Participants:

Carys_icon.gif Sebastian_icon.gif

Scene Title Serah Bob
Synopsis An overzealous announcement in Lowtown leads to odd introductions and long winded discussions!
Location Lowtown Market
Date Justinian 21, 9:31 Dragon
Watch For Promises of Stealing Smallclothes and Religious Zealot-ness
Logger Sebastian

Lowtown market, a place where those less fortunate could shop for their wares, wares that were equally of cheap quality. Hightown market was the place to go for the more elite and expensive item. Thus, it might be curious to spot a Starkhaven down this way, if he wasn't wearing Chantry robes. Those, don't stand out as much as his armor would. It allows him to cruise the market, not for wares per say, instead, for the needy and for those too sheepish to rise to the higher climbs of Kirkwall to seek the Maker's touch. He wasn't hailing words at them, nor standing in the square recounting verses from the scriptures, rather, he was walking languidly arm folded underneath arm of his robe, appearing approachable. This afternoon, Lowtown was at its usual state of busy, no more, no less.

Buying, selling…whatever. Markets a good place for it. And /everyone/ is haggling to try to make sure they don't have to pay more money than what they deem is necessary. The only difference is which side of the stall that person is. For one unfortunate fellow… he's on the inside of the stall, idly going through a few things that are laid out on the surface before him. The person facing him is still wearing armor of a leather-and-mail combination…likely marking her as an adventurer of some sort. And possibly not the trouble-making kind, for her obvious weaponry is /actually/ peace-knotted for the time being (though, those who are truly perceptive will tell that those 'knots' can be easily done if need be).

Chantry robes don't get a blink from the woman with the blue-violet eyes. There's nothing positive or negative coming from her—it's like the man (and anyone else dressed like him) doesn't even ping on her personal radar. "Look, I'm just sayin' that this damn thing is worth more than a couple of sovereigns. You wanted stuff t'pad yer stall, an' I got you stuff." Lifting a leather-clad hand, she rubs her forehead. "Totally missin' the 'reward' part of the 'risk and reward' line of my job, serah." The shopkeeper is just quiet and puffs his pipe. "Ten for the lot," he repeats.

For Sebastian, it is a lot of white noise, the haggling and the bantering. He splits through it like a knife through butter, not in fact hearing too keenly anyone's conversation. His faculties proved to be focused elsewhere, beyond the visual cues that his eyes could span. No one bothered a Chantry initiate down here. They knew that he'd have no coin, for the vows of poverty, nor did the hawkers attempt to persuade him over, for the very same reason. He could be a spirit from beyond the veil and none would be the wiser of his existence. To notice Carys, one would have to notice a hundred others like her. Adventurers, of all shapes and sizes, each, driven by selfish desires for sovereigns. Yes, gold sings like that. He figures then, that the spot that he held then, was appropriate. He stopped, in that mass of people.

"10 Sovereigns!" Yes, that ought to get their attention, his Starkhaven burr cutting through the din, "10 Sovereigns. For anyone who catches a member of the FLINT COMPANY! Alive… or dead." Yep. He just did that. In his Chantry robes. Maker's Breath. No, it needed to happen. The Maker smiled at him, turned him toward this route, so, it had to be.

UGH! She's going to tear her hair out. "D'you know I nearly got my /arse/ bit for this lot?!" she exasperates through grit teeth. What she doesn't say is that it was likely guards that were trying to bite her ass, not actual dogs. But hey, what's better left unsaid. "Fine… twelve." The man deposits a coin purse before Carys to indicate he's done with her and her attempts to milk him for more coin. She gives him a scathing look before throwing up one hand, and snatching the coin purse in the other—in case he changes his mind. The baubles (Of which one does look far better quality than the others) are left unattended. If he wants to keep them from being snatched by someone else… that's his job. She's already walking off and stuffing the pouch into a safe place on her person.

Deciding the marketplace is now dull as fuck, she's wandering towards one of the many paths to exit the place when it… suddenly /isn't/ so dull. There's suddenly a /Chantry/ person blabbing a bounty in the middle of lowtown! This gets her to immediately crack up laughing as if this was one of the funniest things she's seen since… er… a few days ago when she was face to face with a massive qunari who used a flower for a name. "Oh Maker, get a load of this guy!" She puffs between gales of laughter to no one in particular. Likely through the din it might be hard to hear.

Shaking her head, she decides she can't let this poor (Unfortunate?) soul stand there and make himself a target. So, from a woman fencing stolen goods to hopeful savior of eventual mugging, Carys is suddenly at Sebastian's side. "BOB! Hey, where you been, I been lookin' all over for you!" If he's not too spry to jump away from her (For all he knows, SHE's about to mug him), she'll loop an arm about his elbow. "An' yer such a kidder, did someone dare yer britches t'do this?"

Does it look like he has 20 Sovereign on him? They should be mindful of the Chantry robes, the vow of poverty. Hrm, maybe he should've worn armor - but that would've launched a stampede of people to mug him. Instead, this confliction has people baffled. So he thrusts out an arm that unfurls a parchment, to whence he reads, "By decree of the Prince of Starkhaven, those who apprehend a member of the Flint Company shall be thus rewarded. All claims, are to be brought to the Chantry." He flicks the page, see. No money here. And he'll walk over toward a posting board, not unlike the chanter's board, to tack it up. If people weren't interested in the mission before, they might be now. It should resolve the desire for those muggers to come directly after him.

Sebastian steps back from the posting, to glance over at Carys as she springs upon him. His muscles react, keeping him just enough distance away so she cannot poke him with a dagger. He looks confused at the woman's words, "You have me confused, I'm afraid, Serah. My name is not Bob-" he looks as if he's going to provide her with a name, until he notes the hungry look in a few eyes set toward him. His eyes widen. This wasn't /darktown/ … he should have no trouble coaxing individuals to pursue the wanted posting here. And yet, there was a sneaking suspicion that he outted himself. He clears his throat, "I'm Jacque, remember? Bob's brother." A little louder, "Though this is not a dare mind you. This is legitimate. There is a bounty on the Flint Company."

Just because this wasn't Darktown, doesn't mean people don't come up from the sewers to get their meals… or the stuff to buy meals. Or to just be general meanieheads to someone. "Right, right," she says, snapping her fingers. "Sorry, you guys look the same, y'know." There's a 'You Starkhaven sorts look all alike to me' in there somewhere. His pinning of the bounty do have some adventurous individuals peeking at it, and Carys herself takes a moment to committ its contents to memory. A bit lower. "Just be careful how you go 'bout announcin' it," she says of the bounty. "Usually outright /announcin'/ it doesn't tend to work. S'always idiots who think you got the coin on 'em, regardless of the fancy dress sayin' otherwise," she indicates the Brother's robes. And don't worry, those daggers are still very nicely peaceknotted in their sheathes. Since she keeps them to the small of her back, any reaching would be painfully obvious at the moment.

Sebastian and Carys are kind of in the middle of the market areas chatting. People are milling about a parchment that's been nailed up over there, while there's a few people in clusters here and there that are watching the pair.

Sebastian certainly didn't like having to slip a white lie in there, that he was put in that situation to lie has him anxiously tug at his chantry sash. That'd be a confession later. "Posting it quietly, hasn't worked," he retorts to her, "And besides, I'm a Chantry Brother. I carry nothing of wealth." Not that they had to know about, in any case. He might be a Chantry Brother, but he was also a Starkhaven Prince whose family had just been assassinated, somewhere under those robes, and no, not there, he's got his own personal protection. Daggers, even if he's better off using bows. He gives a noisy breath at her reference to the robes being a dress, "They're robes, traditional garb of the Chantry. Not a dress." He's pretty sure that was twice in as many days having to say that. He starts to meander back the way he came, as if feeling more than one set of eyes was one too many, "I saw you glancing at the post. Though I also noticed you had made your own coin just recently-" that means he's aware of his surroundings, more than he let on originally, "-so I cannot decide if you are interested or just intend to mug me before the others do."

Carys laughs outright at him. "Sweetheart," she waves a hand. "You /obviously/ have never been in a position where you're penniless /and/ hungry. You're not naked," she points out. She's keeping her voice down, pitched so only the Brother can here her. There's a hand waving to his robes. "That's not sackcloth you're wearin'. /And/ people might figure someone'd pay for you." She holds up her hands defensively. "It's not smart or logical … but please refer t'the above comment about being hungry."

AS he meanders away, she clasps her hands behind her and lightly skips as she keeps up with him. There's that damned self-satisfied smirk on her face and her ponytail bobs gaily with each skipped step she takes. "Oh ho ho…naive-but not oblivious. There's hope for you yet. And…" She draws out the 'and' as she spins on her toe to block his path. "If I was t'mug you, sweetheart, you'd already be wonderin' where yer knickers were. I just didn't want t'see you get into any undue trouble. Because, no matter how you slice it, people are dicks and I don't like people being dicks t'other people that might not be able t'defend themselves." Assumptions abound! Chantry brat-probably squishy!

Her outright laughter followed by the pointed nickname that she gives him, has him glance warily over at her. Tolerate and have patience, Sebastian. Training pays off and there's a calmness that folds around his features and a careful smile that plucks at his lips, "I follow the path of the Maker and he provides." His hands extend in a bountiful gesture, until she pokes in there that someone might /pay/ for him. Blink, "What?" Naive. Yes, let's just keep it at that.

Half expecting she'd keep up, he sends her a sideling glance at the skipping, a brow makes its way up on his feature as his lips tweak. In the next breath he's drawn to an abrupt halt, which he suffers with that same tranquility he was able to smother himself in before. "That's to say I wear any," the saucy smile will disarm or at least get a laugh, keeping himself aware of her hands in case she does try to see if he was bluffing or not! "See, the Maker provides. He sent you to ensure my safety. Shall we continue? I at least need an escort back to Hightown. And better yet, in that tie, I imagine you can tell me your name-" the burr of his voice is naturally quite effective when he wants to churn on the charm. It's like butter.

The wary glance was a mistake. The way she just /smirks/ at him should tip him off that she got the hint he didn't like it when she called him that-and so thus, he's now going to get called that /all the time/. "If you say so, sweetheart. Some of us aren't so lucky in that case." Silly not all-providing Maker. And stuff. But she wasn't expecting him to stop abruption-OR to make that comment! Brows shoot up on her forehead and then she just relaxes. "Well, then… sounds like an adventure. I'm sure there's somethin' else I could'a left you missing." AS for the offer of escort, she spins on her toe, not unlike a dancer would. "For you, sweetheart, for the laughs you've given me, I will gladly play escort." She tosses a wink over her shoulder, before she clasp her hands behind her back. "I dunno, it gonna be used against me? 'Cause otherwise? My name's Bob," she comments as she steps in time next to him, obviously taking sort of a 'guard' position.

Baited into that! Surely he was. He notes the amusement, the look of a cat who has swallowed the canary. An exasperated turn of his eyes suggests he knows he's in for it. "It isn't about luck," he informs her with a neutral tone, "It's about true belief in the Maker and seeking Andraste's guidance. Those who do not walk in the true path, will not know the true blessing upon them. Most, I'm afraid, will beg for the Maker when something awful happens and blame Him when the Maker does not come to change their circumstances fast enough." His hands have clasped before him, the sleeves of his robes concealing them as he carries them close to his chest. A poised Brother of the Chantry now.

He does give a small laugh for her response to his cheeky comment, a laugh that keeps in his chest and sounds completely Starkhaven, accent even in that. He wisely, doesn't say anything back. Instead, he follows along with that wry amusement lingering, his piercing blue eyes following the trail of the dancer spinning about in front of him. She was quite opposite to him, as he was grounded, resolute in the way of the world, the logic of his thinking, and she, was, well, take it as they come types, as far as he was concerned. "The only uses of it I would make, Serah, is to greet you, to speak with you as one civil to another would. Caution yourself as you will, Bob, but I will not push for the secret of your name if it is that dangerous to utter." He tilts his head down as he offers, "I would recommend you make confession if you are, in fact, afraid of who you are."

"Prayers are a poor substitute for empty bellies," she cautions quietly. "Don't you? T'blame somethin' else for your circumstances/especially/ if you believe you didn't deserve itis human nature." She shrugs. "It isn't fair. But it's life. Can you imagine if life /was/ fair?" She's pointedly looking at him now. "That all this bad stuff happens t'a person /because/ they deserved it?" Another shrug. "Somethin' t'think about. I try not t'judge. Emphasis on try." She pauses. "But sometimes, I kind'a wish some of you privileged bastards could spend a week livin' the life these folks have t'live. Just so some damn perspective's gained." She's quiet and then she murmurs, "It's hard t'believe in 'true blessings' when you've seen children starve t'death."

She stops then and gives him an odd look. "Whoever said I was afraid of who I am? I'm afraid of gettin' /used/. There's a lot of power in an identity." She's quiet for a moment, regarding him carefully. Then, finally: "Carys."

"The Maker provides, Serah," he notes, "The Chantry does feed the starving, we take every measure we can to help." His eyes slide down, "However, the Chantry, no, they cannot help every single destitute person. We rely on donations to the faith. And sometimes, when we give back, it can be, difficult. Consider our situation as one would consider a bird feeder. When you first fill it, the birds will come, eat, then they will go. The longer you put out the seed, the longer they rely upon it, and thus begin to build nests where they shouldn't and make a mess with their droppings. They will eventually fight, squabble, make noise at your door, and always demand for more - dive bomb you when you haven't put out more in time… The only thing for it, is to remove the seed." He is trying to tread carefully, "The Chantry, has a way to manage this, so we don't get overwhelmed with more than can be handled at once. By educating, by teaching, by providing tools for the poor to use, a place for the weary to sleep and rest their heads. Food, yes, if there is some. All our money," he tells her, "All the money I had, everything I do have, has gone to the Chantry for this purpose. To fund the lives are those who come to us in their need. The Chantry is always there for the people. But not all wish to come to us as well. Or can come to us. Nor do all support the Chantry with proper tithes."

He turns, "I understand. Believe me, I do. Maybe, you are right, now that I think on it, I misspoke. The Maker is also there to be blamed, to help heal us by providing that outlet for the grieving." He lifts his head as if he could see the Maker's smile, his own light hearted and soft, tinged with sadness too, "Bad stuff happens even to those who are, as you say, privileged." He side glances at her, "Being privileged means more obligations, serah. It is easy to look from below and blame those on top. As it is to look from up on high and sneer at those below. We must understand each other, to truly help each other." He was merely speaking, this thoughts, his beliefs, hinting at his own pain. "Perhaps, you should live a weak in the shoes of the privileged," he offers, "it is not the green grass you make it to be. It is not, an easy road. Case in point, my family, was just slaughtered simply for being born to such privilege, for a name they carried." He walks stiffly at that admission, then offers, "If you would like, you could show me your world, so I can gain this perspective that you think I lack." Blue eyes turn to see her reaction. "Mm, the innocent hurt the most," he tells her when she murmurs about children starving to death, "Bring them to me, I am only one man, but I will do what I can to prevent that. Every child should be given a chance to live and live happily.

The stop has him, inevitably stop a short few strides ahead. He turns back to regard her, with sympathy, maybe sadly once more. "You've been hurt before," he is empathic, nodding, accepting that, "Carys, I am Sebastian."

For the most part, she actually stands there and /listens/ to him. And /doesn't/ interrupt. But she can't help but add, when he's done, "Maybe they don't show up as often as they should 'cause they run the risk of preachy Chantry Brothers who don't wear smallclothes." But really, was that something marginally resembling respect for the man's stance and convictions? Maybe. "Are you sure that all you've given to the Chantry has actually been /used/ for the purpose of helpin' those out?" It's rhetoric, and lacks sarcasm or sneer. "Me? I think you'd've been better off not goin' through a middle man an' doing stuff directly. But…" A lazy lift of her shoulders. "It's your stuff. I can stand here an' bitch all I want about what you do with it…but in the end, it's your stuff t'do with as you want." There's a half-grin and a twinkle to her eyes, "Just like I'll do what I'll do with your stuff."

The admission he makes of his family causes her lips to twist. "Now that? I don't agree with. That's just fuck up, mind my sayin' so. S'one thing to…" She waves a hand as if to come up with an example at random, "Bust in and steal your momma's pearl necklace… that killin' shite? What does that do? Who does that help? Just makes your lot more pissed off at my lot. No one's helped then." But she falls quiet, and sincerely, "But I'm sorry… for what you've suffered." She takes a few steps and the comment about being hurt has her shrugging. A hand rests against her abdomen, possibly just an idle gesture. "I'm low-class, sweetheart. 'course I been hurt before." Then she flashes him agrin. "Ah, so.. no Jacques huh?"

That she listens, actually listens - that's something. Most people zone out mid way through or mock him for the attempt. There were quite a lot of faithless people in Kirkwall, but after the Blight, shouldn't there be more who believe in some Higher Power looking out for them? For that alone, that she listens, he seems to better tolerate her jabs. She listened, he can at least wear some measure of patience for who she is and how she goes about herself. He actually laughs a bit at her first remark, pulling a hand up to the back of his head and running it down his neck as he tilts his head back, "Mm. I didn't mean to preach. There's not a lot of sense in that. People have to be open to hearing what you say." He lets his hand drop down to his side, not defeated, but oddly solemn all the same.

"I trust the leaders of the Chantry to do with the donations as they must," that corruption was possible doesn't register, letting her question the church as most do. "All have to question the Chantry, all must walk through the trials to believing, so when they reach Andraste's Light, they are open to the Maker's embrace. I did the same," he says with some experience in not wanting to conform to faith. Her last quip has his eyebrows shooting up, not quite so serious, playing into that half-grin, "What? What're you going to do with my stuff?"

Conversation is a swift turn of an eagle's feather on the wind, are the emotions that whirlwind about. The man's eyes glance off into the distance, then back behind them toward the post. "We were all born in circumstances that was little to do with our choosing, be they rich or poor." He firmly believes that, "We are given, only what our souls can handle." His eyes revert back, "It does create more animosity. Though how do we stop such cycles from occurring?" Asked, rhetorically, before he lifts one shoulder and sighs, "A battle against human nature and design. Everyday." He nods at her sympathy, "Thank you. I would like to see the men who perpetrated the deed face justice." The heat in that has washed away to a dulled fire, embers burning, not fully fanned. For her own admission, he pulls an empathic look, "The Maker made you strong enough to endure, even if it was painful." He shakes his head at the last, "I will have to confess to lying. It already feels like ash upon my tongue. No, I am Sebastian Vael." Outspokenly as he says that, his back straightens, trying to be poised that he was, the next Prince but stood there in front of her, no better off than she. In fact, she was better off than him with 12 sovereigns in her pocket!

"Mmhmm… An' I don't mean t'deliberately needle people either," she says with a cheeky sort of tone. But that'sa bout as much abuse as she's willing to level upon the initiate for the time being. They /are/ having a semi-serious conversation and she /is/ trying to be semi-respectful of the man's choices. But it's obvious her 'Getting Preached At' meter's starting to peg. "Seems like you had a good experience with that whole…q uestioning thing. Others don't. They end up the opposite. Are they wrong?" She shrugs. "Maybe it's just me… but… my concernsa re a bit more… worldly. Doesn't make me a better person'n you… doesn't make me a worse person. How I judge that… is how people treat other people." Another shrug. "Not gonna lie and say I don't slip up in that area either. Experiences color our opinons. An' you can pretty much guess what I've got a low opinion of."

AGain, she shakes her head. "Maker? Nah. Just someone too lucky … or not lucky enough… not to have died already," she says this with a twinkle in her eye. "An' y'know what they say… what doesn't kill you just makes you stronger." A pause. "Or just annoys the hell out of you. One of the two." There's a nod as he speaks about his family, and while she's formul,ating her response… as it's obvious she's /trying/ to be, well… somewhat delicate and nice (well, the nice part's not hard—she's a nice person! If a bit spastic), he drops taht bomb.

And it is enough to make someone who has been in the 'adventuring' business practically as long as she's been able to walk to trip over her own damn two feet and faceplant right in the street. Last she checked 'Vael' was one of those names you /did not/ toss around, and she's spent enough time in the Marches to be pretty sure of that fact. She rolls over, still planted on her ass and just kind of gawks at the man, a kind of weird 'What the fuck' and 'are you nuts?'

"They may not be wrong, no," he says, thoughtfully over her rebuttal, "but have other purposes than to serve the Maker directly." He has an answer to /everything/ seems like. Well, not quite but a solution or a reason why the square peg doesn't fit into the round hole. The matter of her concern being wordly and his being what, spiritually, has him lightly smile, "Again, such is the divine way we were created. Not all can be on one trodden path." Though that smile flickers and turns into a soft frown, pensive at her admission and the pain he can read in between the lines, "Someone hurt you very badly. Hopefully, there will be other experiences which recolour your opinions. We are not all demons who rise to the top to put our thumbs over those less fortunate. I…" He didn't admit who he was yet, so he stops.

He might have said more, but then she's suddenly on the ground. What, just happened? His eyes widen and he moves to help her up, offering her a hand as she turns to give him that weird gawking look, "Are you okay? Here, let me help you up?" Against that what the fuck look, he shrugs, "I don't run from who I am, Serah. I am, as the Maker made me."

"I'm tryin' to figure out if you're insane," she says as she accepts his help up. "Either for what you were spoutin' before… or what you just admitted to," she's not recoiling, so there's that. "Unless you're a Vael from some off branch that isn't… y'know… /those/ Vaels." She's eying him. "But I'm thinkin' that's kind of like saying a Theirin isn't one of /those/ Theirins." She's speaking quietly about this, and glancing about as if she's expecting this admission to suddenly have people springing from the woodworks… and it's likely obviously now that Carys is somewhat, naturally, paranoid. "Yeah… Maker certainly did at that," she says of being made. "But who you are can get you a shit load of trouble you probably don't want t'deal with." She pauses and then she recalls what they were originally talking about…what the bounty was for and all that jazz. She closes her eyes, takes a deep breath and she shakes her head. "Fuck me… don't I feel like the fuckin' asshole…" Rubbing the back of her neck, the theif pivots and kind of ambles away in silent awkwardness.

Those auburn eyebrows lift at her first remark as his hand claps with her forearm and he leans back onto the balls of his feet to help pull her from the ground. "If I hide who I am, then the bastards win. That I've taken the offensive, means they know I'm aware of them, and prepared to meet them head on if I must-" his draw of her up puts her in a rather close position so he can keep his voice low, "Fear works both ways. I am not afraid to meet my Maker in the manner that duty plays me to," his hand releases.

None so far had sprung out to attack. "The Flint Company has to get through all the people who desire a reward, before they can strike out for their own," he smiles a little at her, "And I'm not so soft that I do not know how to defend myself, Serah. I am a survivor of my circumstance, as you are." His eyes harden with the intensity behind those blue eyes, "Then let them come. I will be ready." That she's walking away suddenly, calling herself an asshole, has him call out, "You're not, Serah. You are just you. And I like what I see." He lifts his hand to wave to her, since they were almost to Hightown, "Good day Serah Bob."

There's a bit of a hngh that's loud enugh to hear outside of her grumbling and awkward ambling away gait. "IF… look, if you don't get anyone else t'help you with your, uh…" She waves a hand. "I'll help. I'll keep in touch." Then there's a wave and she's making herself scarce via stealth. But she does impart, "Good day—Sweetheart!"

Sebastian nods resolutely at her offer of aid, though, her imparting words have the man turn with colour heating up on his cheeks. Composure Sebastian, Composure. One step at a time, no need to fall on your face now!


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