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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! )

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"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."

Six leads him around the pen as surely as she had lead the others, comfortable in her seat. She might not be as practiced as Marcoulf clearly is - there's no denying that she could have better form - but for a rider who had not owned a horse of her own to practice with she imagines herself passible. Her back is straight, at least, and since the horses matches her size she doesn't look as ridiculous as she has before.

When she leads him back to Marcoulf she slips off easily, moving forward and reaching up to touch his face. It's big and handsome enough and Six thinks that when she strokes over his nose that he turns to her, which is more than enough. She's not experienced enough to know exactly what he might need, but -

"Marcoulf," Six turns to look at him. "Your opinion?"

"That one seems keen enough," he says, nodding to the gelding under saddle. "You'll want a different bit for his bridle to gentle his mouth, but he's fine. Suits you."

Simple enough. And with a shrug, Marcoulf looses the rope about the mare's nose and ears and shoves her off from the fence. Go on, get back to where you came from.

"Suits me?" Six turns back to look at the horse, thoughful and considering. She'd not imagined how it might be to suit a horse, but she supposes it's not a terrible thing to say. The horse is certainly as big and bulky as she is, but there's a gentleness to his features that she thinks her own lacks. Her face is a touch more stern than she might like for it to be, but it has worked in her favour in the past.

Still holding on to the reigns, she glances back to Marcoulf. "Do they have names?" He brought her here; he should know.

"If they did, I guarantee the man trading them now didn't take them down. I'm sure you're fine to call him whatever you like," he says, moving to the first horse still tied to the rail. He sets his hand on its nose, fingers at the cordage about the animal's head.

He doesn't like this one's stride through the trot anyway, he decides, and then undoes the loop of the rope and shoves him off too.

"If you don't care for him, there's more horses to be found in the Hightown markets. They'll be more coin and less sturdy, though."

"I like him well enough. He is strong enough to carry me and does not seem like he will nip my fingers." Which is almost all you can ask for in a horse as far as she's concerned. Her experiences with them are not entirely varied, but she knows enough to recognise a bad temperament and how it can lead to wounds.

Shaking her head, she turns back.

"There does not seem to be any reason why we would not be suited."

Good. He may not be the fanciest horse of the three, but his stride is sure and he has a kind eye. If what she's looking for is a partner, that one seems the most likely candidate.

With a curt nod, Marcoulf moves to strip the saddle from the gelding. "Would you like me to barter for him, or do you prefer to?" Regarding the horse-- "You'll need a saddle fit to him. His back is quite wide here, you see?" He sets his hand to the gelding's back right behind his withers. "This one has pressed him here. His shoulder will move better in tack that fits him properly."

Six is easily pleased, she thinks, and her fingers do not stray too far from the horse's face, content to pet and give him some attention, to try and begin a bond even if they have yet to decide a price. She is, again, glad that she brought Marcoulf here with her.

"I - Perhaps I should try, since he will be mine." She has usually given people a stern look and they'e lowered their prices, but she is unsure of protocol here. She will learn. "And I will purchase the proper saddle for him. It seems foolish to buy a horse and then fit him improperly."

He nods, something like approval in it as he piles the saddle onto the fence rail. The bridle is traded for the rope halter, the gelding shaking his head in some mild form of protest at the prospect of being kept on a line.

"If he goes above what you care to pay," Marcoulf says, "Mention how he won't be able to sell him for a good price inside Kirkwall. And that selling him now will keep the cost down than if he were to be transported inland for sale to farms and better markets inland."

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