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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
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.