LIAR

"THE IRON BULL" [Indie RP Blog]

[nemichen]

bb

[hissracl]

rebellantes‌:

Just what was he supposed to be deciding, anyway? Anders resisted the temptation to turn the contract sideways and look at it again. It likely would mean the same to him, either way. For being such a… rough and tumble group of fighters, their contract was shocking full of legalese and clauses that the mage couldn’t make heads or tails of.

At least he could stare dumbly at the contract while dry now. Standing beneath one of the camp’s canopies, he turned towards the lamplight, eyebrows furrowing as he looked it over again. Hopefully that would make people think that he simply had a hard time seeing the words, instead of trying to understand them. He might not be a genius, but he could normally follow things. Most things. This was just… entirely out of his element.

“So… you said you’d work out monetary compensation with the Ambassador,” Off to the side, the mutterings of the Seeker could be heard as he spoke, indistinct, but at least clear in their disdain. “So uh… maybe you could just… go over specifics with me? I mean otherwise, of course. I don’t hold the purse strings. We would obviously be providing quarters or at least space to set up your own. Are we going to be expected to provide equipment, or…?”

What else was there to this sort of thing besides room and board? Education within the Circles didn’t teach him what to expect when making deals with mercenary bands after all. He’d never been in charge when he was with the Wardens (not that he was now, of course), so he was, truly, without a clue.

@hissracl​ plotted!

From reading reports alone, The Iron Bull initially has the impression that the so-called Herald of Andraste’s brain is something akin to a bag of cats. He’s yet to make a final judgment here; so much of that information is likely outdated and collected during a period of immense strife. The last thing this world needs is a demon with a freshly minted artifact of power embedded into their left hand, divine intervention be damned.

“Correct. We may be here for the greater good, but at the end of the day a man still needs to keep his belly full. Good ale doesn’t hurt either!”

Though his tone is playful, The Iron Bull truly would not abide if the Chargers weren’t properly cared for. He leans from one foot to the other, relieving his weight from a lame ankle already aching from the heavy rain.

Clearly Anders is a man more comfortable with inciting unprecedented rebellion amongst an oppressed peoples rather than managing one. Sadly, life has other plans for individuals who decide they are more than just a brief blip in history...but people are also entirely capable of progress; growing into the burdens that were thrust upon them.

Besides, he’s always thought those sort of surprises were the best ones.

“Of course, I’ve been entirely forthcoming with my position with the Ben-Hassrath. The Qunari acknowledge the threat posed by the rifts and both parties would mutually benefit from a relationship...Unless you still have any reservations?”

[rustedking]

Iron back, Melancholic

Full rez.: https://imgur.com/a/IXrV5JY

[hissracl]

kaaras-adaar‌:

Kaaras just offered the other man a pleasant smile. He was more than happy to huddle up around the fire and have a warm drink. It would be good for not just keeping warm in the cold desert night, but also good for the soul. He was within good company as well, but he was really here for two reasons. The first was Bull, to try and make him feel better, to take his mind off what they’d been through, and the second was to take his own mind off what he’d been through in the Fade. He still felt the surreal magics crawling up his skin, and every time he closed his eyes, all he could think about was Stroud, being left behind to that… nightmare. 

“Not often, no,” he replied, ruby eyes catching the flames dancing before him. He missed home. He missed his mother. Often, he found himself wondering how she was doing, but it was too dangerous just to go home when there were so many enemies out after his head. It was best he left her out of any of this, unless he wanted his mother joining his father in the grave. He’d rather die before he saw that.

“They have farmers markets in Ferelden. Sometimes we were lucky enough to see rare traders there. Although their items were expensive.” Much too expensive for him and his poor family. Every now and again, his father had managed to persuade someone, though. Kaaras hadn’t thought much of it back then, but now… he wondered if it was because his father had intimidated them, despite how kind and loving he’d been. He’d also been a Qunari, a re-educator… Kaaras realised once the truth had come out that his father had a darker part in him that he’d never really seen.

“Honestly, I’ve not had a warm cup in a long time. It wasn’t until you reminded me of it that I realised with Inquisition sources, we could come across it again. A little bit of home for the both of us, despite our differences.” He chuckled softly then, giving Bull a look of comfort. 

Very few can imagine the level of kindness that Kaaras gave so freely... Nor is it the sort of genteel mien that could be assumed for plain pragmatism. No, Kaaras is, without any pretenses, a nice person. Remarkable.

The story of the Inquisitor’s parents is no mystery to him; looking into Kaaras’s history and that of his progenitors’ is all typical procedure for The Iron Bull. Yet reading about people is not the same as knowing or even understanding their lives.

“You haven’t spoken much about your family. Not many like them.” The Iron Bull brings his mug up to his face until he could feel the warm steam slowly wafting over his nose. When he finally allows himself a taste of his drink, the rich chocolate flavor makes him smile, if only for a few seconds.

“They probably overcharged your parents back then,” he muses.

[hissracl]

foppishdandy‌:

The quaver of low bass was rough in his ears. It traveled in a trickle down back; juxtaposing the touch climbing his jaw. 

Dorian’s eyes dropped. Between his expertly groomed eyebrows, a wrinkle was forming. The view of the bare-skinned chest, dominating his discarded challenge, was hardly a consolation.

In this frustration, while protecting the proverbial wound by freezing it over until inaccessible, he thought: Not a very pleasant analogy. A mindless hound nipping at the heels of passerby — perhaps a bit accurate. He was not exactly renowned for his kindnesses to strangers. (Point: the opposite was often true.)

The wrinkle where The Iron Bull’s fist was, he brushed flat. Tilting his chin brought his face out of the very same hand, and curiously in a way that could give him another sordid stare. Dorian was rarely short on words as he was here; trying to convey the sort of things that layers of a carefully constructed past would not allow be directly said. He was not so sure of what those were exactly, himself. Some were familiar friends (anger, to be misunderstood, powerlessness to vice), though others he could not navigate with so delicate thoughts.

Narrowed eyes and a raised brow were all that he could muster for elaboration, but not without some impunity— still, looking uncharacteristically close to compliant. 

Two sides of one coin: victory tastes sweet and ephemeral where bitterness in failure casts a dark, growing shadow over the heart. Yet so much of interest only happens after the coin has landed. What would a highborn, Tevinter mage who’d behind his family and his home consider this?

Dorian, almost demure and probably intolerable to himself would have easily incurred the disdain of a contemptuous audience.

Cruelty, however, had never been The Iron Bull's calling.

Consent is precious in a world where so little of it exists. Peering down with one eye, he's wary not for his own sake; waiting for any inkling that perhaps the mage had suffered a particular lack of judgment to allow a Qunari spy so close, that this was something Dorian truly desired.

Only once certainty is assured does The Iron Bull hold Dorian to him, tenderly, in recognition of a proud man rendered vulnerable. He leans down to close the remaining distance between them and presses their lips together with just enough pressure to invite passion-- if Dorian so chose.

[hissracl]

foppishdandy‌:

Dread drops into the pool of wine in his gut. He doesn’t even gasp, the wall is chilling his back before he even realizes he has been pushed. The irrationality of fear is screaming to find the wound, that surely he is poison-and-hilt deep in mistakes.

A steadier mind convinces him that he is uninjured, physically at any rate, and by the time this realization has come to pass, the Qunari has found a way to castigate.

 Altus, an heir to status and fortune and prowess, immediately wants to bite the very implication that Tevinter are not special. Special blood, special powers, special history. Yet dredged in the reprehensible. Humbly, but as if scorching his own throat in sacrilege on the way up, he says:

“We aren’t.”

Dorian has to almost press the back of his head against the cobblestone to look at him, but he does, the expression of indignation has largely settled into a hard, internal debate. All The Iron Bull is from this view: a single eye in the dark and an outline of horns that stretch further than he can see.

There is a split path before him. He could continue like this and taste the terribleness of honesty again, but indeed the Tevinter in him has another route in mind. He chooses — though it is hardly choice when it is a habit — the low road.

“Jealous, are we?” The edge of his posh accent is without that passion: practiced, as custom. A ceremonial knife. “That I can do whatever I wish with this chance. Squander it, even… and not you?”

"Petty retorts are hardly becoming of you, Dorian. Though I suppose one could argue they're par for the course."

The words hardly carry more weight than pebbles thrown at his bedroom window; not Dorian's most elegant effort towards deflection and hardly even a morsel enough to bait The Iron Bull. They weren't here to talk about himself, after all.

Consequently, the reminder soothes his anger into a simmer with a breath of clarity. He relaxes his fist into an open palm, sliding it slowly along the outer lapel of Dorian's coat and finally up along his neck and exploring the inviting curve of his jaw with callused fingertips--testing the theory behind so many furtive looks and glances...

“Please. You’re like a Mabari chasing the carriage...No idea. What to do. Even if you caught it,” The Iron Bull continues, his words unfurling in a meaningful staccato. But I could show you.

[garage-thedas]

Taarsidath-an-halssam

[hissracl]

foppishdandy‌:

The way The Iron Bull asked: with knowing. In his voice, he recognized that knowing like something plucked from memory.

That he says the right words the right way in the right location to prove a point— his point— there was no need to pose the question or to give chase at all, but he drove the soreness in a little further just to do so.

And, as if its trueness mattered. Speaking it was for the satisfaction of the listener, for that knowing, but the inevitability of truth comes as an: “it is” in a dark tone, as dark as the sky with its starless cast of clouds.

Dorian hasn’t looked at him though, but when next he speaks, it is calm and envenomed. “But, no, you wouldn’t know. Family isn’t the sort of “stuff” you can simply scramble together an understanding of through hearsay and your reports.”

For all of Bull’s coaxing, precisely hitting weak points with his cleverness, Dorian concedes he is a good spy. In much the same way that it makes him a loathsome ally, and (if he dared to think it) a worse friend right now.

He didn’t want to be anywhere, including here, but here was at least deserted. 

“It was never yours to tell!” Enunciating like the stabbing of a dagger as he turned halfway to him. At this range, their great difference in eye level was monumental, but he never wavered in intensity. “Or to go snooping about to uncover. Must you make everything your bloody business?”

“I don’t need to go snooping around to figure out what’s right in front of me.”

Envious, the way Dorian can freely lash out. Not loss of control, yet entirely involuntary. A windstorm of words, warnings, wrath. No further, though not beyond the realm of possibility.

Rage is like an all-consuming drug, nearly contagious and entirely impossible to contain when fueled. The Iron Bull resorts to substitutes, dopamine rushes in satisfying his most base desires. Thus proximity acts as the catalyst in all things, and suddenly he finds himself inescapably drawn towards the shrinking distance between them.

His mind blots out the words and tangle them into tangible action; a fistful of fabric and the other man’s back pushed against the wall. The words don’t come to him until later, when he can already feel the warmth seeping through Dorian’s clothes against his skin.

“What makes Vints think they’re so fucking special?” With hardly inches between them, his anger seeps out with bared teeth. “Your story is not the first, and it sure as hell isn’t the last. You’re not the only one who’s had to leave behind the things they care about. But you get to have something most people don’t-- a chance to fix it.”

[hissracl]

kaaras-adaar‌:

Kaaras gave a soft laugh. “I was actually thinking of tea, but now that you’ve mentioned hot chocolate, that sounds loads better.” It wasn’t something he’d really grown up with. Not for a lack of his parents knowing of it (they had been Qunari after all in their early lives), but because it was rare to get such ingredients down South, especially as far as Ferelden. 

Pushing himself up, he rummaged through one of the nearest ration bags. There were a few dry ingredients, things that would last days on the road, and things that would be full of energy. Down the bottom, he found the stash of sweets, teas, hard candies, nuts, things like that. They were the treats, for when they’d earned something sweet. Well, Kaaras certainly thought that they earned more than that after what they’d all just been through.

A small tin had ground cocoa inside it, and he pulled it out. Even for the Inquisition, it was still a rare treat, but after having found out Bull’s taste in the fine powder, Kaaras had invested in a little.

“Here, just what you need.” He poured some water from his skin into the kettle over the fire, letting it boil. In the meantime, each other’s company would have to do. 

“Not something you find down south with ease.” 

The Iron Bull fancies himself a man hard to surprise. He remembers the conversation with Varric clearly, of course, but to know that the Inquisitor had bothered to pay it any mind certainly falls into the sparse cabinet of things unaccounted for.

Between the smell of stoked ashes, a crackling fire, the adjoining scent of warm cocoa feels akin to unearthing a timeworn treasure of memory. So very few of those in his past are as precious, and it softens the hard lines in the corner of his eyes as he bathes in a moment of true homesickness.

“Couldn’t be more right-- on both counts. Thanks, boss.”

Their unlike upbringings are not lost on him, so he can only guess at the significance, if any, that a simple cup of hot chocolate might impart on Kaaras. Just a few months ago, The Iron Bull’s curiosity might have shared an equivalence with heresy.

“I figure your folks didn’t come by this stuff very often.”

[usukemurakata-deactivated202004]

in Seheron

[hissracl]

foppishdandy‌:

Accusations ( however false or however true) as damaging to one’s noble Tevinter standing like the one The Iron Bull had just made were meant to be slipped into letters; whispered venomously behind elegant cocktails at political parties; or, to go ignored by one’s family. 

Even the boldest of the elite were not so crass as to proclaim such things loud for the public to deliberate. To be cornered in this, a spectacle, liken to mockery, he urgently starts to wilt.

“Then keep conjecture out of your mouth in the future, hm?”

His father’s shadow had begun to loom over his mind, dowsing the embers of his rage in a trickle. He simpered, but ashamed now. It wasn’t a feeling that came to him easily, instead, it gutted, displacing the heat once in his eyes to his face— not a “these country roads are ruining my boots” annoyance. Full-blown, fully realized, and true.

A nearly empty tankard spun, clattering. Dangerously close to toppling over after being flung onto the nearest barrel as he left, escaping the audience and the judgements that might come.

Ballroom politics between two nations can be no more the same than the difference between Leliana’s precious, pampered pet nugs and a horde of barnyard cats. Southern politics might be more akin to the latter, save for the very highest reaches of Orlesian politics. Even then, the dancers need only the semblance of pretense to start shoveling their faces in dirt and filth like wild animals.

Yet more strikingly, they were not in Tevinter, where such facts might weigh into politicking quandaries.

His eyes trail after the billowing tail of Dorian’s coat and the roiling mood that fills his absence. Their audience resumes the sounds of shuffling paper, scuffling boots, and composed mindfulness prior to the mage’s hasty departure. The Iron Bull proffers a smile and threat to the remaining few who lack the wisdom to divert their attention to their previous duties before turning on his heel and following Dorian out, away from prying eyes and ears.

“It’s the truth, isn’t it?”

In the cold night air, he can smell the warmth of the pages in ancient tomes, oiled leather, and the sweet aroma wine. Unmistakably Dorian. Close enough to touch.

“I know family stuff can be rough. How’re you holding up?”

[hissracl]

foppishdandy‌:

What had started as intrigue (partly cautious, as all things rightly are regarding Bull), plummets. His curiosity was and had been a damnable thing, and, scrutinizing all the while being summoned, he hazards to humor the games of the Qunari.

A mistake that shocks him. For a moment, stupefies. 

The eyes that are watching fade in the harshening fires of Dorian’s own; that The Iron Bull might be immolated with — stripped of all grandiose and pomp — a few aggrieved words.

“You are an idiot!”

The words-- short, succinct, sting like overgrown nettles snagging at his ankles. Might’ve even turned him on, Dorian’s fiery petulance, if not for the fact that he has the fleeting sensation that his life has perhaps crossed over the line into forfeiture.

His hands go up, as though he might be absolved of the inevitable hellfire to commence. A paltry defense must be mustered before he sits as a pretty pile of ashes in the middle of the stairway.

“Okay, maybe gay is a bit subjective...”

[m4hlm4]

[hissracl]

kaaras-adaar‌:

“Everyone needs to sleep,” Kaaras stated. His words were blunt, but there was still a tenderness to them within his airy, level voice. “Even the strongest still need to.” It shouldn’t have been seen as something weak, or something that Bull needed to worry about, but Kaaras didn’t mention anything like that. He had a feeling the other man didn’t want to feel like he was having some kind of a pep talk.

The Inquisitor moved, the air cool outside, as he tugged his coat a little closer to his body. He, too, had suffered sleepless nights since then. Perhaps that’s why he was here. Rich, him telling Bull that he needed to sleep despite the fact that he was attempting to avoid it, also.

Maybe it was the fact that he was a mage, or maybe it was the fact that he had this anchor on his hand. He didn’t know, but after the Fade, he felt like he was that much closer to death once more. He’d seen horrible things, they all had. Sleep wasn’t going to come easy for anyone, but Kaaras had the irrational thought that maybe Death was after him. And yet, he continued to escape it. Someone was looking out for him, or maybe he was just the luckiest bastard in the world right now. Either way, the both of them needed sleep. 

Maybe if he admitted his own feelings, it would take Bull’s mind off his own traumatising experience. This must have been more difficult on Bull since his feelings on magic, the Fade and demons. 

“Although, a good, warm mug of something would be great, too.” 

He's seen horrible things his whole life. Fully grown Qunari fighters torn apart like rag dolls, mere children driven mad by warfare and grief, entire towns razed for the worthy causes of either side; blood and death and suffering that fuels this inexorable drive to harness power and greatness.

Magic, demons, the arcane-- far from unfamiliar, yet always beyond the realm of his understanding. The reins, however, have always been held by people, tangible, greedy, fallible. These are a universal truth he understands.

A grumbling noise passes his lips, which were otherwise pressed thin with poorly constructed resolve.

To say that Qunari do not dream is convenient propaganda for a society who does not value an untethered world. Maybe what he really needs is a dream journal. Or a therapist.

“Come to think of it, I don’t think I’ve ever come across a problem I couldn’t solve with an obscene amount of alcohol. Unless you were talking about hot chocolate...In which case, I’ll take that.”

[hissracl]

foppishdandy‌:

  What he’d like is to hear the latest gossip. Please provide, before he spreads fallacious rumors.

“Dorian! You lying sonnuva Tevinter brat, stop looking obvious and come over here.”

Shockingly, multiple heads turn towards the giant Qunari mercenary gesticulating wildly by the banister. The Iron Bull’s barely-contained excitement causes the steps to creak every time his weight bounces from one foot to the other. 

His eyes narrow and his mouth spreads wide into a most fulsome smile that’s sure to bring a grimace to dear old Dorian’s perfectly immaculate face.

“So, word on the street is that you might be gay.”    

[hissracl]

Call it anything other than what it is. His living comes from crafting lies indistinguishable from truth, but no one ever mentions that he's bound to lie to himself.

"I don't need to sleep," he mutters, as though his words might be worth a damn.

An Andrastian might call it a challenge of faith, in line with the murmurs he hears from passing Inquisition sentries patrolling in concert. His motivating factors have less to do with religious fervor and more to do with this peculiar fear of having had his ass dropped in a place where the rules of reality just don't apply.

Notably, the best part of that whole field trip is that he's no longer fucking there.

[hissracl]

ravusnightblossom‌:

⋞⁘♔⁘⋟   Were he not so much in a frantic state, Ravus likely would have respected this man’s non-nonsense attitude of getting straight to the point. It was a trait he also made an effort to display and could appreciate it in other. Unfortunately, at the moment this large individual was no more than a threatening stranger in his mind– one that could hit with the impact of making him feel like he’d just been barreled into by a truck. 

“I am Ravus Nox Fleuret, High Commander of the Imperial Army, and I demand to know what this ‘Inquisition’ is that you are speaking of.” An Inquisition?! What could that possibly mean? Was this some organized band of rebels or Lucian sympathizers? Either way, that wouldn’t do! It was akin to anarchy and he couldn’t allow that to continue.  

First of all, however, he still needed to figure out where he was, precisely. He couldn’t recall any location referred to as the Frostback Mountains, and he still had no idea what this man was! Where could he possibly– 

Wait… A rift? 

Ravus’ eyes narrowed, his back still up against the wall. He hated not having his weapon on hand, but he would have to make due, should the situation arise. He needed to figure out more. 

“What do you mean, a rift?” A hand reached out to use the wall behind him for stability. The quick motions and the impact of the punch had made his head swirl, but he couldn’t outwardly show that much weakness.         

Fear is a base emotion, yet vibrant in its variance among individuals. The Iron Bull has witnessed the full spectrum in his many years in Seheron and mercenary work alike. Likewise, one of the many means to cope with terror fall in line with making demands where they have no priority.

The Iron Bull arches a brow to express some incredulity, though he need not wait long before the dawn of realization lights the other man’s eyes. Better, perhaps, to assume that this stranger was a stranger not only to the Inquisition but the very circumstances of Thedas. 

“A rift: a hole in the sky, shitting out demons, spirits, and apparently-- people. Wouldn’t you know it, but the world is in the midst of a crisis at the moment. The Inquisition was put together to try and fix that. There’s more to it, of course; you just got the short of it.”

Rather than assure any chance of Ravus saving face--which the man is not--The Iron Bull gestures pointedly at the sagging cot. The High Commander’s patent attempts to stay upright really hurts no one but himself and he isn’t of the mind to peel their guest off the floor.

“I’m The Iron Bull, by the way. Not that you asked.”