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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."
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."
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.
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.
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.
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.
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.) 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?"
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."
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."
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.
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.
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.
"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.
Edited 2021-08-04 00:59 (UTC)
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.
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.
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.
"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.
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.
"Someone is having a good time," he intones like a creepy gargoyle in the wings. Sorry for startling you, perhaps, Jone.
"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.
So, she isn't startled. That doesn't keep her from throwing a quarter loaf of bread at him.
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."
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."
"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.
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.
In better lighting, closer to the candleflame, the bruises on her neck take the clear shape of, well, hickies. If he's been anywhere near the training yard, he certainly hasn't seen that. By the same token, he wouldn't have seen much of Jone either. She's been strangely absent since the majority of Riftwatch returned to the Gallows, but it's only been a few days, barely three.
"A bit," Jone concedes, without any evident difficulty. "Never been in a siege before. Nasty stuff."
"A bit," Jone concedes, without any evident difficulty. "Never been in a siege before. Nasty stuff."
"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.
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