Post #2479111 in The City of Chains, a roleplay on RPG

reasons to finally stay

The sun’s rays lazily drifted into the open window that led to Ashton’s bedroom, illuminating the room. The man himself sat on a stool in the corner, his back against the wall and his bare feet stretched out in front of him. The sleeves of his shirt were pulled back past his elbows, and even the cuffs of his pants were rolled back to his knees, which further served to make him feel that the day was an easy one. The rhythmic cutting of his whittling filled added to the melody of the birds chirping and the errant wind rustling his curtains. It was, perhaps the laziest day he could remember in recent time, which wasn’t necessarily a bad thing. He had sent Lia and his new addition home, not wanting them to waste the day stuffed inside the shop, so all that remained in the building was himself and Snuffy, who was dozing lethargically in the corner of the room, her snoring adding to the sound.

The room he lived in was small, no surprise. The building he resided in was a small one, with the main floor of his shop taking up most of the real estate, as well as a workshop behind the counter. However, the closet he called home was undoubtably his. The walls were painted a light greenish hue. A bed sat unmade in one corner of the room, while a dresser with either a sleeve or a pant-leg hanging freely from the between the cabinets. A small bookshelf sat against another wall, filled to the brim with books, with another few stacked on top. Some were stories or fairy tales, while others were guides or techniques on his chosen craft. In the corner where he was sitting, right at his side was a desk with letters and blank pieces of parchment thrown chaotically into the mix.

For the finishing touches, all around him sat the products of his diligent work, those few that held either close meaning, or were too well worked he felt to be sold. Effort had to be made to actually find them, but they were there. Among those few were plates of wood, polished to a hardwood sheen. Each of the plates held etched within the grain the face of one of his friends. Sparrow as he remembered her, so full of life, of happiness, and of strength none of which he believed she’d lost—only hidden for a time. Another bore the face of Rilien, but he did not wear the tranquil’s frown—this one wore the face he remembered. The smiling face he’d met in the cave on Sundermount, the one that traded easy quips. Another held Lucien’s visage, and even through the plate his regal presence was captured, his head held high, and his shoulders straighter than any one of his arrows. There were ones of Sophia, Lia, Ithilian, Aurora, Snuffy, and even Amalia managed to grace one.

And then there was Nostariel’s. Her soft features reflected well in the cedar plaque, crafted by a sure and steady hand, the same hand that had crafted her bow. Her hair fell down in long tresses, her eyes wide and happy, and her mouth was graced with the widest grin Ashton sought to give her. It was an image he’d memorized, and one he could replicate in an instant. He’d sooner get lost in the woods than forget that face. His thoughts wondered as he worked the wood in his hand, the knife slicing with the grain toward an undetermined goal. It gave him time enough to think and to reflect—for recent events needed reflecting. Between his quest to come to terms with his own past, and Nostariel’s bid to face hers for closure caused him to want to pause and reevaluate what was really important in his life.

“Hurry, hurry! You're blocking the doorway—” a familiar voice whined, muffled from behind the door that led into Ashton's shop. Perhaps, even reaching through the open window overhead. Sparrow shielded her eyes from the sun, squinting up at the shutters. Her hands were poised against Rilien's shoulder blades, though she momentarily halted her insistent pushing. It was she, for once, who'd suggested visiting their friend-down-the-way. She hummed low in her throat and pushed away from her ever-silent companion, tipping her head backwards. She'd made this trek countless times (drunk and sober, semi-conscious and barely clinging on). For certain, they'd all changed over the years. They'd grown closer as friends and stronger as individuals. They'd overcome great obstacles and forgiven themselves for making grievous mistakes, allowing their pasts to become a part of them, rather than a crutch or anchor they lent upon or sank with.

She briefly considered scrambling up the wooden slats and surprising Ashton by appearing somewhere that wasn't the front door, but shimmied around Rilien and pushed the door open with her shoulder instead. No Lia—she noted in disappointment, pouting her lips. Pretty little Elvish girl, she was. She'd said as much to Ashton, who only laughed at her flighty eye-batting, and warned that she wouldn't be interested. It couldn't be helped, she supposed. Sparrow made her way inside, cupped her hand to her mouth and called for Ashton as she walked. Manners had never been convenient or necessary where she lived, nor accommodating unless she needed to smooth out any ruffled feathers (or deal with hoity-toity noblemen and women). She was learning to behave more civilly, as a result of having friends borne in higher places. Progress was definitely slow. She'd never attend a ball and fit in with the others, certainly not without stepping on some toes and offending someone. Sparrow slapped her hands on the counter and peeked around the main hall, before spotting a set of stairs tucked in the corner.

“Come on, over there,” she ushered, snatching up Rilien's wrist and rudely tugging him along with her. She might have appeared like an unruly hound pulling at the tethers, but her excitement often overrode her better senses (and gentility). If she'd ever been in this part of Ashton's shop, she could not recall. Discovering something new, however plain, felt just as thrilling as exploring the Deep Roads. Her nosiness and inability to keep her hands off of things knew no bounds, but fortunate enough for her, her friends tended not to mind. Sparrow plowed upstairs, and stubbornly pulled Rilien to her side as the stairway opened up into a smaller room. “Hey. We're coming in,” The half-elf announced, fingers slowly easing away from her friends wrist so that she could poke around Ashton's room. She flattened the wrinkles in her shirt and readjusted her ruffled collar. Her wardrobe had changed drastically over the years, lending her a feminine quality she never thought she had. Fitted tunics, layered coats and comfortable trousers with leather boots. Everything was still comfortable, still teetering between this and that, but she was now obviously smaller than Rilien, and much more content in her own skin.

She spotted him lounging against the furthest wall, surrounded by wooden plates and small piles of discarded wood-whittles, intent upon his work. Her mouth quirked into a smile, and her eyebrows sailed up her forehead before knitting down curiously. “What's all this, then?” Sparrow tittered, coming to circle around all of the plates and swoop down onto her haunches for a better look. She crossed her arms over her stomach, and leaned forward like a perched bird. Her expression shifted, quick-firing into one of awe. Her tucked hands casually slipped away from her sides, and snatched up one of the plates—a smiling Rilien, unfamiliar to her. “Ash. These are amazing. I mean, the likeness is uncanny.” She tilted it this way and that, then roved the other plates with her eyes. “Where's yours?”

Rilien was not precisely sure why it was necessary to be here at the moment, but as he had no pressing orders waiting at the shop, he had acquiesced to be present. Sparrow may be of the impression that she dragged him places various and sundry, and in some literal sense, she would be correct. It was also true, however, that Rilien did nothing he truly did not wish to do. He could be relatively easily swayed regarding matters about which he was wholly neutral, which was most of them, so he supposed it might look quite a bit like he had no will of his own. Well enough—this was precisely how he was supposed to be, given his Rite.

If asked, he would perhaps have advised against such an aggressive method of entry, as he had the suspicion that Ashton preferred his doors to have hinges, but as usual, he was not consulted so much as he was expected to follow, and follow he did, noting that the door had withstood Sparrow’s method of entry relatively intact. He trailed behind her into the smaller room at the back of the shop, just as indifferent to considerations of personal space or privacy as she was, if for wholly different reasons. He almost frowned at the general state of disorder the room was in, but there was no visible reaction to it. He did gain a small crease between his brows, however, at the depiction of himself among the others. He did not find it inaccurate… for a very specific set of circumstances. He could smile like that now, if he wished. He just never wished. Not once in a decade and a half, save then. He did not want her to ask about it. In this, he was served by her effusive enthusiasm and her complete lack of subtlety and attention to detail. If ever there was a person in this world who was antithetical to everything Rilien was, it was Sparrow.

“Your work is accurate, but there is nothing 'uncanny' about it,” he said bluntly. Then again, for Rilien, he who held efficiency and precision as highest virtue, perhaps accurate was quite the compliment. He’d once used the same words to describe Lucien’s efforts at painting. Neither man seemed inclined to self-portraiture. The Tranquil folded his hands in his sleeves, watching a few dust motes float through the air, the angled sunlight giving them illumination they would not otherwise have had.

He could have heard the chirping Sparrow was making a mile away, much less the dozen or so feet below his windowsill. His first instinct was to rise out of his chair and meet them downstairs. He knew that there was a “them;” that Rilien was tagging along with her. Or maybe tagging along was the wrong phrase... Dragged sounded like a much better fit with what he imagined. Something still kept him in his chair however. The carving knife between his fingers swung around lazily while he waited instead of getting to his feet. Sparrow’s beckons from his main hall was not enough to rouse him either, as he turned his attention to the door on the far side of the room. If he knew Sparrow (and he did) then she’d find the nook that his stairs hid in. He wasn’t disappointed as a pair of footsteps echoed through the stairwell—one set rough and loud, the other soft and quiet.

It was then, that he finally sat the knife on the desk and rose to his feet, in order to properly greet his friends. In truth, Sparrow’s entrance was a tick more subdued than he expected. Of course he’d still have to inspect the hinges on his shop door—but that was beside the point. “Busy work,” He answered modestly. Hovering over Sparrow’s shoulder, he too peered at his handiwork. Then his chin dropped the few inches and landed in the crook of her neck, bristling her with what unshaven hairs he had on his chin. “The shop gets dreadfully dull at points. So in a valiant effort to combat the boredom, I whittle the most interesting people I know,” he said with a chuckle. “Doing myself is… iffy at best,” he admitted offhandedly, his tone noticebly dropping a decibel.

In an instant, he flicked his chin from Sparrow’s neck and skirted barefooted the distance between her and Rilien. With a pair of deft fingers, Ashton moved them through air and landed them on the corners of his lips. He then turned each corner half-an-inch upward, transforming his default neutral expression into a smiling (if forced) countenance. “Now it’s uncanny,” he said, tossing glances between the elf in front of him and the elf captured in the plate. Letting his lips slip back into their usual place, Ashton took a step backward and took a seat on his bed. “So what brings you to my very humble abode?”

Sparrow's fingers skated across the wooden cheekbones, creased with an easygoing smile. There was twinkle in those eyes that was not currently there. It was almost as if she were looking at an old portrait of Rilien. Painted before the Rite had claimed the Fade, and his emotions, away. He looked far happier. And if Ashton had whittled it this way, then he'd surely seen him like this, as well. Her grin faltered briefly. Petty as envy was, she'd wished to see him how he'd been before, even if she acknowledged Rilien no differently than anyone else—in the sense, that he was not placed in an unreachable category. It never mattered how much he was unable to feel or reciprocate her own relentless, vibrant feelings, certainly not to her. She'd often joked about feeling enough for the both of them. Her dearest friend was a beacon in her life, guiding her down a path she could never have found on her own.

She traced the depiction of his smile and dropped her hand away from it. Perhaps, if she just could... A stubbly chin needling against the crook of her neck shook her thoughts away, forcing an uncontrollable bark of laughter. She was ticklish, after all. Her fingers tightened around the wooden plate to keep herself from jerking around and dropping it, though she still snrked, toothy grin beaming. “Lucky for you, you've got an interesting band of friends,” she said between bouts of laughter. She finally wriggled away from him, and his scratchy beard, when he released her and strode towards Rilien. She meant to ask him what he meant by that—how could it be difficult whittling yourself? Had she any abilities in any artistic crafts, Sparrow would have depicted him with the widest smile of all. Wide enough for them all. What was a house, without its foundations?

She doubled over in laughter when Ashton's fingers forced a smile on Rilien's face, albeit a very non-consensual one. Clutching her stomach, Sparrow wiped at her eyes with her forearm and nodded appreciatively, “Y-You're right, it is uncanny.” She abruptly straightened and held the plate at arms length, swinging her gaze from Rilien to Ashton's wonderful craftsmanship. These two, they represented her home. However unwelcome, however annoyed they might become over her mistakes and antics, she could not imagine living anywhere they did not. She finally relinquished her hold on the plate, gently placing it back with the others, before sweeping up and facing the now-seated Ashton. Scratching her chin, Sparrow shrugged her slender shoulders and cocked her head to the side. “We don't need a reason to visit a friend, do we? Just thought you'd be lonely. It's been awhile—I mean, all of us together, without any questionable adventures involved.”

She paused and hooked her thumb towards the stairs, “Besides, Rilien was worried. You seem a lot more pensive than usual.”

It was perhaps fortunate for Ashton that it was almost impossible for Rilien to be annoyed, lest he might well have reacted poorly to his person being utilized in such a humiliating fashion. Of course, he had neither shame nor pride anymore, either, and so he simply remained where he was, hands folded into his sleeves, while the corners of his mouth were shoved upwards, the only indication he’d even noticed the slow, noncommittal blink of his eyes, like a cat that was simply too lazy to bother doing anything about the child tugging at its tail. The moment he was released, his mouth resumed its usual neutral cast, and he allowed Sparrow to do all of the explaining. Really, what would he add? That he had been the worried one was obviously a lie, but he felt no inclination to correct it—the absurdity of the statement was rather self-evident.

When she was done though, he did add one thing. "Understandably,” he said, picking up on the last statement Sparrow made as though it were true. "You have been thoughtful lately. I believe it is often said that uncharacteristic behavior in another is grounds to inquire after their health.” He didn’t even look at either of them when he said it, and of course, his tone would never waver unless he consciously caused it to do so. He was never one to make the offer—to say that if the other needed to speak, he would listen—but he was decent enough at implying it, somewhere between the flat-greys of all his words, always underlining the vibrant colors of hers. They were both there if he required them. And perhaps, between them, nearly any kind of requirement could be met.

“Ah, of course he was. Poor Rilien, I wonder how he gets anything done with all the worrying he does,” Ashton said, cradling his chin over the back of his interlocked fingers. At some point, he’d pulled up his elbows and planted them on his knees, giving his lofty head some much needed support as he sat on his bed. Then his attentions turned to Rilien after he had spoken. “Thoughtful?” Ashton repeated, weighing the word on his tongue. Yes, he decided that that was the best word that described his current mood. Tilting his head on the backs of his knuckles, the thoughtful mood resurfaced upon his face, hiding the silliness that had been apparent only moments before. “I guess there were things I was thinking about,” He said, looking between Sparrow and Rilien.

He wasn’t going to tell them what they’d gone through on Nostariel’s task, because it wasn’t his to tell. However, the experience he found down there stuck with him and followed him back to Kirkwall, keeping him in a reflective mood the past week or so. What had been closure for Nostariel, was a reminder to him. He still had friends in Kirkwall, and it was thanks to them that he remained instead of moving on. He’d stopped running because he found something not worth running away from. He’d wanted to thank them for that, for being there for him—but just up and saying that was far too awkward and way out of character for him. Rilien was right, he wasn’t a thoughtful individual, but a man of action! (In his optimistic mind, of course).

They were there, and they weren’t going anywhere anytime soon, and neither was he. Tilting his head the other way, his ever present smile returned to his lips. Pulling his fingers apart, he clapped them together and stood from the bed. “You’re so right Sparrow,” he said looking at her, “I mean it’s about time we fix that, hmm? How about we go find ourselves a questionable adventure. I won't be satisfied unless Rilien has to bail us out of jail.” He added the last part in jest-- He really didn't want to go back to jail if he had the option.

With all the things she held dear, and all the things she was afraid to lose, it was a wonder—Sparrow shook her head and flashed a weasely grin in return, jerking her hands away from her sides to rest at the nape of her neck, fingers tangled. “Now, you're talking,” she chirped, eyes sweeping towards Rilien for a brief moment. Mission complete, then. She'd never known a truer home and a better reason to stay in one place, as dreary as Kirkwall was, then to be in the presence of all the companions she'd been fortunate enough to meet. Blunder into, rather. They'd chased away her monsters before, so she hoped she could someday return the favor. She unlocked her fingers and waggled them in front of her face, dark eyes reflecting the lights in the room. “Maybe Rilien can wear the dress this time.”

Snippet #2479111

located in Kirkwall, a part of The City of Chains, one of the many universes on RPG.

Setting

Characters Present

Footnotes