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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.
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. ]
no subject
[ 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.
no subject
[ 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.
no subject
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.
no subject
[ 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.
no subject
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.
no subject
[ He takes another sip before offering it back, smirking wickedly. ]
Then you start making less and charge more.