OPEN.

[broodypants]

WHO: Fenris, Jone, & YOU.
WHAT: Fenris & Jone are back in Kirkwall.
WHEN: When... people... are back in Kirkwall... waves hand.
WHERE: KIRKWALL
NOTES: None yet.

Comments

FENRIS.

[broodypants]

(wildcards always welcome.)

THE GALLOWS (daytime) | ota.

[broodypants]

Nominally a nocturnal creature, Fenris has kept well out of sight since he reappered in Kirkwall. One would be more than forgiven for missing all signs of his presence. Yet, after the fight, the subterfuge, Tantervale and Starkhaven... he sees little point.

A clever mind will note Fenris' armor is Tevene, but years out of fashion. No Venatori wears its like. The white markings on his skin bare little resemblance to anything well known outside of the most arcane magical studies up North. Yet he is still an oddity, sharp and off-putting.

He minds himself, walking through the Gallows. The mess is inspected, food carefully taken, but he does not linger. Instead, Fenris can be most easily found on the parapets overlooking the training yard. Sharp talons spear his food (no utensils-- he uses his gauntlets creatively), but his attention is clearly on the fighters.

If you come close enough, you may hear him murmur, "we are very fortunate."

[kantikoy]

Sometimes, Adrasteia likes to climb the stairs to the highest points in the Gallows and see what there is to be seen. Sometimes, like today, she startles upon someone else with a similar thought. Her steps falter, as she approaches, because she'd rather not come upon Fenris unawares, but then he speaks, which probably means he knows she's there.

Right?

Right.

"That the war and it's dragon haven't arrived here, yet?" She asks, carefully, because she is curious.

[broodypants]

He sees who has come across him, and Fenris raises his hackles defensively. He is not enraged, but neither is he any longer at ease.

"That Kirkwall is difficult to besiege."

MAGE TOWER MESS | ota.

[broodypants]

The neglected mess of the Mage's tower is Fenris' haunt. Whatever reason you have to trespass there is your own. To Fenris, it is his home. He has little interest in tidying it up, in sharing, leaving, or explaining himself.

Fenris can be found at a spare table, one of the few not stacked into a corner. Cobweb clings awkwardly to the legs. In a rare moment of indulgence, he has taken off his gauntlets-- his hands are clear, and so are the markings that snake over them, white strips of scarring from wrist to fingernail and back again over the other side.

He seems to be playing cards, but with who? Perhaps ghosts.

[muckspout]

Fenris might have heard the loud echoing clamor of Edgard running up and down the stairs. He stops to catch his breath and sees Fenris sitting at a table with cards.

"Are--" breath "Are you--" breath "waiting for someone or--" A long deep inhale. "waiting for someone?"

Edgard pushes back his hair which slicks back with sweat.

[broodypants]

Fenris stares over a fanned hand of cards. A dirty human is hardly a sight in Kirkwall, especially lately.

"Yes," he lies, voice flat.

[tender]

A heavy crate enters the room before Derrica does, supported by her arms, shifted slightly as she walks to keep it from sliding out of her grip. Consequently, Fenris goes unnoticed until she drifts to the left, clearly intending to set it down against a wall.

Upon catching sight of him, she freezes, box clutched tighter, then hitched up with the aid of one thigh as she takes in the sight of Fenris, his cards, the markings on his hands.

"Hello."

For lack of anything else to say.

[broodypants]

Fenris watches the woman enter, some kind of stevedore who appears to have a rare splash of manners. Who would offer those manners to him.

"Hello," he returns. He's not really sure what happens after this.

CLOSED TO ELLIE, ASTARION, SAM (respectively).

[broodypants]

Eventually, you're invited to cards. Diamondback, specifically, in the empty mess hall of the mage tower. The room isn't particularly inviting-- it looks forgotten, cobwebbed, dusty.

Fenris, an elf in black armor and white twisting tattoos, sits at one of the few unstacked tables, laying out cards. The game reveals two things about him: He isn't particularly good at cards, and he is somehow able to handle the cards without damaging them. A feat, considering the sharp gauntleted talons he refuses to take off.

(a.) If you come early, or particularly late, Fenris will greet you with a deep, clear voice, and wave you over. "I don't think it's wise to bet," he murmurs.

He opens a bottle of wine with his gauntleted fingers; the aroma is dark and fruity, and the drink he pours is hardly a conservative amount.

(b.) After the game, the money is counted up. Fenris carefully pays what he's lost, with only light frustration. "You are not... unskilled."

at some mid-point when the game's in intermission

[illithidnapped]

Late— so much more than fashionably, in fact— is precisely when Astarion deigns to make his entrance, having brought his own offering of wine to pay for the unspeakable burden of his earlier absence. A heavy, almost comically oversized bottle: the label faded, its pasted paper smelling of stale air and salt under close inspection— stolen from the storeroom of a local tavern, if anyone's particularly Sherlockian in their ability to recognize the scent.

His shirt is dark and loose, no frippery for once. No finery in the wake of warfare. Nothing over the top. Just a nice affair between friends.

And future friends? Well, who can say.

“Finished training the fledglings yet?”

The real reason why he’s late, potentially revealed with a single question as he sets the bottle down atop dusty wood with a weighty thunk.

[broodypants]

First and foremost, fenris reaches for the wine.

"I am a poor teacher," he admits while pouring himself a glass. Somehow, his gauntlets never manage to scratch the glass. "But, yes, I am finished."

He looks up to stare Astarion directly in the eye. If they need more training, it's Astarion's problem.

A

[notathreat]

Cobwebbed and dusty is better than a quarter-century of active rot and fungal decay. Ellie doesn't mind it, and in fact looks mostly at home. Her boots make small marks in the dust, joining the others there, the lines tracked like ghosts to make pathways.

She takes a seat at the table, folds her arms over it, and lets her eyes follow his armored fingers.

"My rep beat me here?" she asks, lifting her eyebrows at him, then tilting her head to one side, considering before she asks;

"Do you take those off, ever?"

[broodypants]

To answer the girl's-- Ellie's?-- question, Fenris splits the deck without ripping it in half or scoring the cards. The gauntlets are staying on.

"Astarion has..." How does he say this gently? He doesn't. "No self control."

JONE.

[poleaxed]

(wildcards always welcome.)

CLOSED TO HOLDEN, ELLIS, LOKI (respectively).

[poleaxed]

While many recruits have already arrived, returned back from the greater, more violent territories in the Free Marches, Jone has rarely been seen. Daylight hours mark her as totally absent. Yet, at this godless hour of the morning, when the sun is still entirely banished from the sky, you may find her.

Her hair is a mess, her neck and wrists are bruised, but her eyes are bright. She pokes around the kitchens with a wicker basket, filling it with extra rations left out for those who keep odd hours. She is whistling a jaunty tune that, if one is familiar with Ferelden drinking songs, is quite dirty when words are put to it. She isn't wearing shoes.

Incongruously, she seems rather pleased with the arrangement.

[heorte]

From the doorway, a second jaunty whistle joins her.

Yes, Ellis knows this particular drinking song. (Years ago, he might have sung the bawdy lyrics.) The pinch of concern on his face is held in check for the moment, observing her manner and trying to discern whether or not the injuries are something to press her about, as he whistles along with her.

[poleaxed]

Jone's eyes are bright, flickering green in candle flame. She whirls to face her attacker with half a baguette in hand- ah. Ellis.

She uses the bread's reach to tap him on the forehead once, twice. "Two for flinching."

Did he flinch? Try and argue.

[acreage]

"Am I interrupting something?"

Maybe just another way of asking why are you awake? from someone who has absolutely no high ground in the matter. He pauses just a few steps into the kitchens, a bag in hand.

[poleaxed]

Jone's unusual good mood continues on. Slowly, not breaking eye contact, she lifts a half-loaf of bred into her bag.

"Theft," she says, words curved by a grin, "principle theft."

[icasm]

What Loki is even doing up and in this part of the Gallows at this hour is hard to say. Something something unsettling dreams, something something trying to get some reading done when there's no one around to bother him or take books out of the stacks he's borrowed from the library. He's been sitting here, in a corner, and the woman currently filling up a basket with food doesn't seem to have noticed him, so he's able to take his time looking at her; taking in the bruises, the song (he doesn't know it), and her bare feet.

"Someone is having a good time," he intones like a creepy gargoyle in the wings. Sorry for startling you, perhaps, Jone.

TRAINING YARD | ota.

[poleaxed]

Several days pass, and Jone returns to the land of the living. Her duties in the training yard resume. You may find her doing her usual tasks:

(a.) Individual training in the yard, one-on-one skill building. She will try to match weaponry and technique to any volunteer's request, be it stealth or brute force. "G'wan, then! Gimme your best!"

(b.) She can also be found at the tennis court. Whether or not you were planning on facing her is irrelevant: she will volley a ball your way and try to entice you into a match. "You're not gonna let that stand, are you?"

a

[altusimperius]

The daily morning training continues, and although Benedict is no natural fighter, he is certainly trying.

He has the good sense to cast a barrier now before attempting any other magic, and his stances have improved by virtue of repetition, and he even seems rather more confident in deflecting Jone's blows with his wooden staff.

It's during one such early session that he's particularly on his game, bright-eyed and intent on landing a blow, however superficial. It is completely possible, if not probable, that he is actually coming to find this enjoyable.

NEAR THE STABLES | ota.

[poleaxed]

Along with the usual training, Jone has added something new.

An odd device has been constructed, outfitted with a sawdust-filled bag and greased wheels. Those familiar with hastilitude, horse sport, and jousting in general, may recognize it as a quintain. An old palfrey sits not far off, nickering softly. Jone, holding a blunt-tipped lance, is calling anyone in earshot to give it a try.

"What? You frightened of this old gelding? C'mon, give it a try."

[notathreat]

Ellie's a common sight around the stables even if she's more often working with the griffons, and on her days "off" she keeps herself active by mucking out stalls, grooming the mounts, and sneaking them snacks. She usually has hay in her hair, all the better for the horses to affectionately nip at as she hurries by.

She comes up with a bucket of soapy water to dump, leans over the side of the wooden fence, and gives Jone a halfway suspicious look.

"The hell is that thing?"