entrancelogs | You want me to what? BE QUIET?

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You want me to what? BE QUIET? | Open

Who: Alistair (

fatherlesskind) and YOU
Where: All around Wonderland
When: February 12th
Rating: PG-13 to be safe
Summary: Without so much as a pillow fight to be seen, Alistair has to amuse himself somehow. In a very regal, solemn manner, naturally.
The Story:

A - The woods

From somewhere within the woods this morning comes the unmistakable rattle and crash of metal and wood meeting with force, punctuated by the occasional wordless shout of exertion.

Should anyone go looking for the source, the sounds will lead them to a decent sized clearing among the trees. There, a towering figure in full medieval plate armour batters away with sword and shield at a training dummy, heedless of how much noise he's making or if there's anyone else around to be bothered by it. Both shield and breastplate bear a heraldic griffon, the symbol of the Grey Wardens for those who might recognise it, and those who don't might well remember the large, cheerful man often seen wandering around Wonderland with a similar sword at his hip.

He's so intent on vanquishing his imaginary foe that should anyone approach him his first response will be to turn on them, weapons raised in anticipation of an attack. He lowers both a moment later with a chagrined look. "Sorry. I was- Sorry."

B - The grounds

There's still snow outside.

There's snow outside and, for the moment, no trouble or monsters or anything. No pressing need to be somewhere else or to avoid notice or to maintain appearances or anything.

So later in the day Alistair can be seen disappearing outside to find himself a secluded corner somewhere.

An hour or so later the assault begins. Anyone walking the grounds outside the mansion may find themselves under attack. A snowball to the face or back accompanied by a gleeful shout from the one responsible. He's far from stealthy, dressed in dark colours that stand out against the backdrop of white and feet crunching through the snow as he attempts to sneak up on his victims with an armful of missiles. But he has a good arm and those snowballs can travel a long way. Stand and fight or make a run for it, either way he's not about to let up.

C - The library

[In an unusual turn-up, Alistair is in the library. Reading a book. (Yes, shut up, he knows how to read. And no, the tiny letters don't strain him, thank you.)

He's curled up in a chair, sword on the ground beside him, utterly engrossed in the book he'd found whilst poking around. The cover depicts a red-haired woman in armour, surrounded by foes and wielding a sword and shield. Rather appropriately as the book itself is titled 'Swords & Shields' by one Varric Tethras.

As he reads a bright red flush crawls up his cheeks and he hunches further and further over the open book as if trying to hide it from view. He's so caught up in it he doesn't even notice if there's anyone else in the library.

Turning a page he pauses, eyes going wide.]

Oh. Wow.

D - Other

[Choose your own prompt. Alistair can be found anywhere around Wonderland poking his nose into things and talking a lot.]

[OOC: Prose or brackets, take your pick and I'll match.]

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Oh, Alistair, you almost put him and his own grandstanding to shame.

"Hiding behind bushes, yes, what admirable battle tactics," he intones in jest. "I'll start taking notes. But I can't be blamed for leading a sheltered life--talk to whoever organized the exercise regimen. A mage runs away once when the apprentices are let outside and suddenly it's a security issue."

He lifts his hands exasperatedly as if to say oh, please. That mage had been him, but still. No more outdoor recreational time had been an extreme reaction, he thinks. A snowball fight or two would've made doing their stretches much more exciting in the long run.

At the word "rematch," he stops what he's doing to look at Alistair. "What rematch? That wasn't a defeat. That was more like... an intermission! If anything, we're even."

"That's an overreaction." He really needs to get the stories of each of Anders' escape attempts one day. And possibly ask why the Templars hadn't just killed him after the first couple.

"You should have tried signing up as a Templar. We spent a lot of time outdoors during the training. Rain or snow, we'd still be out there, stomping around in the mud." Those had been among the better parts of his training really. Much better than being cooped up inside learning about the Chant of Light. So he can sort of understand wanting to make a run for it.

At Anders' ridiculous claim, Alistair turns to face him with an incredulous snort. "Even? Ha! I clearly won that round, are you blind?" He'd struck the final blow, that made it a victory on his part. If Anders couldn't admit that, well Alistair might have to convince him with further demonstrations of his battle skills.

Tempar training? Anders throws his head back and barks a laugh at the very thought. "Me as a templar--I can see it now. Swing a sword, extol the virtues of the Chantry, jump at every whisper of blasphemy... be boring and completely devoid of a personality. Sounds easy enough."

Chuckles continue to bubble up like the residual fix from a popped champagne bottle, but once they die away, he nods at the king-shaped indent in the snow Alistair had left behind from laying in it. "That explains why you're so comfortable in the elements."

And it goes to show that Anders isn't the only one whose rump had befriended the ground. They're even. Even.

"I won't hold it against you for missing my artistry with the ice. You were mostly blind at the time. I think my skills speak for themselves," he says with a lofty wave of his hand. "And since I'm nice as well as talented, I forgive you for sneak attacking me, by the way."

Alistair laughs as well and nods happily in agreement. "See? You already know all you need to, you'd be perfect!" And the training would have been so much better with someone else around to annoy the trainers with. And deal with their discipline after.

And yes, he might have taken a tumble too but he'd still won. That was just a fact. A fact best proven by sticking his tongue out at Anders and rolling his eyes. "It was an ambush. Catching a dangerous opponent off-guard. Basic tactics that don't need forgiveness." All is fair in war and snow fights, everyone knows that.

"And you mean your rusty skills that didn't stop you from falling for my clever trap?" Those same skills that hopefully are too rusty for Anders to respond to his next, equally clever and unexpected ploy?

Without a word of warning Alistair lunges at him, attempting to grab the mage around the waist and bowl him - or them both - over into the snowbank he'd been eyeing earlier.

"You're surprisingly unprofessional for a famous Warden and potential heir to the throne. I mean that in a good way." Alistair sticking his tongue like a stubborn boy is another thing Anders will remember for a long time to come, and he smiles in amusement.

"But I'm still not falling for--oof!"

Alistair slamming into him aborts the rest in an expulsion of breath. Damn it, this guy! "What are you--? You--"

No doubt Anders' weight poses a minor inconvenience to someone as strong as Alistair, but thank the Maker for giving him long legs to make up for what he lacks in the bulk department. With a wail like a scalded cat, Anders hurriedly tries to save himself from being bowled over by hooking his foot around Alistair's. If he can twist them around so that Alistair falls first, better the other man be his landing pad than the other way around.

Who's not falling for anything? Because it's clearly not Alistair. In a very literal sense.

With a yelp of his own, he trips and tumbles down into the snow once more, letting out an "Oof" as Anders does a reasonable job of winding him when the other man lands on top of him.

...That didn't quite go as planned.

It takes him a moment to recover and when he does his shoulders immediately begin to shake where he's sprawled. Dropping his head back onto the cold ground Alistair snorts with laughter at how well that cunning plan worked out. Unprofessional doesn't do him justice right then he'd say. But hopefully it's still a good thing?

"Alright. Now we're even." Raising his head to look at Anders he offers, "Truce?"

He's fallen on his ass twice now. Best to quit while he's ahead.

Two wipe-outs in less than an hour--even ones he'd managed to abort somewhat by flopping on his king like a feather pillow--is shameful. Anders mentally composes another message to the powers at be.

Dear Maker, dear Andraste, dear whoever's taking requests at this moment, I really mean it this time. Please don't let someone be watching this. If no one's there to see me being trounced by someone who barely started templar training, it didn't happen.

To show my good faith, I promise to stop saying your names in vain. Really. This time for sure.

In order to keep his word, he bites back the oath he's ready to utter, instead rolling off Alistair with a wordless groan, rising onto his knees. "I can't believe you just tackled me. Actually tackled me." The shame! Oh, the shame! "That was underhanded and unfair and a long list of other words I could use. And did I mention cheating?"

Alistair should feel bad for picking on innocent by-standers. Anders lays it on thick by giving him an aggrieved look.

"You should've warned me snowball fights involved being wrestled to the ground. I would've got out while the getting was good."

Still flopped back in the snow and snorting with laughter, Alistair remains coldly unmoved by Anders griping.

"There's no such thing as cheating when it comes to winning!" Or coming out even. "Not in this kind of fight." If there was one thing he learned growing up in Redcliffe it's that this sort of thing has no rules. All that matters is not losing.

Propping himself up on his hands he smirks at the other man. "And that wasn't a tackle. You'll know if I ever decide to tackle you." Things he tackles generally stay tackled, especially when he out-weighs them as he does Anders.

Unfortunately sitting up has the side-effect of dislodging some of the snow stuck in his hair so it slides down his back, right under his clothes. With a yelp Alistair paws at it, grimacing as cold, melting snow trickles down his back. He turns back to Anders unhappily, all gloating forgotten. "Ugh! On the other hand, you could be right. From now on wrestling and the ground are off-limits."

Not unless he's sure it will only be the other man getting snow down his shirt, not him. That also wouldn't be unfair.

Snow has snuck under his robes' thick outer layer; he can feel the cold seeping through his pants. He regrets not wearing mittens.

"This kind of fight?" Anders repeats, eyebrow raised in question. Playing the victim card and appealing to Alistair's conscience clearly aren't working and the pout fades from his face and his tone. He chuckles lightly, brushing snow from his boot. "That says so much about you. I'm learning more than I ever thought I would."

Alistair's grimace at the cold has Anders smiling archly.

"You could see that as a sign from the Maker--" Movement concealed behind his flank, he scoops snow up with the same hand he'd been using to clean his boot and flings it into Alistair's face. "--letting you know you deserved that!"

Fool Anders once, shame on you. Fool him twice, shame on him. He's up and out of arm's reach before Alistair can think to knock him down a third time.

"You can't keep a good mage down!" he calls triumphantly. "No hard feelings!"

"What's that supposed to mean?" What could it possibly say about him? Besides that he grew up surrounded by other boys? That's just normal experience talking.

He has a moment to shoot Anders a sulky look for his complete lack of sympathy when he's the one with snow down his back... And then he's squawking indignantly at getting another face-full of snow. Now who's using dirty, underhanded tactics? He'd called a truce!

Scrubbing at his face Alistair shoves himself to his feet with a shout. "You call me a cheat!" Just because he'd said there were no rules, Anders wasn't supposed to listen. So yes, there are so many hard feelings right now.

Bending down he scoops up a handful of snow and flings it wildly in the direction of Anders' voice. It won't hit unless the man decides to run into it himself but it might give him a moment to clear his eyes and give chase.

"No magic!" he calls as he crouches to roll a proper snowball this time. "Or I get to smite you!" That's only fair, right?

"What did you say earlier? It's a training exercise?" Let Alistair be put through his paces like any other lowly Warden if he's so eager to be one!

Anders sprints across the field and out of range of Alistair's wild throw, laughter trailing him. That's twice now he's managed to surprise the king. So long as it doesn't involve having his legs knocked out from under him, he could get used to snowball fights even if he's long past the age for them.

It's to Alistair's credit that he doesn't take offense to threats of smiting; he laughs again, finding it hard to picture Alistair using his abilities unprovoked from what he's seen so far. Stopping long enough to bend and take up a handful of snow, he calls, "I don't need magic and you wouldn't do that to a fellow Warden!"

So he hopes.

Edited 2016-03-10 01:19 (UTC)

Someone can sure run. He's a little impressed by how quickly Anders legs it out of there. Plenty of practice he'd guess. But a little more won't go astray.

Even if his threats don't warrant anything more than laughter in response. But he's going to take that as an agreement that anything but regular old snowballs is now forbidden. No magic, no Templar-ing. Which is fine by him. Anders only got close to beating him last time because he used magic. Without it he's got no chance!

"Maybe not but I'd do this!" Bouncing back to his feet Alistair winds up for a proper throw this time and sends a snowball arcing towards where Anders stands.

He's betting he can throw way further than the mage. If he keeps his distance he might be able to pelt Anders relatively safely. At least until he gets bored and charges him again. So maybe a couple of minutes.

Not using magic against Alistair is one thing, sure, but no one had said Anders couldn't let a small thrum of power run through his extremities, warming his hands to keep them from freezing as he balls the snow up. What Alistair doesn't know won't hurt him...

Anders lurches to the side to dodge the snowball Alistair sends streaking toward him; it glances off his shoulder and breaks apart, wet clumps sticking to his shoulder guard. "Child's play! Why don't you try this on for size?"

He cocks his arm back and lets fly with his snowball. He's thrown enough fireballs in his day to have a fair throwing arm, if he does say so himself.

Edited 2016-03-15 05:20 (UTC)

Alright, Anders can throw better than he thought. Alistair just barely manages to avoid the return shot, darting behind another bush for some paltry cover. Which doesn't stop him shouting back, "Doesn't suit me. Have you got anything better?"

He's balling up another couple of snowballs of his own as he speaks, cradling them against himself so they're ready to deploy. His own hands are rapidly getting colder and more clumsy, the gloves he's wearing only doing so much to protect him, but it's not nearly enough to make him consider surrender.

Peering out from behind his shelter, he searches for Anders, winding up for another throw once he spots the mage.

"Do I have anything better?" Anders' muttering is background noise to his efforts to build more ammo. "I'll show you better."

With each new snowball he molds into shape, he gets better and faster at the repetitive action--he likes to think he's a quicker learner that way, and there's plenty to learn now that he's free of the Circle's stone walls--but Alistair is faster still. Before he can follow up with another one, Alistair lets fly again.

Nearly forgetting he's holding a snowball in one hand, he puts up his other arm to protect his face, careful not to squish it. This is the one. This is the one that'll show that bush who's boss.

"I'm underwhelmed!" Anders squints, lines up the angles in his head, and pitches a curving ball that should, assuming he'd thrown true, skim along the top of the bush like a stone skipped on water.

Alistair cheers as his snowball strikes its target - Anders may have blocked it from its intended target of his face but it was still a hit and still a point in his favour.

"I'm just getting warmed up!" Listen to them both, being very macho and impressive. And not at all childish. More so than two grown men having a snowball fight warrants anyway.

Anders' throw flies true and the snowball passes over Alistair's shelter to smack into his hair and send snow sliding down his back once more. It's no less unpleasant the second time around and he curses and squirms about, clawing at the cold slush trapped underneath his shirt and melting slowly against his skin. Gritting his teeth he drags his attention back to the fight, bracing himself for another attack after letting himself get distracted.

"Really? Because I think you're ice cold!" Very macho indeed, and chalk full of terrific puns.

Riding high on adrenaline-fuelled hopes of taking back his honor, Anders does the opposite of what any smart mage with his skill set does in a fight: he runs at Alistair instead of away, pressing his momentary advantage by circling around the bushes to get a clear shot. If Alistair isn't careful, he's going to storm his bush castle and reclaim it in the name of mage kind.

"Now what are you going to do, huh?" he jeers, pelting the other Warden with another snowball.

"What am I going to do? I'll show you what I'm going to do." Growling, Alistair leaps to his feet, taking Anders' next snowball in the chest without so much as a blink. He has the crushed remains of one of his own in one hand, no good for throwing any more but perfect for shoving down the neck of some mage robes.

He lets out a war cry and charges at Anders once more, completely ignoring his previous decision regarding the ground and wrestling. He already has snow down his back and at this point getting more down there if Anders trips him up again isn't going to make him any colder or wetter.

"Hey, none of that now!"

Alistair charges out of his hiding place like a wild druffalo, and Anders forgets all about trying to draw him out in his haste to reverse course.

"We agreed no more manhandling! Cheating! Cheating!"

The king is no overweight ruler with soft hands, glued to his throne cushions. Had Alistair had been a templar, he'd be the one Anders worried about out outpacing.

But he's no out-of-shape apprentice being chased around for the first time, either. Snatching glances over his shoulders to mark Alistair's whereabouts, Anders runs for the gardens, pumping his legs as harder to keep his lead. A raised stone flower box stands in the way. Timing the jump, he leaps onto its edge, hanging a sharp left to race along its circumference.

"Keep up with me if you think you can!" he calls out tauntingly. If he can pin Anders down, he'll do what it normally takes a squad templars to accomplish.

"Kings make the rules. I can't cheat!" Alright, so maybe the whole future king business isn't all bad news.

He barrels after Anders, dropping the handful of snow in favour of giving chase. Not trusting himself to be nimble enough to balance on the edge of the flower box while running, Alistair narrowly avoids colliding with the thing as he throws himself around it to follow the mage.

Alistair has one advantage over the templars that have chased Anders in the past - he's not weighed down by armour and weapons. But he has practice running with both - part of templar training. Or it was for him every time he said something one of his trainers disapproved of. So without them he's surprisingly quick for his size. Whether he's quick enough remains to be seen but all he needs is to be able to catch an ankle or the edge of Anders' robe and he can bring the other man down. Once that happens he can't lose.

Ignoring the fact he sort of did before. But this time he'll be ready for Anders' tricks.

"Oh, sure, now he wants to accept the throne," he mumbles under his breath, the sound drowned out in the rush of the chase and the sound of feet thudding on paving stones.

Even in the dead of winter, the garden is a picturesque marvel of landscaping ingenuity, taken from what looks like the grounds of some rich nobleman's estate where five gardeners work year round to trim the grass to just the right height. The garden has probably seen stranger than two men running full tilt through it and Anders doesn't feel too bad about ripping through the empty flower beds, disturbing foliage and stepping on the carcasses of dead flowers. If Wonderland doesn't like it, it can damn well revoke his holiday pass and send him home.

Standing in the center is the fountain and its surrounding knee-high wading pool. Anders leaps down from the one flower bed once he reaches its end and cuts around another, keeping it between them, his zig-zagging taking him closer and closer to the water.

He doesn't let Alistair stray too far--and it's not so hard when Alistair is nipping at his heels like a mabari on the trail of a hare. If Alistair follows him to the fountain's edge and he times a swerve just right, momentum could work in his favor and send his pursuer stumbling into the pool.

It's funny the turns life takes occasionally. Here he is, chasing down an apostate like he thought he never would and enjoying it too.

Alistair is utterly focused on his target as he pounds after Anders, gaze fixed on the mage's back as he darts around flower beds and kicks up snow. He's gaining on Anders, sure that victory is near at hand, the pair of them racing towards the centre of the gardens.

And suddenly Anders swerves to the side and Alistair is skidding, trying to turn away from the fountain looming up before him. His own momentum carries him forward, legs hitting the wall at the edge painfully and sending him tumbling through the thin layer of ice and into the water with a splash. Just as quickly as he falls in he scrambles back out with a shout, landing on the ground in damp, pathetic huddle.

"Maker that's cold!" Plucking at his wet clothes he looks around for Anders, pouting miserably in case his opponent is thinking about pressing his advantage. If he looks pathetic enough it might dissuade any further attacks. "I surrender! You win, I give up." This on top of the snow down his back is more than enough for one day.

His trick works better than planned. Before Alistair can recover in time, he stumbles right into the frozen water with a splash and a cascade of broken ice.

"Ha! That was honestly painful to watch." Anders stops by the edge of the fountain. Mouth forming a perfect 'o', he lets out a groan in solidarity as men do when they see another being hit in the unmentionables. This isn't on the same level of special agony as that, but it's on the spectrum.

That said, he's not entirely sorry for doing it. May Alistair learn a valuable lesson about trying to chase him down and toss him into the snow.

"That truce is sounding more and more appealing. I'm still willing to call us even," he says, hiding a smile. Surrender accepted. "I originally came outside for some fresh air and I think I've gotten that and then some. Shall we call it a day and head inside?"

The pouting intensifies if that were possible. Not a hint of sympathy for the victim of his cruel ploy. Maybe all apostates are secretly evil after all. Still. Even is better than a crushing defeat. And he's not really feeling like pushing it at the moment, as the cold seeps down into him and leaves him shivering.

Alistair nods eagerly at the suggestion. "Inside is good. Inside is very good." Levering himself to his feet he looks down at himself, soaked through with icy water, and shakes his head. "Remind me never to get on your bad side. You're a cruel man when you want to be."

And this was all done to a brother in arms. He'd hate to see what Anders might do to an actual enemy.

Turning and trudging towards the mansion before he starts to freeze solid he glances over at Anders with a grin. "Next time you're helping me gang up on everyone else." He had indeed learned his lesson now. In the future he was keeping Anders on his side.

He wouldn't want to get on Alistair's bad side, either, so they're even on that count, too. The comment still earns a merry laugh. Him? Cruel? Oh, come on! Anders thinks of himself as a fairly kind and easygoing soul. He's at least sixty percent kind.

Forty percent, maybe, on a bad day. But definitely mostly kind to his friends.

... When they're not irritating him.

"You did chase me to, I assume, knock me on my backside again," he supplies helpfully. Alistair's innocence has some holes you could ride an Amaranthine Charger through.

But to exemplify that he's having a sixty percent sort of day, he waves a hand to create a bubble of warmth that will raise the temperature around them. The snowball fight's officially over--that means the magic ban is lifted. The heat spell's not quite quick enough to dry Alistair out completely, but it's a start.

"You've got yourself a deal. That I'm more than happy to help out with."

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fatherlesskind - 2016-05-09 08:19 (UTC) - Expand

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