[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

[arkitect]

He watches it with interest, pausing after firing to see what, exactly, happens; one brow arches as the magic is negated, and he hums a thoughtful little note. Interesting. But if it's that easy for his opponent...

His form blurs, abruptly, in the same color as his magic, shifts and relocates at an angle to Barrow's side. From his new position, he sends off a stronger bolt, and while he's still observing-- he's more ready for an immediate follow-up, this time.

[thereneverwas]

The shifting of his entire person isn't a move Barrow is prepared for, and he takes a brief moment to be impressed by it, which results in a shock from the beginning of the magic bolt before he can negate the rest of it.

"Fuck," he casually exclaims, but keeps his eyes on his opponent, waiting for him to strike again.

[arkitect]

"So a partial application is possible," he observes, faintly impressed in turn. Not an all or nothing situation-- the element of surprise won't work as well against this unless it's a damned good strike, evidently.

The next time his form blurs, however, he moves in rather than to the side. Guarded, anticipating a reflexive strike if one comes; the magic gathers in his hand, but he doesn't actually strike himself, not from this distance. It isn't worth the risk of a successful point blank hit. Instead he just asks, almost conversationally, "And at close range?"

It's something he might need some future experience with, after all-- an invitation to show him.

[thereneverwas]

"Better at close range," Barrow remarks, watching Emet-Selch's hand carefully and bracing himself.
That's the bitch of magic, really-- it's hard to spar with it as one does with wooden weapons. There's no such thing as a practice lightning bolt.

To demonstrate his point, he grips the pommel of his sword in both hands and thrusts it downward, creating a burst of white light. His opponent will find that he's abruptly unable to cast any magic at all, however briefly. Barrow, in the meantime, raises the sword and lazily swings it in a mock-slicing motion toward Emet's gut.

[arkitect]

Whatever spell he'd begun to ready, he never lets it fly. It's there only so it can be negated, and while he braces himself for exactly that to happen--

Well. He's never actually been unable to use his magic, and the sensation of being blocked from it is something almost chilling. The absence is uncomfortable in a way he hasn't ever had to contend with before, an unfamiliar feeling that leaves him thrown for just long enough.

He doesn't have the time to try to get away or dodge, but he does reflexively produce a dagger from somewhere within his robes, striking out to try to push that swing off-course. Just calculated enough to work with the flat of the blade rather than the edge, to avoid metal sinking into wood.

"I suppose I ought to have taken up a sword as well," he mutters, with a slight shake of his head; he conjures up the beginning of a spell once more just to ensure he can again, before he lets it dissipate.

[thereneverwas]

The sword is deflected easily, its swinging gesture performed as a point to be made rather than an actual attempt to strike.

"Couldn't hurt," Barrow replies, lowering his wooden weapon, "we've got a fair few mages who come out just for practical weapons skills, and if you ask me, it'll have them all the more prepared against a Red Templar. ...or a regular one."

[arkitect]

"Relying solely upon one skill never does end well," he says as he stashes the dagger back where it had been concealed. No need for a real weapon-- it does seem, though, like this is a fairly usual thing for him. A more practiced motion than it would be if he rarely carried the blade with him.

"But I may well put some time in myself, later. I am far more accustomed to using a modified blade than the sort found here."

[thereneverwas]

"Gonna make one yourself, you think?" Barrow's eyebrows climb, intrigued. "Modified how?"

[arkitect]

"I will likely be better served readjusting to a more standard sort of weapon, by my understanding. I've seen little in the way of the mechanisms that the Empire's weaponry would require-- not to mention that a simple firearm itself would be preferable, in that case, over an unwieldier close-range blade. It could prove better to take up the bow instead."

He shrugs one shoulder, there. Adjusting to some of this world's limitations is still something of a process.

"I may experiment regardless, but my magic is my primary focus for now."

[thereneverwas]

"Got it."

A pause as Barrow nods, mulling over what he's just been told, finding no issue with it. Except,

"what's a firearm?"

[arkitect]

Hm. He considers, for a moment.

"Surely there are cannons here, at the least?"

Please at least say that much is familiar.

[thereneverwas]

Barrow blinks.
"Say what now?"