closed | couldn't drag me away.

[poleaxed]

WHO: Butch Porkfist poleaxed & Final Fantasy's Amelia Bedelia archademode & Snidely Whiplash altusimperius
WHAT: I don't want to ride my chocobo all day. Neither does Benedict.
WHEN: Now.
WHERE: The stables.
NOTES: I don't actually know how horses work.

UNO.

Every stable has an old nag, so old and docile no one really uses it anymore. Some of them had names once, but when a horse gets old enough, they just fade into the background until they die. It'd be sad, if Jone gave a shit, but she doesn't, so it isn't.

Nag is a grey mare, born some time in, presumably, the Blessed age. She walks slowly and calmly behind Jone, who is holding a carrot. Nag slowly uses her flat yellow teeth to saw into the carrot.

"This," Jone says to the tower of metal standing before her, "is a horse."

DOS.

Later, at some point after Jone has menaced Gabranth with the platonic concept of equestrianism, she spots young Benedict in the distance. What he's doing doesn't really matter to her, and the fact that she might be about to make a fool of herself barely crosses her mind.

Without warning, she just shouts, with (practiced, but) real (sounding) concern in her voice. "Oi! Ben! They're coming, they are! Hide here!"

She waves her hand, looking generally distressed.

Comments

[poleaxed]

“Been riding since I were fourteen,” she adds, “and Moira here is uncommon polite. Ain’t you, Your Majesty?”

Jone pets the horse’s mane, scratches behind an ear, and Moira makes pleased noises.

“Lucky for us both, Riftwatch ain’t much for horsed combat, so you’ll only need to learn riding.”

[archademode]

"Unless I desired to enter that tournament you spoke of." He counters, letting his arms fold while he watches her pad around in slow, steady circles.

[poleaxed]

Jone’s eyes light up, all excitement. “Would you really?”

[archademode]

"I doubt I'll be proficient enough by then," Learning to ride is one thing, after all. Learning an entire sport while riding on an unfamiliar breed of beast altogether might very well be too much for him.

And...truth be told, he still has far too much work to manage to even begin to consider matters of leisure.

"But should fate deign to allow it, yes. I would."

[poleaxed]

Joan continues to beam. She turns to get off Moira, leading her back to the stables, where one can find a saddle and wooden stairs that lead up to nowhere. Not everyone has a partner to push them up on the big horses.

“We’ll have to get you trained up, then.” The pleasure in her voice is impossible to miss. “Can I ask why?”

She says, affixing saddle and stirrups to Moira.

[archademode]

"To settle our score, naturally."

Said as he moves to retain full view of her, even as she moves to begin the lengthy process of laying and adjusting tack and blanket. His voice, if ever he sounded close to it, could be read as almost teasing.

But that would be impossible, of course.

[poleaxed]

She finishes saddling the horse, and, step stool in hand, walks over to quickly peck his helm. She leaves no blood, this time. “A prince, you are. The real kind, not the sort that go whoring and whelp bastards.”

It doesn’t occur to her that those sorts of princes only exist in fairy tales for a reason.

She sets the step stool down, so Gabranth has a chance in hell of mounting the beast in front of them— who is nosing at Jone’s now empty hands, searching for more treats. Jone takes a step back, sturdying Moira. “Now, up you go, and be sure to treat Her Majesty with respect. I’d try’n give you a leg up, but I’m not partial to breaking me back so as to maintain your mystique.”

[archademode]

It doesn’t sit well with him, that compliment. The way she says it, with a simplicity that feels so desperately sincere to his ears. Kind words wasted on a man like him.

But she outweighs the discomfort of it. Even the kiss placed does nothing to unsettle.

“Princes don’t keep score.”

Said with an ease to it, a familiar push and pull; he rises fully along with it, pressing away from the wall and letting the step bear all his weight— though once he sits, once he feels the beast move beneath him, weight switching from one hoof to the next, he finds himself gripping the saddle with one hand, his balance too far forward on instinct alone.

[poleaxed]

“You- you’re leaning, mate. Relax.” She stands parallel to him on the ground, and tries to mimick the riding form he should have. Shoulders back, back.

“You’ll give Her Majesty a shoulder ache like that. Don’t want to upset the Queen, now.”

[archademode]

He doesn’t mean to. There is so much about it that feels strange to his senses— and he’d more often relied on Archadia’s airships than any high-blooded chocobo for transport, aside from the occasional need for a ceremonial procession or narrow pass.

His shoulders roll back, but his hips stay forward— his body stiff to maintain an odd angle, heels digging in.

“All right—“

All right, he says. Not knowing what to agree to or how best to act on her instruction.

[poleaxed]

Moira makes a frustrated noise, and horse-faced Jone can’t help but agree. She pets Moira’s mane to calm her, and puts a hand on Gabranth’s knee to calm him. Well. His armor. It’s probably not that calming.

(What a lonely thing, hiding from everyone, not being able to feel their touch. Armor makes every physical entreaty into an attack. The part of her mind that handles abstract thought seizes on that idea, a puzzle box to be peered at later at night when sleep won’t come.)

“What’d calm you down, mate?” She asks, earnest, “I can tell stories, or give you instruction, but what you need to do is relax, aye?”

[archademode]

Relax. As if that were so easy. As if he could manage anything more—or perhaps less— than the perpetual sense of immediacy clinging to his every movement. He was meant for the Hunt. Intended to act without leisure or comfort, a point of pride, and that alone is what promised him a life at the Emperor’s side.

He exhales, attempting to let the saddle hold him (more than he clings to either it or the reins), and though he doesn’t quite manage it, it is at least the small semblance of progress.

“I do not know.” Said teresely. Irritably.

More childish in his impatience than he’s ever been.

[poleaxed]

Jone guesses, based entirely upon her knowledge of herself (that she is, ultimately, an irritant) that reaching out to him again likely won’t help. He’s got to get comfortable with the animal, and he isn’t even comfortable touching people. Instead, she takes the reins, and lets Moira move slowly about.

“You know why she’s a queen?” Jone says, voice light, “Queen Moira of Ferelden. Rebel Queen Moira. When Orlais invaded, she lead the rebellion, taught her son how to wage it. I dunno if that’s what they call this mare, here, but I always wanted a horse named Moira, so that’s what I call her when I come down. Suits you, don’t it?”

She pats Moira’s mane as she leads her, slowly, steadily.

[archademode]

"Rebel queens. Common uprisings. Your world is a tumultuous one.” Said the pot to the kettle, and sounding a bit petulant for it at that.

Steady movement— predictable movement— helps: there at least he can feel out where step and stride meet, and where his own balance ought to adjust to meet it. True, there’s no grace to his movements, it isn’t even the shadow of his fluidity in a fight or the form he intends to maintain beneath her instruction, but so long as he stays seated with his spine more at ease, it turns to less trouble for everyone involved.

thanks for hiding this notif dw

[poleaxed]

Jone keeps moving the horse, speeding it along a little. Nothing too fast, not even yet at a gallop. Just a slightly quicker pace than before.

"Between the invasion, the Blight, and now the war, Ferelden's not seen peace in four generations." Maybe more, but who's counting? It isn't as though she was taught proper history in school. "Rest of the world, lately, is just getting a taste of southern medicine."

it turned it into a secret present for you

[archademode]

“Yet here you are attempting to change that.” a statement made not unkindly, allowing the reins to sit a little more naturally in gloved hands as they drift towards the push and pull of normal conversation.

In spite of the losses her homeland has suffered, there isn’t much denying that what she does benefits the whole of Thedas rather than just her homeland.

He finds he can relate, in his own way.

wow thanks dw

[poleaxed]

Jone reaches up to her wrist, pulling away a knotted bracelet of thick fabric and leather. It looks decorative, if out of fashion. The reality is more simple: it hides a cool green glow.

"Weren't my choice, I swear it." Her voice carries the humor of a joke-- if she's done any harm, it was on purpose; the opposite is clearly accidental.

[archademode]

"So you would not tread the same path, were it not for that."

His helmet shifts, clearly attempting to better glimpse it over the sight of Moira's long ears and occasionally tossing head, the way she flicks each in turn to combat the nuisance of flies that seem only attracted to her existence.

[poleaxed]

"Not here," she says. "Pay is awful, though the bed and board makes up for some."

Not enough. All told, she's used to living better, in her wild years. She wonders if they've passed entirely, if Riftwatch is the whole rest of her life, but... she doesn't want to think that far ahead. It never does her any good.

"Might've been swayed to a proper army, given time, but I'm getting up in years. And I've not the blood for it, as we've discussed." She gives him a look, lightly teasing, as though nearly getting into a shouting match minutes ago is now a source of fun.

[archademode]

“The problem with armies lies in a narrow field of view.”

Riftwatch, at least, for all its faults, seems to have a broader ambition than simple politics, embittered rivalries of the need for supply alone, so far as he can tell. 

“Their concerns are too small. You would die for so little.”

[poleaxed]

Jone looks up at him, but whatever expression she holds is ruined by her squinting through the sunlight glinting off his armor. "Everybody dies for something little. Ta for the concern, though."

[archademode]

“Is that truly your belief?”

That death is a small thing. A narrow occurrence to be put at the end of a lifetime, little more than punctuation at the end of a penned sentence.

He has, by now, entirely forgotten his posture. Simply settled upon that horse with distracted ease, concentrated more on Jone than anything else.

It seems her bid at demanding his focus has paid off.

[poleaxed]

Jone notices his ease, and isn't of a mood to spook it out of him. He seems, at times, more likely to jolt than the bloody horse. She keeps walking him about, having their conversation, and she'll comment on his riding when he's done with it. If she ruins it, all he'll think on is his failure, even though he's doing right well.

"You don't die because honor killed you, or justice stopped your heart," she says softly, "you die 'cos your lungs gave out, or you ran outta blood, or your skull were crushed. I seen it happen. Poets say poison's an ugly way to die, but I ain't seen a pretty one yet. Just like being born, it's small and ugly and stupid."

[archademode]

It felt different than that, he thinks.

He would say as much (he would always say as much, given the opportunity to dig in his heels), but he isn’t certain that this is the conversation he wants to have while seated atop a horse as they pad around in listless circles. Still— it’s knowledge spirited away for later. Something to discuss when he isn’t acclimating to hoof beats and horse hair.

“Easier to rest, when your heart stops beating for the sake of someone worth defending.”

[poleaxed]

Jone nods her head to that, chewing the thought over. Causes, she thinks, are too big to die for. You go out there for honor and glory, but really it's the dream of a good woman or because your Da hit you too hard. People, now, that's something to believe in. They're just the right size to die for.

But she can't say any of that.

"Poet, you are," her voice has that raspy softness again. "Come now, let's get you down."

She pulls Moira back to their starting spot, next to the step up.