faderift | (no subject)

WHO: Alejandro Borges AND YOU, YES YOU.
WHAT: Alejandro shows up at Skyhold. It's incredibly exciting!! He's probably getting drunk or getting to work so take your pick.
WHEN: End of Guardian
WHERE: Skyhold
NOTES: Alejandro's mouth might deserve a warning. Also, feel free to use prose or brackets; I have no real preference.

COURTYARD
"Well, isn't this a fuckin' thing."

There weren't many survivors from the O'Bannon, but the few that did live needed a refuge. For a time, Alejandro ensured that they made it someplace; Redcliffe seemed the best, least crazy place to be, and that's including the damned rumors about Tevinter mages that hung around. Alejandro wasn't thrilled with that one, but they needed a place, and that was as good as it was going to get.

Him? Well, he always got through his issues with a hammer, anger, and intent while at a forge.

Alejandro adjusts his pack on his shoulder, taking a moment to look over Skyhold. It was impressive from a distance, but damn if this isn't some kind of fortress.

"Shit, and a place to get trashed," Alejandro says with a snort. "Well, they've got the right idea."

UNDERCROFT
This isn't a bad location for a forge. Hell, downright fancy in comparison to the places he's been.

Alejandro's dropped his pack and taken a moment to review the area. It's wide and open, excellent space for anyone to work in. Frankly, he's pretty damned impressed with it; it's not fancy, but spacious as hell.

As he's exploring the space, Alejandro stops when he sees the crawl of something out of the corner of his eye. It's a bit hard to not have a good sense for this kind of shit after everything he's seen and witnessed, and he knows what it must be.

"Fuck," he whispers, eyes widening.

It's a small spider, not any larger than a sovereign, crawling innocently along, minding its own business.

Alejandro slams a bucket over the critter, frowning in thought as he tries to determine how to handle this. He commends himself silently for not screaming, but now he needs to keep it there. After glancing around a moment, Alejandro yanks a shield over and lays it on top of the bucket, keeping it still.

After pausing for a moment, he scribbles out a note and sticks on the shield:
DO NOT FUCKING MOVE
- A.B.

"That ought'a do it."

TAVERN
The day is long. It's always long. It's going to be that way for everyone, and he knows everyone's got a sob story. No one here's gotten by without a scratch, and everyone has their way of dealing with it.

Sometimes it's work for Alejandro. Sometimes it isn't.

He sits down at a table and orders himself some ale -- cheapest they have, which is gonna taste awful, but beggars aren't choosers and he's not loaded with money. Alejandro unstraps his prosthetic and lets out a sigh as the weight comes off his shoulder before he's placing the thing on the table so he can make some adjustments to it.

Sometimes it's work. Sometimes it's not. Sometimes it's a bit both.

WILDCARD
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When Alejandro is splashed, so is his table and, well, his arm. He lifts his hand up and flicks off the ale with an irritable, "Are you fuckin' serious?"

The apology does sound sincere, so he just sighs and says, "Just watch yourself, all right? This thing is a pain to clean, and--"

There's a pause as Alejandro peers up at the other man from where he's sitting. Oh, maybe for Scipio, it was sometime ago and forgotten easily, just another man conned, but Alejandro doesn't easily forget. Not when he was working his ass off for as much money as he could.

A fist slams down and Alejandro is standing up. "You cheap bastard!"

There have been many times, in many taverns, where Scipio, for the better or for the worse, has been recognized. While this man might be yelling at anyone in the tavern, it is most likely that he is yelling at Scipio, because people often tend to yell at Scipio in taverns.

So. Scipio takes a few more steps before he lets himself realize, that this cheap bastard might be him. Indeed, a few others have glanced between him and the man doing the yelling, mild interest. Scipio looks around, blankly--and then looks over his shoulder, and finds the man in the crowd.

"Ser?"

As if to say, again: your pardon. As if to say: perhaps there has been some mistake. Indeed, the arrangement of his features is puzzled and begin, just another man here for a drink, no one at all. Behind this facade, Scipio is thinking very quickly. Who is this and what has he done to him, where has he seen this face before, flipping through a mental catalog of men from the past. If only Rafael were here.

"Don't give me that blank look," the blacksmith growls. Arm or no arm, he's going to start approaching Scipio and is definitely looking like he might want to at least sock him in the mouth, if not more than that.

"I doubt I'm the only guy you swindled." It's Antiva and all. "But crafting the kind of blades you were lookin' for? Doesn't come cheap, and your coin was worthless!"

Sure it was a few years ago, but the memory is sore and his temper? Not much better these days.

Oo-oooh.

Scipio does not give the appearance of having taken a step backwards. But in truth: he has. Just a small step, yet in such close quarters, when a man comes toward you with purpose and an intent to punch gleaming in his narrowed eyes, even the smallest step and the smallest distance makes a great deal of difference.

Anitvan. The man is Antivan. And missing an arm, but that hardly matters; Scipio has fought with one arm tied behind his back (for show), and he has witnessed men with one arm holding their own. If there is passion, the lack of arm will hardly translate as a true lack. Still, he is trying to place it all: worthless coin, worthless coin, there have been so many worthless coins--blades, blacksmiths, worthless coin--

"I think there must be a mistaking, here, yes?" Still polite. The door is not that close. Scipio might yet make a run for it, but not if his new foe gets much nearer. "I do not know what you speak of. And I am very busy, so I do not have time to help you, ser, and for that, I am sorry, I must beg your pardon, and be on my way, and pray that you will find whatever man that you seek--handsome, obviously, if you have mistaken him for me, me for him--"

"Cut the shit! You can't get yourself out of this one, and if you think you're gonna scamper off before facing me--" Alejandro grabs his prosthetic arm and shakes it in the other man's face. "I will jam this in places you don't want."

No, that probably won't happen, but it's a damned fine threat.

"You ordered fancy ass knives. I delivered. You paid me in crap coin that was worthless. You and your prettier half." Sorry Scipio. "And if he's here, you both got shit to answer for."

Edited 2016-03-04 05:56 (UTC)

Dimly, Scipio is beginning to remember the incident in question. The declaration of 'fancy ass knives' helps to narrow down the specific counterfeiting. The threat helps to jog his memory along. It is less easy to do any other sort of jogging at the moment, as he is nearly backed against a wall, and the man is still advancing on him, arm in hand--

Arm in hand? Ah, yes. Now Scipio remembers him. But the remembering is eclipsed by his affront. "No, I'm the pretty," he begins, and ends right there, the evocative threat of punishment ringing in his ears. "Or, I was. We are no longer a partnership. And you say that the coin, that we paid with--it was worthless? Well! As I am starting to remember, I can explain this so easily to you: my partner, he was the one with the counterfeit coins! Not I!"

--Which Rafael will not appreciate. But once they have some distance, they can sort this out with a real plan. Scipio lets himself scowl a little.

"Yes, he was notorious for such tricks! I am still looking for him myself, the bastard!"

That seems awfully convenient, but Alejandro knows that despite his own temper he has no way of knowing until he has both of these guys in a room and gets paid properly. Somehow. Alejandro continues to scowl, as if he's still debating whether or not he's going to make good on his threat with his prosthetic.

Eventually, he gives a tsk and takes a step back.

"You know where he is, you'd better fucking tell me. Or it's both your asses I'm after. Got it?"

"Yes!" A tone of ringing agreement, the sort of tone employed by a man out for justice. The pressure of the moment turns down in intensity, but Scipio knows, he is not free yet. This is a tenuous line that he walks, and he must take great care--

--And, also, warn Rafa as quickly as possible.

"I do not yet know where he is. I am searching. But, when it comes the day that I find him, you have my word, ser: you will be the third that I tell!"

For a moment, he scowls. Third to tell. Alejandro is about to argue, but he realizes also that he's probably not the only one who's probably pissed off at either or both of these men.

This is probably a poor idea, but he'll take it.

"I'll make sure to follow up with you either way. Are we clear?"

Success. A very small and minor success, yes, but all the same: success, and Scipio draws himself up quite proudly--which of course might be him rising to the task of this agreement and not anything more devious.

"We are very clear, m--" Not friend. Smoothly, he changes directions: "--Ser. As clear as a crystal from a dwarven mine! Now if you will be excusing me, please, I will go and make a new start of finding him. Your ire, and your passion, it has reignited my own. And now I will not rest until the brigand, he is found."