❰ adalia bursts into six's tent, no consideration for whether she may have someone over or be doing something or anything because she's too excited to think about such things. ❱
Six, I need to tell you about something and it's probably going to be awkward but I have to do it, please!
[ Having retired to her tent - mostly to avoid the drinking, brawling and nausea the outside gives her - Six doesn't expect anyone to come and see her. When Adalia barges into her tent she grabs her dagger without thinking, aiming for her target's throat, before --
Adalia. Her sister. She tenses, for a moment, before she puts the weapon down. ]
You should be more careful, Adalia. [ But she shifts, making space all the same, offering a small smile. ] ... What happened?
❰ whatever, her life has been threatened for lesser reasons, adalia's not worried. she waves her hand in between them, like she can push away six's words and her dagger both, and drops down next to six in an ecstatic heap, taking six's hands in hers and grinning. ❱
I told you it was going to be awkward, but! I slept with a man for the first time and it was very good.
He’s by and large avoided the girl. Isn’t in the habit of pressing nervous young women — least of all those armored and solemn-faced and twenty pounds on him — however far they might be coaxed from shell.
But needs as must. His mule’s a stubborn, shift-and-start thing; hers behaves little better for all its absurd size. Borrowed to purpose upon this mission: Some droll delivery to a Marcher town, nestled in the crags. Correspondence too valuable to trust to wings (too cheap to afford proper escort).
Isaac’s ridden a horse before, but he can count those occasions upon his hands and come up with fingers to spare. The discomfort on his face starts off well-smothered, grows readily-apparent by the second hour of rocky trail.
Six knows horses. She thinks, sometimes, she knows horses better than she knows people; they're far easier to read and they make far more sense as far as she's concerned. She can see that Isaac's horse is stubborn and she loves him from the moment she sees it, her own something similar. It's easier to act as though this is her entire focus, as though this is the only thing that they have been tasked to do, as if she is not looking at someone who could be twinned to her father.
It's difficult not to think about it, not with the knots in her chest and her tight grip on the reigns.
It's instinct that has her riding properly more than anything else, her attention on the road ahead. This mission, a simple thing, was easy enough to accept; it let her travel, let her ride, let her have some fresh air and quiet away from the bustle of Kirkwall without too much trouble or hesitation. The company was not intolerable, simply... Difficult. For her, not for him.
"A command, perhaps," she replies evenly, trying to sound calmer and happier than she is. "Or orders. I doubt it is anything more complicated than that or it would not have been trusted to just two." Leaning forward, Six pets at her horse's flank, her expression softening for a moment.
Thinks it’s more likely — perhaps — that they’ve been sent to opposite purpose. You don’t need to put important documents in a big guarded caravan labeled try me; you don’t need to put a mage and a decorated fighter on a delivery.
But that’s not pressing. He isn’t a horseman. He isn’t, either, unobservant: She’s shown readier affection of the things than any stray faces they’ve passed.
The regularity of their matches has been interrupted for some weeks now - first by the abrupt efforts to rendezvous with those who had escaped from Tevinter, then again by the effort to rescue those who hadn't managed to slip free of the Inperium's capitol at all. True, they'd technically been in one another's company for some part of the second, but a ship to and from is to place for sparring. Besides, she had matters to attend to and he found the Nocen Sea didn't agree with him and had spent most of the trip back to Kirkwall just ill enough to dislike the prospect of moving and talking to anyone.
He expects the natural order of things to resume after. Instead only a few days after the return from Minrathous, Marcoulf finds himself climbing the interminable stairs to Gallows' highest floors where rumor, i.e. the good word of a harried maid, has it that Six is seeing to one of the animals there.
The moment he reaches the griffon roost though, Marcoulf pauses there at the landing. The smell of straw and feather is strong here, dark shapes of dozing creatures shifting in the low light. It's not the first time he's been up to this landing - curiosity had dredged him up here of its own volition in his first weeks in Kirkwall -, but it's the first time he means to cross the threshold and he finds himself thinking about the alarming shapes of claws and beaks. So he lingers at the landing, squinting into the dim roost for a trace of the woman he's looking for.
He has some minor thing to tell her that evidently can't wait.
With everything that has happened, Six knows she hasn't quite been herself. She hasn't had the hours to dedicate to training as she might have liked and she hasn't been able to pray to the same level that would have made her comfortable before; now she feels more adrift, more uncertain. Seeing Tevinter firsthand had been an uncomfortable experience to say the least and coming back to Kirkwall hasn't lightened that load even a little.
She spends a few hours each day with the griffon she had chosen to bond herself to, at least, and it calms her some. Two stays in her room when she comes up here, just in case he scares the poor creature, and it helps calm her. It helps centre her, just a little, and sometimes she thinks she can manage to pray, or find some peace within herself, even if Sarenrae is far from her.
The sound of someone coming makes her pause, stepping away from the wiggling body of the griffon, still nameless, that she had been tending to and bonding with, curious about who else might have climbed all these stairs. The familiar face or Marcoulf has her relaxing, a smile not settling on her but something soft soothing the edge of her features all the same, nodding as she sees him.
The confirmation of her presence is enough to coax him from the doorway. Straw crunches underfoot, dust motes stirring idly in the roost's penetrating shafts of failing sunlight. Lanterns will need to be lit here soon if there's to be any light left to see by.
He pauses a few steps shy of her, right hand floating absently to hook at the seam of his sleeve. It's not a bow - she doesn't warrant anything like that -, but it's near enough to the start of one that the gesture evokes the sensation. Clearly there's some habit to it and one Marcoulf enjoys in some quiet way that he keeps doing it without much thought or question.
"I'm leaving for Ferelden in the morning and wanted to say as much so you knew not to look for me in the yard."
[ When Six wakes, she'll find that she's been ordered on a mission to an outlying Marcher village to accept an important package. It's terribly mysterious, quite hush-hush. The directions are beautifully calligraphed, and quite legitimate. When she prepares to depart, a stranger (terrible, mysterious) may already be waiting.
If Six doesn't use her own horse, a flawless white stallion previously unknown to the Gallows will be provided. The journey takes them along an unusually long and scenic route for what should be a short journey — they really aren’t going that far from Kirkwall.
Upon arrival, an Inquisition scout will hand off the package: A basket containing a full charcuterie spread and several dainty pastries. She'll show them to a lovely little orchard, where a fine blanket has already been laid on the grass.
... It won't be long until they're chased out of that orchard by its minder, a local man in his eighties wielding a broom.
OOC Note: Krem is played by Cris. Feel free to play out a thread, handwave things, or ignore it entirely, but check with each other first! ❤ ]
[There's a clearing of a throat and an awkward pause before he speaks.]
Hello. Six. It is Thor. Of House Asgard. I was wondering if you would, that is, my brother is getting married, and I was wondering if you would consider accompanying me.
It somehow doesn't occur to him to arrange to be literally anywhere else when the rescue-turned-recovery team finally rides back into Kirkwall. Which is stupid - one dumb oversight in a long string of them -, and for a moment when the horses come filing in under the heavy stone archway of the Inquisition's dockside stable compound, he doesn't quite realize who or what he's looking at.
And then there is that big flaxen colored gelding, and the woman in the saddle, and the logical pieces wander together to sit like a stone at the bottom of his belly.
A boy runs to catch the reins of one of the horses, helping its rider down and Marcoulf finds himself trailing after him from out of the shadow of the stables. He catches the gelding's stirrup and looks up at Six in the saddle and he means to say-- something?
And doesnt. For a long, awkward beat. Then Marcoulf clears his throat roughly.
"I'll help see to him." A curt nod to the gelding.
It's clear that Six has taken the journey back hard - not as hard as others, those that had loved ones go missing, those that are mourning the death of people who meant so much to them, but hard all the same. She had vowed herself to protecting the innocent and saving as many people as she could, but here and now... There was nothing but death. There was no hope, and she can feel that twisting in her gut, leaving her nauseated, uncomfortable. At a loss.
She has not felt such a way for some time and it creeps up on her like an illness.
If it were anyone else she might dismiss them now, say that she is content to be alone, that she has no desire to do anything to make herself a better company, but it is Marcoulf. Her confused feelings about their friendship have her hands dropping from the reins, her eyes a little hollow before she shakes her head.
He will take good care of Sir and she knows it, fingers stroking gently over her gelding's neck, a soft noise - a sigh - falling from her mouth.
[ It’s a respectable evening hour, not too long after most people have had dinner, when messaging people out of the blue is least likely to be inconvenient. ]
[Wherever Six is likely to be in the Gallows: suddenly, Val is there too. He is carrying a few books, and a folio of parchment, and his shirtsleeves are rolled up over his forearms. Some mysterious black substance is dusted over his clothing, and is clumped thickly on his fingertips especially.
This makes it maybe intimidating when he points to Six.]
You!
[--More cheerful than accusatory.]
You are Six, yes? I am Val de Foncé. You are to teach me of dragon's speech. And I am here, now, so--?
[He gestures, with the books. They aren't anything to do with dragons. The titles are in Orlesian. And Val, by the way, smells faintly of smoke. C'est la vie, for a scholar.]
[ Six is immediately unsure what to make of the man in person; voices reveal little about a figure compared to their face and how they stand, and she hesitates only for a moment before she lowers her greatsword, placing it to one side and nodding her head. ]
Yes, I am Six.
[ She didn't expect him to just come and find her, but he is here now and there's not much she can do about it. She rubs her hand over her face, mostly to clean it off, before she nods and motions to one side, where some benches have been set up. ]
action; tourney.
❰ adalia bursts into six's tent, no consideration for whether she may have someone over or be doing something or anything because she's too excited to think about such things. ❱
Six, I need to tell you about something and it's probably going to be awkward but I have to do it, please!
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Adalia. Her sister. She tenses, for a moment, before she puts the weapon down. ]
You should be more careful, Adalia. [ But she shifts, making space all the same, offering a small smile. ] ... What happened?
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I told you it was going to be awkward, but! I slept with a man for the first time and it was very good.
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crystal;
[ an unfamiliar voice - low and rough, gravelly. probably not the person you'd expect to be a messenger for adalia. ]
Your sister wanted to let you know she's alive and safe. She's limiting her use of the crystal.
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Safe how? Is she unharmed?
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[ that's basically all he heard from her on it. he's just the messenger, ugh. ]
She's unharmed. Shaken, but determined.
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action at some miscellaneous point in time
But needs as must. His mule’s a stubborn, shift-and-start thing; hers behaves little better for all its absurd size. Borrowed to purpose upon this mission: Some droll delivery to a Marcher town, nestled in the crags. Correspondence too valuable to trust to wings (too cheap to afford proper escort).
Isaac’s ridden a horse before, but he can count those occasions upon his hands and come up with fingers to spare. The discomfort on his face starts off well-smothered, grows readily-apparent by the second hour of rocky trail.
Which is about when he starts running his mouth.
"What do you suppose is in it?"
The letter.
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It's difficult not to think about it, not with the knots in her chest and her tight grip on the reigns.
It's instinct that has her riding properly more than anything else, her attention on the road ahead. This mission, a simple thing, was easy enough to accept; it let her travel, let her ride, let her have some fresh air and quiet away from the bustle of Kirkwall without too much trouble or hesitation. The company was not intolerable, simply... Difficult. For her, not for him.
"A command, perhaps," she replies evenly, trying to sound calmer and happier than she is. "Or orders. I doubt it is anything more complicated than that or it would not have been trusted to just two." Leaning forward, Six pets at her horse's flank, her expression softening for a moment.
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Thinks it’s more likely — perhaps — that they’ve been sent to opposite purpose. You don’t need to put important documents in a big guarded caravan labeled try me; you don’t need to put a mage and a decorated fighter on a delivery.
But that’s not pressing. He isn’t a horseman. He isn’t, either, unobservant: She’s shown readier affection of the things than any stray faces they’ve passed.
"Have you ever heard the tale of the firebird?"
He’ll mangle it as he goes.
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post-minrathous shenannigans
He expects the natural order of things to resume after. Instead only a few days after the return from Minrathous, Marcoulf finds himself climbing the interminable stairs to Gallows' highest floors where rumor, i.e. the good word of a harried maid, has it that Six is seeing to one of the animals there.
The moment he reaches the griffon roost though, Marcoulf pauses there at the landing. The smell of straw and feather is strong here, dark shapes of dozing creatures shifting in the low light. It's not the first time he's been up to this landing - curiosity had dredged him up here of its own volition in his first weeks in Kirkwall -, but it's the first time he means to cross the threshold and he finds himself thinking about the alarming shapes of claws and beaks. So he lingers at the landing, squinting into the dim roost for a trace of the woman he's looking for.
He has some minor thing to tell her that evidently can't wait.
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She spends a few hours each day with the griffon she had chosen to bond herself to, at least, and it calms her some. Two stays in her room when she comes up here, just in case he scares the poor creature, and it helps calm her. It helps centre her, just a little, and sometimes she thinks she can manage to pray, or find some peace within herself, even if Sarenrae is far from her.
The sound of someone coming makes her pause, stepping away from the wiggling body of the griffon, still nameless, that she had been tending to and bonding with, curious about who else might have climbed all these stairs. The familiar face or Marcoulf has her relaxing, a smile not settling on her but something soft soothing the edge of her features all the same, nodding as she sees him.
"Marcoulf. What brings you here?"
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He pauses a few steps shy of her, right hand floating absently to hook at the seam of his sleeve. It's not a bow - she doesn't warrant anything like that -, but it's near enough to the start of one that the gesture evokes the sensation. Clearly there's some habit to it and one Marcoulf enjoys in some quiet way that he keeps doing it without much thought or question.
"I'm leaving for Ferelden in the morning and wanted to say as much so you knew not to look for me in the yard."
Simple enough, and all business.
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crystal / pre-satinalia.
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[ godspeed, six. ]
I'll recommend you to Captain Flint. He might be more..exacting than I, but I think he'll agree with me that you're the best suited.
[ john's singular criteria: unphased by criminal activity ]
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very mysterious orders
If Six doesn't use her own horse, a flawless white stallion previously unknown to the Gallows will be provided. The journey takes them along an unusually long and scenic route for what should be a short journey — they really aren’t going that far from Kirkwall.
Upon arrival, an Inquisition scout will hand off the package: A basket containing a full charcuterie spread and several dainty pastries. She'll show them to a lovely little orchard, where a fine blanket has already been laid on the grass.
... It won't be long until they're chased out of that orchard by its minder, a local man in his eighties wielding a broom.
OOC Note: Krem is played by Cris. Feel free to play out a thread, handwave things, or ignore it entirely, but check with each other first! ❤ ]
Crystal
Hello. Six. It is Thor. Of House Asgard. I was wondering if you would, that is, my brother is getting married, and I was wondering if you would consider accompanying me.
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[ She doesn’t sound offended, just confused, until - ]
Do you need a guard, Ser Thor?
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[Now he's confused. Does she think him weak? But he pushes that back for now.]
No. I can handle any enemies that may show up, and deal with my brother should he attempt to kill me again.
[Moving on.]
I would like you to go with me, as a date.
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And then there is that big flaxen colored gelding, and the woman in the saddle, and the logical pieces wander together to sit like a stone at the bottom of his belly.
A boy runs to catch the reins of one of the horses, helping its rider down and Marcoulf finds himself trailing after him from out of the shadow of the stables. He catches the gelding's stirrup and looks up at Six in the saddle and he means to say-- something?
And doesnt. For a long, awkward beat. Then Marcoulf clears his throat roughly.
"I'll help see to him." A curt nod to the gelding.
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She has not felt such a way for some time and it creeps up on her like an illness.
If it were anyone else she might dismiss them now, say that she is content to be alone, that she has no desire to do anything to make herself a better company, but it is Marcoulf. Her confused feelings about their friendship have her hands dropping from the reins, her eyes a little hollow before she shakes her head.
He will take good care of Sir and she knows it, fingers stroking gently over her gelding's neck, a soft noise - a sigh - falling from her mouth.
"Thank you, Marcoulf."
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[ It’s a respectable evening hour, not too long after most people have had dinner, when messaging people out of the blue is least likely to be inconvenient. ]
—would you like to learn to play?
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I would. What instrument?
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action! somewhere in the gallows at some point
This makes it maybe intimidating when he points to Six.]
You!
[--More cheerful than accusatory.]
You are Six, yes? I am Val de Foncé. You are to teach me of dragon's speech. And I am here, now, so--?
[He gestures, with the books. They aren't anything to do with dragons. The titles are in Orlesian. And Val, by the way, smells faintly of smoke. C'est la vie, for a scholar.]
i love him
Yes, I am Six.
[ She didn't expect him to just come and find her, but he is here now and there's not much she can do about it. She rubs her hand over her face, mostly to clean it off, before she nods and motions to one side, where some benches have been set up. ]
Shall we?
UuU
3000 years later
welcome