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]

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."