Oh, that's not just the snow. This place is basically an ongoing town-wide sex party. It's just sometimes people are at the snack table or playing board games in between the orgiastic bits. Metaphorically.
That's never really been a problem. People like novelty. Or they think they do, but they figure it out pretty quick if it's more the idea they liked than the reality.
Interesting. I'm afraid it's all humans where I'm from — well, it's possible to craft abominations from the flesh of the dead, but the dead in question still used to be human. No other sentient species.
[Great, he's going to be thinking about that for the next three nights.]
We call mages who fall to demon possession abominations. But you're talking about sounds like darkspawn without the whole... flesh of the dead part. I've seen those though.
Yeah, I'm also not hot on demon possession, and magic that runs that risk is considered heretical. But constructs can range from shambling horrors to a nice guy who happens to be in a skeleton instead of a flesh body. Not really all that different to an elf.
Can't say I disagree, though I'm getting used to the way other people think in sounds or pictures. And it can be useful. Can even be fun. You play chess?
Sorry to be all up in your head again, buddy. Wondering if you have time for a game? Or a chat? Anything, really, I'll do my best $3.99 a minute phone sex line impression if you want, just need a distraction from low key being tortured.
I have so many questions but the first is: when you say low key torture do you mean you're stuck somewhere with boring conversation and bad music or is someone digging a blade in somewhere uncomfortable?
[ It's a risky, dynamic opening, and he plays an equally reckless game, sacrificing pieces with abandon to keep the momentum of the lead. Enough that his development falls short in the late game and it becomes a cat and mouse, Bull hunting down each of his remaining pieces as they attempt valiantly to marshall into some kind of protective formation. They don't even need to reach checkmate - John cedes when he loses his second bishop: ]
Shit. That's your game.
[ A little despondent, but not for the loss, just the end. He's allowed Bull however much time he likes between moves, knowing the other man is probably going about his day, but even when it wasn't his turn considering the possibilities of the game was a lovely distraction. ]
[John's play gives him an idea of what, exactly, is going through his head. It feels reckless to start, and the willingness to sacrifice pieces either speaks to desperation or simply a desire to carry momentum. It doesn't work, in the end. Possibly because Bull has slightly more time to think out his plays and less torture to deal with.]
So let's reset the board.
[Bull has been relatively quick to answer most of John's moves, the longest gaps happening midday when he was taking care of things that required his full attention. But, for the most part, he's tried not to keep the other man waiting. Whatever is happening to John right now, Bull can at least give his mind somewhere else to go.]
[ Pretty flirty for text. John starts as white this time, but his moves get more erratic, breaking a traditional opening form with something completely left field, until suddenly he goes silent for a long time.
When he comes back, he doesn't immediately play on. ]
Sorry about that. Died.
[ Too tired to lie about it or use some euphemistic excuse — everything went to telepathic voicemail because he was off somewhere in one of those blank spots he hates more than almost anything else. ]
[Bull tries not to think too hard about what might be happening that John can't escape into his mind. People aren't as difficult to break as many would like to think.
He isn't expecting to hear that blunt confession when John comes back. Bull sets aside the book he's been looking at - uselessly, but looking none the less.]
[ And it's back to the game. He plays carefully, now, like he's under less mind-consuming pressure, but he's fighting out of a very bad opening game and is still tired, stumbles into a clever trap at the end and cedes the moment he realizes. ]
Shame I can't shake your hand. You play chess like it's a real war.
Chess feels more straightforward sometimes. I spent ten years in the middle of an attrition war. I don't know if either side would call it that, but that's what it is. Both sides wearing trying to wear the other down, and everyone in the middle - soldiers, civilians, rebels - gets ground down.
[If John is up for another game, Bull resets, changing sides again.]
[ John will play along. He considers talking about his own war, spanning thousands of years and literal galaxies, but decides - he'll either have to lie or admit to some things that could lose him a lifeline. Maybe another time. So instead they can just play chess for a while more. ]
When Sweeney opens the door, it's immediately obvious he's been at work at the brewery. His vest in his hand, he's donned in his customary, utilitarian attire: a pale linen shirt and dark buttoned trousers. Labor has left him sweaty, and his crest of hair is wilted. The sweet smell of barley malt clings to him.
"Hey." The greeting comes with a bounce of his chin before he tosses the vest on the too-short bed.
For his part, Bull has been here long enough to relax: his boots and brace are sitting against the floor by his bed and he's got his back propped against the wall. He took the headboard off the bed the first day he had it and, for the most part, shoves it further from the wall when he wants to sleep - that allows his horns to hang over the edge if he rolls onto his side. Sometimes he just sleeps like he's sitting right now: back to the wall, legs stretched out. That's the only way he fits on the bed fully anyway.
He's writing with a stubby pencil and paper someone's given him or that he's found.
"As well as the last one," he says, not to be dismissive but more in the way that one keeps track of it's been this many days since the last workplace incident. No one transformed in the tavern, no one needed to be forcefully removed. Granted, the day shift is usually quieter anyway.
Even shorter by 6" and not sporting horn to try to manage, Sweeney doesn't fit in his bed either. Instead of the work Bull has put into a solution, he opts to just grab a pillow and sleep on the floor between the bed and the wall.
He nods at the answer and crosses the room towards the basin on the dresser.
"Wanted yer opinion on somethin', given the livin' arrangement." The 'is this an ok time for that?' is implied in his tone.
Bull has considered the floor and on more than one occasion he's ended up there, looking at Sweeney side-long under the bed. But most nights he tries to stay in bed. It's easier on some parts of him.
"Yeah, I'm not doing anything." Nothing pressing, anyway. "What's on your mind?"
He knows this arrangement is a lot for some people to cope with. He grew up in barracks of one kind or another, so people living on top of each other - occasionally without any walls between them - isn't all that new.
The situation doesn't particularly bother Sweeney; he just wants to be respectful. He knows a lot of folk have strong opinions about their privacy, and he likes Bull, so there's no reason to be a dick about it.
"Just f'gured I'd get yer thoughts on company." His gaze makes a quick survey of the room, suggesting 'in here'.
"Know that some folk don't take kindly ta havin' random folk sleepin' in a room they're sharin'." Sweeney realizes how that sounds, and seeks to clarify.
"I just mean actual sleepin'. Not fuckin' while yer in here or anythin'." Unless he's into that. It's clear from his tone that it's a neutral question; he'll abide by whatever Bull wants. He just wants to know what that is.
Bull huffs a quiet laugh as Sweeney explains. "As long as no one tries to slip a knife between my ribs while I'm sleeping, I don't mind sharing space. I'd say to warn me, but you don't really need to. I'll figure it out if I walk in and you're cuddled up with someone."
It really doesn't bother him either way, and if he finds the company objectionable for some reason, he can find other places to sleep without making it a big deal for Sweeney to manage.
"I appreciate that. I don't handle some surprises well," he admits. That seems like a fair thing to warn Sweeney about, though waking up to a stranger in the room isn't really anything that will set him off.
"I'll try to do the same," he adds, just making it clear that he'll extended the same courtesy.
"'ppreciate it." His inflection speaks to a similar sentiment; he honestly doesn't care if Bull has companions over, even if they're fucking, so long as neither of them care that he sees it. A brief lull passes.
"Anythin' else we should talk 'bout?" It's an honest question.
"I ain't been in one place fer a long fuckin' time. An' I don't got much experience sharin' my room with folk I ain't fuckin'." Which he is not interested in doing with Bull. But he does want to make this arrangement work as smoothly as possible.
"I'm not the kind of guy that's gonna make a fuss about a lot," he says. "It's been a while since I've been packed in this tight, but I'm used to it." This might be all new to Sweeney, and Bull sympathizes with that, but this was a matter of routine for him until a decade ago.
"I lived in a barracks of one kind or another until I was thirty. You get used to personal space being up here." He gestures at his head. "Just let me know if I need to find somewhere else to be. I hate that we can talk to each other in our heads, but... it's useful. What about you? Sounds like you're adapting to more than I am - anything I should know?"
It's not really surprising that the man would be military or imprisoned or whatever it is his people do, but Sweeney'd be the first to admit that he knows fuckall about his world. Maybe they all look like him. It doesn't affect the leprechaun either way, but it is an interesting thought. The man's question is met with a shrug of one shoulder.
"They got fairytales where yer from? Folklore 'bout Wild spirits?" Otherwise, the rest of his explanation isn't going to make a whole lot of sense.
"Spirits, yeah. Demons, other things. Especially recently, the veil's been cracked open in a bunch of places and they wander into the world more. And I know folklore from a few different cultures. The Qunari - my people - don't have stories quite like that, but most human and elven cultures do."
Which is to say, yeah, he's heard stories about all kinds of powers in the world and what meanings other people invest in them. The Avaar have their natural spirits, the Dalish and humans have their gods.
Now that's a fucking relief; it makes for a much easier starting point. Sweeney nods.
"Where I'm from, humans basic'lly Believe things inta existin'. Gods, spirits, that sorta thing. Humans need them ta exist, so they just..." He scrunches his nose, looking for an acceptable word. "...will them inta bein'. They don't seems ta do it with clear intention; more just need ta explain nature shit or have a reason not ta let their kids go inta the woods." That's the short version.
"I've been one'a those Wild spirits fer a few hundred years, an' other shit b'fore that, 'cause of what humans b'lieved me ta be." He shrugs a shoulder, as if the topic is casual. "I've spent millennia in the company of gods an' such, so shit like this's kinda par fer the course." His focus shifts to the window, and he squints at it for a moment before returning his gaze to Bull.
"Lotta Stories like mine were written ta take place somewhere an' awful lot like this, so it's kinda like fallin' off a log." It's not a challenge to get back into.
![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
breaking this in.
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Hi.
[Might as well be honest.]
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We can do this in person? Just checking how you're settling in.
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I'm all right.
As much as anyone can be after waking up naked in a new place.
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Delivered wood to a woman earlier and she was looking for a little more than firewood.
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As long as everyone's having a good time, I won't worry about it.
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[Great, he's going to be thinking about that for the next three nights.]
We call mages who fall to demon possession abominations. But you're talking about sounds like darkspawn without the whole... flesh of the dead part. I've seen those though.
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Magic like that is heretical, but in the end it depends on who you're asking and who has the power.
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(( happy to handwave some telepathic chess rather than figure out their moves. ))
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((We can totally handwave a few hours! Or say they get part way through a game before something interrupts.))
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[Bull sighs, but then gives an opening move.]
Pawn to e4.
[ooc: we absolutely do not have to play the game move by move]
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[ It's a risky, dynamic opening, and he plays an equally reckless game, sacrificing pieces with abandon to keep the momentum of the lead. Enough that his development falls short in the late game and it becomes a cat and mouse, Bull hunting down each of his remaining pieces as they attempt valiantly to marshall into some kind of protective formation. They don't even need to reach checkmate - John cedes when he loses his second bishop: ]
Shit. That's your game.
[ A little despondent, but not for the loss, just the end. He's allowed Bull however much time he likes between moves, knowing the other man is probably going about his day, but even when it wasn't his turn considering the possibilities of the game was a lovely distraction. ]
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So let's reset the board.
[Bull has been relatively quick to answer most of John's moves, the longest gaps happening midday when he was taking care of things that required his full attention. But, for the most part, he's tried not to keep the other man waiting. Whatever is happening to John right now, Bull can at least give his mind somewhere else to go.]
I can go all day.
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[ Pretty flirty for text. John starts as white this time, but his moves get more erratic, breaking a traditional opening form with something completely left field, until suddenly he goes silent for a long time.
When he comes back, he doesn't immediately play on. ]
Sorry about that. Died.
[ Too tired to lie about it or use some euphemistic excuse — everything went to telepathic voicemail because he was off somewhere in one of those blank spots he hates more than almost anything else. ]
Where were we. You had my knight pinned?
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He isn't expecting to hear that blunt confession when John comes back. Bull sets aside the book he's been looking at - uselessly, but looking none the less.]
Well shit.
[Yeah, for a second that's all he's got.]
Yeah, had a bishop and castle threatening it.
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[ And it's back to the game. He plays carefully, now, like he's under less mind-consuming pressure, but he's fighting out of a very bad opening game and is still tired, stumbles into a clever trap at the end and cedes the moment he realizes. ]
Shame I can't shake your hand. You play chess like it's a real war.
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I spent ten years in the middle of an attrition war. I don't know if either side would call it that, but that's what it is. Both sides wearing trying to wear the other down, and everyone in the middle - soldiers, civilians, rebels - gets ground down.
[If John is up for another game, Bull resets, changing sides again.]
gonna wrap here if that's ok!
In the room
"Hey." The greeting comes with a bounce of his chin before he tosses the vest on the too-short bed.
"Day go a'right?"
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He's writing with a stubby pencil and paper someone's given him or that he's found.
"As well as the last one," he says, not to be dismissive but more in the way that one keeps track of it's been this many days since the last workplace incident. No one transformed in the tavern, no one needed to be forcefully removed. Granted, the day shift is usually quieter anyway.
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He nods at the answer and crosses the room towards the basin on the dresser.
"Wanted yer opinion on somethin', given the livin' arrangement." The 'is this an ok time for that?' is implied in his tone.
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"Yeah, I'm not doing anything." Nothing pressing, anyway. "What's on your mind?"
He knows this arrangement is a lot for some people to cope with. He grew up in barracks of one kind or another, so people living on top of each other - occasionally without any walls between them - isn't all that new.
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"Just f'gured I'd get yer thoughts on company." His gaze makes a quick survey of the room, suggesting 'in here'.
"Know that some folk don't take kindly ta havin' random folk sleepin' in a room they're sharin'." Sweeney realizes how that sounds, and seeks to clarify.
"I just mean actual sleepin'. Not fuckin' while yer in here or anythin'." Unless he's into that. It's clear from his tone that it's a neutral question; he'll abide by whatever Bull wants. He just wants to know what that is.
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It really doesn't bother him either way, and if he finds the company objectionable for some reason, he can find other places to sleep without making it a big deal for Sweeney to manage.
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"Don't 'xpect it ta be a common occurrence or anythin'. Just didn't wanna surprise ya, ya know?"
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"I'll try to do the same," he adds, just making it clear that he'll extended the same courtesy.
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"Anythin' else we should talk 'bout?" It's an honest question.
"I ain't been in one place fer a long fuckin' time. An' I don't got much experience sharin' my room with folk I ain't fuckin'." Which he is not interested in doing with Bull. But he does want to make this arrangement work as smoothly as possible.
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"I lived in a barracks of one kind or another until I was thirty. You get used to personal space being up here." He gestures at his head. "Just let me know if I need to find somewhere else to be. I hate that we can talk to each other in our heads, but... it's useful. What about you? Sounds like you're adapting to more than I am - anything I should know?"
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"They got fairytales where yer from? Folklore 'bout Wild spirits?" Otherwise, the rest of his explanation isn't going to make a whole lot of sense.
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Which is to say, yeah, he's heard stories about all kinds of powers in the world and what meanings other people invest in them. The Avaar have their natural spirits, the Dalish and humans have their gods.
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"Where I'm from, humans basic'lly Believe things inta existin'. Gods, spirits, that sorta thing. Humans need them ta exist, so they just..." He scrunches his nose, looking for an acceptable word. "...will them inta bein'. They don't seems ta do it with clear intention; more just need ta explain nature shit or have a reason not ta let their kids go inta the woods." That's the short version.
"I've been one'a those Wild spirits fer a few hundred years, an' other shit b'fore that, 'cause of what humans b'lieved me ta be." He shrugs a shoulder, as if the topic is casual. "I've spent millennia in the company of gods an' such, so shit like this's kinda par fer the course." His focus shifts to the window, and he squints at it for a moment before returning his gaze to Bull.
"Lotta Stories like mine were written ta take place somewhere an' awful lot like this, so it's kinda like fallin' off a log." It's not a challenge to get back into.