faderift | [open] it's a shame we're all dying

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[open] it's a shame we're all dying

WHO: Barrow and any mages who want to get their shit ruined, possibly others
WHAT: in light of this posting
WHEN: Drakonis
WHERE: the training pitch
NOTES: who knows

He hadn't intended to ever come out with the truth to everyone in the organization, not so openly. But it feels oddly uncomfortable having-- apparently??-- breached the trust of at least one person he respects, so Barrow is owning it now, in his way.

They still don't have to talk about it. Being an ex-Templar. That's his business as much as being a mage is theirs, and really, he's doing them a favor.

Whether or not anyone takes him up on his offer, Barrow can be found swinging his Riftwatch-acquired hammer at practice dummies with gradually improving competence on just about every afternoon. Usually he has a shirt on (it's cold out), but that can always change.
He'll stop if someone approaches, and offer a smile, whether or not they seem like the smiling type in return.

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Taking him up on his offer, maybe not. But Kostos does show up one afternoon—or on multiple afternoons over the course of a few weeks, even, if he's left to it—and plant himself on a distant bench to cross his arms and watch Barrow at work. Silently. Looking sort of sullen about it.

If Kostos ever didn't look sullen it would be cause for some major concern, and Barrow has been here long enough to recognize that. He leaves him alone on the man's first appearance, since he seems intent on keeping his distance, but the second time around Barrow approaches the bench with a smile he intends to be disarming.

"Enjoying the show?" he asks with a cheeky smirk, already knowing how well that will probably be taken. Sometimes a fellow simply can't resist.

Matthias is the one who makes the copies of everything, so he's the one that has to copy over Barrow's offer for the records, and check the posting to see if names have been written down or if any defacement has been added. It is force of will alone that stops Matthias from defacing the posting. He thinks about it at least twice. No one would know it was him.

Instead, one day, he goes to the training pitch. He doesn't want to. It's scary. But no one ever overcame a fear by hiding from it, you've got to go and face it down, and just because he feels sick when he thinks about getting Silenced--that horrible bloody feeling, like getting punched in the chest but a hundred thousand times worse, an amputation of one of the things that makes you you--Matthias makes himself go down, marches right in with his cloak and his stupid leather armor and his staff, still that rough thing that he'd showed up with. He goes into the pitch and he walks right up to Barrow and says, "All right, I'm taking you up on it. Your offer."

So, there. Checkmate, Templar. It does not make him feel better that Barrow looks so nice.

It would no doubt infuriate Matthias to know that the Templar in question has grown quite fond of him, and looks genuinely pleased to see the young mage when he approaches.
Barrow smiles down at him, canting his head to one side. "All right," he says easily, "you ready, then?"

That would be both confusing and infuriating to know. As it is, Matthias nods, and grabs for his staff. With it in hand, he squares his shoulders and draws himself up.

"Yeah," he says, firmly, with his chin raised, "ready. What d'you want me to do? If it's practice I ought to like--cast something, right?"

"You can attack the training dummies," Barrow explains, gesturing with the handle of his hammer toward the victims in question, "like you're fighting them anywhere else. And I'll stop you sometimes. And you try to pick it up again as fast as you can."

This is how he and Colin have been running things, even if he hasn't seen the lad in a while; it seems to work all right, and nobody gets killed.

Eyes narrowed, Matthias follows the hammer's gesture, and he surveys his targets. After Barrow is done speaking, he nods, once, short and spare, and shuffles a few steps back with his staff in hand.

"If I was fighting them anywhere else, and they were templars," he says, gruffly, "I'd put up a wall of flame to start with. I'll do it different. Going for it now--"

And he pulls his staff around and gathers his magic to him in the same movement, stoking the heat that is always burning in him. It warms at his attention, leaps up and into his arms, down to his fingers, clamoring to be released--and then he does, three quick fireballs in succession, which streak brutally across the way and hit one of the dummies--and three quick more, for the dummy beside it--and then he goes for another three of the same, tried and true, for the third dummy--

It's at random that Barrow cuts him off, lightly thunking the haft of his hammer onto the ground as a burst of white light emits from its end.
"Count to four," he helpfully instructs; at the end of the counting's duration, Matthias' magic should return.

Two fireballs and then it's like someone's snipped a wire. Matthias feels it--his magic is all there, burning away, and then it isn't. Just because he's felt it before doesn't mean the feeling is any less shocking. And with it comes a seep of panic, but he fights it down, sets his teeth--he will wait it out--he will hear what Barrow is saying, and in his head, he thinks one, again, this time counting the seconds, two, and it feels like he's holding in his breath but backwards, somehow, three, and the feeling floods back in, relief, and he swings his staff around again as fire laces through his fingers and then blasts into the dummy. It goes up like it's been doused in oil, a burning brand in the courtyard.

Barrow smiles quietly to see the boy continue as before. There's a part of him that quails slightly at the sight of fire magic being wielded with such reckless abandon, but then, he figures there's an understanding between them as long as they're here.

"D'you know how to fight? Without magic?" he asks idly.

There's a slight sweat on Matthias' brow and he clears it by doing a kind of shrug, bringing his shoulder up so he can wipe his face against his upper arm.

"Yeah," he answers. Then he's got to confess: "Sort of, yeah. A bit. I've been in fights."

"No."

Obviously.

He is not disarmed.

But since they're talking, now, he adds, "What Circle are you from?" in the sort of demanding tone that wouldn't be out of place in an interrogation where Barrow couldn't just walk away instead of answering.

"So no weapons training then." Barrow takes on a more casual stance, watching the lad thoughtfully.

"If you get silenced in combat, you gonna claw at the enemy like a feral cat?"

Barrow's smile falters, but only slightly. Ah, so this is how it's going to be.

"Jainen," he answers smoothly, raising his eyebrows. "Yourself?"

His flinch is slight, and still likely more noticeable than he would want it to be. The little Free Marcher peasant boy he used to be once thought he'd be a knight of some stripe, get proper training with swords and shields and all and make a name for himself. Then he burnt down a barn and got shipped to the Circle, and thought he'd make Knight-Enchanter instead. And then that all went to shit, didn't it.

"If I get silenced in combat I'm proper fucked." The dummy is still burning, but the flames have evened out without the fuel of Matthias' attention and magic to go on. "We played dead or we ran. Even if I had weapons training, how'm I meant to cut your head off?"

"You don't have to cut anyone's head off," Barrow muses, "but you can at least learn to defend yourself until your magic comes back round."

He smiles faintly.

"I'll teach you, if you like. Seems negligent the Circle never did, but I suppose we already know why."

"Because Circles are shit," Matthias says, flatly, "yeah, we do know why."

He ought to be careful. But it'd be useful to learn, wouldn't it, and a good way to make sure that he's not a burden on anyone during a battle. It'd be better to learn it from another mage, perhaps. Only that would mean showing another mage what shit he is. As opposed to Barrow, whose opinion Matthias doesn't much care about.

He shifts his weight, leaning on his staff.

"What sort of things would you be teaching me? Swords?"

Barrow doesn't seem troubled by the assessment, or like he has any opinion on it at all.

"Probably just how to fight with a staff when it's not doing the magic thing," he says, gesturing vaguely at Matthias, "unless you see yourself switching to a sword if you're Silenced."

Matthias transfers his frown down to his staff. It lacks polish and shape--certainly it's staff-shaped, yes, all right there--but it hasn't got much more than that to recommend it as a staff.

"I'd rather a sword," he says, grudgingly. "Staff're... well, staffs. Only I get what you mean. Switching would be stupid." One moment too long and his head would be off. He tightens his grip on the staff in question and looks around again, determined.

"All right, then. When do we start?"

"It's up to you," Barrow replies, shrugging one large shoulder. "As to when we start-- well, I've got time now, or we can come back tomorrow. Whatever your schedule allows."

He smiles kindly at him, but the intrinsic humor in his eyes could easily be taken for mocking, at least by someone very sensitive to such things.

Matthias, hair-trigger aware of mockery, bristles. This is not a very intimidating look on him, considering he's built like a rangy scarecrow, and might also be easy to overlook, but. He does bristle.

"I've got time now," he says, firmly. "Have the afternoon off or else I wouldn't have asked to do this. But we ought to finish the Silencing bit, right. As that's what I came here for."

"Now it is, then," Barrow agrees, taking up his stance again, "though I doubt one session is going to be enough to train it out of you completely."

He selects a wooden sword, which feels like nothing to his bulky arm, but it'll do. "En garde?"

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[open] it's a shame we're all dying

possibly just for the record:

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sorry for delay my brain has been everywhere but here

understandable tbh and nooooo worries

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