Fenris (![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
not_a_slave) wrote in ![[community profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/community.png)
sixthiterationlogs2017-05-08 07:34 pm
not_a_slave) wrote in sixthiterationlogs2017-05-08 07:34 pm
§ 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.
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.
no subject
There are differences, he sees as he walks further into what seems to be the main room. No bartender, very few people, none of the ever-present flagons of ale that are so present at the Hanged Man.
None of the smells so distinctive of that place, either.
He hadn't expected to find Inquisitor Trevelyan here, though he'd known she was in this place from Hawke and he'd seen her in passing at the house Hawke seems to be setting up as a refuge for her associates. (How very like Hawke that is.)
He has heard something about her, of course; word of her deeds has spread, and he's been fighting slavers in Ferelden, where many people speak of her work stabilizing the Hinterlands and protecting refugees from those who would prey on them. And Varric has his ways of getting information to people.
Still, for all he's heard, he had not expected a woman so seemingly demure. He is unused to shyness from freeborn humans, for so many of them look at him and see only an elf, a fugitive slave, someone unworthy of the basic respect it takes to care enough to be shy. Here, he is apparently changed somehow to the appearance of a human, and he has seen no other elf. (That change is an invasion, yet another committed by magic against him, when he'd thought there could be no more.)
Her apparent unease does soften his expression, a little. What makes him decide to attempt to engage in rusty small talk, though, is what Hawke had said to him about not blaming the Inquisitor for what had happened.
And no small amount of curiosity of his own, about many things.
"It doesn't smell of stale ale," he concedes, walking a little closer to engage her in conversation. "That is an improvement on the Hanged Man in Kirkwall."
no subject
"Does the Hanged Man truly have Coterie assassins in every corner and take payment in human flesh?"
The way her eyes are sparkling, now that she's looking up, it's as if she expects an answer in the affirmative. Talk of excellent reading material always succeeds in drawing Evie out of her shyness and into social conversation. It's been a source of frustration to her family who preferred to keep the visiting embarrassment ensconced in a dark corner of the library where she couldn't cause a scene rattling on about her books or her shameful arts.
no subject
Fenris can consider himself more than qualified to discuss the Coterie, however. He has been involved with them more often than he would care to be, both because they'd gone after Hawke and because they'd taken an interest in him.
"I've never known the bartender at the Hanged Man to take payment in anything other than hard coin or promises. I suspect Varric may have been telling you tales."
no subject
She supposes the exaggerations make for a far more thrilling story.
Evelyn brushes aside her silly deflation of fangirl ideals and folds her hands before herself. Excitement fades and makes way for her gentle shyness once more, though she manages to maintain eye contact this time. "I'm quite certain he spoke nothing but the absolute truth about you, however. He spoke well of you, and in that I hold no doubts of his veracity." A pause. "And that you have excellent taste in wine."