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]

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.

[archademode]

“Only in your world.”

In Archades he’s a blunt instrument, in the realm of the gods he was cast as little more than a shadow; it’s difficult for him— as she likely already knows— to reconcile the differences between what he understands within those two existences and Thedas itself.

The step is easy enough to find, even on the way down. One smooth movement from saddle to ground, despite the way his gloved hands still tightly grip the saddle as he dismounts.

It won’t be an easy trip ahead of him, but if nothing else, this experience will have made it bearable.