faderift | (no subject)

WHO: Gannicus and whoever should encounter him
WHAT: A former slave walks into town
WHEN: Covering a span of a few days, as he settles in
WHERE: Here, there, a little bit everywhere. Cheap taverns, cheaper inns, ditches, also the pier and around the ferry
NOTES: I am down for keeping TDM threads or using them as starters, or starting over if that is what you prefer! I will also match format, if you're not down with brackets.

drinking, taverning, etc

[ This is a man who has spent time on the road.

It's clear from the way he moves, the fact that the cloak around his shoulders is battered and dirty, the way that the mud clings to his very high boots. His pack that he totes around is weathered but dry, treated with wax that surely was put there months ago.

To catch him at a tavern involves watching him drink, and perhaps watching him fumble with coins as though he's not entirely sure of their current value. However he's not a fool with his money, and anyone who tries to pickpocket him will find themselves suddenly gain a few broken fingers.

He fumbles a bit but he also settles, takes a drink of wine. Considers it. Raises his eyebrows. ]

Maker knows I've had worse.

[ He says that aloud to whoever is next to him. ]

Pier

[ It's very early in the morning and he's already there, but it's not particularly clear if he's waiting for the ferry or if he's just sitting and watching the water. He has both of his swords on his lap as he sits, cross-legged, looking vaguely ruffled, a bit like a cat who didn't expect to be forced to come out so early.

He looks up as someone approaches; he has his cloak wrapped around his shoulders like a shawl, but his hair is a wild mess around his head. ]

Do you know how to do a proper braid?

[ He raises his eyebrows, like it's an invitation. ]

Flat | Top-Level Comments Only

No shard.

[He holds both hands up, twists them to show.]

I thought them myth or lie, before nearing Kirkwall. We were often told least of all men, in Tevinter.

[He manages to shrug without moving his head.]

It is coin I seek.

[ Tevinter? That one word is a startling splash of cold water in the face, and it’s only the patient, steady instincts of a hunter which keep her from bolting. If Tevinter were sending buff enemy soldiers into Kirkwall, they probably wouldn’t do it openly saying hey I’m from Tevinter.

So she makes herself finish the braid. Last pleat twined into place, all his wild hair now confined, and she tugs lightly on the tail to signify she’s done. ]

And coin you’ll get. They do give a steady paycheck, which is more than I’ve had; needed to hunt and trade for everything before.

[ Job complete, Astrid scoots backward again — perhaps a little like a spooked animal, after she had been so casual, so trusting — and she picks up the mug, scrutinising him over its rim, waiting for the man to turn and face her. She takes another swig of the drink, cloying-sweet. ]

So you’re, what, a mercenary?

No.

[He doesn’t seem to sense her nerves, or maybe he’s ignoring them. Still.]

I a- was a gladiator.

[There are some feelings there; was. He was a gladiator and he loved it, he loved the arena and glory. He hated being a slave, but he could manage that with Melitta and Oenomaeus.

She’s dead. He’s not a gladiator anymore. He cannot call the men he loved brother, anymore.

He imagines everyone knows that gladiators are all slaves.]

[ There’s only a faint flicker of recognition. There had been tales from the skalds about the distant fighting pits of Tevinter, but time and distance softened and blurred the lines of those stories by the time they made it to the Avvars’ isolated, southern shores; it was presumably more romanticised than bare stark reality.

So Astrid tilts her head. There’s a story there — if he was a gladiator, maybe a slave, then how did he leave? — but not one she can puzzle out by immediately looking at him. So she just adds, gently, over another swig of mulsum (he’d poured her a whole mug, can’t let that go to waste): ]

Well, good. That means now you can take coin for a bigger variety of stuff than just stabbing people real well. You’ll see new and strange things here with Riftwatch, if you’re after that.

I am very good at stabbing people.

[He looks up at her, smile on his face, and runs his hand over the elaborate braid.]

Gratitude. Do I look like a man decent for work?

[ Musing, mock-thoughtful: ] Hmmmm. Probably. We’ve got some people fairly allergic to the baths so this likely passes muster. If you’re big and can swing a sword, I think that’s, like, good enough. Although— does this mean you’ve not done the job interview part yet? You’ve still got to talk to the Quartermaster?

[ Oh no what she has been giving aid and succour to the enemy. So chewing on her lip, now genuinely thoughtful, Astrid adds, ]

If you’re from Tevinter you’ll probably have to convince them you’re not with the empire. Just, y’know, comes with the territory of being at war. Or so I hear.

[He holds out his arm; there's a B scarred on his forearm.]

I have more reason than any to hate Tevinter.

[ She looks at the B, head cocked. Accepting her own non-worldliness and lack of knowledge in matters like this, since it seems an okay moment to ask— ]

What does the B mean?

[Ah.

He pulls his arm back. It’s not hidden and he doesn’t seem embarrassed or offended.]

You have never seen a slave brand, then.

They all differ. The B for Batiatus, the name of the man who was my dominus. The brand upon arm is for a gladiator.

Oh. Shit. Yeah, no, I haven’t.

[ It’s hard to wrap her mind around such a history: the Avvar were fiercely, aggressively independent people, straggling across the mountains with little attention even paid to national borders. But since the man seems nonchalant enough about the asking, she risks another question, tentative: ]

Are you… I mean… did you buy your way out or is there a risk of some Tevene slave-hunters showing up on the Gallows doorsteps, or…

No one is searching for me.

[He shrugs a little.]

I was released for valiant deeds upon the sands. Killed enough people to impress the Vints.

Well— Good.

[ Astrid is at a loss, her easygoing manner now suddenly stilted. What do you even say. In the end, tucking her legs under her and finishing the rest of the mulsum, she slides the empty cup across the cold stone towards him. ]

If the Vints are your enemy like that, if you’ve got that hatchet to sharpen, then Riftwatch would give you opportunities to kick their ass, probably. I’m no leader or anything but I’d give you that chance if I were.

[He watches her a moment.]

Did I frighten you?

[He's a blunt enough kind of man, to ask that.]

[ Just as straightforward back, because she answers like with like: ]

No. Just broke my heart a little. I’ve never met a freedman before. I didn’t— I can’t even imagine. But you seem very casual about it.

[He tilts his head, and he looks like a cat, a little, with that same curious look that cats get. He touches his hair, just a little.

He is not used to breaking hearts just like that, so easily, for something he didn't do. He is not used to anyone having that kind of heart around him.]

I suppose some would not be so casual.

[He says it softly, but he doesn't seem upset.]

A gladiator of my rank was a slave to be prized.

[Still, the word slave is there. But.]

I find walking forward finds me better than looking back.

Good, and yeah. Same. It—

[ To that point, though, she’s interrupted by there finally being some movement in the distance, the ferry looming up through the morning mists and approaching them. Astrid straightens from her seat on the cold ground, popping back to her feet, watching the boat bump up against the pier. She turns, offers Gannicus a crooked smile. ]

You heading over?

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slides this one towards a wrap? :]