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

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.

[heorte]

The argument almost materializes, but—

"Spare me a bite?"

Of whichever is easiest to part with out of her basket.

There's another question, surely, but the kind of question that comes a little easier over shared food. Assuming Jone will share any of it.

[poleaxed]

Jone hands him the end she didn't steal. These late-night supplies are left out for everyone. They're stale, dry, cold, but edible. At the moment, Jone isn't picky.

"Can't sleep?"

[heorte]

"No," Ellis answers, easy over an old truth. Wardens don't sleep well. (Ellis hadn't slept well even before becoming a Warden.) He breaks apart the end of bread, trailing around to lean against the table. "You?"

Upon study of her bruises, Ellis has time to consider the likelihood of them being earned in the training yard, or elsewhere, and whether or not it's worth it to ask after the answer.

[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."

[acreage]

He laughs, then continues towards the cupboard where he knows the supplies for making coffee are kept.

"Well, don't let me stop you."

It's not that her apparent state goes unnoticed, so much as that her obvious good temper suggests that there isn't a problem here.

[poleaxed]

Jone takes some coffee herself, squirreling it away in tied-off teabags. "Holden, luv," she murmurs, "kindly keep your mouth shut about seeing me, won't you?"

If she were a beauty, she'd try to flirt to better secure his agreement. Then again, she gets the feeling she's on the wrong team for that tactic to work.

[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.

[poleaxed]

"It's the season for it," Jone says in an off-hand lie. When all else fails, she's learned the value of saying something plausible enough to get away with. Her height and build generally tend to sell the rest of it.

So, she isn't startled. That doesn't keep her from throwing a quarter loaf of bread at him.

[icasm]

"Is it?" If Loki sounds skeptical that's because he is but it quickly gives way to amusement when the woman throws a hunk of bread at him. He catches it, and throws it back, aiming for her shoulder. "You know, at reasonable hours, they actually serve hot food here." Just pointing that out.

[poleaxed]

Jone catches the bread, and lets out a delighted laugh. She's in a terribly good mood, is the thing. "Sometimes folk're busy during working hours, mate. Whole military operation, this is."

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.

[poleaxed]

Jone lets the blow land, but counterattacks; her free arm wraps around it, holding it in place. Always be careful when you're going against an up-close fighter.

Rapid fire, she asks, "where were you born?"

[altusimperius]

He doesn't change gears quickly enough, momentarily forgetting the exercise as he focuses on freeing his staff.

"Minrathou-- shit," Benedict stammers, quickly amending his answer to "Qarinus."

[poleaxed]

She has enough dexterity to flick one of his ears before true retaliation. A swift strike to his feet, one he's been well taught to jump over.

"Who do you work for?"

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?"

[poleaxed]

Jone grins, having finally snared someone's interest. She smacks the shield, and the device rotates, the sandbag tied to the other end swinging the contraption back into position.

"Quintain!" Jone says, all cheer. "Practice your horsemanship."

[notathreat]

The smack is loud, but none of the horses startle; they're all seasoned mounts. It clicks for Ellie a moment later, and she steps closer, giving the shield a smack herself to test the weight of it. It's heavier than it looks.

"What, like jousting?"

[poleaxed]

Jone nods, happy to be understood. The girl's accent reads as Rifter, but she can't be sure quite yet.

"Used to be how to practice for it, but it became its own sport in time. You want to try?"