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Entry tags:
[OPEN] gone out, down the wrong way
WHO: Bellamy + OPEN
WHAT: open catch all log! starters below!
WHEN: end of Guardian, beginning of Drakonis and onward
WHERE: Emprise du Lion, outside EDL, the wide open road, and then Skyhold. all over the place.
NOTES: let's not talk about blood mages.
WHAT: open catch all log! starters below!
WHEN: end of Guardian, beginning of Drakonis and onward
WHERE: Emprise du Lion, outside EDL, the wide open road, and then Skyhold. all over the place.
NOTES: let's not talk about blood mages.
EMPRISE DU LION - INSIDE.
To keep busy, Bellamy joins in with training drills. There's other Templars in the Inquisition, no one he knows and no one who knows him. They ask just a few questions, and if he's careful to stay reticent he can keep his stories straight, and he does. The patter of drilling comes back to him pretty quickly, and if they tease him about being rusty, backwoods, country, Bellamy just smiles, a little, bears it pretty well, even if he's thinking about how none of them know what the hell they're talking about.
Anyways, he is pretty rusty. The fights he's been fighting have been less disciplined. In the yard, he goes up against anyone, bigger than him, smaller than him, eager for the distraction. When he gets bested in these little trials of mock combat, he gets up again, wipes the sweat off his brow and picks up his sword. It's as he's adjusting a strap on his armor that one of the knight captain claps him on the shoulder, gives some word of advice. Bellamy's mouth tightens into a hard line. He's polite enough, yes sir, but as soon as he's able he steps away, goes for some water to cool down. It's cold, in the yard, cold enough that steam rises off of his skin, but all the same, he grabs a bucket and dumps it over his head. The icy chill sets his teeth together. That's good. It helps to disguise how pissed off he is.
EMPRISE DU LION - OUTSIDE.
Outside the boundaries of the settlement, the wild terrain lies under smooth drifts of snow. Even the trees wear it on their branches, like old women with shrouds pulled tight around their shoulders.
Hector is tied to one of the trees, nosing patiently around the base. The dirt there is mostly clear of snow, kept clean by the close knit of the branches above. Bellamy, sat on a cold rock and working, rough, at skinning a squirrel, watches his horse--and when Hector gives up his search, with a frustrated snort, he even manages a little smile, before he sets aside the carcass and his knife and reaches for his pack.
Bellamy hasn't done well with waiting in Emprise du Lion, and he hasn't done well with blending in. His presence was more of a coincidence than an earnest volunteering, and if Kane is satisfied to ride around with the Templars among the Inquisition's ranks--that's his business. Bellamy's gone through the motions, helped a little with the smaller campaigns. Let himself pretend to be a Templar. Mostly he's waited, kept a low profile, kept watching for Clarke. But he hates waiting; he's grown restless. That's what puts him out here, today, under the grey sky, with only this stupid scrawny squirrel to show for his efforts. It's not really fun: he's a shitty hunter. You'd think a kid who grew up hardscrabble would have learned a little more. He can set snares and traps, he can stalk prey, he can shoot, but when it comes to the moment of the kill, it always seems like it goes wrong. His sister ended up a better hunter than he was.
When he thinks of Octavia, his mouth twists out of that smile. He grabs a withered apple and chucks it, underhanded, toward Hector. The thud of its landing catches the horse's attention, and he falls eagerly on the apple.
But even Hector's loud greedy chomping doesn't overpower the sudden crack of a branch breaking. Bellamy jumps to his feet, his knife in his hand, wariness hardening his face. Friend, foe, whatever: whoever's approaching ought to keep right on moving.
THE ROAD.
It's hard to wait patiently. It's impossible, really. So he leaves Emprise du Lion, without telling Kane that he's going--which is stupid, maybe, but he's angry and tired of feeling penned in, kept bound by vows and promises and--
Whatever. He doesn't owe Kane much. They will meet again soon. (Which is a stupid saying, he thinks, bitterly, every time he accidentally thinks it.)
The distance between Emprise du Lion and Skyhold isn't so far, and it's not so dangerous a path that one armed man on horseback can't make the trip alone. And maybe he's riding a little harder than he should, pushing Hector to a pace that makes the horse pant for breath. Maybe the speed is unnecessary. But it feels good, just like leaving behind Kane feels good, in this stupid childish vindictive way. Bent low over Hector's neck, he doesn't notice the road growing rockier beneath the horse's hooves, doesn't notice the pockets of ice, or the way that Hector's trying to pick his steps more carefully, until a hoof hits wrong, and one of Hector's front legs buckles beneath him and the horse stumbles, with a high, panicked whiny. Instinctively, Bellamy yanks back on the reigns, and Hector slips on the ice, panicked--and then they're off the road, horse and rider both; Bellamy gets thrown into a snowbank and Hector falls hard on his side, screaming the way horses do, shrill and desperate. The sound carries loud across the stillness of the snow.
By the time Bellamy's up, Hector is, too, running for the trees. At least his leg seems unharmed. Bellamy, bleeding from a cut on his forehead, already sore from impact, his shoulder aching, watches his horse go.
"Dammit!"
SKYHOLD.
After he's led the recaptured Hector to Skyhold's stable and settling in his spooked horse, the first place Bellamy goes is the tavern.
He gets a table alone, back in a corner. Hot mulled wine, bread, cheese, and the warmth of a fire, plus a chair that he can sit in. Which is maybe the best feature of them all, given how uncommonly like shit Bellamy feels, after getting thrown off his horse in full armor. He eases himself into the chair with minimal wincing, and as soon as he's seated he grabs up his wine, taking a generous gulp. It burns his throat when he swallows, but it warms him, too, so he has a second sip as soon as he can manage it.
He's a cup and a half in when he hears the name Montemps. And then he can't help himself; he looks over, caught as sharply as if there's a string tied to his nose, yanking his attention sideways. The name was on the lips of a man some feet away, bent low over his table as he tells some tale to the others around him.
Unfortunately the wine has softened Bellamy's wits a little. He's still got his wine in hand, and his turn is a little more dramatic than it would be otherwise, sharp enough to jar his arm against someone--trying to squeeze past him and back to the bar, or maybe sitting at the table beside him, chair pulled too close--either way, the impact sloshes the wine over Bellamy's hand. His breath catches, he swears under his breath--and drops the cup right on the feet of the person he's just inadvertently elbowed.
Damn. "Sorry-- sorry, that was--" He's sincere, but fumbling, and the drink puts a flush in his cheeks a little more quickly than he'd flush otherwise. He grabs a cloth off the table and starts trying to sop at some of the wine. "Sorry."
EMPRISE DU LION - INSIDE
There was no in-between.
Aragorn could tell that the young Templar wasn't as disciplined as the rest but the youth certainly knew how to fight. He watched with interest when some older fellow approached the Templar. That man had to been an captain or something judging from how the youth tensed. The two Templars exchanged a few words before the young man wandered away to fetch water. He could almost feel the anger radiating from the man.
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It doesn't take too much to find out who's doing the watching.There's a man, not too far off. Bellamy's jaw tightens again, and he's rough when he sets the bucket back down on the flagstones.
"Need something?"
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He reared his head back as the Templar spoke, clearly sizing him up. While he had reserved his judgment of the Inquisition for now, Aragorn did notice there's a level of hostility burrowed deep within its core. "Nothing." The rifter answered plainly.
"You're quite good." He's referencing the spar. "With a sword, I mean."
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Bellamy snorts, quietly, at the compliment. One-handed, he scratches his fingers through his wet hair, shaking loose the worst of the water. He squints back toward the other Templars, still at it. He nods at the knight captain, standing on the sidelines with his arms folded over his chest, closer to the action.
"You wanna tell that to him?"
Sarcasm. He doesn't want anyone sticking up for him. When he glances back toward the stranger to communicate that, he catches sight of that glow. The crook of his smirk twitches back down, not quite into a frown, but into a warier expression.
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"You'll learn nothing from him."
He noticed the exact moment when that smile became something like a frown. The shard within his hand certainly had an effect on others, especially natives. "There's nothing to fear." He said in regrard to his hand.
"At least not yet."
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"I think we're the ones that get to decide if there's anything to fear." The people of Thedas. The people who don't have shards in their hands, or wherever else.
As sternly as he's got his face set, a creep of curiosity directs Bellamy's attention back down to the man's hand. This is something he's heard about, in passing, but never seen for himself. And now that he's noticed the glow, it's hard to say how he'd ever missed it in the first place. As soft as a glow it is, it's still obvious. "Where is it you're from?"
It might sound polite in other contexts. It's not exactly impolite, even in this context. He's still not sure.
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As much as Aragorn would give to return to Middle-earth and the quest he begun, he couldn't help but feel a tad curious about the people of this realm. Thedas has yet to leave much of an impression on Aragorn and for good reason. Besides the snowy red lyrium laced hills of Emprise du Lion, Aragorn had seen very little of this world. He could find similarities between Thedas and Middle-Earth but those similarities are far and few in between.
Everything about this world's culture and social dynamics feel foreign to the ranger but the land itself felt familiar. Dirt is always dirt and same goes in reference to the grass, trees and everything crafted by nature. It's in nature that Aragorn finds comfort.
"Arda." He answered in Elvish out of habit. "Middle-Earth."
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The relative calm of his conversation partner unnerves him. It's not that Bellamy likes to throw his weight around. He's not that kind of guy unless he has to be, unless he's provoked, or it's for a good reason. Intimidation can be helpful.
Arms folded over his chest, Bellamy puts his back against the wall. Still within conversation range of the rifter; still not exactly at ease. "You don't really think that. Do you? That we get to decide if you're a threat or not."
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The Fellowship mustn't falter. Middle-Earth will be lost if they were to fail.
"I'm merely a guest in this world." Aragorn answered quietly. "Nothing more. Though, I would hope that you and others would treat with us fairly enough." He had a strange inkling that won't be the case here. Many of the Thedasians seemed to already fear the Rifters.
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oooon the road again...
Kitty sees horse and rider go down hard. She's on Carrot, a surefooted little mountain pony, and so she could urge him forward to get him to gallop over to the fallen pair. It'd be safe, with his ability to navigate these treacherous roads. Unfortunately, it wouldn't be possible, because Carrot does not ever gallop. He generally doesn't even trot.
So Kitty, instead, swings off her pony and runs down the road on her two feet. Full-tilt, trying to get to the poor man...and then he's up, and so's the horse, neither of them really the worse for wear. And Kitty slows, and draws to a stop, feeling a little silly for her panic. And so she tries to make up for it by putting her hands on her hips and saying, rather primly -
"It'll be a trick to get him back again, won't it."
i just can't waaaait to get on the rooooad again
Somewhat startled, Bellamy looks around. He'd galloped past the pony and rider just a few minutes ago, but he didn't expect her to be here already. And he didn't expect concern, either, so it's a good thing she doesn't seem keen on offering any.
The corner of his mouth twitches up into a bitter smile. "Don't suppose you've got some kind of foolproof horse whistle," he says, without any hope. One of his packs has also spilled off in the fall. Bellamy grabs for it, shrugs his shoulder up to wipe his face against it. Inside the pack, steel clanks, dully. "Did you come all this way just to say that?"
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"If you sit down, I'll see to that gushing head wound of yours."
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The worst of his injuries is probably pride. Not the only casualty though: onside his pack, he can see the dents in the steel stored there, the better parts of his armor. Fantastic.
"I've had worse," he tells the dwarf girl on the road. "I'll be fine."
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Carrot finally comes to a halt in front of her; she pulls a stretch of linen bandage from one of his saddlebags. And then she turns back to the idiot human. "Go on," she urges. "Sit."
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The road is a little higher than where he's standing, which means he's actually got to look up at her. This doesn't do much to detract from how flatly unimpressed he is with being eyerolled into submission.
"You did see my horse run off. Right?" And, so, okay, blood is dripping into his eye. Not a lot of blood. Bellamy's not about to rub a hand over it or anything, not after his protest at her bandaging. Instead, he blinks it away. "Going pretty fast?"
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And honestly - "Oh, Maker, let me bandage your damned head. You're going to be really upset when that blood drips in your eyeball. That hurts a lot, you know - not that I need to tell you, you're so big and tough you probably rub blood in your eyes to start out the morning."
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"Just one eye, actually. Left one. Lubrication." He keeps deadpan, waiting to see if she'll crack first.
She does have a point, about Hector. Not about the blood, which, while it stings a little, could be a hell of a lot worse.
EMPRISE - OUTSIDE
Emma used to pride herself on being good at that. It was easier to settle into the crowd than to make a point of yourself, especially when you were different. She'd once been pretty damn good at pretending to be the same. Most kids in the foster system were great at orchestrating pretty little lies to shadow their reality from people that didn't really want to hear it. Even as an adult, those techniques had never really left... except, apparently, in times just like this one.
There's only so far her blending will take her. Considering she's a radioactive, hyperdangerous fish out of water? There's only so much she can bend and fold into the crowds. She knows she does not fit in here. Being a rifter makes her stand out bad enough as it is. It's the least she can do to keep her magic — more importantly, the unstable nature of it — to herself. It often means a lot of time spent on her own.
Which isn't super easy, when apparently being a rifter is two shakes away from being criminal.
She's casually forbidden from leaving the area, she gets that part. Emma just has never been much for being forbidden from anything, casually or otherwise. Besides, walking is good for clearing her head... and slipping past guards ends up pretty easy when she can literally disappear if she wants to. She shouldn't use her magic to sneak out, so she appreciates it when her simple brand of trickery works instead. It's hard to say if walking and roaming actually calms the whispers of darkness, but she knows it's better than sitting still.
The step on a branch is relatively innocent, though perhaps gives away she's not supposed to be here. She doesn't quite flinch at the hiss of metal from a sword being drawn, hands raising in surrender. "At ease, soldier. Just walking here." His horse isn't sure about that command, nickering uncomfortably in her presence. It's more than picking up her uncertainty of horses, apparently animals hate dark ones. Apparently she's not getting a cat to soften the blow of being separated from her family.
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"Funny place for a walk." The road's not that far off, and there's a footpath here, somewhere, under the snow. Bellamy had led Hector along one of the narrow tramped-down deer paths, cut through snow and underbrush. A horse is more sure-footed than a person, and a mountain horse better than most. And the settlement isn't too far back, even on foot--but still. Bellamy studies her face, trying to read her. "You sure that's it?"
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"Why's that? Plenty of nature to see around here." She's not really lying, though it's easy to see why it'd sound like it. She does want to walk around and pretend that it'll clear her head. It's just that it's safer to be away from people, and lesser-treaded paths tend to be the better choice for that. "I'm sure."
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He nods, back toward where they've both come from. "Because it seems to me like I heard you're supposed to be back there with the rest of them. Not enough nature to enjoy behind the walls?"
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So as is always charming of someone caught doing something they're not supposed to, Emma crosses her arms in useless defiance. If he decides to send her back she's not going to fight him on it — even though she could, and she'd win, without trying very hard. Still, she doesn't want to go back when she just got out, and being a pain in the ass is clearly the best way to get him to fold, right?
"I'm old enough now that I like to take my walks unchaperoned." There's no nature inside the fortress that isn't constantly watched. Apparently the nature outside isn't much better, but she doesn't think he's on a patrol. She just (unfortunately) ran into the wrong person. "I'm not escaping, I'm just walking. Where am I going to go, I don't even have gloves." She doesn't have to tell him she's not as affected by the cold thanks to her curse. As it is it sounds like a strong argument.
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Except, not. That's kind of a compliment, or else it would be, if she wasn't a rifter sneaking around outside the boundaries of where she's been told to stay. Bellamy isn't always a play-by-the-rules kind of guy, but here, and now, faced with a rifter? Better safe than sorry. There's too much unknown about them--about her, whoever she is. A nice countryside stroll seems a pretty thin defense when the countryside is mounded with snow and frozen solid.
He looks her up and down a second longer, then slips his sword back into its scabbard and grabs up the skinned squirrel from the ground.
"If it's just a walk, then you won't mind if I tag along. Not a chaperon. Just someone else who loves nature. And in case your hands get cold," he adds, with a glance back at her, "I've got extra gloves."
You're welcome.
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She didn't quite notice the squirrel until he retrieves it, and can't help but make a slight grimace. Poor thing. Hopefully that wasn't meant for a pie or a stew, she would have been happier not knowing squirrel could be in her dinner. In fact, that just makes her wonder. Who would hunt squirrel? There's got to be better things to hunt, right? There's not going to be much to eat on something so small.
She doesn't look immensely pleased by the offer, mostly because she's not. If she wanted company she'd have stayed in the castle. Still, she can guess where refusing will get her, and quiet is more important to her at the moment than being alone. Maybe it's better for her not to be alone, while she's at it. "Most nature lovers don't do that to squirrels, but sure. I don't mind."
And however gallant the offer, "I think I'll be okay without."
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And neither does she. That's how she got out here in the first place. If it was him, and someone strongly suggested that he stay put? He'd probably do the same. Maybe he'd even take off if he thought his odds were good enough. Just being out here suggests that she's an opportunist, and smart enough to slip out unnoticed.
Bellamy tightens the strap of Hector's saddle and gives the horse a pat on the neck, once, a gesture of comfort that's trying to hide as a utilitarian gesture of reassurance. The horse nickers, again, uncertain, his ears turning. Bellamy grabs the reigns and wraps them quick around his hand.
Then he nods at the rifter. "Lead the way. It's your walk."
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