faderift | [CLOSED] You think that all your time is used

Then let us be off.

[There's a moment where he steps in— not to Barrow's immediate side as though acting in the interest of making a formal threat, but instead just diagonally— lingering at the edges of Barrow's peripheral vision, only enough to make his (incredibly demanding) request known.]

[Barrow doesn’t move, aside from flipping another card.]

Pardon?

We leave. Now. [Heavy hand set flat across that flipped card, clearly intent on getting all due attention.

It's true enough, that Gabranth is the very definition of a well-trained hound when in the presence of those whose rank outstrips his own. It's when those betters are away, however, that he shreds toilet paper and knocks potted plants over and gets into the leftovers set out on the counter.

And Barrow is no noble.]

[There’s a glimmer of irritation in Barrow’s eyes at this display, and he slowly raises his gaze to look into the eyeholes of Gabranth’s helmet.]

If it’s a fight you’re after, mate, I’m sure there’s a Lowtown pub full of drunks who’d be glad for the provocation.

[He takes the cigarette out of his mouth and exhales smoke from his nose. Some people have no manners.]

Edited 2021-04-09 21:09 (UTC)

[No, not provocation—]

I intend to spar with you, not bloody you. [He corrects almost impatiently for the trouble of it, drawing his helmet a few degrees farther away from that oddly familiar smoke-scent.]

Then why don't you just ask me like a good lad? Fuck.

[He swats Gabranth's hand away, cigarette clamped between his lips as he begins to right the cards. Perhaps he shouldn't've called him a lad, but the man sounds young, and, well. His behavior merits it.]

Don't answer to you, mate, you're gonna have to use your words like everyone else.

Then consider the question posed. [Lad he says. Belittling, dismissive. He thinks it fortunate for Barrow that Jone is so dearly protective of him.

And that Gabranth himself isn’t the man he used to be.]

Your evening is hardly being put to use. You’ve no reason to decline, save for fear itself.

Hardly being put to use? What's it look like I'm doing?

[Barrow gestures indignantly towards his ruined card game.]

Why ruin a perfectly good evening by tilting about like a pair of dusty ganders? C'mere, Ser Buckets.

[He pats the table in front of him and then begins to mix up the cards, collecting them into a pile so he can reshuffle.]

You sit here and you play a game with me, have a drink, then we'll spar all you like. Fair?

[He smiles up at him, hopeful and, no doubt, teasing. But the offer is serious.]

[What was said he still thinks true, no matter how Barrow might argue differently: smoking, drinking— resting his heels, all wasteful enough to be indolent.]

I know nothing of your games.

[Actually he knows no games. Not since the ones he’d played in Landis at his brother’s side...and those memories are long, long lost.]

Well, you'd better learn this one, if you're going to be in Thedas a while. Wicked Grace. Sit.

[He thumps the table again.]

[He is a Judge Magister of Archadia. Hell’s Watchdog, the Emperor's Hand, Executioner of the Unjust. He is bitter with irritation, and beneath his armor there lies a rigid scowl.

And he sits. Heavily enough that the floor shakes for it.]

[Barrow grins at him. And he deals him a hand, spreading it and his own out before Gabranth to explain which one wins and why; he's a patient teacher, re-shuffling those cards and dealing new hands to give Gabranth the opportunity to figure it out himself according to the rules he's learned, over and over until he gets it.

They don't even start playing properly for another ten minutes or so, Barrow explaining the rules as many times as he needs to, his cadence as lazy and pleasant as in all other aspects of life. He doesn't want to win; he just wants to play, with someone else who knows how.]

Edited 2021-04-10 04:19 (UTC)

[That someone isn’t Gabranth, not even in learning— though he does manage to grasp the basics of it after a little while spent pressing back and forth between instruction and experience. Still, each time he loses, there’s a tangible acidity present in his grip on those thin little cards.]

This is a pointless exercise. [Yes, Gabranth. That is generally how games work.] I've done as you've asked.

Better to depart before daylight is lost to us.

I've been with Riftwatch a couple years now, [Barrow says, breezing past Gabranth's complaints as he deals another hand.]

It's a good place, good people. Might even say I've found my calling, such that I'm called to do anything. With luck, mate, you'll feel the same before too long.

[He pauses to inspect his cards.]

I have little choice.

[He counters, dismissive of Barrow's mild confession— the way he shuffles and deals as if nothing at all has been said on Gabranth's own part. This world has taken hold of him, without say and without kindness, and it isn't any secret that those brought to this world end their existence in it just as keenly.

He does not (perhaps unsurprisingly) pick up his own dealt hand.]

Well and that's the bitch of it, isn't it?

[Flip flip go the cards, Barrow helping himself to Gabranth's hand and comparing the two, then surrendering easily before dealing again.]

It's about taking what you're given, however shit it might be. Making the best of it. Falling into its stride so it doesn't end you right then and there. Living another day.

[Flip, flip.]

You ever been a prisoner? A proper one, not accidental like this.

[He looks pleasantly up at Gabranth.]

No.

[He did, however, imprison his brother for a number of years if only to watch him starve. Does that count?

The cards snap and slide against the table as Barrow goes about his business, Gabranth watching him with all the doting patience of a dog denied dinner, back resting heavily against the seat behind him.]

It changes the way you think about things. You figure out real quick whether what you're doing, the reason you're here, is worth it or not.

[He collects the cards again, and begins to reshuffle them, perhaps without dealing this time-- instead, he just looks at Gabranth while he speaks, still smiling and completely aware of the armored figure's restlessness.]

Spent some days on a rack, I did. Not too long ago, recently enough I remember what it felt like, long enough ago that I don't hurt from it daily anymore. But it fucked my joints, mate. Fucked 'em for life.

[He keeps shuffling directionlessly.]

Every battle I fight these days, I've got to make sure it's worth it. That I'm not just pushing myself for the glory of it, and then I can't use my hands anymore. I did underground boxing for a while, before all that, for the fun of it. Now I don't. That's over.

[The shuffling stops, and he cants his head, looking in the direction of Gabranth's eyes, even if he can't see them.]

You picking up what I'm putting down?

Edited (too many mates) 2021-04-10 22:40 (UTC)

[He is, in fact. Despite everything— his willful stubbornness, his need to bark and snap teeth in order to let frustration wane when it builds to a breaking point— he does, in fact, understand.

And for a long moment of silence while Barrow shuffles cards around rough fingers, it seems as though Gabranth cares nothing for a story about habits dimming for old pain.

But when he speaks again, it lacks any semblance of bite:]

For what were you imprisoned?

Few of us caught with our pants down, seeking out a relic near Churneau.

[Barrow sighs and rubs his temple, offering a wan smile. This is not something he talks about often, but it seemed appropriate for the moment.]

It was an easy enough mission, but we had no idea the Venatori would be so proactive. Riftwatch had to send a second set of agents just to get us back out.

[He flips idly through the cards, just for something to do.]

A shame I arrived too late, then.

[A strange sentiment. A stranger delivery still, and without a face to act as any sort of comfort, the best estimation of it is something straddling the line between truer sympathy...

...and the thought that clearly you just weren’t well enough armed to manage without him.]

[Barrow looks up at him in confusion that slowly dawns into incredulity. What... what a take.]

A shame, [he agrees, a bit testily.]

[Do you regret asking him to sit with you now, Barrow? There's better company to be found elsewhere. Anywhere, surely.]

Your joints, then. No healer could see to them?

Some things even magic can't heal, in their entirety. Perhaps if it'd been seen to early enough, but.

[Puff.]

..it wasn't.

[He could say he’s sorry for Barrow’s loss. He cannot imagine it, what his own life might’ve been if he’d survived Vayne’s assault at the very end.

Surely he would’ve been unable to serve. To wear his armor or lift a sword in hand in defense of the only cause that had ever mattered to him. Painful, and painfully quiet, and the discomfort of that alone might’ve eaten away all sense of hope or contentment. But he and Barrow seem ever at odds when near one another. Something about the ease of it all, the way Barrow takes to things and adapts with fluidity...

It reminds him too much of his brother.

So instead of words he can’t bring himself to say, he finally picks up his own dealt hand.

...and plays a card.]

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thereneverwas - 2021-04-11 21:55 (UTC) - Expand