OPEN |

[krem]

WHO: Krem and YOU
WHAT: Getting used to Kirkwall
WHEN: Present
WHERE: Dive bar, Gallows
NOTES: Other starters available on request, PM/PP (relatable)!

i. Some Tavern Somewhere

Krem didn't start the brawl, he swears—when a full mug of ale goes flying past his head, though, he joins in.

There isn't an overwhelming number of people keen on throwing hands with the guy in a full set of armor, but he still trades a few punches here and there. When he gets the attention of someone exactly drunk enough to lack the sense to lay down after getting hit more than once, he casts about and promptly zeroes in on one of the few barstools untouched by the chaos. He starts reaching for it even while asking whoever is standing closest: "Can I borrow this?"

Without waiting for an answer, he swings it like a bat right into the chest of the man charging towards them, sending him toppling over a table and into a messy pile of limbs on the floor. Krem has the gall to look surprised that the poor, innocent barstool survived its brief stint as a weapon, but he recovers enough to flash his most charming smile as he hands it back. "Thanks. Buy you a drink?"

ii. Indistinctly, the Gallows

On one of the rare occasions that Krem can be spotted outside of his armor, he is perched in one of the Gallows' common areas, stitching a patchwork of spare fabric pieces up into a stuffed nug. He's got on a pair of well worn trousers and a loose tunic with no sleeves on it so he can show off his guns for once. Look, he works hard, let him have this.

At anyone wandering close enough who doesn't look impossibly busy, he brandishes two scraps of cloth: one green, one brown. "This one or this one? For the wings."

Very important, please assist.

iii. On a Good Day for a Morning

Krem spends a considerable amount of time in the training yard, doing what looks like soldier's drills. He tends to be there right at the crack of dawn, because he is one of those crazy people who is actually productive in the morning, with a practice sword and shield and a slightly winded grin for anyone who looks ready to join.

Comments

[krem]

Krem gives an easy smile, and tosses the brown scrap back into his pile. "Thanks."

Then he looks at her more closely since she has stopped to interact with him, and he blinks. "I've seen you in the training yard," he says it like a statement but it's really more of a guess. There's a certain transformative nature to wearing armor after all, which is why he's so rarely out of his own... but even though he's only been down in Kirkwall for about a week and she's in something casual, Six still cuts a Very distinctive figure.

[swordproof]

"Of course."

This isn't something that Six was ever particularly adept at. She might be able to sew a patch on a shirt - money was never certain and she disliked the idea of relying on the kindness of strangers - but making something from scraps of fabric and thread was a little out of her depth. Moving closer, she hesitates for a moment before she settles down and tries to make herself comfortable, tucking her sword to one side so she can sit properly.

"I spend a lot of my time in the Gallows. Training." As if there is a need for the clarification. "My name is Six."

[krem]

Six is a rather odd name, but after long enough as a mercenary, it barely gives Krem pause. He knows a Skinner, after all. And a Grim. And The Iron Bull, come to think of it, but Qunari are strange about names all the time according to the chief, regardless of occupation.

So he sticks his needle into the little nug's unfinished behind (sorry, nug) freeing up a hand to reach over and offer it for a shake. "Cremisius Aclassi," he offers in reply, "Krem if it's easier." He knows it is for a lot of people down South. Though, with rifts, accent alone is hardly an indicator of where anyone is actually from or what they might be comfortable pronouncing. Curiously: "Were you army?"

[swordproof]

Most people comment on her name; she's more than used to it, especially knowing that it's one she has chosen and not one she was necessarily given. The fact that people in Thedas are more able to accept the strangeness of her and her name makes her more comfortable here, even if it's not her home. It'll never truly be home, but it's so akin to it that she cannot ignore how comfortable she feels.

Leaning over, she takes the hand to shake it.

"It's a pleasure to meet you, Cremisius." She doesn't quite stumble over the name; she's used to people with Draconic names, with elven names, with Dwarven names. This one doesn't make her hiccup, even if she smiles and accepts the rest. "Krem." Her hand falls away and she breathes out gently. "I was a mercenary for seven years, not army. Are you?"

[krem]

"A long time ago," his handshake is firm, and when he drops it he leans back with a wry smile. "I've been a mercenary for longer than I ever was a soldier." Some habits die hard, though, like the drills he tends to do in the yard, and the hour at which he does them.

But that explains it either way: she seemed like a professional in the yard, and she is. He idly starts folding the green fabric that he's going to make into the wings.

"Your company got a name?" Maybe he's heard of them, he assumes. Bull's Chargers have fairly favorable connections with plenty of mercenary companies running around in Thedas, because it pays to be on good terms with your competition.

[swordproof]

"I was a member of a group called the Sirocco. It is not native to Thedas, so I do not imagine it to be a name that you might recognise." Six can admit that easily enough; her nature as a Rifter is not something she is attempting to hide particularly, but most people do not dare to look at her hand and make sure. She could fit in, given her nature, given her strength, given her determination. She could have been born here.

Shaking her head, Six faces forward, lips turning into a frown. She's not sure if someone will look upon her fondly or not for what she is - if they will judge her for being a Rifter, if they will accept her, if they will hate her. She can never know, and she feels as though it is a risk she is becoming unwilling to take.

Lifting her hand, she touches the medallion she wears around her neck, eyes soft.

"I left the mercenaries to become a Paladin. I was chosen by my God, Sarenrae, and I was gifted with power in return for my Oath. I do not have those powers here, as she does not exist in this realm, but I remember her all the same."

[krem]

"You're a Rifter?" he certainly looks surprised, and his eyes do flick to the hand she lifts to touch her medallion and not the necklace itself, but not in an unpleasant way. Krem is, by nature, a terribly accepting guy. Almost unreasonably chill, most might say. But you don't run around with a group made up entirely of society's castoffs like the Bull's Chargers for years and years without realizing that all of the shit things that people say about the sorts of folks they've never even met are generally not true and are also not necessarily bad even if they are.

He doesn't know many Rifters yet, and he doesn't know any well, but honestly they just sorta seem like... people. You know, like everyone else. Also there's the fact that with the spot of green magic in their hands, they're the only ones who can close up the holes in the sky. Anyone who wants to chase them down with fire and pitchforks instead of asking them for help has to be an absolute idiot, as far as Krem is concerned.

That said, he is yanked out of the moment by the next bit. "Chosen?" There's not anything like Paladins here in Thedas, really. "Like the Herald?" That had been the story, right? Fell out of the fade, Andraste's chosen, etc. Not that it did her much good in the end.

[swordproof]

"I am. I have been in Thedas for almost a year now." Absently, Six wonders if Adalia would have met the year mark if she was still present, if she had not been returned to wherever it is that Rifters go when they are taken from this world. Her eyes flick over his features for a moment, wondering about his reaction, but she sees no reason to reach for her sword just yet - most people do not think of Rifters as the demons their Chantries imagine them to be and Six is thankful for that.

What does make her hand slip away is the rest, and she feels her eyes widening before she shakes her head. She knows her story sounds fantastical - a God, coming to you and speaking to you, offering you power in return for faith and an Oath, but it is not entirely unique in her world. There are many Paladins, many Clerics, all of whom are devoted to a God, chosen or otherwise.

"Not like the Herald. There are many Paladins in my world, those who devote themselves to a God and are given powers and blessings in return for that devotion. Sarenrae spoke to me in my dreams and was the chosen God of my mentor when he was training me. I am blessed to have been seen as worthy a follower for her."