Quarantine has been a particular kind of Hell for Vlast that he cannot adequately describe. Trapped in this strange body, trapped behind these crumbling walls, trapped in this bizarre world... to say he has the stirrings of cabin fever might be an understatement.
It is lucky for him that his quarantine will end in a week. It is luckier for him that the training grounds are intact enough that he can go there to blow off some steam. He might actually explode otherwise.
The greatsword he's selected to hack away at a training dummy (which has seen better days) is heavily blunted, with countless nicks and patches of rust. The sword's cutting days are long behind it, and now it exists to simply give the unskilled a feel for its weight. Given how awkward and graceless Vlast's inexpert swings are, it seems the lesson is slow to take. The blows land arrhythmically, especially when he misses his mark.
It carries on like that for a long time (whatever his lack of skill, he certainly doesn't lack stamina), until he is left panting and sweating and glaring down at the sword as if it were at fault for him not knowing what he's doing.
At some point, alerted to the presence of a new Rifter that he hasn't already inducted into the organization while being mimicked by an Envy demon, Benedict makes his way over to where Vlast has found an intact training dummy. He waits until there's a lull in activity (rather than invite a decapitation onto himself-- some people are jumpy), then gently clears his throat, standing behind the newcomer and just out of striking range.
He's clearly a proud young man, straight-backed and shiny-haired despite the recent desolation of the Gallows, but there's a marked thinness to him, like he's lost a lot of weight recently (that he couldn't afford to lose, per se). He gives a little wave of greeting.
Vlast doesn't easily endear himself to others - the way his lip remains curled in a snarl as he glances up at the pointed cough should make it clear as to why.
The smiling and waving is perplexing enough for the sneer to fade into a puzzled glance over a shoulder, looking for the actual person the thin human is waving to. When there is, in fact, no one else about, Vlast lowers the blade and warily approaches.
"...What needs lifting...?" he asks with resigned expectancy.
There's a sense of appraisal from the man when Vlast turns: the lip curl, the horns, the, you know, overall bearing of disdain and violence.
"Mm?" Benedict intones, forgetting himself-- then returns to business once again, straightening, "nothing."
He inclines his head in a respectful nod. "I'm Benedict, the Personnel Officer here, at Riftwatch. And although I've been," a slightly awkward pause, "indisposed of late, and-- well. You know,"
he gestures around at the decimated Gallows,
"...I'd be remiss if I didn't try to help you find your place here."
The Qunari doesn't spare the wreckage a glance. He is intimately familiar with such decimation even if he hadn't spent the last few weeks hauling rubble around.
But it's still a more comfortable topic for him than his 'place' in Riftwatch. Or anywhere, for that matter.
(So, so many things that once seemed certain, brought into question.)
But that is not why Benedict is here, and Vlast doubts he would care for his speculations about this war he's just been dropped in the middle of.
"Very well," he says, "but it may be some time I am of any use. Death has... diminished me."
Death. He's one of those, Benedict thinks but doesn't say, wondering wordlessly what he looked like before if this is the diminished version.
"What would you say you're good at?" he asks, holding up a little book with a pencil poised to take notes, "combat?" He nods toward the training dummy.
The loss of three appendages has been a blow to say the least. He thinks he's been handling the change rather well, considering.
He's not even going to touch upon his magic until he's had a chance to see how that's changed. ...In private, away from the prying eyes of those who'd see him caged, or worse.
"I will have to re-learn some things. Adapt. But I am not unused to battle. Forces was recommended to me, but I was told they presently lack leadership."
"Well," noncommittal, "yes." It might just be a trick of the light, but he seems almost cheerful about this fact-- nothing to do with the division itself, of course, but there's no way Vlast would know that.
"I can give you an idea of the other divisions' duties, and you can see if they'd suit you better," he offers, coming to lean pleasantly against the dummy, "but if your heart's set on Forces, I won't stand in your way."
The almost-cheery expression, fortunately, flies right over Vlast's head, insofar as much as he can't recognize it for anything but something uncanny.
It earns a puzzled lift of his brow as he leans on the training sword, but little else.
"My heart is set on nothing for the time being. Though you may wish to save your breath on diplomacy - I've neither the talent nor patience for such matters."
A diplomat with a penchant for snapping and growling at potential ambassadors would probably be a Bad Call.
"I cannot say for certain on research," he replies honestly, though he doesn't see fit to elaborate. On one hand, he's very well educated, but that comes of having a prescient mother, a small army of Exalted at his beck and call, and access to the Eye of the North, before Jormag had their little hissy fit.
"My disposition may leave me ill-suited for espionage - "
It's not like a Qunari blends in this far south.
"- though I may have skills that others in the division may find useful."
Clearly he's never heard of The Iron Bull, if he doubts a Qunari's capacity for spying; but Benedict isn't here to pressure anyone into anything.
"You could give it a trial run," he offers with a little shrug, "go on a mission as a scout, gather reconnaissance however you prefer. If that doesn't suit you, you can always swap to Forces."
He hasn't heard of the Iron Bull, it's true. He only has the most surface level understanding of Qunari so far and any contemporary people of note are well outside his current radar.
He's working on it though.
"That sounds..."
Reasonable? Like a good plan?
"...agreeable enough. You serve in Diplomacy, yes?"
Vlast has never had to contend with money and all its intricacies before. He'd never needed clothing, and when he was hungry, the desert was teeming with life and he was an apex predator of apex predators. Aught else, his magic served him well enough.
So he has come to the Lowtown markets by the docks - not to buy; Isaac's warning about merchants has been taken well enough to heart - but rather to observe. He is aware enough of his ignorance on these matters to know he doesn't even know what questions to ask yet. So he watches, and makes note of what perplexes him, and will later badger answers out of some poor soul who really didn't sign up for this.
There is a commotion on the docks over by a cart hitched to a druffalo. Wood scrapes against wood and a Dwarf yells for people to scramble as a crate slides loose from its fastens. The quicker witted among the dock workers make an immediate dash away, in case its contents explode.
They don't, which is fortunate for those who froze in shock, staring at it like a deer in headlights. The momentary crisis averted, the foreman starts barking orders to collect whatever ore fell out.
One chunk of raw Lyrium bounces down the wooden ramp, rolling to a stop at Vlast's feet.
This is not a creature with what would be considered common sense.
He bends down, bare fingers closing around the glowing stone. One of the workers sees this, and rushes over, not worried about the ore - if Vlast had intentions of stealing it, they'll be long gone once his skin makes contact with the Lyrium. He's much more concerned that once the Qunari goes mad, will he be a drooling vegetable or a violent maniac?
"You idiot! Put that down before it -"
The Dwarf's mouth snaps shut when Vlast gives him a mildly puzzled, but entirely sane look.
"It fell," he says, handing the inert crystal over. It falls, lifeless, into the foreman's outstretched hand and he quickly looks away from the Qunari and downto the Lyrium. A few other Dwarves who know how these things go, have come to investigate as to why they aren't, in fact, going.
"Lucky sod," says one, as Vlast walks away to go check out a stall selling fish, "it's a dud."
"What're the odds, eh?" says another.
"Get back to work!" the foreman snaps. "And check the shipment for any more duds!"
There’s a young Avvar woman sitting on a low wall by the water, enjoying a snack (spheres of some kind of rubbery seafood battered and fried, wrapped in greased paper), her legs swinging. The market is one of Astrid’s favourite places: the variety of handmade goods, the smell of the sea and open-air fish for sale, shopping and bartering and stocking up on supplies. And in the way of all goggle-eyed tourists, she’s staring at the Qunari as he makes his way through that commotion, as there’s the shouting and yelling and ducking for cover.
She’s far enough away from the potential explosion that she doesn’t have to move, but seated by the fish stall as she is, she’s got a good view of Vlast as he starts to walk past. It’s been hard to miss that giant hulking shape around the Gallows; the new arrival was noticeable, even if he might not recognise her in turn. She’s not in work mode, so she’s not dressed in the Riftwatch uniform today.
So she summons his attention first, blindly blurting out, “Did I just see you stick lyrium in your mouth?”
Vlast looks momentarily puzzled. He had held it up to face-level for closer inspection. Maybe it looked different from where the Avvar woman had been sitting.
"No," Vlast says bluntly, not elaborating on what he actually did. He doubts he can explain it anyway. "Not with these frail teeth."
He gives her a lingering look of recognition. He has seen her around, but faces are hard to place and the names that go with them are even harder.
At such a distance, it had been difficult to see details through the commotion, the screaming, the way he’d gone for the lyrium. But his recognition sparks a pleased reaction: “I am, yeah! Astrid, Scouting,” which still feels indefinably odd to her as an introduction, denoting Riftwatch division rather than Avvar hold, but she’s getting accustomed to it.
“And I dunno, your teeth look pretty fearsome.” She squints at his mouth, staring perhaps a little too closely for politeness’ sake. She’s never met a Qunari before; she keeps looking at the white hair, the horns.
Spurred by the inspiration for some vague gesture, that equalising force of food uniting all cultures, she holds out her greasepaper bag of snacks. “You want some fried octopus? They’re good here.”
Vlast's nose wrinkles. He supposes his teeth might look ferocious by human standards, but compared to what they once were...
Well, these dull, blocky things in his mouth aren't rending the flesh from a hydra, or inspiring terror in the harpies nesting in the desert highlands any time soon.
The food does smell exquisite though. That's the thing about cooking. Vlast had initially scoffed, of course; how can anything be better than fresh off the bone? But this was yet another thing he'd dismissed out of hand far too hastily. Fire and salt and assorted herbs and spices seemed to bring out all the good flavours.
Grudgingly, he had to give the mortals their due.
"It smells good," he admits, wary, and then tries for something like basic courtesy. "I am Vlast. Forces. ...Probably."
Astrid’s mouth runs quicker than her thoughts. There’s a quick moment of mild embarrassment, were you maybe not supposed to just come right out and say oi you’re a big beefy one, “Not that I’m saying all Qunari need to be part of Forces and beat people up, like. Just that you seem like you’d be good at it? But I could be wrong, you’re the first one I’ve met. First Qunari, that is. Um.”
"You still haven't met a Qunari," he says flatly. "I'm a Rifter. This is the form this world saw fit to shape me into, but I have no connection to them or their culture."
Vlast watches the stranger - Astrid - with mild bewilderment. He can't fathom why she's so flustered. He isn't anywhere near as big as he used to be, and he hasn't bit anyone in weeks.
"Though I cannot give you insight to the Qunari, I confess curiosity about the Avvar."
How was she supposed to tell he wasn’t actually a Qunari when he looks exactly like one, she didn’t even know that could happen—
Astrid takes a deep breath. She’s still sitting on the dockside wall, but at least that brings their eyelines into closer alignment. She gently underhand lobs him the bag of fried octopus, and then re-settles with her legs folded under her. She’s so new to this. Maybe redirecting the focus will make her less awkward and off-kilter, a fish out of water around interdimensional dream-spirit-visitors:
“There’s not that many of us in the city,” she says. “Happy to answer anything y’like, though, Vlast the Rifter.”
He catches the bag, and almost immediately digs in.
Chewy, but delicious! And the octopus is fresh too.
It's not that he never snacked on carrion before (waste not), but fresh was always best.
"Your people come from the mountains to the south, yes? I have read that the Avvar are great warriors, gifted in magic, and commune with spirits."
Well, the book had described them as savage barbarians whose clans festered with apostates that consorted with demons, but Vlast approved of anything that got those Chantry sisters shaking in their silly hats.
But a smile ticks at the corner of Astrid’s mouth, brightening at this particular description. She’s aware she sounds like a song caught on repeat, always drifting back to the same motif over and over, she just can’t shake that godsdamned way she still has a foot stuck in her homeland; the prospect of explaining it to a rifter, though, makes it feel a little more useful. This is educational. Right?
“We are all that, yeah, mostly,” she says with a puff of pride. And then adding, grudging but not very tactful, “Northerners have a problem with the bit about the spirit communion. They’re scared shitless of their local spirits unless they’re using them for healing, which is hypocritical as all get-out, if you ask me. But we accept that they’re all a part of our life, our society, our landscape. They can offer wisdom.”
"Such hypocrisy goes hand-in-hand with cowardice," he growls between mouthfuls of fried squid. "It seems the further north one goes here, the worse it gets."
He has read what the actual Qunari do to their mages. His perpetual scowl only deepens.
"...Do you face much trouble from the humans here?"
i’m so sorry!! eventually my life will stop blowing up
Astrid’s expression turns thoughtful. “A few people here in Kirkwall are a little shitty, they make assumptions. They’ve not met a lot of Avvar besides, like, hearing that we’re all growling barbarians in furs or whatever. But I don’t expect it’s as bad as… Why, have you?”
If he looks like a Qunari but isn’t actually a Qunari, then surely that might lead to some problems. The skittish way people look at the big horned foreigners, this newfound experience of an entire species’ baggage which isn’t your own.
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[open] With Training Wheels On (Gallows)
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He's clearly a proud young man, straight-backed and shiny-haired despite the recent desolation of the Gallows, but there's a marked thinness to him, like he's lost a lot of weight recently (that he couldn't afford to lose, per se).
He gives a little wave of greeting.
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The smiling and waving is perplexing enough for the sneer to fade into a puzzled glance over a shoulder, looking for the actual person the thin human is waving to. When there is, in fact, no one else about, Vlast lowers the blade and warily approaches.
"...What needs lifting...?" he asks with resigned expectancy.
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"Mm?" Benedict intones, forgetting himself-- then returns to business once again, straightening, "nothing."
He inclines his head in a respectful nod. "I'm Benedict, the Personnel Officer here, at Riftwatch. And although I've been," a slightly awkward pause, "indisposed of late, and-- well. You know,"
he gestures around at the decimated Gallows,
"...I'd be remiss if I didn't try to help you find your place here."
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But it's still a more comfortable topic for him than his 'place' in Riftwatch. Or anywhere, for that matter.
(So, so many things that once seemed certain, brought into question.)
But that is not why Benedict is here, and Vlast doubts he would care for his speculations about this war he's just been dropped in the middle of.
"Very well," he says, "but it may be some time I am of any use. Death has... diminished me."
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"What would you say you're good at?" he asks, holding up a little book with a pencil poised to take notes, "combat?" He nods toward the training dummy.
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The loss of three appendages has been a blow to say the least. He thinks he's been handling the change rather well, considering.
He's not even going to touch upon his magic until he's had a chance to see how that's changed. ...In private, away from the prying eyes of those who'd see him caged, or worse.
"I will have to re-learn some things. Adapt. But I am not unused to battle. Forces was recommended to me, but I was told they presently lack leadership."
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"I can give you an idea of the other divisions' duties, and you can see if they'd suit you better," he offers, coming to lean pleasantly against the dummy, "but if your heart's set on Forces, I won't stand in your way."
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It earns a puzzled lift of his brow as he leans on the training sword, but little else.
"My heart is set on nothing for the time being. Though you may wish to save your breath on diplomacy - I've neither the talent nor patience for such matters."
A diplomat with a penchant for snapping and growling at potential ambassadors would probably be a Bad Call.
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"Other options are Research or Scouting," he lists off, "how are you at espionage? Or, you know. Studying, working through problems." Nerd stuff.
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"My disposition may leave me ill-suited for espionage - "
It's not like a Qunari blends in this far south.
"- though I may have skills that others in the division may find useful."
Once again, he does not elaborate.
"I do not know yet."
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"You could give it a trial run," he offers with a little shrug, "go on a mission as a scout, gather reconnaissance however you prefer. If that doesn't suit you, you can always swap to Forces."
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He's working on it though.
"That sounds..."
Reasonable? Like a good plan?
"...agreeable enough. You serve in Diplomacy, yes?"
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[open] Five Second Rule (Lowtown docks)
hello hopefully u are still accepting tag-ins
She’s far enough away from the potential explosion that she doesn’t have to move, but seated by the fish stall as she is, she’s got a good view of Vlast as he starts to walk past. It’s been hard to miss that giant hulking shape around the Gallows; the new arrival was noticeable, even if he might not recognise her in turn. She’s not in work mode, so she’s not dressed in the Riftwatch uniform today.
So she summons his attention first, blindly blurting out, “Did I just see you stick lyrium in your mouth?”
always uwu
"No," Vlast says bluntly, not elaborating on what he actually did. He doubts he can explain it anyway. "Not with these frail teeth."
He gives her a lingering look of recognition. He has seen her around, but faces are hard to place and the names that go with them are even harder.
"You're with Riftwatch, yes?"
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“And I dunno, your teeth look pretty fearsome.” She squints at his mouth, staring perhaps a little too closely for politeness’ sake. She’s never met a Qunari before; she keeps looking at the white hair, the horns.
Spurred by the inspiration for some vague gesture, that equalising force of food uniting all cultures, she holds out her greasepaper bag of snacks. “You want some fried octopus? They’re good here.”
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Well, these dull, blocky things in his mouth aren't rending the flesh from a hydra, or inspiring terror in the harpies nesting in the desert highlands any time soon.
The food does smell exquisite though. That's the thing about cooking. Vlast had initially scoffed, of course; how can anything be better than fresh off the bone? But this was yet another thing he'd dismissed out of hand far too hastily. Fire and salt and assorted herbs and spices seemed to bring out all the good flavours.
Grudgingly, he had to give the mortals their due.
"It smells good," he admits, wary, and then tries for something like basic courtesy. "I am Vlast. Forces. ...Probably."
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Astrid’s mouth runs quicker than her thoughts. There’s a quick moment of mild embarrassment, were you maybe not supposed to just come right out and say oi you’re a big beefy one, “Not that I’m saying all Qunari need to be part of Forces and beat people up, like. Just that you seem like you’d be good at it? But I could be wrong, you’re the first one I’ve met. First Qunari, that is. Um.”
Eurgh. She wants to shove her foot in said mouth.
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Vlast watches the stranger - Astrid - with mild bewilderment. He can't fathom why she's so flustered. He isn't anywhere near as big as he used to be, and he hasn't bit anyone in weeks.
"Though I cannot give you insight to the Qunari, I confess curiosity about the Avvar."
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How was she supposed to tell he wasn’t actually a Qunari when he looks exactly like one, she didn’t even know that could happen—
Astrid takes a deep breath. She’s still sitting on the dockside wall, but at least that brings their eyelines into closer alignment. She gently underhand lobs him the bag of fried octopus, and then re-settles with her legs folded under her. She’s so new to this. Maybe redirecting the focus will make her less awkward and off-kilter, a fish out of water around interdimensional dream-spirit-visitors:
“There’s not that many of us in the city,” she says. “Happy to answer anything y’like, though, Vlast the Rifter.”
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Chewy, but delicious! And the octopus is fresh too.
It's not that he never snacked on carrion before (waste not), but fresh was always best.
"Your people come from the mountains to the south, yes? I have read that the Avvar are great warriors, gifted in magic, and commune with spirits."
Well, the book had described them as savage barbarians whose clans festered with apostates that consorted with demons, but Vlast approved of anything that got those Chantry sisters shaking in their silly hats.
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But a smile ticks at the corner of Astrid’s mouth, brightening at this particular description. She’s aware she sounds like a song caught on repeat, always drifting back to the same motif over and over, she just can’t shake that godsdamned way she still has a foot stuck in her homeland; the prospect of explaining it to a rifter, though, makes it feel a little more useful. This is educational. Right?
“We are all that, yeah, mostly,” she says with a puff of pride. And then adding, grudging but not very tactful, “Northerners have a problem with the bit about the spirit communion. They’re scared shitless of their local spirits unless they’re using them for healing, which is hypocritical as all get-out, if you ask me. But we accept that they’re all a part of our life, our society, our landscape. They can offer wisdom.”
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"Such hypocrisy goes hand-in-hand with cowardice," he growls between mouthfuls of fried squid. "It seems the further north one goes here, the worse it gets."
He has read what the actual Qunari do to their mages. His perpetual scowl only deepens.
"...Do you face much trouble from the humans here?"
i’m so sorry!! eventually my life will stop blowing up
If he looks like a Qunari but isn’t actually a Qunari, then surely that might lead to some problems. The skittish way people look at the big horned foreigners, this newfound experience of an entire species’ baggage which isn’t your own.
no worries! take as much time as you need
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wrap as we sidle over to the newer one? :’)
sounds excellent to me :3c