Findekáno│Fingon the Valiant (![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
utulien_aure) wrote in ![[community profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/community.png)
faderift2019-03-31 05:36 pm
utulien_aure) wrote in faderift2019-03-31 05:36 pm
Entry tags:
[OPEN] About the Back Alleys
WHO: Fingon
WHAT: Someone's Aggressive Noldorin Jewelry Fetish finally causes him trouble
WHEN: Late evening, late Drakonis
WHERE: Lowtown
NOTES: possible minor violence
Plenty of the bars in Lowtown have become used to odd figures from the Gallows since the Inquisition moved in, and in plenty of them a tall elf with gold filaments so ribbons in his hair has become a familiar sight. He sings and harps, and he plays cards, and if he looks odd-well all the Rifters are probably half-mad, best not to ask questions.
But to other people an elf is an elf, and an elf so cavalier with precious metals is an affront- or at least, a potential victim. So perhaps it's no surprise when one night a group of Men catch sight of Fingon and follow him out as he leaves the tavern, making half-drunken demands and threats all the while.
Fingon just sighs and looks at the little clump of Men. They're no threat- most probably wouldn't know one end of a weapon from another. He could leave them on the ground gasping for mercy with a few minutes' work, though the Inquisition might object to Rifters brawling in the streets of Kirkwall. So it's probably best that-
One of them reaches out for his braids, then, and for that offense Fingon sees red. The Man in question, on the other hand? He probably sees white, as the elf grabs the offending hand and twists sharply enough to break bone. The Man crumbles to the ground, shrieking, and some of his friends look shocked.
"Are we done, here?" Fingon asks them. And apparently the answer is no, because two of them lunge for him.
WHAT: Someone's Aggressive Noldorin Jewelry Fetish finally causes him trouble
WHEN: Late evening, late Drakonis
WHERE: Lowtown
NOTES: possible minor violence
Plenty of the bars in Lowtown have become used to odd figures from the Gallows since the Inquisition moved in, and in plenty of them a tall elf with gold filaments so ribbons in his hair has become a familiar sight. He sings and harps, and he plays cards, and if he looks odd-well all the Rifters are probably half-mad, best not to ask questions.
But to other people an elf is an elf, and an elf so cavalier with precious metals is an affront- or at least, a potential victim. So perhaps it's no surprise when one night a group of Men catch sight of Fingon and follow him out as he leaves the tavern, making half-drunken demands and threats all the while.
Fingon just sighs and looks at the little clump of Men. They're no threat- most probably wouldn't know one end of a weapon from another. He could leave them on the ground gasping for mercy with a few minutes' work, though the Inquisition might object to Rifters brawling in the streets of Kirkwall. So it's probably best that-
One of them reaches out for his braids, then, and for that offense Fingon sees red. The Man in question, on the other hand? He probably sees white, as the elf grabs the offending hand and twists sharply enough to break bone. The Man crumbles to the ground, shrieking, and some of his friends look shocked.
"Are we done, here?" Fingon asks them. And apparently the answer is no, because two of them lunge for him.
no subject
Absently rolling her staff between her hands, Merrill looks down at the currently sleeping men. "Well, it's Darktown. No one would be terribly surprised that they crossed the wrong person and were knocked out. In Lowtown, maybe, but not down here." She shrugs and gestures toward a shadowy corner. "Honestly, we could probably just move them out of the way."
no subject
Just move them- a sensible solution, he has to agree, though something about it catches him more by surprise than it should. It feels wrong to think a person could just be left lying there, even if the moment he's not feeling at all charitable toward these particular few. "Very well, then- let me deal with this and the both of us can be off."
Still, as he bundles the idiots away, something else nags at him. "Forgive me, but have I seen you before? At the Gallows, perhaps?"
no subject
"Oh- maybe! I mean, I'm part of the Inquisition. My name is Merrill."
She straightens then, abandoning the humans for a moment, to rub at the back of her neck. "And if I'm correct in where you're from, Galadriel has- um, adopted me."
no subject
"Adopted?" He echoes, a laugh bubbling up underneath his voice. Is adoption a habit of his family, now-a-days? Was there some decree passed down at home that no-one bothered to mention to him?
"My name is Fingon, and if the lady has called you hers then we are kindred of a sort. Galadriel is my uncle's daughter."
no subject
And not always relevant, considering the Dalish. They knew when matches needed to be made and they knew who, in the clan, was related to who. That was often all that mattered.
"It's a pleasure to meet you." Pause. "Though not really in these circumstances. They really do attempt to mug people a lot around here."