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

[nonvenomous]

An uncertain huff is the only answer she gets -- he could keep backing up, and she could keep following to swing after him, round and round.

There is a switch.

As before, the pole deflects at the last second with a spoken word, lightning arcing over the shape of a spectral buckler as the charge of electricity in his grasp leaps from one casting hand to the other. There is no dominant side to this magic; he simply stands his ground into the push of her pursuit, and unloads a second whipcrack of electricity up into her at close range.

[poleaxed]

The crack, the pain, the tension, it's brilliant and all wrapped up in the sweet intimacy only family can give. It's real, it's really real, or it wouldn't hurt so bloody bad.

Energy crackles in her palm, and she thinks it's him. The pain of it certainly is. She reaches forward in an attempt to knock him off balance, and something other than his footing shifts. The wooden pole in her hand explodes as a percutient blast of green erupts from her hand, hitting Silas squarely in the chest.

"Fuck!"

yeet

[nonvenomous]

He’s really put some english on it too, funnelling the discharge with everything he has through close contact, his fingertips buzzing numb back to the wrist --

He looks to the light peeking through her palm at his periphery. Hm.

Electricity doesn’t have a chance to falter. It chases after him in a sickly sputter as he’s ripped off his feet, lifted and plowed backwards into hard-packed earth. There’s a crunch in there somewhere -- cartilage crumpling, bone wrenching over bone where he’s slid to a hard stop on his shoulder.

The sound of a man on the ground struggling to suck air back into his lungs is no doubt familiar to her.

[poleaxed]

"Fuck, fuck, fuck-"

Jone races to his side. She doesn't think of rifts or the fade or the shard in her hand, none of that matters. She pulls Silas carefully to her, checking pulse and breathing and looking for any sign of... anything.

She can't actually fix this at all, can she?

"Silas, Maker, fuck, I don't know what- bloody- I'm sorry, luv, can you move-? Can you?"

[nonvenomous]

An unintelligible, grumbling hiss lifts into an, “Aaaaaahah,” when she shifts him, cold sweat prickled dark at his temples, under his jaw. His breath is quick once he has it back, the loll of his landing pad shoulder a little too loose out of joint.

Here and there, slivers of splintered pole are embedded in his leather plate. One looks to have nicked his brow, only narrowly missing his eye. It’s bleeding the way head wounds are wont to. But he’s fine. This is fine.

He reaches with his far hand to stay her anxious pawing while he’s still pulling himself back together, pat pat, one knee drawn in with a grimace.

“It’s alright,” strained, he closes his hand on her wrist to lift it -- the better for him to squint at her anchor. But the burrowing, burning pinch at his shoulder is deeply distracting -- his brows say the rest. “Do you know how to set a shoulder?”

[poleaxed]

"Of course, of course-" Now with a set objective, she stops dithering, and gets to work. Moving around Silas to get a better vantage, she sets one hand on his elbow. Sitting behind him, she murmurs, "lean back a bit, luv."

She'll fix this. She'll jump at the chance to fix any of the thousand things she's broke.

[nonvenomous]

He tenses as he complies, breath stifled down into a cold, sweaty pant. His faith in Jone’s ability to crush a skull in her hands is boundless; his faith in her bedside manner is faltering at best. This is going to hurt.

[poleaxed]

Of course it's going to hurt. He's alive, isn't he?

Tense as he is, Jone deploys an old trick. "Alright, count of three. One, two-" And she shoves it in, feeling the satisfying pop of shoulder and arm reconnecting.

[nonvenomous]

It’s better to relax. He knows this, and makes the effort, letting off slack through the line of his shoulder even as he draws in a breath alongside her count --

He jerks against her, any sound he might have made strangled behind the clench of his jaw.

But the arm is back in, fingers flexed under the moon and stars bearing witness to this weird spectacle.

“Thank you,” is only polite for him to say. “May I see your anchor?”

[poleaxed]

Jone pats his shoulder, knowing he won't want any more comfort than that. Unable to imagine such a thing, honestly. He's such a singular person, she fears infringing on that grand independence.

"Um, alright, lad." She holds out her hand, surprised to find how green it is, even more than usual.

[nonvenomous]

A pat at his shoulder is just the thing, the adrenaline-fueled rattle of a late shiver stifled beneath the lock of a held breath, only just now expelled as he peers seriously at the sliver glowing in her palm. They are still on the ground -- probably for the best, with static creeping at the fringes of his vision.

“Is it painful?”

Given givens, he is not especially shy about clawing his thumb in to dig here and there, where the shard shines brightest.

[poleaxed]

Jone does not react at all to his prodding, which may make her admission a surprise. "Yeah, reckon it does." She considers it. "Think it's been aching a while. Didn't notice."

[nonvenomous]

Silas sighs again, more deeply this time, and releases her hand back to her to think without it.

“You should tell me if it does anything else strange,” he says, after a moment. “Or if the pain worsens or persists.”

[poleaxed]

"What's..." She frowns, thinks, and disliked either. "I don't mind telling you, but Maker, Silas, I blasted you across the courtyard. Sure you're alright?"

[nonvenomous]

“I’ll feel the worst of it tomorrow.”

The hot run of blood from his brow notwithstanding. He ignores it, busying himself instead with the process of plucking carpentry nail-sized splinters from his studded leather plate: the haggard resolve of a freshly bell-rung scholar who’s been flung ass over kettle by a monster or two in his lifetime.

“I am finished training for the evening.” To be totally clear.

[poleaxed]

"Yeah, I got that," Jone says. She doesn't want to turn the conversation back on herself when it feels like Silas is acting odd, odder than usual, but she isn't sure how to ask after someone who is neither simpleton nor child. "Should I... only tell you about it?"

[nonvenomous]

The largest of the splinters extracted, he leans to push himself up to his feet, careful to exert no pressure on his freshly rejoined right arm as he does so.

“No,” he is swift to clarify, strained as he twists to dust stiff at his seat, “any healer should do. It’s not uncommon for anchors to develop secondary characteristics. We’ll just want to keep an eye on it.

“The Provost should be notified as well, if you're comfortable with speaking to him.”

[poleaxed]

Jone's expression is characteristic of someone trying valiantly not to cringe, and ending up looking like they're suffering a sudden ailment, medical or mental. "Are you comfortable with the Provost?"

[nonvenomous]

“I’m not comfortable with any of them,” isn’t the most reassuring of qualifications, issued after a crisp pause with his mouth open in the dark, “but here we are." Subordinate.

His training dagger is -- somewhere. He scans for it, only to decide just as quickly that he doesn't care.

"Will you be alright?"

[poleaxed]

"Then fuck 'em." If they don't pass Silas' muster, why bother? She doesn't owe them anything. Maybe she'd bother if it were Flint, but it ain't, so she won't.

"Me? I'm brilliant. Might chop me hand off later, but that's a personal choice. Am I alright. Fuck, Silas, can you heal yourself any?"

[nonvenomous]

“I will in the baths.” Everything about the stoop of his posture and the sore hitch to his hip when he shifts his weight indicates this is where he is likely headed next. The only thing he is less interested in than the dagger is making a case for her to confide in Serah Stark.

“Please don’t chop your hand off without assistance.”

[poleaxed]

"That an offer?" Jone begins slowly to stand, offering him help on the way up. She's helping him there, that isn't (currently?) up for discussion.

[nonvenomous]

“Provided you’ve taken the time to think through the ramifications.”

Sore as he already is in places and a little addled besides, he welcomes the help with all the dignity he can muster along the way.

[poleaxed]

"Wish it weren't me main hand," Jone grumbles. "If I tell you it's done some other odd shite, what'll you do?"

[nonvenomous]

“I will reference research notes on known abilities associated with anchor shards to gauge whether or not we should worry.” Dick is reasonable, as ever, haggard and limping. “It might behoove you to work out what kind of stimuli are likely to cause a discharge in the meanwhile.” In the interest of not blowing her friends apart.

The look he slants up at her in aside isn’t quite shady.