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Entry tags:
the mountains are calling
WHO: Metaari and YOU!
WHAT: An arrival
WHEN: Mid-Haring
WHERE: In and around Skyhold
NOTES: hhhhh
WHAT: An arrival
WHEN: Mid-Haring
WHERE: In and around Skyhold
NOTES: hhhhh
It's been a hell of a few weeks, working his way from Redcliffe to the Frostbacks and slogging his way through snow to try to find this Inquisition. A blizzard lands him in a cave for two days before he's able to continue forward again, but when he can finally see the battlements in the distance it's as though his energy is renewed. It surges through him, and just shy of the outer camps he sets up his own to rest up before arrival. The last thing he wants is to show up looking like a tired beggar (who just happened to climb a mountain).
He's up early the next morning, the sun fresh in the sky, when he breaks down his camp to finally make his way to the hold proper. There are only a few glances thrown his direction as he picks his way through the soldiers, and he's glad to see that there at least one handful of Qunari. At least he knows now that he won't stick out quite so much.
When he's finally past the walls he lets out a low whistle, lifting his gaze up to take in the scene. The walls have seen better days, and what's before him looks more like organized chaos than anything, but it's still grander than any setup he's seen before. A grin settles on Metaari's face as he adjusts the bow around him before heading further in to take in the sights (and maybe see if a familiar face has come back yet). "Excuse me," he finally intones after some time wandering and meeting new people (whose names he's going to try very hard to remember), turning toward the nearest friendly face that doesn't seem too wrapped up in something. "Would you be able to direct me to someone I could speak with about work?"
(ooc; most likely locations to find him: anywhere with alcohol, archery range, the camps outside, and generally places that aren't cramped. or just be a bro and answer his question.)
no subject
"Well," he chuckled pleasantly, "I suppose it worked out then."
He shifted the arrow to the same hand as the whetstone and reached with the other to meet Metaari's. "Maxwell. And don't worry, it looks intimidating, but a few dozen times across the courtyard and it gets a lot easier."
no subject
He cants his head to the side a little before tipping it toward the arrow with a curious glance. "A fletcher? Or are you just good with your hands?"
no subject
He began to stroke the arrowhead over the stone again, almost absently - well honed muscle memory - until the question actually had him think about it. He looked down at them, pausing, and rolled his shoulders genially.
"A bit of both, perhaps. I'm an archer, myself, but I also went through artificer training."
no subject
His eyebrows lift at that, genuinely surprised. "You, too? We should compare contraptions some time, then. I can whip up an almost textbook trip wire-explosive combo on the fly. Bit of a point of pride for me, actually." Actually, he probably wouldn't make a terrible scout, come to think of it. Not nearly as entertaining for him, though. "Nothing like picking up new ideas from someone, though."
no subject
"Me too," he grinned. "I don't have my sketchbook on me, but any time, I'd be happy to talk shop. Mines are a favorite of mine - I like the colors." The rainbow came with a flush of pride of being able to bottle them all so well, and watching them go off in such a nice cascade. "But the bread and butter is really detail work--"
He set down the arrow and stone, and reached for his bow, leaning against his far side. Pulling it up into his lap, he turned it out to show Metaari the work he'd done.
The bow was pale wood, with statement detailing on the limbs in sweeping, smooth lines, like feathers. More work was in progress, delicate filigree started on one side, waiting for its mirror on the other.
no subject
A low whistle escapes Metaari as his eyes roam across the bow, taking in the careful details, set in place by a steady hand. He nods slightly, glancing up with a grin. "Absolutely beautiful. I haven't the delicate touch for work like this myself, but I have nothing but admiration for those who do."
He unslings his own bow from around his body, significantly less intricate but polished and tended to just as lovingly. The wood looks delicate, like it would snap in half in the qunari's hands, but it was deceptively sturdy with a rune set in the grip. "A crafter from the company I was in did mine for me."
no subject
"Incredible," he grinned, resisting the urge to reach out and find out if it felt as smooth and polished as it looked. "Look at the striations in that wood."
Even without fine, delicate engraving, Metaari's bow was just as unique for the veins running through the timber - and Maxwell had such a fondness for the natural wood.
"And rune work! I haven't quite worked up the courage to attempt crafting one on my own yet," he admitted with a low chuckle. He raised his eyebrows at Metaari curiously, "Fire?"
no subject
If he had been a mage, he most likely would have focused on that. There was nothing quite like throwing things into chaos with a little flame.
"I imagine they've someone around here that could set runes for you, or teach you how. I have no patience for the work myself."
no subject
As Metaari himself was proof of.
It was both a good sign for the Inquisition and its goals, and for the individuals within like himself. There were a lot of opportunities to learn.
He slanted Metaari a hopeful look, "So, how about a demonstration?"
He gestured to the targets set nearby.