![[community profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/community.png){kind=small}
Entry tags:
CLOSED | a shadow crossed the sky,
WHO: scarlett johansson ![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
poleaxed & chris evans archademode
WHAT: Dirty jobs done dirt cheap.
WHEN: Mid-Cloudreach.
WHERE: Denerim.
NOTES: Discussions of past child abuse are highly likely.
poleaxed & chris evans archademodeWHAT: Dirty jobs done dirt cheap.
WHEN: Mid-Cloudreach.
WHERE: Denerim.
NOTES: Discussions of past child abuse are highly likely.
Long travel after long travel, Jone only wants rest; unfortunately, there is none for wickedness. Taoran Hawkwind always struck Jone as a small minded mercenary. She's never met the man, of course, but they've mutual friends. He always sounded a little thick, and his camp, just outside Denerim's walls, proves it. Jone talks shop with him anyway, joking that her 'armed guard' is actually a qunari, and this far south? Everybody believes it.
Taoran is doing grunt work, trying to get a rich merchant out of taxes. Not terribly clever, especially since he's going through the Brecilian to do it. Then again, Jone's always had a bias against Gwaren and Amaranthine and does she just hate Fereldan nobles? No, not interrogating that night now.
She agrees to go with him, lying that they could use the cash. Half pay up front is bargained for, and Jone immediately uses it getting them a respectable room at a respectable inn. Within the walls of Denerim, a thatch-roofed city stacked with as many pickpockets as rich men (and more that like to slum, besides) The Wailing Willow doesn't double as a brothel, as far as Jone can tell, so she hopes Gabranth won't pitch too much of a fit.
They can only afford one room with the coin Jone's scraped together, though Jone requests a divider, explaining in her poshest accent that they're not yet married.
The innkeeper rolls her eyes, but gets the divider.
As soon as the door is closed, Jone collapses on the bed nearest the window, luxuriating in sleeping on tightly bound rope and straw mattress. She's slept on better. She doesn't care.
"Ah, this is the life, innit. Going off to do something pointlessly dangerous on the morrow, but after sleeping on a bed."
No one they've encountered in Denerim has Jone's accent, because they've steered clear of the part of the city Jone's from. She hopes Gabranth hasn't noticed.
"What d'you think of Hawkwind, Gab? Besides that bloody name. It ain't his fault; his Da picked it out of a hat."
no subject
Said with cutting coldness a notch above the clink and scrape of metal catching against itself: a sure sign he’s already tending to the matter of removing his armor behind that partition— and it is, admittedly, a process he welcomes in this moment. No matter the extent of his time spent fully embedded within the guise of a Judge Magister, not one word of complaint was or will ever be spoken of it.
But the dense metal bracketing his shoulders has begun to gnaw deep tracking marks from use, and he finds he cannot help but breathe a little easier without the burden of it weighing him down.
“Were it not vital to the mission itself, I would not waste our time with his ambition.”
no subject
Because, of course, there's no profit in that. But she's genuinely surprised by the extent of Gabranth's disdain, especially when her disdain comes from a different place entirely-- Hawkwind could aim higher. She did.
The partition is hardly translucent, or it wouldn't be a partition. Still, shadows cast the slightest silhouette if you look for it. Jone turns herself on the bed, facing the wall, while she pulls off muddy boots.
"You don't have to go, if you don't like. This, I could do in me sleep. Even if savage bands of Dalish cannibals show up, which-- not likely."
no subject
Perhaps it's the fact that he's done too much shoddy work as of late to begin with, in order to right the matter of repair as far as Jone's armor is concerned. He'd never told her the extent of it, and he has no intention of it now, but the fact remains that he'd felt far more at ease amongst masks and spent lightning that he does dealing with mercenaries—
And for that, he can't help but wonder if perhaps he's been too long away from humankind to truly find himself comfortable anywhere.
Still, he pulls the last of the buckles from his wrists, leaving himself dressed in no more than leather and cloth, and expending a short exhale that sings of relief.
no subject
(Any pirate that fucks with Tevinter is a good pirate, which is... most of them.)
"Pirates have daring," she says, "pirates are creative. Hawkwind the Younger is doing the oldest merc work in the book, and thumping his chest for it. Embarrassing, it is."
She keeps her back turned when she finally slumps down on the bed, changing out of her heavy surcoat and breeches. She's left in loose underclothes that still cover most of her, but it's not really fit for society, thin as the fabric is.
Still, she's seen Gabranth's face, which is basically his underpants from the way he goes about things. They're even, if he happens to see her.
no subject
Still, the idea that she might see him is only a moment later confirmed as he comes pacing around the partition’s edge, fiddling idly at the cuff of his dark shirt (high collar, long sleeves, leather breeches still— it’s as if the man dreads any amount of freedom) in order to more fully continue their disagreement.
She’s seen him without his helm regardless, there’s no point in trying to take that back, even if he’s yet to bring up the frustration of that night since.
“Pirates are little more than vermin, seizing every opportunity to steal from whatever lies within their reach.” Mercenaries, at the very least, ought maintain an air of dignity in their dealings— so for that, she is right: the man is an embarrassment in his work, necessary as it remains.
“No self-respecting Judge would suffer one.”
...or, as is so painfully often the case, become one.
no subject
This is a man, a real one. That head popping out of armor in the moonlight seems like a lifetime ago. The candle light casts soft shadows, making him look even more... himself. She can't explain it, but this is who she wanted to see.
But what she says instead is just, "Gab, luv, I'm gonna take a guess here and say a pirate did something t'you that ain't been answered."
no subject
He starts, stops, his jaw briefly working, teeth clenched.
In truth, he’d tolerated them, briefly. Pirates. Sky and land alike. Moments upon moments in that void of a world meant only for endless warfare. It was an absolute necessity, and so long as their cause remained unified he withheld judgment.
But—
That time is done. Ended the moment he'd crossed through the Fade without so much as a second to gasp for breath— returned instead to the land of the living. And the living flee, for their world is wide.
“Are you not at all troubled by this? Working to impress a man that ill deserves it?"
no subject
"The way you feel about pirates," she says, "I feel about slavers, me cousins, and certain Orlesians. This is shite work, like, but it's not hurting nothing but me pride."
no subject
And there's an irony to it somewhere, how much more candid he is without his helm in place, behind closed doors, pacing as he talks to someone he considers his own peer— a set of qualifiers for a harsher tone and more embittered commentary, free of all usual restraint.
Were they in this moment sharing space with someone set above their station, Jone might guess (correctly) that his tongue would be held, and he'd say nothing more than the usual cycle of 'As you wish', or 'I trust fully in your judgment'.
"We will do what need be done," he starts, stubbornly lifting his own chin by degrees, cinching his own fingers against his palm. Somehow, the armor makes him seem more passive than he truly is unmasked. "They will not dare to go back on their word once our work here is finished.”
A threat, a promise— the difference is so nominal it hardly matters.
no subject
What a fucking berk she is.
"'Preciate it, Gab, you looking out for me." Because that's what it is. "I've your back as well. You needn't worry for none, alright? Not while we're here."
Even if she plans to sneak out tonight. She'll be back by morning. Everything will be fine.
no subject
His emotions were never clean-flowing: kindness prompting anger, mercy giving rise to resentment, worry met with irritation and a willingness to make the world meet his own expectations, rather than permit it to pull he or those around him into its own designs. Protective, demanding, inflexible—
But when she thanks him, he stops.
Lashes flickering where they lower beneath a knitted brow, tight grip on thin air relaxing by cautious degrees. He realizes she’s watching him, recognizes at last her state— and his own— and all lividity leaves him, as if drained through his bare heels into the floor. Lip twitching where it pulls into a thin line, visibly resetting himself.
“Apologies for my intrusion.” It wasn't his place to snap his teeth over their given contract, just as it wasn't his place to press beyond the partition without warning, knowing full well she deserves privacy. A matter easily corrected with a single step back towards his own given portion of the room.
"Know that I meant no disrespect by it."
no subject
"Gab, mate," she says, the smile obvious even in her voice, "grew up with three older brothers, I did, the four of us all stuffed in one room. I'll not be spooked for being seen in me knickers by a good mate."
She considers asking if he has anything to sleep in, or if he intends to try and find rest in that leather suit of his. She considers it, and recognizes it's none of her business. It'd only make him discomforted, judging from this most recent retreat.
"You've never disrespected me. Might be why I'm sharing a room with you, you knob."
The partition is for him. She wouldn't bother with one for Barrow or Si. She doubts they'd care.
no subject
“We should leave before sunrise. Acclimate ourselves with the start of our route.”
no subject
"Denerim were sacked..." She does some quick math, "close on twenty years ago? Blimey, I'm old. Anyroad, I know the streets, those ain't changed, but most all the shops have. Wouldn't be surprised if the neighborhoods've shifted, but I reckon not too much."
Which is to say, she knows where to look.
no subject
He cannot conceal the narrow little glint of concern in his voice. This is not just about scouting their surroundings.
no subject
"Completely," she says, wondering if her plan to sneak out without him is obvious. Wondering if he'll catch her. "Even if it's a maze now-- which it ain't-- I'll not go out with anything worth stealing."
no subject
But he will not force her to say more, nor confess any amount of unease, if it truly exists at all.
"As you say." His tried and true concession, offering only one last beat before he's gone to little more than a silhouette behind the partition, settling down on a bed that feels— well, it works better than bracing across the ground, or a thin wooden cot.
"Rest now. I've no intention of holding myself back come morning, and I'll not wait for you if you cannot keep pace."
no subject
After blowing the candle out, she lies on the bed and pretends to sleep. He said get out early, so she needs to get this done quick. Still, for a few hours her mind flutters between wakefulness and dreaming, and the images that stain her mind are typical. What is worse, to be remembered, or for every scrap of childhood to be razed into undeserving purity?
She sits up with a sigh, and begins, quietly as she's able, to pull her jerkin and breeches on, boots next. No expensive weapons, just the knife everyone keeps at their side. No money.
The Wailing Willow, a wooden structure like most of Denerim's lesser buildings, was made after the Blight, but that doesn't make it new; floorboards creak underfoot. She's never slept near Gabranth (why does that thought make her blood twist in her veins?) and doesn't know how deeply he sleeps.
She hopes, fiddling with the doorknob, that he sleeps deep as shit.
no subject
By the time her fingertips are at the door, he's stirred, exhaling hard through his nose as he shifts across that dense mattress to squint blearily into darkness: there's something almost practiced about it in a way, how hard he fights the dull drag of sleep in favor of showing some semblance of alertness while rolling up onto his side.
He can make her out, yes, but her dress is another thing entirely, and it proves a certain amount of intent on her part. She aims to leave, not simply to fetch something from the inn proper.
"...what are you doing?"
Far from eloquent, his mind still swims with half-forgotten dreams.
no subject
She feels a new sense of embarrassment, as though getting caught won't lead to a thrashing. And then, what is she, thirteen? She's an adult, she doesn't have to wait on anybody's permission.
No, she's a git; it's that she was caught in a lie.
no subject
—before remembering he cannot read them in this world.
no subject
no subject
It isn’t for the reason she cites.
“But you will not think to do this alone, else there was no point in my inclusion on this journey.”
no subject
no subject
And he must mean it, for he fully sounds the part: no hesitation, no momentary pause between her question and his answer, his focus spent on working his heel in past the buckles of his boots before rising, reaching with swift, practiced precision for his armor to begin working it in place.
Unlike last time, he doesn’t ask for her help. It goes quicker without it.
“Which is why you’ll have me there.”
Not here, asleep, but at her side to weather the worst.
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)