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it takes strength to live this way
WHO: Iron Bull and OPEN
WHAT: General summary of events during the end of the month. Drinking, fighting, more drinking, maybe a little flirting.
WHEN: Mid-to-late Wintermarch
WHERE: All over the damn place. Mostly the tavern and sparring ring, though.
NOTES: n/a
WHAT: General summary of events during the end of the month. Drinking, fighting, more drinking, maybe a little flirting.
WHEN: Mid-to-late Wintermarch
WHERE: All over the damn place. Mostly the tavern and sparring ring, though.
NOTES: n/a
He was starting to feel a little restless. By now, the boss would have taken them all out on some exploit or another, and even if he was glad to be at Skyhold again? Sitting idle could grate on the nerves a bit.
The best way to counter that seemed to be throwing down in the training ring just outside the tavern, taking on all comers as well as training those that seemed of a mind to ask. Cullen had most of his people following their own regime, but if they wanted a swing at something else? He wouldn’t refuse them. Not everyone fought like a templar.
The rest of the time, Bull made himself easy to find. Easy to avoid, too, if that was the preference of some. And he knew it was, from the glimpsed he’d gotten of the Vashoth inside the keep. But it was no hardship holding court inside the comfort of the tavern, indulging heavily in drinks and working his way down the menu of available meals and snacks.
It was business as usual, for the most part. Even if he did feel a little more restless than usual. Had to find a way to get out, hit something that really had it coming.
Or find someone to pass the evening with. That might help.
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Outside, he shrugs and takes another swig of his beer. "Carefully. Only impaled two guys the last time," he replies dryly, without so much as a blink or twitch to give anything besides that deadpan look back at the woman.
Hm. Redhead. That's something.
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She swings herself down into a chair, peering back. The twinge of a grin latches its way to the edge of her mouth, fingers darting forward to tap at the edge of his mug.
"Let me get you a round," Not that she has any plans to pay for it directly; cards are a shit game, but they can sure keep folks' minds off their money in the immediate sense. "And you can tell me why Unicorn over there keeps giving you the evil eye."
Melys jerks her chin towards the far end of the tavern, where a vashoth with a broken horn occasionally shoots a glower up over his cheese plate. It's meticulously-arranged — probably because the elf across from him keeps trying to explain something with the pieces.
Back on Bull, her eyes are wide and curious, just at the point past tipsy where the worry of danger exits stage-right.
"Must've impaled something real heavy on that one."
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It's practiced evasion, if anything, and the last thing he really wants is the obnoxiously drunk girl getting more obnoxiously drunk in front of him. Then again, suppose it's better to keep an eye on her here. She's less likely to cause trouble that way.
"You got a name?" He quirks an eyebrow at the girl, purposefully ignoring whatever baleful looks the Vashoth is giving him. Yeah. He's gotten used to that, too.
Not his problem.
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Which, thank the Maker she isn't, because entertaining her own self would be a right pain in the ass. You might think the perception of that would extend itself to a little empathy for the peace and quiet of others. You would be tiresomely wrong.
"Auldwine. What on you?" She blinks. "Because Hinge-Bane's got a ring to it, but I reckon the original's better."
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For a few rounds, at least. Judging from the smell.
"You Ferelden?" Couple of things give it away, not the least of which the accent. Seems to get thicker the deeper in their cups they get. Even Cullen gets a smidge of it going when something riles him up properly, that slurred snarl like one of their prized dogs. Pretty telltale, even here.
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But — that company’s a name she knows, and a reputation too. Whale of a stranger to choose. She's more than a little glad she wasn’t much looking for a fight tonight.
Melys doesn’t run much with mercenaries. Generally, mercenaries get asked to play by a few rules for their pay, and that’s at odds with the nature of certain working relationships. Still, names get around. When you work with rats, it helps to keep ahead of any stray terriers.
Even if the chargers are way pricier than her lot’s ever likely to piss off. She whistles, low.
"Your boys've got company; head of the Boneflayers came through the other day. Be a pretty picture to see all y’all together in action."
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Still. He's not here to talk principle.
"What about you? Planning on finding a little action yourself?" he presses on, after a moment.
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Even ten years past the Blight, Ferelden passes those out like candy. She adjusts a glove, unconscious. Skyhold's cold, but the Herald's Rest is nothing if not well-heated.
"Well, unless you really piss 'em off. We got any of yours out there?"
Can he even ride a horse? She's picturing an outsized bronto, maybe, or of those huge-ass hill stock. Melys ducks her head, conspiratorial.
"If the dainty palomino's any of your crew, best not say. Bit a hole right in one of those fancy mage hats."
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Moving from place to place with a caravan usually works out well enough for them, and the Inquisition's provided them with horses when they need them. It's a luxury they'll leave behind when they leave this place. After the job gets done.
"Heard rumor about finding more than just horses for the stables. Dennet didn't look too happy at the prospect," he adds, cocking an eyebrow at the woman.
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“You mean the dead one?” Melys swipes her mug back from the table, takes a long drink. Deer, she doesn’t mind. Makes no damn sense to take one over a horse, but mend and make do, so she doesn’t mind. Brontos, sure, those’re fine too — she’s got experience.
The corpse horse with a sword rammed through its skull, however.
“Dennet ain’t the only one unhappy. Gonna build myself a lot of character before getting near that thing.” She points a finger off her forehead, mimicking the blade. “Demon in a horse. What’re we gonna do next, start building with sylvans?"
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"But nah, not talking about that. Other things. Harts, for example. Dalish are pretty fond of them, from what I hear. Avvar, too. Big deer things with racks out to...well, here."
And he gestures to his own horns with a smirk. Yeah, alright, walked right into that one.
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"Well, thank the Maker, ain't gotta get them through the tavern." She gestures, broadly, to Bull's chest. "Y'know, someone less refined and particular in their conversation'd make a joke right about now."
She shakes her head.
"They ain't so bad, though. Little more sure-footed, little more liable to spook. Don't tell the fuckin' Dalish, of course, not unless you want a lecture — but I reckon we'd get on just fine with them, if all the proper horses up and vanished."
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"Never been domesticated, really. They've got spirit, sure, but they're loyal. Dangerous enough to anything that means its rider harm. Got to respect the dedication it's got to take to ride one of those things."
He shrugs again. "Of course, the Qunari have their own horses. Heavier stock, used to war so they're less likely to freak out and start attacking anything that gets close."