open | intro log.

[murderbaby]

WHO: Mhavos Dalat, resident newbie, & YOU.
WHAT: Mhavos takes stock of... all this... weird fucking shit.
WHEN: Aug 1-3ish, presumably everything in here doesn't happen the same day.
WHERE: Various places around the Gallows and Kirkwall proper.
NOTES: Poetry, discussions of slavery, a nerd whining about religious authenticit. Will update if anything intense happens.

a. OUTSIDE THE CHANTRY.

It's All Fool's Day. Mhavos has read of this holiday, but he's never been given leave to witness the celebration. He fins himself curious, and a little daring; he's got nothing else on his schedule, anyway.

Outside the Chantry, a play is being put on. In front of a respectably sized bonfire, play actors dance about, mimicking the sacred immolation of Andraste. Mhavos stands in the crowd, watching intently. At one point, he almost flinches, before crossing his arms and shaking his head. To himself, he murmurs, "That's not what happens."

b. GALLOWS LIBRARY.

Among the rows of long tables, Mhavos has collected around him a fair pile of books. He pages through one, writes something down in a ledger, scoffs, and returns it to a different pile, before selecting another. This pattern repeats, complete with Mhavos moving his lips to read each word, several times. Coming close, one will find the books are written in both Orlesian and Trade, and detail a large range of subjects.

Occasionally, one may hear Mhavos murmur, "terrible, terrible," under his breath, his Orlesian accent thicker than usual.

c. THE STREETS OF KIRKWALL.

You are presumably minding your own business, wandering aroun town, doing whatever it is you do with your day. That's fine. That's fair. Allowed.

A gentle hand taps your shoulder, or, if you're particularly tall, your elbow. Turning around, you'll find Mhavos Dalat, an elf with an Orlesian accent. He hands you some coin, or an object that's definitely yours.

"Excuse me," he says mildly, "I believe you were pick-pocketed."

d. LOWTOWN.

After memorizing a map of Kirkwall, Mhavos is set and determined to explore as much of it as possible on his free time. Lowtown is inevitable, and Mhavos isn't much afraid of it. He's just an elf, after all, and he elects to bring none of his belongings. It's easy enough to pass through without making any waves. Any ripples.

He watches a street performer, an elf juggling a series of hard wooden balls. The performer is a bit clumsy, and their clothes are tatty, and the balls are chipped from old paint, dented from years of use. It's clear why the performer hasn't moved their act to Hightown yet.

The performer drops two of the wooden balls, and they thud on the dirty ground before Mhavos deftly kicks them up into his hands, balancing them gracefully in his hands before throwing them back. The entire maneuver is quick and fluid, betraying far more grace than Mhavos had meant.

The performer thanks him, and Mhavos quickly makes his exit from the scene, walking fast, face down.

e. HIGHTOWN.

There are street preachers in every part of Kirkwall, but from Mhavos' survey of the city, the worst are most certainly in Hightown. He listens silently, walks by them, ignores them, until he can't stand it anymore.

On matters of faith, Mhavos has little care. But being uninformed...

You'll find him standing before one such preacher, an annoyed look on both their faces.

"That's inconsistent," Mhavos says, voice mild despite his expression. "Either we are bidden to choose the direction of our lives-- as you say, to be with the Maker or against Him-- or we are all acting in accordance with his will, but you cannot have both. If you preach, you are asking us to choose. If you preach that His will shapes our lives in every aspect, you are contradi-"

He's cut off by a loud shout from the preacher, and the words 'knife ear' are heard. Mhavos massages the bridge of his nose. "You clearly haven't read the Messendrine Epistles..."

f. WILDCARD.

[yo i'm down for anything, mix and match prompts, come up with new stuff, whatever. hmu @ wehwalt (i'm open to adds!) or a dm if you want to discuss anything!]

Comments

[murderbaby]

"You keep saying things that apply to us both."

He is under no illusions that he could have possibly won their fight. But he is not a spontaneous fighter; if he knows someone is coming... further than that, whoever this woman is, she can only guess at his reason for folding.

Most importantly, why does he care what she thinks?

"I assumed, as any reasonable person would, that you were skulking about with the intention of assassinating someone. I will admit my choice of place and time were odd, so I'll do you the courtesy of believing you assumed the same of me."

He lifts one brow. Will she take it?

[notched]

"I am not an assassin." As if that were the most important part of this whole conversation. She is an assassin. She assassinated people in their beds before they could turn into creatures. She assassinated people in the streets, once they were beasts. Sometimes she did so in stealth, and sometimes she did so in droves. She was not an assassin.

"You are not an assassin," her head tilts slightly, hearing the absurdity of it all. The incredulity heavy in her voice. "Just locals. Out in the night."

[murderbaby]

Mhavos nods, dull. Saying anything is suspicious. People accepting the truth rarely feel the need to make a point of it.

"So this is a grand misunderstanding," he says with a sigh. "And if you're quite decided on not decapitating me, I am going to collect my knives." He makes a move to walk past her, steps weary.

[notched]

She flicks the whip, but this time it condenses in on itself, clicking into a cane that she holsters on her hip. She seems to agree with the sentiment.

Although, she can't seem to help one final dig. When he bends to pick up on of the knives she puts the toe of her boot down on it, gazing down at him.

"I'll keep that one."

[murderbaby]

"Delightful," he says. "They're weighted for me. I don't know what you'll do with them."

He retrieves his remaining few, and holds them in his fist, rather than reveal the secret pockets sewn into his clothing where they're usually holstered.

"I'm sure you'd prefer this incident be kept... private."

[notched]

Custom daggers. She supposes she'll know it if she sees them again, then. She makes no bones at all about putting her prize into one of the many pockets and sheaths within that great burned coat.

"Do what you like," she answers, rather than agreeing. She had no stakes in Kirkwall, no one she particularly answered to. No creed or fraternity to take comfort in. Is that what had been so nice about it all? The simple familiarity of killers in the darkness.

[murderbaby]

He sighs as though he's just been given the wrong answer by a recalcitrant child. Truly, he doesn't care what she wants, but he wants it to be kept quiet. How can he accomplish that, if she doesn't care about... what does she care about?

You can always manipulate people by their wants.

"Am I to assume you work for Riftwatch?"

[notched]

"Do you work for Riftwatch?" Returned as an easy volley. How easy would it be to find out if someone in scouting sent him up here to map the city? How much did she care if Commander Flint took her aside about assaulting their own people? Not much.

[murderbaby]

Mhavos lets out an audible groan. "Are you cursed to be this pointlessly obtuse, or is it a vocation?"

He spins a knife in his hand, idle. "I do work for Riftwatch. Part of my work is not throwing knives. My superiors would be displeased to find that secret had been leaked by a whip-wielding sociopath."

He's no longer going to die. He's just going to be particularly venomous.

[notched]

She actually laughs. "It's your secret you'd like me to keep, then."

[murderbaby]

"You tried to kill me, serrah," he says lightly. "Even if you don't regret it, I have some doubts as to whether attempted murder is an acceptable form of recreation."

[notched]

"I scared you," is what she really did to him. "Perhaps you need to put on more nerve."

Isn't that what Gehrman or Eileen would have said? What's wrong? A hunter, unnerved by a few beasts?

[murderbaby]

"If I was scared," Mhavos says, sounding about as close to anger as he has in a long time (so, rather distant), "I'd not have walked over with my throat bared."

[notched]

She hadn't really thought of it that way, so to have it put in those terms is interesting. She looks at him, her dark eyes not really exposing what she's thinking behind them.

"I don't follow."

Sounds exactly what one might do when their will was broken.

[murderbaby]

Rolling his eyes once more, Mhavos continues. "If I'd been afraid, I'd have stayed in the multitude of hiding places I found. This place is riddled with them. Instead, I chose to make an attempt, and I chose to confront you head-on. It's not the actions of a frightened creature, at least, not by my estimate, but I implore you to make up your own judgement. I only hope it's better than your conversation."

[notched]

She's received that insult many times. She was not known for her conversation, she had grown up orphaned and half-feral. She distrusted most and did not have much skill for expressing herself, so she chose her words thoughtfully unless in a moment of defiance and compassion. Those emotions tended to come out of her unwelcome, and unbidden.

"You broke cover, out of curiosity," which sounds like your very own personal problem frend. "And now are disappointed I didn't kill you?"

Just to make sure she's following.

[murderbaby]

He sighs, because answering outright is not a kindness he's been afforded, so he's hesitant to return it. "Vainglory is not a good trait for any sort of fighter. It makes one self-centered and soft."

[notched]

"Is it really so terrible?"

Does she mean vainglory or his wretched existence. Her softened tone suggests the latter.

[murderbaby]

"Yes," Mhavos nearly snaps. "You clearly think only in terms of your prowess. You barely consider your opponent."

[notched]

She tilts her head. "That's the way of Hunters."

It is a conscious choice to give her title then.

[murderbaby]

"It's idiotic," Mhavos says, having given up entirely on any placid sensibility. "A fantastic way to die."

[notched]

"Try harder next time," she spreads her hands in a shrug. She's kind of amused by the bluster.

[murderbaby]

"I don't intend to," he says, cross. "Unless you plan on attacking me again."

[notched]

She wants to. Mostly to see what he has in him when he doesn't give up. She could probably try again without killing him.

"I might."

[murderbaby]

"And what purpose would that serve?" He glares at her straight on. "What are you trying to accomplish?"