WHO: Adrasteia, Erik, others WHAT: a catch-all with starters in the comments; will match format WHEN: early Bloomingtide WHERE: The Gallows, Kirkwall NOTES: Erik comes with a built-in language warning
Erik has a sword with a fire rune in it, now, and thus has taken to practicing even more often than his every few days at the training grounds; he doesn't always use the sword, because he doesn't want to damage it or set too many dummies on fire. Instead, he fights with a sword with a similar heft to it and switches between the two when he doesn't practice wielding them both.
Of course, all of this physical exertion means that he spends some time recovering in the heated baths in the former Templar tower. He's not going to be shy about using them; his muscles ache, and he knows that rest is as useful as training.
He spends some time in Kirkwall proper, mostly in the various markets looking at all and sundry, or in the evening drinking in taverns at the edge of Lowtown. There's also the ferry.
"Looking for anything in particular?" comes a voice.
John's hands are empty, but he's paused in his journey to veer in towards where Erik has lingered. There's an appointment he's meant to keep in Hightown, but there's time enough to wind his way up to the estate in question. Leaving time for a scattering of conversation as he moves through the city is habit by now, three years in to his residency here.
"Nah, I tend to just look around and see what's what." Erik looks up with a shrug, nodding in John's direction. "Lot more handmade shit than back home, which makes it interestin'. How about you?"
"I've an appointment in Hightown, at Lord Archard's estate," John answers, one hand coming to rest on the surface of the table. "But I like to look through the stalls, if I have the time."
John likes to greet the men who work these stalls, stay on good terms just in case there ever comes a moment when he needs something or other from them. But that's neither here nor there.
"Between the two of us, I'm fairly certain you're about to have the better afternoon.'
"Am I allowed to ask who Lord Archard is?" Erik picks up a small armored soldier that was once probably a Tevene's child's toy but is now being sold here; makes him wonder just how far those fleeing the war from Tevinter's borders have reached. "Sometimes the stuff that gets here has me thinkin' about how people move across Thedas, and the goods that follow or proceed them." A shrug. "It's something to do."
"You are, but I won't promise the answer is any more interesting than the offerings on hand here."
The meditation on goods and their transport isn't something John would devote his thoughts, despite qualifying as one of the individuals Erik is indirectly speaking about. Has John not moved back and forth across Thedas, flung to far reaches of the north and drawn again southwards in pursuit of—
The question John poses elicits a small but certain nod from the man. "Definitely; I traveled a lot back home and there's some shit you just can't learn only stuck in one place." He's liked the traveling he's done so far, even; seeing more of Thedas can't be a bad thing by any measure as far as he's concerned.
There had been a point where John had chosen his trajectory in a similar way, considering where might be best and insinuating himself onto the crew of a ship angling in that direction. Riftwatch is not exactly the same, but it has a habit of dispensing it's members throughout Thedas, with some exceptions.
A nod, just once. He's thought about it, but he's unsure still.
"'m curious about Rivain, and Antiva, but I gotta learn the languages first." Obviously going to Tevinter is right out, and he doesn't think he'd thrive in that setting anyway. "At least enough to properly eavesdrop, or what's the fuckin' point?"
[He cannot claim responsibility for the decision to carry fire along a sword’s honed edge, but he does endure a keen flicker of pride at the knowledge it comes in the wake of a battle where Erik had wielded Chaos Blade— his blade— so deftly.
It is a sound decision. Of this he has no doubt.]
I’ve seen precious few who utilize similar techniques here. [Spoken as he fits himself at the edge of the training ground to play spectator to Erik's work: something to lend him room to continue on uninterrupted aside from conversational demands.]
Yet there is no accounting for how valuable searing heat can be in the fever of battle.
[ A grunt of effort; Erik has worked up a sweat and he can't imagine how Gabranth manages at all hours, in all temperatures, in that suit. Granted, Erik's skin is also covered in unique scarring that the tunic he's wearing doesn't do much to hide, half damp as it is already.
He hits the side of the dummy with the sword, and a scorch mark is left in his wake. ]
It's new. Wasn't ready when we left before.
Dunno why more don't use the runes, though. They're expensive but not impossible to afford.
They often spurn its benefits, even knowing how their lives would improve within the span of its cast shade.
[All for entirely legitimate reasons, he’s been told— but Gabranth is a stubborn man, and the Mist of his own world was too invaluable a thing to waste, even in its capacity for destruction.]
Yeah they had a whole fuckin' war about it, it's part of how we got here.
[ Erik? Of the opinion that magic is badass and he wishes he could use it. Or more of it. He's heard tell of something that might be magic related to the shard in his hand but he hasn't looked into it properly. ]
Like I get that it's a powerful minority or whatever, but not everyone is hellbent on world domination.
[ Spoken like a man who was once hellbent on something that looked just like world domination, Erik Stevens. Another few hacks at the dummy; he's realizing that he needs to get better at swinging the flaming blade upwards if he has to do that, but it's a strain on muscles that have barely been trained to work that way, even after months of being here. ]
My perspective is that of a foreigner to this world and its ways, so for that alone I cannot speak of acute comprehension— however my own suspicion is that many of those who lack power fear it only because they know it cannot be theirs.
The rest, perhaps, is more to do with tradition and the safety it provides therein. Eventually I will need to press someone for better information...
[He watches the blade do its work, catching and faintly scorching thick wood. inhaling the soft scent of smoke in the air, though it's harmless for how carefully it's being utilized.]
...though I have been advised that it is unwise for me to do so.
Problem is, you prolly gotta find someone who ain't involved in the Mage and Templar war but does have ties to magic, or someshit like that, and I dunno who the fuck that'd be.
[ Another set of parrying blows before Erik huffs and then pauses. ]
You wanna put our fire swords together, see if I can manage not to burn myself?
[It’s said as fact, though there’s a lightness to it that suggests he believes Erik perfectly capable of managing without needing consideration or concern, already pressing forward away from where he's kept himself confined— twin swords lifted from their place at his hips, and fitted well in hand.]
I shall keep my blades unkindled. Use yours to its full capacity: my armor will safeguard me.
And I will make for better practice than wooden targets.
Then I would be all the more burdened with despair should the worst come to pass, in losing your company so permanently. [Wryly stated, already settling his weight low across the balls of his feet] One acclimates to heat— [The precursor to a singular lunge forward, drawing him well into Erik’s space— blades raised high, his first strike more defensive than offensive.
He wants only to goad Erik into attack, rather than surrender the whole of his own defense outright.]
Fuck, man. [ He laughs a little. No one cried the first time he died, he's pretty sure of that; now he's got friends who would actually give a fuck if something happened to him.
Goading Erik into attacking works, though first, he has to step aside to avoid that lunge. His sword strikes against Gabranth's, the sound of metal against metal ringing out in the air. ]
Same, honestly. Not about heat, I dunno about wearing all'a dat. [ While more than adequate protection against the Stormrider they fought, more than Erik thinks would be ideal for his own purposes. Then again... what the fuck does he really know about metal armor?
He steps back before going in again — this time aiming his swing for the helmet he's sure he won't be able to actually strike. ] Did you earn it or was it given to ya?
[The subject is— complicated. As are all things related to his service in Archadia. Someone else might forever hold resentment for the Empire that erased homeland and kin— and at first he had, when such things were a luxury left open to a boy with nothing else. But conditioning had been thorough, and necessary, and he’d lived so long as an honored Judge of Archades that eventually all that remained was as much a mix of pride as his own guilt.
So in the end, yes. He is proud of his armor. Proud enough that the incoming blow is quickly deflected by a crossed guard comprised of both his swords: feeling the heat of edged (and enchanted) metal even behind the shadow of his mask.]
Every Judge Magister is gifted a set of armor crafted solely for them.
[With a sharp downwards yank of his wrists he endeavors to knock Erik back in his own posture, attempting to upset his footing.]
Thus both are true, for it was only by the Emperor’s grace that I was granted a place at his side, to be his blade. His only shield.
[ The move works; Erik has to stumble back in order to keep his footing, angling his blade down but immediately following that up with an attacking thrust from the left. ]
How many Judge Magisters are there?
[ That Gabranth protected an Emperor is not exactly shocking news, when Erik thinks about it. He seems like the sort of man who puts a lot of stock in honor (but whether that has to do with the one he was charged to protect or his rank - what is a Judge Magister, anyway? - Erik isn't so certain.
Granted it could just be who Gabranth is. That isn't impossible, either. ]
I was one of the last. The others fell in their efforts, or by my own hand.
[The harsh clatter of a blow struck helps distract from pain he might otherwise feel in discussing this; it glances hard along the edge of his pauldron, all searing heat— yet tempered metal does its work as keenly as it had against the Stormrider.
That he could've blocked that attack might be telling enough.]
Perhaps there are more, now that I’ve taken my leave. A new era of service.
[When he retreats this time, it's into a more defensive stance: one last hard thrust outwards with his longsword before sinking back onto his heels, posture tight between two blades.]
[ It is telling, actually; Erik gets it though. You can't just talk about the people you've taken down and feel nothing. Or, well, he expects that some can and that is what makes them different, that level of sociopathy. ]
Maybe. Hard to say, huh? 'Less someone comes here who's from your future, which, is weird, lemme tell ya.
[ Erik parries the longsword before dodging backward and off to the side, rotating his sword before coming back in again with a swing that strikes downward from his shoulder. ]
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erik stevens | ota | wildcards welcome
Of course, all of this physical exertion means that he spends some time recovering in the heated baths in the former Templar tower. He's not going to be shy about using them; his muscles ache, and he knows that rest is as useful as training.
He spends some time in Kirkwall proper, mostly in the various markets looking at all and sundry, or in the evening drinking in taverns at the edge of Lowtown. There's also the ferry.
markets
John's hands are empty, but he's paused in his journey to veer in towards where Erik has lingered. There's an appointment he's meant to keep in Hightown, but there's time enough to wind his way up to the estate in question. Leaving time for a scattering of conversation as he moves through the city is habit by now, three years in to his residency here.
no subject
no subject
John likes to greet the men who work these stalls, stay on good terms just in case there ever comes a moment when he needs something or other from them. But that's neither here nor there.
"Between the two of us, I'm fairly certain you're about to have the better afternoon.'
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The meditation on goods and their transport isn't something John would devote his thoughts, despite qualifying as one of the individuals Erik is indirectly speaking about. Has John not moved back and forth across Thedas, flung to far reaches of the north and drawn again southwards in pursuit of—
Well.
"Are you looking to travel, as our work permits?"
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The question John poses elicits a small but certain nod from the man. "Definitely; I traveled a lot back home and there's some shit you just can't learn only stuck in one place." He's liked the traveling he's done so far, even; seeing more of Thedas can't be a bad thing by any measure as far as he's concerned.
no subject
There had been a point where John had chosen his trajectory in a similar way, considering where might be best and insinuating himself onto the crew of a ship angling in that direction. Riftwatch is not exactly the same, but it has a habit of dispensing it's members throughout Thedas, with some exceptions.
No one is stopping off in Tevinter, after all.
no subject
"'m curious about Rivain, and Antiva, but I gotta learn the languages first." Obviously going to Tevinter is right out, and he doesn't think he'd thrive in that setting anyway. "At least enough to properly eavesdrop, or what's the fuckin' point?"
sword sword sword!!
[He cannot claim responsibility for the decision to carry fire along a sword’s honed edge, but he does endure a keen flicker of pride at the knowledge it comes in the wake of a battle where Erik had wielded Chaos Blade— his blade— so deftly.
It is a sound decision. Of this he has no doubt.]
I’ve seen precious few who utilize similar techniques here. [Spoken as he fits himself at the edge of the training ground to play spectator to Erik's work: something to lend him room to continue on uninterrupted aside from conversational demands.]
Yet there is no accounting for how valuable searing heat can be in the fever of battle.
no subject
[ A grunt of effort; Erik has worked up a sweat and he can't imagine how Gabranth manages at all hours, in all temperatures, in that suit. Granted, Erik's skin is also covered in unique scarring that the tunic he's wearing doesn't do much to hide, half damp as it is already.
He hits the side of the dummy with the sword, and a scorch mark is left in his wake. ]
It's new. Wasn't ready when we left before.
Dunno why more don't use the runes, though. They're expensive but not impossible to afford.
no subject
They often spurn its benefits, even knowing how their lives would improve within the span of its cast shade.
[All for entirely legitimate reasons, he’s been told— but Gabranth is a stubborn man, and the Mist of his own world was too invaluable a thing to waste, even in its capacity for destruction.]
no subject
[ Erik? Of the opinion that magic is badass and he wishes he could use it. Or more of it. He's heard tell of something that might be magic related to the shard in his hand but he hasn't looked into it properly. ]
Like I get that it's a powerful minority or whatever, but not everyone is hellbent on world domination.
[ Spoken like a man who was once hellbent on something that looked just like world domination, Erik Stevens. Another few hacks at the dummy; he's realizing that he needs to get better at swinging the flaming blade upwards if he has to do that, but it's a strain on muscles that have barely been trained to work that way, even after months of being here. ]
no subject
The rest, perhaps, is more to do with tradition and the safety it provides therein. Eventually I will need to press someone for better information...
[He watches the blade do its work, catching and faintly scorching thick wood. inhaling the soft scent of smoke in the air, though it's harmless for how carefully it's being utilized.]
...though I have been advised that it is unwise for me to do so.
no subject
[ Another set of parrying blows before Erik huffs and then pauses. ]
You wanna put our fire swords together, see if I can manage not to burn myself?
no subject
[It’s said as fact, though there’s a lightness to it that suggests he believes Erik perfectly capable of managing without needing consideration or concern, already pressing forward away from where he's kept himself confined— twin swords lifted from their place at his hips, and fitted well in hand.]
I shall keep my blades unkindled. Use yours to its full capacity: my armor will safeguard me.
And I will make for better practice than wooden targets.
no subject
[ Erik sheathes his sword in order to roll his shoulders a little, crack his neck, and stretch his arms in front of him before shaking it all out. ]
Don't you get hot in all that?
[ He draws his sword again and puts himself in a combative stance, flames licking the metal blade; he's ready. Let's go, Gabranth. ]
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He wants only to goad Erik into attack, rather than surrender the whole of his own defense outright.]
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Goading Erik into attacking works, though first, he has to step aside to avoid that lunge. His sword strikes against Gabranth's, the sound of metal against metal ringing out in the air. ]
Same, honestly. Not about heat, I dunno about wearing all'a dat. [ While more than adequate protection against the Stormrider they fought, more than Erik thinks would be ideal for his own purposes. Then again... what the fuck does he really know about metal armor?
He steps back before going in again — this time aiming his swing for the helmet he's sure he won't be able to actually strike. ] Did you earn it or was it given to ya?
no subject
So in the end, yes. He is proud of his armor. Proud enough that the incoming blow is quickly deflected by a crossed guard comprised of both his swords: feeling the heat of edged (and enchanted) metal even behind the shadow of his mask.]
Every Judge Magister is gifted a set of armor crafted solely for them.
[With a sharp downwards yank of his wrists he endeavors to knock Erik back in his own posture, attempting to upset his footing.]
Thus both are true, for it was only by the Emperor’s grace that I was granted a place at his side, to be his blade. His only shield.
no subject
How many Judge Magisters are there?
[ That Gabranth protected an Emperor is not exactly shocking news, when Erik thinks about it. He seems like the sort of man who puts a lot of stock in honor (but whether that has to do with the one he was charged to protect or his rank - what is a Judge Magister, anyway? - Erik isn't so certain.
Granted it could just be who Gabranth is. That isn't impossible, either. ]
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[The harsh clatter of a blow struck helps distract from pain he might otherwise feel in discussing this; it glances hard along the edge of his pauldron, all searing heat— yet tempered metal does its work as keenly as it had against the Stormrider.
That he could've blocked that attack might be telling enough.]
Perhaps there are more, now that I’ve taken my leave. A new era of service.
[When he retreats this time, it's into a more defensive stance: one last hard thrust outwards with his longsword before sinking back onto his heels, posture tight between two blades.]
no subject
Maybe. Hard to say, huh? 'Less someone comes here who's from your future, which, is weird, lemme tell ya.
[ Erik parries the longsword before dodging backward and off to the side, rotating his sword before coming back in again with a swing that strikes downward from his shoulder. ]