faderift | open | keep holding on

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open | keep holding on

WHO: Six and anyone else!
WHAT: Training, praying, studying, horsing
WHEN: Throughout the month
WHERE: Kirkwall (Gallows, training grounds, library)
NOTES: N/A

» TRAINING » GALLOWS

Training is a regular use of time for Six, unchanged since her dream, waking with some of the burdens removed from her shoulders. She still has Adrian's sword and she knows that, eventually, she'll have to get around to dealing with the weight of it. She knows that she'll have to bury it again here, that she'll have to find a suitable resting place, but it isn't something that is pressing on her currently. There are more important things to consider, more important things to do, especially with a sister to take care of and a dog to consider.

Two, the ever dutiful Mabari, settles near Six, head tilted to one side and tongue out as he dozes, content to let his mistress do as she will until it's his turn.

For the most part, Six spends her time with the familiar greatsword, swinging her weapon with ease, content to lift it and tear apart the training dummies as she has done almost every day since she had first woke here. Her strength is more than it had been before and it shows with the ease that she lifts her blade; it seems as though she's not carrying a two handed blade at all. It comes with a decade of practice and she's aware that it's something she has worked for - her pride is obvious as she takes a break to rest. Other times, she can be found with a longsword in her hand and a shield in another, practicing carrying the both - it's not her favoured weapon, but it's clear she has a decent amount of skill with it all the same.

Eventually, she abandons her own weapons training and takes her mabari to one side, summoning Two over. She can be found walking with him, moving with him, adjusting them both to the feeling of walking side by side, until she stops and breaks into a laugh, leaning down to scratch at his ears gently, whispering gentle words.

» STUDYING » LIBRARIES

The library isn't somewhere that Six has spent a great deal of time, but she knows her way around enough to know to avoid the seats of common regulars. She's not here to read too much that might get in the way of others, at least, and when she moves around the room she does it with proper respect to anyone who might be sitting and reading themselves, stepping around them quietly. She doesn't stand out as much as she usually might; her armour has been left in her room, the amulet of Sarenrae around her neck instead.

The books she chooses are those relating to Andraste, the Chantry and religion of the world, and she sits quietly with those for the better part of a few hours, an intense expression on her face as she does what she can to learn, taking notes on a piece of parchment at her side. Sometimes she will read about Tevinter, she will study what happened there, frowning at the paper.

When she's not reading, she's still making notes, but this is all in a very foreign looking language. Sometimes she whispers the words aloud to herself and they don't sound very natural, even coming from her mouth, her head tilting as she tests them. She's clearly fluent, but practice doesn't hurt and she wants to make sure she doesn't lose her third language, no matter what the risks. Elven is easy enough to remember, but Draconic? That's something else entirely.

» PRAYING » KIRKWALL GARDENS

When she's not training, Six has found a place in the garden that suits her for the praying she does every single day. She's well aware that there's no way for Sarenrae to respond to her here - she doesn't exist, she's not a real God here, there's only the Creators or Andraste or the Qun, all of which she knows too little to consider following - but she cannot give up her prayers. She kneels, usually facing a wall, her hands clasped around her holy symbol and her lips moving silently as she says words in a very quiet whispers.

Sometimes, she's there for hours, kneeling, Two at her side as a gentle guard dog, her hair tied up in the familiar bun. She doesn't move when people walk through the garden, focussed entirely on the familiar words, her fingers brushing over and over the metal around her neck. When she stops to pause she lifts herself up and walks around the garden, stretching her legs with Two trotting along beside her. Sometimes she tests his commands, asking him to sit, or lie, or heel, and always given him gentle warmth and encouragement when he does.

Eventually, she will always go back to her prayers, offering thanks and dutiful words to her Goddess, no matter what anyone else - whatever religion they might be - would think of her for it.

» WILDCARD

( Feel free to find Six around / in her room / etc or ping me on plurk for something personal! )

Flat | Top-Level Comments Only

Kirkwall isn't Ansburg - which would have had all manner of sturdy well bred farm horses and heavy set druffalo to be had -, but there are still horses to be found in it. Trade is trade is trade and all things, even horse flesh, come by way of the sea or eventually find their way to it as a river does. The prices will be sharper for it, but they don't have to ride all the way over the Marches or pay for food and lodging, so it all evens itself out in the end.

As Marcoulf is wont to do, he materializes out of the shadow of some building and cuts his way across the bustling courtyard to her. He looks much the same as he ever does - sword at his hip, laces neat, short cloak worn at some rakish angle -, though when he nears there's just the faintest whiff of something sour about him.

Six gets a nod and a slight bow, his hand touching his shoulder as some habitual emphasis to the gesture. Marcoulf tips his head after, leading with it. "This way."

And off they go, diving into Kirkwall's thronged markets.

It would be better, she supposes, if they had been able to go to Ansburg, but it's not that simple. With her shard, with Adalia, with Two and the griffon she is trying to bond with, alongside the kitten she wants to pick up and adopt for her own... She has a great deal on her plate, not even considering the missions and tasks she picks up and puts herself into. Six wants to keep herself busy so she can ignore the loss of her God, the loss of her magic, feeling weaker and... Less as the days go by.

She doesn't jump in shock when she sees him, but she does tilt her head a little, looking on edge and unsure. She's taller than him, by a scarce few inches, but in the wake of what happened between them last time she feels a little bit like a sheepish child, embarrassed and ashamed of what she made him witness. Her own fears about alcohol and the strength of men should not influence whatever their odd, strange relationship might be.

The bow, at least, makes her twitch a little and she gives her own in response - a proper one, nodding her head as she rises back up to her full height, straight backed and intense. At least he isn't making comment on it, which soothes her rattled nerves.

"What do you look for, in a horse?" A pause, then something like a smile. "Other than size enough to carry me."

She can bow if she cares to; she's permitted eccentrics.

"Good temper and bones. The rest can be managed, but there's no changing either of those," he says, leading by just the barest half step through the winding markets.

The size will be the problem of course, but not impossible. It just means bypassing strings of dish faced, delicate Antivan bred mares clearly meant for Hightown squares alongside silk and perfume and instead making their way to the temporary livestock pens higher along the wharfs where every manner of cow and pig and wooly sheep has come to be slaughtered and sheared, their trimmings packed into bales or brine barrels and delivered straight onto waiting cargo ships.

One of the large livestock pens is stuffed with horses, each with a slash of colored paint on their hips to mark which trader owns which. Some are Ferelden, sporting green or black marks. But there are cobby Marcher horses here too in red and and blue and yellow. They're all filthy either from the road or from a ship's hold and most of them have some scratch or missing patch of hair or rubbed out section of mane. But that's to be expected. Horses in bulk always look less appealing.

She would prefer the term politeness, if asked.

"I would prefer a horse not to buck me, it's true," Six admits, something like a smile twitching on her lips. She follows after Marcoulf without too much pause, not hesitating as she makes her way through behind him. She's not ventured much around the markets of Kirkwall, spending most of her time in the Gallows or the Inquisition library. She doesn't know where she's going, but at least she has a good guide to help her.

She trusts Marcoulf, as strange as that might be for anyone else to understand.

The livestock doesn't bother her; she grew up in a small village with farms surrounding her, animals underfoot and town guards the only people to keep her company. It feels a little bit like she's fourteen and dodging around sheep and pigs as she rushes to do errands to keep herself out of trouble.

As soon as they see the horses, though, her eyes flicking up and looking them over. She ignores any that look a little small, ignoring the dirt and trying to see what they might be under it with a little bit of care and tenderness. "What do you think?"

Hard to say from here and so grouped together, is the answer. Marcoulf addresses the first point by climbing directly up onto the fence and perching on its highest railing. To the second point--

There's a sullen faced girl leaning against the fence some paces away. Marcoulf whistles at her, snapping his fingers like calling a dog. She slouches over.

"Cut them out for us, would you?"

"Are you paying?"

It's a demand. Marcoulf glares back at her, but passes a coin down from where he's perched, saying, "Nothing under sixteen and a half."

The girl promptly slides under the fence and wades into the herd.

"That bay has a good head and shoulder." He points out a stocky animal toward the far side of the pen. Then tips his head to glance at Six. "What do you need a horse for?"

It's difficult for Six, when all the horses look strong and good under their paint and their dirt. She likes the look of them all, a little like a child being shown a range of toys to choose from, eyes wide and delighted and happy. Clearly, she has a large place in her heart for animals, for taking care of them, as if her previous adoptions didn't speak that for her.

Pushing herself up, Six leans over the fence to see the animals better, delighted and excited, letting Marcoulf take the lead. He knows what he is doing, she thinks, her faith settled in his hands.

Watching the girl slide in and move around, Six turns back to Marcoulf with a tilt of her head. He can take charge but, she thinks, it's still her horse. She should listen.

"It has a good face," Six admits, nodding along as he points, her head tilting. She gets lost in looking for a moment before she turns back, delight on her face. "Travel, mostly. I don't think I will be riding one into battle, but I would like to have my own steed for the longer distances. One that I can care for."

Something strong with an even temper then.

"Good. Battlefields are no place for most horses anyway." Waste of a perfectly good animal; he never fights on his if he can help it. The only men and women riding into the fray were ones who didn't need to concern thenselves about the cost of their horse's replacement.

Marcoulf threads his fingers about his knee, comfortably surveying the herd as the girl among them does the work of dredging the larger animals from it.

"Better to go with something more compact then. Strong, to be sure, and something that will fit the length of your leg, but the larger he is the more he will eat."

"No. It's a waste and they are more important than warfare would allow. They could be killed easily and are too often the first target."

There's a reason why the mercenaries didn't ride their steeds into battle. The only times she had done it was when she had summoned her own, a fae beast that would dissipate into magic when hit and wounded. She misses that telepathic connection, but she also misses the feeling of a real horse between her legs, the connection you can build with a beast, the bond between rider and horse.

Leaning against the fence, Six nods her head, listening along and watching all the horses move around. It's comfortable, she thinks, around him; she has less fears about her own awkwardness when they're focussed on a task.

"I can survive feeding him, if necessary. I would prefer a horse I can bond with, one that will be a good partner, than one who would eat less."

"A good partner is one that makes sense for the task," he says, because the look on her face and the shine in her eye suggests she loves every one of those animals before them equally. Someone must be sensible about these things.

But fair enough. Any horse can be trusted to forage along the road.

Eventually the girl in the pen manages to cut out a handful of the larger horses from the rest, tying then there at the rail where they might be examined more closely. "No, not that one," he tells her before she's secured the last. "Turn it out."

The four remaining horses are tall enough, an assortment of square chested and burly to long legged and sturdy backed. At least one is considerably more delicate beside the others, though the height is right and the face is handsome even if the animal wouldn't be suited to the heavy work of a farm.

Six is enjoying the chance to see horses in front of her, safe in the knowledge that she can take one of them home. It's a heady thing, something that makes her feel special in a way she hasn't in a while. She will own a horse, she will own something she can care for and dedicate her time to. It makes her feel warm, the knowledge that she can care for an animal, that she has something to put her attention to.

She knows that to most a horse might be a horse, but Six wants a bond. She wants an animal that will become a friend to her, just as Two has.

Pushing herself up, Six peers at the horses that have been lined up in front of them. Marcoulf might be able to comment on their strength, their size, their gait, but she can judge the shape of them, the temperament, the way that the two of them might bond. She trusts his judgement, but a good horse means nothing if she can't bond with it.

Looking at them all, she smiles.

"They're all handsome things, aren't they? What do you think?"

He makes a small sound in response, shifting his sword so he might slide down from the fence unobstructed. The nearest horse - the dark bay with the pretty face - accepts a pat on the cheek. He takes some time walking about them, studying each animal from a variety of angles - running his hand down their legs and encouraging a hoof or two to be raised so he might poke and prod at the underside. Soft velveteen noses are scratched. Ears are touched. Bellies are pat. After a few critical minutes, he rejoins her at the fence.

"Not the bay or that one on the end, but you should try the other three. I'll see if someone can be found to tack them."

"All three?" There's a clear sound of delight to her as she pushes herself up and over the fence, looking at the horses from a distance.

They all seem big enough - clearly the hand had found the ones with the right hand height, which she appreciates - and she looks them all over. They're large and most of them are handsome in a sort of way, if nothing else. It was good, then, that she brought Marcoulf here with her; her faith was not unjust, even if an odd glance towards him still leaves a knot in her stomach.

She can ignore that.

"Perhaps the third first, then, and work backwards."

Marcoulf shrugs. It makes no difference to him. Instead he tells her to keep in their company and goes to track down the lot's master who is almost certainly the man keeping numbers under the canvas shade slung up between this pen and the one beside it.

It doesn't take him long to return with a set of well worn tack. It takes him even less time to outfit her pick for which she'd like to try first, tightening straps and letting out buckles until the borrowed headstall can be made to fit the animal's big square face. The horse is slow to take the bit. He sticks his thumb in the corner of the horse's mouth until its teeth part.

Clearly Marcoulf's made some habit of this work. When he's done, he gestures with his head that she climb into the pen. "There's little room for riding, but see what paces you can manage and see if he obeys you. I'll watch to make sure he moves as he ought to." Every horse in a herd like this one is going to be sour and disobedient as a child being made to work, but at least they might see that it's legs work in all the right directions.

Walking over to the animals shows, at least, that Six is a little more accustomed to being around animals than she might admit to. Where Marcoulf is good at checking them over, preparing them, tacking them up, giving the bit and settling them down, she walks up and rubs a flat palm over the long face of the beast, leaning forward to whisper to it, talking in a soothing tone.

He seems to react well enough, and Six scratches under his jawline before she walks around, fingers trailing against his flank - to test, to see how he reacts to touches, to fingers, to a strange hand. If he flinches now... It might not bode well for a bond developing in the future.

"I'll walk him around. It's best to make sure he won't throw me, that he can move well. Thank you," she adds, giving him a small smile. It doesn't take much for her to put her foot in the stirrups and lift herself up, not with her strength, and then she's astride the horse without pause, posture relaxing just a little. When she's sure Marcoulf is safe and out of the way she urges the horse forward, letting him show off his gait.

Marcoulf pats the horse's neck as she turns him away, then transitions his mild affection to the second horse by merit of proximity. He scratches the mare absently under the chin as Six takes the horse around in the narrow slip of space in the pen not filled with more horse. The gait's fine. Not pretty, but the horse has a something of a silly bold face anyway and his build is at least right both in the sense that it suits the woman riding and is well enough arranged.

"You must prove yourself, darling," he tells the mare under hand in a low murmur, clucking his tongue at her and smoothing her forelock.

When Six eventually circles back: "How do you care for him?"

It's a handsome enough thing, Six thinks, not that she concerns herself too much with the appearance of her horse. It's as she said to Marcoulf - she'd rather have a beast that was capable and strong, that was able to carry her with a decent personality than one that was the most beautiful of the stock. Appearance is never something she had concerned herself with too much, even in herself.

Her companions should have good heart, she thinks, and a decent head on their shoulders. What more could she ask for?

"He is not terrible," Six admits, bringing him back around to settle around at Marcoulf's side. "I would like to ride the others, however."

He nods, a short curt motion that must be like approval, and catches her first mount by the rein. Good. She should sit all three of them, even if she like this first one without question.

The matter of shifting over tack comes simply., though Marcoulf keeps the third horse tied there at the rail even after he's stripped saddle and bridle from it. If it turns out to be the right one, he doesn't care to catch it again from out of the heard. In turn, the mare is saddled - held for Six as she mounts - and then summarily turned loose the same as the first. This one goes sour from the start, her ears pinning back and head tossing as she springs to stride with hardly a touch of the heels.

Six moves and darts from one horse to another, lifting the reins and beginning to move her around. This one, she thinks, is not as princely as the first had been, and her immediate reaction is to shorten the ride - she still lets the mare walk around the yard area, but she brings it shortly back to Marcoulf, a frown settled on her lips.

"She has personality," Six thinks, voicing her concerns gently. Her hand lifts to rub over the mare's snout, careful and sure, pressing her palm against the hair there, trying to sooth. She is responsive, she thinks, and quick, but if she is sour and unsure... "Do you think she could be calmed, to be softer? If we were partners?"

"Hard to say. It could be her temper," he says, though there's a clear fondness evident in his tone as he takes the mare by the bridle's cheek piece and gives the bright mark on her broad forehead a cheerful scratching. She leans into it, both demanding and sullen. It makes the line of Marcoulf's mouth twitch after a smile behind the bright copper of his whiskers. "Her build and stride is fine though." But probably not suitable for Six - not if her intention is a partner rather than a project. You'll be better suited to some spirited rider with a patient hand, he thinks.

Holding the horse's head, he squints up to Six - a question in the tip of his head. "I could try her. See how she feels."

"Temper and the enclosure. It cannot be comfortable, even for pack animals, to be so tightly pressed." Six understands that, at least; mercenary work had lead to a far deeper understanding of being too close to people than she had ever anticipated before. At least Marcoulf seems to be fond of the mare, which she can appreciate - she's a pretty thing, even with the hotness of her temper, and if freedom soothes some of the rattling of her nerves then she might be a good steed to have.

If not... Then perhaps there might be another better suited. Six knows how important a horse can be to a rider, especially when it is your horse and not one borrowed.

"Please, do." Six steps away, giving him space. "She may like you more than me."

He doubts like has much to do with it. A sour horse under saddle is sour regardless of who's sitting in it. Mostly, he just likes the look of her and being accessory to Six with all her coin is a good excuse to climb onto some unfamiliar horse to tinker with. Her face if not her eyes reminds him just enough of lovely Brouillard to strike some sentimentality in him.

Once Six has dismounted, Marcoulf swings up into the saddle. She's a big animal, but he's light on his feet - vaults up without any trouble and sets off with a twitch of the rein and a flex of his calf. She pins her ears hard back, line of her neck arching like she means to play at being some rough and ready battle mount and he can feel the way her hocks come under her - all the tension in her spine. Given more room, she'd either be kicking or bolting, but here in the narrow little paddock she has enough respect for the horses about her or the fenceline that she tries neither.

"What a nasty little thing you are, darling," he tells her in Orlesian. Her ear twitches up toward the sound and then plasters right back down.

What is evident from the ground as they go along is that he's a good rider - not pretty to look at, especially not with a mount fighting his hand so, but Marcoulf's seat is steady and his leg is very quiet along the mare's side. After a few rounds about the narrow space of the pen, he steers the mare back with pressure from his knee.

"Not for you, I think," though he gives the horse a sturdy pat on the shoulder before sliding from the saddle.

Edited (god phone tags why) 2018-11-09 01:06 (UTC)

It's interesting to turn and watch Marcoulf climb atop the horse and take her for a turn, especially after Six's ride. It's not that she is somehow an untalented rider - she has spent months, years, in the saddle and has been trained to handle horses and many other beasts of burden - but there is something that he has that she does not. There's a talent to it, surely, and it is clear to her that this is something that Marcoulf was born to do.

Her eyes drink him in as he moves; he speaks to the horse and the ears flick, but Six does not know what he says. Not in Trade, Elvish or Draconic; her mouth twitches into something like a smile. Perhaps she'll be able to teach her horse the softness of her own language, the harsh curls of Draconic. The last gift from her father and the first gift she had given herself - something dangerous, something that no one could take from her.

To speak with Dragons is a gift indeed.

There's no denying his talent nor the way her eyes drink him in, head tilting as she nods. His approach doesn't startle her - her eyes had been glued to him all the time - and Six nods her head, stroking down the mare's face again before she sighs.

"I think you are right. She is beautiful, though, is she not? She will be good for someone."

"She is good looking," he agrees.

The mare is, he thinks, young and silly. As is the way with most things, someone will either see to improving or ruining her. He hopes it's the first - Six is right, she would be good for someone given the right opportunity -, but the matter's neither here nor there for their purposes today. With a last scratch behind the mare's ears, he sets about stripping the tack from her and shifting it over to the last of the three horses to be tried. He's a sturdy chap, older from the look of his teeth but bright in the eye. Sensible, would be Marcoulf's guess given how quietly he's stood this whole time. Probably knows a thing or two about pulling carts.

Her hands stroke over the mare's face again but are quick to leave, turning to the horse that Marcoulf have prepared for her - and she must think of a way to repay him, she tells herself, frustration gathering in her gut as she realises he came for no reason than obligation. Something must be done, even as awkwardness gnaws on her stomach.

"He seems strong enough to have no issue with me," Six says, voice soft as she makes her way over. Calmer, she thinks, and his ears do not flick so much, and when her fingers touch his face he doesn't show signs of moving away. Her features soften a touch as she leans in and nods her head, fingers stroking along his flank before she mounts.

He's certainly sturdy in any case. And a gelding - less prone to silliness or snottiness, for calling or being a bitch over other horses in his company. Marcoulf sets his shoulder against the fenceline and watches as Six takes the horse about the narrow space of the pe, a hand absently pushing off the mare as she reaches to inspect his pockets.

They make a pretty pair, he thinks. The horse is unremarkable - big in the face, forward going and no kind of elegance to him - but their coloring suits each other and there's charm enough to that. The gelding looks like he must be hard in the mouth, a little sluggish to obey her hand thanks to whatever basic work he'd done before, but that kind of thing can be fixed more than a temper can.

"That one's my bet," he tells the mare in Orlesian. Scratches her broad forehead. "You'll see."

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