OPEN | you ain't a beauty, but hey, you're alright.

[poleaxed]

WHO: Jone & u
WHAT: Jone's intro log.
WHEN: Nowish.
WHERE: Kirkwall.
NOTES: Violence and strong language. Will update if things get w...orse.....

a. LOWTOWN.

Whenever you show up anyplace, you have to make some coin. If you've no contract, there are ways to do it, but they're messy methods.

Jone, standing at a few inches over six feet, long hair a muddy tangle in the middle of a fighting ring walled by bodies yelling for their bet, does not seem to mind messy.

Her opponent is a human of similar stature, moves to punch her square in the stomach, and Jone takes it. Hurts like fuckall, but that never matters much to a Reaver. Anyway, she needs it to grab him, her hands a vicegrip on his arm. He can't pull away, and ends up dragging Jone a few feet in either direction, attempting to dislodge her. She's too close, now, and it's too easy to knee him in the bollocks, adding to the gesture with a solid bite at his neck. She doesn't break the skin enough to really hurt him, but it's a scary thing to see, and she wants the reputation as much as the coin.

Her opponent goes down, and the crowd cheers. Blood in her mouth, she cheers back: "Next!"

b. HIGHTOWN.

Jone knows where her money comes from, so she knows how to look. She's not pristine, walking the streets of Hightown, but her hair is clean enough to see it's red, pulled back and way from a face no longer covered in blood and muck. Wearing a worn but workable enough suit of armor, she's holding a piece of parchment, reading it while moving her lips. She looks up, looks down, reading it again.

The door she goes to knock on-- maybe you know it? Maybe you're familiar enough with Kirkwall to know this is a prank? Maybe you're also thinking about taking a mercenary contract? Maybe the noble within is someone to be avoided? Help a girl out-- or don't.

c. THE GALLOWS.

She's only been here a day, but she's a little bored. No real reputation yet, but you gotta start small. Little things first. Late night arm wrestling. She's one two out of three so far, and the pot is growing.

She reaches forward for her next opponent, and her sleeve falls down to reveal the glowing green just above her elbow.

She shrugs. "Believe me, mate, this made me stronger, I wouldn't be fighting you with it."

d. WILDCARD.

go 4 it i believe in u.

Comments

c

[thereneverwas]

"Hurtful," comes the cheerful reply, and a semi-familiar face is seated across from her, forearm raised and ready to clasp.

"You're looking well, for a Monster."

[poleaxed]

Admittedly, it takes her a few seconds to connect the dots. Face checks out. Voice checks out. His huge fucking arm means he's probably somebody she had a job with...

This thought process is clearly evident on her face, a frowning loading screen that comes out with:

"Barrel?"

[thereneverwas]

"Close."

The start of the match is called, and his grip is firm, his arm steady as he strains against hers.

"What brings you to Riftwatch?"

[poleaxed]

She struggles against him, a pin scratch forming between her brows. Was he always this strong? Well, it's not like she's ever fought him. They likely fought together, offing some great bog monster because nobody else could be bothered.

She isn't using reaver strength yet. It's hard to pull up when nothing bloody hurts.

"Heh," she says, blowing some hair out of her face. "Y'mean besides the fuckin' gemstone in my arm? I hear Kirkwall's proper lovely in the summer."

[thereneverwas]

"That'll do it."

A sweat has broken out on his forehead; was she always this strong?

"You hear somewhat correctly-- it's proper lovely until the humidity and the dust settle in."

[poleaxed]

Well, the sweat makes her feel a little better. He's a cut above the bastards she was playing with before-- the guy she lost to caught her off guard, is all, let her tell you.

"And then the riffraff are even harder to see, like," a grunt of effort, "and some cunt needs extra assurances for her safety."

a

[noonrodeon]

Noon doesn't have much interest in recreational fights, but they're interesting to watch now and again. And the woman is definitely interesting. Only a little shorter than himself, tossing seasoned fighters with brutal efficiency. It'd almost be disrespectful not to watch. So he sits back and watches and smokes, nursing a few ales. When she finally leaves the ring to collect her winnings, he'll wave at her as she passes.

"You're a hell of a fighter," he says, "Buy you a round?"

[poleaxed]

Jone is still covered in mud and blood when the fighting ends, and the first thing she does is tie her hair back. Mud still streaks her face, obscuring her features, making a plain woman look absolutely horrifying.

So, sure, she'll take the compliment. It's not like he's bad to look at.

Far fucking be it from her not to push her luck, though. "And the next?"

[noonrodeon]

He's hardly an Orlesian rose himself, cleaner only through the grace of having not been in the fighter pit. And far be it from him to not let her push her luck.

"And the next," he says, waving to catch a barmaid's attention, "Watched three of your fights, seems a fair trade since I'm not a betting man."

[poleaxed]

Look, she's gonna need at least two drinks to decide whether or not he's going to make herself feel shitty about herself the morning after, and for a long while lately, that's the only type she wants. There's no point in meekness.

"This the kinda thing you're into? Hovering 'round fights, picking off the winners?"

She's not sure she'd know how to be meek if she wanted to.

[noonrodeon]

Noon's laugh is a low rumble, smile twisting the scars on his face under his beard. "Tends be a more interesting way to pass the time then drinking alone. I've had enough of that for one night."

Meek folk take patience and it's nice to have someone upfront, for better or worse. The bar maid comes back with the first round. Noon lifts his own tankard to toast the woman across from him, "Name's Noon."

C

[muckspout]

"I wasn't going to play, but now it looks like I have to."

He laughs and sits down across from a formidable looking woman he's never met before and puts up his arm. He narrows his eyes.

"I am Edgard and I am your worst nightmare."

He's kidding. (Probably).

[poleaxed]

"My worst nightmair has ze posh accent," She says, in a passible but purposefully overdone imitation of an Orlesian noble. Look, she's done her time. That joke, she uses to use it to make Luc laugh, and-

She doesn't want to think about that, so she just doesn't.

"Jone. I'm a fucking monster, mate." Her hand grips his.

[muckspout]

Edgard grips back and begins to push.

"I think," He says to Jone thoughtfully. "you may be the first person to ever call me posh."

[poleaxed]

"I think you're confused," and a little smelly, but who's complaining. "But it's nothin' a light thrashing won't fix, like."

[muckspout]

Edgard laughs again. He likes this Jone.

"I am not confused nor am I able to be fixed, though many have tried."

He's starting to break a sweat, but he's not backing down.

FOR LUCIEN LION-O.

[poleaxed]

Do the shard thing. Grand. If it's to be a new ability of hers, she's going to master it, likely beating herself bloody in the process. It's just the way of things. You don't get anything in life from keeping your elbows clean.

There's a rift on the beach. She's fought off demons before, though doing it for free is new, and the motivation is low until one of the demons catches her in the shoulder. Jone likes her armor, she likes it fine, it's saved her life plenty of fucking times, but even when she could, she never really buys the real expensive stuff.

She needs the pain.

When the pain comes, burning hot and fresh and fantastic, and she feels the power flow through her. Rage comes next. The angry terror of a dragon, and she sees nothing but blood.

Her poleaxe swings true, a big slash of death through something that isn't truly alive. The beach is full of screaming fire on sand. Somehow, the sky remains overcast, instead of green. It feels like everything should be green or red. Her mouth is bleeding and she doesn't remember when something bashed into her face, but it feels right.

She doesn't hear an approach. Not over the fighting, her axe and the fire and the glorious pain of it all.

o hello jone-o

[coeurdulyon]

Time has not atrophied this muscle memory, and Lucien falls in alongside Jone as they once did daily. It's happening even before he's fully comprehended the fact that this is her. This is Jone. And she's alive. More than alive, living, fighting, undiminished.

The tightness in his chest at the sight of her is what he might call profound.

Steel rings at Jone's back as Lucien draws his sword and blocks a demon's slash with blade and scabbard crossed. The demon recoils, and Lucien takes its arm with one smooth strike, its head with another.

"On your right!" He calls, as he used to, and moves to engage another enemy. Fighting alongside a Reaver is made easier by identifying where you are. That's a lesson he learned early.

[poleaxed]

Jone is deep in the angry haze of her power. The knowledge that Lucien is with her dawns slowly, and with the anger and the blood and the fire, the fact that this is bad doesn't register. In a fight, you're immortal (until you're not), time stops (until it doesn't), and everything is true and fair (until it all stops).

She'd meant to fight with Lucien. Everything makes sense, if she just keeps pushing forward.

She moves out of the way on the volley on her right, striking back immediately, a demon hissing into nothing, the sand turned to glass from lava-like heat. The rift shines a terrible, sickly green, and Jone rips off her vambrace off, hoping whatever happens next will be instinct.

The rift connects with the shard in her arm. She feels a kind of pulling pain, but when the rift-- against all odds-- closes, everything slows down. As always, there's a few moments of ragged breathing, where she has to discern the pain from the rage, get both under control, locate any serious wounds. She's going to have bruises all up her arm, she thinks, but she's fine otherwise. A few light burns. Who cares, they won't even scar.

"You were..." Her mind comes back to her. You were good, of course he was good; it's Lucien, the man who's supposed to think she's dead for his own bloody good. This, not monsters or demons or bloody rifts, makes her stumble. The grip on her poleaxe keeps her from falling. "You're not- I-..."

She starts walking away, the armor slowing her movements, the terror robbing her of the strength in her pain.

[coeurdulyon]

"Jone," he says, assuming that saying her name will be like a pin to a soap bubble. She'll disappear, a figment or some kind of hallucination. When she doesn't, he starts after her, reaching for her. A hand, a wrist, an arm, a shoulder, some point of contact to drive the point home — to plunge the dagger further into his back.

"Attendez, Jone!"

[poleaxed]

Of course, he grabs her arm, with the vambrace still open, his fingers on the glowing green pinwheel of light. It should hurt more than it does. Everything should hurt more. It never feels like enough.

She wrestles her arm out of his hand, stumbling back, using the poleaxe like an old man's walking stick. She steadies herself in the sand, feeling too heavy to move. The armor's usually like her second skin, but for the first time in years, she feels awkward and trapped within it.

You can't really run in plate.

She's never planned to see Luc again, so she really never thought about what she'd say. No, that's not right-- in her mind, she'd run into him by accident, because he'd be in some kind of parade, married to the right kind of person, being proper celebrated and maybe their eyes would meet and she'd know she made the right choice.

That doesn't give her shit to say to him, though. What comes out is a messy, "I'm not sorry."

a

[extortionate]

Naw, he’d said ten minutes ago, when some muck started crying on the Monster. Naw, you know how these names go around, and anyone worth that coin’s out there making it —

(What’s that make him? Drinking, man. Leave it alone.)

Naw, he'd said five minutes ago, when Afton slapped his name on the board. Two minutes ago, when Danila slapped his back. One minute, and I said, take that down. I'm here to fucking drink,

Thirty seconds ago, someone shoved him forward with one hand still waving frantic refusal — and his mouth might be moving, but who can hear shit over the roar of that crowd? He turns, but by then it's too late. The ring's reformed behind him, a mass of jeering bodies, and Lazar's left stupid and gripping his mug with only enough time to think:

Reckon that's the Monster,

Before instinct kicks in, and he throws the ale at her eyes.

[poleaxed]

So Jone gets ale in her eyes.

It burns, and that makes her angry, and that makes her stronger. Also, it gets some of the muck off her face, and that's nice.

Angry, everything is instinct and rage. Her eyes hurt. Her face hurts. Her blood boils with it. Pain and anger tie together to give her a special sort of strength, and it leads people to call her things, and Monster is one of her favorites of them.

Before she rushes forward to headbutt the cunt with the empty mug, she smiles, and it's all teeth.

[extortionate]

It's like a battering ram.

Closes in as hard — and he's fast, but he's not that fast, and if she misses his nose, the cheek ain't much better; an explosion of pain that just crushes in and in like she's gonna drive right out the other side, and if something's broke there's no time to tell because he's twisting with teeth dug in his own tongue, trying to get free enough to shove. To smash the mug into her own thick skull again and again until it lands, until someone in crowd shouts: That's cheating, he's armed,

(Yeah, and she's mad!)

He can't close his mouth. There's too much blood.

[poleaxed]

The part of her mind that still functions as a rational, thinking creature remembers how to fight. It's taken a lot of practice, over the years, to keep that part of her mind awake when she's angry and in pain. Compared to being on fire, bleeding out through sharp cuts in her armor, unable to see-- it's easy to keep the tactics going.

You aim for the head to make a show. You aim for the gut to knock a man out.

Her head rings like a bell, but she can still aim. Two fists in unison, aimed straight for his stomach, trying to take all the wind out of him at once.