OPEN | see, the thing is,

[poleaxed]

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.

Comments

[heirring]

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.

[poleaxed]

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."

[heirring]

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."

[poleaxed]

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.

[heirring]

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."

[poleaxed]

Jone catches the ball, careful to tilt her racket at the right angle so it doesn't bounce higher still into her side of the court.

"To what end? Bragging rights? Half you lot haven't the foggiest how to play."

[heirring]

She is expecting it to return high again, and so must lunge after the returned ball--and fails to catch and lob it back. It takes her a few moments to scamper after the ball, shouting at some passerby to stop it from rolling and then having to negotiate the terms of the thing's release before she, it, and her racket return.

Her serve is delayed in favor of:

"All sport is for bragging rights even when there is prize money involved."