I've got my kit bag, my heavy boots

[hlif]

WHO: Asher Hardie; open
WHAT: Asher arrives in Skyhold, John Cena's theme plays in the distance
WHEN: mid-late Wintermarch; feel free to just bump into him later than his arrival
WHERE: Skyhold, by the healing tents and the stables but if you want to wildcard bumping into him then go for it
NOTES: language most likely, if you'd like to assume past CR then hit me up.

The rest of the Boneflayers make for the tavern almost immediately, a collection of rogues and one annoyed mage abandoning their leader with a pouch of coin to leave Asher alone, just through the main gates of Skyhold trying to coax a tired grumpy bronto to the stables, the wagon behind it groaning with supplies. Meat, vegetables, leather, wool, some wheels of cheese, even some home-brewed ale, all packed high and lashed into the wagon, a gift of support from his family they've all been complaining about since they rumbled through the Hinterlands and up. He might be a big guy but he can't do everything himself, not when there's also a grizzled looking mabari plodding along too.

Most of the people he makes eye contact with seem to be looking away quickly, which y'know, rude but unsurprising when you're Asher's height and tend to look half-feral.

"Look if someone will just point me to the bloody kitchens so I can get rid of this I'll be grateful." Only no one is helping, please help him before someone gets punched.

Comments

[aforethought]

Melys snorts, stepping aside of Bronson to coo at the bronto, scritching briefly at its bony spike of chin.

"There's a good lad," She tugs lightly at the horn, moving towards the stony steps half a coutyard away. "How many're you bringing in?"

Not regulars, or he'd know where the food was. Not nobility, if she's ever seen a lick of respectability in her life. Not much of a merchant, if he's about to throttle customers over directions. But in charge enough to get stuck with this mess.

That pretty much leaves one thing.

"Place is crawling already," She doesn't wait to spill gratitude before slinging a skin of ale over her shoulder. "Mostly unattached folks, but a real company or two. Figure y'all got fast friends."

Or a few days' worth of tavern pissing matches to butt their way through, but those get on to be one and the same.

thanks gmail for hiding this notif

[hlif]

"He's not a good lad, he's a prick is what he is. He has one job, get his arse up a mountain with minimal complaints but the amount of noise and fuss, it was like asking a baby to do it." Except a baby might be easier to deal with, he wouldn't know exactly but even Asher can coax a baby to stop screaming and to eat without losing his temper.

"Hopefully this should be the only wagon I have to escort personally," he explains with a groan because family, what a pain in the arse when they get you in the right place and you can't actually refuse them. "I'm the only one staying for the long haul up here at least, the rest, the Boneflayers? My second'll take them back down into Ferelden, maybe Redcliffe if she doesn't have them stop at the farm. Then wherever we're wanted."

After all, there's no point in making a secret of it when almost half his life has been spent with a weapon in his hand, making money from breaking skulls.

"Might know one or two people here, old friends from old jobs y'know?" If the rumour mill and his forward scout are reliable.

[aforethought]

“Nah, he's a sweetheart, I'm sure." Well, by Bronto standards. Which are admittedly, a little skewed. "Mountain just makes everyone cry. Snow’s half-tears.”

Boneflayers is a name she's heard a little on. Pays best to stay beneath the notice of mercenary types, on general principle. Norren and his crew've been good with that; they stay out of the hot spots, don't make too much fuss with no one who could afford fancy recompense. Still, you want to keep ears open. Beats being caught unawares.

Like when you know someone.

“Reckon you will. Half the damn continent’s here.” Melys snorts, but beneath her grin, the thought’s half a discomfort. Too many folks here already seen her spill her guts, and that’s not counting the actual healer. “You got any names you’re looking for? Can ask around while I get him settled.”

What can she say? Beer inspires generosity.

[hlif]

"Snow was almost half-blood." Look it was getting pretty dicey with a potenital mutiny from certain parties more used to better weather than Asher had subjected them to and whenever they've got a job, it'll be Asher going to meet them and not the other way round.

"So long as the Orlesians are outnumbered, I've had enough of playing games when they're paying me to care about their ridiculous problems." Except the problem with Orlesians is the expectation that their problems are your problems, that you should drop absolutely everything to help them no matter what. There's a reason he takes jobs for the folks who play the game the least. "One of them is Korrin Ataash, can't miss her seeing as she's a Vashoth and a mage, taller than me even. The other one is Mal Reynolds, likes to try to make himself out to be respectable sometimes, and he'll have a mabari uglier than him going by Jayne."

Also Mal tends to look very fetching in a dress but Asher knows the value of leverage so that little nugget he'll keep to himself so long as Mal behaves enough that Asher doesn't think he requires a good ribbing.

[aforethought]

"You sure you got your ugliness in order, there?"

She doesn't flinch at the name, doesn't look back. Her voice stays practically steady — that slight stutter could be a cough, for all the ugliness her throat already rips up. It's a victory, for all that it don't feel like it should be this hard to hear a damn name.

'Course folks are gonna know Mal. Kind of business it sounds like he's been making for himself, it ain't the least kind of strange.

"Reynolds is in, and I reckon it's for the duration. Ain't seen the lady Vashoth yet," Melys is pretty sure she'd keep a sight like that fixed pretty in her mind's eye. "But I don't doubt she's gonna be around. You carryin' a name of your own?"

Melys flashes a smile back over her shoulder. Guy's clearly already brighter than he lets on, and if Mal knows him friendly — well, it ain't a glowing endorsement, but it's something.

"Auldwine," She offers. "Melys."

[hlif]

"I've seen a side or two of Mal Reynolds I wouldn't inflict on others."

Not that it's a bad view but if he can rile up Mal by maybe saying shit that'll get back to him so he has to hunt Asher down then he'll do it. You know, just for fun. Can't have people thinking that Mal's actually a respectable gentleman now can he? Better to see if can provoke a stutter again because well, Asher does notice things.

He'd be a dead mercenary if he didn't.

"Trust me, she's one of the last people you'll miss, I'm sure she'll come find me herself when she realises I'm here." Or he'll find her first himself, either way works. "Asher Hardie, of the Boneflayers."

After all, he's here to further his reputation and fill his purse, if not immediately then in the future, if this Inquisition really does fight what what he's hoping they'll fight.

"Where were you from, before this? I could swear I recognise the accent."

[aforethought]

That raises an eyebrow, but hey, better than the Sarge fucking a literal bear — and blackmail shared is friendship earned.

“South Reach, out in the ass-end of nowhere. You recognize any more’n that, you been two days too far off the road.” Little town by the name of Cloudcatcher, but she ain’t said that name in longer than Mal’s, and Maker knows she ain’t fixing to break that streak no time soon. “Spent a few years in the Marches, after the Blight hit."

Melys glances back, figuring that’s gotta answer a few questions in one. Yeah, I’ve heard of you, ain’t being the least.

(Oh, she's heard of Asher Hardie, and the stories have gotten a little muddled for the telling. Can you fuck a literal bear by association? Through the transitive property, or whatever Sister Marie was always calling it?)

"Fact that you can figure what I'm saying proves that one didn't stick."

Ferelden might be muddled as fuck to some, but at least it's not Starkhaven.

[hlif]

Ah, the few who know how the world really works and don't delude themselves with playing around with pleasantries - a dying breed if ever there was one.

"I've been through South Reach more than once, more when I was a boy and still at home, cheaper to get a kid to do fetching and carrying than to drag hirelings and farmhands with you." Or that's how Stafford Hardie looked at it, and Asher was always big and strong for his age, a boy to get out from under your feet and to take somewhere in a vain attempt to tire him out. It never worked and more often than not he got into scraps with any boys he met because they were new challengers. "You and half the country I reckon. I was in Kirkwall, got out when the Qunari decided to go for a mild rampage. Somehow before it got even crazier."

Because honestly, at the time he lived there and worked in the area, he didn't honestly believe Kirkwall could get worse. But then it did, spectacularly, and they went back to turn up old friends and turned up corpses instead and he's still angry.

(And yes. There are many ways you can fuck a bear. Ask any Avvar though they don't really tell that sort of shit to lowlanders unless you're less of a lowlander because you sprang from the loins their loins got up close and personal with.

Avvar granddads are the best.)

"Some businesses you don't get a choice, lot of angry people who don't like a Fereldan and his friends taking all 'their' jobs. They'd still be their jobs if they weren't shit at what they do."