OPEN | so be easy and free,

[poleaxed]

WHO: Jone and thou
WHAT: jock stuff.
WHEN: Post Orzammar.
WHERE: The training yard & Tennis Court.
NOTES: ¯\_(ツ)_/¯

a. FOR TRAINING.

If you need a sparring partner, Jone is at the main training yard during most daylight hours. She may have promised to work over some new techniques with you. She may have promised to assess your skills. She may have never spoken to you before, and you're just here to train.

For once, she isn't cajoling from the sidelines, trying to get new combatants. That doesn't make herself easy to miss, though. The self-described six-foot bitch, ginger hair shining in the sun, is always up for a go.

"Hullo, then. Let's get to it."

b. FOR TENNIS.

Or maybe you're here for another sort of skill. The Tennis Court is completed and ready, and Jone looks to be happily in her element. Shirt-sleeves peeled back to reveal solid muscle, she bounces a tennis ball against her racket, ready and waiting.

Maybe you were promised a match. Maybe you want a rematch. Maybe you're just curious. If you stare a second to long, Jone will wave you over. "Oi! We doing this or not, mate? If I stand out around much longer I'll start peeling."

c. FOR EVERYHING ELSE.

There's wildcard.

(I'm up for anything. If you're not sure, feel free to hmu.)

Comments

[clawings]

"Cool." A nod as he catches the ball.

Blissfully unaware of Jone's ability to get real in the face of pain, he bounces the tennis ball a few times to get a sense of how heavyhanded he needs to be with the racket. Erik still manages to hit it a little harder than strictly necessary, but it does make it over the net at the very least.

"Are balls to the face how that's usually happening?" The bleeding bit.

[poleaxed]

Jone answers his volley with a simple one, testing his skill. "Not how posh birds play it, but I were never one for tradition."

[clawings]

He does better with not hitting it quite so hard this time. "Definitely not interested in how 'posh birds' play any fuckin' thing, honestly." As far as he's concerned, rich people's way of doing shit has practically ruined the world on more than one occasion. "How'd you learn to play?"

[poleaxed]

"Shagging posh birds," Jone says, the return serve garnering a small grunt of effort. She resists the urge to spike the ball and make him run for it, wanting vainly to see how he'll react.

[clawings]

Erik makes a little 'huh' noise, unrelated to his returning hit on the tennis ball. This time, though, he clearly aims for her midsection. "Not the answer I'd have expected, but makes sense."

[poleaxed]

"Oh, aye?" Jone grins, toothy yet unoffended. She's just yet to come across a scab not worth picking. "And what's that mean, then?"

[clawings]

"You don't like rich people much." He shrugs a shoulder. "But it makes sense; sometimes you fuck the shit you can't stand."

[poleaxed]

"I don't like anyone," she hits the ball back to his side, "who ain't around to argue with me. Or could, but can't hear."

[clawings]

"Most rich folks don't think anyone not rich got much to say." He knows that to be true, from personal experience. "At least, that's how it was back where I came from." Calling it 'home' is a tricky thing. He aims the ball for her shoulder, this time, and hits it hard.

[poleaxed]

"A mercenary, I was," she says, watching as the ball is swatted back and forth. They both have good hand-eye coordination. She'll test his speed and stamina later. It's good to just warm up sometimes. "Best job's with nobles. Orlais, especially after the War of the Lions. Just itching to scratch again, or build up forces. Didn't matter. Plenty of coin to go around. Got to know 'em pretty well."

[clawings]

"Anythin' about 'em worth knowin'?" In general, in specific, he doesn't care. There's not exactly ease in his playing but he doesn't struggle to keep track of the ball, or hit it for that matter. "Went to school with a bunch'a rich kids. Was young for it, then, too." Too young, too Black, too ghetto for most of them. Too smart on top of it all.

It was a rough time.