OPEN | THESE VIOLENT DELIGHTS

[imbroccata]

WHO: Character(s)
WHAT: Catch-all for Lino
WHEN: October, dates flexible
WHERE: Anywhere!
NOTES: CW for him being an awful person, blood probably, violence, etc. If you want a starter HMU and I'll make a closed prompt in the comments!

I. FIRST WATCH

Lino doesn't usually take first watch. He'd prefer to take the last watch, or not be in a camp with others where the watch has to be split between people he doesn't trust not to blind themselves with torches or by staring into a campfire when they need their eyes adjusted to darkness.

But here he is, on the outskirts of the camp, keeping an eye and an ear out for whoever might try sneaking up on them out here. Elves are a possibility, he's had his fair share of run-ins with the Dalish and not all of them ended peacefully. Bandits, of course. There are always bandits. Demons, the reason they're out here in the first place. He almost wishes that some demons would show up just to get it over with. But the soft footfall that calls his attention isn't from the surrounding woods, but from the direction of camp.

"You should be asleep," he says, not looking back to see who it is.

II. THEN LISTEN

He's just laid some poor sod flat in the training yard, having been roped into training recruits with a bo-staff. There've been some mages, looking to use their staves at close range for more than just magic, which actually didn't end terribly, but those were few and far between.

"Sloppy," he says, one end of his staff held under the chin of whoever he's just knocked prone. "You're still treating it like a thing in your hands. It should be an extension of your will." He steps back to the starting point, gesturing impatiently. "Again."

III. WILDCARD

[ surprise me ]

Comments

[unshut]

The appearance of the jug warrants a wordless exclamation of delight from the woman sitting across from him. Laughing, she fetches up the jug with both hands. "I haven't seen one of these in a decade. Maker, have you been carrying this around since we scraped you out of that camp in the woods?"

She turns it over in her hands, studying it in the weak lamp light. After a moment, Fitcher shoots him a sidelong glance - a wry crooked smile and a quirking eyebrow used for punctuation.

"You aren't sentimental, are you serah? I thought they bred that bit out of lads such as yourself."

[imbroccata]

He laughs, a low rumble in his chest and he shakes his head.

"The Crows are still Antivan, signora," He says, honestly. Sure, sentimentality and personal attachment might be beaten out of you, but one can't operate as the ruling class of Antiva without a sense of loyalty, if not patriotism, for your home.

"I found it at a market stall, being sold for three times its worth."

[unshut]

Her smile widens very marginally, long fingers drumming across the latticework of the jug.

"Did you purchase it for three times its worth?"

[imbroccata]

"Of course not, I convinced the merchant it was broken by having him demonstrate how to pour from it."

Which is, of course, the trick of the thing. It's for drinking out of, not pouring from.

[unshut]

She laughs; it's a low throaty sound - pleasant in this quiet corner of this dingy old Lowtown tavern. It's an odd hour, and there are no more than a dozen other patrons left here and the ones that remain have either moderated their drinking by necessity or because they're too far gone to swallow anything down at speed. This is particular corner with this particular gentleman is an arrangment of happenstance. She'd first joined his table when it had been crowded and now that it's just the pair of them, it seems easier to remain there than to do anything otherwise.

One thing leads to another and suddenly you are out drinking with an disgraced Antivan Crow. These things happen.

After another moment's study, the jar is at last replaced on the table between them. There is a fresh bottle to be uncorked. Fitcher cracks the wax seal with her thumb.

"Tell me, Messere. When were you last in our lovely Antiva?"

[imbroccata]

He blows out a breath and smooths down his beard. "Must be...going on five years now? You know how one year bleeds into the next." A vague, dismissive gesture.

"Yourself? I take it you've been away a spell, too?"

[unshut]

"Not so long as all that, no. It's been three years this past summer. But since I've been home properly?" She looks at him and hums as if to say Now there is the real test of time, while emptying the bottle into the puzzle jug.

"Do you miss it?"

[imbroccata]

"The weather, mostly," he admits, making a show of flexing his fingers as if from cold. "The damp runs bone-deep down here."

It's not a lie, though he wouldn't say he misses Antiva itself so much as the warmer climes of not here. The food is perhaps another thing to miss, and the wine, though they keep managing to find an odd bottle of some decent vintage here and there.

"And of course, hearing my native tongue."

[unshut]

She clucks hers. "Poor man."

The bottle is empty. She recorks it.

[imbroccata]

“If I may ask, how did you come to be here?” He doesn’t care to ask what she misses about Antiva. There’s only the past to be gleaned there, and he is far more interested in present and future. “A woman of your caliber I’d expect to hold a higher station.”

[unshut]

Flatterer, accuses the arch look she gives him. But no matter.

"My husband passed away when I was quite young. My options were to either re-marry or to take up a trade, and so I went to work in a customs house in Bastion when no suitable replacement presented himself. The proprietor of that house had troubles with a local trade guild, and so when the house was forfeited I took up a new contract with an associate I'd met from the business who worked out of Ostwick and ran all sorts of shipments over the Marches that required the company of someone lettered. I discovered I enjoyed travel and so took it up somewhat professionally - paying my way as an itinerant clerk to little hamlets, towns where the closest lettered person is a Chantry Sister three days away, so on and so forth. You know the type."

She shrugs, pleasant. "When I need a proper occupation, I acquire it. When I do not, I see no reason to keep one.  Presently, the whole world seems to be in such a state that everyone ought to have one - don't you think? Granted, I meant to join the Inquisition. But I refuse to travel by boat and have no desire to wade through occupied Orlais, and so here I am."

[imbroccata]

He nods thoughtfully, though he doesn't give her story much thought beyond what it takes to process it. She has a nice voice, a good one for telling stories, and seems well-practiced in speaking without saying much of substance.

"You won't travel anywhere by boat?"