faderift | [ OPEN ] Heart's on fire

Entry tags:

[ OPEN ] Heart's on fire

WHO: Character(s)
WHAT: Zevran Aranai's School for Rogues Who Can't Sneak Good and Want to Do Other Stuff Good Too.
WHEN: Wintermarch, all month
WHERE: Skyhold: Courtyard, Stables, Rookery, Battlements, etc
NOTES: Sass, Stealth, and Violence

He had mulled over the notion for a few weeks now; watching the soldiers take themselves to task, the warriors practicing as best they could; the mages training in their spells and thought- aside from combat (and even then there were tricks soldiers did not always think to teach) how was a rascal, a scoundrel, a rogue to learn more tricks? A well trained operation of any sort had well trained members of all sorts; the bruisers, the wizards, the rogues. Perhaps it was high time someone did something for the sneakier sorts.

[ Courtyard ]

Every lesson starts the same- a quick lap around the courtyard as fast as possible, vaulting over people and structures, running along the wall, making use of all the same skills that kept him alive all those years in Antiva City. For those that did not know them? The tricks came as a brief primer after the lap was finished- even a brief demonstration is offered. Afterward he runs them through a few training locks set into empty chests, some of the them wound with ringing alarms for the sake of practice. Trip the wrong tumbler? Off goes the alarm. After that it's stealth and pickpocketing. Sneaking about through a field of tripwires connected to more ringing bells and powder packets, a veritable labyrinth. Any bells go off, any powder on your person? You go through again. One of the training dummies has been re-purposed with bells and pouches on it- each pouch has a bell attached. They're timed and told to get as many as possible without ringing any bells. Ring a bell? Run a lap.

[ Stables ]

Here there is room enough for him to demonstrate proper trap production and dismantling. Every wound spring, every steel mechanism. They start with the basic bladed traps- though none of the blades are sharpened and none of the powder explosions hold more than dye. Once they've made traps that are...decent or satisfactory, Zevran walks them through detection and dismantling. Some of the practice traps have trick springs and triggers- if set off they'll be dusted with powder instead of losing their fingers. Later he goes through a list of common poisons and venoms to create and how to build up a tolerance for them. He does not provide them with samples this early on.

[ Battlements ]

Rappelling and dueling and improvisational combat and you! Here Zevran shows them how to climb, how to fall, how to make their own ropes when they've none of their own, how to throw a rappel to make it stay, how to haul it down, and how to dual wield on uneven ground. Demonstrations with Isabela and sparring with whoever wishes to take their turn happens throughout the day as requested; Zevran also covers grappling, breaking holds, and how to fight dirty. An honorable rogue is a dead rogue after all.

[ Wildcard ]

Want individual attention? Make something up here!

Threaded | Top-Level Comments Only

It's all terribly amusing to watch, the classes and following routines that Zevran puts them through. Though Twisted Fate is a mage, he himself has roguish qualities; sleight of hand and escape arts being his own best features.

"Don't exhaust them too quickly," he remarks with a chuckle, still watching but not taking part. To himself, he needs no lessons. He does well enough on his own.

It doesn't occur to him to share.

There had been a great number of laps involved in this morning. Completing him most recent, Kevin takes a moment to wipe some of the powder- now matted down with some sweat- from his hair and scarred cheek. Slightly out of breath, he's still smiling as the dye comes out.

Then it's time to go back to the re-purposed training dummy. He waits his turn, striking up conversation with whatever fellow student or mentor may be in hearing range.

"It's so thrilling to learn new things."

Despite limiting her thefts in Skyhold, Araceli isn't about to let herself get rusty and passing on the tricks of the trade is something she's already done, including here. She does her own laps first because that's just routine by now, scaling a few walls and racing up and down the battlements but it frees her to move slower for those who need pointers and encouragement for the warm-up, a smile on her face the whole time.

And for the locks? Well spend almost half your life as a thief and you know each and every lock intimately, but it never hurts to practice. When it's not her turn, there's still a lockpick in her fingers that she twirls restlessly, a smile on her face.

"You should treat the lock almost like you're courting it, you need to be gentle," she advises, "not a great brute."

He's hesitated, talked himself into and out of coming to speak with Zevran over and over, ever since he saw the note. Anders needs to learn something about stealth, and lockpicking could prove to be invaluable. But Zevran knows his face. Zevran was also a friend of Isabela's, and she's the only one who had called the chantry explosion a bold plan. And Anders had helped save Zevran's life. Theoretically. The elf might not have actually needed the help they'd provided.

Justice believes the risk isn't worth it. Anders is tired of listening to him, and that's not fair, Anders is the one in control most of the time, makes most of the choices, but when he'd agreed to help, he hadn't agreed to give away his individuality and it's because of how much of that he's lost that he stubbornly and likely foolishly seeks out the elf and finds him alone in the stables.

"I'm called Detlef." There's no turning back now.

"They are no Crows, that is for certain. But they are learning." A beat. "Little by little, but they are learning."

He cannot rush this after all; they had their own backgrounds and their own means, occasionally teaching them requires their unlearning their older lessons- especially if the older lessons aren't as useful for working in groups.

"You may wish to attempt fewer pockets. Try those you know you might manage for certain and leave the more difficult pouches for when you have mastered the simpler." That he tries speaks well of him- but it is easy for a rogue's ambition to outshine their ability and- much like a mage or warrior, such things can see them dead in short order. "But you are doing well for someone fresh to this."

"Perhaps you might care to demonstrate, Araceli. I think they have watched me attempt it enough to be sick of my hands." Though that was highly unlikely, to be certain. His hands were wonderful and everyone should like to watch him work as often and long as he pleases.

"And I am the Queen of Antiva." Zevran drawls, winding the spring on the latest twist of a trap. he had heard of what Anders had done and- truly? Thought nothing of it. Bombing is not the most subtle of methods but when a point needed to be made? It is not the worst way to go. Still.

He did owe Anders his life in part for his assistance with the Crows and had wondered after his presence in the Inquisition.

Not to blow it up, surely. Zevran finishes hooking the catch and turns to face Anders properly, brow quirked and hands plainly visible. The last thing he needs is to anger a mage. "I honestly would have picked a more common name. Even here 'Detlef' stands out. What else have you thought of?"

"I've thought of better than telling people I'm royalty." His voice is tense, posture tense as well. Zevran's hands are empty and he's not attacking, not calling for attention, but that doesn't exactly mean anything yet.

"And it's a common name in the Anderfels. I look like I'm from there, never mind the fact that I actually am. It was meant to be... common." Anders crosses his arms a little defensively. Zevran's the second to call the name into question, and when the other was Varric Anders has to worry about maybe having chosen very poorly. It's too late to change it now.

"People know me as Detlef now. I can't simply go with another." He pauses, then, really looking at the elf. That had been helpful advice. You don't give helpful advice to someone you want to bring in. "But I could stand to learn a few things. You offered lessons, on a note. Would you teach anyone?"

Would he teach Anders?

"Yes, but you sound Fereldan." But if that is how he has been calling himself there is no recourse. An Ander with a Fereldan Accent named Detlef.

He has worked with worse. Not all that often, but. He has. They can likely make it work.

"You haven't changed your mode of dress all that much either, nor have you attempted to color your hair. How hard are you truly trying to be someone else, my friend?" Still he can't change that now. He's been seen, been known, and likely made a few associates in the mean time. It'll simply make moving forward more difficult. "Come here, let me see your hands."

He does sound Fereldan and it bothers him sometimes, but it's one of the smaller things that bother him, all told. What matters far more is that Zevran has just called him friend and is seemingly trying to help. It could be a trick, but frankly, he knows just enough about the Crow to figure he doesn't need tricks.

Anders holds out his hands.

"I've never been good at disguises." He'd escaped the Circle so many times, been recaptured every single one of those. Only a Darkspawn attack and conscription had saved him. "A mage wearing robes isn't unusual, at least, and I'm not pulling my hair back anymore." He misses the ponytail. It's another remnant of who he is that's had to be discarded, like the feathered capelet he'd adored and fancy staves.

"I never would have guessed." Zevran's voice could not be more dry, but he will work with what he has available- which with Anders? Is not much. Mages do not make good rogues for a reason. "Remind me to give you oil for your hair before you leave. Seriously, conditioning, has no one in the south heard of it? It pains me to look at your ends."

A deep, horrible aesthetic pain. Eyes faintly narrowed Zevran takes Anders' hands by the wrists (gently) and turns them over to examine his palms and the pads of his fingers. Soft like most healers, no scarring from blood magic. (yes that is what he is checking for, no he is not going to make a thing of it). "I cannot make a duelist of you, nor an assassin. But I can show you how to move without being seen, how to pick locks, and how to lie convincingly. You call yourself Detlef and your thumbs twitch, as though you expect some sort of lashing. Say it. Mean it. You are Detlef, a simple Spirit Healer from..."

"I imagine they won't be anytime soon." From what he can tell, Zevran has specifically not taught any of them how to kill. He imagines that's not the purpose of this, in any case. "But it looks like you're teachin' them well."

The mage folds his arms and leans back against the brick wall, toying with a card in his fingers. "Do let me know if you get a break, hm?"

"They do not need to be Crows, simply better than what they are now." Another notion twists in the pit of his mind, working alone has it's benefit but he will never forget the sheer visceral capabilities of he and his comrades during the blight. A proper company to handle proper work? Could be the direction in which he ought to go.

If the Inquisition and the Crows do not kill him first. "It will be awhile. The've a few more laps and then? Lock picking. Though if you would like to add your instruction in slight of hand I would count it as a personal favor that I owe you."

"I think that's a fair notion. I doubt you really would want your own league of Crows here, would you?" From his understanding, in any case. He may not know Zevran personally, but he thinks that's a fair assessment right now.

There's a pause. On one hand, teaching them sleight of hand does not seem terribly fun; it sounds involved, and he does not particularly like sharing his secrets. But then, he doesn't have to teach everything. The essentials should do.

And he does like the idea of Zevran owing him a favor.

"All right." Twisted Fate flicks his wrist and the card goes missing. "I'm interested. What do they know about pick-pocketing?"

"Seeing as I spend my free time trying to kill off the existing league? Not quite so much." A few more years- if he was lucky- and he would be finished. Two, maybe three more grandmasters and they would have to concede defeat. Or. Send cells after him in force. He's fortunate they had not done so just yet but with the Inquisition? He doubts they would dare make an attempt.

Thoughts for another time, at the moment he is enthralled with Fate's fingers- even when he knows what to watch for? The trick is fluid and seamlessly done. "That is what the dummy with the bells is set up to find out. Considering what I have seen thus far? I am...not optimistic."

"There you have it, then. I figured not." Fate presumes there are few places safer than here in Skyhold, but nothing is perfect.

For a moment, he watches the way Zevran studies his fingers, and briefly the mage smirks before he hears the news. It makes Fate wrinkle his nose faintly, and he tips his hat down. "Sounds like I've got my work cut out for me," he drawls. "I'll start 'em off simple, then. Hope they like playing Wicked Grace."

"We both do. You will not have to come every day but- whenever you can spare the time? I would deeply appreciate it. Even if it is only the once." Patience isn't a rogue's strong suit outside of a job; he can't blame Fate if he did not wish to tie himself to this course.

Honestly, Zevran is half certain this is a shit idea that will see him killed.

"I didn't want to intrude too much - these are your lessons and I am a guest, though how I have missed locks to fiddle with when I wear what I wear," her hand brushes her earring, a small friendly smirk on her face. "Have you thought about an incentive or a prize for a truly difficult one? Even just a small silly thing because a chest is always about the reward."

Kas does running and jumping and climbing pretty well. He was a former street kid, after all, and if you couldn't run away from things, you were a dead guy. He even does laps without (too much) grumbling, knowing that building some muscle into his skinny body was a really good idea.

Stealth? Good in practice, but not as good in real life. He could move pretty well unseen from bells and powders, but his qunariness was really obvious when he tried to sneak on the streets back home. Everyone looked at the horned kid.

He did pickpocketing okay. He ended up tripping bells and getting powdered now and then, but about half the time, he got what he was aiming for. Failing meant you had to run, after all, and we've already established that he's a good runner.

...then it comes to locks, and he's never been more frustrated in his life. Cursing and fighting the urge to throw the tools far far away, he gives the chest a kick. "Why do lockpicking at all? Why can't you just smash the fucking thing and be done with it?"

Yes, Kas. You can totally smash things when built like a wet noodle.

"Mmm, I had not. Perhaps a properly cooked Antivan dinner may suffice, or a few coppers." Simply not punishing them for failing seemed like reward enough to Zevran but again- perspective. It helps to have it.

"The idea is not to be seen or noticed. If you smash a chest while the guard is in the next room they will hear it, alarm the city guard, and then it is all downhill from there. Get in. Get what you want. Get out. None ought to be the wiser." Zevran crouches down to the chest Kas had been working with, peering at the mechanism. No, it is not one of the more difficult ones. "Take your time. You are working blind and attempting to rush will only see the bells dripped and you locked out."

He sighs deeply at that, but he can't exactly argue with Zevran Aranai then it came to shit like this. Gritting his teeth, the teen kneels down again and gives it another try. Trying to feel the pins and lifting them one by one. Twisting the lock. Nothing. Still too unsteady, too fast.

"Fuck," he growls, dropping the thief's tools on the ground and leaning over the chest with a frown. He hadn't given up about the archery, so he was not giving up on this.

"...what kind of lock did you first pick?"

"For you, I think I can spare time more than once for them." The idea of having a favor owed to him is priceless; one never knows when they need it, after all. Especially in his life.

"Besides, I get the feeling you'll need all the help you can get."

"A lever lock, a bit more complex than this one. The incentive was a bit higher and it took me the better part of an hour." Fail and die. Zevran kneels down and picks up the tools, slipping the first pick into place. "Hold this still. Do nothing else but hold this in place to start, yes?"

Threaded | Top-Level Comments Only

Page 1 of 13

[ OPEN ] Heart's on fire

WILDCARD BABY

Courtyard

courtyard;

Wildcard

Sweet

Courtyard

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

Courtyard

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject