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.
Jone cackles. She reaches for a carrot, and taps the stranger's head with it. "No, mate, that were clandestine."
Still, she pulls her collar up a bit. It doesn't do much-- she only has loose collared shirts-- but she's some shame. "You've a name, you odd little bugger?"
He chuckles at the carrot, grabbing it after she's bopped him with it, and taking a bite. "Ah, I see. Keeping them all to yourself?" It's teasing, not at all serious.
'Odd little bugger' is by far not the meanest thing anyone's said about him. You are halfway towards a friendship, strange almost Amazonian woman. "Loki Laufeyson, at your service." He bows, flourishing, before looking up again. "Your name?"
"Well met, Jone of Denerim." A major city in Ferelden, he knows that much, but beyond that? Not much. He's still learning about Thedas, after all, thus all the books around him. "I'll keep that in mind; can you give me a description, at least, so I won't go making a fool of myself or an enemy of you?"
"Ah." He's immediately curious; what sort of weapon does she use, is she some kind of berserker? But he feels that those questions are better asked when she's not very clearly taking a break from some sort of recreational engagement with another. "What do you do here? More mercenary work?" He waves a hand. "If your person is awaiting your food, feel free to ignore my questions in favor of all that."
"He's asleep," Jone says with a shrug, "wore him out."
But anyway- she grins, happy to be paid attention for skill, and not something lesser like appearance. "I work the training yard," she says. "Fighting styles, tennis, some other things. If you've a need of technique, I can try to drill it in, lad."
He gives her a very small, rather quiet, round of applause. Good job, Jone; wear that man out, whomever he is.
Fighting styles and tennis. His eyebrows go up. "Haven't played tennis in ages." He wasn't sure that was what the courts were for, but he's glad to have gotten a sort of sideways confirmation. Also being called 'lad' is a little odd when he's fairly certain he's got several centuries on this woman, but that's not worth mentioning. "I'll have to take you up on that."
Jone would be a very different person if that didn't immediately endear her to this Loki bloke. Has his priorities in order, him.
"I'm there most days," she scratches her head, thinking. "Give it a day or so. Been busy. Usually, I'm a better mind for work, but we almost died and all."
"Understandable, that." Loki was here for some of it, albeit only some and albeit here, trapped in the Gallows. "I'll come to find you, then, in three day's time. Were you in Starkhaven, then, or Hasmal?"
Or both, he supposes there are those unfortunate enough for that marker of Thedosian history but fortunate enough to have survived it.
"Starkhaven," Jone says, pulling a skin of wine from her little picnic bag. She stares at it, as though considering something, before putting it back. "My first siege. Not looking forward to the next."
"Huh." Loki knew that the Tevinter internal politicking involved mages but didn't realize that the entire force, or at least the bulk of it, was also mages. Makes sense, in retrospect. "They've invaded before? Historically, I mean."
"Ten years? Twenty? There's no way to tell." Jone slumps a little with this reveal; it isn't the sort of exuberance she's in the mood for. "Best live well while you can."
"A problem with a war this size in this place," Loki says, taking another bite from his carrot. It's difficult to predict how long the conflict will last. "Best live well while you can is the motto of mortality, I think, but you're not wrong. What do you think it will be like, here, if the war is won in our favor and Tevinter has to retreat?"
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Still, she pulls her collar up a bit. It doesn't do much-- she only has loose collared shirts-- but she's some shame. "You've a name, you odd little bugger?"
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'Odd little bugger' is by far not the meanest thing anyone's said about him. You are halfway towards a friendship, strange almost Amazonian woman. "Loki Laufeyson, at your service." He bows, flourishing, before looking up again. "Your name?"
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A wink. They both know what she's talking about; why pretend?
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But anyway- she grins, happy to be paid attention for skill, and not something lesser like appearance. "I work the training yard," she says. "Fighting styles, tennis, some other things. If you've a need of technique, I can try to drill it in, lad."
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Fighting styles and tennis. His eyebrows go up. "Haven't played tennis in ages." He wasn't sure that was what the courts were for, but he's glad to have gotten a sort of sideways confirmation. Also being called 'lad' is a little odd when he's fairly certain he's got several centuries on this woman, but that's not worth mentioning. "I'll have to take you up on that."
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"I'm there most days," she scratches her head, thinking. "Give it a day or so. Been busy. Usually, I'm a better mind for work, but we almost died and all."
You understand.
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Or both, he supposes there are those unfortunate enough for that marker of Thedosian history but fortunate enough to have survived it.
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She considers his question, frowning slightly. "Lot of cleaning up to do. Questions to be answered. It'll be ugly."
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