...if I look back, I am lost. [ ota ]

[stormborned]

WHO: Daenerys Targaryen
WHERE: fountain, inn/pub
WHEN: May 8-10
OPEN TO: all!
WARNINGS: will adjust as necessary
STATUS: ongoing!

---

i. 𝓽𝓱𝓮 𝓯𝓸𝓾𝓷𝓽𝓪𝓲𝓷.

She opens her eyes and she's underneath the surface of water — and Dany's first thought is to look around her for the wreckage of boats, both Ironborn longboats and Yunkai'i warships, for horses and her Dothraki khalasar treading fearfully in the poison water. For her Unsullied, and her new allies.

She looks skyward then for her dragon children, who would be inevitably searching for her.

It was a storm perhaps, she thinks as she feels a push to the surface, her lungs beginning to ache with the need to breathe; although strange that she does not remember it. It must have been a savage maelstrom to wreak such havoc on her entire fleet, potentially destroying her chance to land on the shores of Westeros and finally claim what is her family's birthright.

...No. Her dragons are circling overhead, screeching, she's sure of it. No squall is a match for a stormborn dragon. If Drogon and Viserion and Rhaegal are above the surface, with her, she can still fly.

She pushes up, kicking with her legs, breaking the surface and gasping for air. There's a brief moment where she simply breathes, catches her breath and her bearings.

This is not the Narrow Sea. No shipwreck; no floundering horses or soldiers. Only an ornate fountain, not nearly as deep as she's first imagined and half the length of one of her ships. She treads to the edge and perches her arms over the stone, drenched and gasping to breathe. A look down at herself reveals she's not even in the battle dress she'd worn on her flagship alongside Tyrion Lannister and Missandei and Varys, but in strange clothing.

And only now do her eyes widen, in a mixture of fear and fury.

ii. 𝓽𝓱𝓮 𝓲𝓷𝓷/𝓹𝓾𝓫.

The building is nondescript, not a stone castle like she's seen drawings of in Jorah's books but made of wood. Daenerys approaches it cautiously, still wary of her new surroundings since emerging from the fountain and having dried in the sun and cool breeze. It's cold, remarkably colder than Essos, and she vaguely wonders if she should change into the clothing she's found in the protected pack she's arrived with.

Inside the building as she steps in is an entryway area with various pieces of furniture, tables and chairs. A long wooden table lines the back wall, with stools for seating and bottles of different sizes and colors lined up along the shelves. Spirits, she recognizes; wine and ale in various forms she's never seen or heard of.

On the other side of the entryway is a seating area flanked by a large hearth, constructed with stone and brick and lit with a roaring flame, and with relief she heads toward it to warm herself and ward off the residual chill she's felt since arriving in this place.

[[ ooc: feel free to respond in either past or present tense prose; i default to present tense but have no preference to either one! 💕 ]]

§ they rip your claws out and call it a mercy | OTA

[not_a_slave]

WHO: Fenris
WHERE: Fountain and Inn
WHEN: May 8 - 10
OPEN TO: ALL
WARNINGS: ... nothing yet
STATUS: ONGOING

---

i. avanna, soporati | fountain park

It is cold in Ferelden. Cold, with the clamminess of skin-piercing damp, in a way Minrathous never was, a cold that seems to seep into the bones over the course of a night in camp. Not like this. This is cold and splash and the feeling of disorienting movement, as though he'd been thrown into the lake as he slept. Fenris' mouth opens involuntarily, and he swallows a mouthful of water as he forces himself upwards, the only thing he can focus on. He's not a strong swimmer, for what reason would a slave have to need the skill? He'd learned of necessity as he ran from the slavers, but he'd mostly learned to force his way through the water, rather than to swim, and he forces his way now, until one of his reaching arms breaks the surface into free air.

He coughs as he grabs onto the stone wall of what seems to be a fountain, grabs it and pulls, hauling his body out of the water. His feet are heavier than they should be, and when he glances down he sees boots instead of the stirrup heels of his armor leggings. That's not all that's wrong; his clothes are too light, fabric, not metal, and when he reaches around his back for the Blade of Mercy, he finds a backpack instead.

He should run.

That life was years ago, but it's never left him. Something is wrong. Something has broken into his camp, taken his blade and his armor, and an anger swells in him, stirs deep in his veins and under his skin.

"You will not take me!"

He reaches into the anger, reaches down under his skin for the power resting here, and finds ... nothing.

The sensation jolts, like a foot breaking through a rotten plank, and suddenly defiance seems dangerous in a way it hasn't in as long as he can remember.


ii. benefaris | Inn

It is some time later, after Hawke has explained to him, that Fenris reluctantly leaves the house to explore some of their surroundings. There is a mill, a river, a path that leads into a forest which would be easy to lose pursuers in.

He'd never lost the ability to read a location and see what he can use if he needs to flee. A coward's way of viewing the world, perhaps, but a practical one, for a fugitive slave. He follows the path away from the woods, past the mill and across the bridge, and finds himself in the midst of a small village, the houses built in a style completely unlike any he's seen in Tevinter or the Free Marches. The basic shape, yes, shares something with the buildings in Ferelden, but little enough that it all seems strange and unfamiliar.

It's perhaps incautious to follow the person ahead of him into the large, two-storey building, but it's the one place other than the mill which he can wager the purpose of. As he steps inside, it's with a certain sense of smugness that he looks around.

"Ah. This would be a tavern."

Very unlike the Hanged Man, but that is hardly a criticism.