bignasty | Inbox - Fade Rift

Given that they're both occupied in training recruits during the day, when quitting time rolls around, Barrow is largely on the same schedule as Dumas. It's at one such time that Barrow hastens his step to walk beside him, then falls into an easy stroll as they make their way across the courtyard.

"Look, mate," he says in a low, easy voice, "I think we got off on the wrong foot. You got ganged up on, and that wasn't fair.
'We're working together almost every day, I'd like if we got along, so..." He puts his hands up. "For what it's worth, sorry for the part I played in that."

It’s easy to keep pace with Dumas, who has very long legs but is rarely in a rush to be anywhere. As he often is on this field, he’s bristled rough and scuzzy with sweat, rolling one shoulder stiff in its socket as he pulls his canteen from his belt.

“Noble of you,” he says, working the cap, “being the bigger man.”

He takes a long swig, and dumps the rest over his head and down the back of his neck, likely splashing nearly as much onto Barrow as he does onto himself.

“Don’t fret over it, I don’t give a shit.”

The initial comment merits a snort, but Barrow doesn't harp on it-- what's done may as well be done.

"Glad to hear it," he says easily, returning to a more jovial attitude, "how're your bunch looking? A good third of mine still spook at their own shadow."

“Emboldened, after yesterday’s events.” Funny he should ask -- Sylvester gives Barrow a Look down and aside, like who could’ve seen that coming. “Broke a wooden sword over one’s ass and the rest snapped into line.” Easy as that, apparently -- Dumas looks forward again, canteen hitched back to belt.

It is wholly impossible to tell if he’s serious, but there’s a very genuine sense of impatience about him over the waste of said sword.

“I’ve managed with worse.”

Barrow responds to the Look with a helpless shrug, still smiling-- oh, are we still mad about that? Pity.

Rather than be especially shocked by Dumas' methods, Barrow gives a single laugh of surprise. "That'll do it," he muses, "I hope he didn't need a healer."

“If he did, he waited until he was out of my sight to whinge about it.”

Dumas sets to unbuckling leaves of practice plate from his jacket, deft by way of muscle memory in spite of rough calluses and blunt nails. Something about Barrow’s laugh has him looking over again, the way he might look at an engine making an odd noise.

“How long did you say you’ve been here?”

"Mm? Ah... dunno." Barrow scratches his hairline as he thinks back. "A year? Something like that. Why?"

“Right, right. A year.”

Like they’ve already had this conversation once before, and Barrow is refreshing his memory. Sylvester files shed plate away under his far arm. He’s kept one eye on Barrow as they walk.

“And before that?”

"Merc business, mostly 'round northern Ferelden and the southern Marches." He's walking at an easy pace, and doesn't seem to mind the quiz.

"And you, city watch, right?"

It’s an answer that passes muster. Plenty of weirdo sellswords making a new purpose for themselves in Riftwatch. Sylvester sniffs, and nods, approval in the jut of his jaw a glance away across the field ahead. Heat off, easy as that.

“City guard, yeah.” Last sheet of armor peeled off and tucked away, he flexes his hand against stiffness setting in at the joints.

“Took a break and did time with a couple of bands ‘round the same area before the blight.”

“Oh? Get out,” Barrow intones—- not that he’d have actually been in the same area during or before the Blight, but it’s easier to go with the notion that they might’ve met already.

“Glad we didn’t kill each other.”

Inbox - Fade Rift

sometime after the "sparring"

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