Participants:

Cenn_icon.gif Garou_icon.gifAnton_icon.gif

Scene Title A Man Of No Virtue
Synopsis Anton meets the other Templars, it goes remarkably well.
Location Templar Courtyard
Date July 29, 2016
Watch For Anton winning at first impressions.
Logger Anton

Morning. Really. FUCK morning. And then possibly roll over and go back to sleep. Except you know what you're not allowed to do when you're hungover AND still recovering from the long haul from Orlais to the ass-end of Thedas that is Kirkwall? So here's Anton, at least freshly bathed and suited up for the day. Probably not looking 100% but he still looks good! Just … a lazy kind of good. And he's going to do that looking good while sitting on one of the benches and try to look like he's not hungover and tired.

Meanwhile Garou is fairly fresh-faced. … Okay, that's pretty much a lie, but only because he's been up for several hours now and has spent that time working in the training yard while the rest of the Circle still struggled to get out of bed. With his typical ignorance of modesty, he crosses the courtyard still shirtless, a towel slung over one shoulder and the slightest limp in his step. Someone overdid it while exploring limitations this morning. Deep in his own thoughts, he passes the Templar on the bench with a sharp nod of greeting, then pauses mid-stride once he's already passed the poor man. Frowning, Garou turns on his heel in a leonine maneuver (that only wobbles a little, thanks leg) and gives this guy a longer once-over. And here he'd thought himself FINALLY caught up on everyone's names around here. "Going to or coming off patrol, Corporal?"

Anton groans and leans his head back. Really? REALLY? He picked the one place that was supposed to be safe at this time of day and he gets spotted by a Lieutenant? Of course he does. OF COURSE. "Funny you should ask that question." The best way to describe the accent is a horrible mix of Antivan and Ferelden. Like they had a fight and Ferelden won. "Because the answer is 'hoping to avoid it at all today'. It's my first day." He smirks, still not getting up. "…you're….?"

"Knight Lieutenant Phillipe Garou." The introduction is made with a subtle but sharp straightening of posture, almost like his body wants to salute with it out of a habit his mind is forcing back down. That accent… honestly it makes his head hurt - and there's a muscle under one eye that twitches every time the Corporal starts to say something else - but he has enough good breeding to not say anything, at least. "Then why…" Garou and People are historically not a great mix, but these kind of interactions come with a script, which is handy. "Why are you in armor? Surely you don't need it simply to exist." Ooh, Garou, was that a joke? An incredibly dry one, if so.

Anton laughs. "Because if you're in armor, no one questions what you're doing. I wanted a look around the place, so I took a walk." There's that grin again. "Anton Beaulac," he informs. "Which makes you the guy in charge, as far as I go. …and, you know, maybe I do. Like I said, no one bothers you in the armor. Unless they're above your rank." One hand rubs over his face before he brushes it over his hair as if to make sure it's not standing up. "So I guess this means I don't have to bother reporting in now?"

Garou is very still for a moment and there is the sense that perhaps, if he were not so well-disciplined, he would be heaving the longest, heaviest sigh. "That is certainly one way to look at it." And at first he seems to breeze past the name almost entirely; names spoken without their proper accenture and pronunciation don't always register right away, but - "Beaulac?" There it is. Correct pronunciation and all. "You are my new Corporal?" The Maker is testing him. That's got to be it. "That is not what this means." Garou likes to have his day in order, thanks. "We did not expect you until tomorrow afternoon at soonest." It is a statement, but actually it's a question.

"Like I said, Beaulac." Anton grins like he's the world's biggest cat that's just eaten the world's tastiest canary. "Well, I mean, it could. You know I'm here, right? And funny thing about that. I kind of over-estimated the amount of time it would take to get here. …or helped it get overestimated." To the obvious question, he spreads his arms. "The one and only. I'm sure I'll fit right in." Like a square peg through the eye of a needle. "I've already met some of the mages." Which is either good or disasterous.

There goes that muscle under his eye again. It's a perfectly good Orlesian name. Why must it be butchered so? "Indeed." That sums up… pretty much everything so far as he's concerned, but he shifts his stance to something that's almost parade rest. "Even so, the process should be done officially. There is a level of complexity that cannot be achieved upon happenstance meeting." Which means there's paperwork. Also possibly rules, assignments, informing their Captain and facilitating that meeting as well… existing inside the Order is a never-ending process and things tend to go smoothest when that process is not tangled in over itself.

Anton just /sighs/. Everything is so DAMN complicated. But to prove he CAN speak the language, there's a series of perfectly spoken swear words. You're welcome, Lieutenant! "Tomorrow, then? I'll be less hungover. My ass may even be a little less sore. Are they trying to stop an invasion with those roads? Because, if those don't do it? The ale will." Of course he tried the ale. OF COURSE. "So great. Paperwork, stiff backed saluting… all that so I can guard mages on the ass end of nowhere." But at least he said guard and not 'keep the population safe from'.

Honestly, that one word there is what keeps Garou from writing this Corporal off entirely. "When did you arrive, exactly?" It would appear that the vast majority of that mouth-running goes right over the Lieutenant's head, but the keenly observant would notice that there is no hazed middle-distance to that stare. He has plenty of practice with words flying at him in large numbers at astronomical speeds; that also means he knows how to find the key points with an almost eerie precision.

"Late last night." Anton really has to think this over, because time when it's drunk-thirty? Hard to gauge. "Probably around midnight? I hit the bed, passed out, woke up at 'please kill me' and here I am!" Tada! He even makes the motion to go with it. "I thought it would be rude to wake you up, so I went for a walk. You know the mages have a much prettier fountain, right? …come to think of it, some of the mages are much prettier. So this might not be as bad as I expected." Grin.

Mistake, kid. Mis-take. That statement is all it takes to adjust Garou's entire posture into something tense and coiled and unquestionably deadly. Grey eyes go dark as they narrow in on the Corporal, the rings of green becoming much brighter by comparison. Sure, to an outside observer, the new guy sitting in full armor on the bench in the courtyard while his assigned Lieutenant stands facing him (still shirtless and sweaty from a dawn in the training yard) wouldn't be anything to even look twice at, but there is a low rumble in Garou's chest that says his next tight question should be considered carefully before an answer is given. "You are fond of 'pretty mages' then, Corporal?" That muscle twitch in his eye is given a break by one jumping in his jaw. "A 'perk' to make being in this backwater sewer less… odious?"

Unlike some people, Cenn had not awoken hungover. Nor had he woken up early enough for dawn training. Maybe he should have done the latter, but sometimes it was better to sleep in, at least a little. He's even opted for a bath to start the morning. His hair's still wet and everything as he comes out into the courtyard, dressed but with his shirt unlaced, smelling of soap and cloves. There's even a pleasant, soft humming coming from the Lieutenant, a stupid little smile on his face. See, he'd come out of his bath to mail being delivered. And now that very envelope is in his hands, and… Maker almighty, what is that parchment even made from? Is it parchment? Or just very stiff silk? Honestly, Cenn can't rightly tell. It's shimmering, and perfumed, and he doesn't even KNOW what the colorful, sweet smelling powder that fell from the envelope in a shimmering bloom was when he took the invitation out but… This is ridiculous. And yet as he reads and walks, he seems wholly amused. That is, of course, until he steps out into the courtyard, invitation still in hand, and can immediately feel the tension present. Catching the tail end of Garou's words, he blinks, placing the invitation back in its envelope and slipping it into a pocket. He doesn't approach, not yet, but he is watching, perhaps a little concerned.

"Well, I mean, it's better than walking through halls getting sour looks from old men. Relax, it's not like I'm making a list of which ones I'm gonna have first. Maybe a list of which ones to watch. I don't know about you, lieutenant, but I've spent time with the lower ranks. Sure, busting someone down before they do something might get me into shit." Anton shrugs. "But I'm better equipped to spend an evening or two paying for it." But look! There's a guy with … what even is that? In fact? "What in the name of Andraste's sweet ass is that?" Hope no one's pious.

"A list of…" Garou stops himself there, trailing off and inhaling a sharp, deep breath. He cracks his neck to one side and then the other, tendons standing out in sharp relief as he rolls his shoulders into the motion. It lets him approach this from a position of strength, rather than lashing out and leaving his flank open. Because talking to people is basically a bout of sparring. "Listen well, Corporal; this is the only warning you shall receive." His voice is still tight, still steady, still controlled, but there is an undeniable fury that roils beneath it in a way that perhaps is not entirely fair but exists there all the same. "First of all, the mages who live here are not the 'lower ranks'." Oh, hello, that accent gets thicker when he's angry - heavier and also somehow softer, adding a purring overtone to his words. "We exist to serve and protect them, not to reign over their lives." It's maybe not the most popular position around here, but it's also not the first time he's had to give this mini talk. "Their reality is that their very lives are in our hands. I would suggest you find your fun at the Rose, Corporal, because if I even hear a rumor that you have toyed with a mage who felt like they were not permitted to say no, I will kill you and eat you raw." It's a threat that hangs heavy in the air between them, cut by Cenn's jarringly pleasant humming. That particular curse leaves Garou - if possible - even more tightly strung than he was a moment ago, but he simply looks away this time. There is an order to which things he will address and which he will not.

Well, this was certainly something to walk into. Again, Cenn doesn't intervene, just watches. He knows better than to step into something that doesn't need him. But the way Garou is holding himself, the anger darkening his voice like an undertow, it says that there is a non-zero chance of this escalating, and Cenn will watch for that. At a respectable distance. Or, well, what would be respectable if the world's most gaudy invitation hadn't been so distracting an caught the Corporal's eye. "A letter." A simple answer, "But I would suggest you pay less mind to my personal mail and more to the instruction from the Lieutenant." It's not angry, just matter of fact. Almost Orlesian in its cool distance, if it weren't for the lilt of Ferelden that hangs about his voice no matter what he does.

"Yeah, except I was talking about Templars." Anton pauses. "Oh wait, you read my file. I can explain." Get the feeling he says that a lot? "And the day I have to pay for it? I'll put it away for good." He has standards, guys! "I'm not saying there haven't been, I'm just saying I like them willing." And for a man being stood over by someone like Garou? He's surprisingly relaxed. "Do you always lead out with the eating people thing?" Cenn? He's going to make a face at that guy. A really mature one. One you'd expect from a ten year old.

"Someone always has to pay," Rou answers, well-aware that he has only limited ground from which he can speak without delving into hypocrisy. "Whether the price is your coins or a freshly-Harrowed mage's sense of self-worth, someone always pays." Cenn's cool redirection of the Corporal's attention merits a sharp glance and for just a moment there's a look of fierce pride - like from brother to brother or father to son - before he has to return to the task at hand. Yeah, he's completely well-adjusted. Obviously. "There are mages here who will not hesitate to break your nose if your advances are not welcome." He happens to be belled by one of them. "But there are also mages who will say 'yes' because they fear what happens after a 'no'. You will not always know the difference. Now you know the risk of getting it wrong." Which is to say that yes, he is leading out with bargains between lions and men. The world has given him one job and he will not fail. He will not become his father. < RE 4 The Adultiest Templar <3 >

That look gets a roll of Cenn's eyes that is so Orlesian that it's almost disorienting that the snap of a fan opening does not immediately follow. But it earns no mouthful. He's not going to dignify that with his words. As for the discussion at hand? Well, Garou seems to have that well at hand. Though, a beat after Garou's words cease, Cenn cannot help himself. "Garou, if it comes to it, I have rope you're welcome to." No threat in his voice, none of the dark danger that brews under Garou's own tone. No, there's even an almost unnerving brightness to Cenn's tone, as though he is offering to supply him with flowers for a wedding.

Anton is trying hard not to laugh. "Alright, Lieutenant, I think you're pretty clear." Then there's Cenn's offer of rope. "You're in charge of the party favors? Well, this place may not be as boring as I thought." The grin he gives is exactly the one you'd expect on a teenager. "By the way? I have standards. …that goat thing was a complete misunderstanding. Those mages still owe me for that bet, and I paid for the dress." Man, ONE bad night or 30.

That expression on Cenn's face hits Garou hard with homesickness right in the solar plexus. He had his reasons for coming here and he does not regret his choice to do so, but there is no escaping that he is a fish drastically out of his pond. Still, he is not without self-discipline; he restrains his response to a sharp nod and a twitch to the corner of his mouth closest to his fellow Lieutenant. "I appreciate the offer, d'Argent." Again, the name is given its proper tone and color - he is civilized, damn it. "Should the need arise, I shall take you up on it." Anton's complete inability to take any of this seriously is like adding oil to a campfire and there is a moment where death comes into Garou's eyes - dark and bestial. "This is not a game." For all that he might as well be pissing in the wind, it has to be said. "Be sober when you report in officially, Corporal." In both senses of the word.

"If I were in charge of the party favors around here, Corporal, this place would have a lot less bars on a lot fewer windows." Cenn says, voice dry. There's a small smile offered Garou, but it's a simple, sober thing. He's not trying to lighten the mood, or dissaude Garou in any way. However, he does cross the courtyard then, rather than standing still. Besides, he has the rest of this invitation to read, so the… That really might be silk… Invitation is drawn once more from his pocket, so he can settle the matter of date and time in his mind.

Anton is really trying here, ok? But he's never been able to not laugh under these circumstances. "I never thought it was. Games are more fun and they stop when you're ready to quit. You have my word, I won't touch a drop before I report in." Cenn's answer earns a heavy sigh. "Can't we put him in charge? The barred windows thing… it really clashes with my armor. … and me." Which really is the heart of the matter.

Garou tips his head to one side, acknowledging Cenn's very valid point. For all its faults, Val Royeaux at least had the decency to never make the White Spire look like a prison. "It would take being entirely demolished and rebuilt from the ground up to make this place habitable," he mutters, almost entirely to himself. The anger is not gone, but without an appropriate outlet it simply spins in neutral. He turns, then, ready to go back out into the training yards and beat a couple pell posts into splinters - sore leg be damned - when that ridiculous invitation catches his eye properly. "Is someone finally throwing a real party?" He doesn't even miss a beat over the invitation's… colorful existence.

Cenn laughs a little, shaking his head. "He one of yours, Garou?" He asks, "If so, Corporal, you're going to like your Captain." As for the invitation… "Oh… Uhhh…" Cenn clears his throat, shakes his head, "No. Nothing like that…" There's even a blush, Maker help him. "Just dinner."

"That's just dinner," Anton informs Garou. "I'm also a virgin and would like a bar for my door, sir." Look, he's joking. "Oh wait, is that what they call it here? Unless a nice roast just really gets you." Sorry, boss. This is just too good to pass up. "Oh? Are they as easy going as the Lieutenant, here? No offense. I've just never had someone offer to eat me before the first date."

Well that's… interesting. "Indeed." And then, because he actually can't help himself. "At least it comes from someone civilized." And that's all from him, folks, because if he sticks around long enough to even acknowledge that those words have come out of Anton's mouth, he might actually punch him in the teeth and that would be rude on his first day.

"…Yeah, civilized… You could say that." Cenn says, blushing terribly now. Maker have mercy. As to Anton? He just sighs. "It is, in fact, a dinner invitation, you crass…" He pinches the bridge of his nose, takes a deep breath, and exhales hard, "She's got a gentle heart. And is Ferelden. I imagine you'll get on like a house on fire. Unless you make a pass at her. Then I hope she tears your spine out through your mouth." And then he's folding the invitation again, slipping it away, and moving to leave the courtyard. Sunlight is overrated anyway, right?

Anton laughs. "That blush for a dinner invitation. Well, I hope that one works out for you." He stands, wincing with the movement. "Come on, I'm not gonna make a pass at her, but nice visual." Hold on. "I'm crass? A superior just told me he'd eat me." He shakes his head and starts to walk off. "…I'm starting to really regret the goat. It should have been a horse. This place is horse level punishment."


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