WHO: Bastien + Various WHAT: Business outside of Kirkwall WHEN: Mostly August WHERE: Hasmal, Antiva, Cumberland NOTES: If something isn't clear enough or we need to hash anything out OOC, hit me up.
[ Bastien's voice is quiet. But it's a cheerful, energetic sort of quiet, not the whisper that would indicate he's hiding in a closet somewhere with an imminent threat of being dragged out by his ankles. He's not even indoors. Behind his voice is the muffled thud of hooves on a packed dirt road.
Still, he's not far enough away from the estate—or from this entire invaded region of the Marches—to want his voice carrying anywhere out of sight. ]
If no one else has had any luck, it is because I took it all.
Cumberland is a lovely city—Bastien said as much on the approach, when the great golden dome of the abandoned College of Magi came into view, and for once in his life didn't accompany that with an unfavorable comparison to Val Royeaux. But the tavern they're in now is all but identical to taverns near the docks of every other coastal city in Thedas. Rough-hewn furniture, rough-hewn clientele. It's early for drunk and disorderly crowds, but there are signs that there was one last night and the night before that, and there will be again when the sun dips.
Until then, it's mostly empty, and Bastien is pulling apart a smoked fish (whole, of course, and staring at John with one sightless eye) with focus. He's hungry. It was a long ride.
Between bites, he asks, "Do you think you can tell a good sailor by looking, John?"
The night is as dark as the moons will allow, Zacharias Epifanio has disappeared down the lamplit street, and Bastien is crouched in the alley behind the silent, defenseless shop, talking to a dog.
"I don't suppose you also turn into a cat?" he says. "Or a slightly smaller dog? That would be very convenient."
He's eyeing the hole in the door that the cats have been slipping in and out of since they started watching the shop. It's a little small—unless dogs, like cats, can fit through things no one would expect of them.
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closed | div head hunting (backdated)
[ Bastien's voice is quiet. But it's a cheerful, energetic sort of quiet, not the whisper that would indicate he's hiding in a closet somewhere with an imminent threat of being dragged out by his ankles. He's not even indoors. Behind his voice is the muffled thud of hooves on a packed dirt road.
Still, he's not far enough away from the estate—or from this entire invaded region of the Marches—to want his voice carrying anywhere out of sight. ]
If no one else has had any luck, it is because I took it all.
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closed | recrewting in cumberland
Cumberland is a lovely city—Bastien said as much on the approach, when the great golden dome of the abandoned College of Magi came into view, and for once in his life didn't accompany that with an unfavorable comparison to Val Royeaux. But the tavern they're in now is all but identical to taverns near the docks of every other coastal city in Thedas. Rough-hewn furniture, rough-hewn clientele. It's early for drunk and disorderly crowds, but there are signs that there was one last night and the night before that, and there will be again when the sun dips.
Until then, it's mostly empty, and Bastien is pulling apart a smoked fish (whole, of course, and staring at John with one sightless eye) with focus. He's hungry. It was a long ride.
Between bites, he asks, "Do you think you can tell a good sailor by looking, John?"
puts the most shamed hand over timestamps
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closed | stuffing gazettes in antiva city
The night is as dark as the moons will allow, Zacharias Epifanio has disappeared down the lamplit street, and Bastien is crouched in the alley behind the silent, defenseless shop, talking to a dog.
"I don't suppose you also turn into a cat?" he says. "Or a slightly smaller dog? That would be very convenient."
He's eyeing the hole in the door that the cats have been slipping in and out of since they started watching the shop. It's a little small—unless dogs, like cats, can fit through things no one would expect of them.
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