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

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

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.

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Fenris had discussed some of what to expect from this place with Hawke, so what the man said wasn't entirely new to him. He hadn't, though, realized just how few people there were here in comparison to the apparent size of the village. Fenris had passed through many villages as he made his way from Saheron south through the Free Marches, so he'd thought he knew approximately what to expect.

It seemed not.

"That is a method of captivity I had not yet encountered."

No way out was simply too familiar to be considered in any other manner. He'd learned what freedom meant by fighting for it.

Fenris stared at the extended hand for a moment before remembering, he no longer looked like an elf. Then, a little cautiously, he extended a hand to shake.

"My name is Fenris."

Jon shook his hand firmly. "Well met, Fenris. And yes, this place seems to hold us captive but there is plenty to eat and drink; I have been here for months and the forests are full of game and the river is full of fish. Whoever our captors are, they aren't interested in managing our day to day lives."

And for that, Jon was grateful. He could have borne it otherwise, considering how he'd fought for the freedom of the North from the Boltons. He won a battle and became king just to become a captive again? No.

"Where do you come from?"

"That seems unusual."

Something darkens in Fenris' face at the discussion of captivity. Living under the command of another is something he'd fought to escape, but if their captors do not wish to control their daily activities, that is far less than slavery. Less, even, than what the mages called slavery, their lives in the Circles under the control of the Templars. It is still a form of control he does not wish to submit to, but the bitter truth is that he seems to have little choice, for now.

His expression shifts into a faint sort of surprise, lifting the darkness. It's still not a question he's used to. More and more people seem to know his story now, thanks to Varric, and as an outspoken former slave, there is only one place he could have come from. Not that he'd choose to claim Tevinter as his home.

He's learned enough, though, to know that not everybody here may understand the name Kirkwall, or even Saheron or Tevinter.

"I travel. I have been living in the city of Kirkwall." He pauses, raising his hand to press thoughtful fingers to his jaw for a moment. "The land is called Thedas, if you do not know it."

"I know it but only by what I have been told about it. I met a woman called Astrid Hawke who hails from there," Jon explained. He had found Hawke to be engaging and intelligent and, by her estimation, an excellent woman with a bow. Those were things that Jon thought the village could use more of and he'd been happy to have met her.

"Is she someone that you know? I realize that a country might be large and just because you come from the same place it doesn't mean you know one another but this village seems to gather those from similar places."

"Hawke is a friend. We were comrades for some years after I came to Kirkwall."

It is little surprise that mention of Kirkwall makes somebody think of Hawke, though likely for different reasons than it would in Thedas. Varric's book had made her famous, there, as the Champion of Kirkwall, the first Champion Kirkwall had ever had, the savior or destroyer of the city, depending on who was asked.

There is something like a faint smile on Fenris' face when the considers that even in a place so apparently foreign, the city's name still calls Hawke to mind.

"Many people in Thedas would think of her if you mentioned Kirkwall. They call her the Champion of Kirkwall."

"She is more infamous than she let on to me," Jon said, faint amusement tugging at the corners of his mouth. He had rather enjoyed meeting Hawke, all told, and to hear she was somewhat modest about her origins. It seemed similar to how he approached his new role as King in the North; it would never be a mantle that came easily.

"I will have to mention this to her the next time we speak. So you fought with her then? You were comrades at arms?"

"We were, for several years," he agrees, easily enough. There is little secret in any of the basic details now, after the publication of Varric's book. Complete strangers now know Fenris and his story, and if he is still an outsider among Hightown's wealthy. He prefers to be that, if nothing else.

"Hawke helped me with a troublesome situation, and I pledged to fight by her side in return."

Fenris finds that Jon Snow's amusement is heartening. He appears to be a man who enjoys a story, and there are many of those to be had around Hawke. "Infamous indeed," he agrees. "One of our friends wrote a book about her adventures, and it has become very popular in Thedas."

"I have never been recorded in a book," Jon said. He was glad for it, because that kind of infamy and notoriety wasn't something he was looking for in his life. He wanted to have a wife, have children and live a content existence at Winterfell. It was a different dream than the dream he'd had before but people change, over time, and he was not immune to that.

"She must have been very inspiring to have gotten someone to write a book about her."

"It is apparently impossible to avoid if you count Varric as a friend. He is a teller of tales," Fenris said, the words rolling from his tongue a little like part of one of Varric's tales, "many of them less true than memorable."

He shifted his weight, moving to rub one bare foot against the other, still uncomfortable wearing the heavy boots he'd been given when he arrived in this place.

"But Hawke's story is an impressive one. She rose from being a poor refugee to one of the most important people in Kirkwall. Varric had been telling stories about her for years. And the rest of us," he added, a little sourly.

An elevated profile was hardly desirable for a fugitive slave.

"A man may rise high," Jon said, thinking of how he'd risen from bastard to Lord Commander and later from Lord Commander to King in the North. Being born on the wrong side of the sheets had affected his chances at everything and had been a blight since birth; somehow, some way, it had ceased to matter. Perhaps Hawke was the same way.

"It is good to hear that skill and valor are rewarded in Thedas, though. It isn't always the case in Westeros, that is for certain."

"Nor is it in Thedas," Fenris said darkly. "I spent many years in a place where a man only rose through corruption and grasping at whatever power they could, no matter what it took."

There were some who might say the same of Kirkwall. After Viscount Dumar's death, it had been Meredith who took control, Meredith who herself proved to be corrupted by the foul magic in that idol.

"I am not surprised to hear that valor is not always rewarded in your world. There were those who did not wish to see Hawke rewarded for her deeds. Those who have earned their place are always a threat to those who have not."

"Birth is always rewarded more than valor," Jon agreed. "If a man of noble birth achieves glory, that's one thing but if a man born on the other side of the sheets achieves glory in battle no one wants to credit him. It's a shame."

Jon didn't agree with it, personally, but that was the way the world worked. "Here in this place, it seems that titles and birth don't matter."

Hawke herself had noble blood, of course, though her father had been a Ferelden apostate and her mother came back to nothing thanks to Gamlen. It had been Hawke's own work that had restored the Amell estate and made her fortune. There were plenty in Hightown who had never had half her valor, yet were unquestioningly accepted as the leaders and rulers of the city.

Anf of course, those born into the lesser classes in Tevinter had little hope of rising save by discovering magical talent as his sister had done and selling themselves out to the magister for an apprenticeship. Of course, in the rest of Thedas there was another thing that mattered: being an elf, and that had little impact here because it was apparently no longer the case.

"Curious. There are times in Thedas when birth doesn't matter, but more when it does. A slave can expect little from life even if freed, while a noble need do nothing for his title. I had not thought there were places that was not true."

"Only in certain places," Jon said. "There is slavery across the Narrow Sea, so far as I'm aware, but it is outlawed in Westeros where I was born. I am a bastard but a noble one, since my father was a lord. It means I have a little more to my name from birth than others. The smallfolk are little better than slaves in some ways but they have their freedom and that is no small thing."

He paused for a moment. "This place has no slavery. That is something that I would not tolerate and I do not think the others would either."

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

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