nonvenomous: (pic#14254262)

closed to jone, sabine and vance

[personal profile] nonvenomous 2020-11-30 03:10 am (UTC)(link)
[ Over the river and down from the Frostbacks, heavy-tufted hooves clotted thick with snow ford sure-footed through a drift dusted knee-deep across the road. The snow is a crystalline blue in the pre-dawn moonlight, the weakest stars just beginning to wash out on the horizon when Silas raises a gloved hand, and reins his horse to a halt.

He’s a lean, silent shade astride its back, hooded and cloaked black, at odds with the stocky grey beast clicking wet at its bit beneath him. Their breath mingles as it rises, steam heavy and thick after the long ride out. ]


She sees something.

[ Quiet.

A quarter-mile further down the road, a project is underway.

Feathers brush ghost-silent through skeletal branches overhead; loose snow dribbles through the purchase of curled talons, and sprinkles a patch of bare earth below. Thot the owl folds her wings and flattens her ears as she hunkers down to peek at their progress.

She is compact -- short in the wing, tufted, and coal black. Her eyes burn a luminous green -- slitted pupils swelling wide in the dark. Unnatural. ]
poleaxed: shock; static (tell me something)

[personal profile] poleaxed 2020-11-30 03:22 am (UTC)(link)
[Nothing made in her father's house survives on stealth. Nothing survived but her. It gives her a monopoly on sweeping generalizations.

The gambeson under her armor does little to take the chill off. Hooded as she is, the general spikes Vints are so fond of outfitting their fighters in make an odd silhouette. She slumps forward, watching her perfect shadow in the snow, the shape of some abomination following its Rifter master. Cold breath smokes out from a darkly draped head.

Say what you will about selling out, it's bloody dramatic, ennit.]


What's she see, mate?

[The animals Si pulls up are a right horror, or would be, if they weren't on her side. As it is, she can't but feel something like pride puff up in her, at what Si's capable of making.

A bloody good mage, he is.]
glandival: (#10541494)

[personal profile] glandival 2020-11-30 03:51 am (UTC)(link)
[ The unnamed road veins down from the mountainous paths, quiet, snow-littered, recently trod by more than just the cart pulled off to the side, the two patient horses lashed to it, the two people currently at work and oblivious to the scope of an owl's sight. A difficult mountain journey follows a very direct route from Orlais into Ferelden. They've been observing it for weeks.

Sabine is bent over a shovel, jamming it further down into dirt and ice and snow with a kick of her boot heel, metal scraping noisy against frozen earth. With this last heft, she surveys the holes they've managed to dig, every aching part of her making the argument that it's enough.

She tosses the shovel aside.

In the almost lightless pre-dawn, she is a far off memory to Silas of distinct mane of fiery curls, left to freely flutter as she's removed her cloak, too warm from the work. She makes a skinny figure, then, in murky forest-hue leathers and wool, hands gloved, face splotchy from exertion and the smarting chill. Deciding that yes, these holes are numerous enough and deep enough, she strides her way back towards the cart, gesturing for Vance to start passing her the earthen pots very carefully stowed there. ]


If these freeze before they get to kill anyone—

[ There is no end to that sentence, just a preemptively annoyed exhale. She will just have to personally fistfight the next Venatori supply wagon. ]
Edited (what's a sentence) 2020-11-30 03:54 (UTC)

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nonvenomous: (roll for deception)

closed to loxley

[personal profile] nonvenomous 2020-12-01 01:10 am (UTC)(link)
The house is cramped and dark; its floorboards creak. What little moonlight find the kitchen touches pale at a plain table with plain chairs. There are a few bowls, a few cups, a few mismatched utensils, all clean and bare. A glass lamp stands at the table’s center, fresh soot blackened around the bell.

Other rooms are empty entirely: no books, no paintings, no furniture -- no pets to explain the weave of little pawprints over a dusty shelf.

In the bedroom, a lithe figure slithers over Silas’ turned shoulder to pat at his cheek with a velvet paw, pap pap pap, until he starts awake. A sharp intake of breath, and he vanishes Thot with a gesture. Silently, he flips back the ratty blanket to sit up, and slowly, he sets a foot to the floor, left hand brushed across the dagger at his back, while the right closes around another at his nightstand.

Everything is as he left it: the saddlebags, the satchel, the robe. The open door.
charmoffensive: (31)

[personal profile] charmoffensive 2020-12-02 06:08 am (UTC)(link)
The disorientation is enough to physically hurt, like Loxley has managed to pull a muscle in his brain. The rooms and the things in it are so inconsequentially dull but at the same time entirely unfamiliar, and he wears the silence of this place like a cloak of iron. Stupid fear is easy enough to wrangle, especially upon confirming things like he is still armed.

It's why Loxley has his hand on his sword's hilt when he appears in Richard's doorway.

And they see each other, because they can see in the dark; Loxley, impossibly here, a tall and striking greyed out silhouette where struggling light only just turns up the ochre-umber hues of his clothing, and eyes catch slightly gold as he widens them.

And let's out a sigh. Pure relief. He even leans in place on the frame.
nonvenomous: (teeth)

[personal profile] nonvenomous 2020-12-02 07:04 am (UTC)(link)
A hissing intake of breath through parted teeth sees Silas coiled in on himself like a feral cat backed into a corner, blind with spite. He still has one knee in bed, short-circuited with a dagger in hand, and in that flash of soul-rending recognition, he’s only as familiar as an undead corpse* would be in the same low light.

*An undead corpse in its pajamas, with clean hair in its eyes, and a bottle of wine at its bedside.

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CW ?? murder

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cw being murdered

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a princess

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nonvenomous: (pic#14254273)

closed to byerly

[personal profile] nonvenomous 2020-12-06 10:34 pm (UTC)(link)
Silas Atheris has been a thorn in the Resistance’s side for years: a lean, severe snake of a man, bearded and combed over, most often in all black.

Roderick Ironwood is a gawky, road-worn sneak thief in dark leather armor and a traveling cloak, recently arrived in Denerim, and even more recently checked in at this brothel. His beard is creeping back in at a raw bristle of gingery stubble, darkest beneath the beak of his nose.

There is a non-zero temptation to mix business and pleasure; he has arrived earlier than agreed.

But there are other brothels in the city, and Byerly pries. So he’s paid off the promise of a good time, and stands alone beside a four poster bed in a private room perusing through an optimistically-planted copy of the Chant while he waits. The pages are a little stiff.

He is wearing gloves.
Edited 2020-12-06 22:36 (UTC)
bouchonne: (drunken pontificating)

[personal profile] bouchonne 2020-12-06 11:06 pm (UTC)(link)
A few coins pressed into a palm, and an intimation that he's a respectable fellow who needs a private place to meet his secret lover, gets By into the room through a back staircase. All very hush-hush.

"Lover," Byerly greets the man, a dryness in his voice. But when he extends his hand to shake Silas', his grip is solid, and there's no mockery in his face.

"You're positively unrecognizable. Well done."
nonvenomous: (proposition 8)

[personal profile] nonvenomous 2020-12-06 11:40 pm (UTC)(link)
He claps the book shut at the sound of entry, and turns to take Byerly’s hand, a low, “Mm,” all the feedback he is keen to provide for star-crossed pretense, equally dry. His grip is firm in return, practiced in its utterly unremarkable professionalism.

The read behind it is a little more intense, the blue of his eyes piercing in after evidence of rattled nerves, or ulterior motive.

“We’ll see if I make it out of Denerim alive.”

Satisfied that Byerly isn’t likely to be the direct perpetrator if he doesn’t, he opens the book again, and produces a pen from his belt, already set to begin scrawling data by memory.

“How goes it in the world of dashing heroism?”

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cover calendar with hand

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poleaxed: joke; anger; eyer (a hope)

closed to YOU.

[personal profile] poleaxed 2020-12-08 11:35 pm (UTC)(link)
Once, Jone loved her country. Now, it's just been too fucking long. You get old and fucking tired of defending a shithole as anything other than a shithole. A shithole filled with bears.

Si isn't the kind of fighter that can take a swipe and live. Or maybe he can, but Jone doesn't wanna see that. She's seen what some of the really fucked up Venatori mages get, wounds that never heal or get worse, just kind of... linger.

All this to say, if they were a truly efficient fighting force, they wouldn't be themselves, and themselves are currently off trying to reach a contact in Southern Ferelden (redundant, ennit) without getting completely mauled.

Leaning against a bear's corpse, still warm, Jone calls out. "You can come out nowww..." Was he hiding? That's not the point. "Cos' I'm not finding you. Too much bloody effort. I'll scarper off in the dark, I will."

This is a complete lie, and they both know it.
Edited (auhh blimey miss poppins) 2020-12-09 00:28 (UTC)
nonvenomous: (pic#14254264)

closed to ME???

[personal profile] nonvenomous 2020-12-09 07:14 am (UTC)(link)
Where does one even hide from a bear?

It depends on the type of bear, of course, and the athleticism of the victim.

Nearby in the night, Silas’ boots hit the dirt at a stumble as he drops out of the tree he was in. A scatter of broad leaves shakes loose to shower down with him, closely followed by rustling feathers and the bite of talons through leather, where a dusky black hawk catches in at his shoulder.

He is unscathed, dressed more the part of a rogue than a mage, which has served him well this particular evening -- a horned helmet would’ve gotten in the way of his arboreal scrambling.

“Are you hurt?”

He asks before he sets to checking himself over. Thot is already busy on the assist, ferreting a sweetgum ball out of his hood.
poleaxed: joke; smile (no no no)

closed to thee.

[personal profile] poleaxed 2020-12-09 08:16 pm (UTC)(link)
Jone stays where she is, which is in itself a bit odd, but Si'll get it in a minute. Usually, she's hurriedly stripping the thing for meat, and she will get there. Bear meat is one of the better things she's eaten, since the world started ending.

"A bit," she says, downplaying it with a bit of a grin. She points to her leg, and the long gash running down the side of it. "Don't think it hit the-- what'd you call it, artillery."

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nonvenomous: (thot peepers)

closed to fitcher

[personal profile] nonvenomous 2020-12-13 08:49 am (UTC)(link)
[ A polite croak at the door is often all that signals Thot’s arrival in the night. On evenings where a window’s been left open, it might be a cold goblin paw to the ankle, or cheek.

The letters she carries are short and to the point, folded and rolled neatly into a vial affixed to her collar. They consist of names and dates and locations. Occasionally they are ambitious enough to include times.

This one contains all of those things. It also includes a footnote: ]


I recently killed a trusted friend of mine for the second time.

How are you faring?

unshut: ([010])

[personal profile] unshut 2020-12-14 06:36 am (UTC)(link)
[The letters the dark little creature returns with carry no such detail - names and dates and locations or times - unless their transmission is approved by what remains of the resistance force's leadership. In most cases, there is indeed very little reason to send him back more than the most perfunctory of replies: 'Best Wishes.' - F.'

What purpose would it serve, save to endanger everyone involved?

This time however, having stamped her foot a half dozen times to chase the little beastie away while penning her reply, Fitcher sends along a copy of weather reports in Lydes (a place she had vacated some weeks prior) and trusts that it will say what she has no reason to write. Has he heard how a recently rebuilt section of the Imperial Highway leading to Halamshiral and along the coast toward The Frostbacks tragically collapsed while a contingent of Venatori soldiers happened to be traveling along it? She thought the weather was very fine for the work.

What the note actually says is,]


Well enough. No killings of erstwhile friends, twice over or otherwise. Though I would say more's the pity; I have heard some of them are having a lovely time of it.

Forgive the lack of specificity in the sprig I've sent along as an expression of my condolences. I believe a more particular blossom would need to be burned.


[It comes wrapped around a sprig of winter mint. All things which bloom where she is today are too indicative of the region.]
nonvenomous: (thot zoom)

[personal profile] nonvenomous 2020-12-15 09:27 am (UTC)(link)
[ There is a disappointing absence of any information at all this time, and the turnaround is swift -- mere days later, against the existing trend of weeks, or months. ]

I’m glad to hear that you are well, and I thank you sincerely for your condolences.

As tensions escalate, I hope you won’t mind that I’ve directed Thot to seek shelter with you in the event of the unimaginable.

She does not shed, or eat, or leave waste.

She will prefer to sleep in your bed.

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nonvenomous: (pic#14254273)

closed to holden

[personal profile] nonvenomous 2020-12-26 01:06 am (UTC)(link)
There’s nowhere to go.

He’ll be found on the road and fade-touched wolves will tear him apart if he hoofs it alone into the woods.

So when Silas spiders himself silently out of his bedroll in the night, it’s only for him to slink as far as the fire. Long legs folded up and elbows tucked in beneath the shawl wrap of a ratty blanket, he keeps his eyes fixed on cinders dribbling through the firewood, glowing orange chewing around the edges of ash white coals.

Eventually he lifts the blanket to hood up over his ears, but even as a firelit babushka he’s an easy man to identify in profile: the arch of his nose and the bristlebrush of his chin distinct at a distance.
acreage: (} 011.)

[personal profile] acreage 2020-12-26 04:09 am (UTC)(link)
Maybe surprisingly, he'd been asleep.

Granted, it's hard to say how much sleep he's gotten in the past day, week, year, years. But in normal James Holden fashion, he'd started putting responsibilities on his own plate already, started looking for ways to help, and to keep busy. He tries — fails — to focus on the problems at hand, and not what's waiting for them back with the resistance.

(He'd said to Amos: I don't want to go back there just to have to do the same shit I was doing here. He's still not convinced he won't be.)

What happens is that he startles awake with a sharp breath, sits up and casts a look around until the memory of where he is settles back onto his bones. He drags a hand down his face, sighs, and remembers a jacket he'd left to warm by the fire. There may be a kit with some supplies for coffee too, if he's lucky.

But his approach tells him that he's unlucky; he stifles a yawn when he notices someone else by the fire, and the profile comes into focus as —

you know, that motherfucker.

He doesn't slow. He finds his jacket where he left it and pulls it on, starts to look for that hoped-for coffee (comes up snake eyes, but he'll at least try briefly before giving up).

Without actually looking at Silas, he says, "Couldn't sleep?"
nonvenomous: (pic#14254260)

[personal profile] nonvenomous 2020-12-26 06:28 am (UTC)(link)
“You were talking in your sleep.”

Maybe he was, maybe he wasn’t. Silas is much harder to read than he is to spot, and hadn’t turned to look to the sound of one of their number rising from the ranks. Even now, with Holden deep in the throes of whatever errand brought him here, he keeps his eyes on the fire.

“It’s harder to sleep soundly without the watch of my familiar.”

Now he looks up, pale eyes amber gold in the firelight, beneath his babushka blanket.

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nonvenomous: (pic#14254292)

open to resistance camp

[personal profile] nonvenomous 2020-12-30 10:16 am (UTC)(link)
[ OOC note: lots of handwaving, here -- if you want to be on guard that's cool if you want to pay him visit while he's detained that's also cool, hmu on plurk if you have questions or want anything more specific to your needs. also brackets are fine if you prefer brackets ok by e. ]

The ripple and lap of black slurry sucks at stilt legs far below; the woodwork clicks and creaks and groans -- white noise, after a while. Silky cloud cover has settled in low overhead. The days are grey and the nights are black.

It’s too cold for insects.

Silas’ new home is part of a collection of motley structures used for storage, isolated from the more robust real estate downwind, just long and wide enough for the nest of a careworn bedroll he’s unfurled to one side. There are no windows. A single doorway without a door opens to a rickety walkway, currently occupied by the resistance member on guard -- whoever that happens to be. He hasn’t checked.

A lamp hung at the door provides only enough light to ensure there’s nothing untoward happening within.

There isn’t.
Edited 2020-12-30 11:20 (UTC)
clawings: (Both ends are on fire)

[personal profile] clawings 2020-12-30 09:36 pm (UTC)(link)
There's some murmuring in the walkway and the creaking of approaching steps, before Erik ducks in through the doorway; the perils of being tall and having a currently tender head means that the lamp hanging gets a wider berth than normal. In fact, Erik is kind of glaring at the lamp right now. Swinging things near his head is no good.

It's almost as though he's forgotten what he's here for, which... difficult, considering everything but he has to refocus anyway. There's a covered container in his hands, filled with a rabbit and noodle soup, and two bowls underneath that, and a hunk of bread in his pocket. He sets these things out next to the bedroll before settling in on the floor, legs crossed and expression calm.

"Your name ain't actually Dick Richardson." That sounds like a joke, but at whose expense?
nonvenomous: (...)

[personal profile] nonvenomous 2020-12-30 11:58 pm (UTC)(link)
It’s like visiting a goblin in a mud hutch: Silas is a rawboned, pale-eyed figure heaped in borrowed blankets in the shadows, watching the door with suspicion at the approach of unfamiliar footsteps. The conditions here are cold and spare, but not terrible -- he has a book in his hands, paired fingers curled over to keep his place while he watches Erik setting out bowls between them. He hasn’t been tied up, or beaten, or tortured.

He is just not cut out for shack living.

“Dick Dickerson,” he corrects, helpfully, by way of a very late hello.

With it clear now that this is intended to be a shared dinner, Slias dog ears a page, and sets his book aside. As much as he might like to play aloof, a rumble in his gut betrays him.

“Sorry to disappoint.”

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charmoffensive: (10)

[personal profile] charmoffensive 2021-01-04 12:12 pm (UTC)(link)
Eventually, one of the quiet conversations traded with whoever is on guard duty has to be a familiar voice, and it is. It goes on a little longer than most, because Loxley didn't think to give his visit any purpose, like a bowl of food, a flagon of water, some such thing.

And who he is and who Silas is might have gotten around. But then, Loxley doesn't remember how. He doesn't remember making the decision to come. He just has.

He ducks into the doorway. The coat is the same as when Richard last saw him, cleaned of gore, but he's been given a warmer shirt and vest, a different set of trousers, cuffs stuffed into magic jumping boots. He is not armed, either. Not visibly. He had the foresight enough to imagine that attempting to stride in with a big dick-swinging sword would merit some questions.

In the dimness, near-golden eyes find the other man's easily.

"Cozy," Loxley says, immediately looking away, taking in the dimensions of Richard's current arrangement. Just as conversational; "Why the fuck are you here?"
Edited (important clarity) 2021-01-04 13:52 (UTC)
nonvenomous: (chicken)

[personal profile] nonvenomous 2021-01-05 07:09 pm (UTC)(link)
What Loxley’s eyes find is a far cry from the silk-robed figure he encroached upon in Antiva, but all the staples are there: pale eyes sickle bright in the gloom, a bony face gone sharp after several days’ hard travel, only to land in this pit. He is coiled upright in borrowed blankets and at least one rug, focus hatcheted to the open door, and Loxley’s voice on the other side of it.

Waiting.

Calculation clicks over the instant he’s crossed the threshold.

It’s easier to see in the austerity afforded him by darkvision -- dials twitching, numbers running without so much as a fidget from his spider’s nest on the floor. Measuring, balancing, only for his teeth to clip ahead of a flash of feline spite before any of it has time to settle:

“Athessa defeated me hand to hand on the road. Very bold.”

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cw a little bit of corpse

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thereneverwas: (tired)

[personal profile] thereneverwas 2021-01-12 12:28 am (UTC)(link)
Late in the evening, the current guard's tread can be heard changing with the heavier one of the new guard, whose approach is signaled by the scent of herb smoke on the air and the heaving of a perhaps familiar sigh.

After a moment in which the guard has gotten settled, the door creaks open as he leans to peer inside, lifting the lantern to get a look at the prisoner for the first time--

"ah, fuck," comes his quiet mutter.

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