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

[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.

[poleaxed]

"I didn't mean-" She groans. That sounded particularly childlike. I said I'm sorry! Andraste Almighty.

"And if I tell you, you'll keep it to yourself, yeah?"

[nonvenomous]

“If that’s what you prefer, yes.” Easy, unbothered by protest. She did say she was sorry. “Bursts of concussive force are not unheard of,” for the record.

[poleaxed]

Jone cocks her head to the side. "You been studying this? Or has your own hand-?"

She can't quite finish the sentence.

[nonvenomous]

“Not mine.”

Someone Else’s.

“Provided there are no negative side-effects, it should have a positive effect on your lethality in combat.”

[poleaxed]

"It's magic," Jone hisses, "I can't just go pissing that around. You can get away with it, you're serious. Respectable. I'm the Monster, remember?"

[nonvenomous]

Non-comprehension cinches at crow’s feet, pulling cracks into the blood cooling sticky at his temple. They’ve made good progress across the yard, but he stops to face her in the moonlight, one eye tooth shown just shy of a grin.

“Jone,” he isn’t so addled he can’t pause to be selective with his word choice, “what are you concerned they will do to you?”

He’d almost said afraid.

[poleaxed]

The afraid is implicit. She squares up, teetering on resentment. "Our god," she says, "ain't a fan of knowledge."

[nonvenomous]

It is a little cruel. Silas is a little cruel. Squared up on, he holds fast, for all that his posture lacks its usual poise. He keeps his voice quiet to match hers, kind in that one very specific way.

There is potentially something here he hadn’t realized before, or hadn’t thought too hard on.

“After Corypheus is defeated?”

In that unlikely event?

[poleaxed]

Jone nods, wearied by the thought. Hair hangs in front of her face, and she stares between strands with a grim expression. "Circles for all us."

[nonvenomous]

Jone plans on surviving the war.

Silas nods, understanding restored. She’s right, obviously. It’s his mistake.

“I’m already on a list, courtesy of my own department,” he offers, by way of explanation. There's no reason for him to concern himself with discretion. “When the time comes, we can have an arm severing ceremony before we go our separate ways into the wilds.”

[poleaxed]

Just because it doesn't seem likely doesn't mean she isn't planning on it. Otherwise, what an arsehole she'd be, making friends, making promises.

"Going on the run's smarter," she says with a grimace. "No phylacteries."

[nonvenomous]

What an arsehole indeed.

“Mm.”

He reaches to clap her (gently) at the shoulder with his own anchor hand before he takes the first step back onwards, for the baths.

“You’ll have to come up with a new terrifying moniker for yourself.”

[poleaxed]

"Mongrel bitch. Wild woman." Jone shrugs. She continues to offer Silas her arm, her shoulder, if he needs it. "I got plenty. We'll dye our hair and everything."