faderift | [OPEN] gone out, down the wrong way

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[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.

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."

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The sarcasm won a grin from Aragorn. His gaze drifted over towards the knight-captain briefly. "A man like that is too in love with his own voice." There's a hint of disapproval in his comment.

"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."

Those words of reassurance don't do much. At least, not yet. As much as he appreciates the observation on the knight captain's worth (an observation that falls pretty much in line with his own unspoken thoughts), the unknown, the different, these are often bad, or in Bellamy's experience they have been, anyways. He's not close-minded, but he is stubborn, and cautious on some things.

"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.

A hint of a smile settled on Aragorn's lips briefly. "Of course." He replied in turn to the Templar's comment.

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."

It's not a name that means anything, translated or untranslated. That's hardly surprising. Why should it mean anything? Bellamy nods all the same, more as a sign of acknowledgement. He scratches his fingers against his scalp again, tousling his own hair.

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."

Calm and collected as always, Aragorn been taking his eventful time in Thedas with stride. While he wasn't very happy to be whisked away to some other world, the ranger realized there's not a thing that can be done about it. At least not yet. The Inquisition and their Grey Wardens need time to understand the plight before them and Aragorn recognized that. He merely hoped that his companions could continue on without him for now.

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.

His expression doesn't falter. Behind that mask, he's weighing those words, but outwardly he stays as stone-faced as possible. For all that the man says hope, he doesn't seem like he's doing any desperate entreating. Which Bellamy can appreciate, really. There's not any point in any appeals, not in cases like this.

"And that's what you would do," he asks, without the inflection of a question, "if you were in our place. You'd treat us fairly, even after we'd crawled out of a rift and showed up in your country?"

There's a lengthy silence between the Templar's question and his reply but eventually Aragorn did answer. "I cannot say what I would do if our roles were reversed." He finally replied. "But I know I wouldn't be quick to judge them." If Middle-Earth had suffered a similar anomaly, Aragorn doesn't doubt it would've been absolute chaos. The Inquisition were handling the matter with better tact than most but this was a rather unpleasant situation nonetheless.

How are the natives supposed to trust those who hail from the same rift as the Darkspawns? That's simply asking too much.

"Let their deeds prove their worth." Aragorn said as he glanced down at his hand. The dim glow of the shard served as constant reminder of the misfortunes bound to come. "That is all I can truly say on the matter."

"It's funny." Bellamy follows the rifer's gaze down to his hand, to that still-visible glow. The corner of his mouth hitches up into a tight smirk, hardly amused. "When you give someone a chance to prove their worth, sometimes they prove themselves. But I'd say most of the time they end up proving exactly what you were thinking about them in the first place." That's the influence of experience speaking through him, both recent and not.

But the man's response had a wisdom to it that Bellamy would rather not acknowledge. Giving them a chance would be the better thing to do. He's been given chances in the past, sure, but acknowledging that would take a measure of self-awareness that he doesn't always have.

He glances back toward the other templars. Another match has started, and the clang of swords rings out across the square. The knight captain stands off to the side, watching, calling out commands every now and then. "So what's your worth?"

A humorless smirk formed on the ranger's lips. "That is for you to find out." Aragorn replied in muted confidence. Despite all of his past accomplishments, Aragorn knew they would mean nothing here. The ranger isn't the type to brag. He's humble about his many talents but also confident enough to hold himself with dignity.

"Any man who has to tell you their worth, isn't worth anything at all." He mentioned a moment later once his gaze rests on the other templars. "Your captain certainly demonstrates this truth well enough." Aragorn said before allowing his gaze to fall upon the Templar again.

"But you're already aware of this." Falling silent once more, Aragorn took the time to study the young Templar again. Whatever answer he's searching for was somewhere written on the Templar's face.

"He's not my captain." Bellamy is instantly ready with that correction. Thing is, he doesn't actually have a captain. The closest he's got is Kane, whose orders he doesn't always obey. He's not good at this. At the same time, he wants to be good at this.

But he does know, about the proof of someone's worth. The guy that boasts is never the one you want watching your back, because chances are he'll fit Bellamy's grim prediction. He won't measure up to everything he claims to be. Being reticent about your skill isn't just a sign of humility.

So he doesn't say anything to that point. He looks back at the rifter, like make he can make sense of him with another glance, ferret out the good and the bad. Decide if he's worth it, if he's something like darkspawn, if that shard glowing in his hand means good or ill--for Bellamy, for the people of Thedas. No way he can tell all that in a glance. Someday he'll probably know, when the time comes for proof.

"I might be waiting a long time for that worth of yours. Since they're probably not gonna let you join up." The Templars, he means, but also the Inquisition. Not their style. "I could guess. That'd probably take the fun out of it, huh."

Aragorn inclined his head a little in an apologetic manner. "My mistake then." He said in reference to the knight-captain. Of course he knew nothing of Kane or Bellamy but he could tell that 'taking orders' isn't this Templar's forte.

"He is young." Aragorn thought as he studied Bellamy further. "Stubborn too."

The weight of the Templar's gaze was amusing at best. He could tell the young man was trying to figure him out with little avail. Aragorn wasn't easy to decipher. Even the hobbits had difficulties trusting him and the same could be said for other Men. Aragorn wore the aloofness of the Elves well enough to combine it with the general mysteriousness that the men of Númenór are so famous for. Not many people were willing to trust a 'Man of the Wilds' and that's perfectly fine. Aragorn expected caution from this Templar and others like him. The ranger honestly would've been surprised if he received otherwise.

After all, he did just emerge from the rift like an uninvited guest.

Treating him and all the other rifters with caution was quite wise. However, Aragorn vehemently refused the idea of being treated like a leper because of this accursed shard within his hand. That he will not stomach. His time here in Thedas will prove to be quite challenging in the months to come.

"Perhaps but I hope not to linger here in your world for long." He replied a moment later after carefully weighing the Templar's previous response. So, the Inquisition planned on letting them fester here like an open sore. This doesn't surprise Aragorn but it doesn't amuse him either. He wasn't the only rifter fighting against the Darkspawn menace and from what Aragorn can wager, he certainly won't be the last.

"They waste potential if they expect us to be idle."

The fact that he can't read the rifter at a glance isn't surprising. There's people who can look at you and sum up a lot about you, like it or not. Bellamy isn't one of those people, though he'd like to be. It would be easier if he could read people like that. He'd know who to trust and who to get rid of.

The fact that it's a rifter he can't read is somehow more unsettling, twinging at his wariness. They're all of them people to watch, whatever they are, wherever they've come from, whatever their being here means. Even if they weren't, this guy would be someone to watch.

His mouth twists into something like a smirk, as he grabs the bucket. There's a water pump just there, a little ways closer to the rifter. Bellamy crosses to it, slings the bucket under the spout with a clatter.

"Hey, at least we've all got similar hopes for you." The sooner they're out of here, the better. The pump's handle squeaks as he works at it. Water gurgles, somewhere deep below. "Common goal. That's a good start." Maybe. He glances over at the guy again, as water finally gushes out of the spout. "So what would you rather be doing, instead of sitting idle. Out there, with them?"

The Templars. He jerks his head in their direction.

A common goal? Maybe.

Most of the Rifters seem to hate Thedas and for good reason and most want to be returned home. This world is a hateful one that prides itself on cruelty. It's a sad imitation to Aragorn's realm of Arda but the ranger is determined to see some good in Thedas.

He watched the Templar fetch some water from the corners of his eyes before turning his gaze towards the others nearby. A frown graced him at the suggestion. "I wouldn't waste my time with them." He said boldly without a hint of hesitation.

"All we share in commonality is our humanity if barely."

"But you still think you get the right to judge them?" Another pump gets another gush of water in the bucket, over halfway full. Bellamy stops for a second, so the squeak of the handle doesn't drown out what he's saying. "You were pretty dead on with the knight captain. So you're either just good at guessing, or you've got some combat experience yourself. Or you're just an asshole."

Not that he cares. He does something like a smile, though it doesn't reach his eyes, and pushes on the pump's handle one last time. Another gurgle of water.

"You wouldn't waste your time. Maybe you should start some drills of your own."

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[OPEN] gone out, down the wrong way

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