[OPEN] gone out, down the wrong way

[nonsibi]

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.

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."

Comments

[rathercommon]

"I did," she responds flatly, raising her eyebrows. She turns her head over towards where the horse had run. "Are you able to outrun it, then? Your horse, I mean. I know you humans have long legs and all, but I don't think they're quite long enough to chase down a horse. So if you're planning to run after it, that's quite silly, because it can go faster than you. So your best hope of recovering the horse is it being well-trained and returning to you. Which it can do just as easily from here."

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."

[nonsibi]

"I'm not letting him just wander," Bellamy starts, countering all her sharp observations with a little sharpness of his own, but she finishes her lecture so weirdly that it actually gives him a second of pause. Blood in his eye, huh.

"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.