faderift | 01 - OPEN: while we keep moving forwards

Entry tags:

01 - OPEN: while we keep moving forwards

WHO: Sylvie Laufeydottir and You!
WHAT: An open Log for misc encounters and fun
WHEN: Late Guardian through Drakonis
WHERE: The Gallows and Kirkwall
NOTES: All are welcome, if you don't see a prompt that suits your fancy but still want CR, hit me up on plurk or discord (uccellino or aviculae#4520).

📍 Location: The Library

There’s few places that Sylvie feels at home at like a library. Generally in the apocalyptic events she spent time in, these buildings were not heavily occupied. Everyone was too busy living the end of their lives, or trying to run from it, to settle down in a sea of books and papers and just enjoy the magic of other worlds, untouched by reality, for a moment.

All the better for her really.

The riftwatch library isn’t quite like Alexandria, or even that small store she had found in Georgia in 2082, right before the tornado came through and gobbled it up, but it was still close enough to that comforting feeling of peace that she finds herself spending a gratuitous amount of time in there.

There’s so much to learn about this world, and there’s hardly time in her now short human life to absorb all the knowledge that the natives here just take for granted. Lyrium and Dragons and Elves and the Qunari. Dwarves and Inquisitions and war, war, war, and war. Those books are interesting, necessary reads that make her eyes go crossed sometimes with the different terms and titles and words that are just assumed common knowledge but are totally missing any context in her mind.

The books she likes the most of course though, are the few books on magic. Magic and the very meager technology that exists in this world, the spirts and all to do with the Fade. The thing that she can now at least touch with consistency, if not completely grasp: tethered by the space she and Loki have created within it to draw from.
Perhaps unsurprisingly, held together by the memories of a library.

That is where she is now, half sprawled, half curled up, across two chairs on a table in a back corner near a window, the sun setting outside and giving more need to the flickering candles she has precariously set around several very old looking books. In one hand she reads a thick tomb with hard to make out lettering on the front in this lighting, lips moving along with the steady tracking of her eyes. After a moment she goes a bit more still, lifting her hand and focusing until a little flash of green lights up the shadowed corner, one of the candles wobbling and then falling forward.

“Shit!” It’s said loud enough to echo, and most likely disturb anyone nearby—and if it doesn’t her clattering chairs back to slap her hands over the small flames and hot wax she’s now spilt all over her notes certainly will.

Oops.

📍 Location: Training Grounds

With the bitter weather in Kirkwall, made only worse by being on an island, Sylvie finds that training in the smaller indoor arena a little more tolerable. Honestly, training in the traditional sense really isn’t something she’s had to do; the world she lived in for the last millennia gave her plenty of exercise and kept her lean—all densely packed muscle made for running and survival. But this was another world, and this was another body; sadly human and in need of constant maintenance. It helps that there’s simply so much time for her to let her mind wander here, no death and deadlines warring for attention, so what better use than to burn her body into submission to help calm her constant need for motion.

It's almost comical how frustrating this almost-retirement was.

Unlike her variant, Sylvie is up early and already sweating, having peeled off the gratuitous layers of wool and leather used when running the island earlier and now down to loose under layers, all black and long sleeved, pushed up to her elbows as she spins the sword in her hand at the wrist, grinning. It may be wooden, but it’s still a bit deadly looking just by the smile on her face when she points it at the passerby. Honestly, haranguing someone into sparring in the mornings has become a fun little challenge.

“You know,” She starts, voice echoing a bit in the room as she calls out, “Practice is a lot more effective, and a lot more fun, with a partner. Care to join me?”

📍 Location: Communal Baths

Shy isn't a word that Sylvie would use to describe herself, however the communal baths usually aren't something she particularly cares to spend time in. It's simpler to go by when the water is not heated and clean herself quickly, or visit Loki and annoy him for the use of his overly perfumed and lovely bathroom; but this body of hers is not tolerant of this cold that seeps in through the walls and chills her bones. It would figure that of the things she'd lose when coming here, it'd be her resistance to cold. Right now, all cares about is returning feeling to her extremities. The baths are already occupied when she arrives, steam pleasant on her face as the door opens and shuts behind her,she sighs into the feeling.

"Thank god." Sparing no time, she starts to strip even as the words are starting to leave her mouth. "Here I thought I'd have to wait for it to warm up."

📍 Location: Scouting Office

If one was to assure her that her reward for freeing the multiverse from a megalomaniac dictator from beyond time and space would be having to do daily paperwork, Sylvie probably would have laughed in their face; but that is where she is now isn’t it? A reward for hard work and pain and blood, sweat, tears, and abandoning everything important to her on the way. Paperwork. The most boring paperwork one could ask for. Who cares about what time she completed some dumb form or arrived in to work or dragged her ass across Kirkwall to deliver some letter—she needed the internet. Something. There were far more effective ways of doing what they were doing without the use of quills.

There’s a heaved breath and a deep groan from her desk as she stretches out over it, forehead thumping into the papers a moment before she shifts so her chin is squashed up against a notebook, blowing hair out of her face. No, she couldn’t keep this up today. She needed an outing.

The workroom is only partially staffed right now, but there’s enough people there to weigh who might be the most willing to go along with her plans as she lets her body weight, precariously balanced now, push her chair out from under her. Rather than fall when it slips free from her weight though, she rocks herself to her feet with purpose, grabbing a letter from the box on the edge of her desk as she moves towards her victim with purpose.

“Hey.” It’s said as she sits on the edge of the desk, flipping the letter in one hand to bring attention to it. “Let’s go on a trip.”

📍 Location: Research Office

It would have been easy enough to just leave the paperwork she needed to bring to research at the front desk and then be along her way, but it’s hard not to be curious when one is something of an inventor themselves innit?

It’s late in the day, mostly because Sylvie had preferred not to be at work really, but needing to get things done is still something that has to happen, even if it’s nearing sundown and hardly anyone is around. Blame it on a door not latching completely, or possibly a little bit of magic, but Sylvie finds herself quietly peering at the different things in the room as she approaches the last person in for the day, their back to her.

“What are you working on?” It’s asked after a bit of quiet observing, and Sylvie is careful not to be standing too close lest her breaking the silence startles them.

📍 Location: Diplomacy Office

Delivering things to Diplomacy was another matter. Knowing that that person worked over here left a sour taste in her mouth, and she’s been avoiding the area for pretty much the whole time she’s been in the gallows—no it’s not because she’s afraid. It’s because she knows she probably can’t keep her mouth shut if she ends up having to run into him. Astarion had given her good advice, and she’s trying very hard to listen.

“Hello-” There’s a bit of a bright spot, it looks as though the boss isn’t in, but his secretary is sitting neatly where he belongs. It’s tempting, just oh so tempting, to play a little mischief if she can get inside that office and out without too much suspicion. Mess with his chair, or unorganized all Byerly’s files—oh that would just be perfect wouldn’t it. As such she approaches with a bit more pleasant a smile. “I have something for Monsieur Byerly. You look like the person to talk to.”

📍 Location: Kirkwall

It’s not that she hates living in the Gallows—ok no. She does hate it. It’s the lack of privacy over anything else, the inability to have a space to herself. Everything here is communal, communal living, sleeping, bathing, shitting. The whole lot; and she’s just incredibly tired of it.

Sylvie might not have much experience in saving and spending and the nonstop work of supporting herself in a monetary fashion, but she’ll learn if it means having her own space. And that is something she desperately needs, even if she won’t accept Loki’s help for it. The little notched apartment built into an attic space was enough for her, even more so that she can see the sky from here, and the less than stellar landscape of lowtown beneath her. She’ll take all the ridiculous stairs for that.

There’s not much to the place, just beams and a thin bed, a mattress like sitting area in one corner and a slightly wobbly table, but for now it’s hers. If you’re a friend, or close enough to it, you’re welcome to visit. If not, she can also be found wandering Kirkwall, and it’s bars at night.

📍 Location: CYOA!

Feel free to ping me for a new prompt, or to modify a prompt a bit for our use, or to assume that it’s a similar situation on a different day for another thread. I’m happy to chat and make something up fresh!

Flat | Top-Level Comments Only

"Mm," grunts the secretary, looking up from his work, "he's out. You can leave it here if you like, or come back later."

Byerly's attaché is as well-groomed as his workspace, the haughtiness with which he carries himself suggesting far more prestige and luxury than actually exists in the current space.
He taps the corner of his desk lightly, offering something in the proximity of a smile, though he can't quite be bothered to make it gracious. He's busy.

In another time this wouldn't even be a challenge. It'd be as easy as a brush of fingers against this man's hand, and she'd have a suggestion in his mind before he could even blink. A forgotten task, a need to leave the room, and then he'd run out and leave her alone for the few minutes she needed to complete her harmless prank.

But this wasn't another time, it was here and now and she couldn't trust that she'd actually be able to even influence him to even itch a scratch anymore. So instead she just spins the chair in front of his desk around and sits, setting the file on the corner of his desk as directed, before draping her arms over the back of the seat to watch him.

"So Diplomacy, I hear this is the elite office for Rift watch. I had considered joining."

"Elite?"

She receives a raised eyebrow, both for her word choice and for helping herself to the chair, but Benedict doesn't admonish her.

"Uh... sure. What changed your mind?" He's in his early twenties but still manages to have a vaguely teenage insolence about him, clearly feeling he has better things to do than humor whatever's about to happen.

"Hey."

Even if Sylvie's path hasn't brought her across Cosima yet, the woman whose head pokes around the nearest bookcase isn't hard to clock as a rifter. While her clothes are mostly Thedosian, her glasses frames are clearly plastic, and a few trips to Midgard in the right century or so would make Doc Martens easy enough to identify.

"You OK?" Her tone suggests concern rather than irritation at being disturbed. Seeing that Sylvie doesn't seem immediately injured, she ventures to add, "Sounds like either a wild discovery or a chair tilted too far back. I've done both, so, you know."

Similarly, Abby is also the type to be up early and moving, a habit she's kept from back home. It feels much better to run when it's cold and dimly lit outside; by the time she's in again her cheeks and nose are red from the cold, lips chapped. She's chugging water when Sylvie singles her out of her lazy trail toward the baths, but still does a comical who me? gesture. There is nobody else around.

She lowers her flask and wipes her mouth on the back of her arm, eyeing her. Trying to gauge the mood, "Okay."

It's not the first time Sylvie has asked for her company unexpectedly. Abby is suddenly grateful to the cold for having already coloured in her face.

An easy lope across the floor to where they keep the weapons- there aren't any clubs that could substitute for her mace. She's worse with a sword but in the absence of anything else she can play along. She selects a long one that requires the use of both hands on the hilt. "Best of three to start?"

The way Abby points at herself makes her laugh, and Sylvie leans back on her sword as she enters the room, watching the way the other woman muses on her weapon choice. A broadsword is very 'her', she has to admit, though probably the worst choice against someone like herself.

"Best two out of three is fine, but are we playing for anything in particular?" Sylvie steps forward a bit, a soft faint, before she starts to circle her friend with a growing smile. Her sword hangs light and almost limp at her hip.

She's fought alongside Sylvie all of once, and barely took note of her fighting style. They had bigger problems; she's seen Loki, resplendent and serpent-quick on the battlefield. Perhaps they'll be the same, in that regard. Abby wonders if she's quick enough to escape the range of a broadsword.

Guess they'll find out.

"Sure." She's watching Sylvie expectantly, turning on her heel. The sword is at her side, held loosely in one hand with its wooden point on the floor, and Abby decides abruptly that she'll be cheeky about it: "How about... whoever loses buys the drinks?"

"That seems like good stakes." Sylvie smiles at her, tongue touching a canine as she gives her a once over- clearly sizing her up. "I warn you though, I have expensive tastes."

It's barely enough time for the words to leave her mouth when she's moving forward, quick as a blink. Unlike Loki, who is all artistry and beautiful, Sylvie is quick and brutal and without any kind of fanfare. Her short sword goes for Abby's knees, a clear movement that is aborted as she plants her front foot down hard, swirling around to bring her blade upwards towards her throat instead.

If Abby had to describe her style as anything it's closest to the way Ellie has fought her, fast and sharp– a fleeting thought as she immediately jerks backward, and the wooden arc of the blade misses her neck by inches. Goddamn. She's got quick reflexes, but Sylvie is more agile than her by leagues, and she'll out maneuver Abby before too long.

Were they fighting to kill, Abby would simply put her down before they could get to that point, but they aren't. They're having fun, though there's very little nice about the purposeful thrust of her broadsword right at Sylvie's gut.

Sylvie yanks back as the sword comes at her middle, a laugh breaking the silence as she avoids the tip by centimeters, not wanting to lose the closeness she gained with that first movement. Rather than swing her blade again she drops, whipping a leg at Abby's ankles in an attempt to take her off them.

Unused to sparring a laughing opponent, Abby can't help herself, but her smile twists the moment that blade roundly smacks her ankle. Doesn't take her off her feet but uh, ouch, the skin is thin over the bone there!!

Fuck the broadsword, she's no good with them anyway. Also, half-hunched, it's very easy to duck a little lower and ram her shoulder at Sylvie's midriff.

It's a reminder on how she's lost mass in her transit through the fade, any other time Abby would have found herself on her ass, Sylvie having taken down beings twice her size, but here her height and weight actually sets her stalling-- the collision at her ankles probably painful but not enough to send her flying.

Instead Abby drops her weapon and Sylvie barely has time to react, taking the shoulder to the middle as she grasps at her opponent's clothing with an 'oof!'. It gives her exactly what she didn't have before though, leverage, and rather than brace against the attack Sylvie pulls with it, dropping her weight down as she uses Abby's momentum to roll her head over heels onto her back.

There's a loud thump of their bodies hitting the mat, Sylvie twisting around lightning fast to sit on Abby's chest, pinning her down in a full mount, one hand grasping the front of her shirt and the other holding the wooden blade point to her throat.

"Gotcha." It's breathless and full of humor, almost on the edge of laughter as she grins wildly down at her. "Try again?"

Goddamnit, she even feels the moment her center of gravity starts to go but can't do a thing to stop it– and then she's on her back and winded, gasping.

Sylvie pins her between her thighs.

She isn't heavy, but she's surprisingly strong. Her arms tense and cord as she presses Abby down into the mats. Abby lets her soak in the triumph for thirty odd seconds before she grunts and knocks the blade away, pulse coming hard and fast.

"Yeah." Now that she's been humbled... now that she knows Sylvie can and will use her weight and strength against her. She retrieves her sword before she stands, but grimaces at it.

There's no lessening the mirth in her expression as her sword is swatted away, and Sylvie hops up off as Aby starts to her feet, bouncing on her toes as she waits for her to be ready again.

"Not to your liking?" She gestures at the sword with her own, "You can go pick another weapon if you'd like."

Yeah yeah very funny. Well, Abby's about to be hilarious.

"Mind if I don't use anything?"

She's always been better with her fists, so. She shrugs a shoulder, and chucks the broadsword unceremoniously to the side, where it clatters on the floor.

"If that makes you feel better, why not?" It's clear the broadsword was just hindering Abby anyway, and she is quite a challenge on her own. All muscle and height and mass to Sylvie's lean and light speed. A good challenge, when she doesn't have the kick she used to.

"I'm still going to get that drink though." She closes the distance again with that, stabbing out with her blade towards Abby's left kidney.

"Yeah," Abby agrees, rotating her shoulder in heady anticipation of getting to swing her arm hard, "But you're gonna be buying them-"

The blade is wooden, so she doesn't have to worry about how hard she swats it away from her body with her arm when she steps in close. Mistake. Abby works well close. She slams her knee into Sylvie's hip.

Ah, so we're not respecting the play of the reality of the sword are we?

The hit to her hip hurts, and Sylvie grunts as she dodges away, favoring it a second as pain brightens her awareness. There's a shift in her body language, the way her head hangs a little and shoulders straighten as she drops the practice blade to the side as well, head tilting to the side as her lips quirk up.

"We'll see about that."

Sylvie works well up close as well, and tries her defenses with quick, almost aborted hits, careful to pressure her backwards.

We are not, no.

But Abby is more than happy to take her strikes and weather them, waiting for her opening– she's being forced to move backward to accommodate each calculating jab, she notices. She wonders where they're going. Eventually, her heel touches the edge of the mat.

Maybe she can hook her foot in around her ankle, and get behind her– she's too fucking fast, is the thing.

She is fast, but working with this body is a bit like stepping onto a planet with different gravity. Abby reaches the end of the mat and that little bit of difference should have given Sylvie the advantage when she dives for her thighs, intending to take her to the ground.

She doesn't have the mass though, especially against Abby's height, and grunts as she feels her own feet slip beneath her, forcing her to readjust for a lower grip.

Her struggle to pull Abby over is tactile, and gets a low breath and chuckle in response- she ducks, keeping in line with Sylvie, coming in too close for her to swing that stupid sword. Abby will have little bruises dotting her forearms tomorrow. She can feel them already, and she doesn't mind at all.

"Watch it." Lightly; she reaches over the top of her, pressing her palm flat between her shoulder blades to push her forward, so Abby can duck behind her. Now who's at the edge of the mat?

It's been an uncharacteristically boring few days -- Ellie just got back from a terrible slog through icy bog territory where the rain didn't let up and undead were a thing, so she figures she should be happy enough to spend a few days at a desk, doing make-work and filing.

Instead she's restless, and it seems like everything itches. It makes her tetchy.

So when Sylvie stalks like a cat over towards her, Ellie narrows her eyes, like she's trying to suss out what she's up to. She reaches out to pluck the letter out of her fingers, and flip it open.

"Please, yes. Is flying involved?"

"There is." She tilts her head forward as she says it, "And here I am with no real skill in that area. I thought you, with your grand reputation, could give me an aerial tour."

It's more that Ellie looks about as bored and itchy as she does to be quite frank, but there is certainly an aspect of the girl's reputation that sparks interest. It's not what she would have imagined back when she was helping her load corpses when they first met, and she certainly looks at her with more curiosity now than she had then.

Ellie snorts through a smile, but eagerly gets up, heading for the rack to grab her cloak, her heavier gloves. It'll be cold up there. She offers another pair to Sylvie as she heads for the door -- if she doesn't accept she'll just tuck it into her pack.

"You don't need butter me up, I'm like two seconds from throwing myself out a window. We'll ride double on Artichoke."

Lifting her bow and quiver, she slings it into place, then slips out the door, heading her way up the stairs to the tower the griffons roost in.

"What'd you want a tour of? The city? The harbor?"

"I don't know, looks like you don't need the practice at all much less someone to beat up on."

Mobius was already planning on getting in some training as it is. Sylvie being there is just icing on the cake in some ways. He's got a practice sword, sure, and a bit of wood meant to be a shield strapped to the other arm.

"But I'll be your dummy if you can live with beating up an old man."

"I'm older than you by far." She grins, eying him up and down as she circles him. Sylvie has no shield, just a mock short sword that she holds like it's an extension of her arm, comfortable and relaxed. "So I am perfectly ok with it."

She doesn't wait for a ready-set-go, instead just moves forward without warning, feinting with her blade before bringing her boot up to meet his shield if he chooses to use it.

So she says, and in a realm of gods (and monsters and worshippers?), he has no idea if it's actually true or not. It is, perhaps, impolite to comment on a woman's age, however, even if it's in her favor, so he wisely stays quiet about whatever she means by older by far.

It also means he has no idea what kind of fighter she is, but she is certainly very familiar with a blade in hand. She circles, he casually follows. While he hadn't done any real fighting for several years, he's done plenty of physical work in lieu of real training. Occasionally fell back to training when he itched for his sword, the weight of the armor.

The feint is good, and he does bring up the shield in his right hand. The kick lands solid, but Sylvie is human, and Mobius has training. He doesn't go flying back or sprawling--he barely moves at all, in fact. A slight stagger and that is it. With that, he pushes in, shield up, bringing the blade in his left sweeping up.

It is honestly maddening not having her strength, the fact that she can land a solid hit and feel the weight of the man against her instead of watching him fly. It's also a surprise that Mobius knows how to brace against such a hit-- even with her significantly lighter human body she is sure her Mobius wouldn't be prepared enough to not be upended by a mild push.

Instead this Mobius staggers slightly, and then pushes back and Sylvie uses the momentum to put enough distance between them that when his sword comes up at her she is able to parry it away with her own. There's a little laugh as she sizes him up again, a very visible up and down, before she quirks an eyebrow and moves forward again. This time though she tests his defenses, curious and quick thrusts with her sword as she tries to pressure him backwards.

Is there something about these Lokis? She gives him a once-over, and he's briefly reminded of Loki, and--he's going to put it out of his mind for now. There's a faux-fight to be faux-fought.

Sylvie is quick, and Mobius isn't a brick shithouse by any means, but he's fairly solid. The strikes he can't parry with his sword, he blocks with his shield, pivots on a planted foot so it's less moving backwards and more moving in a circle. He's trained, clearly, even if he's shaking off some of the rust.

But he's also being tested and toyed with. So at some point, between thrusts, he takes the offensive, pushing back in again with a few swipes of his sword. He's not nearly as nimble as she is, though, and leaving his defensive pose may not have been entirely wise--not for how hard to hit she is, and how open it leaves him besides. But that's the beauty of training. Sizing people up, testing things out. Getting back into the feel of it.

Flat | Top-Level Comments Only

01 - OPEN: while we keep moving forwards

Diplomacy

no subject

no subject

Library

training grounds

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

Scouting

no subject

no subject

training

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject