Field Sword

Washi’s weapon of choice is a nodachi measuring just over five feet in length. A thirty-three centimetre hilt, bound in a complex cocoon of dark teal cloth to match its scabbard, is designed to accommodate the two hands required to support the sword’s impressive but plain one-hundred-and-twenty-two centimetre long blade. The hand guard sandwiched between both the blade and hilt takes the form of a six-pronged wheel, although after a few careful inspections with his fingertips, Washi sits convinced that the shape of the tsuba has more in common with a flower than a simple wheel.

While his tutors rightfully claim that such an unwieldy blade belongs on its owner’s back and not their hip, Washi regularly shuns this advice to grasp his blade securely between his hands. With his impairment demanding adaptation to make life comfortable, the proud field sword, which could plough through the first wave of a cavalry like a butcher’s knife through butter, has been reduced to a makeshift walking stick; used to navigate corridors and to, unintentionally, trip up unsuspecting commuters as its owner turns a corner. The end cap affixed to the scabbard once depicted a still life of foliage, but now bears nothing but scuffs and scrapes from the countless hours it has spent grating across the floor. With almost every delicate detail lost, and its mouth held shut by a length of Tyrian purple cloth wrapped around the join between the scabbard and the hilt, it could be argued that the field sword has seen better days. Some may consider this treatment as dishonourable; a waste of a proud and powerful sword, but one could just as easily argue that Washi’s quality of life is arguably more important than his combat prowess, which is something he devotes little faith to.

Domesticity Meme [Florian & Sebastian]

Who is the big spoon/little spoon – Sebastian is more prone to lying on his back in his sleep than on his side. Florian routinely waits for Sebastian to nod off before he creeps into his half of the bed and cosies up to his side.

What is their favourite non-sexual activity – Tolerating each other in long stints of silence.

Who uses all the hot water in the morning – It doesn’t matter that he regularly invades Sebastian’s abode for his own comfort, Florian will get into the bathroom first, provided he lingers for long enough.

What they order from take out – Every order inevitably turns into a debate regarding Florian’s lack of adventure when it comes to food. Every debate ends with him telling Sebastian he is more than willing to stray from the ever faithful Italian menu, provided it isn’t his money he wastes when he doesn’t finish his thai, indian, or persian dish.

What is the most trivial thing they fight over – The last cigarette in Sebastian’s current packet, which Florian instigates purely out of spite.

Who does most of the cleaning – His tendency to drop by Sebastian’s home only when it suits him lets Florian shirk any cleaning responsibilities that could be given to him, and that suits him just fine. It helps that he rarely leaves a trace of himself behind.

What has a season pass in their DVR – Neither of them care enough for sports to watch it, let alone buy a season pass to have complete access to every season game.

Who controls the netflix queue –The television provides ample background noise when Florian visits for a quiet night in. Sebastian has yet to find a show that captivates his beau. He is seldom swayed by Sebastian’s insistence that he should give show A or program B a chance, and will often return to his chosen reading material halfway through any given episode of anything.

Who calls up the landlord when the heat’s not working – Because Florian’s more abrasive approach to problems and people would not endear them to any landlord, Sebastian is forced to manage any and all negotiations.

Who steals the blankets – Florian, the selfish mite that he is, is seldom satisfied with leeching Sebastian’s body heat from him whilst he sleeps. During colder nights he’ll bundle himself up in the remainder of the duvet, to the point where, once the morning rolls around, he can barely be seen amidst the heap of covers.

Who leaves their stuff around – They form quite the tidy pair, but Florian is notorious for leaving books, cups, and jumpers around the flat when they are no longer of immediate use to him.

Who remembers to buy the milk – Florian buys only what he will use. Sebastian is far more dependable.

Who remembers anniversaries – Sebastian, who treats the relationship as something of substance, whilst Florian fails to attach much significance to it.

But I, I Refuse to Let You Go

This is a character I would love to have the opportunity to write and develop more at some point, when I find the right setting for him. As it stands, my writing folder is a graveyard of unfinished applications and pages of bulletpoints for characters who were drafted out and sadly set aside for the sake of more pressing matters. I don't want to let all that time and love go to waste by letting what I begun sit in some obscure folder for another year or so, unfinished and ignored, so I will start channelling Franz Kafka, and begin to post unfinished bits and pieces that I still love to air them out and keep this blog updated.

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Some people would give anything to be offered a second life to live. To be cleansed of the mistakes that once dogged their steps, and handed the opportunity to start afresh in a world where time is not nearly as precious or fleeting as it was in their first, flawed life. Enmadaiou Ojirowashi is not one of those people.

Thirty years of life, give or take, was more than enough for him. When the time to shuffle free from his mortal coil arrived earlier than originally scheduled, Washi looked forward to the nothing after death he firmly believed in. He was a man tired of life.

Imagine his disappointment and, more importantly, his anger when he was told that his death would not be the end of him. Things, in his opinion, never improved. Both being forced to assimilate into another alien culture, and made to leap back into a feudal life never sat well with the man. Naturally, he objected to the thought of losing his very identity—one of a handful of things about life he was not so keen to be rid of. Calling Washi bitter about his current predicament is a lot like saying the Atlantic Ocean is a bit big.

Funnily enough, Washi remains an atheist in spite of his standing as a citizen of the afterlife, mostly because the afterlife depicted by prophets, believers and their scriptures is nothing like the backwards world he now lives in. He has never been capable of entertaining the existence of deities for long. If god(s) did indeed exist, he could only contemplate two theories; they were either determined to prove to him that the afterlife was a blessing to all who were welcomed into it—a wholly narcissistic notion he could not abide—or—and he dubbed this the most believable of the two theories—they had a sense of humour blacker than charcoal.

Strung Short

Decided to dig out a couple of old posts and stick them together. Dragon Age 'verse. A spot more Fi, because that is what this blog needs.

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The Brecilian Forest was not, nor had it ever been, a haunt of Fianna’s. It was not her territory, and tracking its inhabitants was certainly not her forte, but she knew that if she fancied the chance to begin replacing her pathetic excuse for an arsenal - much less eat for the next couple of weeks - she would have to make it her forte very quickly.

After investing the last decade of her life in travelling the world, Fianna had discovered that part of the thrill of the open road stemmed from the undeniable satisfaction of a job well done; doing things herself and occasionally reaping the rewards, but there was a particular sense of dread about traversing the Brecilian that previous woodland expeditions lacked. She, like many of the children of West Hills, had listened to the warnings of travellers who had braved the wood’s trials and lived to tell the tale.

When prompted, the unlucky ones were forced to recall how they lost their companions amidst the trees that now surrounded her from all ends and sides. Those who were more averse to the whining of children chose to frighten the youngsters who mobbed them with rumours of werewolves hiding in the mist, preying on the unsuspecting folk who wandered too close to their home. But even the tallest of tales clung to one particular truth: the Brecilian Forest did not take kindly to guests.

It was with that thought fresh in her mind that Fianna tugged the hood from her cold face, and reflected on her status as a lone and poorly armed messenger. She did not do so fondly.

Common sense dictated the methods she had abided by. Following only the routes broad and safe enough to accommodate the landships the Dalish pulled gave her a higher chance of discovering a campsite, a better chance to find her mark, or so she assumed. More importantly, it lowered her odds of stumbling into wildlife that would sooner kill her than look at her twice. It was a relief to learn that she had been right on both counts, and that relief was promptly snatched away from her when she realised that the campsite she had discovered was completely barren of life.

Lukewarm afternoon light shone into the glade, illuminating a dozen signs that something was amiss. She hitched her pack further up her shoulder whilst the falsettos of dainty song birds accompanied her into a domain to which she did not belong. The ashes of the last fire lit by the settling clan had been blown out of their pit by a gust of wind; the wagons had been abandoned alongside the caravans, their thick skins punctured by blades and lashed with what she assumed was stale, blood. The clues sat, ravaged by time, but all of them pointed to a conclusion that turned her stomach. She was not standing in a camp, she was standing on a battleground.

Her fingers drummed themselves across the scabbard that housed what was left of her sword as she ventured deeper into the encampment. In the bracken that had begun to grow around one of several caravans, Fianna felt her foot strike a rock, only to hear an unsettling clang upon impact. Her curiosity got the better of her, and from out of the grass, she carefully retrieved the rusted remains of a steel helm, designed to cover as much of the head as possible, save for a single horizontal opening for vision. She had seen plenty of them in her travels. Many were found in, or around, chantries.

The penny dropped, and her expression soured with it. The cries of a nearby blackbird sounded a lot like laughter from where she stood.

“... ah, hell.”

Unfortunately for her, Fianna’s life was on its way to becoming far more difficult than she had previously anticipated. Any niggling thoughts of turning her back on the Circle’s chore and returning it to them untouched were slaughtered by a cry. The wanderer flinched at the sound, as if it had struck her upside the head. It was only a matter of time before she was found. There was no reliable way for a behemoth such as herself to slink into the dark and away from her problems. It was not a solution she was very well acquainted with.

Fianna deflated, tossing the helm back to the earth with a meek and unsatisfying clatter. Someone, somewhere along the line had failed to mention that the matter she had been charged with was tied, somehow, with an atrocity that looked a great deal like mass murder from where she stood. In a matter of moments, what she knew as an unsafe little errand had become nothing short of utterly life threatening, and she was left stuck in the heart of another person’s bloody mess. Alone. All for a couple of sovereigns.

Starving, she concluded, would have been preferable, but it was too little reflection far, far too late.

Her signal had not gone unnoticed, and in the time it took for the waif of a girl to discover her location, Fianna had attempted to make all six-foot-five of her look as harmless as possible. In her hand was not a blade or a bow, but her pack, and strapped to its front was a pathetic excuse for a steel buckler, pocked with so many dents that it strongly resembled the surface of the moon. It was not much of a plan, but it was the best the wanderer could scrape together in under a minute. A particularly cruel blackbird threw a mocking call into the air from its nearby perch.

"Who are you and what are you doing here?"

Fianna didn’t have to think too hard about her reply. Were she to spend too long manufacturing a response, it would have been deemed a lie, and lying had gotten her into this mess in the first place; that, and a good helping of desperation. She instead fell back on the one thing that had helped her through life considerably: honesty.

“Getting lost, Miss.”

She tipped her fair head in the direction of the discarded helm, her jaw clenched at the mere thought of the Tower she’d be returning to, provided she made her way out of the forest alive. “I take it you are as keen on Andraste’s knights as I am right about now?” She asked, but the frustration bound in her face found itself diminishing for every second her eyes spent wandering over the remains of the encampment. She was in no place to be asking questions, but the words slipped out before she could catch them between her teeth.

“Who in their right mind would allow all this?”

Enmadaiou Ojirowashi

I still have this terrible habit of putting my all into my applications, which burns me out and leaves me fairly bitter about being useless. I sit and spend weeks on something that other people can knock out in a matter of days, and it infuriates me. After investing all this time into putting these guys and girls together, more than half of them never make it to the forums that inspired them. It's not all misery and pessimism, however! I'm always grateful for the practice (at some point in the process, at least).

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It is an undeniable fact that there is a lot of Enmadaiou Ojirowashi for people to take in. Standing at six feet and three inches in height, Washi is a man who appears difficult to break; more than tall enough to make the majority of folks feel safe in his presence, and with one-hundred-and-ninety-one pounds built onto his frame, engineered in such a way that he could effortlessly body slam most people to the ground, were he the sort of man to relish violence. His uniform, practically rectangular torso may not be as pleasing to the eye to some as those with gym-built triangular chests, but the fact that his core’s muscles were built up over the years to protect his spinal cord and vital organs makes him legitimately stronger than the likes of those who spend all their free time haunting gymnasiums. It is clear that Washi eats well, exercises regularly, and has no intention of changing his ways.

The musculature he has received from carrying such a heavy torso around day in, day out has defined both his thighs and calves over the past decade. The skin that dresses what was once a pair of unmarred shins is now the home to a fistful of cosmetic divots, bumps, scrapes and bruises, products of every clumsy stumble into various pieces of furniture which remain visible through the fine hair that swathes his limbs, most visibly from knee to ankle and wrist to his elbow. His large feet, approximately a size thirteen, keep him anchored to the floor without fail, but with little in the way of grace.

By no means structurally comparable to a sack of walnuts, the definition of each key muscle in his arms is enough to indicate that heavy lifting plays a vital part in his day-to-day life, often in the form of various errands and favours for his tutors. The hands that attach to his broad wrists are, quite rightfully, larger than most of his classmates’. A single chocolate-coloured freckle can be found on the heel of his right hand, the only real curiosity to be found on both appendages. Long, but by no means elegant, fingers are his most valuable assets, their warm touch attributed to the man’s stellar circulation system. He can often be caught in the middle of dragging his fingertips across walls and shutters almost whimsically, or attempting to follow the brushstrokes in the varnish of his desk. To the uneducated outsider, the man simply cannot keep his hands, or his eyes, to himself.

His aversion to eye contact and the habitual wringing of his nodachi between his hands are often hand waved by many as symptoms of anxiety, a reasonable assumption to make, but one that is completely wrong. With so much musculature to see before one’s eyes climb their way up to his face, it is possible for acquaintances to remain unaware, for a long while, of the fact that Enmadaiou is completely blind.

With several years of first-hand experience behind him, Washi has reached the conclusion that no matter what he does with his eyes – whether he holds them shut or moves them around, for he has tried both - people will be unsettled. He makes no effort to hide the problem, nor does he go to any great lengths to draw attention to his plight. His unseeing eyes sit bare at all times, their blue-green irises surprisingly vivid and expressive, in some people’s opinions, for a blind man. Considering the cause of this defect was no more than an unlucky accident, it is understandable that eye movement remains as a part of his body’s repertoire that he has not yet shirked.

The face his faulty optics call home is a curiosity all on its own. Surprisingly boyish at times for a man well into his late twenties, a quality that is no doubt amplified by an occasional mop of deep brown hair and bright, but ultimately oblivious, oval-shaped eyes, but one that is never intentional on his part; not to mention a betrayal of the personality that controls every muscle. A broad forehead cloaked by a tousled fringe (depending on the month) slopes down to introduce his slightly angled, subtly shaped and dark brows. The helixes of his ears tend to hide beneath his lightly waved, short hair, although even without their cover they are, thankfully, not particularly outstanding and lay relatively flat on either side of his face.

His skin tone lingers towards the paler side of the Caucasian spectrum, though the thin film of flesh beneath his eyes regularly hosts dark, sickly purple circles born of fatigue, a tell-tale symptom of Washi’s unenviable state of excessive daytime sleepiness, almost as fixed to his face as his mouth and the reason behind the man’s penchant for regular naps under the watchful eye of a particular tree found on the academy campus. His cheekbones, though lofty, remain smooth, whilst the inward curve of his nose rounds into a tip and leads the wandering eye down to his full lips, their contours challenged by what some know as his default expression, a minute frown that hides two rows of ivory-coloured teeth. Much like his gaze, his subtle scowl addresses no one in particular – easily knocked out of place with the start of a conversation, anything to take his mind off of his predicament. Should a passing comment strike the right chord and coax a smile out of him, it becomes apparent that his canines are quite prominent in his mouth, set in a slightly odd, but not too unsightly, alignment.

Several fleeting years of vision taught Washi a number of valuable things, but one of the more fickle lessons concerned personal grooming. A mane any longer than his chin, he learnt, looked utterly ridiculous upon him. With this knowledge committed to memory, every four months or so his shaggy, dark chestnut hair is cropped shorter before it can even think of tickling his jaw, often taking his cue when he begins to receive a certain number of comments from his classmates. Simple and easily maintained with a single palm haphazardly run through the unkempt mass every few hours, his hair sees about as much attention as his jaw line. The beginnings of the natural waves sewn into his genetics make it a challenge to truly tame, one that Washi can seldom be bothered to accept. His aforementioned square jaw - and the pale skin above his upper lip, for that matter - is often home to a field of short stubble, for there is not enough patience in Washi to maintain a full-fledged beard, nor a completely smooth chin. He has settled into the routine of swapping between being clean shaven and a shadow of stubble every week.

Many things make a man. His flaws, his experiences; his aspirations and his mistakes, but not, contrary to popular belief, his clothes. Clothes hold no power over Washi in this life. They tell little and they prove even less. The man’s distaste for keepsakes speaks volumes compared to the robes he is forced to don within the academy. Not a single memento can be found on the man’s person, not one ring on any of his fingers, nor a lone pendant around his neck, or a string of beads lashed around one of his thick wrists. It is not a lack of knowledge that renders him bare. He knows the meaning behind such things well, for he is no fool. Mementos; lockets, rings, tattoos, are no more than sentimental tokens, tied to people or monumental memories their owner is desperate to remember. Washi wishes to remember nothing, not one face, or a single name of his second life. In truth, the only item that bares even the slightest resemblance to an accessory is ten times more practical than a bracelet.

Three lengths of silken cord, each one a darker shade of teal than the last, braided together and threaded through a pair of bronze rings sewn to either end of the back sheathe tailor made for his field sword. Strangely enough, the sheathe itself appears to have been sewn from a bolt of two-tone taffeta, a fusion of teal and regal purple lined with an equally lavish burgundy fabric that Washi thinks is silk. A lot of effort went into something that he seldom uses, a lot of emphasis placed on beauty for an owner who cannot properly admire the finished article. The entire affair is worn over one shoulder, but lies empty upon his back more often than not.

Washi will be the first to tell you how he cannot stand the attire found in the afterlife. The rigid, inhumane robes, the brutal straw sandals that scratch relentlessly against one’s skin should they opt for shunning the standard and equally awkward tabi. He may not have been fond of his first life, but Washi is a modern man who has been thrown backwards into an era he never cared for. The hakama he can just about tolerate, the remainder of the period attire, however, not so much. Whilst he jokes about being tempted to commit murder for a simple dress shirt – or even a t-shirt if that were all he could get his hands on – Washi lacks the necessary friends found in higher places whose strings he could pull so that he might find himself in possession of more contemporary, practical fashions direct from the living world.

With only period attire to choose from, Washi regularly chooses to go without when time permits it, shrugging the top half of his uniform or yukata off of his broad shoulders; the feudal equivalent of a businessman sliding the knot in his tie away from his throat. The sensation of the sun warming his skin is often preferred to the feeling that he is being baked inside his robes. If his ivory and iris coloured uniform, embroidered with the Shinō Academy’s own crest, is not required of him, Washi’s personal dress sense is best described as dull. He sees no point in paying extra for elaborate patterns he cannot see, opting for block colours, neutral shades, nothing that anyone in their right mind could consider garish. A distinct lack of texture is present in his current wardrobe, one of his few joys now that his vision have parted ways, and one that the modern world could probably remedy with a helping of flocked prints and deconstructed fabrics.

A meme I can actually do

1. Lyle

2. Neoseire

3. Fianna

4. Cullen

5. Garrett

6. Florian

7. Malphezra

8. Ace of Spades

9. Illarion

10. Kaioki

Four [Cullen] invites Three [Fianna] and Eight [Spades] to dinner at their house. What happens?

A rudimentary lesson in table manners for Spades’ benefit. A little friendly chatter between Cullen and Fi, which they would try to bring Spades into, but he would not have much to share. If Spades knew what a third wheel was, he’d probably feel like one.

You need to stay at a friend's house for the night. Who do you choose, One [Lyle] or Six [Florian]?
Lyle. He is the anthropomorphic personification of nerdery, compared to Florian, who is the personification of treachery, mistrust, and wrath. The man has range, to say the least. I’d much rather play games all night than sit in awkward silence with Florian until he turned in for the night.

Two [Neoseire] and Seven [Malphezra] are making out. Ten [Kaioki] walks in. What is their reaction?
“Are you being assaulted… by a statue?”

“Erk!”

“… and what on earth is the blindfold fo-“

“Out. Now.”

“Fine! Fine.”

Three [Fianna] falls in love with Six [Florian]. Eight [Spades] is jealous. What happens?

Rivers run with blood and hellfire rains down from a sky choked with charcoal-black clouds.

Four [Cullen] jumps you in a dark alleyway. Who comes to your rescue, Ten [Kaioki], Two [Neoseire] or Seven [Malphezra]?

Kaioki, for he is the only one of the three who would be physically capable of apprehending the offender. Neoseire’s a pretty weed, but a weed all the same, while Malphezra has this terrible habit of freezing the moment a person so much as looks at him.

One [Lyle] decides to start a cooking show. Fifteen minutes later, what is happening?

The stage has been abandoned for the company of a Professor Layton and a bottle of vodka in the green room.

Three [Fianna] has to marry either Eight [Spades], Four [Cullen] or Nine [Illarion]. Who do they choose?
Of the three, Fi would get on with Cullen the best. Illarion is far too anti-social and self-centered, whereas love, let alone marriage, are among the many concepts that Spades knows nothing of. Cullen Crewe is an average chap with no terrible secrets. He enjoys rugby, playing Halo with his old university friends of a night time, and he is the perfect balance between muscle and squish, although she’d never say this to his face. It’s not much to go on, but it’s enough for starters, far more than she’d have with her other two choices.

Seven [Malphezra] kidnaps Two [Neoseire] and demands something from Five [Garrett] for Two's [Neoseire's] release. What is it?

A delicious steak. Unfortunately for Ezra, all it would take to get his hostage back would be a bit of eye contact at just the right moment, and Neoseire would be running for safety in no time at all. No steak for you, quantum-locked-lad.

Everyone gangs up on Three [Fianna], does Three [Fianna] have a chance in hell?
You’re damned right she does. She’d plough through about seven of them with ease. The toughest challenges would be Malphezra, who has no combat experience, but does have the element of surprise on his side; Florian, who is the only person who fights dirtier than Fi, but lacks the sheer strength she can pack into a punch, and Kaioki, whom she'd try to convince to step down, because she wouldn’t want to throw a single punch at him, being a bloke she has devoted much attention to.

Everyone is invited to Two [Neoseire] and Ten's [Kaioki's] wedding, except for Eight [Spades]. How do they react?
Like a duck would react to water sliding off of its back. Then the curiosity would bubble up to the surface. Whatis a wedding?

Why is Six [Florian] afraid of Seven [Malphezra]?
Because seven ate nine—er…

Because even Florian needs to crack a joke now and then.

One [Lyle] arrives late for Two [Neoseire] and Ten's [Kaioki's] wedding. What happens and why were they late?

The blame would lie with a mixture made from equal parts hangover, and sleeping in after a tiring stag night. He would arrive with a wonky bow tie, and his waistcoat would be buttoned up all wrong.

Five [Garrett] and Nine [Illarion] get roaring drunk and end up at your house. What happens?
I lock myself in my room with a flask of juice and my laptop, and I have no intention of coming out before sun up.

Nine [Illarion] murders Two's [Neoseire's] best friend. What does Two [Neoseire] do to get back at them?
Give him a very heartfelt, furious talking to. It’s not as though he could do much else, and even if he had the strength to exact revenge, he simply isn’t the sort to believe it would eliminate the tragedy of the matter.

Six [Florian] and One [Lyle] are in mortal danger, only one of them can survive. Does Six [Florian] save himself, or One [Lyle]?

What on earth do you think, ladies? If you’re thinking that Florian would drag Lyle away from safety to secure it for himself, you would be thinking along the right lines! Pat yourselves on the back. I am so proud.

Two [Neoseire] and Three [Fianna] go camping. For some reason, they forget to bring any food. What do they do?
Fianna would assume the role of the hunter gatherer whilst Neoseire guarded the campsite, to keep both the camp and himself out of danger. Neoseire is a city mouse, his home is definitely not in the embrace of nature. With literally zero experience about nature, he is the sort of unfortunate, inept camper who would startle an animal before he could consider killing and eating it. I wouldn’t be surprised if he was the one in charge of the food, and consequently, the one who misplaced (or outright forgot) it, perhaps to cut the camping trip short.

Five [Garrett] is in a car crash and is critically injured. What does Nine [Illarion] do?

Give not a single, solitary fuck for the passing a person he didn’t know existed? Sounds about right. Illarion has never claimed to be a kind soul, at least not without marinating the claim in a great deal of sarcasm beforehand.

Birds of a Feather

Post from a Dragon Age roleplay. TL;DR - A blood mage, disguised as a bard, is tripping on mana potions - which have very harmful effects to the embiber if used in the long term - and finds himself atop the church roof, thinking he's an eagle. Hilarity ensues. More than anything, this was an exercise in dialogue and describing character interactions, as opposed to the scenery.

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She had seen many a peculiar thing on her travels across Thedas. A man living amongst a pack of wolves in Antiva; impractical shoes spawned by Orlesian couture, complete with soles that elevated their wearers far above the dirt of the street, provided the wearer didn’t snap her ankles trying to walk in them first. But never in her whole life had Fianna seen anything quite like the display of lunacy that had perched atop the Chantry roof.

Flanked by a pair of The Maker’s finest, she stood at the foot of the steeple, her mouth hanging slightly ajar in what was best described as an expression of amazement. Whoever stood atop the roof, shrieking at the top of his lungs, had managed to turn drunken mischief into an art form. All but the most obvious of words failed her.

“Aye, boys... that’s definitely a bard on your roof.” Her eyes squinted in defiance of the morning light, and sure enough, Fianna regained some semblance of mental clarity, but only after she invested a few more moments in watching the silhouette of a man gnawing upon his own shoulder. “How did he get up there, anyway?”

“I-I’m... sorry?” Stuttered the red-haired templar to her left, the kind of man who knew that the sky was blue, but daren’t say so out loud.

“Well, contrary to what he is probably thinking right now, he certainly didn’t fly all the way up there, so how on earth did he manage it?” She flicked a gloved hand to the steeple, and their eyes followed its skyward path like a pair of dogs following the arc of a well-thrown stick.

“He climbed, Ma’am.”

“He climbed?”

“Yes, ma’am. Up the front of the building.” He answered, tracing the drunk’s path up the house of The Maker with an armoured finger, which Fianna followed with great interest.

She took one long look at the pair of them, a gentle sort of inspection that neither knight knew what to think of. The redhead shrank away from her scrutiny the moment it fell upon him. It was as sweet as was amusing. “You boys wouldn’t happen to have a ladder lying around, would you? For fixing the roof and the like?”

“That we do, ma’am.”

Her tongue absently picked at a dry flake of skin at the corner of her mouth. There was only one way to scale the outside of the building safely, and the rungs of any self-respecting ladder would splinter at the thought of supporting a Chantry knight and their portable fortress. A small smile cracked itself across her lips. “Well then.”

There was a pause, which would have evolved into an awkward silence if not for a screech from above. The sound of the penny dropping never arrived.

“... pardon, ma’am?”

“The ladder, if you’d be so kind, Ser. I’m sure you were stationed here to do more than stand around looking pretty.” She watched the blush bleeding across his freckled cheeks before he turned away. It was as though he suffered from an allergic reaction to compliments.

“Y-yes ma’am. Right away.”

The brown-haired bookend to her right continued to stare at the silhouette of the drunkard, a disaster that he simply could not tear his eyes away from. A disaster that left him blind to the pack that was swung with care at his chest and nudged against his breastplate with a dull and unexpected clang. By the time he figured out what he was holding to his chest, and turned to regard the lady who threw it at him, she was well on the way to turning him into a pack mule. She gently draped her cloak over his shoulder before a single syllable of protest could leave his lips, without so much as a second glance at him.

As she set to work unfastening the many buckles that held her cuirass to her chest, Fianna eyed the zenith of the steeple like a mountaineer would eye the Frostbacks. She had arrived in Lothering on the back of a wagon, with a view to renting out a room in the tavern. Instead, she took one look at the outskirts; at the rows of tents and bedrolls, and realised that she would be lucky to find a patch on the floor that had not been claimed by another traveller.

But it wasn’t all bad luck, she thought. There would - at the very least - be a story to make out of the day that she could share over a few pints, and for that she was grateful.

The story about the bear raiding her tent was getting stale.