WHO: sam drake, beth greene, laura kint, & YOU WHAT: open post to try and get back into the groove. starters in comments, hmu for something custom. WHEN: post-modplot, generally in august WHERE: the gallows, kirkwall NOTES: tbd
It's disorienting at first, but he's run rooftops for decades--if a little vertigo was enough to do him in, he wouldn't've made it this far to start with. And like a cliff's edge, once your senses adjust, it's worth the half-second your brain can't keep up. "Jesus Christ."
The point is, the place is beautiful, even if it feels like a hangover bearing down on you in slow motion. Undiscovered paths from long-lost peoples, whole chunks of a world just hanging there in an endless sky. He's going to be coming back here every chance he gets.
In the meanwhile, though, there's a flickering light ahead. He nods toward it. "Got any idea what that is?"
[ around kirkwall. ]
He's spent enough time at the Gallows since he was quarantined, thanks. At this point, Sam's mostly liable to be found there to sleep and eat.
The taverns get more than a little of his time (and more than a little of his coin, as a result). Gotta figure out which ones are worth hanging around at, which aren't. It's not hard to find him at a table or up at the bar, especially if there's a woman there to chat up. (Maybe you're the woman. Who knows.)
Same with the marketplace, where he's chatting with merchants, examining the merchandise, wandering around without a care in the world. And when he haggles, it's with the attitude of someone who mastered the skill long ago, doing it for the love of it. "You sure you can't go any lower? 'Cause I don't mind walking away. See? Here I go."
You might be asking yourself: Hightown? Lowtown? The docks? The alienage? Sam Drake's like a cat, though--he goes where he wants. Even, at least once, Darktown, if only out of curiosity. At one point, he grabs a skinny wrist trying to lift some cash from his jeans pocket. "I wouldn't do that, pal."
wildcard.
[ Want to hit me with something unexpected? Go for it. Want a bespoke starter? Grab me on plurk or discord. ]
Doki is smarter than pickpocket children. These children, they are very small and very stupid and very easily caught by everyone. Doki does not usually waste her time pulling things out of people's pockets. First of all, there is so little to be found in pockets it is hardly worth the time that it takes. Better to be spending time on big things.
But sometimes it is fun to do little things. That is what Doki has been doing tonight. She is in disguise, mud smeared and face wrapped to hide her tattoos, hands wrapped to hide the shard embedded in the one. And she has been doing well until right now, having fun until right now, when this man grabs her wrist and in the dark of Darktown, she looks up into his face with big round eyes--
"Jesus--!" but his hand only tightens around the kid's wrist. No, not a kid--that's a woman, if a small one. Dirty-faced, willing to kick him in the goddamn shins, staring up at him with big blue eyes that might've worked a little better than the edge of her boot.
It's nothing compared to some of the damage he's taken lately, though - the gunshot that grazed his bicep's still within recent memory - and he stands firm, looking down at her in the dim light of one of the dankest neighborhoods he's ever wandered through. "What the hell d'you think you're doing?"
Doki shows him her teeth. They are also dirty, purposefully smeared with mud and chewed-up tobacco. Underneath that paste they are not very good all on their own, but this is Darktown, and so they have to look very bad. The wrappings she'd put over her muddy face to disguise herself have slipped down. Now she looks like a very badly-made Nevarran dead lady.
"I am leaving," and on leaving she twists her wrist and pulls toward the spot in his grip where his thumb and forefinger come together. This is the weakest part of someone trying to hold onto you. She is not weak. Who is this man, with the stupid trousers? She will break free.
He shifts his grip as she tries to break it, pulling up just a little - but his thoughts aren't entirely with her. This is a con he used to run with Nathan, a two-man game that kept them fed for more than one night. First kid shows up, does a terrible job of picking your pocket. While you're giving him what-for and looking around for the authorities, the other kid - Sam, always Sam - gets the whole damn wallet. First kid gets free, and all that's left is counting the cash.
It's gotta be even easier here than it was in Tegucigalpa, down in Darktown. Find the only mark who might have some cash to pocket, and there's no authorities for him to run to. Another time, another place, he would've spent a lot of time down here.
He lifts the woman's wrist, taking away some of her leverage, up just enough that it's awkward, not quite enough to hurt. It's not the kind of shit he normally does, toying with some poor sap who thought he was a rube, but her voice sounds familiar. It's gonna bug him. "What's your name?"
This time, Doki actually hisses at him. She resents the grip on her wrist, how easy it was for him--stupid smart him!--to anticipate the twisting of her arm. He should be stupider. She should be smarter. This is the better way. Now she is trapped and he is asking questions. She will not be trapped.
"My name is not yours to know. Now you will be letting me go. If you do not, you will next find a knife in your bowels."
She does have another hand, after all. Once more she pulls, trying to yank herself free.
Spend enough time in taverns, and one will inevitably run across John Silver.
Tonight: a fish story, after a fashion. (Yanev Duff, captain of a ramshackle ship chasing a sea dragon from Rivain to the Fereldan marshes only to discover there'd been no dragon all along.) It's the kind of story met with roaring laughter, that bends to an audience. (Yanev Duff, hapless navigator, hailing from wherever is most convenient based on tonight's assembly.) The story is good, and when it finishes there is a brief circuit of the room where John checks in with an older man sporting a turtle tattoo, a spate of Rivaini sailors in one corner, and finally—
"What's best tonight?" is directed at the barkeep, as John lands at the narrow, sticky strip of bar along the far wall. It prompts the woman in question to pull her attention from Sam, humming over the query as she ducks to sort through the bottle kept below.
"Apologies," is for Sam, because John isn't blind, knows when he's interrupted, and can express some sympathy for the circumstances.
God damn it, he was close to sealing the deal here.
(Maybe, anyway. New place, new women, new standards - it takes a couple days to know exactly how to charm your way into a free drink or under a skirt. But it felt like he was getting somewhere, and frankly, he could stand to.)
But there's something about a man in his line of business that's easy to spot, after a fashion. Maybe he's a fisherman himself, based on that story, and maybe he's a town crier screwing around - what matters is that the man's a tale-teller, probably a con artist. Maybe a con artist? New place, new criminals - he's still feeling the place out.
Not that it matters, at the moment. Sam's always loved a good story, never cared who spun it up.
"Eh," he says, waving a hand as if to say no problem, and takes a sip of his ale. "You from up there? Rivain?"
(Where Rivain is, he's not entirely sure, but he's aware that it's north of them in some form or fashion. And not a little intriguing - if not for this war business, north is where he'd be tempted to head.)
A brief look, tracking the barkeep, before returning his full attention to Sam. Who has posed a question, and while John hadn't necessarily intended on striking up a full scale conversation—
"I've conducted business there," is not necessarily an answer. John's smile widens just a fraction though, good humored. "Mostly in Llomerryn, but I've spent time on the mainland before. Long enough to pick up a few things."
"'Fraid not." It feels like a good opportunity, so he takes it. "Where do I sound like I'm from?"
His shard's currently pressed up against a tankard, unlikely to be visible. Today, he's decided to try blending in with the local color, so he's got breeches, boots, and a linen shirt that hangs a little loose on his frame. Feels like being a Renaissance fair reject, but it gets less attention than the jeans, so he's giving it an unwilling try.
If this guy's been around the Gallows and seen Sam there, the jig's up, but it's possible this is a chance to figure out a cover story or two. Once he knows where it seems like he's from - assuming Thedas' Boston equivalent is out there at all - he can start researching.
A significant amount of real estate within the Baroness' Hammer is taken up by a raised platform, which is probably why it's patrons tend to end up singing.
Or that's the assumption. It's certainly not a platform made for singers; more likely, it was meant for exclusivity and then was overrun in the course of time. The tables have been more or less permanently shoved towards the back of the platform, though it hasn't stopped patrons from occupying the tables, and then providing loud encouragement to anyone who hobbles up to begin bellowing out a tune.
It makes for a lively atmosphere, to say the least.
With one elbow braced against the edge of the bar, Derrica is covertly pointing at the matronly woman across the room.
"That's Madame Iga," she's saying, voice pitched beneath the caterwauling passing as song. "I've heard she's an Orlesian Baroness who fled south after it was found out she'd arranged the deaths of three of her husbands."
Sam's not sure he's going to bother going to this tavern again in the future - but he'll try just about anything once. (In theory, he's missed spending hours in cantinas, listening to music and drinking beers. In practice, Kirkwall's idea of music doesn't really resemble the little holes-in-the-wall he spent his twenties in.) And eventually, there's some good company to speak of.
They'd talked over his rock-phone about meeting up at a place. And going for it has paid off: she's hot enough to be distracting, and she clearly knows Thedas a hell of a lot better than he does.
"She a big fan of hammering? Or getting hammered?" He's gotta ask, slouching close enough to Derrica to hear her without quite tripping over into creep territory. (By Sam Drake standards, anyway.)
Sam slouches down, Derrica sits up straighter, and they manage to find a point where they can both be heard. Her nose wrinkles slightly, contemplating (maybe the slang is unfamiliar, but the cadence of it is instructive) as she looks across the room at Madame Iga.
Her head shakes.
"If I had to guess, hammering," she tells him. "But if I had to guess, neither. She's very..."
A pause while Derrica visibly flicks through a number of potential descriptors only to land on—
"Self-possessed."
In which self-possessed more or less stands in for terribly intimidating.
how many pickpockets can Sam Drake find this month: 2, apparently
That he knows the man means nothing. That they're allies means even less.
That he likes this strange, rough-edged conman means that when his wrist is snared, the only thing that rises to meet Sam is a flash of overlong teeth— lips twisted into a sheepish, utterly demure grin.
Hello there.
"Oh, thank you for catching me, darling. Lost my footing on those damned stairs and would've fallen right on my face if not for your impressive reflexes."
![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
![[community profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/community.png){kind=small}
sam drake.
It's disorienting at first, but he's run rooftops for decades--if a little vertigo was enough to do him in, he wouldn't've made it this far to start with. And like a cliff's edge, once your senses adjust, it's worth the half-second your brain can't keep up. "Jesus Christ."
The point is, the place is beautiful, even if it feels like a hangover bearing down on you in slow motion. Undiscovered paths from long-lost peoples, whole chunks of a world just hanging there in an endless sky. He's going to be coming back here every chance he gets.
In the meanwhile, though, there's a flickering light ahead. He nods toward it. "Got any idea what that is?"
[ around kirkwall. ]
He's spent enough time at the Gallows since he was quarantined, thanks. At this point, Sam's mostly liable to be found there to sleep and eat.
The taverns get more than a little of his time (and more than a little of his coin, as a result). Gotta figure out which ones are worth hanging around at, which aren't. It's not hard to find him at a table or up at the bar, especially if there's a woman there to chat up. (Maybe you're the woman. Who knows.)
Same with the marketplace, where he's chatting with merchants, examining the merchandise, wandering around without a care in the world. And when he haggles, it's with the attitude of someone who mastered the skill long ago, doing it for the love of it. "You sure you can't go any lower? 'Cause I don't mind walking away. See? Here I go."
You might be asking yourself: Hightown? Lowtown? The docks? The alienage? Sam Drake's like a cat, though--he goes where he wants. Even, at least once, Darktown, if only out of curiosity. At one point, he grabs a skinny wrist trying to lift some cash from his jeans pocket. "I wouldn't do that, pal."
wildcard.
[ Want to hit me with something unexpected? Go for it. Want a bespoke starter? Grab me on plurk or discord. ]
around Kirkwall
But sometimes it is fun to do little things. That is what Doki has been doing tonight. She is in disguise, mud smeared and face wrapped to hide her tattoos, hands wrapped to hide the shard embedded in the one. And she has been doing well until right now, having fun until right now, when this man grabs her wrist and in the dark of Darktown, she looks up into his face with big round eyes--
And kicks him in the shin.
no subject
It's nothing compared to some of the damage he's taken lately, though - the gunshot that grazed his bicep's still within recent memory - and he stands firm, looking down at her in the dim light of one of the dankest neighborhoods he's ever wandered through. "What the hell d'you think you're doing?"
no subject
"I am leaving," and on leaving she twists her wrist and pulls toward the spot in his grip where his thumb and forefinger come together. This is the weakest part of someone trying to hold onto you. She is not weak. Who is this man, with the stupid trousers? She will break free.
no subject
It's gotta be even easier here than it was in Tegucigalpa, down in Darktown. Find the only mark who might have some cash to pocket, and there's no authorities for him to run to. Another time, another place, he would've spent a lot of time down here.
He lifts the woman's wrist, taking away some of her leverage, up just enough that it's awkward, not quite enough to hurt. It's not the kind of shit he normally does, toying with some poor sap who thought he was a rube, but her voice sounds familiar. It's gonna bug him. "What's your name?"
no subject
"My name is not yours to know. Now you will be letting me go. If you do not, you will next find a knife in your bowels."
She does have another hand, after all. Once more she pulls, trying to yank herself free.
taverns.
Tonight: a fish story, after a fashion. (Yanev Duff, captain of a ramshackle ship chasing a sea dragon from Rivain to the Fereldan marshes only to discover there'd been no dragon all along.) It's the kind of story met with roaring laughter, that bends to an audience. (Yanev Duff, hapless navigator, hailing from wherever is most convenient based on tonight's assembly.) The story is good, and when it finishes there is a brief circuit of the room where John checks in with an older man sporting a turtle tattoo, a spate of Rivaini sailors in one corner, and finally—
"What's best tonight?" is directed at the barkeep, as John lands at the narrow, sticky strip of bar along the far wall. It prompts the woman in question to pull her attention from Sam, humming over the query as she ducks to sort through the bottle kept below.
"Apologies," is for Sam, because John isn't blind, knows when he's interrupted, and can express some sympathy for the circumstances.
no subject
(Maybe, anyway. New place, new women, new standards - it takes a couple days to know exactly how to charm your way into a free drink or under a skirt. But it felt like he was getting somewhere, and frankly, he could stand to.)
But there's something about a man in his line of business that's easy to spot, after a fashion. Maybe he's a fisherman himself, based on that story, and maybe he's a town crier screwing around - what matters is that the man's a tale-teller, probably a con artist. Maybe a con artist? New place, new criminals - he's still feeling the place out.
Not that it matters, at the moment. Sam's always loved a good story, never cared who spun it up.
"Eh," he says, waving a hand as if to say no problem, and takes a sip of his ale. "You from up there? Rivain?"
(Where Rivain is, he's not entirely sure, but he's aware that it's north of them in some form or fashion. And not a little intriguing - if not for this war business, north is where he'd be tempted to head.)
no subject
"I've conducted business there," is not necessarily an answer. John's smile widens just a fraction though, good humored. "Mostly in Llomerryn, but I've spent time on the mainland before. Long enough to pick up a few things."
Stories, and otherwise.
"But you don't sound like you're from Rivain."
no subject
His shard's currently pressed up against a tankard, unlikely to be visible. Today, he's decided to try blending in with the local color, so he's got breeches, boots, and a linen shirt that hangs a little loose on his frame. Feels like being a Renaissance fair reject, but it gets less attention than the jeans, so he's giving it an unwilling try.
If this guy's been around the Gallows and seen Sam there, the jig's up, but it's possible this is a chance to figure out a cover story or two. Once he knows where it seems like he's from - assuming Thedas' Boston equivalent is out there at all - he can start researching.
also taverns.
Or that's the assumption. It's certainly not a platform made for singers; more likely, it was meant for exclusivity and then was overrun in the course of time. The tables have been more or less permanently shoved towards the back of the platform, though it hasn't stopped patrons from occupying the tables, and then providing loud encouragement to anyone who hobbles up to begin bellowing out a tune.
It makes for a lively atmosphere, to say the least.
With one elbow braced against the edge of the bar, Derrica is covertly pointing at the matronly woman across the room.
"That's Madame Iga," she's saying, voice pitched beneath the caterwauling passing as song. "I've heard she's an Orlesian Baroness who fled south after it was found out she'd arranged the deaths of three of her husbands."
no subject
They'd talked over his rock-phone about meeting up at a place. And going for it has paid off: she's hot enough to be distracting, and she clearly knows Thedas a hell of a lot better than he does.
"She a big fan of hammering? Or getting hammered?" He's gotta ask, slouching close enough to Derrica to hear her without quite tripping over into creep territory. (By Sam Drake standards, anyway.)
no subject
Her head shakes.
"If I had to guess, hammering," she tells him. "But if I had to guess, neither. She's very..."
A pause while Derrica visibly flicks through a number of potential descriptors only to land on—
"Self-possessed."
In which self-possessed more or less stands in for terribly intimidating.
how many pickpockets can Sam Drake find this month: 2, apparently
That he likes this strange, rough-edged conman means that when his wrist is snared, the only thing that rises to meet Sam is a flash of overlong teeth— lips twisted into a sheepish, utterly demure grin.
Hello there.
"Oh, thank you for catching me, darling. Lost my footing on those damned stairs and would've fallen right on my face if not for your impressive reflexes."