open | my mother told me don't get in trouble

[hemitheoi]

WHO: Deimos + You!
WHAT: An Arrival Log of One (1) Jerk No One Wanted, But He Is Here Now, We Guess
WHEN: He considers time beneath him as a construct, obviously
WHERE: The Gallows
NOTES: Nothing overt, but in general warnings for Deimos being a mouthy asshole at the best of times.

i. closed | eshal
No one had wanted to talk to him for very long. Not if they could help it. One word of his accent, his appearance, his general bearings and that glint of green on his palm, they'd given him directions and promptly hurried on as he tried to figure out where it was he was supposed to be sending himself to do this properly and not get killed on behalf of the green burning ember. More magic than he had ever been willingly been around in his life and nothing about his current circumstances was endearing him to it any time soon.

But at least he was here, even if his mood was bad. Knocking on her door waiting to be let in.

ii. open | the gallows
He's got his orders to mind himself, he's no one's friend, and nor does he intend to change that much. Being left here - he's exposed. Trying to decide what to do, where to go, there isn't a fight to be had and nothing about him that he wants to ingratiate himself with particularly. Which is just as well, when he stands a foot over most of them, it's easy to just march on by like he knows what he wants.

Supposing, maybe, he has money, and so he understands it, that is how you get a decent drink. He doesn't seem to really get what the bartender wants from him when it comes to the little golden things he had been given as part of his pay. Chrysis and the other Tama had not taught him these things, always handling it - telling him where he went, what he wanted to get with which piece of metal.

He understands they all have different values - and now understands why so many of his brothers opt simply not to speak than look a fool. He holds up the coins of different types to the barkeeper and grunts and points to a drink then offers the money up for him to take the right piece he wants. Easy to affect a furious scowl like he might know if the man is ripping him off. He's been told that is something he must watch out for. Not that Deimos has the slightest hope of knowing what that might entail, but where understanding doesn't always happen, anger and the fear inspired afterwards would certainly do the trick for communication.

And gets a huge tankard of ale in return. Ha. This Bas money business wasn't so hard. What did they all go on about?

So smug in his minor victory, mutters to himself with it: "Bas aren't so strange." He takes a sip of his drink like he's won a great battle.

Unknowing that he just paid way - way too much for that drink.

iii. open | quarters
He doesn't particularly know what to do with himself when he isn't drinking or training or whoring whilst waiting for orders. But orders don't seem to be coming as quick as he likes, and inactivity suits him ill. So with his door open, utterly transparent as he could be to anyone spying on him as it was, he sits for a while, just in his chair, one leg stretched out in front of him, oversized to everything about him, not really sure what to do with himself.

So he decides he doesn't like how this room is set up. His room, one by himself, thank the Prophet that someone else had decided that before he kicked someone about it. The furniture is laughably little next to him, as it was. So it's nothing to pick up the bed, the desk, the chair, and push it over to the other side. Mindless grunt work that at least feels useful. His palms itching that simple frustration.

Then look at it again. ( It's painfully uncreative, quite literally just the room but reversed ).

And decide that in turn, he liked it where it was the first time. Pick it all up, and start again.

Comments

[filthydipper]

Well Yngvi's adopted - no, still not honestly touching that, how many years is it weird to consider a thing raw - slapped the surname gutter on him, more or less. Anyone doing manners in Kirkwall is Orlesian or up to something.

"Bas," Yngvi has the Darktown ability to stretch any word out as long as he needs to which is about seventeen syllables in this particular case, "like I know what it means, would've been a bit dead years ago if I didn't y'know so I'm Yngvi and you are..."