[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.