faderift | II. OPEN.

Entry tags:

II. OPEN.

WHO: Sabine and potential best friends. (No.)
WHAT: Having arrived at Skyhold a couple weeks back, Sabine continues to settle in.
WHEN: The end of Haring, the beginning of Wintermarch.
WHERE: Skyhold.
NOTES: A couple of prompts below, but let me know if you'd like to do something specific or wish to hash out ideas in plurk or PM.

(BELOW) THE COURTYARD;

[ Busy work cures Sabine of idle hands, sitting nearer the stock of weapons than the actual sparring grounds, although she has a good vantage of the latter. She sits unceremoniously on the ground, her legs clad in simple leggings and in a comfortable configuration of half crossed, one knee up and bent. Work, today, constitutes of the crafting of arrows. A bundle of sticks -- straightened from their natural bend, already stripped of its bark -- is gathered to her left, and she uses a knife to work one end. Feather halves, to line against it, and fibrous string to bind it in place.

It's fiddly, but in this setting, not unnecessary. Conversations drift over her head, and she goes mainly ignored. Her ears mark her as one of the people, especially prominent with her wild hair kept barely tame in a thick braid down her back. Her hands are practiced enough that she doesn't need to watch all the time what she's doing; her eyes dart to the people coming and going around her, the training of recruits across the courtyard, and anything else of interest. ]

(ABOVE) THE BATTLEMENTS;

[ She isn't much of a drinker, but she is Orlesian, and when one wishes to climb the battlements and then climb even more up onto the slanting, frankly dangerous rooftops of Skyhold just to watch the sun go down, you should take some wine.

Somehow, Sabine's managed to get to her perch despite the thick woollen skirt that now drapes about her, and a cutting, cold wind tugs at her hair let free. She has a wineskin in hand, and she takes a generous mouthful of it, which has her jerk back, turn her head, and spit it out again in a steady, mouth-warmed stream down onto the battlements to her side. Ergh. She never thought she'd be picky about her wine, until she drank Fereldan.

Oh well.

Bracing herself, her second swig is just as deep, but gets swallowed this time. Above her, the sky fades from deeper blue, to truer black. ]

(AMONGST) THE MERCHANTS;

[ The market trade growing within the Inquisition is just that -- growing. A sampling of Orlesian and Fereldan wares, from gathered herbs to colourful blankets, to old swords with the dents carelessly banged out of them to a fine old antique shield that still has some sturdy left to it. Practical things, but not always.

All of Sabine's arrows go to the Inquisition, but she has other services she might provide. She doesn't have her own cart, but she does have a blanket, spread out in front of her while she works, displaying little wooden trinkets -- as simple as loose, colourful beads with tiny carvings through to complex designs, such as bracelets carved to spiral thrice around the wrist, or smooth polished wooden earrings that hook into place and nestle behind the ear. Anklets, bracelets, rings of any imagining, all made of wood, of different tones and colours. Most are unpainted, but some have a touch of colour.

Her bare feet are flat against the packed earth as she works on whatever will go on sale next, little carving knife in hand, wood bits to her other side. She doesn't spruik her wares, remaining silent instead, but is quick to make eye contact whenever someone wanderers nearer, as frankly appraising of them as they may be of her work. ]

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( it is a common enough sight, benevenuta moving among the merchants that set out their wares for the appraisal of the inquisition and its people. holding fabrics and leathers up for scrutiny, examining the herbs on offer, occasionally contemplating whether or not they need a new modesty blanket. for future incidents. the dalish seem to admire rutherford as well.

there is no practical (or humorous) purpose to lingering by sabine's wares, but after a second pass, she slows to a stop to take a better look. it is a little - quaint, perhaps, but perhaps the novelty of wooden jewelry might charm her friends. )

What price do you give this?

[ The items on display are at least not crudely made, with some polished to a deep red, deep black, or pale silver, sporting gemstone-like sheens, but most make the familiar curves and lines of woodgrain a part of their charm, quaint or no. Sabine is busy using a small twist of malleable wire to attach a long black rooster feather to an earring by the time Benevenuta pauses on her second pass.

She looks up, probably too expectant to connote a savvy salesperson. There is a slow trickle of the upperclass taking residency in Skyhold, which they describe exactly the audience these little trinkets attract, quaint or not, but even among them, Benevenuta stands out as slightly different. You don't get a lot of nobleborn necromancers.

Sabine indicates her wares by hovering a hand over groups of them; ]

Twenty crowns. Thirty crowns. Fifty, [ is reserved for what are arguably less flashy than some, and smaller, but more fine, more innovative, less common. ] And these, [ she wiggles her fingers over where beads are strung on leather string, or are gathered in bowls, bright coloured and plain both. She wears some on a loop around an exposed ankle. ] Five bits each.

[ And she waits for Benevenuta to complain, or walk away. The beads are priced like dirt, but everything else bears the tag of real jewellery, if not in the upper echelons that precious metals require. ]

( neither of these things happen. benevenuta lowers herself carefully for a better look, grasping her skirts to keep the hem from the dirt at the edge of the blanket upon which the jewelry is spread. the black and the silver catch her eye (of course) and she lingers over them, thoughtful, imagining this piece or that against her own colouring, or a friend's. )

They are quite lovely, ( she says, thoughtful, and if there is a hint of surprise in her tone - well, it's made of wood. by an elf. she did not anticipate closer examination giving her more than 'quaint' in the first place. but how charming they are, how finely crafted! perhaps she will send her mother a gift, as well; she might like that. )

Do you by any chance take custom work? ( a light inquiry to purpose, though she seems occupied enough with selecting from what's already on offer. )

Not usually by chance, Lady Thevenet.

[ Well, one of them is acquainted.

When the lady crouches down, Sabine settles her position to tuck her bare feet beneath her own skirts, posture pulling back and up as she sets aside the piece she's working on now that a meaningful transaction is taking place. Her eyes follow the woman's hands, looking back up once satisfied as to their whereabouts. ]

They are humble materials, but versatile for that.

( her name merits a look up - smiling, faintly, not expecting it but not quite surprised, either. she is something a little unique in skyhold, that's so, and she has hardly hidden herself in the ivory tower she had so protested knight-commander baratheon trying to cloister her in. lady thevenet, councilor thevenet, that northern mage, the woman; yes.

she doesn't question where sabine learned her name, simply accepts name and title as appropriate. )

You know me, ( she says, speculative. ) I suppose you know of Altus Pavus as well, and Lady LeBlanc? Your work would make excellent gifts, and I would welcome your thoughts on something suitable.

( as the craftswoman behind it. if she has a notion for colouring, or style. )

[ White shows briefly around her eyes at those names -- another Counciler, and a Tevinter, and all three of noble houses. Her wares attract customers with money, but rarely heirs of true nobility, even if one's a mage. She looks down at her own creations, at once thoughtful and reluctant, but the latter is something stifled down, amongst other things.

In Halamshiral, her aunt had always been the one to haggle and bargain and sell. Not for the first time, she tries to think how she would do this. ]

The Lady LeBlanc may like the red, [ she suggests, dancing her fingers over a selection of necklaces and bracelets. ] It is the last of the Heartlands Red I brought with me. Native to our country. The Tevint-- [ UM. ] Altus Pavus would perhaps like something smaller. Complementary. [ She can imagine a spirit healer mage wearing bracelets of oak that clack together or draping beads; a northern Magister, less. ] These rings here are for men. I can set them with jewels or glass crystal, if provided them.

( benevenuta's gaze holds very steady, pleasant expression unchanged, as sabine skitters back from the edge; by the last syllable of pavus she is back to studying the wares, lifting the bracelets indicated for adelaide, and then setting them aside to touch the rings with curiosity, thoughtful, picturing them on dorian's hands.

he would appreciate the distinction, she thinks, of her having something personalised for him. )

If I supply you with the jewel, will it be ready by the First Day?

( she isn't asking how much it will cost. and she is still smiling. )

[ Some mental finger counting goes here-- it's a tight turn around, but practically possible. Sabine has picked up one of the other red bracelets further out of Benevenuta's reach, placing it closer for inspection -- it is designed like a little ring of laurel leaves, curling and fine -- as she considers. ]

Oui, [ she decides. ] One jewel or shard, I can do it by then. For custom gifts--

[ Her head tips. ]

--with swiftness, I will take an advance with the jewel?

Yes, I think that is very fair.

( she gathers a few of the bracelets - including the laurel leaves, how pretty, her fingers lingering on it as she chooses from the selection - of red and silver, in the meanwhile-- )

These I shall take now, and I will return with the jewel in - perhaps an hour?

[ Great, who doesn't love money, not this elf. Sabine takes up the pouch she uses for her takings while her other hand hovers out, palm flat, to accept her earnings, ever so slightly coarse in her exchanges. ]

I will be here, still, then. Eh, merci.

Let me guess: Fereldan?

[ One does not often spit out wine unless it is well and truly awful- and while there are some wonders of Thedas to be found in the country of mud and dogs and bizarre honor rituals; wine? Is not one of them. The low, sensuous rumble of Zevran's voice comes from above and slightly to the left. He does not often have cause to come up quite so high and take the world's measure- but now and again he needs a little clarity.

A little peace.

Or he's keeping an eye out for wandering Crows. Rumors abound of their presence in the surrounding area. He'd rather see them coming. ]

[ Sabine startles just enough to twist around in the direction of a voice, her free hand pressing knuckles to her mouth in what is only a vaguely guilty gesture. No apology, though, in appraising stare up towards the figure the other elf makes on the rooftop.

When her hand drops, her smile is crooked and lacking in sweetness (much like the wine). ]

They exaggerate about it tasting distilled of dog piss, [ she says, her accent marking her as more western reaching than the country of mud and dogs. ] A little.

[ She raises the wineskin, and takes another pull. ]

Edited (clarity) 2015-12-29 10:18 (UTC)

[ Oh, how her hair catches the light from the torches littered about. He'd thought her auburn at first blush but that glint of copper, the twist of gold threaded through? Fair and fine and twisting in painful memory. His eyes flicker for a moment but at this distance the glint is much the same for any elf peering out through the darkness. He could lounge and let her be. Save himself some pain.

But he has ever retained an edge of masochism and swings down to land next to her on silent feet.

She is not who he misses, but she is quite lovely and bearing wine. That is enough. ]

Allow me to save you from yourself, mia Fiamma, and offer you something sweeter.

[ She's a perceptive creature, but it's dim, she's caught off-guard, and more inclined to watch for signs of threat (of which there are none) than for subtle details of hidden thought, fleeting behind a stranger's face. Her hands stay clutched around the wineskin even as she thinks about the small knives stowed away in fabric folds.

But she's been in Skyhold a while, now, and no one's tried to kill her yet.

He lands, and her crooked smile becomes close-lipped, but still present. Her dark eyebrows lift, tilting the wineskin in offer. ]

Perhaps if you fed the dogs nothing but honey.

[ Perceptive, but maybe too much for her own good, and terrible at hiding it; her gaze lands immediately on his tattoos, at once curious and guarded, although the wine isn't retracted. ]

The few mabari I have known never cared for honey, strangely enough.

[ He slings himself into position next to her- a respectable distance between them for the moment. That may yet change. ]

But no, aside from my company I meant this. [ A wineskin of his own, smaller, made of hard, boiled leather, stamped with the vineyard's brand. ] Antivan. Far, far better than what it is you are attempting to force on yourself.

[ Well. Sabine closes her own wineskin, carefully setting it aside so it doesn't go slipping down the rooftop and trapped in guttering. ]

You know, when people sit on a roof, it is usually to be alone, away from companies. Even sweet.

[ Which does not stop her from reaching over to take the flask, whether or not physically offered. Yoink. ]

Edited (typingdh) 2016-01-01 11:16 (UTC)

You seem like a woman that would tell someone as such if she wished to be left alone. Do so and I shall depart- though I will take my brandy with me.

[ Echos and ghosts and wounds yet healing- the accent helps. The accent helps a great deal- Rinna had been as Antivan as he and her voice rich with the language of their homeland. It isn't kind to compare the two but he is, at the moment, a little surprised.

There aren't many with hair quite this shade, after all.

He gives the flask easily enough, grinning. ]

But I think, perhaps, you might enjoy our mutual company awhile longer. If only to sooth the sting of that wine.

[ The first part only gets the reply of her lifting the flask to her mouth and taking a pull from it, eyeing him sidealong with a hint of mischief. Her mm is judgementally affirmative of the quality of brandy within, and she sniffs it after the fact as she lets the liquid simmer on her tongue before swallowing. ]

Perhaps, [ she agrees, passing back to the wineskin with a companionable enough air that implies she'll be taking it back once he has his helping. A thick braid run through her hair tames it at one side, allowing her narrow elven ear to peek through, while the other is lost in voluminous, wiry curls. ]

But also, perhaps I'm the intruder, or are there many maidens to be found wandering the Skyhold rooftops to share your Antivan brandy?

[ Drinking from an assassin's flask, now that is brave. Or foolish. Or perhaps she simply does not know him for what he is; that is likely possible as well. He makes no mention other than to take it back and have a slow, warming sip all his own. Whether the sweetness is of the brandy or of her lips? he can't say. ]

In the courtyard? Aplenty. But the battlements and ramparts are somewhere I do not often find such lovely company- nor will I say that I mind it.

[ He drinks too, and maybe it's then that she considers if he ought to have done so first before she chanced it -- but it's just as likely that she does not, and never did, despite having internally coiled in expectation of some physical attack.

She isn't all the way relaxed now, either, but then again, she hardly ever is. ]

It is not where I go to find good brandy, but I have no complaints. You may stay too.

With so gracious an invitation, how can I say no?

[ Smooth and biting- much like his brandy. He can appreciate that much in an elf- though he does wonder at her being here. Not many city elves have a mind to climb near so high without some sort of training. ]

Where is it you go for brandy, mm? I have not found anywhere in Orlais that quite measures up to my Antivan preferences.

No? [ Immediately skeptical. Defensive on behalf of the Empire, without a lot of conviction behind it considering she is reaching for said Antivan brandy, but you know. ] Have you been all over Orlais? It's very big. And it is known that Val Royeux has the best of everything.

[ Now that's definitely sarcastic. ]

There is a fruit liquor I liked in one house I served. It tastes like a garden, on fire. And when you replace what you take with rose tea, they never noticed.

Edited 2016-01-14 10:01 (UTC)

I have indeed- it is a marvelous country with lovely women, handsome men, and passable wine. [ but only that, passable. The soil did not quite match what they hoped to make; and the gaudy bottles were all wrong for what they hoped to sell. Alas. ] Val Royeux especially has women, men, and wine I've enjoyed- but Brandy? It is all too sweet, too light. They cannot quite manage to get the proper amount of heat to it.

[ He takes another sip after she passes it back. ]

Mmm, now that sounds fine indeed.

[ She does. Pass it back. After a slight pull away as if she's thinking of keeping it, but isn't slow to shove it into his grasp before the game can turn properly coy. She loops her arms around her knees, not quite relaxed enough in this man's presence to rest her chin on her arms as she might have done on her own. ]

You've travelled a lot, then. But perhaps not so far, to be here. You are Zevran, who fought in Ferelden's Blight?

[ She queries his name and reputation, rather than introducing herself. ]

And you think I spent the whole of the past decade in Ferelden?

[ He crackles a low laugh, offering the skin back once he has had his share. Oh, that would have been truly awful- a whole decade at Cousland's beck and call should he see fit. Not that he would mind it, Jonas surprised them all at the end but he had ever been a pragmatic and politically driven individual. He could see the reasoning and even respect it- for all that Alistair could not. ]

Ah, no. But that is I, and you are the mysterious and lovely Orlesian elf, injuring herself with Fereldan wine by the name of...?

[ His low laughter gets a slight, prideful headtoss from Sabine, her tolerance for feeling foolish low, but somewhat familiar, and now sweetened with the passing back of the liquor. She presses her mouth into a line and takes it, raising it to drink. Touche, then.

Brandy is sterner stuff than wine, warmer in her blood. She snorts indelicately at mysterious and lovely, taking a second swig before passing it back. ]

Sabine. And your ~Antivan preferences~ appear to be slipping, monsieur, or are they upheld for wine only?

[ Oh and she has a tongue on her too. Be still, knife that digs into the place where his heart once had been. Seriously, be still, he cannot take the vicious twisting the cut of her smile, the snort of her laugh causes him.

Another lifetime, another lovely elven lass, but he will not linger on the thought. Comparisons are unworthy of him and of her company. ]

My preferences are for those I find lovely and exciting. Orlesian wine is lovely- but not terribly exciting. Orlesian woman however...

--are most valued for being boring. By Orlais, perhaps not Antiva.

[ Sabine hands wander out, long fingers gesticulating. Her nails are cut short. ]

Pretty ornaments in identical masks, always dancing. When they talk, it's dancing, when they eat, it's a dance. Perhaps also when they take a shit, they do so with elegance.

Them, and then there are the women helping those ones into their corsetry.

Those are Orlesian ladies.

[ An important distinction, one that has Zevran sighing. ]

Common is so imprecise. I am speaking of the women. The women with callouses, that bake the bread, that stoke the fires, that till the land- the women that work and trade and live with what they have built in their own hands, rather than by having it handed to them. Those women.

They are a marvel.

[ Her smile is closed lipped, as if stopping herself from laughing. Maybe it wouldn't come out scornful enough for her liking, but the eye crinkles already give her away, even as she rolls her eyes. No argument, though. ]

I would like to meet those women, [ is as close as she comes. ] My hands did much corset-tying. But, ah.

[ She can't help opportunity to show off, straightening her back as she tips her head to the side, hands going up to fidget with her ear and extract the piece of jewellery she has hooked through. She shows him the spiraling curl of finely carved wood. ]

And now I make arrows every day. These scouts are always losing and breaking them.

I could say something about the quality of your arrows being the problem- but I have seen the scouts shoot. Past full draw at impossible angles to make an arrow fit for retrieving.

[ He snorts a faint laugh himself, amused by her repressed smile as much as he is interested in the carving. With a deft and careful hand, as one never simply reached out to touch an elf without cause or permission, let alone an Orlesian one, he traced the fine curves of the carving. ]

Marvelous. Perhaps when they learn to loose arrows less you might find time to carve again.

[ Sabine rolls her eyes at Zevran's assessment of the scouts, because, exactly. No one's ever been so out of turn as to blame her, though, which is something she can say for the Inquisition -- it's much easier to be an elf in Skyhold than it is literally anywhere else she's been.

She closes her hand back around the earring after he has had a look, slipping it back into her ear. ]

Perhaps if I make less arrows, they will learn quicker.

Or perhaps if you charged them a copper a head, they'd take more care. Money makes a scout learn to be less foolish.

[ He takes another sip before offering it back, smirking wickedly. ]

Then you start making less and charge more.

[The market is still so small (and it's on land too but she's grudgingly more used to that) but it always holds something new, something exciting and Araceli tends to make a circuit at least once a day, looking for something that might catch her eye.

Wood is different; polished metals, thread, rope and shells are favoured at home but lifting one of the bracelets, she finds herself pausing, running her fingers over it before she holds it against her wrist, tipping her head thoughtfully. A dear friend will be back soon, she'd like to have a gift to maybe lift her spirits, even one to sneak into her pack or her bed with a little note but what to pick--]

Do you make all of these yourself, señorita?

[But still, she'll keep looking for something that would seem too large for her own wrist, maybe something meant for the upper arm instead.]

[ When the woman settles and begins to inspect her work, Sabine lifts her attention from what she's whittling -- square, if soft edged beads as small as a thumbnail, with a bevelled edging as if to replicate cut jewels -- to watch, frankly observant in a way her aunt would have elbowed her about, if she were next to her.

It's one thing to be an artisan and another to turn it into money. Sabine has her limitations. And the question that arises is not an unfamiliar one. ]

I may not grow the wood personally, but oui, these are mine. Some new, some old. This-- [ And she points with her knife, lacking in the ways of workplace health and safety, but Araceli's fingers aren't too terribly endangered. She is pointed out a bracelet of differently sized stars crafted of a silvery wood, connecting with a string of leather, amongst others with the same construction. ] --perhaps, if you are not sure about fitting.

[Always having enjoyed crafters at work, her attention is drawn to the carving being done, her hands nimble with locks but never with such precise work such as that. It makes her smile because she might need to get some beads once she has a little box to keep them all safe in.

Lifting the bracelet carefully, she examines the leather then looks back to Sabine again.]

It's for a friend. A friend of the tall, grey and horned persuasion if you take my meaning though fortunately not a warrior, I think what would work as a belt for me would barely fit about the bicep for one of them. Do you sell to such folk often? Or would something like this have enough give for one of them?

[ By the time she gets to horned and Sabine can divine that 'grey' isn't a reference to an elderly gentleman friend, Araceli has the elf's undivided attention, a doggish interest in the tip of her head, curiousity diminishing her own interest in the actual topic of conversation. ]

You have a qunari friend?

[ There aren't a lot of them in Skyhold, but being what they are, they aren't hard to miss, even if she's never traded words with one. ]

I've never, non. But these would give -- they are meant to loop around three times, you see, but perhaps for a qunari -- once or twice. If you see a thing that suits better, I can make a bigger version. What is a qunari like if not a warrior?

Vashoth. She was very clear on that part to me.

[When she's had the chance to meet three and be told about any others, she's more used to making sure she never refers to them as qunari, just to be on the safe side.]

Very tall but well, maybe I'm not in the best position to judge. [After all, Araceli is about the same height as some of the elves, considered small even at home so every tall grey person looks enormous, even the ones younger than her.] This one is a mage so toned from using a staff, proud and strong I would say. The one I refer to is very beautiful and I believe she's the only woman of their people around. [Examining the item in her hand again, her smile grows because this could definitely work, catching the light against Korrin's skin, reflecting the mark on Araceli's hand. A good gift for someone returning from a cold and awful place.]

[ ooc ; ugh sorry for the delay, been slow all over. ]

It is twenty crowns.

[ Frankly delivered. No discounts for mage Vashoth or, in fact, anyone alive, but Sabine's stare is at once curious and considering. ]

But if it does not fit-- if your friend does not like it-- I will make a better one. [ On paper, this sounds like a kind offer; out of Sabine's mouth, with a jabbing point in the direction of the item in the human woman's hand, it's more like instruction. ] I haven't seen her here. She is not in Skyhold?

Edited 2016-01-12 14:13 (UTC)

[Twenty crowns seems more than fair to her, when something is made by hand, materials bought or sourced too.]

I'm sure she will love it, unexpected gifts are always the best gifts anyway and perhaps I will come for something for myself too. [When she's fleeced more soldiers out of coin.] Korrin's away right, somewhere colder than here. [Not that she can really imagine a cold like that but if an entire river has frozen then it has to be colder than Skyhold.] Emprise du Lion, she's been away for a while. [And she most likely butchered that because Orlesian is proving to be something of a challenge for her.]

[[ooc: no worries, life gets that way sometimes!]]

[ Sabine's brow furrows at that name, as if it niggles some memory of hers, but maybe she's overheard it a few times in Skyhold without thinking. No, she's been thoughtful in her time in Skyhold, so it's likely not an accident.

Which isn't better. Maybe someone is here who knows her.

But this source of tension only plays out on her face for as long as Araceli is talking, shoving it aside forcibly as she goes to pick up the pouch she uses for her earned coin, unbuttoning it. ]

I have heard utterings of Emprise du Lion. Do you know the business the Inquisition has there? [ After a beat, she adds; ] I am new.

The river is frozen so supplies I would assume are a nightmare. I have never laid eyes upon this place myself though, so I cannot be certain of that. There were rumours of a sort of Templar, people being captured, a lot of dark things. [Any hesitation is less because she doesn't wish to say and more because she doesn't fully understand all of it; the place is unfamiliar but everything moves faster over water, and the Templar talk goes right over her head.] I'm still sort of new, there's much to learn here, hopefully that will point you in the right direction without me confusing the issue at all.

[For instance, she still hasn't actually asked what lyrium is in the first place.]

[ It'd be easy to dismiss that as an echo of her own status; people come through the Skyhold gates next to every day, if slowing to a trickle with the diminishing of war between Templar and mage. But the glow, like reflection off water, is one of quasi-familiarity, and Sabine tips her head as she chases the reflection of it with a glance. ]

I've never visited. But it is a region of my country, when so much I have heard of the Inquisition comes from Ferelden so far. I'm interested about where this war is going. Perhaps it will take me home again.

[When her hand annoys her enough at odd moments - too much bright light early in the morning, casting strange shadows if she's trying to sneak somewhere to lift a few coins - she tries to make as little a show of it as possible when she tucks it into her pocket again. If there are questions, and often there are, she'll answer them but it might not stop being weird.]

Is it war? [An honest question, with no true fear about being thought of as simple because war is a more clean-cut matter usually, or it at least appears that way.] I thought a war would have more fighting, less waiting for someone to make a move. How did you hear of the Inquisition then? I left Skyhold once, I don't know what others say about it or how well anything is really known.

[She knows from soldiers and scouts, but they're going to have a bias anyway so it doesn't hurt to get more perspective.]

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II. OPEN.

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Battlements.

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merchants;

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