"Alright," They're watching the walls, technically. Lazar is watching her bow, specifically. He hefts an apple. "If I threw this in the air, you could hit it. And it's easier to hit something what's still, yeah?
she's pretty sure she can make this shot. She's made more difficult shots by far — even if nothing has approached the rush of nailing that wyvern in the eye, that very first time — and also, how mad would Flint really be if she missed. Weren't half a dozen people in Halamshiral trying to kill Lazar. Maybe she could get away with it.
(For legal reasons, she thinks all of these things as a joke.)
“Well, you have to do less math,” she says, her bow in her hand, an arrow in the other. The shimmering string of ice that appears only when she nocks one isn't there, yet, which renders this very deceptively unthreatening. “If you'd rather just throw it in the air, really—”
There's a demon on every shoulder, Ma told him once. There's a pinch of the Prophet there, too, steering her children to the light. Only Andraste didn't much mind danger. Not in anything he ever read -
Lazar balances the apple atop his head, and as an afterthought, hops onto one foot, arms winging out for balance.
"Besides, what if you gotta shoot off the Black Divine's hat? This way we'll know."
“If I ever shoot the Black Divine in the eye,” she says, nocking an arrow against the shimmering string of ice that exists only in that moment of collision, “be a sport and don't tell anyone I missed.”
Ha, ha. She lines up her shot now, narrowing her eyes and not for the first time thinking about the way that a person really takes depth perception for granted when they have it easy with two that work. A breath,
another breath,
the apple shatters into broken, frozen pieces, ice and fruit frosting Lazar's hair.
Lazar half-dives, instinct pushing him down before his head's caught up. Way too late. Frost and pulped fruit crust his brow. He laughs, smears a seed from his beard.
"You're full of it," Sliding his plate onto the table. He's deep in conversation with Barrow - hasn't seen Gela's even there - "Dogs can't tell werewolves, 'cause there's no such thing. That's like saying cats know an honest banker."
"I'm not," Barrow insists, shaking his head over his ale, "shows how much you bloody know. We had a whole pack of them down Ferelden during the Fifth Blight. Straight out of the Hero's mouth, it was."
"Hi," Gela pipes up automatically, between the sitting down and the resuming of conversation. She brings her cup of tea to her mouth and promptly swallows wrong, letting out a big, spluttering cough.
Lazar glances at Gela, now sputtering tea, and tosses her his napkin. He's not gonna use it.
"- Any rate, your Hero went and cracked their head. Knew a mage who could do a poodle, and he didn't go all slavering-rabid. If he bit anyone, it was just 'cause he was a runny old bastard."
Gela takes the napkin and splutters into it, but even the coughing cannot cover up what they are actually saying to each other. The hair stands up on the nape of her neck. Sitting here and saying nothing would be very strange, wouldn't it, when they've clearly come to sit here with her. Leaving would look just as bad. Wait — why did they choose her table, there are many other tables, with occupancies, people sitting and eating, they didn't have to come here to talk about this.
Do they...
Gela feels very sweaty.
She says hoarsely, "Are you talking about fairytales?"
"No, no," Barrow waves off Gela's question, "werewolves, not shapeshifted dogs. Stand on their hind legs like but have terrible wolf heads, that's what I heard. Some kind of Dalish curse."
He takes a long, resolute drink from his mug. Don't presume to tell him what's happened in Ferelden.
"No," Gela says quickly, desperately clinging to Lazar's side of the argument. "My mother used to tell us tales about werewolves when my brothers and I were young just to scare us into being good — that's all they are."
He tries to think of a comparison. Can't. He's still thinking of the tattoo.
(A mermaid, with the tail all twisted around his thumb. Couldn't ever get a look if it was there under fur -)
"Exactly," He points between them with the fork. There's a little blood in the eggs this morning. Maybe it was in the shell, or someone in the kitchens slipped a thumb too near sharp. "Bet you and your brothers were the real monsters."
"Didn't have any brothers," Barrow loftily replies, "though to be honest, if I had to choose between a pack of werewolves and my sister having it out for me, I'd pick the wolves any day."
"What about -" Hm. "- One sister-sized dragon, or four brother-sized wolves? Me, I'd take the dragon. Some fire and you're done, be dead before it ate you. Wolves'll go at you alive."
Scrubbing back of an arm over his brow, Lazar squints down at the list of - herbs, names, animal bits. Take your pick.
"You got the first idea what it's for?"
He doesn’t - and it’s too much like home out here to care. The Vinmarks are high and dry, but here and there the dust pockets into unexpected bloom: A long seam of wildflowers, lichen packed below rock. There’s life everywhere, if you know where to look.
There’s death, too. It’s riddled with Darkspawn, and the caves they crawl from. Here and there between high ruins, dirt falls away into darkness, black tendrils of Blight.
"He says, he’s fucking the gardener," Lazar yawns, dutifully translating. The couple are shouting in animated Ander: You’re crouched in the bushes, or across the street, or watching from the market amid today’s scene. "Wait. No, she’s fucking the gardener?”
Unless the gardener’s in Hossberg, it probably doesn’t matter. You've been at this for hours. So have they.
WILDCARD;
[ leave me whatever, or hit me up ooc for a bespoke starter ]
"No, it's that no one has done the fucking gardening. He's upset about the weeds." Lia yawns. Scouting is not nearly as exciting as she supposed it would be. It's just a lot of sitting around.
"But, I think a gardener would be a good solution to their marital strife whether or not he's getting fucked."
He agrees. Wasn't there some Rifter mucking about the gardens the other day? Some funny-looking elf. Could be too obvious.
Lazar shrugs, and hefts a length of silk between rough fingers, pretending to judge the weight. The cloth-seller hesitates, seemingly uncertain of whether put that down is a fight he wants to pick -
"What d'you think about orange?"
Might clash with her shard. The woman is weeping now, she misses the West.
Lia glances down at the silk and then back at Lazar.
"It is not my most favorite of all the colors, but I do like it. If you're asking about what I look best in, then my answer is there is no best. I can make even the most drab fantastic."
She smiles broadly.
"If we bribe someone to be a gardener, we run the risk of them not be subtle, it would be better if one of us did it."
"Dunno," He drops the silk, passes to a pile of velvet. The merchant looks pained. "You're not easy to look past."
If she's set on making the drab fantastic. He shoots her a grin. Across the market, the Ander couple embraces, the man is holding his wife bodily upright -
"But reckon she needs a friend about now."
Today could be a chance introduction. Might not even need a story: Someone expecting covert surveillance might look for less if there's an obvious set of eyes to manage. Let them think Riftwatch is watching, and see how they move.
"Got a terrible husband allergy," That's for the velvet, then. He steps away from the booth, arm extended down to take. "I start talking, they get all red and puffy -"
Where does half-naked end, and barely-clothed begin?
He isn't shy on skin. It's only that Kirkwall isn't so far North, and the wind off the water's a bitch. Cedric's seen the prices at market, and he's seen enough of Gannicus to reckon the man's not on payroll. Some sort of vagrant they let roam the yard.
(Take a look at that brand, take an easy guess why.)
It's a day past wages that he finally makes good: Catches his eye on the ferry, approaches slow; unarmed beneath the thick sleeves of his coat.
"Cedric," He offers for a name. "Got a proposal for you, mate."
It's not that he doesn't have money. It's just that the money that he does have tends to go to things like wine. In all fairness, he's at least wearing very high boots and simple leather shoulder spaulders.
But yes, lots of skin showing. If the cold bothers him, he doesn't show it much. But he leans against the railing, and his eyebrows go up when Cedric approaches. He's seen the man training. He's not bad, truly. Could use some help. "Gannicus," he replies, easy. "What proposal is that?"
"There's a wagon in from Cumberland. Good cloth, fresh stuff."
There'd be no shame in a dead man's blanket, but it's Nevarra. He knows the jokes. Palms proved empty, he shoves them back in his pockets. Too cold for all that, and more than one merchant's worked out that the folks with the funny green fingers will pay up.
"Supposed to have unloaded already, but one of the hands broke his. Told me they'll cut rates for a bit of help." He shrugs. "Don't reckon they trust the locals."
He considers that a moment. He's not so proud that he can't be bothered to help unload a wagon, but.
Well.
"Why?" He asks, but his lips are twitching in a smile, and there isn't a lot of suspicion there. He moves forward, leaning away from the railing now and moving in tacit agreement.
"The locals? S'pose Kirkwall's got a reputation," But that isn't what Gannicus meant. Smiles to show he knows: "Makes it matter that Riftwatch are the reliable sort. Build a relationship, you know."
He shakes his head. "No, why are you offering me? Don't you have friends who could use heavy coin?"
Maybe "heavy" is an exaggeration but it is still a good question, frankly. He's tipping his head and he nods it forward a little. "Show me, still, I am in need of support."
"Templar," A slight pause, to amend, "Heard it's different up North."
Hard to ever say how much is propaganda, but:
"No tailing after Magisters down here, it's more - Chantry work." As for the Nevarran, "At any rate, this lot all know Trade, but some of them might try and talk around you. Promise I'll tell you what they say later."
The boat bumps dock. Cedric's chin jerks to the street - it's a bit of a walk yet.
He pauses and looks at him. That said: "Don't care if your head spins the wrong way and you piss in the wind, friend, long as the money is good." Which is to say, sure, why not.
"Hey now. If this is on backwards," He grips his own jaw, mimes twisting a neck. Crk. "You've got to let me know."
Kirkwall by winter is grey dust, on grey stone, by grey waves, under the great grey sky. The people are another story - kaleidoscopic in their profusion of paint, of cloth, of hair and smells and a dozen conversations. It all runs together.
"Near a month," That hasn't stopped being strange. "How long've you been South?"
He's seen Gannicus around a while, but the whole world isn't Riftwatch.
He snorts, but it's amused, a bit of a laugh more than anything. He raises a hand, moves it back and forth just a bit. "Less than that," he confirms, "at least in Kirkwall. I left Tevinter at start of summer."
He was freed only a little while before then. Batiatus gave him some money, but not enough, not nearby enough.
"Long way to travel," Especially without pants. Cedric winds them around a corner, through a cluster of squawking gulls. Something fishy squelches underfoot. "How'd you pick the destination?"
"Didn't, really," he clarifies. "Went where the Vints weren't, and hoped for the best," he says, finally. That much seems to generally be true, even if it's not quite so simple. But it's a good enough answer, at least.
"Didn’t expect to find so many, myself," He admits. Suppose it’s not so strange, this near the border. Maker knows there have been refugees. "So many -"
Cedric's hand pulls up near chin, fingers wiggling: Fancy types. His own name’s Tevene, and no way to know how far back that stretches. Nevarra was part of the Empire a long time, but it’s had plenty newer migrants.
(There's only so many reasons elves run South.)
"- You know. Guess it makes sense, if they've got the money t'leave."
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gwen;
"Alright," They're watching the walls, technically. Lazar is watching her bow, specifically. He hefts an apple. "If I threw this in the air, you could hit it. And it's easier to hit something what's still, yeah?
no subject
On the other hand,
she's pretty sure she can make this shot. She's made more difficult shots by far — even if nothing has approached the rush of nailing that wyvern in the eye, that very first time — and also, how mad would Flint really be if she missed. Weren't half a dozen people in Halamshiral trying to kill Lazar. Maybe she could get away with it.
(For legal reasons, she thinks all of these things as a joke.)
“Well, you have to do less math,” she says, her bow in her hand, an arrow in the other. The shimmering string of ice that appears only when she nocks one isn't there, yet, which renders this very deceptively unthreatening. “If you'd rather just throw it in the air, really—”
no subject
There's a demon on every shoulder, Ma told him once. There's a pinch of the Prophet there, too, steering her children to the light. Only Andraste didn't much mind danger. Not in anything he ever read -
Lazar balances the apple atop his head, and as an afterthought, hops onto one foot, arms winging out for balance.
"Besides, what if you gotta shoot off the Black Divine's hat? This way we'll know."
no subject
Ha, ha. She lines up her shot now, narrowing her eyes and not for the first time thinking about the way that a person really takes depth perception for granted when they have it easy with two that work. A breath,
another breath,
the apple shatters into broken, frozen pieces, ice and fruit frosting Lazar's hair.
no subject
Lazar half-dives, instinct pushing him down before his head's caught up. Way too late. Frost and pulped fruit crust his brow. He laughs, smears a seed from his beard.
"Can y'do that with a normal bow?"
gela & barrow;
"You're full of it," Sliding his plate onto the table. He's deep in conversation with Barrow - hasn't seen Gela's even there - "Dogs can't tell werewolves, 'cause there's no such thing. That's like saying cats know an honest banker."
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Don't mind her, thumping palm against sternum—
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"Pack of bankers? Don't tell Orzammar -"
Lazar glances at Gela, now sputtering tea, and tosses her his napkin. He's not gonna use it.
"- Any rate, your Hero went and cracked their head. Knew a mage who could do a poodle, and he didn't go all slavering-rabid. If he bit anyone, it was just 'cause he was a runny old bastard."
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Do they...
Gela feels very sweaty.
She says hoarsely, "Are you talking about fairytales?"
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He takes a long, resolute drink from his mug. Don't presume to tell him what's happened in Ferelden.
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"What, like Les Chats?" He hooks a thumb at Barrow, rolls his eyes to Gela. "You ever hear a more Ferelden breed of nonsense? And poodle was Dalish -"
He pauses. Considers:
"Well, he had a tattoo."
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Tales. Stories!!
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...hm."
He falls silent as he tries to come up with a more apt comparison.
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(A mermaid, with the tail all twisted around his thumb. Couldn't ever get a look if it was there under fur -)
"Exactly," He points between them with the fork. There's a little blood in the eggs this morning. Maybe it was in the shell, or someone in the kitchens slipped a thumb too near sharp. "Bet you and your brothers were the real monsters."
He winks:
"Kids run in packs."
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Gela feels faint. She is avoiding any eye contact all of a sudden.
"I would pick a dragon over having to try to corral my brothers into doing anything they didn't want to do, so."
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"...yeah, wouldn't especially want to fuck with a giant either. Or a varghest, fuck varghests."
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"Varghests got all this judgment attached. Like it ain't enough to rip you up, they gotta say you deserved it."
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That's people, Lazar!!
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"How did you do that?"
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A starving giant will take anything in its path. Goats, pigs, entire caravans. His fork scrapes plate: Empty.
"- But the marrow's good, if you can crack in. They get fatter in the jungle. Vints got all sorts of dishes."
open;
VINMARK MOUNTAINS;
Scrubbing back of an arm over his brow, Lazar squints down at the list of - herbs, names, animal bits. Take your pick.
"You got the first idea what it's for?"
He doesn’t - and it’s too much like home out here to care. The Vinmarks are high and dry, but here and there the dust pockets into unexpected bloom: A long seam of wildflowers, lichen packed below rock. There’s life everywhere, if you know where to look.
There’s death, too. It’s riddled with Darkspawn, and the caves they crawl from. Here and there between high ruins, dirt falls away into darkness, black tendrils of Blight.
KIRKWALL;
[ Jobs Board: Discreetly surveil an Ander merchant and his wife to determine if they have any contact with their homeland ]
"He says, he’s fucking the gardener," Lazar yawns, dutifully translating. The couple are shouting in animated Ander: You’re crouched in the bushes, or across the street, or watching from the market amid today’s scene. "Wait. No, she’s fucking the gardener?”
Unless the gardener’s in Hossberg, it probably doesn’t matter. You've been at this for hours. So have they.
WILDCARD;
[ leave me whatever, or hit me up ooc for a bespoke starter ]
Kirkwall
"But, I think a gardener would be a good solution to their marital strife whether or not he's getting fucked."
no subject
He agrees. Wasn't there some Rifter mucking about the gardens the other day? Some funny-looking elf. Could be too obvious.
Lazar shrugs, and hefts a length of silk between rough fingers, pretending to judge the weight. The cloth-seller hesitates, seemingly uncertain of whether put that down is a fight he wants to pick -
"What d'you think about orange?"
Might clash with her shard. The woman is weeping now, she misses the West.
no subject
"It is not my most favorite of all the colors, but I do like it. If you're asking about what I look best in, then my answer is there is no best. I can make even the most drab fantastic."
She smiles broadly.
"If we bribe someone to be a gardener, we run the risk of them not be subtle, it would be better if one of us did it."
no subject
If she's set on making the drab fantastic. He shoots her a grin. Across the market, the Ander couple embraces, the man is holding his wife bodily upright -
"But reckon she needs a friend about now."
Today could be a chance introduction. Might not even need a story: Someone expecting covert surveillance might look for less if there's an obvious set of eyes to manage. Let them think Riftwatch is watching, and see how they move.
no subject
"Me?" She says. "Or do you think you are up to the task of friendship?"
She rubs her hand over the velvet.
"Lovely." She says offhand. "But, much too warm."
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"Might be a couple's less threatening."
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"Well, darling, husband mine,"
She flutters her eyelashes.
"Shall we?"
gannicus;
Where does half-naked end, and barely-clothed begin?
He isn't shy on skin. It's only that Kirkwall isn't so far North, and the wind off the water's a bitch. Cedric's seen the prices at market, and he's seen enough of Gannicus to reckon the man's not on payroll. Some sort of vagrant they let roam the yard.
(Take a look at that brand, take an easy guess why.)
It's a day past wages that he finally makes good: Catches his eye on the ferry, approaches slow; unarmed beneath the thick sleeves of his coat.
"Cedric," He offers for a name. "Got a proposal for you, mate."
no subject
But yes, lots of skin showing. If the cold bothers him, he doesn't show it much. But he leans against the railing, and his eyebrows go up when Cedric approaches. He's seen the man training. He's not bad, truly. Could use some help. "Gannicus," he replies, easy. "What proposal is that?"
no subject
There'd be no shame in a dead man's blanket, but it's Nevarra. He knows the jokes. Palms proved empty, he shoves them back in his pockets. Too cold for all that, and more than one merchant's worked out that the folks with the funny green fingers will pay up.
"Supposed to have unloaded already, but one of the hands broke his. Told me they'll cut rates for a bit of help." He shrugs. "Don't reckon they trust the locals."
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Well.
"Why?" He asks, but his lips are twitching in a smile, and there isn't a lot of suspicion there. He moves forward, leaning away from the railing now and moving in tacit agreement.
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Information and goodwill come dearer than wool.
"Reckon we could get you paid for it."
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Maybe "heavy" is an exaggeration but it is still a good question, frankly. He's tipping his head and he nods it forward a little. "Show me, still, I am in need of support."
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"Gela might sew something of it, but I doubt she's much for hauling." A shrug. "And I've got the old vows to think of."
Vows of poverty only matter if you're some rich fuck set to inherit. A one-time cart job doesn't rate. Still,
"D'you speak any Nevarran?"
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He shakes his head at Nevarran, though. He isn't quite that worldly, for all that he knows some from there.
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Hard to ever say how much is propaganda, but:
"No tailing after Magisters down here, it's more - Chantry work." As for the Nevarran, "At any rate, this lot all know Trade, but some of them might try and talk around you. Promise I'll tell you what they say later."
The boat bumps dock. Cedric's chin jerks to the street - it's a bit of a walk yet.
"Ready?"
no subject
He nods and gets on the boat. "Been here long?"
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Kirkwall by winter is grey dust, on grey stone, by grey waves, under the great grey sky. The people are another story - kaleidoscopic in their profusion of paint, of cloth, of hair and smells and a dozen conversations. It all runs together.
"Near a month," That hasn't stopped being strange. "How long've you been South?"
He's seen Gannicus around a while, but the whole world isn't Riftwatch.
no subject
He was freed only a little while before then. Batiatus gave him some money, but not enough, not nearby enough.
wow sorry time got away from me there!!
If Kirkwall's any more than another pit stop.
no prob, I'm clearly a disaster
no subject
Cedric's hand pulls up near chin, fingers wiggling: Fancy types. His own name’s Tevene, and no way to know how far back that stretches. Nevarra was part of the Empire a long time, but it’s had plenty newer migrants.
(There's only so many reasons elves run South.)
"- You know. Guess it makes sense, if they've got the money t'leave."