[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

[thereneverwas]

Though it looks like he was about to start saying something else, Tiffany's question stops Barrow in his tracks, eliciting a laugh that's both shaky and sincerely friendly.

"I'm," he muses, perhaps unable to decide, "you know, it's one of those things that I've built up in my head so long. What happens when someone finds out."

He opens his hands helplessly. "And the answer is... anything could, I suppose. One doesn't get this far unprepared for the worst case scenario."

[fairforce]

She looks down at his hands as they unfold, and open. Sits back in her chair a little, taking her drink with her.

"You must be tired."

A simple observation. One that she means. Looking at him, when you look, if you look, you can see it. In the tavern, in the dim lights, after a drink, or three, that makes a difference.

[thereneverwas]

Something breaks before he can stop it. Barrow can't remember the last time-- if ever-- he perceived that someone not only looked at, but Saw him, so easily waving aside the layers of humor and sarcasm and avoidance built up over decades.

She only said four words, but the truth is in Tiffany's face: she sees him, and it's as terrifying as it is a relief to know that the jig is finally, finally up.

He works his jaw, abruptly and uncharacteristically at a loss for words. Eventually, he raises his mug to drink from it with the subtlest of nods, his mind clambering for some form of deflection that doesn't come.

[fairforce]

She goes on looking at his hands for a moment longer, even when he raises his mug to drink. And the silence stretches between them--not uncomfortably, or at least, not uncomfortably for her; Tiffany is used to silences. And the din of the tavern is enough to fill in much and more. People laughing and talking and shouting, and music, and the clank of tankards and cutlery on plates. But between them there is a silence.

After enough of it has passed, Tiffany looks up at Barrow's face.

"I don't like Val Royeaux." Her turn for a sip of her drink. "And I think it's better to face--anything--when you choose to face it. When it is a choice. Not when you're made to."

[thereneverwas]

The silence weighs on him, Barrow already too many drinks in to completely bounce back from the topic in his usual way. He finds himself staring at the surface of the ale in his mug, only stirring to look back up at Tiffany when she speaks again.

"Everything we're built on," he says in a low, anxious tone, "as an Order. Is about taking choice away. For the good of the world, maybe, but it's still people getting shut up in towers. And the people in charge, half the time they ought to be locked up themselves."

Might as well be out with it. There's no going back now.

[fairforce]

Tiffany gives a small nod of acknowledgement, more gentle prompt than agreement. She knows what he means, too--the Order, the world, the burden of making choices, and the way those choices can break apart as time goes on--not only months, years, but decades, Ages. All of it.

"Do you think you belong there with them?"

[thereneverwas]

"I--"

The words die in his throat. Barrow's gaze goes distant and troubled. Does he think that? Worse, what if he doesn't?

"I followed orders," he admits instead, "I thought it was right. It's all in the service of Andraste and the Maker, isn't it?"
That is, at least, the kind of thing a young person would think; a young person raised on a farm in an insular village, whose only opportunity to go out in the world is under the guise of holiness.

"Bit fucked, that," he breathes, and takes a quick drink. "Why create mages at all, if that's to be their fate?"