it takes strength to live this way

[qunari]

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

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.

Comments

[qunari]

As far as Rifters go, Martel's been one of the more interesting ones to try and puzzle out. It's always in the details. That veneer of civility isn't the only slight of hand he's using, and people hide things for a reason. But he's on their side, as far as Bull can tell, and he's happy to keep him close at hand, if for no other reason than to keep an eye on him.

And hey. The guy's not terrible company. Especially when he's the one buying drinks.

Bull settles into his usual chair with a grin, gesturing for Martel to join him. "Not bad work out there. Never seen that technique before," he observes, rolling one shoulder to work the kink out of it.

[apostasia]

It's novel to fight for something worthy.

--that alone might be enough. It isn't just for novelty, no, but sure. After all these years, and as tired of himself as he is, maybe if there were nothing else, there'd still be that.

"Honesty compels me not claim it as entirely my own innovation," he says, sprawling a moment after that offer in the chair indicated; he does even that with a bit of polish, but he's the type, isn't he. Conscious of his audience. There's something of the predator at rest about him, but it doesn't seem as studied as some of his mannerisms do.

More like something he might like less if he saw it clearer in the mirror.

"A trick my former Preceptor taught me. Subtly improved, if we're being generous." Just altered, if they're not. Fight enough of the Lamorks' pointless wars for them and you start to pick up local habits - good and bad. He liked the money in it, certainly.

(His stash of perfect sapphires is a nest egg he's considering doing something with, here, speaking of money, but in the meantime, agents of the Inquisition get paid and he is buying these drinks with coin he earned with his own hard work.)

[qunari]

Not a surprise to hear, and Bull shrugs, leaning back and looking remarkably at ease. This is his corner of the tavern, after all. "That's the way it generally goes. Battle evolves, so does the fighting style. Things you learn in training could be outdated by the time you hit the field. You adapt or you die, in most instances."

He knows the basics, for instance, and can teach them. But his style of fighting is raw, in the moment, and relies heavily on being exactly where his enemies don't expect. Bull can fully appreciate canniness in a fight.

But there's more to it than that, isn't there? Just can't put a finger on what. Not yet.

[apostasia]

After a moment, wry over the edge of his tankard--

"I died."

There's something in the way he says it - this is not some heartfelt sharing moment, a confession about his experiences pre-rift meant to be bonded over in friendship. This is a man to whom so few things are still sacred that his own death becomes an acceptable punchline, so -

At least he isn't exempt in the cruelty of his frequently acidic witticisms.

[qunari]

That gives Bull pause for a moment, burrow furrowing as he regards Martel up and down.

"...pretty spritely for a dead guy. Anyone ever tell you that?"

But here, it's nothing to joke about. Some demon inhabiting a corpse and wandering around is too close to a possibility to be all that funny. Though if he were going to guess what Martel's deal was? That wouldn't have been at the top of the list.

[apostasia]

Death isn't really funny anywhere. Especially when Martel, with his thin smile, isn't joking. He tilts a little, shifts his loose-fitting shirt to bare, partially, the horrific scarring left by his brother's broadsword plunged through plate metal and his chest.

"I was in the advanced business of dying," he corrects himself, scrupulously. "When I tumbled arse over teakettle into Thedas and the waiting arms of a rather overworked healer." That is a generous version of how that actually went; Martel wasn't so thrilled by the experience of nearly choking Adelaide for touching the silver medallion he's always wearing that he'd just love to relive it in conversation.

A shrug. "He was the better swordsman."

The weight of his armor had been a factor; he'd had a handicap of his own vanity, and their skills were otherwise well matched. But it feels like prideful nitpicking to hash it out and -

He'd never really doubted who was the better man.

[qunari]

With a wound like that? He didn't doubt it. It's a miracle he's still here, a testament to whichever healer had been left to mop up the blood and patch him up.

"But you didn't die."

Bull seems satisfied enough with that explanation, grumbling and resettling in his seat. "You'll want to be careful with the poetic phrasing. Here, you can get your corpse possessed by a demon and go walking around."

His nostrils flared slightly. "Probably wouldn't stay pretty for long, though. Not without some serious dark magic at work."

[apostasia]

"The rift prevented me from dying," Martel says, critically, "or the healer wouldn't have made a difference. It was far too late."

You don't forget what that feels like. He wakes up nights in a cold sweat, choking on nothing, a heaviness and a psychosomatic burn in his lungs; that he lives is magic of some sort beyond what can be offered by a healer. Dark? A matter of opinion, he suspects. It's difficult to argue that the rifts aren't inherently harmful.

It's hard to argue that he isn't, all things being equal. But he has a rather intimate experience of forbidden magic, and it feels different. Slicker.

"I'd say that qualifies for serious magic. Whether you think I'm pretty or not is entirely your own affair."

[qunari]

Whether he's pretty or not has ceased to matter. The rift kept him from dying. But the rift is meant to be a hole in the Veil, a path to the Fade. Where dead things go. So how is it it managed to save his life?

It results in a very skeptical look. One thing that makes the Bull nervous above all other things, after all, is the possibility of demons. Not that he's afraid of bashing their faces in. That part's easy. It's the part where they get inside your head, where all your strength and cunning mean nothing in the face of something that insidious.

Martel doesn't act possessed. There's definitely something off about the guy, and he'll keep an eye on him, but for now? The answer more than warrants a raised eyebrow. "Hn. Yeah, well...better than the alternative, I guess. Still creepy as shit."