jumpscares | closed AND open; it's schroedinger's log!

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closed AND open; it's schroedinger's log!

▶ WHO: Garrett Hawke, Andy "Anders" Anderson, of the Anderfels, possibly you
▶ DATE: 15 July (Day 6)
▶ WARNINGS: UM in theory nothing, sans the fact that I am incapable of not swearing in narrative.
▶ SUMMARY: Mister Medievalissance adapts, also runs smack into a ~blast from the past. Or something.

If these were even remotely normal circumstances, by this time Hawke and the chest-high dog trailing happily in his wake would have tried ill-advisedly trekking into the wilderness. It could go without saying - but won't - that remotely normal circumstances existing anywhere in the vicinity of these kind of resemble trying to get to the moon with an increasing number of ladders.

So his time since awakening (...with ten pairs of nail clippers and a mysterious thing he has since been informed is a USB stick) has been spent poking into every accessible inch of the compound in an attempt to familiarize himself with its utterly alien contents. This has had variable success, especially since--well, especially since he's still not convinced he hasn't just been tossed into the bizarrest afterlife possible. Should that prove to be the case, the Chantry will owe him another apology. (Not that he ever got a first one, wow.)

It's on one such bout of exploration that Thud (some people give their chest-high dogs dignified names, some people are Hawke) abruptly goes tearing off down the nearest corridor, obliging Hawke to amble after him. Not like, run or anything. Even if a zombie has somehow gotten inside woe betide the one who meets a Mabari. The possibility that the dog has spotted someone or something familiar doesn't even occur, what with the odds being slightly slimmer than a two dimensional plane, he's just a dog who will make friends with basically anyone or any thing at any given time.

...that like, this might be a problem for anyone also doesn't occur, because he's Ferelden. They're dog people. (Although, it has been necessary to point out in the past, not actually Dog People.)

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Acclimatisation is something that Fliss felt, at one point, she had almost made into a talent, but this place seems to be testing her limits somewhat. It's one thing to live through your home being destroyed, your life overturned and at the very least then having to try and save a world with which you were at least familiar. Names like Lothering, Orzammar, they belong to places with which she was not distinctly acquainted, but Maker, at least she knew what they were. She did not feel herself cowed beneath the proud, strong Dwarven architecture, for example, but rather in awe of their workmanship and skill, but here, she feels more entombed than she had ever felt underground. The fact that she has so far found herself to be the only person of her world (a concept she's still coming to terms with, really) is not proving encouraging, despite the fact that the people she has encounter here being broadly of the agreeable sort.

Having Oskar with her, at least, is a kindness for which she is grateful, even when she's chasing after him through the compound in a pattern that could only be described as ... erratic. She was never so concerned before, leaving him to wander and explore as he wished in Ferelden, but she certainly doesn't trust this place one bit her dog, even if the presence of undead beings everywhere barely seems like the greatest threat imaginable after everything she's been having to kill as of late. Unlike Hawke, Fliss gives chase to her Mabari more actively, hissing his name to try helplessly as she vaguely attempts to look like she has at least some control over her very strong willed canine.

When she sees, however, that her dog is nose to nose with another dog that is almost identical to him (aside from Oskar's war paint), all concern for canine antics is replaced with incredulous surprise.

"Maker's breath — another Mabari?!" The question is a pointless one, on account of the fact that they are distinct enough a breed for her to recognise them anywhere. With that, she finds herself sidestepping the dogs to lunge around the corner with something not unlike immense excitement, and quite possibly almost crashing straight into an approaching man. She hasn't even the mind to launch into a characteristic apology, exclaiming, "Oh! Is this your Mabari?"

Bless her, she couldn't possibly sound more thrilled.

Bruce is minding his own business, walking from 'his' room toward the front gate when he hears what he swears is a herd of elephants coming toward him. He turns, whirls, and then promptly backs up all the way into the nearest wall. There's nothing inherently frightening about the demeanor of the dog except it's size and general appearance, but he's not a dog person.

For one thing, dogs wear their emotions on their metaphorical sleeves and that's uncomfortable and weird for him. For another, he's missing a piece of one of his arms thanks to some rather tenacious doberman pinchers.

So, he stays where he is, hand wrapped around a piece of rebar that has become his weapon of choice and shouts, firmly: "Come get your dog!

And if that dog's alone, he's going to really resist being made friends with, because it's a giant. fucking, dog.

Waking up feels like surfacing from beneath the crushing weight of deep water, and for a moment the thick, muffled sound of deep immersion is all he can hear before it slowly fades out and reality confronts him. It takes him a while to get up and out of the bed, back crackling once he finally does so, adjusting his long dark robes and looking around for his staff. He ends up leaving behind the other items he finds, since they make little sense to him and he's not in the habit of solving mysteries or returning lost property — that was always more Hawke's schtick. Though that isn't to say he lacks curiosity: Anders immediately peers out the door with his fingers gripped around the wood of his staff, chest just as tight, ready to discover who's imprisoned him and why.

It takes time to realize he hasn't actually been kidnapped, and there are no Templars patrolling the corridors ready to send him back to the room he's awoken in. Longer for him to relax a little, reading a makeshift messageboard that is far more used than the one that once stood outside the Chantry, realize that he's not the only one displaced. Talks to a couple of people about the message on the doors, discovers what passes for a clinic here. Every action is restless, though, some now-inseparable part of him at a loss to its own purpose. Justice for mages isn't exactly a banner cause under these circumstances.

Which is... probably why he's so relieved to be reunited with Thud. He's not about to pet the Mabari, let alone exchange the head rubs and slobbery kisses that seem to bond a dog and his master, but he does smile and say, "Yes, good boy," in response to nearly being bowled over instead of using a blast of spirit magic to restore his personal space. Thud's tail wags madly and he licks at Anders' coat, which is stupid and not at all endearing. "Where have you been, anyway?" he asks a little brusquely, since he wasn't concerned or anything but Hawke had put them into each other's care before he left and... well. Anders takes instruction from Hawke fairly seriously, all things considered.

"Well," starts Hawke, because as per usual his mouth is running ahead of his brain, "as much as a Mabari is anyone's, anyway."

Since they pick their people and all. Thud will probably get right on picking Fliss by proxy in a second, but uh, most of the Mabari he got to hang out with in the Free Marches or during the war wanted to eat Hawke, so he didn't exactly get a chance to frolic. Which is what he's doing now, gamboling happily around Oskar and trying to sniff him every place possible. Hawke sighs; there is basically no keeping one dog from the hindquarters of another.

...anyway, as the pair of barrel-chested majesties accomplish that, for a given value of like, accomplishment, it really penetrates for the first time what this encounter means. Naturally he must address it in the most dramatic way possible, head tilted, eyes widening at the corners. "Stop me if I'm wrong," ...he would really prefer he was not, "but between the accent, and the clothes, and the great bloody warhound, I'm going to guess you're not exactly native."

Please be from Thedas. Sure, it would be depressing familiarity, but familiarity it would be.

Edited 2015-08-03 13:58 (UTC)

Thud doesn't want your arm, Bruce, it's okay. Unless you'd like to pet him with it!

...this will not be happening. Anyway, the dog's owner (lol) appears around the door frame, curly hair first, distinctly medieval clothing and semi-permanent faintly amused expression second. "Ah."

Well, shit. He holds up a forefinger and raises his eyebrows at the massive canine bulk attempting to win Bruced's heart; the dog, as if it this is all the command he needs, heaves a reluctant doggy sigh and lopes over to vibrate with suppressed desire at Hawke's side. "Please don't concuss my dog. He's taken enough knocks to the head as it is."

Hi!

OMM (oh my maker, of course), Thud heard the G word! Yes, he is. He is good, Anders. Love him. By this point he presumably recognizes this equivalence as love anyway, although. Why ask such silly questions, human. He's been right here! Where have you been?, retorts the barkquivalent of 'pff,'?

If Thud was confused at any point by finding himself suddenly back with Hawke he's shaken it off now anyway, the word having been restored to uprightness. Now they're all back together again, or--will be in a second, as the dog indicates by sitting down next to Anders' feet with a whuff, still at a height where a hand could be set on his head without needing to reach down at all, and waits patiently for his master (again, lol), to catch up. This is all told only a few seconds after Thud's 'answer,' as Hawke has long legs and despite his general nonchalance regarding his Mabari's safety really didn't want him to get that far off.

To say he's surprised by encountering not one companion, but two, would be fairly impressive, since the list of things that surprise Hawke gets smaller by the day, yet so he is, for once in entirely sincere fashion and not ridiculous over-exaggeration. A flash of vulnerability opens all his features, closing around itself like a curled fist as soon as possible, but he doesn't bother to hide that he's pleased, why would he. "In hindsight I feel like I should have expected this."

What, they're old enough friends to make greetings fairly superfluous, and Hawke is so used to his first reaction to Anders being wanting to touch him and then suppressing said want it's old habit by now. "It's been a while."

Because he's. Been dead. Do they have to talk about that? Surely not!

The face is vaguely familiar. The clothes absolutely are not. The voice is different enough, too. He lets it go, for the moment, because there is still the matter of the dog to content with.

He slowly puts down his impromptu club and looked the man over, head to toes and back again. Most of his attention, though, remains on the dog. "Brain injured might explain his attitude." Might. Probably not, but he's cranky. "You're lucky he didn't corner someone carrying a firearm."

Anders definitely can't say the same about hindsight. If Hawke at all momentarily reveals himself Anders is too overcome by his own surprise to notice. The sight of the man has him physically stepping away, barely more than shifting his weight but still taken aback. The dog is one thing, Anders was with the dog before he woke up. Hawke, on the other hand...

It takes a moment for him to smother his initial, inappropriate impulse, even though ever since he'd heard the news regret has been gnawing alongside all the other facets of grief for never letting himself follow the natural course of that desire. "Hawke," he says helplessly instead. And then, equally despairing, "Maker, what is this place," because you're alive is too obvious and all his feelings will leak through it.

But yes, apparently the subject can't really be avoided. Anders is a difficult man to send a letter to given his tendency to live on the run, in caves or tents or smuggled into Circle towers or wherever else he could be needed, but Varric had managed eventually.

"Oh hush, he doesn't mean it." Hawke is ......reassuring the dog who is indeed projecting, somehow, being absolutely affronted. "What's a firearm?"

Crankiness kind of rolls off of him. It's actually possible - which may or may not be unfortunate for Bruce - that he finds it endearing, or at least a challenge. Meanwhile he's been here long enough to work out what guns are, inasmuch as he understands they fire exploding projectiles, but at the moment he's highly uninterested. Better the devil you know, etc.

Meanwhile, the young Warden finds the display between the dogs entirely adorable, even the parts involving sniffing each other's rear ends. She can't help it; Oskar is the one true comfort she has had here, despite the fact that he has scared her witless numerous occasions now by wandering off on his own to explore this unknown place. After a moment's joyous observation, Fliss remembers that there is actually a person alongside the dog, and looks back up to Hawke with a poor attempt to smooth her grin into something more presentable and collected. The first thing he said flew over her head somewhat (there's truth in the statement, admittedly, and she would have agreed had she been listening and not ogling the dogs), which might be clear enough from the way her eyes are still wide as she gawks at him.

"Not even slightly native," she answers, eyeing Hawke with both curiosity and immense interest, her enthusiasm making her more lively in immediate personality. At times like these, it is perhaps clearer to others (not at all to herself) that she is still quite young, and up until fairly recently lived quite a sheltered existence, all in all. "As native as you are, I'd wager. I'm from Ferelden."

Fliss almost finds herself blurting out "are you?" as well, but manages to keep her voice politely inquisitive, and resist the general urge to leap to any assumptions as where this man is from. He seems to be dressed more like a Marcher, though the dog and accent indicate Ferelden. It's enough to slow her down, slightly, at any rate.

No, Hawke suspected not, but it seemed worth a shot anyway. Still, if he owes anyone an explanation, it's Anders.

"Don't worry, I don't think it's the afterlife." He takes a reflexive step forward before stopping in place, expression unsure what it wants to be doing, but hitting somewhere reasonably close to gentle-humoured. Why can't it be the afterlife? Because it's confusing and horrible? No, because: "I already used my joke about that."

Well, that's certainly one way to approach things. Hawke sighs and lets in a chink or two of light through the usual impenetrable armour, rubbing the back of his neck. "I don't know what it is. At least no more than anyone else." ...probably less, given that the 21st century at least makes sense to some other people. "And I don't know why I'm here instead of nestled in the Maker's roomy bosom, except that it does seem like the sort of thing that would happen to me, doesn't it?"

Even if it is the afterlife, actually, it's more than he expected, which was--nothing. A larger part than he'll enter into conversation was hoping for nothing. The fingers on one hand ripple in a motion like tapping a pattern on something invisible, then turn palm up extended toward Anders. "Pretty sure I'm not a ghost or wraith or anything, if you want to check."

Edited 2015-08-05 19:05 (UTC)

Anders still resembles a spooked horse with the whites of his eyes all showing, but Hawke offers his hand and he is drawn unerringly to it. He steps in closer this time, and takes it in both of his, one hand cupping the scarred knuckles like it needs support and the other tracing his fingers slowly over the vivid lifeline on Hawke's palm. Up to his pulse point.

It beats healthily, but he never really doubted that.

Anders glances up from under sandy lashes, and the excuse for touching has passed, so when his eyes meet Hawke's he drops his hand with suppressed reluctance. Clears the back of his throat softly. "You do seem properly solid." His mouth pulls a little unhappily, and he's still resisting the vibrating urge to fly forward into Hawke's arms and check the rest of him is tangible too. His gaze is haunted, like he's still so deep in grief he doesn't know how to be relieved. "I'm glad you're here," he says unconvincingly.

He looks over the man's outfit and then snorts to himself. Of course. They are from different worlds, the people here. There's only one person here, that he's met, that he would be willing to entertain as a possible native.

"A weapon that uses a small scale explosion to propel a projectile at very high speeds," he says, after a moment of silence where he's just processing that. "Deadly at a distance, very precise, and with far more power than a bow and arrow."

That work for you?

"What is that beast?" Dog no longer seems to cover it, since he's never in his life seen a dog acting offended at being insulted. Or, well, one with that much size. "And who are you?"

River has been exploring. If by exploring, one means finding the tallest and most out of the way hiding corners imaginable. Places no one looks are something like safe, at least until they do look and notice; sometimes, though, that 'until' is quite a long while. Long enough to survive, to get something done, to notice, to pay attention. To survive. That will be important, she's decided.

At some point it will become the most important.

But not right now.

Right now River is taking a break from exploring by staying tucked into the space between a cabinet and the ceiling in one of the currently empty rooms. The only thing visible from the cabinet itself is one arm, dangling from shadowed space with all the apparent life of a bit of string.

All these new people, new thought processes, different memories, different realities, different lives...it's exhausting, just a bit.

It would probably be rather upsetting for someone to come across her like this. So, naturally, someone does. Of course, this someone is Thud, who immediately gets on his hind legs just so he can try to lick at her fingers, huffing in annoyance when River snatches her arm away.

"I know you can see me, silly." She's not hiding from a dog, she's hiding from...reality. A different reality than her own, and the strange sense that there may be no way back. But she's been found so the Game, officially, is Up.

River rolls over so that she can peer over the edge at the Mabari. "I like the way you think."

There's something--something it's either kindness or cowardice Hawke doesn't let himself look at too closely here, the pain of loss more complicated than that of just a comrade. Because any available guilt in the vicinity immediately sticks to him like a particularly vicious katamari that's a great deal of what he's feeling, so of course he addresses neither his own emotions nor Anders', although the latter are certainly closer.

"Really?" He chuckles, with an insouciance he does in fact feel, or at least is excellent at convincing himself he does. "Because you sound thrilled."

Maybe, just--he can alleviate some of this. Or it's entirely an indulgence on his own part; like before he doesn't sift with a fine-tooth comb; if he starts that he won't take any action at all. So: "Come on, surely we can do better than this."

'This' being the hand examination that tugged loose one knot in his chest while tying a dozen others. The gesture he makes this time is reminiscent of the one just previous, but with both hands; if Anders will oblige him they can engage in one very Manly hug, like any two old friends might after a long time away from one another. Nice to see you, sorry I died, etc. Thanks for taking care of my dog. By rote Hawke's not a toucher, an awareness a person could come by well before the decade they've known each other; then again these are hardly rote circumstances.

Edited 2015-08-06 08:51 (UTC)

Anders won't oblige him. Or, well, they can hug: Hawke offers his hands and Anders takes them and they pull each other close. But it's not a manly, brusque, brothers-in-arms kind of hug, no matter how much Hawke isn't particularly prone to physical affection. Anders wraps an arm around Hawke's broad shoulders and pushes his face into the familiar collar of his shirt and clings like... well, like one of them died.

"You're such an arse," he informs Hawke raspily and fervent, muffled from this ignoble position. Holds him, if anything, tighter, and as payment for the trauma he allows himself to imagine for a moment that this could actually belong to him.

But Anders knows better, and he loosens his hold before Hawke loosens it for him, clapping him unconvincingly on the shoulder as he pulls away again, this time not even meeting Hawke's eyes.

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closed AND open; it's schroedinger's log!

"just how smart are mabari supposed to be, anyway?" dunno, ask the used underwear

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don't forget the cake!

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and extremely dangerous bottles of alcohol

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