worst of the sun, and the forest is closing in around them, that's when Yseult allows their page to flag. The tree branches knit themselves together overhead, spreading out across the road that she has put them on. Without the farms, there are fewer carts, fewer other people on the road.]

Happy?

[--He prompts, without unwinding his hands from their grip on the reins. Too tight, for the pace, but it's keeping him grounded. The shadows from the trees consume the dirt of the road, changing the color outright beneath where they stretch.]

[ She's red beneath her tan, bringing shoulder and head together to mop her brow on a sleeve. They've made good time, despite her dire predictions about week long journeys, but it's still a very welcome relief to get out of the sun. ]

Nearer.

[ She turns, sweeping damp hair back from a cheek and assessing him over her shoulder. ]

We can take a break now [ she offers ] stretch our legs, eat something. Unless you'd prefer to push on. Are you afraid of forests, too? [ Surely not. ]

Right, so, ignoring the fact that you've given me permission--

[Rude, and there's nothing stopping Darras from raising his eyebrows at her to demonstrate his mild offense.]

I don't remember saying I was afraid of horses. Intimidated, sure. Healthy respect for the beasts. That's not changed, by the way, I'm still wary. Good time to throw a man off would be when that man put aside the fear of being thrown off, and all.

Likewise, I'm not afraid of the forest. Is it uncanny, to be in a place of such darkness? It is. That's not fear.

[ Yseult observes him through narrowed eyes, head tilting to get a better angle, and then straightens up slowly, as if processing. ]

You've never been in a forest before.

[ It's not a question; it doesn't need to be now that she's thought it. Of course he hasn't. When would he have been, between shipping out as a child and spending all his life at sea? Maybe a jungle isle on one of his adventures, but she thinks not, by the way he is gripping the reins still, the way he says it. The woods aren't that dark, not yet. There's a strip of sun down the middle of the road still that's rarely blotted out, and more sunlight streaming through the overhanging branches to dapple the dirt below. But compared to before, it's like a tunnel, and one that's narrowing as they go.

She slows her mount from a walk to a stop and slides off, wrapping the reins around her fist and leading the way toward the edge, where grass meets gravel. ]

Come on, then.

What's in a forest, worth going to?

[Sarcasm, an answer that confirms what she's guessed. She doesn't make it a question so Darras knows that she's worked it out. And it's nothing to be embarrassed about, so he's not. He's not some shrinking peasant, stuffed full of superstition.

What's more, he's seen trees. In Afsaana, there were trees. Small decorative ones, in the finer district. Fig trees, and a few that flowered in regular season, and dropped petals that blew about the streets like confetti. Along the coastline, by the beaches and the roughshod fields of the seacoast, there were trees here and there, a copse or two that might provide some shadow.

Those trees weren't these trees, grown toweringly tall, with their branches twined together in a canopy. Darras slows when Yseult does, slides off of Horse when she climbs down, but he's wary, still. Horse is surprisingly complacent in all of the shifting movement, for one thing.]

Come on to where, exactly? Is there something worth seeing in there, besides more trees?

Since when are you so opposed to new experiences? [ It comes with a chiding look instead of innuendo this time, shot back over her shoulder once again as Yseult leads the way into the trees.

She doesn't go far, at least not right away, just far enough off the road that she can tie her horse to a tree and have the chances of someone spotting her from the road and coming to steal her away seem minimal. She waits for Darras to do the same, unloading a smaller sack from her saddlebags, which she slings over a shoulder. ]

How many stories are set in a wood? [ she asks, attempting to break through his grumpy reluctance. She thinks about reaching for his hand, tugging him along with her, but doesn't reach out. ] And you're not at all interested to see one? Look how tall the trees are.

Never said I was opposed. I'm here, aren't I.

[He makes quick work of tying Horse off to the tree. Not that he'd be opposed, if someone were to make off with the beast--it's not his, after all. It would be damn inconvenient for their return to Kirkwall.]

I don't know many stories set in a wood, so I don't tell many stories set in a wood, 'cos I don't spend a lot of time in a wood. I have seen trees, y'know.

[All the same, he looks to where she's indicated. Tall indeed.]

How would you climb one? Those branches, they're far up there. Can't grab them from the ground. D'you just leap and hope you're able to grab on?

I know that you've seen trees. [ There is absolutely no need for Darras to see Yseult's face to know that she is rolling her eyes. ]

If it's too high to jump you use a strap looped around the trunk and then walk up. [ She mimes what she means a little, with her hands, but doesn't dwell on it.

She's led them away from the horses and the road, not far enough to get lost, but enough that when she stops moving and talking it suddenly seems very quiet. Leaves rustle, birds chirp, a small animal hops through the brush. There might be a stream through the trees a ways if they listen very carefully. ]

[The vastness of the space around them is comparatively crowded when compared to the vastness of the open sea. The trees stand close; the branches dip low, like the ceiling of a small cabin. The ambient noise is unfamiliar, the auditory equivalent of a hand rubbed wrongways against a grain. The silence, where there should be silence, is filled in. The noise, where there should be noise, is unpredictable. The sea has a rhythm like a heartbeat. Even at storm, when that heartbeat becomes wild, and erratic, Darras knows it. He's heard it all his life, in cottages and taverns, in wine-shops and markets, on docks and in boats, on ships and on coasts. To be without it is proving strange.

That's why hitching his gaze to Yseult seems safer. A drowning man might cling to a scrap of wreckage. Darras looks at Yseult, who looks the same here as she did laying in bed, or sitting on a rock in Antiva, or stood in the shadow of the little room in Llomerryn, or silhouetted by the haze of battle on the deck of the Dragon Storm.

All that sentimentality means: when she makes that motion, of how to climb a difficult tree, Darras is looking at her. His nose wrinkles.]

You what. You're having me on.

I'm not. It's not as easy as it sounds, but it's quite simple.

[ Yseult can see that he is skeptical and she could probably demonstrate if she wished. A horse blanket or a belt would work at least well enough for him to get the general idea. But instead, she puts one hand on her hip as she turns towards him, a brow arched. ]

Was doing a handstand on a horse not enough to earn me a little faith? Must I be constantly proving myself?

[Unmoved, Darras folds his arms over his chest.]

Faith I've got.

[It's possibly too declarative, for the narrow line they're walking together. He doesn't regret having said it, once he's said it. The twinge that he feels, that's more uncertainty than anything else. Does he still carry that faith in her? Yes. And then again, no. What was once good and sure is brackish, and Darras doesn't know where next to step.

Better to keep good humor. He has surer footing there. So he's quick to tip his head, like a man bartering at a market.]

Now, doing a handstand on a horse, that was to coerce me to pick up the pace, and we both know it. An arrangement we entered into willingly. What's more, this isn't me asking for you to prove yourself. This is me, thinking that using a strap, looped around the back of the tree, sounds like a mad way to climb a tree.

[ She's not going to demonstrate! Tempting as it is, given the way he's looking at her, arms crossed. She looks right back, eyes narrow. She can't quite tell whether he's in a bad mood playing at a good one, or a good mood playing at a bad one, or some muddle in between. Her powers of observation never fail her so often as with Darras. It means treading lightly if this is to remain a bearable mission. ]

You could climb a rope up but those are really the only options. And sometimes you don't have a rope. How would you climb a mast if you needed to reach the yard but there was no rigging?

I'm captain. Someone else does the climbing for me.

[Obviously. And false enough a claim to tip toward the ludicrous, which ought to be enough to indicate his mood is running closer to the good than the bad, in this moment.]

Before I was captain, now, I'd just climb it. Ever seen the green monkeys of Salle, the way they climb trees? No ropes, no strap. That's where I learned.

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