[Open] Keep my eyes to serve and my hands to learn.

[somethingwild]

WHO: Newt Scamander + You!
WHAT: Open post/catch-all; moving to a new place and dealing with the aftermath of Tina vanishing.
WHEN: Early Harvestmere, in and around Kirkwall.
WHERE: In and around Lowtown, the Wounded Coast, the Hanged Man, and the training area/stables.
NOTES: Newt is sad and trying to ignore feelings. What could possibly go wrong? Nothing else that I can think of! Will update/add if this changes.

I. Home Is Where…(Lowtown, slums near the Alienage)

His room at the Gallows is almost certainly of better quality than the flat he’s just moved into as of late. Perhaps not by much, but it was more…comfortable in a more stable way. (Less rats to share with, too, but Newt doesn’t mind the rats, really. Not that they’ll be much long for his apartment, what with his two cats.)

But Newt has no desire to remain in the Gallows. Not anymore. Not with the growing brood of critters he seems to be gathering like weeds for himself. And not, of course, now that Tina’s presence, or rather, the lack of it, echoes so resolutely in the space they once shared together. (And, as his traitorous heart is so keen on reminding him: the heavy weight of all that remains left unsaid between them, lingering in the air like so much smog.)

So here he is, in the sketchier parts of Lowtown, newly moved in with his companions: Macha, the Demiguise, and Merlin and Circe, his two cats, one black and the other bald. He doesn’t mind the location either, really. He’s lived in worse places, after all, and, as a rifter mage, he can’t expect to do much better than this as it is.

His flat is currently bare, with only the few bits and pieces of furniture he could afford, secondhand, of course.

But this is for the best, he supposes. A new start in the wake of what he’s lost. Or so he hopes.

II. In A Kingdom By The Sea (The Wounded Coast)

Whenever Newt can find a way to wrangle himself out of Kirkwall, he jumps at the opportunity to do so. The city of chains especially feels confining as of late, what with the various realities of war creeping in all over and Tina’s sudden, painful disappearance.

So this afternoon finds him on the beaches of the Wounded Coast, Macha hanging loosely yet sturdy over his shoulder as he watches the waves lapping at the shore. His Demiguise seems as lost in thought as he is, but he’s grateful for her presence, all the same. It’s almost like having Tina still here next to him.

There’s a wildness to the sea, he thinks. No matter where he goes or what sorts of adventures he stumbles into, the sea is always as loud and thunderous as an erratic heartbeat, ringing out against the rest of the world like a church bell. He finds comfort in that vivid music of the tides, savoring the symphony of it as he wraps his arms around himself. He isn’t, so to speak, entirely, properly dressed for this sort of weather.

Bother, he thinks as the air, laden with the weight of so much sea salt, sinks its claws deep into his skin. There could very well be bandits gathering behind him, preparing to launch themselves at him for what pitiful amounts of coin he does happen to have in his purse. But he doesn’t care; he would, in fact, welcome such a distraction, actually.

All the restless ghosts entangled in his thoughts need somewhere to go, after all.

III. To Live My Life As It’s Meant To Be (The Hanged Man)

Newt finds himself frequenting the Hanged Man more often as of late. Partly because it is, in fact, the closest pub to where he now lives, and partly, he finds, because he genuinely enjoys the atmosphere of the place. He’s even becoming fond of the terrible alcohol, if he’s honest with himself.

He has, miraculously, given how crowded the Hanged Man is, found a space for himself in one of the back corners, shit ale in hand and a pile of books he’d bought cheaply from a questionable merchant to the side.

One of the books is on the history of dragons in Thedas, naturally. Newt is fairly deep into it, even for having just bought the book, but he also can’t help but to alternate between it and the other of his purchases, though this second book is much less intellectual in nature.

Frankly, it is terribly written, and entirely implausible in plot. But Newt finds himself all the more endeared to it for that, truthfully. He can’t keep himself from reading it in the same way he can’t stop drinking what passes for ale in the pub. There are dragons, too, in this book. To say nothing of the variety of creative uses for mages staffs. And haunted castles. And dark and forbidding storms.

He winds up losing himself to the pull of cheap drinks and even cheaper literature for the rest of the night. Or so it seems, for the moment.

IV. In The End We Are Waiting To Be Lit (Training Area/Stables)

Newt throws himself into training and practicing, when he has the time to do so in between his tasks for the Inquisition. Having just transferred from the Research division to Scouting, he’s learning to navigate his new assignments, still. But he thinks he’s getting the hang of it. And training provides another, excellent way to avoid thinking about Tina leaving.

He’s still working with a staff, of course. His progress is…well, it’s something, but he knows he could be better, and that frustrates him, a bit. And that frustration, of course, impacts his actual training. On top of that, he’s also working with daggers, instead of the sword he was previously working with. The daggers are lighter and easier for him to carry and wield, and there’s something immensely satisfying in slicing the air with them. (He may or may not have sliced himself a fair few number of times by now.)

When he isn’t training himself, he’ll watch others as they train, trying to take notes and pick up tricks.

And when he isn’t training, he can usually be found near or around the stables, generally enjoying the company of the variety of animals he comes across in that vicinity.

V. Wildcard!

[If you'd like a different prompt/starter, PM me here or on my plurk at andhereyeswerewild.]

Comments

[kecharitomene]

Curiosity makes her look toward the page, but—the letters mean the same nothing to her that they always do, so she's left to draw her conclusions from his pink ears (Galatea has never seen an elf blush; she wonders if hers would go pink, too, if she did? or is it just humans?) and the insinuations about staffs. Which does sound like the sort of thing a mage might get up to, if she had to give an opinion, and that may be why no one has ever asked Galatea's opinion on the sexual habits of circle mages.

So: “No one's listening,” she cajoles, taking a swig from her drink in the hopes of catching up to him a little (it probably won't take long—she's only small, and it's cheap enough to be mostly bite), “I know lots about staffs,” she does not, “you should tell me the story so I can tell you if it can be done.”

On the basis of her zero knowledge about the use of staffs for anything but hitting things very hard, yes.