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."

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]

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."

[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?"

[thereneverwas]

He slowly begins to make headway, his words coming out in bursts as he concentrates.

"Least in the-- Gallows they're-- less prolific--"

He pauses, holding their hands fast, gritting his teeth.

"--or just dressed better."

[poleaxed]

"Career opportunities, mate-" And then he thrashes her, and the small crowd of knobs assembled around them give a whoop at the upset. The pot, a felt hat a quarter fill of coppers, is pushed in his direction.

Jone takes her arm back, still glowing, and rotates her shoulder with her hand over it. "Shite. Owe you a drink, Barrel."

[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.

[thereneverwas]

Rolling his eyes at the jeering, he shakes his hand out and then offers it back to her, as though to help her up.

"Barrow. And allow me, you're new in town."

[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."

[poleaxed]

Well, at least he's nice to look at. Jone, meanwhile, sees that the barwoman is glaring at her for leaking (more) muck on the counter. Jone offers a hard glare in recompense, and the woman walks away like there'll be a rematch.

"Is your brother named 'after'?" She'll give her name in due time. First, whatever pisswater she's been bought, drunk in the vain hope it'll dull the thrashing pain in her gut. Maker, but that was a rough blow.

[poleaxed]

"I'll take you up on that," she says, rising from the table. Some of the crowd decides to moan about it, and Jone hisses, "it's late, this hour, ain't you got mums to go home and fuck?"

It's a small crowd, small enough that Jone figured she'd get away with a taunt like that-- she has before-- but some idiot takes a swing, and Jone takes it in the shoulder. Her face lights up.

"Oi, Barrel, have you for another?" And then she turns, and lands a fist into the gut of the nearest mook.

[thereneverwas]

"Oh no," Barrow sighs, watching this unfold, and picks up the tankard he'd set down for arm wrestling so he can take a drink from it.

"Dumas isn't going to like this, is he."

At least for now, he has the good sense to step back.

[poleaxed]

"Oh, don't be a fuckin' bore." Sure, she doesn't really remember who this guy is, but she has the vague memory of a positive feeling, and the ironclad surety that she didn't fuck him. Maybe he was fun in another way? Whatever, it doesn't matter, she has an arsehole in a headlock and is trying to kick the teeth out of another.

"Who's Dumas? He fit?"

[thereneverwas]

Barrow grins gently, leaning against a crate to take another swig.

"Sorry kid, gotta save my poor old muscles for real fighting." Her question gets a chuckle of solid, tickled amusement.

"He's something. And the Watch Captain, so if you kill any of these lotus he'll just do it again in the morning."

[poleaxed]

"I'm not going to kill them!" She says in that voice that ought to really only be used with someone whose name you actually remember.

She'll remember the name Dumas, though.

"I don't kill for free. What do you take me for, some Chantry charity?" This said directly before taking two solid, painful hits to the stomach, and returning the favor by throwing the lout over a table. "And don't-" she turns to the sundered mook, "get up again, you ugly twat."

[thereneverwas]

Shrugging pleasantly, Barrow keeps nursing his drink.

"Still, better not bang 'em up too much, right?" He looks absently down at the man now writhing in pain on the floor.

"Not that there's much to fear from him, he's all bluster."

[poleaxed]

Jone gives the last one a solid kick in the stomach-- he'll be winded, but not lose any teeth. Unlike that other... you know what, it's somebody else's problem.

She sits back against the wall, amidst the pile of (not dead!) bodies, panting slightly. "Alright, then, tell me about your boyfriend."

[thereneverwas]

A startled, boisterous laugh, then: "imagine a bronto walking upright and stuffed into a guard uniform, same face and personality, and also with likely some manner of pointed stick up his arse. You can't miss him."

He holds up his tankard and gives it a little shake, raising his eyebrows as if to say 'ready for drinks?'

[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]

She makes a 'shall we' gesture. "Lead the way, squire."

She steps over another (alive!) body, and links her arms with his, overfamiliar and not caring. "Lucky me, I have you to say this lot hit first, eh?"