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BUSINESS

In this season, the pale breath fogging and bitter cold clinging pre-morning is anathema to most who would usually take their exercise early. Unless your preference is to go bouncing down iced over stairs or do the splits across treacherous slick paving stones during mock swordplay, it would be far more prudent to either wait for some rare glimpse of sunlight to defrost the training yard or see to moving the work indoors.

But these are perfection conditions for the right kind of elemental magic. And in the crisp grey barely-light, Miriam is making the most of it.

CRACK, says the base of the hammer-ended staff as it strikes stone. With an ozone tang pulse, great sheets of overnight ice peel upward from the courtyard. They fracture and condense, a million glinting mirror shards arranging themselves at the behest of the small, wiry woman conducting them from the training yard's edge.

In theory, it's to everyone's benefit that she stretches these muscles early; the thaw will act more quickly this way. Which is probably also the theory behind assigning Miriam post-blizzard storm clean-up duty in Kirkwall. Having her along makes unearthing blocked doors and clearing various bits of snowed in infrastructure approachable, if not strictly simple work.

PLEASURE

At the end of a long days spent re-arranging snow banks, the serious looking mage with the severe bangs turns and says in that no-nonsense tempo of hers--

"I could go for a drink."

It's not any particular assignment that sends Noon down into Kirkwall. He's tall, he's strong and he knows too many people to not do his share of moving snow from doorways and reaching up to knock it off roofs. He still takes some time to watch the tiny mage work.

"Now that's impressive," he says cheerfully, "I thought all that tower magic was for fancy stuff and fightin'."

She is tiny, isn't she? All the wiry muscle, the most serious expression in the world, and the aggressive shape of the hammer ended mage staff can't successfully detract from that fact. Not up close, anyway.

"I wouldn't go revising your opinion just yet," Miriam says, all dour. The air tastes like something sharp, all the hanging wet air gone crisp as the snow slouched against a series of row houses peels back toward the center of the icy roadway. It's a little like folding back a series of stacked blankets. Under the thick sheepskin lining of her coat, sweat is beginning to prickle at the back of her neck.

"I do birthday parties too."

Edited 2021-02-19 09:09 (UTC)

Noon's laugh is a low rumble.

"A true lady of talent. You could enchant a whole band of instruments and put the bards out of business." Enchanting is a thing all mages do, right? And he can't have his small friend here doing all the work, so he gets back to his lot. Guiding the snow off the steeply tipped rooftops isn't nearly as pressing a job as helping dig folk out of their homes, but it'd prevent any future tragedies and Noon was well tall enough for it. He uses a rake, which not nearly as impressive.

"Don't know how this magic stuff works-" In case that wasn't clear, "But holler out if you need a rest, aye?"

That's not how that works, she doesn't say. Because her focus is engaged elsewhere. Because it doesn't matter. Because it's bitter cold, but not an unpleasant day and why lash it to the anchor of Tranquility?

"Aye," she says in agreement, broad Markham accent all flat around the word.

The snow drift unpeels like layers from the top of a flaky pastry, or the unmaking a bed.

And Noon for his part is happy to return to his work. He moves a little slower than she does, both from lack of magic and his habit calling out a greeting to passersby who stop to watch the spectacle of peeling snow.

"Oi, Dunn! Don't think I don't see you there, friend. You keep standing there, I'm chucking you on the next roof to push down the snow." He is a large, cheerful presence, nonthreatening in a way that is perhaps a bit pointed. "Mornin', Porter. Hell of a storm, eh. How's the missus?"

They continue on in the fashion for the length of the street—her with her studious quiet cleanup of snow barricaded doors and buried windows, and him with his gregarious good humor as he knocks snow from slanted rooftops. It's only once they reach the crooked end of the lane that Miriam draws up. She's a little pale under behind her dark fringe; a prickle of sweat shines briefly on her upper lip then is rubbed away on her sleeve.

She glances in his direction.

"You seem to have your fair share of friends in Kirkwall. Have you been with Riftwatch long?"

Edited 2021-03-05 02:44 (UTC)

Noon stops when she does, leaning his rake against one of her tidily folded snow drifts and ambling over to her. His demeanor doesn't change, just shifts from the loud, pointed friendliness to something more loose limbed and relaxed. He pulls a flask from the depths of his coat, uncaps it, takes a swig and then offers it to her

"Nah, some of them gawkers are just trouble makers," Noon says easily, "But I been around Kirkwall not yet ten year now. Used to sell game in Lowtown. Did some escort and scout work for the Hightown types before that. Just signed up with Riftwatch not too long ago.
You?"

Vanya has mainly spent his early assignments doing his best to be useful and otherwise staying out of the way. He left behind his seniority when he decided to walk away from the Inquisition, and his title when he decided to walk away from the Templars. Now he's quiet and uncomplaining about the grunt work of helping clear paths for Kirkwall residents, even if his approach is a bit more mundane. He's quiet not out of annoyance but habit.

Even so, it's clear that he's mildly surprised to be spoken to at the end of the day, at least in something that could be reasonably interpreted as an invitation. His mild and marked Nevarran accent is just as deliberate in person as over sending crystal: "That sounds pleasant. Did you have a place in mind?" He's half expecting for her to say she was actually speaking to someone just over his shoulder, not him, but the manners are also habit.

It's a fair assumption. For the bulk of their day's work, she has been either quiet or briskly no-nonsense in discussion on how best to tackle the clean-up work. Focused might be a good word. Taciturn might be another.

(Or Shy, but there is no such thing as a timid war-tested battlemage.)

And yet--

Rather than give him a sidelong 'Not you, the person behind you' look, Miriam merely relaxes the grip on her staff. The heavy hammer end of the thing is allowed to dip down and strike the uneven paving stone of the mud and slush slaked street with a dull thunk.

"I marked a place a few streets that way that looked like it still had chimneys clear and a fire going when we passed. Didn't catch the name. Do you think they'll let us in without it?"

She sounds exactly as she had over the crystals as well--dispassionate tone made even flatter by that broad Marcher accent. At least in person it's punctuated by the kind of slow sidelong look which suggests a sense of humor might be lurking...somewhere.

Edited 2021-02-20 05:39 (UTC)

"I suppose no way to know other than checking," he says, now reasonably sure at least that he's being addressed. "My limited experience with Kirkwall so far is that no one in this part of town is very concerned with what you do, as long as you have money to spend and you don't prevent anyone else from spending money." He hefts the shovel he's been using, idly knocking some slush off of it against a curb.

"If they say no, I have also heard there is more than one tavern in this city." Thoughtful enough that it would be easy to miss that it's a joke.

"Is there? My, what a luxury."

The staff is wobbled on its hammer end and Miriam, as if momentarily stuck by indecision, sends a glance fleeting down the narrow, crooked street behind them. Their work amounts to channels bored through banked snow, and slush, and mud, and snow turned brown where everything mingles; the street is more serviceable for it, but its a damn sight uglier and will be until everything melts and the sun comes up to dry all the mud or a rain comes to sheet it away.

Well, at least the smell will be kept down for a bit by the ice and cold.

"All right," is brisk. Miriam hikes up her staff, tucking it under an arm like an unused walking stick. "This way then."

Keep up, Vanya.

He can manage that, apparently, settling his shovel over one shoulder. (He's not the life of the party, but he's tall and strong, so at least it's presumably not hard to think of uses for him.) He doesn't hurry to draw even, letting her lead but staying enough to one side that he's not in her blind spot.

As they come up on the tavern in question, he says, "I'll buy the first round if you can stake us out somewhere to sit." He's not exhausted, but they've been doing manual labor and he'd prefer not to have to stand if they don't have to.

Done says the answering snap of her fingers. With an easy heft of her staff, Miriam turns the line of her staff from under her arm and hikes it across her shoulder and higher—hammer side just high enough in the air that when they pass through the doorway through to the crowded public house beyond (it seems they're not the first ones to have the idea that they might escape the cold here), the business end of the staff thumps the lintel hard enough to draw the eye of the first three closest tables and a withering glare from one of the serving girls.

"Whatever they've on tap will do," she tells him. Then without a backward glance for Vanya, Miriam wades into the crowded floor.

These many years later, with Riftwatch at its doorstep, people still instinctively give way for a mage's staff. It isn't a warm reception, but there are less effective ways to chase other patrons off and secure ownership of a cramped little table not so distant from the fire roaring in the great hearth at the rear of the room.

It's been a long day, and she's tired. Otherwise, she might look a little more pleased with herself when he returns.

Vanya, for his part, leaves the shovel neatly leaned out of the way near the door. (He doesn't need it for crowd management and he's not terribly worried about it being stolen. If someone needs it that badly, he'll have Riftwatch take it out of his wages.) He's not hard to keep an eye on, winding his way through the room. As it's crowded but not entirely packed, it doesn't take him long to return with two tankards of a reddish ale that may even benefit from a spice or two. For this part of town, it counts as fancy.

He slides hers to her and settles on the other side of the table. "Cheers," he adds. He's still not entirely sure how to take her initial invitation but not displeased to be sitting somewhere warm with a drink after a tiring afternoon.

The tankard is raised--an unspoken echo of the same sentiment--, then touched to the table with a thump. Miriam promptly sucks down a not insignificant portion of the contents as her attention wanders away, the immediate prospect of people watching being a far more approachable one than picking from a selection of pat small talk openings.

It's only once she's visually made a circuit around the room and has silently drained the first half of her ale that Miriam's attention skirts back. The tankard is set aside. She removes her gloves. She scuffs her reddened, cold-chapped cheeks with her palms and tucks that dark sheet of hair behind her ears--

Anyway.

"Where was your mercenary work?"

He doesn't seem to mind drinking in silence a bit, settling back as she sweeps the room. He's drinking a bit slower than she is, so he's more like a third in when she speaks up.

"...Ferelden, mostly. I was starting out from Skyhold, and to be honest, I do not speak much Orlesian. The country that spoke mainly Trade seemed the better bet. They do not get many Nevarrans, so it is not as if I blended in, but the people who needed to hire me generally were not doing so for my conversation." Just as well. He hadn't been eager to talk much, either.

It seems that he might leave it there as he takes a drink of ale. After a moment, though, he adds: "I never intended it to be forever. I just needed some time. I suppose that was selfish."

"Andraste forbid anyone have a life."

Is blunt. But if there is criticism in it--and there is that, despite what is evidently a patented lack of heat--, it's not exactly jabbing back across the table at him. It just is.

"Orlais isn't much to look at these days anyway." All fires scorched fields and townships gutted by the effort of sending every arm capable of carrying a sword or pike off to war. Val Royeaux might still be pretty, but she's never seen it and so can't remark one way or another. "But don't tell any Orlesians I said it."

The barest narrowing of the eyes, but it's not like she's wrong.

"I suppose the country where there was an active war on would have been the more logical place for a mercenary to go," he allows, of that. "But it wasn't ... the fighting wasn't the point. It was just the thing I knew how to do most likely to earn me enough for a place to sleep and something to eat. If I'd had another skill, it would have done just as well."

A pause again, a drink, but he can't actually leave it alone: "If I think stopping Corypheus is important to enough to come back for, it is not as if it was less important then." So maybe it was selfish to go, actually, so there. His tone is still mild.

She hums, a small thing. Point, it might mean for Miriam glances away again. Her eyes but not her attention rove briefly about the room, doing a circuit over the tops of bent heads and across the dice players shooting craps near the tap bar, following the progress of the pot girl as she passes along the length of the room to refill cups from a big striped stoneware pitcher.

And then back to Vanya. She's yet to fetch her drink back up.

"Your rank in the Templars. Did you ever have people reporting to you?"

Even if he were inclined to lie, there's little point when it's something she can easily verify for herself if she cares to. "I was a Knight Captain, when I resigned." It may be an answer in and of itself; he could leave it there, as it technically is an affirmative answer.

(He doesn't look about the room, though his eye contact is not so complete to be unsettling. When he's not looking at her, he's glancing at his drink or out at nothing in particular.)

"I haven't been directly in charge of anyone for years, though." He glances over the Mage-Templar War, and who he was and was not in charge of then, to add, "The Templars with the Inquisition were not well suited to integrating the individual hierarchies, without anyone having claim to being the hosts. I was disinclined to jockey for influence. The title had been largely a courtesy for years, by the time I renounced it." In more ways than the one she's asking about, but that one pertinently. "What makes you ask?"

Here, she does take up her cup and drinks from it.

"You don't strike me as one of those cold officers who sends walking wounded onto the field is all."

"Ah." He sits back in his chair a bit. "...you're an observant woman." And there, at last, is a bit of wryness, though any deprecation is purely aimed inward.

"My sister and I took a half dozen children out of Markham when we left it. I've the practiced eyes of a hawk."

She taps below one for emphasis. It's a cynical, dry breed of humor that she drinks down with her next sip of ale.

"And it helps that you've been telling on yourself. If the Inquisition's lack of order were the reason you left it, I can't imagine that you'd come to Kirkwall to pitch back into the fight instead of just answering the Divine's invitation."

A spread of the hands. Ta-da. What a good magic trick.

He tilts his cup to her, conceding the point. "I do not ask or expect sympathy from those who don't know me," he says, "but I think the least I can do is to be honest when someone asks. It is not as if I don't understand where the questions come from."

He's noticed how few templars and ex-templars are here (and, not incidentally, how different his demeanor is from the existing examples of the latter). It would have been hard to miss.

"And if I ask fewer questions of others myself," quieter, "it is not because I am not interested so much as I feel ... a lack of grounds."

miriam;

Snowed out Kirkwall

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pleasure - lmk if you'd like any adjustments, though!

pins gold star to you

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