faderift | OPEN | see, the thing is,

Entry tags:

OPEN | see, the thing is,

WHO: jone

poleaxed & YOU.
WHAT: It's time to play tennis, whether you want to or not.
WHEN: Mid-late Cloudreach.
WHERE: Gallows, training grounds.
NOTES: Currently G-rated tennis, will update if this changes.

If you're one to keep track of things, you may have noticed the Gallows were relatively Jone free for the past few weeks. Frequently seen at the training grounds with varying levels of volume, at six feet Jone is hard to miss, for all meanings of the word.

And now, she is back.

You might notice her early in the day, when she's (a) stringing a bit of waist-high netting across a corner of the training yard. There are some rackets on an unused crate, along with some balls.

"Oi, help me with this, would you." She waves you over.

Or you might be caught, when the game is rolling. Of course, it's not really a game with no opponents. (b) You hear a shout, possibly a warning, and a ball comes soaring toward you. Do you catch it? Throw it back?

Or are you hit? Oops.

(c) Of course, there are polite options, like when the six foot woman hands you a racket out of the blue, shoving it into your hands if you're not amenable. "C'mon, agility training."

(wildcard) Or perhaps it's something else entirely.

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"I'll have you know I am in Resesrch division, and so require no training thank you very much." Ignore the bow and arrows and the guard strapped to her forearm; those are outliers which shouldn't be counted.

"Come now, where is the second—ah ha."

She fishes the spare racket up from where it's lying on the ground.

"Bollocks to that, luv, we're at war." Jone picks up another ball, making like she's about to throw it once more. Mostly, she wants to see Wysteria's reaction.

"So we are. And at my age, I've very little hope of becoming proficient enough in anything I might now be trained in to keep me alive against anyone who knows a sword or magic or what have you. So let us not pretend that there is any use in me wasting my time on the matter when it might serve better elsewhere."

Really; what difference will a few studious hours of handling a weapon really make if she is to face against hardened Venatori agents? Surely only a nominal one.

And yet with the racket in hand, Wysteria's eyebrows climb invitingly up toward her hairline. Well? Go on then.

Edited 2021-04-25 04:37 (UTC)

She didn't flinch. That's always promising.

"So play a game with me." Jone holds up her racket. "Easy to learn, hard to master, won't tell on you for skiving off."

Flinching is for men.

"Very well. But just the one game, and then I've got to hurry along or my entire day will be thrown out of sorts."

Jone grins, toothy and lopsided. "Knew you had it in you. C'mon, luv, I'll go easy on you."

She walks to the little net she's set up, the court, looking for all her joking genuinely excited.

The bow and quiver with it's collection of arrows are left on the ground, unattended and willfully forgotten. Hopefully they don't go missing. That would be a tragedy.

(They won't; more's the pity.)

"Where did you learn this? What are the rules?"

"Rich southern twats play it. I used to play it with rich southern twats."

Make what conclusions can be made. Jone serves a very weak first volley, easy to catch. She's had practice making it easy thanks to Ben; she'd thank the little prick, but it'd go straight to his head.

"Keep the ball off the ground long as you can," she says.

And, like a particularly sporting retriever, Wysteria in her skirts and her neat little boots goes cheerfully bounding after the ball. She's good at croquet, and this is not so different in terms of hitting things with other things. Whack goes the racket, and back sails the ball. Sure. Easy enough.

"That cannot be the only rule. And if it is, then it's a very silly game."

"Well, when we're sporting," Jone says, taking a moment to jump and spike the ball, trying to drive Wysteria to a far corner, make her run for it, "you try'n fuck the other player over."

Edited (me hrs later, oh hey a typo.) 2021-04-26 04:55 (UTC)

There is a brief instant where Wysteria visibly hesitates, watching at the ball's trajectory catapults beyond her immediate reach. Maybe some part of her recognizes it's gone then, which explains the lackluster effort she puts into swinging the racket at it. It whiffs harmlessly.

"Oh all right. I see your meaning," she chirps, clomping along after the missed ball before it can escape.

"How do you decide who hits it first? Was that a point for you? And how many points do you play to?"

So, this one's got an eye for detail. Should that be indulged? Jone didn't bother with Ellis, but the way Ellis asked was... different.

Can you train the mind when you fight with the body? She's never considered it.

Jone tries to remember the fancy rules. "Can't hit it outside the court or into the net, that's an out. First to win six bouts wins the match. Each bout is just... when you missed that ball, that would've been a win for me. We switch who starts back and forth."

Is that it? She's pretty sure that's all. With a smile, Jone says, "which means you're to get that ball and serve it back."

The ball is recaptured and fetched back within the bounds of the court without much fanfare.

"Keep it within bounds, no striking the net, first to six wins," she repeats, entirely for her own benefit as she beetles back to mid-court. "Must the ball be served as you did, or may I do it however I like? I'm not very practiced with throwing."

"You can take it slow," Jone says with a shrug. She stands ready to receive whatever Wysteria intends to hit, casually sure-footed.. "Just kinda seemed like you wanted a challenge."

The motion of Wysteria's arm, already moving to bounce the ball off the paving stones in order to strike it rather than attempt to throw the thing before hitting it, abruptly halts. The sharp scowling look she throws Jone across the net must be purely reflexive for a moment later it is edge is cleared away and her demeanor is all light good cheer once more.

"Well, I suppose it can hardly hurt to make an attempt."

A challenge. Honestly.

With a surly wrinkle of the nose (invisible, surely, given the yards of distance between them), Wysteria hucks the tennis ball up into the air and swings the racket after it. It spikes directly into the ground on her own side of the court.

Jone moves the racket in front of her face as though it's some decorative Orlesian fan, and not an object full of holes through which to view a crooked smile.

"You got the hardest part down," Jone intones, "try again."

"Surely the hardest part is getting the ball to go where you desire it to," is a petty response; she can her it in her ear the moment it has passed her teeth.

Nonetheless, she fetches back the ball from where it's bounced and subsequently rolled off to and then patters in her soft soled shoes back to her original position to try once more.

Insert a short montage of tossing and failing to hit the ball here. However the next time the racket manages to connect, the ball does go sailing wildly in the direction of the court side beyond the net.

Edited 2021-05-02 23:19 (UTC)

"Nah," Jone says, "hardest part's giving a fuck in the first place."

Look, she's trained Benedict, she's seen some shit. Which has taught her to be a bit more patient, watching Wysteria try and hit the ball, offering tips where she can. When Wysteria manages to get the thing going, Jone gives her a little cheer, and returns it in a soft, easy volley.

"Well yes, obviously. But assuming that isn't in question--"

It is a half articulated thought at best, left to wither on the vine of reason as Wysteria scampers to intercept the ball as it comes arcing back in her direction. It's a kind reply, not so far out of her range that she truly has to run or stretch for it.

WHACK! The ball rebounds off her racket, whizzing back in Jone's general direction at speed.

"It's always bloody in que- fuck-"

Jone manages to twist just out of the way to keep herself from being hit in the nose. Generally, she's call foul for trying to brain a motherfucker. Today, it's all about building confidence.

"Blimey, woman, you're a natural. Your point."

Someone else might express a moment's hesitation for having almost cracked their partner in the face. Wysteria however brightens, evidently having taken the compliment portion of Jone's response to heart and utterly overwriting everything which might have preceded it.

"Do you really think so? Well, it is not so different from croquet, only the balls in this move and they're not on the ground. You've played that as well, I assume. The version here. The rules are a little different from how I know them. Anyway, I don't believe it's entirely inaccurate to say that I'm rather good at that game. So it stands to reason I might be a fair hand at this one."

Sure. Why not.

Look, some people like to be complimented, and if that's the way of it, there are worse things. Jone smiles back, though hers is neither bright nor sweet, more venal and competitive.

"Then I'll have you around, once a week, d'you think? Wouldn't like you to get out of practice."

She scoffs. Once a week! Absurd. She has neither the time nor inclination to play some silly game once a week, regardless of how it might be passed off as some kind of martial exercise—

Well.

Unless of course she might convince a particular Warden that it ought to replace archery practice.

"I believe it is your turn to start, Lady Denerim."

Jone gives Wysteria a canny smile. "That a yes or a no?" She says it just before spiking the ball again, forcing Wysteria to run to the edge of the court if she wishes to return it.

Rather than answer, Wysteria going hopping after the ball. She's not especially quick in her skirts and boots, but an enthusiastically competitive reach of the arm manages to make up just enough of the difference to catch the ball off the edge of the racket and send it arcing back—the curve of its flight comically high.

"You ought to start a competitive league if you want people to play."

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poleaxed - 2021-05-23 02:07 (UTC) - Expand

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heirring - 2021-05-25 03:26 (UTC) - Expand

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