[open] where the moon has lost its glow

[thereneverwas]

WHO: Barrow & you
WHAT: day to day miscellaney
WHEN: Harvestmere
WHERE: hither and thither
NOTES: feel free to hmu for a bespoke starter or wildcard me if none of these tickle your fancy, I ain't give a damn

I. The Training Yard

Each morning Barrow faithfully reports to the training yard, where he sets out the practice dummies and the sparring weapons and stands by to assist anyone in particular need of combat training. It's more or less a running joke among the regulars that the earlier one arrives, the gruffer and more visibly hung over he is, but it doesn't take long to get him cracking and appreciating jokes, his lilting laughter echoing across the courtyard.

In recent days, however, his manner has become a little more subdued, his humor more careful. The chilling of the air has resulted in some increasing difficulty gripping the haft of his hammer, as well as weapons and cleaning rags more frequently dropped with a weary expletive and a sigh.

By early afternoon, he's usually retired to the chair set up on the edge of things, where he continues to bark instructions and suggestions to the trainees until it's time to clean up.


II. Lowtown Dives

Ever since a particular incident, it's been difficult to catch Barrow on the Gallows when he isn't offering training. More often, he can be found taking meals or faffing about on the mainland, playing cards with strangers (always strangers) if he's in a good mood or just sitting and silently nursing a whiskey if he's in a bad one.
Although notoriously lazy, occasionally his cleverness wins out and compels him to switch up the pubs where he's spending time, ensuring that finding him-- and tracking any behavioral patterns-- is more difficult for the average person. That said, anyone taking a special interest will notice an uptick in the quantity he drinks and the amount of time he spends simply sitting alone, mind wandering.
Hiding.


III. Wildcard

flails around like a muppet


for Emet-Selch and Herian, separately

With the cat out of the bag, as it were, times have been set aside by request for training of the specifically anti-magic sort. For this, Barrow trades his warhammer for the more stereotypical sword and shield, which he clearly wields with the confidence that comes from years of expertise. Although the sessions are one-on-one, they still occur in the training yard and can be witnessed by passersby.

When arriving for their first session, both Herian and Emet-Selch individually receive a brusque little wave and a nod of greeting from where Barrow sits on the edge of the yard.


for Jone

"Oi, Jone," he grunts to her one morning, perhaps a little more timidly than usual-- he's not completely sure where they stand, at the moment-- "Provost gave me some kind of magic breastplate, needs stress testing. Want to help?"
He grins reflexively. For the one person he can rely on to help him beat the shit out of something, he suspects he need look no further.

Comments

II Helping!

[muckspout]

Edgard has noticed Barrow has been a little scarce and that struck him as odd, so he's been searching for him in pubs. This one in particular, is definitely not his scene, so when Edgard actually finds him there, he's a little alarmed.

He grabs an ale of his own and then casually sits near Barrow--not too close and not too far. He then says out of the corner of his mouth,

"Need some assistance?"

[thereneverwas]

It's not a voice he was expecting to hear, though Barrow is, granted, hardly adept at keeping a low profile-- something about being the biggest person in the room, often with the loudest laugh, doesn't make one exactly difficult to track.

So he can't be too hard on himself, anyway, but he's still not certain of what to do with Edgard's presence.

"With?" he asks, a bit guardedly.

[muckspout]

Edgard frowns and then scoots closer.

"Usually," He says quietly.

"People don't come to this particular pub, unless they have to."

Get it, Barrow?

[thereneverwas]

Sometimes, just sometimes-- and maybe Edgard brings it out of him-- Barrow decides to be difficult.

"You implying something, mate?" he says, too wearily to be properly offended.

[muckspout]

Edgard huffs with slight irritation and turns to face Barrow. He says measuredly and in a whisper,

"Trying to ask if you're here for a job or a mission or just in over your head?"

He's helping, Barrow! He's helping.

hewwo.

[arkitect]

He's allowed just a little time to pass before settling upon a day-- perhaps he's busy. Perhaps he just doesn't feel like looking too enthusiastic about things. Whatever the case, he's here this morning, dressed simply enough; he foregoes the outfit he arrived in more often than not, these days, going this time with comparatively plain black robes.

He doesn't appear to have anything else on him for the moment, empty-handed as he raises one in return.

"I do hope you haven't been too bored, thus far, but if so-- well. Mayhap that can be helped."

[thereneverwas]

"How's that saying go? Only the boring are bored?"
Barrow hefts himself out of his chair and approaches the mage, his smile a bit tense but otherwise genuine.

"How're you wanting to approach this?"

[arkitect]

"I would like to see how the capability functions, foremost," he answers. He certainly isn't going to complain about getting to business.

"I do not exactly require training in how to function without my magic, though some practice may not go amiss; knowing what to expect of this is more a concern. How quickly it can be put into place, and so forth."

[thereneverwas]

"Righto."

Turning the wooden sword in his hand, Barrow regards it for a moment before glancing back over Emet-Selch.

"'f you want, we'll just spar regular. You cast a spell, I'll do my thing. Anyone start having a real problem, we stop. Seem reasonable?"

I. The Training Yard

[notathreat]

Ellie is aware of Barrow the way she's aware of most of the residents of the Gallows, though they haven't had occasion to cross paths much. He's a much bigger, more physical fighter than her with her sharp, vicious knives and wicked aim. They'd have had little to teach each other.

But she recognizes his voice on the crystals, and she'd have had to be deaf not to hear what went down recently. Even Derrica had backed off of him, and privately, Ellie isn't so sure about him herself.

Barrow doesn't fit the picture of a Templar she has in her mind. Bullies, who get off on control and abuse of power. Or if he does, he hasn't really shown himself to be.

More than anything, Barrow reminds Ellie of all the older men in her life. Gruff, older cowboy-types. Teachers, protectors. Men whose hands were far from clean. And more than anything, she can understand hiding a part of yourself.

Ellie's just finished hauling another quiver of newly-fletched arrows to the archery range, heading by him and his chair, when he drops something with a curse.

Automatically, Ellie leans down to pick up the cleaning rag, and offers it back to him before realizing she's done so. She hesitates, then shifts the now-empty quiver on her shoulder.

"Old injury?" she asks, gesturing at his hand. These always cropped up for folks as the weather turned.

[thereneverwas]

"Thanks luv," he mumbles as he retrieves the rag from Ellie's hand, but despite the gruffness in his tone, the gratitude in Barrow's eyes is quite sincere.

"Not all that old, to tell you the truth." He flexes his hand to pop his knuckles with a wince, then takes up the rag once again to continue his polishing.

"Seen you about," he muses, and nods to her quiver, "archer, I take it?"

[notathreat]

Ellie nods back, flashing a small smile -- and adjusts the empty quiver. She's not carrying her bow at the moment, but it's a common sight across her back, and apparently Riftwatch has fewer archers than she would've thought.

"Among other things," she says easily, tapping two fingers to one of the knives strapped to her thigh. Visible, with her cloak pushed back as it is. The cold doesn't bother her so much.

"Ellie," she says by way of introduction, and gestures to his hand. "What happened there?"

War wounds; often the safest topic.

[thereneverwas]

"Ahh, one of those types," he observes warmly, "pain in the arse, your lot. Might as well not use a shield at all." But great to have on one's own side, at least.

When she gestures to his hand, Barrow pauses to flex his fingers again, his eyes going distant for a moment before he clears his throat to answer.
"Spent a few days on a rack." A twitch of his brow and flutter of his eyelids suggest that the memory, whether recent or not, remains vivid.
"Couldn't get properly healed until after we'd escaped, fought, walked a while.
The rheumatism's my reward for living."

ii

[fairforce]

Tiffany isn't here to drink, exclusively, but she does have a drink when she approaches Barrow's table. And Tiffany wasn't here to look for him, either--and even if she had been, he's so tucked away to the side of the room that she might have overlooked him--except he's quite a bit larger than nearly every other patron here, which is eye-catching even if you're not actively searching for someone.

"Can I sit?"

She's dressed plainly, a roughspun shirt and tunic and a dark blue cloak, but she can't do anything about the sort of figure that she cuts, any more than Barrow can help the figure he cuts. She's upright and friendly even in a dingy Lowtown pub.

"Or are you waiting for someone to join you?"

[thereneverwas]

At first, when Barrow blinks out of his weary, trancelike stare, he doesn't recognize the person asking to sit down. He's not used to seeing her in plainclothes, let alone... well, not bloodied at the bottom of a ravine, and it's difficult not to be struck by the humanity of her. Vibrant, warm humanity, but still just a person.

He offers a little sheepish smirk and raises his mug in a gesture of greeting, using his other hand to beckon to the empty chairs around him-- no one else is coming.
"Come to drag me off to Val Royeaux?" he asks wearily, only half-joking.

[fairforce]

"Obviously."

She pulls the chair out and sits with a little sigh, wraps both hands around her mug of ale.

"But first we get good and drunk together. That's the way. Hasn't anyone ever told you that?"

[thereneverwas]

"Seems to work out in my favor," he murmurs with a soft smirk, "though I supposed you've had to drag me before, and managed it all right."

He falls silent a moment, scratching at the stubble on his cheek.

"...anyway, if I had to have my last drink, it wouldn't be in this fucking place."

[poleaxed]

He is correct in that judgement. Jone looks up from the afternoon beer she was drinking, and her expression brightens. "First Templar you are, to ask me to hit you."

She grabs a staff-- one of the instruments the training yard uses for javelins, but with no pointy end-- and begins to stand.

[thereneverwas]

"You hit lots of 'em then?"

It's a moot point, to remind her that he's an ex-Templar; the stigma's still there, and quite frankly, he'd rather not have that conversation at all. Or any other, that doesn't involve whacking things and enjoying themselves.

He beckons to her before turning to head back to his chair, next to which sits a crate containing the armor in question.
"Help me fasten it?" he requests, holding the front half against himself while fiddling with the back half.

[poleaxed]

"Ain't you heard? There's a war on." A convenient deflection. If anybody is going to appreciate it, it's Barrow.

She pulls his armor together with the same rough touch she applies to Gabranth every morning, and any thoughts of comparison are immediately jettisoned.

[thereneverwas]

Barrow's laugh is quick and jovial in response, although it's cut off with a grunt when he's clasped into the constricting breastplate.

"Thanks," he wheezes with exaggerated effort, then sets to rolling his shoulders about, trying to get comfortable.
"Well, Provost Stark hardly made it with me in mind," he decides, having concluded that comfort is probably not on the table, and he makes a beckoning motion to Jone as he steps back away from her.

Go time.

I

[portcullis]

One particularly crisp Harvestmere morning, not long at all after the ferryman has made his first run across the water, the quiet rattle and scrape of armor crossing the yard at Barrow’s back betrays a heavier loadout than most trainees typically turn up in.

He approaches at a purposeful pace, unhurried. The figure he cuts against the early hour is less impressive than Barrow’s, but substantially more polished: the plate of his armor gleams where the steel is fresh burnished, evidence of recent combat buffed down into a network of older, deeper marks in the metal. There’s a scar to match over his ear where someone pushed through a parry once upon a time, others checked into the grizzle of his stubble. He has a weary look to him, shaved bald, shadows under his eyes. They’re dark, unfamiliar in the quick sizing up he performs whenever he gets to turning around.

They’ve never met.

The fiery sword that bisects his breastplate, on the other hand --

There is a distinct pause before he says, “Hi.”

[thereneverwas]

"H'llo," mumbles Barrow without looking up, rather focused as he is on his mug of coffee at the moment, "you're awfully dressed up for--"

And then he raises his eyes, and he sees that insignia, and the words die on his lips. He stares at the breastplate a moment, feeling as though his blood has frozen in his veins, and slowly scans upward to the Templar's face...

...which, blessedly, he does not recognize.

Clearing his throat loudly, he nonetheless sits up a little straighter, rubbing the back of his hand over his mouth as if to rid it of any damning coffee stains.
"...you don't have to wear all that to training, you know," he rasps, "Ser..?"

[portcullis]

Vincent, who had rolled his wrist as if to draw a missive from his belt, tilts very slightly after that stare instead, as if to catch it before it drifts too far afield. His eyes are up here.

He doesn’t have to look at his own breastplate to investigate what the matter might be.

“Knight-Lieutenant Vincent Rovente, most recently of Hasmal,” he says, once he’s given Barrow sufficient time to come to terms with this new reality. Not off to the best start, but not entirely unexpected, either: if the rumors are true, this island is crawling with apostates.

“I’d ask you if you’re in charge here but I can see that probably isn’t the case. What’s your name?”

[thereneverwas]

"Hasmal!" Barrow remarks, and then quickly winces-- they've seen more than their share of trouble over in Hasmal, and anyone seeking refuge here, Templar or not, has no doubt experienced no small amount of grief.

"Barrow," he replies, and rises to his feet, his knees complaining loudly as he extends a hand to Vincent. "Glad you've made it down all right, after everything."

Whether or not Vincent grips his hand, Barrow then uses it to gesture toward the towers, pointing to each one as he explains: "that over there's the main administrative building. Group quarters are in the left and the right towers, staffed dining hall n' baths are in the right one, chapels in all three, but the big one's in the middle. I imagine you'd be going for the Forces division?"