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Post by Starling on Mar 1, 2016 5:51:07 GMT -5
 I WASTED MY TIME 'TIL TIME WASTED ME 375 words for open thread
opening posts are messy The weather across the Frostbacks was awfully vindictive. There were days when such a temperament could be overlooked – when the clouds above were few and scattered, allowing the pale sun to spread its warmth, dispelling the biting chill so often carried by mountain air. And then there were other days – when gentle drizzle seeped bitterly down into one’s very bones, threatening ice and fog and distressing cold. Quite miserable, really.
The air that whispered free from Starling’s rosy lips wafered before her gaze like smoky tendrils. With the Ferelden blood that ran hot within her veins, Starling had always thought that she possessed a higher tolerance for the cold than most, but even she found her will being tested by the icy droplets that fell and trickled, sluggishly, down her ivory skin. Her ears continuously perking at the pale echo of rambunctious laughter and poorly sung songs coming from the nearby tavern. The warmth of candlelight and a working fireplace kept its windows bright, lighting it up alike a beacon against the cold greyish gloom.
Starling could have gone inside the Herald’s Rest. She also could have taken herself up to the fortress’s rookery, granted her free-time to the Spymaster to aid in whatever small task that Leliana had in mind. Perhaps even won herself some approval points from the Nightingale – if such a thing were possible. But free-time had become a luxury for the bard over the last eight years, and Starling had always understood and appreciated the importance of maintaining a training regiment. An ill-timed turn, the off-balanced strike of a dagger, and her use to the Inquisition would quickly be over with. Her life ended.
She needed to practice, even if she ended up freezing her fingertips off in the process.
Her grip upon the silverite hilts of her daggers was relaxed, her fingers and thumb kept vaguely apart, yet her striking, a wooden training dummy her chosen victim, was executed with a lethal fluidity. Blades sinking in deep on both sides of the defined throat, echoing with barely a muffled sound, and withdrawing without resistance. Each blow was delivered with a well-practiced rhythm. Seemingly simultaneously, to an untrained eye.
Again and again. And again. Following the quick-paced timing of her own heartbeat.
ALL I ASK OF YOU IS BELIEVE PHARAOH LEAP. |
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Post by Deleted on Mar 2, 2016 0:39:24 GMT -5
The sky was an ashen grey and the remnants of the previous snow turning to dirty slush on the ground. On the slightly warmer days, the blanket of snow was reduced to pale grey piles, icicles dripping steadily from the corners of the tavern. This, of course, caused icy slick patches to form directly to either side of the entrance to Herald's Rest. It was on this that Scout Harding lost her footing. Her sturdy black winter boots simply didn't do the trick, and as the dwarf sidestepped to allow for a tall soldier to pass, her right foot swept cleanly beneath her. She landed squarely on her bum, wincing and letting out a soft "Oof!" She carefully pushed herself to her feet again, adjusting the bow on her back to alleviate the rubbing against her collarbone. Of course someone had seen that, but to her own surprise, Lace didn't much care.
She nodded with a warm smile to two men standing several paces away who turned to watch her. They quickly returned to their conversation when she met their gazes. In her periphery she spied a woman wielding daggers against one particularly unfortunate training dummy. Rather than chatting with the men as she intended, she walked over toward the woman, noticing her bright red hair and extremely graceful form. Harding couldn't recall meeting her before, but that could've been her memory doing her a disservice. She cleared her throat loudly, and after a moment, spoke up.
"It's splintering a bit." And so it was. Withdrawing her rather plain but very well-polished bow, Harding smoothly notched an arrow and took preliminary aim. "I wouldn't want to be on the receiving end of your flourishes... Have we met before?" She fired off an arrow, and then another, and another. A dashing one, two, three into a dummy positioned well away from the other woman. Harding's movements weren't graceful, but they were fast and precise. The second nature reflexes of her arms and hands were absolutely trustworthy -- and most of all, the dwarf was efficient. It took no effort at all to notch a fourth arrow as she inhaled again. Rather than fire off another, she looked over at the lady. She was certainly familiar, even if they hadn't actually been introduced.
From not far behind them, she heard the low rumbling male voices of the two soldiers she'd passed by before. They had drawn a little closer to them, likely to observe their training session. Lace was more amused than anything. Her handiwork showed her three arrows sunk deep into the wood, dotting the target in a perfect vertical line. She straightened and squared her shoulders, slipping the fourth back in her quiver. A moving target would be better. Or perhaps she needed to move. Soon enough, the boys would have a little dwarf woman somersaulting around while shooting arrows to entertain them. No doubt they had better work to do.
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you got a taste for blood when you were licking your own wounds
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Post by cyrlan lavellan on Mar 2, 2016 3:10:45 GMT -5
But the future is forgiven, so smile [attr="class","wildlyrics"]We'll be lucky if we ever see the sun the worst is yet to come [attr="class","wildpost"]It was no secret that the Inquisitor, as he was most commonly known as, detested the cold. At least, he barely bothered to hide such a fact. Skyhold, for all its strategic placement in the Frostbacks and impeccable battlements, had its fair share of bad weather. Not the type of lightning and thunder that frequented the aptly named Storm Coast, mind you, but the light sprinkle of rain that brought with it a dampness that seeped through and chilled his very bones. Such a phenomenon was hardly a one-off thing either, he reflected with a sigh, but often heralded the appearance of heavy fogs and more snow. Though when compared to the freezing landscapes of Emprise du Lion, any cold that befell Skyhold would probably be far less painful to endure.
That didn't mean that this afternoon was any less miserable. Cyrlan fizzed with the type of energy that came after spending long hours sitting down, in his case, stuck behind a pile of books, letters and other papery things that he occasionally thought to set afire. Of course, he did none of that, but all that magic had to go somewhere, eventually.
And it was with that purpose in mind that he dragged himself to the training grounds, past Herald's Rest and silently mourning the comfort he had just sacrificed as he stepped carefully around icy patches. A warmer day would see him scampering about Skyhold with little more than bandages and leather strips around his feet not unlike some Dalish hunters, but the cold forced him to reconcile to don something heavier, to something that caused frozen grass to crack underfoot a little louder than usual. But with the two soldiers so very much focused on the women who made quick work of the training dummies, they hardly noticed as he strolled up from behind. When they did, it was only because he chose to make himself known with a certain flair.
He casted bare-handed, a quick decisive motion of an uncovered hand that caused a single streak of lightning to dance through the air, safely away from the heads of those before him. The dummy shuddered as struck, the distinctive smell of something burning filling the air until he made another motion, a gentle curl of the fingers and suddenly the straw was frozen over, ice pulled from the air with a ease that only came from extensive practice. A grin forked its way across his face, satisfied at how the edge taken off his energy and the affirmation that his control over spells was really not too shabby. "Scout Harding! Continue with that and the soldiers are going to think there's a quillback in Skyhold," he teased, gesturing to the arrows embedded in the training dummy. "Surely you need more of a challenge?" Cyrlan stepped away from his position at the sidelines, moving to dust the ice off his previous target, eyes alight with curiousity upon landing on the red-haired, dagger-wielding female who persisted in her attacks on her inanimate victim. His eyes slid sideways to meet the dwarf's, as if to ask, 'who is that?' [attr="class","wildnotes"] Starling & @harding ; look it's the inquisition squad |  |
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Post by Starling on Mar 2, 2016 4:53:48 GMT -5
I WASTED MY TIME 'TIL TIME WASTED ME Skyhold was never empty, never still. Even as the sleet continued to drizzle down from the overcast sky above, a path that was never consistent due to the chilling mountain winds, more than a few Inquisition agents bustled about the open courtyard. Starling hadn’t thought that it was necessary to pay them any attention; after all, it was taking a considerable amount of willpower on her behalf to diligently continue her outdoor training practice. So when Lace Harding spoke, abruptly announcing her presence, Starling was taken back by surprise.
Her reaction was instinctive, she couldn’t suppress it. All that she could do was to mask the strain of her training. Quickly inhaling the sharply frigid air, as a mean to catch her laboring breath, Starling then masked the action behind a quick, slightly crooked, smile. Inwardly, she focused once again upon the rhythm of her heartbeat. Slowing, steadying. Slowing, steadying.
”Yes, well,” bright blue hues glanced side-wards at her handiwork, and her smile quirked all the more deeply. ”That’s rather the sort of result that I was working towards. Near-decapitation. That should keep an enemy permanently down.” Pausing, Starling took a moment to admire how the dwarven scout fired all three of her arrows, each one sinking deeply into the straw padding of her chosen training dummy. A growing vertical line down the defined torso. ”Likewise, the feeling’s mutual about your arrows.”
That question was a difficult one to answer. The Inquisition’s forces consisted of tightly forged bonds of comradery, ones that had only grown stronger once the number of its agents began to decline. Lying was not a wise tactic. And yet, Starling wasn’t certain of what the truth was. Scout Harding held a high-ranking position, that much was common knowledge. She could have been scouting areas in which Starling was masked and spying for the benefit of the Inquisition, and the notion had missed them both.
”I don’t believe that I’ve ever had the honor of exchanging names with you, Scout Harding,” came Starling’s eventual response. It was as close to the truth as she knew it to be. ”Starling’s my name. I’m –“ the corners of her small rosy mouth lifted, forming an impish grin, ”- one of Sister Nightingale’s little birds.” When the opportunity arose to poke fun at her own alias, it was always impossible for the bard to resist.
Starling would have resumed her practiced striking and left Lace Harding to the shooting of her arrows, but an audience had begun to gather. Two male soldiers, Starling did not recognize their faces. Her missions rarely had any connection to the orders of command issued by Commander Cullen. Still, when one of them caught her gaze, Starling spared him a demure smile, her gaze briefly dropping, almost modestly. It never hurt to forge connections when an opportunity presented itself.
Perhaps it was because she was distracted that Starling noticed Him.
That instead of shuddering and flinching away from the abrupt display of magic, Starling was able to maintain a relative sense of stillness, to resist that instinctive sickening compulsion to run. Even bards weren’t immune to the natural fear that magic instilled into most. Some just had the training to know how to use their face as a mask, true emotions locked away. To quirk their mouths to spare a sympathetic smile towards the soldiers whose emotions could only ever be laid bare for the world to see.
Of course, they stood before the Herald of Andraste. That instinctive fear could only last but a moment before awe, wonder and inspiration washed over all. A sideward glance at his narrowed face, the intricate ink that circulated one kind eye, and Starling couldn’t criticize. The Inquisitor truly was something.
She dipped gently, a curtsy that as her patron he deserved. Yet, even she knew that her damp leathers and the silverite daggers held within her hands ruined the image. Tucking a fiery curl behind an ear, Starling turned back towards her badly battered training dummy. The Inquisitor was not here for her, but for Scout Harding instead.
And that was fine. ALL I ASK OF YOU IS BELIEVE PHARAOH LEAP. |
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Post by Deleted on Mar 2, 2016 14:23:06 GMT -5
"But looks like just one well-placed stab would also do the trick. Drawing out weaknesses, of course." Against some enemies that was true, some but not all. The average bandit was pretty sloppy with whatever weapons they wielded; most often cumbersome swords that required a hauling-back motion of the shoulder to even hoist properly. In those moments, the dual-wielding ginger could strike at a particularly weak point. Like the back of the neck or the soft flesh under an arm. She knew that, though. Harding wasn't one to lecture, but she was happy to help.
But the scout was no expert with daggers. She could wield one well enough, and even had one strapped at each hip. They were really only there if she was backed into a corner. When arrows were no longer the most efficient method of attack. The dull gleam of the other woman's weapons, as well as the curved shape and strong shaft of the blade, led her to believe they were silverite make. Lace had nothing so grand, apart from her bow.
She acknowledged the compliment with a nod and a smile, but one that was genuine and natural. She was never one to put on airs, but she had been convinced a long time ago of the advantages she missed out on. Leliana had once discussed with her at length about learning to play the "Game" back in Orlais, in her early days. Few things had felt so secret as talking with the Nightingale like that. Few people made Lace feel so vulnerable, too.
She retrieved the arrows with hard tugs, slipping each one back in the quiver. Her boots crunched lightly on the still-frozen stalks of dead grass. "I like that. Starling." As if she danced in starlight and moonshine. Lace grinned at the woman's quip. "That makes sense. One of Leliana's birds. You have the look of a spy about you." That was a compliment, to be sure. But she dealt more with Commander Cullen than Sister Leliana on a daily basis. Her scouts often cleared and checked paths before he could send droves of troops stamping through. Her people also ensured there were no ambushes laid in wait.
The air crackled with magic and lightning, sending a familiar shiver down her spine. She knew who it was without turning to look. The enormous smile on her face was evidence enough of her opinion of the elf who joined them. "Inquisitor." Harding's voice became suddenly much softer. The kind of reverence only reserved for him. Still, laughter bubbled up in her somewhere, and she dipped her head slightly. He seemed to gleam despite the lack of direct sunlight. "Some of them have never even seen quillbacks, so maybe it's not such a bad thing... But hoping you're well, Inquisitor. Care to spar?"
She'd noticed Starling's curtsy and glanced over at her. Then back at the Inquisitor. "Oh, this is Starling, one of Leliana's accomplished spies." She gestured a small hand toward the red-haired woman before gripping her bow again. Sparring with a mage required mutual trust and understanding. But mostly she just wanted to lob a few arrows his way and let him deflect them with his magic fingers. "An easy one to start." She loosed an arrow and it flew rather slowly and well over the Inquisitor's head: simple enough for him to coat in ice or burn to a crisp.
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Post by cyrlan lavellan on Mar 4, 2016 10:39:28 GMT -5
But the future is forgiven, so smile [attr="class","wildlyrics"]We'll be lucky if we ever see the sun the worst is yet to come [attr="class","wildpost"]Any other person may have looked significantly more terrifying after such a display but the Inquisitor was a largely benevolent leader, and so it was respect and not out of fear that people followed. Or so he fervently hoped. It had not always been such, but the years had been instrumental in developing trust between the leader and his organization. As it were, the pair of soldiers had sidestepped neatly as he brushed past them and now he turned to regard them almost quizzically. "Just here for entertainment, are you?" His tone was light-hearted, humorous even as he paid any answer little attention, simply giving them a non-committal shrug. What they did with their free time was of little concern at this point, where peace reigned, albeit temporarily.
Instead, the elf once more focused on the more unfamiliar in their midst. It was a vague surprise that flared in his eyes momentarily following the curtsy before he dipped his head awkwardly in response. Not unlike the rest of the Inquisition, Cyrlan dabbled little in the political nuances of nobility and the like for that was the playground of the Nightingale and her little birds. Anything more formal than a simple nod around Skyhold was odd to him and he found himself grinning sheepishly before turning back to the dwarven woman. "Good thing for them, honestly, quillback breath is absolutely terrible."
The invitation was accepted wordlessly with little more than nod like the many times before - why would he ever turn down such a request? Restricted by the lack of a staff on hand as well as the fact that they stood within the stony walls of the fortress battlements, such a spar would hardly be as strenuous as, say, a pair of mages lobbing fire spells at each other across a frozen lake (and having done that multiple times before, he could fully verify how exhausting such a feat was, though extremely enjoyable). It hardly meant that it could not be as interesting, especially given the redheaded spy who had since turned back to the training dummy.
"How kind of you to go easy on me," he commented cheerily, the corners of his eyes crinkling. It only took a subtle shift of his weight and another sweep of the hand, timed perfectly with a slow intake of breath, a bolt of icy particle whirling into existence and seeking the arrow with deadly precision until it plummeted with the added weight to land quivering, harmless, behind him. The motion was familiar and natural, second-nature, giving him plenty of time to idly ponder the correlation between the occupation of a spy and the possession of red hair. He released his breath in a small cloud of warm air, eyes sliding once more to the dagger-wielding figure. "Starling, I don't suppose I've actually seen you around before, have I?" Though his voice was directed at her, with his chin tilted ever so slightly in her direction to indicate as such, his gaze lay on the gloved hands of the scout, awaiting her next move eagerly, taking on an open stance more befitting a melee warrior than what one would expect from a mage. [attr="class","wildnotes"] Starling & @harding; this is a bad post forgive me ;u; | |
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