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

[noonrodeon]

"Never had a brother." As far as he knows, anyway, but no reason to bore her with his story. He scratches his jaw lazily, "Had a friend called Day. Scrawniest fucker I've ever met."

He doesn't press for her name. She'll give it or she won't. He's got no particular stake in this other than a conversation before he staggers off to find a place to sleep. "You marching out to the Western Front? Surprised those Chantry boys aren't all over you to sign up."

[poleaxed]

"Day would be a scrawny fucker." She scratches her chin, mock-contemplative.

She isn't hiding her name, she just genuinely forgot to give it in the service of a joke, a few recent head injuries, and some oncoming alcohol. Speaking of which, she takes a long glug.

Feels better already.

"No, going to this place here... they deal with rifts." She holds up her arm, rolls down the sleeve, and pulls the mud and muck away enough to see a faint green glow just above her elbow. "Might do something about this bollocks."

[noonrodeon]

"Fits, yeah?"

And of the things Noon was expecting, the green glow coming from the filth in her arm is not one of them. He blinks, leans over a bit to get a better look and settles back with his brows raised.

"Huh. Never seen one of those before." He looks at her speculatively, "Thought only those that fell through the Rifts had 'em, you sound Fereldan."

[poleaxed]

"Eh," a shrug. "The rift fell on me. Last time I get anywhere near fucking Ostwick. Apparently, this shite takes all kinds."

She taps her arm again, before going back to her drink.

[noonrodeon]

"Figures," Noon says, finishing his own drink and signaling for another round, "Four rounds then. Three for the fights and one for those Riftwatchers or whatever they call themselves. May they get that shit out at speed."

[poleaxed]

"Four rounds," she says, about as contemplative as she'll allow herself to be. Four rounds, she likes the sound of that. She also doesn't, if he has an angle. She'd have to get some real pain in to fight him off, look at the size of the bugger.

"So what brings you here, flashing coin around like it's no problem?" She takes the next mug directly from the barkeep, thank you.

[noonrodeon]

He grunts, taking his own mug and leaning back. "Sellin' off a hunt. Made good money off some skins from a hunt that went to shit." Said money is passed off to the barkeep. "Fuckin' bears get meaner every year. Lost the best tracking hound I've ever had to one of the fuckers. Decided I don't much feel like dying the same way, so might as well get rid of the coin that'd buy me enough supplies to get back to the mountains before I change my mind."

Noon isn't a particularly outwardly emotional man, but he is still a bit upset about that dog. Poor ol Bastard.

[poleaxed]

"Career change, eh?"

Because of a dog. Jone doesn't register the emotional factor, but she certainly catches the dog being a pivotal point in the decision.

"You Ferelden?"

[noonrodeon]

A huff of a laugh. It's not the first time he's been asked that. "Marcher. But suppose I've been around too many of your countrymen and it's started to rub off. Was in Denirum during the Blight."

[poleaxed]

Jones reaction is immediate, her casual expression going razor sharp. "Uh huh. How'd that go for you?"

[noonrodeon]

Her response just gets a rolling shrug of his giant shoulders, dry humor in his tone when he says, "Like absolute shit, but I didn't die." He tugs at the skin under his blind eye. "Took a club to the face and caught fever of all fuckin' things. Had to hear all the exciting bits after the fact. Didn't even get to glimpse the Wardens for my troubles."

The dizzying terror of being blind while the air filled with screams and the ground went slippery under his feet with blood is never really worth telling.

[poleaxed]

Jone's voice is stony. "How. Lucky. For you."

The truth is, she wasn't in the area for the Blight. She'd left a fortnight before, crying and covered in blood, running from a different kind of monster. She'd been incredibly lucky. The Blight had probably taken the rest of her family; she'd never checked. Even when she was back, she'd never checked.

The fact remains: Fereldans gets to talk casually about the Blight in their country, and only the people of Denerim get to joke about what happened there.

She drinks her ale in silence, glaring intensely under muddy brows. In the half-light of Darktown, her eyes just look darker. Everything is mud, a creature of nothingness, come to judge for no reason, and find no peace in the act.

[noonrodeon]

The drawbacks of having little claim to town or kin is this: Noon can't fully place the reason for her shifted mood, can only recognize that it's happened and he's responsible for it. Animal moods are different than human moods, but the threat of danger is generally universal.

The humor settles and he considers her quietly. "My apologies," he says finally. He suspects it'll do little to fix whatever line he's crossed, but he offers it anyway. "You from Denerim?"

[poleaxed]

Jone hums, long and light, just to stretch the moment out. It's just because she's an arsehole, really.

"Born and raised," a nod. Apology taken, stored, to be thrown back at him like ammo if necessary. Use every part of the conversation. "Well. Born, anyway."

[noonrodeon]

He knows the type, not much to do other than wait to see what decision she makes. He'd prefer not to get in a bar brawl tonight, but it wouldn't be the first time.

He tips his head in turn when she speaks. "Beautiful city. Only place I cared much for other than. Well."

He lifts his hand slightly, making a small gesture as if to encompass Kirkwall as a whole.

[poleaxed]

Jone lets out a snort. "Denerim's a fucking pit, mate. Don't try'n butter me up now."

She looks around Kirkwall-- what can be seen of it. "What's to like about this place? Never stayed long- not a lot of contracts."

[noonrodeon]

Noon grins. "It's a fucking pit."

[poleaxed]

Jone cocks her head. "So d'you like the pit part or the fucking part?"

[noonrodeon]

"Both are good," he says and takes a pull from his drink, "If you're gonna be lookin' for work, watch yourself around Wallace. He's a cheap fucker, hangs out around the docks and talks up shit jobs."

[poleaxed]

So Noon the Huge moves himself from the Fuckable category to Useful. You can't be in both. Her days with that shit are done.

"Really, huh. You done merc work, or just know the type?"

[noonrodeon]

"Did a little work. Took a couple scouting jobs when I was younger and more of a dumbass." A grimace for the memory of them. "Shitshows from start to finish."

He is entierly unaware of the label shift, of course, having not paid much mind to the idea of sex with this violent stranger to start off with.

[poleaxed]

Look, he's huge and shaped like a real bad idea. She had to at least consider it. But ultimately, he seems far too nice.

"Bad jobs talked out outta it, or something else?"

[noonrodeon]

"Don't have much taste for fightin' anymore. And listening to screaming rich puffs gets old after awhile."

[poleaxed]

"Huh. Retiring always sounded like a raw deal; I wanna die on my feet."

[noonrodeon]

Noon nods, "Always seemed the way. Just figured with the rest of the world gone strange, might as well choose a strange path and see where it goes." He toasts her, "Still, on the off chance our fates match, may we die on our feet in a battle of our choosing."