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

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.